More Than Friends (9 page)

          It was an intriguing question, provoking a spark of renewed hope.  He would not have mentioned it, surely, if the possibility had not existed. “I’m no spy.  You are mistaken.”

          “Rarely.”  He seemed to study her, if his silence was any indication.  “We have ways of making men talk.  I can think of much more pleasurable methods to ply on a woman.”

          She would die before she allowed an unnatural to touch her, let alone use torture to gain information from her, even if she’d had information to withhold from him, which she most certainly did not.  With an effort, she hardened her will.  “You cannot gain information I do not have, nor wield any force that could pry it from me if what you suppose were true.  You don’t frighten me,” she said with a bravado born of ruler ship.

          “You should be.”  He chuckled darkly, pushing himself up so that he no longer lay fully against her, though he still held her pinned to the cold ground.  His knowing laugh crept over her with the intimacy of a caress.  She couldn’t escape the feeling that he could see every inch of her body, despite the darkness, that he invaded even her thoughts and knew her as no one ever had.

          A callused thumb brushed the edges of her collarbone.  Her skin tingled with heightened awareness, near burning at the points of contact.  She shivered.  Never before had she considered her nudity a danger.  In her world, no man would dare touch her.  And though the dark shielded her, here ... there could be no guarantees of safety in old illusions.  Swan jerked away from his invasive touch.  His gall was unbelievable.

          “I did not give you permission to touch me.”

          Despite her command, despite her certain knowledge that in her own world he would not have dared so much, would have instantly begged pardon for a presumption that could easily have been a death warrant, she knew very well that she was powerless in his world.

          He was an unnatural, of that she was certain, yet what powers did he possess?  She could not know, nor even their extent, but even if he did not possess night vision, he would certainly have felt her nakedness, pressed against her as he was.  Would he dare to press his advantage, to take what had not been offered?

          Meager as the tattered robe had been that had covered her nakedness, even that had been lost in her mad dash for freedom ... snatched away by a tree’s groping fingers.  Nothing protected her now but her own tangled locks and the dusting of dirt clinging to her skin.

          She should have felt frightened, or revolted.  Instead, her sudden awareness of him as a far different sort of predator sent a strange kindt of expectancy humming through her blood.

          “I did not ask it.”  He’d noticed her reaction, his senses uncanny.  “Most women would welcome finding themselves in your position.”

          “And what is that, as a meal?”

          He laughed.  At another time, Swan might have thought the sound pleasant.  Now, it only made her more uneasy. “There is more than one way to eat a woman.  I would gladly demonstrate.”

          Strangely, although she had no very clear idea of what he referred to, her heart quickened, heat gathering in her loins.   It disturbed her that he could command a reaction from her body with no more than his words.  Irritation surfaced. “I never knew beasts were so obliging.  I thought your kind only raped and destroyed.”

          His hands tightened on her shoulders.  “It is humans who cannot be trusted.  You break the pact coming here.  Death has been dealt for less,” he said, his voice deadly soft.

          “I face it gladly,” she said slowly.  Her jaw clenched with the effort to remain calm, but her heart drummed in her throat with the new threat.

          The man was silent a long moment, studying her, building the tension strumming through her aching muscles.  At last the vice of his hands relaxed.  “You lie, little bird.  Your fear is as potent as a perfume.  You would do well to remember where you are.  I tire of these games.  Why have you come here?” he demanded again, quietly.  “The scent of prey is sweet ... and you have ventured where you don’t belong.  I will have my answer.”

          “I have told you what you asked.  You don’t want the truth.   I have no one to turn to, nowhere else to go.”

          Morvere had sent her here, of that she had no doubt, though she could see no advantage to telling him of a man he would not know for his treachery.  She could see no way to make him believe her tale, and it was possible that mentioning the sorcerer might only convince him that she and Morvere had formed some plot together, to use sorcery to get her beyond the border for some dark purpose.

          In her homeland, it was well known humans were killed in Shadowmere on sight.  Those few that survived its horrors turned mad.  Morvere had sent her because he wanted her death and torture.  He knew the unnaturals horrified her.  To be made one and thrust into their midst to die was a vicious revenge for denying him.

          He could not even be brought to pity and end her life quickly.  How long had he conspired to claim her and her lands?  She’d trusted him with her life, with the lives of her people, and he’d betrayed them all.

          That reflection did much to steel her purpose.  She would survive, if only to see him fall.

          “Shadowmere is not a haven for your kind.”

          Despite his assurances to the contrary, it occurred to her that it could be, if she could convince him.  Dare she pin her hopes on the people of Shadowmere?  They had fought for so long, it was unlikely she would gain anything but a swift death.  Still, she had nothing more to lose and everything to gain by asking.  “I require your assistance.”

          The demand caught him by surprise.  “You do not know me, and I feel I must point out that you’re in no position to make any sort of demands.  I fear I must refuse.”

          In some long buried sense, she felt he reserved a softness toward women--many men did.  He had rescued her, after all.  Of course, he might only have saved her for some darker purpose, but instinct told her she was right.   “You have not heard my needs and I am not accustomed to being refused.”

          His eyes narrowed.  “Arrogant.  And naive.  Obeying a woman’s demands is beyond my experience.”

          “You cannot possibly refuse me help,” she said, astounded, her voice tinged with doubt.  What would she do?  She could not go forward unassisted, and most certainly not back to Avonleigh.  Morvere would likely do something worse, perhaps kill her on the spot for not having the grace to die the first time.

          He shook his head, intrigued despite what he’d said to the contrary, to find his beautiful captive making demands upon her captor.  But was it strength, or nothing more than a lack of understanding of the dire situation she found herself in?

          “I could, far more easily than you seem to think.  I am bound by nothing from your world, not the position you held in your own world, certainly not your notions of chivalry.  It’s obvious you have no clear notion of your peril.  Did not the pack fill you with terror at their call?  The hunters answer but to one master ... and worse terrors roam these lands.”

          If had he meant to frighten her, it had worked.  The blood froze in her veins as his words sank in.  Why had she not realized what it was that pursed her the moment she learned where she was?

          The hunters.  Borderguards of Shadowmere.  The pack was the essence of nightmares.  They’d chased her, endlessly it seemed, but she had thought them beasts of the natural world, drawn by the scent of blood, not… the hunters.

          Still, she lived.  If what he said was true, why was she not dead?

          It occurred to her then that there could be only one answer.  “Who are you?” she whispered fearfully.

          “I am Raphael, Lord of the Hunters.”  His hands shifted to grip her upper arms as he dragged her to her feet with ease. “And you are my prisoner.”

          They were surrounded in the next instant, wolfen men melding from the trees as though summoned with a thought.  Some growled in the language of wolf.  Others spoke in muffled tones, guttural, their menace palpable.

          Knowing instinctively that to stare at them was to provoke them, Swan kept her gaze trained on the man who held her, Raphael, though she felt more than saw him.  She’d baited one of the most powerful men of Shadowmere, but she couldn’t dwell on that.  Her initial fear faded, replaced with a sense of purpose.

          She lived because he willed it.  Whatever his purpose might be, she saw at once that he was a potential ally capable of defeating Morvere.  And while she would never have considered allying herself with such as he, under ordinary circumstances, desperation made strange bedfellows.  She was not so haughty that she couldn’t recognize this “man’s” worth.  She had only to convince him to help her.

          A feat quite possibly easier said than done, but she could not allow doubts to sway her from her purpose.  Her people needed her.

          She sensed a presence near her from behind, warned by the crackle of dead leaves beneath softly padding feet.  The movement halted a short distance behind her.

          A voice rumbled from the dark, gravely and coarse as though unused, “My lord, we are sworn to uphold the pact...”

          Raphael’s hands tensed on her arm.  “You need not remind me of my duty, Arion.”

          “That was not my intention, my lord--”

          “Good.  She is mine.  Until it is decided what to do with her.”  He prodded her forward.

          Swan was near blind, helpless to find her own way--and it rankled, as did his possessiveness.  “I belong to no one, man or beast.  Release me.”

          He ignored her demand.  Swan attempted to jerk her arm from his grasp, to no avail.  Her strength was no match for his.  She stumbled with the effort, but he righted her before she could fall.

          His grip tightened as he guided her through the forest, as though to dissuade her from further escape attempts.  The precaution was unnecessary.  It was less than futile to run again--not while under heavy guard, as she knew she must be.

          In any case, where would she run to if she succeeded in escaping?  Into the loving arms of the man who’d placed the curse upon her to begin with? 

          Raphael, Lord of the Hunters, might offer little hope, his possessiveness, his arrogance might rankle, but he represented the only hope she had at this point.

          As she struggled blindly to keep up, the wound on her hand, the magically clipped finger, began to throb anew, forcing itself to the forefront of her mind.  The pain from the myriad of cuts, scratches, bruises and aching muscles of her flight receded into the nothingness of minor twinges as raw agony from the injury pounded through her with every step she took.  Had it only been a day since her life had been shattered irrevocably?

          The terror, the rushing adrenaline of her flight had vanished, leaving her weak, susceptible once more to the pain she had not felt in her shock.  She began to realize she had nothing to sustain her, that she not could remain on her feet much longer.  Unused to vulnerability, to being one of those needy females now made her despise herself.  A simple wound should not affect her thus, she chided herself.  The blood of kings ran through her veins.  She shamed her ancestors with her weakness.

          No thought could bolster her flagging endurance, however.

          Each second weighed like a minute, each minute an eternity.  The world slowed around her, sounds distorted like screams under water.  Her legs, leaden from running, weighted her down.  It was becoming increasingly difficult to move one foot in front of the other.  Raphael’s pace allowed her no reprieve.

          “Let me go,” she demanded again, a wave of dizziness washing over her in a nauseating wave.

          “You should never run from the pack.  It increases their appetite.  How can I trust you would not do so again?”

          The absurdity of her outrunning the hunters nearly made her laugh, especially considering her current condition.  She would not be such a fool as to try again with their hunger unappeased, but it seemed unlikely he would believe her assurances.  She was loath to reveal her weakness, but much longer and she would be unable to hide it from him.  “I can only assure you that I will not,” she said finally.

          He seemed to consider her a long moment, then said, “Share with me but your name, and you may walk freely.  Unless you enjoy my touch....”

          That he would concede some ground was all the incentive she needed.  “Swan of Avonleigh,” she said.

          He released her, to her immense relief.  Swan cradled her left arm, terrified to feel the heat of infection suffusing her hand.  It was as she’d feared.  Her steps slowed as she probed the wound, hoping she was mistaken.  A sharp stab lanced up her arm with the light touch, and she groaned without thinking.

          He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.  “What is wrong?”

          “Nothing.”

          He cursed in a strange language.  “Do you make a habit of lying?”  He touched her hand, and she gasped and stumbled against him.  Tears sprang to her eyes.

          “Who has dared harm you?” he demanded angrily, gripping her shoulders.