Warrior's Lady (23 page)

With a sigh, he surrendered to the magic of her hands. Her touch was like fire, igniting his blood, arousing his desire until his self-control was shattered. Rising over her, he lifted her hips to receive him, her name a groan as he buried himself in satin flesh and fire…

Leyla lay awake long after Jarrett had fallen asleep, his head cradled against her breast, her arms holding him close, as if she could ward off the nightmares that were sure to come to him.

She studied his face in the moonlight, loving the sensual line of his mouth, the proud cheekbones, the sharp outline of his nose, the strong square jaw. His hair, as black as the bowels of the Greyebridge dungeon, made a dark splash against the blanket. Her gaze moved over him lovingly, caressing the broad shoulders and chest, the long legs that lay over hers.

She tried to fight the fears that crowded her mind. He was a strong man, a valiant fighter, a warrior without equal, and yet she knew he could not win in the arena forever. Sooner or later he would lose. He had killed or maimed nine men. What would she do when it was Jarrett’s body lying in a bloody heap in the sand? What if he sustained an injury that even Tor could not heal? What if he were killed?

Her dismal thoughts fled as Jarrett’s body twitched convulsively. A low groan rose in his throat, and then an anguished scream cut across the stillness of the night.

Leyla jackknifed into a sitting position, her hand shaking his shoulder. “Jarrett! Jarrett, wake up.”

“No!” His hands clawed at his face. “Take it off!”

“Jarrett, wake up!” She made a grab for his hands, only to fall back, stunned, as a wildly flailing fist caught her flush on the jaw.

For a moment, she saw stars and bright comets, and then she realized that Jarrett was on his feet, his body in a crouch. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stared at an enemy only he could see.

“Jarrett.” She spoke his name softly. “Jarrett, I am here.”

“She?”

“Yes. I am here. Come to me, my Lord Jarrett.”

Tears burned her eyes as she watched him. A terrible fear clutched at her heart, a horrible fear that one day he wouldn’t be able to fight his way out of the awful nightmare that plagued him, that he would sink so deeply into the bad dreams that haunted him that he would never return.

“Jarrett?”

He shook his head as awareness crept into his eyes. “Leyla?”

“I am here.” She went to him then, wrapping her arms around him, feeling the violent shudders that wracked his body. “Come, sit beside me.”

She poured him a cup of wine and when he had drunk that, she poured him another. Gradually his trembling ceased, the wildness left his eyes and his breathing returned to normal.

Wordlessly, Leyla put her arms around Jarrett and held him close. She felt like crying when he looked at her, his eyes filled with torment and humiliation.

“I’m worse than a mewling infant,” he muttered.

“Jarrett…”

“It’s true!” He tugged against the chain that bound his ankle, his eyes blazing with self-loathing. “What kind of man is terrified by dreams?”

He jerked against his tether again, harder this time, oblivious to the fact that the heavy chain cut into his skin. “And you. What kind of life is this for you? You should have stayed with Tor.”

“Thee does not mean that.”

“No.” He held out his arms and she went to him gratefully, pressing her face to his chest, absorbing his warmth, his strength. She did not need to probe his mind to know he was feeling utterly helpless and completely discouraged.

With a sigh, he stretched out on the blanket, his head in her lap, her hand clutched in his.

She sat there for a long time, listening to his breathing slow as he fell asleep, wondering how to tell him that a new life was growing beneath her heart.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Please,” Leyla said.

She knelt at Keturah’s feet, her hands clasped to her breasts. “Please, I beg of thee, let him fight without the mask.”

Keturah shook his head. “It stays.”

“Is there no pity in thee? Can thee not see what it does to him? He will fight as well without it.”

Keturah grunted softly. “The mask stays.”

Leyla glanced over her shoulder to where Jarrett sat, his back against a tree, his arms bound behind his back. Tor sat a short distance away, a glass of ale in his hand. Of the three of them, only Jarrett was kept shackled.

“Please,” she said again.

“No. The mask is necessary.” He relented a little at the pleading look in her deep blue eyes. “Too many people might recognize him without it.”

Leyla blinked at the flesh peddler in astonishment. “Thee knows who he is?”

“Of course.”

“But…?”

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. “You want to know why I have not taken him to Rorke for the reward? Only think about it. An outlaw like myself can hardly approach the King for a reward. And, in time, Lord Jarrett will win more lucre than the reward Rorke is offering for his head.”

Thoroughly disheartened, Leyla went to sit beside Jarrett. Four days had passed since their night together. In that time, he had withdrawn into himself, hardly speaking to her. He was fighting again at midday. Already she could see the tension building within him as he prepared himself to meet another opponent, to kill or be killed. And, hiding deep inside, waiting for the time when he was at rest, lurked the nightmare.

She glanced over at Tor, her gaze locking with his as she sent him her thoughts.
We have to get away from here.

How?

I do not know, but it must be soon else Jarrett will perish.

Tor nodded imperceptibly. They couldn’t go on like this much longer. When he probed Jarrett’s mind, he received little more than thoughts of death and destruction. It was only a matter of time before the warrior exploded into violence.

Jarrett stood up as Keturah and Lahairoi walked toward him. It was time to go to the arena in Sidonni, time to face another swordsman, time to kill or be killed.

A soul-shattering weariness engulfed him. He was tired of fighting, sick of the smell of blood and death, of the taste of fear on his tongue. A heavy lassitude settled over him as he stared at the heavy chain on his ankle. It would be so easy to escape it all. So easy. He had only to let his guard down in the arena to end it all.

But then he saw Leyla watching him, her silver hair shimmering in the sunlight, her blue eyes warm with love and encouragement, and he knew he could not leave her to face the flesh peddlers alone. While he lived, she was accorded a degree of respect. If anything happened to him, she would be at their mercy, to be used and abused and finally sold into a life even more degrading than the one he now lived. He would find no peace in the grave knowing that he had left her in the hands of Keturah and his flesh peddlers.

He stood passive as Lahairoi shackled his hands behind his back, then removed the chain from his ankle. He thought of Keturah, of the mask, of being enslaved, letting his hatred grow and spread within him until it threatened to choke him.

One way or another, today would be his last fight.

Leyla stood in the shade of the tunnel, her eyes riveted on Jarrett. He stood in the middle of the arena, sword in hand, facing his opponent, a dark-skinned man whose body was covered with grotesque tattoos in the manner of the Jovites. A cold winter sun bathed the combatants in a blaze of light, shining off the long blades.

She shivered as she watched the two men circle slowly back and forth, her heart pounding with dread as she went over the plan Jarrett had laid before her on their way to the arena.

They were in a small arena in a small town. They would never have a better chance, Jarrett had said. Several of Keturah’s men had gone ahead to the next town to scout around. It was now or never, Jarrett had told her, and she had heard the underlying note of desperation in his voice, seen it in the depths of his green eyes.

She glanced at Tor, who stood a little behind her.
Will it work? Can it possibly work?

She wanted assurance, but he only shrugged. He had tried to see into the future, but he saw only vague shadows and an endless darkness that left him with a feeling of great unease. He had tried to convince Jarrett to postpone his escape, but to no avail. In truth, Tor could not fault the man for his impatience. He was as weary of captivity as was Jarrett.

The harsh ring of metal striking metal drew Leyla’s attention and she turned her gaze back to the arena. The fight had begun.

Jarrett faced his opponent, all his energy, all his thoughts, focused on the other man. For this brief period of time, nothing else existed, not Leyla, not Keturah, not Greyebridge. There was only the dark-skinned man weaving gracefully before him, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he adroitly parried Jarrett’s thrusts.

The man was a master swordsman and Jarrett knew he would have to be on guard every moment just to survive, and now his whole world centered on the other man. Time lost all meaning and he saw only the other man, heard only the sharp chime of steel striking steel and the labored rasp of his own breath. Only vaguely was he aware of the cheers of the crowd, of the dust that filled his nostrils, of the smell of sweat and blood. His sweat. His blood.

He winced as the dark-skinned man’s blade slipped under his guard and pierced his left side. Oblivious to the pain, Jarrett took a step back, feinted to the left, and brought his sword up in a smooth swift motion, sinking the blade to the hilt in the chest of the tattooed man.

For a long moment, there was only silence. The dark-skinned man remained on his feet, his eyes clouding with pain and shock as he stared at the blade embedded in his flesh. The sword slipped out of his hand.

Jarrett swallowed hard and then, with a jerk, he withdrew his blade. The life went out of the wounded man’s eyes and he sank slowly to the ground, a bright splash of blood staining his chest.

And now the crowd was on its feet, cheering for Dumah, the Masked Swordsman of Keturah.

As if acknowledging the crowd, Jarrett moved slowly toward the tunnel where Leyla waited. He turned as the Master of the Arena rode toward him to collect his sword.

Covered with sweat and blood, his heart pounding, Jarrett waited for the man to close the distance between them. And then the Master of the Arena was leaning toward him, his gloved hand outstretched to receive Jarrett’s sword.

With a wild cry, Jarrett drove his sword straight up into the man’s throat. Then, grabbing the man by the arm, he pulled him out of the saddle, grabbed the man’s sword, and swung onto the horse’s back.

Stunned by the unexpected violence, the crowd fell silent and then roared to life, some screaming for Jarrett’s blood, others urging him on.

Ripping off the mask, he rode toward the tunnel, tossing one of the swords to Tor. Leaning over his horse’s neck, he caught Leyla around the waist and dropped her, none too gently, across the horse’s withers. Not stopping to see if Tor followed, Jarrett rode out of the tunnel, his heels drumming against the horse’s flanks.

Outside the arena, he reined the horse to the left, heading out of the village toward the low foothills beyond. He glanced over his shoulder only once. Tor was behind him, mounted on Keturah’s big black stallion.

Jarrett pushed his mount steadily onward. The wind stung his wounds and whipped his hair into his face, but he rode on, ignoring the blood that welled from the deep gash in his left side and dripped onto Leyla’s back. More blood welled from a cut in his right thigh. He knew she must be uncomfortable, riding belly down over the horse’s withers, but he dared not stop to let her right herself.

They rode hard for over an hour before Jarrett drew his winded mount to a halt. Taking Leyla by the arm, he lowered her to the ground, then slid down beside her. A moment later, Tor rode up.

A pithy oath escaped Jarrett’s lips as he glanced up at the Maje. Tor’s face was as white as his hair, and his eyes were glazed with pain. His shirt, once a pale-green, was wet with blood.

“We made it,” Tor murmured, and toppled from the saddle.

Leyla ran to him. Kneeling at his side, she brushed a lock of hair from his face. “Tor? Tor, can thee hear me?”

A faint smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I hear thee.”

Leyla sent a pleading glance at Jarrett. “Do something!”

Slowly Jarrett shook his head. Tor had sustained a wicked sword wound deep into his belly. There was nothing to be done.

Hand pressed over the bleeding gash in his side, Jarrett sank to his knees on the other side of the Maje. “You fought well,” he said.

Tor smiled weakly. “Keturah…will not…follow you.”

Jarrett nodded, his heart filled with remorse. The Mage, born to heal, had sacrificed his own life, and taken the life of another, to save his and there was nothing Jarrett could do for him save sit and watch him die.

Leyla ripped a strip of cloth from the hem of her skirt and placed it over the horrible wound in Tor’s abdomen, watching in horror as the cloth quickly turned from white to red. She placed her hand over the gaping wound, tears of despair washing down her cheeks as she lamented her helplessness.

With an effort, Tor placed his hand over hers. “I would…have…cherished thee…always…always…loved thee.”

“I know.” A fresh wave of tears flooded her eyes. “I know.”

Tor’s gaze sought Jarrett’s. “Take care…of her.”

“I will.”

Tor’s pain-glazed eyes moved over Jarrett. “Thee…is wounded.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Thee cannot…protect her…if thee…is dead.” Summoning every ounce of strength he possessed. Tor lifted his hand and placed it over the deep gash in Jarrett’s left side. “Leyla…help me.”

Wracked with silent sobs, she placed her hand over Tor’s, holding it in place, feeling the power of his gift pulse sure and strong through his fingertips. A low groan rumbled from deep in his throat as he absorbed Jarrett’s suffering into his own pain-wracked body.

Jarrett’s eyes burned with unshed tears as he felt the rejuvenating heat of the Maje’s touch flow into him.

“I am…afraid…I lack the strength…to heal…the others…”

A low gurgle rattled in Tor’s throat, a soft sigh escaped his lips, his hand went suddenly cold, and Jarrett knew the life had gone out of the Maje.

“No!” Leyla’s anguished gaze met Jarrett’s across Tor’s body. Lifting Tor’s hand to her breast, she held it tight, as if she could will her life force into him. “No, please, no.”

“Leyla, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all my fault.” She kissed the back of Tor’s hand, then laid it across his chest. “All my fault. If he had not come after me, he would be alive now.”

“Leyla…”

She buried her face in her hands, rocking back and forth, her tortured sobs terrible to hear.

Rising, Jarrett went to her. Gathering her in his arms, he held her close, his hand stroking her hair as he murmured soft words of comfort, his own guilt like a knife in his heart.
He
had taken Leyla from the Maje, taught Tor to fight, to kill, and now Tor was dead. If it was anyone’s fault, it was his, not Leyla’s.

But there was no time for regret now, no time to mourn. Keturah might be dead, but there was always a chance that his men, angered by the death of their leader, might come after them.

“Leyla, we have to go.”

“No, I cannot leave him.”

“Leyla…”

“No!” She twisted out of his embrace, her eyes wild with grief, and then she gasped. Tor had healed the worst of Jarrett’s wounds, but a dozen other cuts and gashes marred his flesh, the worst of which was the wound in his thigh. Lifting her skirt, she unfastened her petticoat and stepped out of it.

“What are you doing?” he asked, thinking she meant to use her undergarment as Tor’s shroud.

“Thee is bleeding.”

Jarrett glanced down at his thigh. “We’ve got to get out of here before Keturah’s men decide to come looking for us.”

“At least let me bandage it.”

She felt his impatience, his need to be moving, as she bandaged the wound.

She didn’t argue as Jarrett lifted her onto the black’s back. She saw him grimace as he concealed Tor’s body in a thicket of tangled brush and vines before mounting his own horse. And then they were riding north, toward the Cyrus River, toward home.

But Leyla, casting a last glance at Tor’s bloodstained body, knew that Majeulla would never be the same.