Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior (21 page)

“Drink all you want,” he urged. “Alaria said you would be weak coming out of the teleportation journey.”

He held her like he might hold a newborn infant. The sense of protection, of love, overwhelmed Inca, and she drank thirstily. The warm herbal tea tasted sweet and energizing to her. She was a lot thirstier than she’d first realized. She drank from the mug four times more before her thirst was sated.

The medicinal tea brought renewed strength to her. This time when she forced her arm to move it moved. As Roan placed the mug on the mat beside him, Inca looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Just hold me? I need you….” And she weakly placed her hand against his thick biceps. Roan was dressed in his fatigues, spattered with dried mud, with blackish-red blood stains on his left shoulder. She realized it was
her
blood. From her wound. And yet she felt whole, not wounded. So much had happened. Inca was unable to sort it out. Later, she knew, the memories would trickle back to her.

Roan smiled down at her. “Anytime you want, sweetheart, I’ll hold you.” And he slid his other arm around
her and brought her close to him. A ragged sigh issued from her lips as she rested her head against his shoulder, her brow against his hard, sandpapery jaw.

Closing her eyes, Inca whispered, “I almost died, didn’t I? I feel as if I’ve just returned from the Threshold. You saved me, Roan. You gave your life willingly for me—I remember that. But that’s all. I recall nothing more….”

Rocking her gently in his arms, he took one of the blankets from the pallet and eased it around Inca’s shoulders and back to ensure her continued warmth. The fierce thunderstorm was dropping the temperature and there was a slight chill in the hut now. He smiled, closed his eyes and gave her a very gentle squeeze.

“Between the two of us, Inca, you’re the one that should’ve had the chance to live, not me.” She felt so good in his arms—weak and in need of his protection. That was something he could give her right now, and it made him feel good and strong. Gone was the fierce woman warrior. Right now, Inca was completely vulnerable, open and accessible to him, and it was such a gift. Roan knew that when a person had a near death experience, he or she came back changed—forever. Sliding his arm across her blanketed back, he caressed her.

“I love you. I never told you that before you were shot and went into a coma.”

Inca lifted her head and met his stormy blue gaze. She saw the anguish in his eyes and felt it radiating out from him. Roan’s love for her was so strong and pure that it rocked her returning senses. “I did not think anyone would find me worth loving,” she whispered brokenly. Lifting her hand, Inca added hoarsely, “I am not a good
person. I have a dark heart. That is why I was told to leave the village and never return.”

“Well,” Roan said in a fierce whisper, “I think all that’s changed, sweetheart.” He caressed her loose, flowing hair. “And your heart is one of the purest and finest I’ve ever seen. So stop believing that about yourself.”

A sad smile pulled at her mouth. “I am so tired, Roan. I want to sleep….”

Roan eased Inca to the pallet. “Go ahead. Sleep will be healing for you. I’m going to close the windows. There’s too much breeze coming in on you.” He got to his feet, groping for the wall of the hut to support himself. The dizziness was gone and his legs felt pretty solid beneath him. He shut the windows to stop the wind from filtering into the hut. Turning, he saw Inca watching him from half-closed eyes. She opened her hand.

“Will you sleep with me? I need you near….”

Touched, Roan nodded. “There’s nothing I’d like better.” He expected nothing from Inca. He had shared his love with her. Even if she never loved him, she would know the truth of what lay in his heart. As he knelt down upon his pallet, which was next to hers, he heard the storm receding. The pounding rain was lessening now. Father Sky had loved Mother Earth. That was how Indians saw the dance of the storms that moved across the heavens—as a way of the sky people and spirits caressing and loving their mother, the earth.

Inca sighed, her lashes feeling like weights. Her heart was throbbing with so much emotion, feelings she’d never experienced before. Just the way Roan cared for her told her of his love for her, and quenched and soothed her thirsty heart. She could no longer say she did not know
what love was for she had experienced it with him—on the highest and most refined level. He had given his life so that she could return and continue her work in Amazonia. And through whatever mechanism and for whatever reasons, Roan’s life had been spared. Joy filtered through her sleepy state. Inca knew she was still weak from having nearly died. It would take days for her to recover fully. The fact they were here in the Village of the Clouds surprised her, but she was too exhausted, and too in need of Roan’s steady and loving presence to find out why.

Inca nuzzled Roan unconsciously as she awoke from the wings of sleep. She felt his large, strong body next to hers. She had one leg woven between his, and his arms were around her, holding her close to him. The masculine odor of him drifted into her flaring nostrils. The scent was heady, like an aphrodisiac to her awakening senses as a woman. Automatically, she began to feel heat purl languidly between her legs. Her belly felt warm and soft and hungry—for him. All these sensations were new to her and she reveled in them. Around her, she heard the screech of monkeys, the sharp calls of parrots in nearby trees, and the pleasant, gurgling sound of a nearby creek behind the hut.

She was alive…and Roan loved her. Stretching like a cat, Inca gloried in the movement of her strong, firm body against his. One of her arms was trapped between them, the other wrapped behind his thick neck. Savoring their closeness, Inca sighed, leaned forward and pressed a small kiss on his roughened jaw. How good it felt to be alive! And how dizzying and glorious to know that someone loved her—despite her darkness. Roan loved her as a
woman—not as a goddess to be worshipped, as her Indian friends did, but as an ordinary human being. Opening her eyes, Inca absorbed the sight of Roan’s sleeping features. His breath was like a warm caress against her cheek and neck. Wondering at all the small, beautiful things that a man and woman could share, Inca welcomed this new world of love he’d opened to her. No wonder being in love was written about so much throughout literature. Now she knew why.

Roan stirred. He felt Inca move. Automatically, his arm tightened and his eyes groggily opened. He felt her pull away, to sit up. Drowsily, he watched as her dark, shining hair cascaded about her shoulders. She wore a soft cotton shift of the palest pink color. As she eased her fingers through her hair, he watched in sheer enjoyment of her femininity. Her profile, that proud nose and chin, and her soft lips, grazed his pounding heart. Today was a new day. A better day, he realized.

Rousing himself, he eased into a sitting position beside Inca. The covers fell away. Through the open doorway, Roan saw a bright patch of sunlight slanting into their hut. Moving his gaze back to Inca, he smiled tenderly at her.

“You look more like your old self. How are you feeling?”

She brushed her hair back and drowned in his sleepy blue gaze. “I feel human again.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. He had taken off the soiled shirt and was bare chested. Moving her fingers through the dark hair there, Inca murmured, “I feel alive, Roan, and I know it is because of you…because of your heart and mine being one….” And she pressed herself against him and placed her lips against his mouth.

Pleasantly shocked by her boldness and honesty, he felt her small, ripe breasts grazing his chest, the surgery gown a thin barrier between them. Roan knew Inca’s innocence of the world of love and respected it. She was reaching out to him as never before, and he gratefully accepted her bold approach as normal and primal. Sliding his hands upward, he framed her face and looked deeply into her shining willow-green eyes, which seem to absorb him to his very soul. Her pupils were huge and dark, filled with sparkling life once more. And with returning love for him. Oh, she’d never said the words, but that didn’t matter to Roan as he smiled deeply into her eyes. The fierce, proud warrior woman had now shifted to her soft and vulnerable side with him. It was an unparalleled gift for Roan. He thanked the Great Spirit for her love, for her courage in reaching out boldly to him despite her own abandonment.

He wasn’t about to destroy the new, tenuous love strung delicately between them. Inca needed to explore him at her own pace. As her lips grazed his curiously, he kissed her gently and warmly. She growled pleasantly over his actions, her arms moving sinuously up across his and folding behind his neck as she pressed herself more insistently against his upper body. Roan smiled to himself. He loved her boldness. She tasted sweet and innocent to him as her lips glided tentatively against his. Rocking her lips open, he took her more deeply, his hands firm against her face. He felt her purr, the sound trembling throughout her. Her fingers slid provocatively along his neck and tunneled sinuously into his hair and across his skull. Fire exploded deep within Roan. She was sharing herself with wild abandon, not realizing how powerfully her presence, her innocence, was affecting him. It didn’t matter, he told
himself savagely. Inca needed the room to explore him and what they had in her own timing. Roan wanted to ignite the deep fires of her as a woman, passions she was just being introduced to through his love for her.

“Ahem…excuse me, children. Might I have a moment with you?”

Roan tore his mouth from Inca’s. Grandmother Alaria stood in the doorway of their room, her face alight with humor. In her hands was a tray filled with steaming hot cereal, fresh fruit, a pitcher and two glasses.

Inca gasped. “Grandmother!” She blushed deeply and avoided the older woman’s shining eyes, which were filled with understanding and kindness.

“Welcome home, my child,” Alaria murmured. With a sprightly air, she moved into the large room and said, “I felt you awaken. You are both weak from your experiences. I thought that a good hot cereal would bring you back to life.” She grinned as she placed the tray across Roan’s lap. “But I see that life has returned of its own accord to both of you in another way, and I’m joyful.”

Inca stared up at the old woman, who was dressed in a long-sleeved white blouse and dark blue skirt that fell to her thin ankles. “But—how—how did I get here?” she stammered.

“Tut, tut, child. Come eat. Eat. Both of you. I’ll just make myself at home on this stool here in the corner. While you eat, I’ll talk. Fair enough?” Her eyes glimmered as she slowly settled herself on the rough-hewn stool in the corner.

Shaken, Inca looked at Roan, who had a silly, pleased smile on his face. He, too, was blushing. She touched her cheek in embarrassment. It felt like fire. And then she
stole a look at the village elder. Alaria had the same kind of silly grin on her mouth that Roan had. What did they know that she did not? Roan handed her a bowl made of red clay pottery, and a hand-carved wooden spoon. The cereal looked nourishing and good. The tempting nutlike flavor drifted up to her nostrils.

“I took the liberty of putting some honey in it for you,” Alaria told Inca. “This was always your favorite meal when you were with us.”

Inca thanked Roan and held the bowl in her hands. Much of her weakness was gone, but she was still not back to her old self. “Thank you, Grandmother.” As always, she prayed over her food before she consumed it. The spirits who had given their lives so that she might live needed such thanks. Lifting the wooden spoon, she dug hungrily into the fare. Her heart was still pounding with desire, her senses flooded from the swift, hot kiss Roan had given her. Her body felt like lightning, energized and unsettled. She wanted something, but could not name what it was.

Alaria nodded approvingly as they both began to eat. “Food for your spirits,” she murmured, “and a gift to your physical body.” She lifted her hands from her lap. “I know you both have many questions. Let me try to answer them in part. Some other answers will come later, when you are prepared properly for them.”

Inca discovered she was starving, and gratefully spooned more of the thick, warm cereal into her mouth. Grandmother Alaria had doted upon her when she was at the village in training. At one time she had been a favorite of Alaria’s and Adaire’s. Once, Alaria had admitted that Inca was like the child they’d always wished to have, but
never did. In some ways she’d been like a daughter to them, until she’d gravely disappointed them by breaking the laws of the clan.

“I do not understand why you have allowed me to come back here,” Inca said, waving the spoon at the ceiling of the hut.

“I know,” Alaria whispered gently, her face changing to one of compassion. “There was a meeting of the elder council after you were wounded and dying.”

Inca frowned. “A meeting? What for?”

Roan looked at her. “You don’t have a memory of Faro Valentino shooting you, do you?”

Inca solemnly shook her head. “All I remember is that I was dying, Roan, and you traded your life for mine. That is all.”

“She will recall it,” Alaria counseled. “All things will come back to you in time, my child, as your heart and emotions can handle the experiences.”

“I was wounded by Faro Valentino?” She looked down at the cereal bowl in her hand, deep in thought. She aggressively tried to recall it, but could not. Frustration ate at her.

“In the valley…” Roan began awkwardly. He knew that victims of brain trauma often wouldn’t remember much of anything for weeks, months or years after the experience. “We were with Colonel Marcellino’s company. You had freed the Indians who were slaves in the cocaine compound of the Valentino Brothers. You were working your way around the outside of the compound, getting rid of the guards, so that Marcellino’s men wouldn’t be in such danger when they attacked from the walls of the valley.” He looked to Alaria, who nodded
for him to continue the explanation. “One drug runner—”

“Faro Valentino,” Alaria interjected unhappily.

Roan nodded, trying to handle his anger toward the man. “Yes, him.”