Warrior's Lady (12 page)

“My love won’t put food in your mouth or clothes upon your back. It won’t keep you from the king’s wrath if his men come here looking for me.”

Leyla lifted her chin defiantly. “Had I desired a life of ease and security, I would have married Tor.”

“Does that mean you’ll be my wife?”

“Any day thee chooses.”

“I’ll go into the village tomorrow and fetch the priest.”

“I will go with thee.”

“No, it’s too dangerous. I’ll bring Father Lamaan here, if he’ll come. It is my wish that we be married in Greyebridge chapel.”

“Then it is my wish, as well.”

“Are you sure this is what you want, Leyla? You will lose your gifts when we are wed.”

Leyla shook her head. “That is only a myth.”

“A myth? I don’t understand.”

“It was never true,” she explained. “It was a lie told in hopes of protecting our women from harm if they fell into enemy hands.”

Jarrett smiled with relief. It had bothered him, knowing she would be sacrificing her powers, a part of herself, to be his wife.

He squeezed her hand and then frowned when she lowered her gaze. “What is it?” he asked. “What troubles you?”

“Nothing, my Lord.”

“Leyla, I cannot read your mind as you read mine, but I can see that something is bothering you. Tell me what it is.”

“My father…”

“What about him?”

“He threatened to revoke my powers if I married against his wishes.”

“Can he do that?”

“Yes, by means of an old and seldom-used rite.”

“Will he do it?”

“I do not know, but it matters not.” She made a vague gesture of dismissal. “It is a small price to pay to be thy wife. Do not trouble thyself about it.”

“It is not a small price. It is a part of you that will be forever lost. Are you sure you’re ready to give it up? I want no regrets between us, no doubts.”

“I have no doubts, my Lord Jarrett, only love for thee.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes luminous, her lips slightly parted. Her name was a sigh on his lips as he pulled her into his arms and rained kisses upon the soft velvet of her mouth, the tip of her nose, the pulsing hollow of her throat. He could feel the beat of her heart, the warmth of her breasts against his chest.

His fingers burrowed into her hair, reveling in the silky softness. A deep breath brought him her scent, warm, fragrant, feminine. It stirred him to the core of his being, to the depths of his desire. He had yearned for her, dreamed of her, long before he’d seen her face or knew her name. In the awful despair of the Pavilion, she had become all things to him—mother, sister, friend, a haven from pain, warmth on a cold night, a ray of sunshine in the constant darkness in which he had lived.

Now, knowing her, he could not help but love her, could not help but want her.

With a groan, he pressed her back on the grass, his body covering hers as his tongue ravaged her mouth. She was life and breath and he would be lost without her.

One last kiss and he drew away, his breath ragged.

With a rueful grin, he stood up. “We should not be out here alone,” he said, offering her his hand. “You are far too beautiful, and I am much too weak.”

“My Lord?”

“I fear you will not be an innocent on our wedding night if we stay here much longer.”

A sudden flood of color washed into Leyla’s cheeks as she grasped his meaning.

Hand in hand they walked back to the keep.

Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow she would be his in every sense of the word. He would live for her; die for her, if necessary.

Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow all the mystery would be gone and she would know what it meant to be a woman. Jarrett’s woman.

Chapter Fifteen

Jarrett kept off the main road as he made his way toward the small village located some two and a half leagues from the castle. He knew he had no business being seen in public. Everyone knew he was an accused traitor. By now, it was probably common knowledge that he had escaped from the Pavilion. No doubt there was a price on his head. But someone had to fetch Father Lamaan and he couldn’t send Leyla or his mother, not without a proper escort.

He walked briskly, enjoying the gentle caress of the wind on his face. It felt so good to be free, to see the sun, feel the earth beneath his feet. Freed of the restricting shackles, his arms and legs felt as light as the air.

It was near midday when he reached the village. For a time, he stood out of sight behind a tree, watching the villagers come and go. There was no sign of any of the king’s men. Indeed, the village was relatively quiet, but there was nothing unusual about that. Third Day was not normally a busy day.

He drew the hood of his cloak over his head and then, with one hand on his sword, he crossed the road and entered the small white brick church located at the south end of the village.

It was dark inside, cool. A single candle burned on the altar. A lone figure clad in a long brown robe knelt at the intricately carved wooden railing before the altar.

“Father?”

The priest rose at the sound of Jarrett’s voice, a smile of welcome lighting his florid face as he turned around.

“My Lord Jarrett,” Father Lamaan murmured. He made the sign of the cross, then held out his hand. “Is it really you?”

“Aye.” Jarrett swept the hood from his head as he walked down the narrow aisle and took the priest’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, Father.”

“And you, my Lord.” A frown creased the cleric’s brow. “But, tell me, where have you been all this time, my son?”

“In the dungeons of the Pavilion.”

“Ah. We heard a rumor to that effect, but could scarce believe it.”

“Believe it, Father.” Jarrett shoved his hands into his pockets, his fists clenching.

“The Pavilion,” the priest said with a shudder. “How is it that you escaped?”

“By the grace of the All Father,” Jarrett replied fervently, “and the help of a very courageous lady.”

“Was it…very bad?”

“The Games are still being played there, Father,” Jarrett replied flatly. “Does that answer your question?”

“But that’s impossible!” Father Lamaan exclaimed. Everyone knew that the Games had been outlawed long ago, that the Pavilion had been turned into a prison to hold incorrigibles. “Impossible,” he said again. “The King would never permit it.”

“The King doesn’t know.”

“And you survived the Games.” There was a note of awe in the priest’s voice.

“My lady happens to be a Maje, Father. It is only because of her that I am here today.”

“A Maje… I have never met one.”

“You will. We are to be wed.”

“I see.” The priest looked thoughtful for a moment. “It is said that when a Maje weds an outsider, her powers are lost.”

“So they say,” Jarrett replied, unwilling to reveal what Leyla had told him about the myth, even to a holy man.

“And this does not trouble her?”

“She says not.”

“And it does not trouble you?”

“Of course it does! But…” Jarrett shrugged. “I cannot live without her.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it, and I cannot explain it, except to say that it seems as if we are already one. She knows me as no other does, or ever will. We would like you to perform the ceremony. Today, if possible. You’ll like her, Father. She has a beautiful soul.”

“Is a marriage wise at this time?”

“Is marriage ever wise?” Jarrett replied with a grin. “It will not be a large affair, just Tannya and my mother.”

“And how is your mother? She was not well when I visited with her a fortnight ago.”

“She’s much improved.”

“May the All Father be praised! Well, if there’s to be a wedding, we had best be on our way.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to walk back to the castle, Father.”

“I am used to walking, my Lord.” The priest paused, as if he feared saying something offensive. “Have you… I mean…” He cleared his throat. “Is there food enough at Greyebridge?”

“There’s nothing at Greyebridge,” Jarrett said bitterly. “In the King’s absence, Rorke has taken everything except the castle itself.”

“I feared as much. Wait here.”

Jarrett stared suspiciously at the priest for a long moment, then glanced away, ashamed of what he’d been thinking. The good Father had been a friend to Jarrett’s family ever since he could remember.

A sad smile tugged at Father Lamaan’s mouth. “Were I in your place, my Lord, I would not trust anyone, either.”

“Forgive me, Father.”

The priest laid a gnarled hand on Jarrett’s shoulder. “I’ll not be gone long.”

Alone in the chapel, Jarrett drew the hood of his cloak over his head and stepped into the shadows. The silence within the church was absolute. He stared at the flickering light of the candle, remembering the awful stillness of his cell in the bowels of the Pavilion, where the only sound had been that of his own harsh breathing and the echo of his screams…

The Pavilion, a place of darkness, of despair, of days and nights without hope, until she came. Leyla. Her name rose on his lips, soft as a child’s sigh, fervent as the prayer of a dying man.

He whirled around, his hand reaching for his sword, as the heavy oak door swung open, but it was only Father Lamaan, his aged shoulder sagging beneath the weight of a heavily laden sack.

“Are you ready, my Lord?”

With a nod, Jarrett took the sack from the priest, slung it over his own shoulder, then followed the old man out of the church. Neither said a word until they were safely out of sight of the village, and then the priest spoke.

“You took a grave chance, coming here. There are signs posted about the village that offer a goodly reward for your capture.”

Jarrett grunted softly. It was what he had expected.

Father Lamaan fell silent after that, his expression thoughtful. He had heard stories of the Pavilion, whispered bits and pieces of the horrors that had once taken place there; indeed, who had not heard at least one tale of the sadistic Games that gave the place its reputation? But they had been outlawed eons ago by every province in the realm. It was a miracle Jarrett had survived, Maje or no Maje.

The priest shook his head in silent wonder. A Maje. All his life, he had wanted to meet one. Now, it seemed, he would have his chance.

They reached Greyebridge an hour after dusk.

Sherriza made Father Lamaan welcome. The priest was an old friend of the family. He had been there to comfort Sherriza when her second child was born dead. He had been there when Jarrett’s father was killed, offering prayers for the soul of the deceased, holding Sherriza while she wept bitter tears.

Leaving the priest with Sherriza, Jarrett went in search of Leyla. He found her in her room, a piece of delicate embroidery in her lap.

Leyla’s heart skipped a beat when she glanced up to see Jarrett in the doorway. Each time she saw him was like the first time. Just looking at him warmed the innermost core of her being. He was so tall, so very masculine, everything within her was drawn to him.

Laying her needlework aside, she hurried into his arms. “I missed thee,” she murmured, thinking how she had worried over his absence, fearing that he might be recognized in town, or captured by the king’s men.

Jarrett held her close. She felt so good in his arms, so right. “I brought the priest. Do you wish to be wed this evening, or wait until the morrow?”

Leyla tilted her head back, her eyes sparkling. “This evening, most assuredly, my Lord.”

“I will send my mother to help you get ready.” He kissed her gently on the cheek, his hands kneading her shoulders. Soon, he thought. Soon she would be his. “Be quick, beloved.”

An hour later, Leyla entered the family chapel to take her place at Jarrett’s side. It was a beautiful place. The pews and the altar were of burnished oak. Wrought iron candelabras held dozens of tall white candles, filling the chapel with a soft glow. A shaft of moonlight fell on the stained glass window behind the altar.

Sherriza and Tannya, both dressed in their finest, moved up to take their places beside Leyla, but Jarrett had eyes only for his bride.

She wore a full-skirted gown of gold-and-silver cloth; a gossamer veil covered her face. She looked like a goddess recently descended from heaven, an angel who had come to earth to steal his breath away. Her lustrous silver hair fell in loose waves down her back save for one silken curl that fell over her left shoulder. She held a single, long-stemmed midnight flower in her hand.

He couldn’t seem to take his gaze from her face, not even when the priest began to speak the words that would unite them now and forevermore.

Jarrett spoke the proper words when the time came, slipped a heavy gold band over Leyla’s slender finger and then, with the priest’s blessing, he lifted the veil from her face.

For a long moment, he gazed into the depths of her eyes, overcome with the love he saw reflected there. And then, very gently, he kissed her, silently reaffirming his pledge of love and devotion.

And then he kissed her again. And again.

Reverently, he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. “Beloved,” he murmured in a voice thick with emotion. “My own.”

“Always,” Leyla replied quietly. She basked in the love and adoration shining in her husband’s eyes. Never had he looked quite so handsome, so masculine. So desirable. He wore snug black breeches, black boots and a dark-green tunic that matched the color of his eyes. Her gaze moved over him lovingly, caressing the width of his shoulders, pleased by the smile that was for her alone.

A soft cough drew her attention to the fact that they weren’t alone. Cheeks flushed, she turned to find Sherriza and Tannya standing at her elbow, grinning at each other.

“Welcome to the family, child,” Sherriza said. Stepping forward, she pressed her cheek to Leyla’s. “If he mistreats you in any way, you come to me.”

“Or to me,” Tannya said, giving Leyla a hug. “He was a terrible bully as a lad. Don’t let him get away with it now.”

“I won’t,” Leyla said, and then the priest was hugging her and wishing her well.

“My turn,” Jarrett insisted, and drew Leyla into his arms, holding her to his side as if he would never again let her go.

For Leyla, the next hour passed in a haze of laughter, excitement and anticipation. Using the food stuffs Father Lamaan had brought, Tannya had prepared a wedding dinner, complete with golden honey cakes for dessert.

Sherriza kept the conversation light, the wine glasses filled. The priest spoke of the latest gossip in the village, of the marriage of the blacksmith to the baker’s daughter. He told of Jorrad’s wife giving birth to twins, and how Jorrad had accused her of being unfaithful because of it.

Leyla listened in astonishment, amazed that a man of the church would know of such things. She was ever aware of Jarrett’s eyes caressing her, of his nearness. He found numerous excuses to touch her hand, her arm. When he smiled, her heart soared. The sound of his laughter filled her with joy. It was so good to see him at ease in his own home, surrounded by those who loved him as she loved him. She prayed that being home again would banish his nightmares forever.

A warm rush of heat flooded her cheeks when Jarrett stood up and announced it was time for bed. Sherriza and Tannya exchanged knowing looks. The priest seemed suddenly intent upon the contents of his wine glass.

“Good sleep, my mother.” Jarrett said, bowing in Sherriza’s direction. “Tannya. Father.”

“Good sleep to you, my son,” Sherriza replied. She smiled at her new daughter, felt a little tug of nostalgia as she remembered her own wedding night. Jarrett’s father had been every bit as handsome, as tall, as strong. All the young women in the village had turned their eyes in Shammah’s direction, fascinated by his prowess as a hunter and fighter, by the curling black of his hair, the deep green of his eyes, but, to her eternal gratitude, Shammah had chosen her for his wife. Sherriza uttered a silent prayer, hoping that Leyla would find the same enduring happiness in Jarrett’s arms that she had found in his father’s.

Hand in hand Leyla and Jarrett climbed the spiral staircase that led to Jarrett’s room. There was freshly washed bedding on the huge four-poster bed, the covers had been turned back, a fire crackled in the raised hearth.

Leyla gave a little start when Jarrett closed the door. They were alone now. Quite alone.

“Leyla…”

She swallowed hard. “My Lord?”

“I have not changed.”

“My Lord?”

“You look at me as if you think I’m going to attack you like some wild beast.”

Embarrassed, she looked away. She had wanted this moment, had been wanting it almost from the first day she had seen him in that horrid little cell in the bowels of the Pavilion, but now…