Warrior's Lady (25 page)

“I’m all right,” he murmured reassuringly.

He felt a sudden heat that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water as she began to wash his left leg, her hand drifting slowly upward along his thigh, tantalizing him with her touch.

Leyla grinned as, slowly and deliberately, she drew the cloth over Jarrett’s belly. A low groan erupted from his throat as she began to wash his other leg.

She squealed in mock terror when he grabbed her and pulled her into the tub, dress and all. She opened her mouth to berate him but his lips closed over hers, effectively silencing her protests. For a moment, as he quickly divested her of her garments, she wondered if he had grown another pair of hands, and then she forgot everything as he drew her against him, his skin feeling soft and silky in the scented water.

She gazed into his eyes, pleased by the desire she saw there. His voice was low and husky as he whispered that he loved her. She watched his hands trace meaningless patterns over her breasts, loving the bronze of his skin against the paleness of her own, the heat of his touch.

A familiar warmth sparked to life deep within her, rising upward and outward until it engulfed her. She let her hands roam over him, a great surge of tenderness filling her heart, and with that tenderness came the welcome knowledge that he was hers, only hers, as she was his.

With a great splash, he rolled on top of her, his mouth claiming hers in a searing kiss as his body meshed with hers, uniting them body and soul.

When they woke in the morning, winter had come to the Mountains of the Blue Mist. A fine layer of azure-colored snow covered the hillsides and clung to the trees.

Jarrett stared out the window, fascinated by the faint blue glow that seemed to envelop everything in sight.

He smiled as Leyla came up behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her breasts warm against his back.

“Does thee like it?”

Jarrett laid his hand over her arm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s beautiful.”

They spent the day in their room, loving and sleeping and loving again. At dusk, they bundled up in heavy clothes and boots and gloves and went for a walk in the moonlight.

Hand in hand they strolled along a narrow path that had been brushed clean of snow.

“Thee is well?” Leyla asked.

“I’m fine.”

“My father could heal thy wounds.”

“I’m all right. Stop worrying about me.”

“It is a wife’s place to worry about her husband. I know thy wounds are not serious, but they still pain thee. And there will be scars.”

Jarrett shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to be indebted to Leyla’s father. The cuts were healing and they didn’t hurt that much. And if they left a few scars, well…

“Does that bother you?” he asked. “My being scarred, I mean?”

Leyla grinned up at him. “What thee really wants to know is if I will still find thee desirable.”

Jarrett frowned at her. “You’ve been probing my mind again,” he accused.

“I am sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I will always find thee desirable,” Leyla said, answering his unspoken question. She pressed his hand to her stomach. “Will thee still find me desirable when I am misshapen with our babe?”

“Always, beloved. In the bloom of youth, or lined with the passage of many years, fat or lean, you will ever be the desire of my heart.” He drew her into the circle of his arms and kissed her, thinking that eight months in the Pavilion had been a small price to pay for the woman in his arms.

The days passed by. On clear afternoons, they walked in the snow, marveling at the beauty of the winter-kissed landscape, laughing at the antics of the snow rabbits. Evenings, they made slow, sweet love before a roaring fire, the heat of the flames as nothing compared to the heat that flared between them.

When the weather was harsh, they sometimes spent afternoons with Vestri and Sudaan. Jarrett was never at ease with Leyla’s parents. He felt their silent disapproval, knew they lamented the fact that their only child had defied their wishes and married an outsider.

But even her parents’ silent disaffection could not mar his delight in Leyla, his joy at being with her. Here, safe in the mountains of her homeland, he could sleep without fear. No nightmares came to haunt his sleep. He had no fear of being captured and returned to the Pavilion. He had no need for weapons, no need to shed blood or take a life. Here, in the stronghold of the Maje, he was free.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The days and weeks slipped past, peaceful as a sigh. Gradually, Leyla’s parents learned to accept their new son-in-law and Jarrett found much to like and respect about Sudaan and Vestri.

As their acceptance of each other increased, they began to spend more and more evenings together, sometimes sitting before the fire playing games that challenged their mental agility, sometimes reading, often talking of the future, of the baby that would be born in the summer.

Jarrett could not help thinking that the knowledge that he was the father of their grandchild had helped to alleviate their dislike.

It was on one such evening, while Jarrett and Sudaan were hunched over a chessboard, that Tor’s parents came to call.

Sudaan introduced them as Bree and Sturgid. They were handsome people, both tall and slender, with white hair and brown eyes. They were both dressed in long black mourning robes.

Jarrett nodded, bowing formally to Bree, shaking Sturgid’s hand. He knew a moment of deep discomfort as they studied him, and he wondered how much they knew of their son’s death, and if they blamed him for it.

“Please,” Vestri said, “won’t thee be seated?”

Bree nodded, moving with regal grace as she crossed the floor and sat down on one of the cushions before the fire. Her husband sat beside her, his hand grasping hers.

Sturgid lifted his gaze to Jarrett’s face. “We would hear of our son’s death.”

Haltingly, Jarrett told of their capture by the flesh peddlers, of how they had escaped, how he had been wounded.

“Tor was grievously injured,” Jarrett said. “With his last breath, he healed my wounds. It is because of him that I am alive now. He fought bravely.”

“He fought bravely…” Bree repeated his words, her voice filled with anguish. “I cannot believe that my son was responsible for bloodshed, that he died in violence.” She gazed into her husband’s eyes, her face as pale as her hair. “What of his soul, my husband? Has it been lost forever?”

“He also saved a life,” Sturgid replied quietly. “Surely the Creators will take that into account.”

Jarrett glanced at Leyla and saw that tears were coursing silently down her cheeks.

“Where did he learn to fight?” Bree asked, her voice thick with tears. “Who would have taught him such a despicable thing?”

Taking a deep breath, Jarrett stood up. “I taught him.”

“How could thee do such a vile thing?” Bree exclaimed. “How could thee jeopardize his immortal soul?”

“I didn’t know it was considered a sin of such magnitude. He never mentioned it.”

Sturgid sent Leyla a sharp glance. “Did thee remain silent, as well?”

Leyla nodded. At the time, fighting had seemed to be the only answer, the only road to survival. She had not taken time to think of the consequences. She’d been too worried about Jarrett’s life to think of anything else. She knew now that she’d done a terrible thing. Tor had died with blood on his hands.

“I am sorry,” she murmured. “I shall pray this night for his soul.”

“And I shall pray for thine,” Bree replied. “I hope the Creators can forgive thee for what thee has done, for I know I never shall.”

Sturgid stood up then. Offering Bree his hand, he helped her to her feet. They bowed to Sudaan and Vestri and then left the apartment.

A heavy stillness hung in the air as Sudaan and Vestri exchanged glances.

Jarrett went to stand beside Leyla, offering her the strength of his nearness.

“Let us go to chapel,” Vestri said at last.

It was not a suggestion, not the way she said it.

Jarrett took Leyla’s hand and they followed her parents down the staircase to the candlelit chapel.

It was like nothing Jarrett had ever seen before. An enormous altar covered with a red cloth dominated the room. A giant sunburst hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Silver moons and bright stars were painted on the east wall. The west wall showed a verdant garden abloom with a riotous mass of flowers. A pair of unicorns stood in the midst of the foliage, their golden horns catching the light of the sun.

Vestri, Sudaan and Leyla knelt at the altar, their heads bowed.

Jarrett stood behind them, listening to their prayers, which were spoken in a language he did not understand. So much had happened between himself and Leyla in such a short time, he had never given any thought to her religion, or to the fact that it was vastly different from his own.

A Gweneth warrior hoped to die in battle, with the blood of his enemies on his hands and a war cry on his lips. He believed in one God, the All Father, who ruled the heavens above and the earth below. The All Father was a warrior being who was endowed with infinite wisdom and strength and who admired those qualities in His worshippers.

It seemed the gods of the Maje did not condone violence of any kind, not even in self-defense. With that knowledge, Jarrett came to realize what a remarkable sacrifice Tor had made on his behalf.

Leyla’s eyes were red with tears when she rose from the altar. Here, in the solitude of the chapel, the awful significance of the manner of Tor’s death had made itself known. Because of her, because she had betrayed him, he had left their homeland, his inner peace shattered by jealousy. He had learned to fight, he had learned to kill. And in killing, had found his own death. Blood for blood. According to their beliefs, one who died with blood on his hands was denied entrance to the Afterlife and was doomed to wander through eternity forever.

Heartsick, she bade her parents good sleep, then hurried to Jarrett’s side, in need of his touch, his strength, his wisdom.

Wordlessly, he put his arm around her and led her back to their apartments. When they arrived, he closed the door, shutting out the rest of the world.

“Why did I not stop him?” Leyla asked, her voice thick with self-condemnation. “Why did I not remind him that it was forbidden for him to fight?”

“There was nothing you could have done,” Jarrett replied quietly. “He would only have died that much sooner.”

“No! I remained silent because of thee, because I could not bear to lose thee!”

“Leyla…”

Anguished tears welled in her eyes and slid down her cheeks. “I let my love for thee blind me to everything else, and now Tor is dead and his soul is forever lost in darkness.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Do? There is nothing to be done. I betrayed Tor and everything he believed in. Everything I once believed in.”

“Leyla.” He tried to take her in his arms, wanting to comfort her, but she pushed him away.

“No, do not touch me.”

“Damn, Leyla, Tor was a grown man! He knew what he was doing. You can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

But she wasn’t listening. Wracked by grief and guilt, she curled up on the bed and wept bitter tears. She had let her love for an outsider blind her to everything she was, everything she believed in.

Jarrett watched her sob for several minutes and then, feeling as though his heart were being torn to shreds, he left the room.

Leyla kept to their apartments the next day, refusing to eat, refusing to see anyone.

Wrapped in a thick fur cloak, Jarrett prowled the grounds. He would not beg for her attention. If she wanted to be alone, so be it. But, deep inside, he hurt for her, for the awful doubts and recriminations that Tor’s parents had planted in her soul.

And when another day passed, and another, he began to be concerned for her health and for that of their child.

On the morning of the fourth day, he swallowed his foolish pride and went to her. She looked as pale as death. Her eyes had lost their warmth, her hands were cold.

“Leyla. You’ve got to eat something, for the child’s sake if not your own.”

“I will,” she said, but she made no move toward the bowl of soup beside her.

He lifted the spoon and held it to her mouth. “Eat, beloved.”

She shook her head and he put the spoon down.

“Leyla, what can I do? Do you want me to leave?” It would kill him to leave her, he thought, but he would do it, and gladly, just to see her smile again.

“Leave?”

“Will it make you happy if I go away? I never meant to hurt you. Please tell me what to do.”

“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I keep seeing Tor lying in a pool of blood. Sometimes I think I hear him calling to me, begging me to put his soul at rest.”

“How can you do that?”

“I can’t!” she sobbed. “No one can. Oh, Jarrett, what am I to do?”

She let him hold her then, and he cradled her in his arms, stroking her hair as he held her close. He could not bear to see her in such pain, to know she was hurting and there was nothing he could do to help. No pain of the Games, no torture he had ever endured, had been as bad as this.

He held her until she fell asleep in his arms, and then he went in search of Tor’s father.