Donovan's Woman (4 page)

With a sigh, he looked over at the woman. She was sleeping peacefully, her cheek resting on her hand. Her hair spread over the pillow like a splash of gold ink, her eyelashes rested like fans of silk against her cheeks. Just looking at her calmed the storm within him. He wished he had the right to crawl in beside her and take her in his arms, to hold her close, stroke her hair, feel the softness of her skin beneath his hand.

He hadn’t made love to a woman in over five years. He had pleasured Serepta, but it hadn’t been love, nor had he ever gone willingly to her bed.

He swore softly, his bile rising with the memory. How he hated her! But no more than he hated himself.

“Gryff?” Marri’s voice, sleep soft. “Gryff, are you all right?”

“Sure. Go back to sleep.” He heard the bed creak and then she was there in the dark beside him.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He grunted softly, remembering that he had spoken the same words to her not so long ago. “No.”

She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “I’d like to help,” she murmured.

The warmth of her touch penetrated his shirt, warming the skin beneath, arrowing straight down to his groin. “Why?”

“Because you’re helping me.”

“Thanks, but there’s nothing you can do.”

With a sigh, she drew his head to her breast and after a moment, she lightly stroked his hair.

Her touch, filled with a gentleness and compassion that he hadn’t felt in years, was his undoing. With a sob, his arms went around her waist. He clung to her like a child afraid of the dark while hot tears stung his eyes and burned his cheeks.

She murmured to him, soft meaningless words of solace and comfort as she lightly massaged his neck and back.

Under other circumstances, it might have relaxed him, but it had been years since he had been with a woman he desired. Every in-drawn breath carried her scent to him, every touch of her hand fueled his desire.

He swore softly. It was bad enough that he was behaving like a frightened child. If he didn’t put some space between them, in another minute he would have her flat on her back beneath him.

Muttering another oath, he drew back. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t face the disdain he was sure to see in her eyes. He was a grown man. He was supposed to be looking after her, not acting like an mewling infant, or some wild, rutting beast. He didn’t know which shamed him more, his tears or his lust.

Still not looking at her, he muttered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “Good night.”

He heard the bunk creak beneath her weight as she climbed onto the bed, the soft whisper of cloth against cloth as she slid under the covers and turned her back to him.

Damn and blast. He didn’t know how he was ever going to face her again.

* * *

Marri stared into the darkness, the bodice of her dress still damp from Gryff’s tears. She couldn’t believe she had comforted him while he cried. Found it hard to believe he was capable of tears. He seemed so strong and self-assured, beyond emotions like sorrow or regret. Her palm tingled when she recalled how she had stroked his hair. Consoling him had seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

She couldn’t remember ever comforting anyone who wasn’t a member of her family. She had been acutely aware that Gryff wasn’t one of her brothers. His masculine scent had teased her senses, the weight of his head against her breast had sent shivers of awareness spiraling through her, made her think of things she had never considered before, made her yearn to slip her hands under his shirt and feel his bare skin beneath her palms, to press his body to hers, to touch him and taste him.

Heat flooded her cheeks. What was wrong with her? Why was she having these strange feelings about a man she hardly knew?

She turned onto her stomach and slid a surreptitious glance in his direction. He sat at the table staring out the window, a smoldering cigarette in his hand. He looked dark and dangerous and alone, she thought. So alone. She wondered suddenly if he was married. But surely not. He had never mentioned a wife. He wore no ring.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes. Sleep, she thought. It was the best thing for her. She heard the sound of the cabin door opening. Gryff, she thought, probably going outside to stretch his legs before he went to bed.

Moments later, just as she was drifting off, she thought she heard the melancholy howl of a wolf.

* * *

The wolf ran wild in the night, feet flying across the ground, nostrils absorbing and filtering a thousand scents. He was aware of other animals in the underbrush, heard the high-pitched squeal that signaled another midnight hunter had caught its prey. But the wolf wasn’t in search of prey, he was running for the sheer love of it, running because it had been denied him for so long. Running as if he could run from his past.

Freedom!

He soared effortlessly over a fallen log, felt a rush of excitement as he chased a wild hare. He heard the panicked beat of the frightened creature’s heart and veered off to the left. He didn’t kill for sport, only when he was hungry.

He drank in the wind, reveled in its touch on his face and in the feel of the earth beneath the pads of his feet. The thrill of being free welled up within him and he howled his joy into the night.

The cry of another wolf reached his ears and he slowed to a stop, ears twitching as he sought the source. It had been years since he had run with the wild ones. The melancholy cry came again and he started off in that direction, only to come to an abrupt halt.

As much as he yearned to run with his wild cousins, it would have to wait for another time. He had left the woman alone long enough.

* * *

The howling of wolves woke her. Sitting up in bed, Marri looked at the other bunk. Empty. Gryff must still be outside.

Sitting up, she glanced out the cabin’s narrow window. Fear knotted in her stomach. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of, that the wolves couldn’t possibly get inside the Landskiff. She had nothing to fear.

The hair raised along the back of her neck as another howl broke the quiet of the night. This one was closer. Too close.

Leaning forward, she peered into the darkness. There! Something was moving out there. She pressed a hand to her heart. If only Gryff were here, she wouldn’t be afraid. But he hadn’t returned and she was alone. And there was someone, or something, moving outside, in the shadows.

She told herself again there was nothing to be afraid of. As long as she stayed inside the craft, she was safe.

Her breath caught in her throat as the creature stepped out of the shadows and into a ray of moonlight.

“Gryff.” His name whispered past her lips even as shock rippled through her.

Marri knew she should avert her eyes, but she couldn’t seem to move. She could understand a man wanting to go outside for a smoke or for a few minutes of fresh air, but why was he naked?

Marri knew she should turn away or lower her gaze eyes but she couldn’t stop staring at him. She had never seen a naked man before, and this one was beautiful, from his broad shoulders and hard, flat stomach to his long, muscular legs and muddy feet. His skin was a deep golden brown, all over. Overhead, Brynn Tor’s twin winter moons shone brightly, revealing him in all his glorious masculinity. Only gradually did she become aware of the thick spider web of silvery scars that marred the perfection of his arms and legs and criss-crossed his chest and back. So many scars. She supposed they were souvenirs of the arena, yet they looked like marks left by the lash. Of course, she thought. Hadn’t he told her he had been a slave?

She gasped and drew away from the window when he looked her way. Had he seen her staring at him? The very thought brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. And yet she couldn’t resist the urge to look again, couldn’t contain her disappointment when she looked and he was gone.

The sound of the hatch opening filled her with a rush of guilt. How could she face him when he knew she had been watching him?

Maybe he hadn’t seen her! After all, it was dark inside the cabin. She slid quickly under the covers, turned her back to the door, and closed her eyes, willing herself to take slow, deep breaths.

She heard the soft slap of his bare feet as he walked toward the back of the cabin. She knew he was standing beside her bed. The sweep of his gaze was a palpable thing. Breathe, she thought. Slowly. In. Out. In. Out.

It seemed he stood there for an eternity before she heard the creak of the opposite bunk as he settled down for the night.

* * *

Gryff folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. He knew the woman was awake, knew the moment she drifted off to sleep. She had seen him emerge from the wild. Her gaze had been almost tangible as she watched him through the window. For a moment, he had closed his eyes and imagined her hands moving over his skin, her fingertips lightly caressing him, her lips tasting him. He wondered how he was going to explain being naked in the moonlight. He didn’t owe her any explanations, he thought with a shrug. Nor could he deny the rush of desire that had engulfed him when he felt her gaze on him. He grinned into the darkness, thinking she had probably seen a lot more than she bargained for. Then again, maybe not. She had three brothers, after all.

He glanced across the narrow aisle that separated her bunk from his. Her scent filled the air, subtle, feminine, ripe. For one brief moment, he considered the unthinkable. He could slide into the bunk beside her and ease the ache her nearness aroused. He could keep her for himself until he tired of her and then take her home.

He muttered a vile oath, disgusted that, after what he had endured at Serepta’s hands, he could even consider such a thing.

Turning his back to her, he closed his eyes and forced himself to think about the route they would take tomorrow. It wouldn’t be an easy journey. There were cutthroats and robbers between here and the next town. With any luck, the storm he sensed would arrive before morning and keep the thugs in their holes.

* * *

At daybreak, they ate a quick breakfast, then left the cabin. After making sure the woman was safely settled in her seat, Gryff fired up the skiff’s engine. Overhead, lightning forked through the lowering clouds.

He couldn’t help noticing that she kept as much distance between them as possible. Nor did he miss the surreptitious glances she cast his way once they were on the road. He grinned inwardly, amused and somewhat flattered. Maybe she wasn’t as upset by what she had seen the night before as he supposed.

“So, princess,” he said as the skiff leveled out, “why don’t you tell me about yourself? You married? Betrothed?”

“No.”

It was obvious that she wasn’t in the mood to talk, leastwise not about herself. Or maybe just not to him.

“Gonna be a mighty long, quiet trip, girl, if you won’t talk to me,” he remarked.

She shrugged.

“How about this? I ask you a question. You answer, and then you ask me a question. Where I come from, we call that conversation.”

Stifling a grin, she smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt. “Are you married?”

“No. Not now, not ever.”

“What do you have against marriage?” she asked.

“Nothing. It’s just not for me. My turn. Why does your brother want to kill you?”

“He thinks I want something that he feels should rightfully be his.”

“And you don’t want it?”

“No. That’s why I’m going to Tarnn. Aren’t you going to get in trouble for leaving your job?”

He shrugged. “I’m not afraid of trouble.” He slid a glance in her direction, his gaze moving over her in a way that made Marri’s toes curl. “If I was, I wouldn’t be with you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I can smell trouble a mile away, honey, and you reek of it from the top of your pretty red head to the soles of your feet.”

Lips drawn in a tight line, she gave him a decidedly dirty look. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

With a shrug, he turned his attention back to the road.

Marri folded her arms over her chest, determined not to speak to him again. She didn’t mean to cause him trouble. After all, it wasn’t her fault that her brother wanted her dead. And if Gryff didn’t want her around, then he shouldn’t have offered to take her to Tarnn.

Several silent miles passed.

“Did you get all those scars in the arena?” she asked abruptly. Too late, she realized she had just admitted to spying on him the night before.

He looked over at her, an amused expression in his deep brown eyes.

Heat climbed up her neck and into her cheeks. Mortified, she looked out the window again.

Silence again stretched between them. Marri chewed on her thumbnail. Maybe she should tell him everything. What difference would it make if he knew who she was? The immediate and obvious answer was: a big difference! He could demand a ransom from her father, or worse, from her brother. Her only protection was to keep him in the dark as to her real identity. Once they reached the abbey, she would be safe and she would never see him, or any other man, again.

It was mid-morning when he stopped at a small tavern so they could get something to eat.

When Gryff opened the door, every eye in the place turned in their direction. Suddenly uneasy, Marri pressed close to his side. Never in all her life had she seen such a group of rough-looking men. Most had shaggy beards and unkempt hair. And feral eyes that seemed to bore into her. She was certain they would as soon slit her throat — or worse — as look at her.

Gryff gestured to an empty booth near the front. Marri slid over by the window, and he slid in beside her.

Marri kept her gaze fixed on her folded hands. All those disreputable men staring at her made her feel dirty.

“Marri, what do you want to eat?”

“Anything,” she said, not looking up.

Gryff ordered steak, fries, and coffee for both of them.

When their meal came, Marri kept her gaze on her plate, hardly aware of what she was eating. All she wanted to do was get out of there, the sooner, the better.

Gryff ordered coffee and sandwiches to go and paid the check. He handed the take-out sack to Marri, then followed her out the door, one hand on the knife sheathed beneath his jacket.

She breathed a sigh of relief when they stepped outside. She had just opened the door of the skiff when she heard loud voices behind her.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that three men had followed them out of the café. One was tall with dark skin, the second was thin and wiry, the third perhaps an inch taller than Gryff.

“Get inside and lock the door,” Gryff said from behind her.

She quickly did as bidden, then peered out the window.

The three men surrounded Gryff, taunting him about what they would do to his woman after they finished with him.

She sucked in a deep breath when she saw the flash of sunlight on steel. Three against one. What chance did Gryff have?

She watched in awe as he parried the trio’s thrusting blades. Whirling, ducking, jabbing, he moved with a feral grace she had never seen before.

It was exciting, exhilarating. Frightening.

What would she do if he lost the fight?

But he wasn’t losing. Even as she watched, he slit the throat of the man nearest him. The man went down amid a spray of crimson, convulsed, and lay still. A second man met a similar fate when Gryff’s blade slid between his ribs. The man fell to his knees; then, hands pressed against the killing wound, he pitched forward and lay still.

Marri watched in horror as Gryff and the third man circled one another. Knees bent, chins tucked in, arms outstretched, they slashed at each other in a silent dance of death. She couldn’t take her gaze from Gryff. Eyes narrowed, teeth bared, his face and body splattered with blood, he was the most frightening, fascinating being she had ever seen.

Her breath caught in her throat when the tall man’s blade opened a long gash in Gryff’s left arm. Gryff went down on one knee, and then, almost quicker than her eye could follow, he feinted left, dodged right. With a wild cry that reminded her of a wolf’s howl, he plunged his knife into his opponent’s belly and jerked it upward.

Choking back the bile that rose in her throat, Marri closed her eyes, sickened by the sight of the man’s intestines spilling out like fat pink worms.

She heard the driver’s side door open as Gryff climbed into the Landskiff, felt the craft lurch forward. Who was this man sitting beside her that he could dispatch three attackers so skillfully, who killed so efficiently?

Whoever he was, she was glad he was on her side.

Opening her eyes, she glanced at him. While watching the battle, she had been so intent on the fight, she hadn’t realized he had received so many wounds besides the one on his arm. Now, a wordless cry of alarm rose in her throat when she noticed the many dark stains spreading across his shirt and trousers. “You’re bleeding everywhere!”

He grunted softly.

She stared at the blood soaking his clothing, at the gash on his arm, the cut on his left shoulder. “Your arm needs stitching. Shouldn’t we find a doctor?”

“I don’t think that would be a very smart thing to do.”

“Who were those men?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just drifters.” Or maybe Serepta’s henchmen. Forcing that disconcerting thought aside, he slanted a glance in Marri’s direction. “Maybe your brother’s assassins.”

She didn’t want to think about that. “Well, shouldn’t we at least stop and bandage your wounds before you bleed to death?”

“Yeah, I reckon so,” he agreed, though it wasn’t really necessary. Some of his minor injuries were already healing. Still, he needed to let her tend the others. She’d think it strange if he told her it wasn’t necessary.

* * *

Marri braced herself as the skiff bumped its way along a road that grew bumpier and narrower with each passing mile.

She was about to ask Gryff if he knew where the path ended when he pulled up underneath a tall tree and switched off the engine.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Nowhere.” Opening the door, he got out of the vehicle and made his way around to the hatch.

Marri glanced out the windows, making sure there were no animals lurking in the bushes before she followed him to the rear of the skiff.

Gryff was already inside. He had removed his shirt and she saw that he had sustained even more cuts and gashes than she had thought. In addition to several deep knife wounds, there were a number of small cuts and shallow gashes across his back and shoulders.

“Do you have any bandages?” she asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind her.

“I don’t know.” He sat down on one of the benches. “Check the drawers and see what you can find.”

He didn’t know? She thought it odd that he didn’t know what supplies he had onboard. Searching through the drawers, she found an unmatched set of silverware, a box of matches, a flashlight, a deck of playing cards, several towels and washcloths, a can of antibacterial spray, and a couple of faded shirts. No bandages. She put the antiseptic on the table, then looked at Gryff.

“Hand me one of those shirts,” he said. “then soak one of those towels in cold water and bring it here.”

While he tore the shirt into strips, she did as he’d asked, picked up the soap, threw a second towel over her shoulder, and then, taking a deep breath, she knelt in front of him. The wound in his left arm seemed to be bleeding the most, so she started there.

A muscle throbbed in his jaw when she began washing the blood from the wound.

When she finished cleaning the injury, she patted his skin dry, sprayed the cut with antiseptic, then bandaged it with one of strips he had torn from the shirt.

Marri tried not to notice how well-muscled he was as she washed the blood spattered across his chest and shoulders. The cuts here were mostly superficial, as was the one across his back. All had stopped bleeding by the time she had him cleaned up.

Muttering, “Thanks,” he stood. Taking one of the shirts from the drawer, he tugged it over his head. It was a tight fit, but it was relatively clean.