Warrior's Lady (13 page)

She looked up at him, wondering how she could make him understand, how she could explain her sudden apprehension. She had never known a man. She wanted Jarrett. She feared the loss of her powers. So many doubts and fears crowded her mind. How could she explain them to Jarrett?

“Do not be afraid of me, beloved. I will not hurt you.” He took a deep breath. “Nor will I touch you until you wish it.”

Her gaze slipped away from his. “It is thy right.”

“’Tis true, but I will respect your wishes, now and always.”

“It’s just… I mean.” Still not meeting his eyes, she took a deep breath. “I am sorry, my Lord.”

Murmuring her name, Jarrett gathered Leyla into his arms and held her close, one hand lightly stroking her hair. “You are so beautiful. Your hair outshines the sun, and your eyes…ah, beloved, your eyes are as blue as the Azure Sea.”

At his words, a single tear slid down her cheek. He was so kind, so patient. His arm was warm and strong around her waist, his hand gentle in her hair. His scent swirled around her, filling her nostrils with the aroma of wine and leather and fine-spun cloth. Of man. Her man. Her husband, if she but had the courage to let him show her the secrets she yearned to know.

Sweeping Leyla into his arms, Jarrett carried her to the comfortable old leather chair beside the fireplace and sat down.

Settling her on his hip as if she were a sleepy child, he pressed his lips to her hair.

“Only let me hold you,” he said. “Nothing more.”

“Would thee perchance grant me one kiss, my Lord?”

He obliged her willingly. She tasted of sweet wine and tangy cheese, of apples and spice. The scent of wild roses lingered in her hair and rose from her skin, tantalizing his senses. Her breast was warm where it pressed against his chest, her mouth a honeycomb filled with secrets he yearned to explore.

He was breathing as though he had run a great distance when he took his lips from hers. “Leyla, beloved…”

“I am here,” she whispered, her eyes dark with trepidation and desire. “I will always be here.”

Jarrett gazed into her eyes and knew a sudden, gut-wrenching fear. She had never known a man, and he had not had a woman in almost a year.

He groaned low in his throat. He needed her more than his next breath, and yet he was afraid, so afraid. He wanted their first time together to be filled with tenderness, and yet he was afraid to touch her for fear he wouldn’t be able to control the desire that was clawing at his insides like some beast on a rampage. What if he hurt her? Or frightened her so badly that she refused to let him touch her ever again?

Almost a year without a woman. Just touching her was torture of the most exquisite kind. How often had he dreamed of her only to wake in a cold sweat to find himself alone, imprisoned in a world of darkness?

But she was here now, enfolded in his arms, a magical creature with hair like moonlight, her innocent blue eyes filled with love and trust.

“Jarrett?” Her hands caressed his face as she gazed into his eyes. The arms holding her close were trembling. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Is something wrong?”

His throat was as dry as the Serimite desert. Slowly he shook his head. “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid? Thee?” Astonished by his reply, she drew back to look at him more clearly. “Of what?”

“Of hurting you.” He covered one of her hands with his, noting how very different they were. His hand was large and brown, heavily calloused, made for hard work and fighting. Hers was small and slender, smooth and unblemished, created to give solace. “It’s been so long…”

“Do not be afraid, my Lord,” she whispered tremulously. “I do not fear thy touch or…or thy desire.”

He kissed her again, and yet again felt her breath quicken, the rapid beating of her heart, saw the wonder that filled her eyes.

One slender hand curled around his neck, the other delved inside his shirt to stroke his chest. Her touch was like fire, burning away his self-control, incinerating the last of his doubts.

He lowered his head to nuzzle the slender curve of her neck, marveling anew at the warmth that radiated from her, the sweetness. He touched her and everything else faded from his mind. She was truly a magical creature, able to heal his wounds, to read his thoughts, to conjure fire…

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Fire. She had truly lit a fire in him, he mused. It burned him now, blazing in his loins, threatening to consume him.

Leyla let her head fall back against Jarrett’s arm, giving him access to her throat, reveling in the hot little kisses that rained down on the sensitive skin of her neck. There was magic in his touch, she thought, a magic stronger and more potent than any she had ever known.

She shuddered with pleasure as his mouth covered hers yet again, his tongue sliding over her lower lip. Her lips parted on a sigh and his tongue delved into her mouth, unleashing a torrent of sensations, quickening a response from deep within her, a warmth that unfurled like a leaf and permeated her whole being, brighter, warmer, than sunlight.

She offered no protest when he carried her to the bed and removed her gown and silken undergarments, bending to kiss the curve of her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, the silken heat of her breasts. With a ragged sigh, he quickly stripped off his shirt, boots and breeches, and then stretched out beside her, drawing her into his arms.

Moaning softly, Leyla turned toward him, her body opening to receive him as a flower opens to the sun.

The unexpected beauty of it, the brilliance, caught them both unaware, and then they were moving together, two halves of the same whole, forever joined, forever one.

Like a river flowing into the sea, his seed spilled into her, flooding her with heat, and life…

Chapter Sixteen

Leyla stood at the tower window, gazing across the courtyard at the rising sun. The sky was afire, splashed with broad strokes of crimson, as red as the virginal blood that had stained her thighs.

She glanced over her shoulder to where Jarrett lay asleep. Even in repose, he was splendid to look upon. His hair was spread like thick black silk against the white satin pillow covering. His jaw was shadowed with dark stubble. His skin was the color of dark copper touched with gold.

Her husband. She had lain in his arms all the night long, learning the contours of his body, her fingers measuring the width of his shoulders, the length of arms and legs corded with muscle. She had touched him and tasted him; she had filled her nostrils with the warm musky scent of him, heard the hunger in his voice when he murmured her name.

She did not regret her marriage or the loss of her innocence. She had found only joy in the arms of her husband, in the touch of his lips, in his whispered words of love. And yet…

She gazed down at her hands, resting lightly on the windowsill. Her power to heal was gone. Of that there was no doubt. She felt the loss of her gift keenly, as though a part of her soul had been cut away, leaving her outwardly whole and yet forever incomplete.

She hadn’t heard a sound, but suddenly Jarrett was standing behind her, his hands on her upper arms, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked.

His breath was warm, stirring the hair at her nape. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

She turned in his arms and laid her head against his chest, listening to the sure, steady beat of his heart. How could she tell him what she was feeling when she didn’t fully understand it herself?

She felt the sudden tensing of his body. Looking up, she saw that his jaw was tightly clenched, his eyes dark with self-reproach.

“Are you sorry?” he asked. “Is that what’s wrong?”

“No,” she replied quickly, fervently. “No, I am not sorry. Thee must not ever think that.”

“Then what is it that troubles you?”

She drew a breath that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul. “My powers are gone.”

“You’re sure?”

“Quite sure.” A single tear glistened in the corner of one eye. “I did not believe he would do it,” she said, very softly. “I guess I did not want to believe it. I thought it was only his anger that made him speak so.”

Jarrett’s arm tightened around her waist as a raw, aching pain clawed at his insides, sharper than Thai’s longboar knife, more agonizing than the touch of Gar’s whip. He had taken more than her innocence, he had robbed her of her birthright.

“I’m sorry, beloved.”

“It is not thy fault. I came to thee freely, willingly.” She placed the palm of her hand against his cheek. “I would do it again.” Her eyes searched his. “Thee does not believe me.”

“I do.”

“I see doubts in thy mind, my Lord Jarrett, and thee must never doubt my love for thee. Be assured that I will speak only the truth to thee.”

“You can still read my mind?”

“Yes.” The thought pleased her greatly. “I have lost only the power of healing.” She gestured at the hearth. A small fire burned within, giving light and warmth to the room. “As thee can see, I can still conjure fire.”

“Perhaps the gift of healing will return, in time.”

Slowly, she shook her head. “No, my Lord. Once revoked, the gift of healing cannot be restored.”

“My Lord,” he said, smiling down at her. “Why do you continue to call me that?”

“If fits thee so well. Does thee wish me to stop?”

“No.” His hands moved restlessly over her shoulders, reaching up into the wealth of her hair, sliding down her arms, then locking around her waist. “Leyla, beloved, you make me weak.”

She gazed into the depths of his eyes, as clear and green as the Aldanian glass so prized by the Maje. Her smile was softly seductive as she took him by the hand.

“Come,” she said, leading him toward the bed. “I need no mystical power to make thee strong again.”

“You have more power than you know,” he muttered, and drawing her down beside him, he covered her body with his, surrendering to the power in her hands—not the power of healing, but the power of love.

It was late afternoon when hunger drove them down to the Great Hall.

Sherriza looked up from the altar cloth she had been mending, a knowing smile lighting her face. Her son looked relaxed and happy as he placed a possessive arm around his bride’s shoulders. And Leyla was radiant, her summer-sky eyes aglow with love and adoration when she looked at her husband.

“Did you sleep well, my children?” Sherriza asked, her voice tinged with tender amusement.

“Very well indeed, my mother,” Jarrett replied. Noting the blush creeping into his wife’s cheeks, he drew Leyla closer to his side. “Where’s Tannya?”

“Preparing Second Meal.” Sherriza met his gaze. “She thought you might be ravenous when you finally decided to come down.”

“She was right.”

Jarrett held a chair for Leyla, then sat down beside her, his hand reaching for his bride’s as if he could not bear to lose contact with her, even for a moment. His gaze was intent upon her face, his eyes filled with adoration. And Leyla returned his gaze, her deep blue eyes brimming with love and devotion.

Sherriza felt a tug at her heart. It was obvious that they were very much in love, and she uttered a silent prayer that it might always be so.

Moments later, Tannya entered the Hall, fussing at Jarrett for missing First Meal, smiling at Leyla, asking if there was anything special she desired.

When they were all seated at the table, Jarrett asked after the priest’s whereabouts.

“Father Lamaan left this morning,” Sherriza said. “He said to tell you he’ll be back soon. He helped us plant the seedlings before he left.”

Jarrett nodded. The good father had managed to obtain quite an assortment of young vegetable plants to restock their garden. Due to the short growing season, it was critical to plant as early as possible.

“He said he’d bring a cow and a few sheep when he returns. And some cloth, if he can manage it.”

Jarrett grunted softly. Greyebridge had never been forced to accept charity before. Always it had been Greyebridge Castle that had helped alleviate whatever need there had been on the island, but those days were gone, at least for now. Much as it galled him to accept help, he could not let his pride keep food off the table. He could not let the women of his household suffer because of his insufferable arrogance.

My Lord Jarrett. He was a man who had always been accorded a great deal of honor and respect, not only because he was Lord of Greyebridge but because he was a hunter without equal, a man of insight and daring. His courage was well -known, his skill with a blade almost legendary. No one had dared cross him, or mock him, until the Pavilion…

In the bowels of the Pavilion, he had learned that there were things far worse than enduring the pain of the flesh. Harder to bear than the torture he had been subjected to had been the contempt in the eyes of the men who had played the Games, the constant degradation of the whip, the humiliation of being shackled like a dog, the constant ridicule, the scorn, the jeers they had hurled at him.

“Not so lofty now, my Lord,” they had cried as they forced him to his knees again and again.

Almost as bad had been the taunts the Giants had hurled at him.
Here’s your food, my Lord Jarrett,” they had sneered when they brought him his meals, meager as they were. “Sorry, we’re all out of silver trays and crystal goblets.”

He felt Leyla’s hand tighten on his and he shook the memories away. What was past was past. It was time to look forward, not back.

Filled with a sudden restless energy, he began to move through the castle, assessing what needed to be done, determining which tasks should be started immediately, which could wait.

He sent the women to search the fields for whatever wild fruit or vegetables they might be able to find while he set several snares in the woods behind Greyebridge.

The next few days passed swiftly. There was much to do and far too few hands to do it.

Father Lamaan returned, bringing a ewe and a ram, apologizing profusely because he hadn’t been able to procure a cow.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, two heavily armed men rode into the courtyard.

Leyla was sitting outside with Jarrett, watching as he fashioned a chair from a tree trunk, when the men rode up. Her first thought was to run, but Jarrett made no move to flee, nor did he reach for his sword. Instead, a slow smile spread over his face.

“Dann! Paull! By thunder, it’s good to see you!”

The two men dismounted and for the next few moments there was a lot of laughing and back-slapping.

“What brings you here?” Jarrett asked at length. “I thought you were serving in the King’s army.”

“A few of us managed to avoid being taken,” Dann answered. “We’ve been hiding out in the hills. Father Lamaan told us you were here. Can you use us?”

“Indeed. Where are your families?”

“In the hills also.”

Jarrett shook his head, touched by their loyalty, by their unspoken belief in his innocence. He had been branded a traitor, accused of consorting with Aldanite spies. No one had come forward on his behalf. Rorke had claimed that the King refused to hear him, though Jarrett was beginning to wonder if Tyrell had ever been made aware of his arrest.

He held out his hand, bidding Leyla to join him. “This is my wife, Leyla,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist.

“My pleasure, my Lady.”

“Welcome to Gweneth, my Lady.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, flattered by the admiration she saw in their eyes.

“Come inside,” Jarrett invited. “Tannya will have food prepared.”

Paull shook his head. “Our women will worry if we do not return home before dark. With your permission, we will return on the morrow.” He glanced around the courtyard. “We have a small herd of sheep. Some goats. A cow.”

“Your generosity will not go unrewarded.”

“It is not generosity, Milord,” Dann replied with a grin. “All wear the mark of Greyebridge Castle.”

“How came you by them? My lands and livestock were forfeit to the Crown.”

Paull’s pale-blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Would you believe they followed us into the hills?”

“Followed you?”

“Aye, Milord,” Dann said, stifling a grin. “It took but a rope and a firm hand. Until the morrow, then.”

“Wait! What is the word in the village? Do the people think me guilty of treason?”

“No, Milord. But they have been warned not to help you on pain of death. There are others from Greyebridge hiding in the hills. In time, they will come home.”

“I cannot promise you safety if you stay,” Jarrett warned. “If Rorke learns of my presence here…” Jarrett shrugged. “Think on it carefully before you decide to return.”

“Greyebridge is our home,” Dann replied. “And you are our Lord.” He bowed in Leyla’s direction. “Until the morrow, my Lady. My Lord Jarrett.”

“Until the morrow,” Paull repeated.

Jarrett draped his arm across Leyla’s shoulder as he watched the two men ride out of the courtyard. “I hope they do not regret their decision.” Jarrett let out a deep breath. “Tyrell should return to Heth soon. When he does, I’ll go to him and explain what happened.”

“What if he won’t listen?”

“He will,” Jarrett said emphatically.

He kissed Leyla soundly, then reached for the ax he had dropped earlier. “It looks as though we will need many more chairs,” he said with a grin. “Go tell Sherriza that Dann and Paull are coming home.”

The next few weeks were happy ones. Dann and Paull brought their families to the castle and the walls rang with the sound of children’s laughter. In a short time, the men built two tables and enough chairs to seat everyone. New wardrobes were constructed, new shelves and trunks made. Dann’s wife Sarrah spent hours beating the dust from tapestries and bed hangings. Paull’s wife Janna washed the floors and the windows. Tannya reigned in the kitchens, enlisting the help of the older children. Sherriza spent hours in the garden, planting, weeding, watering.

Leyla found herself in charge of the house. She knew it was her right, her duty, but it did not come easily to her. She was not comfortable giving orders, settling disputes, planning menus. She felt as if she were usurping Sherriza’s place, but Jarrett’s mother insisted that was not the case. Leyla was Jarrett’s wife. As such, she was now the lady of the manor.

Gradually, a few others returned to Greyebridge, renewing their allegiance to Jarrett. First, Harran, the cobbler; then Jorrad, the blacksmith; Terrek, the cooper. They brought their wives and families, their livestock.

They brought news as well. Tyrell was marching toward Heth; Rorke had been called to Cornith to preside over a minor border dispute between two adjoining landholders.

Jarrett breathed a sigh of relief. With Rorke at Cornith, there was nothing to fear, at least for the time being. It would give him time to get Greyebridge on its feet again before he left for Heth.