Dawnflight (23 page)

She let Arthur initiate the attack. While advancing to meet the blow, she stumbled, fell, and rolled to her stomach. As expected, he quickly moved in to claim the victory. The crowd cheered. But before she could feel the prickle of his sword on her neck, she twisted aside and hooked his legs with hers. Luck favored her; with a startled yelp, and equally startled noises from their audience, he went down. She scrambled to her feet and pinned him under the point of her sword. Amid the overall roar of disappointment, she could pick out phrases like “Trickery!” and “Not fair!” But the taunts didn’t bother her; victory had never tasted sweeter! Her only regret was that Ogryvan and Per and the rest of her clan couldn’t savor it with her.

Studying Arthur for a reaction, her grin soured. For several seconds, he stared at the sky as though stunned; whether physically or mentally, she couldn’t tell. Her concern rose as she wondered if she had injured him. Finally, he shook his head and attempted to sit up, but her sword barred his way.

“I concede the match, Chieftainess.” He released his sword and waved his open hand. “I won’t try anything unique. You have my word. Thank God my enemies aren’t half as devious as you are.” His grin could have stopped the sun in its course…and it was having an arresting effect on Gyan’s heart as well. “But I wouldn’t advise using that move in battle. Much too risky.”

“Oh. Yes, I—I know.” Chiding herself for how silly she must sound, she sheathed her sword and thrust out her hand. He tugged off his gloves and accepted her unspoken offer, gripped her forearm, and hauled himself up.

Pain stabbing her arm forced a strangled gasp from her throat. He shifted his grip to her hand and gently turned her arm to expose the underside. A long cut lay perilously close to one of the veins, seeping blood. He traced the vein lightly with a fingertip.

“When did I do this?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

Staring at the cut, she wondered the same thing. Probably during their initial clash, though she really had no idea. She shrugged. Even that motion made her wince.

“Chieftainess, I didn’t mean to—” A stricken look shattered his bearing. He squeezed her hand. “God in heaven, Gyanhumara, I am so sorry.”

She wanted to reassure him that she’d be all right; the wound looked clean and wasn’t much deeper than a scratch. In fact, it was the least of her concerns. Enchanted by the sound of her name on his lips and mesmerized by his gaze, she felt the world seem to collapse to just the two of them. His face hovered over hers, his lips a handspan away. The warmth of his nearness had an intoxicating effect. She was acutely conscious of the tugging of her heart, as though it was trying to pull her closer to him. It wasn’t an unwelcome idea.

But breathing became an effort. She yanked off her helmet and dropped it as dizziness overcame her. Not now, she silently pleaded to the One God, no! She could only stare down in disbelief as her traitor knees started to buckle. Before she could fall, his arm wrapped around her waist. The backs of his fingers felt cold against her cheek.

“You’re burning up, Gyanhumara. I’ve got to get you to the infirmary.”

Arthur tried to take a step with her, but she refused to move. “No, please, I don’t need—”

“You must allow me. My lord.”

She and Arthur glanced up to see Urien crossing the ring, a displeased set to his features. Why hadn’t she realized he could have been watching? Rebuking herself for the idiot she was, she pushed away from Arthur as Urien drew near.

Urien offered her his hand, which she readily accepted; it seemed the wisest course. He gave her an appraising look. “My dear, are you all right?” She nodded, and he regarded the Pendragon. If his eyes could have shot daggers, Arthur would have died on the spot. “You weren’t trying to kill my bride-to-be, were you, Lord Pendragon?”

Up went that mask of Arthur’s. “Far from it, Tribune. If you had watched our match, you’d have seen her best me.”

“I saw enough.” Expression softening, Urien caressed her cheek. “Come, my dear. Arthur is right; you really do feel too warm.”

She shook her head. “It’s the exertion.” That was mostly true, she told herself. She wasn’t about to admit the rest of it, to either of them. “I’ll be fine after I rest awhile.” And after she left the presence of the man who was stealing her heart. She hoped.

“That may be so.” Urien gestured at her wound. “But you must have that seen to. I insist. The fort’s physicians are excellent.” Gyan sighed; Cynda had dressed far worse wounds than this. But she was too exhausted to argue. Obviously pleased with her acquiescence, Urien moved to her left side and placed her uninjured arm on top of his. “And I also insist,” he said, leveling another hard stare at Arthur, “that there be no more of these matches between you two.”

Fists on hips, Arthur said, “An order, Tribune?”

“I was merely expressing concern for my beloved.” The kiss he planted on her lips was surprisingly gentle.

Panic seized her with the thought that she had to act as though she were enjoying Urien’s attention, or he might suspect something was happening between her and Arthur. So she closed her eyes to imagine that her lips were pressed to Arthur’s, that she was clasping his body to hers, running her fingers through his red-gold hair…

The kiss ended. To savor the moment, she kept her eyes closed.

“Get her to the infirmary, Tribune.” The harsh sound of Arthur’s voice startled her. She opened her eyes to see him whirl and bend to snatch up his sword, slam it into its sheath, and stalk from the field, his cloak a blazing billow behind him.

She glanced at Urien, who seemed decidedly smug as he watched Arthur’s retreat. With a start, she realized how her response must have appeared to Arthur. To Urien too, for that matter. It was without doubt the stupidest thing she could have done! Desperately, she wanted to call out to Arthur and explain what had happened, despite what Urien might think. Or do. But it was too late. Arthur was gone, taking a piece of her heart with him, although he would never know it, she admitted miserably.

Urien clasped the hand of her uninjured arm, smiling broadly at her. “Come, my dear Gyanhumara. The infirmary is this way.”

Gyan felt numb to the core, devoid of strength and will. There seemed to be nothing left but to do Urien’s bidding. And to get accustomed to the idea that she’d be doing his bidding for the rest of her life.

Chapter 14

P
ROPELLED BY RAGE and frustration, Arthur strode from the field as fast as dignity allowed. He should have held his ground and waited for Urien to leave first, but having to watch him walk off with Gyanhumara would have been a worse torture than anything Arthur could have devised.

Most of the crowd had dispersed, probably to start spreading the tale of what they’d seen. If it damaged his reputation, so be it. He deserved every bloody word. For losing the match by failing to discern the trick, and for losing…her.

He ignored the remaining onlookers as he cut through their ranks. Along the way, he was stopped by four of his staff centurions. Unit readiness reports, promotion recommendations, intelligence briefs, supply requisitions—none of it mattered to him right now. What mattered was fulfilling his urgent need to get away, to reclaim a remnant of self-control, and to think. God, how he needed to think! He ordered the men to deliver their reports to Marcus and dismissed them with a wave.

Upon resuming his punishing pace, he didn’t let up until he’d reached the stables, snatched Macsen’s bridle from its peg in the tack room, and whirled to find one of the stable boys staring up at him, blocking his way.

“Need help, my lord?” The lad’s gaze looked hopeful.

Help, indeed. What Arthur needed help with, a mere stable boy could do nothing about. It took him a moment to recall the lad’s name: Wat, who for some odd reason preferred the less flattering nickname of Wart. Arthur felt stupid for his lapse. Aside from himself, Wart handled Macsen better than anyone else on earth.

Except, maybe, her.

Arthur blinked to erase Gyanhumara’s face from his mind. That only strengthened the image. He suppressed a sigh. The tierce bell hadn’t yet rung, and already this day was nothing but a series of lost battles.

He thrust the bridle into the lad’s hand. “Thank you, Wart.” As preoccupied as he was, he probably would have tried to saddle Macsen backward. The rumor mongers had enough grist for the mill.

Wart looped the bridle over his shoulder and lifted the saddle and pad from its rail. Breaking into a cheerful whistle, he scampered from the tack room and disappeared around the bend toward the stalls.

For once, Arthur took his time, using the pretense of inspecting the horses along the way to ponder what had happened in the ring.

The match was easy to analyze. He had but one word to describe Gyanhumara the warrior: astounding. Form, speed, skill, agility, even her strength had far exceeded his expectations. True, she took the bait he’d offered in the guise of a feigned limp, but not in a way that overcommitted her, as an opponent eager for a quick victory would have done. Arthur knew then that he’d have to wear her down by sheer force. He’d been within a few strokes of succeeding, in fact; he had seen fatigue flare in her eyes, dimming the fiery determination. But he should have realized that he had not seen a hint of surrender. She had duped him, with that perfectly timed and executed fall, into thinking he’d won and promptly threw his arrogance back into his face.

And, God help him, he had loved her all the more for it. Sprawled on the ground with her sword poking his chest, he had tried to deny that simple truth, and failed.

After she had helped him rise and discovered her wound, she had seemed so vulnerable, so precious, and so ready to accept the kiss he had been about to bestow—audience or no audience—had she not picked that precise moment to collapse. Perhaps, he thought in disgust, that had been a ploy too.

He reached Macsen’s stall to find his horse saddled and bridled. Currycomb in hand, Wart was easing tangles from the stallion’s mane. Macsen whickered a greeting. Wart flattened himself against the wall as the stallion stepped forward to thrust his head over the stall’s waist-high door. Absently stroking Macsen’s cheek, Arthur bade the lad to finish. Wart saluted with the comb and went to work on the tail.

Why, he asked himself for the hundredth time, why on earth did Gyanhumara fling herself into Urien’s arms with such passionate abandon? Until that moment, he’d have wagered his horse that she had been less than thrilled at Urien’s arrival. Could he, Arthur, have been fooled by her earlier signals? Had she devised those signals only to make Urien jealous and therefore more attentive toward her?

It was entirely possible. The tactic had certainly seemed to work. And she may as well have taken her sword and run him through, instead of kissing Urien. It would have hurt a whole bloody lot less.

Heartily, he wished he had heeded Merlin’s advice to break off pursuit of this maddening woman. Maddening, deceptive, manipulating…clever…intelligent, intuitive, powerful, confident, witty…glorious…Arthur belayed the wish. Helen of Troy may have had the face that launched a thousand ships, but Gyanhumara of Caledonia could easily capture a thousand hearts.

And by God’s holy wounds, he would gladly fight the other nine hundred and ninety-nine men for the privilege to stand alone at her side. He could no sooner stop loving her, no matter how much she hurt him, than he could stop the dawn.

The trouble was, she would be sailing for Maun on the equally unstoppable morning tide. Not to mention the fact that Urien, acting well within his rights as her betrothed, had made his wants all too clear.

“He’s ready for you, my lord.”

With a start, Arthur focused on the stable boy, who was smoothing a patch on Macsen’s withers with his palm. A smile forced its way to Arthur’s lips. “Excellent job, Wart.”

In fact, Macsen had seldom looked better. The same could be said of the lad too; it was amazing what good could be wrought with a word of praise. It gave him an idea. He moved aside and swung open the door to let Wart and Macsen leave the stall. Arthur paced them while Wart led the horse out from under the stable roof’s overhang. But when the lad paused to hand over the reins, Arthur shook his head.

“You take him out for his exercise today. I’ve just remembered I have some work to do.”

“Oh, sir! May I, really? You mean it?”

Arthur boosted the grinning lad into the saddle. Wart’s whistling began anew as he double-wound the reins around one hand, nudged the stallion’s sides, and they trotted away. It brought to mind Arthur’s initial encounter with Gyanhumara, when she had mastered Macsen so quickly—and when the most Arthur had felt toward her was admiration. God, how simple life had been! Simple but…empty. Wars and rumors of wars were one thing. Discovering his soul’s mate was quite another. And she was worth every loss and every ounce of pain she or Urien or anyone else could inflict upon him.

He said to no one in particular, “Yes. I mean it.”