Dreams Made Flesh (8 page)

"Lady Marian," he said.

Had she already done something wrong? Was he already angry with her? She couldn't stay here.

Jaenelle huffed. "I'm sorry. I really have to go." Her hand brushed Marian's shoulder. "I'll be back in a day or two to see how you're doing."

Then she was gone, and Marian was left facing a man who, even doing nothing, was a hundred times more dangerous than the five Warlords who had tried to kill her.

"Why don't you sit down?" Lucivar said, tipping his head to indicate the nearest of four chairs that were on either side of a large pine table.

Not knowing what else do to, Marian pulled out the chair and sat down.

"Would you like some coffee?" he asked.

She nodded, but kept her eyes focused on the table. She flinched when he set a white mug in front of her, but he stepped back, putting enough distance between them that she could breathe again.

"Did my sister explain anything on the way here?"

Startled, Marian looked up. "Sister?" Luthvian hadn't mentioned a daughter.

"Jaenelle," Lucivar said. "She's my sister."

That should have been comforting. It wasn't. But there was one thing she had to know. "Does anyone else live here?"

"Tassle lives with me. He's…"

She heard the click of nails on stone a few seconds before a wolf appeared in the archway. Yaslana kept a wild animal for a pet?

The wolf came forward slowly, the tip of his tail waving as he sniffed her hand.

She didn't move, didn't dare even twitch when he stepped closer to sniff her feet and legs, his tail waving with more enthusiasm. But she jumped when he suddenly pushed his muzzle between her legs. That's when Yaslana stepped forward, grabbed the wolf by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him away.

"Go outside, Tassle," Lucivar said, his voice, although quiet, demanding instant obedience.

With a whuffle-whine, the wolf left the kitchen.

Lucivar stepped away. The move brought him to the archway rather than moving back into the kitchen. "Relax for a few minutes and finish your coffee. Then I'll show you to your room." He left, not waiting for her answer.

Just as well. She wasn't sure she could have answered. Her hands trembled as she lifted the mug and took a large swallow of…

She shuddered. He'd said this was coffee. She wasn't sure what it was, but she was certain it wasn't coffee. At least, she hoped it wasn't. Setting the mug down, she braced her head in her hands. She was alone with an Ebon-gray Warlord Prince and a wolf. Sweet Darkness, what was she supposed to do?

Lucivar wound his way through the rocks, needing to put some distance between himself and the witch trembling in his kitchen. Tassle danced beside him, a furry bundle of excitement.

*Can we keep her,Yas?* Tassle asked. *She can be the female for our pack.*

Since he didn't think Marian wanted to be part of their "pack," he answered the question with a question. "Why all the tail wagging?"

*Ladvarian says dogs wag their tails to let humans know they want to be friends.*

Ladvarian was a Sceltie Warlord Jaenelle had brought to the Hall when he was a puppy. Since dogs had more experience living with and around humans, the wild kindred who were part of Jaenelle's court considered Ladvarian an expert on human behavior and looked to him to explain the bewildering things humans did.

*So I wagged my tail,* Tassle continued happily. *I want to be friends. I like her smells.*

Lucivar's feet rooted to the ground. This was a statement he couldn't ignore… no matter how much he wanted to. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed.

"Tassle… Don't sniff her crotch."

*But… Yas…*

"I know it's acceptable among wolves, but you cannot do it with human females.

It makes them snarly."

*But…*

"No, Tassle."

Tassle hung his head and looked up at Lucivar with woeful eyes. *Would she snarl at you if you sniffed her crotch?*

The picture formed in his mind before he could stop it. Marian, sitting in the chair in the kitchen. Him on his knees in front of her, his arms around her waist, his face pressed against the juncture of her thighs, breathing in the smell of her as her scent changed from warm and quiet to hot and aroused.

He turned away from Tassle, not sure if he should curse himself, curse Marian, curse Jaenelle, or curse the wolf for asking the question.

Because that was the question, wasn't it? One look at Marian and everything in him had sharpened with interest, had churned toward desire. If he'd met her in any other way, he would have staked a claim. That was Protocol. That was permissible.

Warlord Princes weren't like other men. They were passionately violent and violently passionate and far more territorial than other males. And when a particular woman intrigued a Warlord Prince sexually, he had a simple way of dealing with potential rivals: He killed them.

Because that lethal response was part of the nature of Warlord Princes, the Blood had long ago established Protocols to give other males a chance of survival. When a Warlord Prince indicated interest in a female, the other males stood back, giving him time to get to know her…and for her to get to know him and consider if she wanted that formidable temper and driving sexual hunger focused exclusively on her. Because it would be exclusive. But the choice was always hers.When she'd spent enough time with him to make a decision, she would either accept him as a lover… or tell him to go. And if she told him to go, he didn't argue, didn't try to persuade her…he had to walk away. That was part of Protocol, too.

But he couldn't even follow Protocol because she was his damn housekeeper. She had every right to expect him to protect her from any male's unwanted sexual attention…and that included him.

But… Hell's fire, she was pulling at him in too many ways. Her fear spiked his temper because his instincts demanded that he defend and protect…and destroy whatever was causing that fear. He couldn't do that because he was the cause. And underneath that fear he sensed a warm, quiet strength that intrigued and aroused him, that made him want to wrap himself around her and breathe in her psychic scent as well as her physical smells. Oh, he'd been stirred by a few women over the past three years, and there had been times when the hunger inside him had been fierce, but never enough to give in, never enough for him to forget the rage and bitterness that had flavored most of his sexual experience. So it had been easy enough to turn away from that stirring, to chain that hunger. Until Marian had walked into the kitchen. Now he wanted, and he wasn't sure if he could keep that hunger chained.

Lucivar looked toward the eyrie. Maybe, once she was settled in the housekeeper's room, her fear would ease a little. Maybe it would ease enough that she would stay, although he wasn't sure if her staying would be a torment or a boon.

He sighed, then turned back to look at Tassle. "I'm going to get her settled in for the night. You stay here. I don't think she can handle more than one male at a time right now."

Tassle whined but didn't follow him when he went back to the eyrie. She was still in the kitchen, her eyes too bright with fear. "I'll show you to your room." His voice was as calm as he could make it, but there was a hint of a growl that was a response to her fear.

Silent, she followed him to a room that was on the opposite side of the eyrie from his bedroom. She shuddered when he opened the door and she realized she had to walk past him.

Watching her look around the room, he said, "My father's housekeeper brought over the furniture and set up the room.There's a private bathroom through that door. I expect you'll find everything you need." At least for tonight.

She still didn't say anything. She looked bruised and exhausted, and the only thing he could do to help her was to leave her alone.

"Good night, Lady." He closed the door and stared at it for a few moments. Damn you, Cat. You really kicked me in the guts this time.

But as he went back outside to tell Tassle it was all right to come in, he had a bad feeling it wasn't his guts that would feel the pain.

* * *

She could put a Purple Dusk shield around the room, but that would probably just insult him…or amuse him. It certainly wouldn't stop him if he…

She shuddered, then clenched her hands until they ached. She couldn't think like that. Fear was already a living thing crawling inside her. If she was going to survive staying here, she had to beat it back, not feed it.

She called in her nightgown…another piece of clothing Luthvian had been ready to discard and had given to her instead. She wouldn't think about that either. Just wouldn't think anymore. Couldn't think anymore.

After changing her clothes, she settled into bed and called in her book, sure she wouldn't get any sleep.

Later, she roused enough from a deep sleep to realize someone was gently pulling the book out of her hands and turning off the lamp on the bedside table, but not enough to wonder who it was.

SEVEN

« ^ »

Marian jolted awake, her heart pounding. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep to give her scrambled brain a few precious seconds to catch up and identify what had ripped her out of a deep sleep.

There. Warm breath against her hand. Someone was in her room, next to her bed.

Someone who would know by the change in her breathing that she wasn't asleep, and pretending only kept her blind to the danger.

She opened her eyes… and stared at the wolf who was watching her intently.

*You are awake. Yas told me not to wake you and I didn't wake you but now you are awake.* The wolf stretched his neck so that they were nose-to-nose. *You can pet me.*

She raised her hand to obey. Then her brain identified what was wrong with this

"conversation."

A breathless shriek, a wild kick to free herself from the bedcovers, and a hasty scramble had her standing on the opposite side of the bed from the wolf, who looked equally startled.

The bedroom door was open. She was closer to it. If she could reach the door…

She shuffled sideways, never taking her eyes off the wolf…until he put the corner so fast she almost hit the opposite wall, and ran down the wide main corridor of the eyrie. Seeing the archway of the only room she recognized, she grabbed at the stone wall and swung into the kitchen, startling Yaslana enough that he almost dropped the mug he was holding.

"What in the name of Hell…" he began.

"The wolf talks!"

"I know," Yaslana replied. "He's kindred. Since you're up, do you want some coffee?"

Marian stared at him. Maybe he wasn't awake enough to understand what she'd said. "The wolf talks. In sentences!'

"I know." He studied her for a moment, then added, "He's kindred. Blood."

"Blood?" She suddenly felt a bit weak and woozy.

"The Blood from the nonhuman races are called kindred." Yaslana scratched his cheek. "Tassle is a Warlord, as a matter of fact. Wears the Purple Dusk Jewels."

Marian groped for the nearest chair to keep from sinking to the floor. Blood?

Warlord? Purple Dusk Jewels?

A whine.

She turned. Standing in the archway, the wolf gave her the most woeful look she'd ever seen.

He whined again and slunk away…and she felt as if a small boy had tried to give her something he thought was a wonderful present… and she'd smacked him for it.

Confused and feeling guilty, she focused on the familiar sound of sizzling meat…

and frowned. "What are you doing?"

Turning back to the stove, Yaslana picked up a fork and flipped the two steaks sizzling in a skillet. "Making breakfast.You want some? There's plenty." He poked at something else in the other skillet.

Marian slumped in the chair. "But… I should be making breakfast."

He shrugged. "You were asleep."

She quailed at the implied criticism. Then she bristled at the unfairness of it. "I'm sorry, Prince Yaslana. You didn't tell me what time you expected…"

"I woke up early and decided to make breakfast," he said testily. "It's not important."

Not important. The words cut into her, telling her clearly enough what he thought of the skills that usually gave her such pleasure.

He picked up a pot, poured dark liquid into a mug, brought the mug over to the table, and plunked it down in front of her.

She looked at the mug…and shuddered.

He stiffened as if she'd slapped him, then grabbed two plates from the counter, returned to the stove, and started dishing out the food. Every move he made radiated temper as he put the plates of food on the table, then dug out silverware from a drawer and dropped it on the table.

As he pulled out his chair, she gathered her courage to ask, "May I have some cream and sugar?"

He paused. "You didn't use any last night."

True, but last night she hadn't known how bad this stuff tasted.

A sugar bowl and a small glass bottle appeared above the table. They hovered for a moment before gently coming to rest within easy reach.

She added two teaspoons of sugar…then added a heaping third when he turned away from the table for a moment…and as much cream as she could fit into the mug without having it spill over the rim. She stirred carefully and tasted cautiously. It was lighter and sweeter…and it was still terrible.

He sat down, chose some silverware from the pile on the table, and said, "Eat."

She stared mournfully at what could have been a very fine steak if it hadn't been slapped into a skillet with no regard for its potential. Suppressing a sigh she was sure would only irritate him further, she selected her silverware and began to eat.

The fried potatoes were quite good, the scrambled eggs were bland but not bad, and the steak, despite its treatment, was still tender. But every bite she chewed and swallowed was an effort of will. She was too aware of the annoyed man sitting across from her, too aware that she hadn't yet performed her first task in her new position and he was already displeased with her.

After a few bites, her aching stomach threatened to rebel if she forced another mouthful of food into it, so she pushed the food around, wishing the meal would end…and afraid to consider what might happen when it did.