Myla By Moonlight (20 page)

The biggest danger sat across the hall, glaring at the head table with icy malice.

Emerto Marchen toyed with his napkin, his face locked in furious loathing. To his left, Elora sat meekly with her head bowed and ate little. The music and laughter did not touch her dark beauty in the slightest. Myla got an impression of sadness and servitude from her that not even the lowliest washerwoman at Thistlemount carried.

Iron-gray eyes snapped toward her and the scorch of crazed evil sizzled across Myla’s flesh. She did not drop her eyes. Much like Bryton’s silent greeting, Marchen raised his cup and saluted her with a nod, a challenge her warrior spirit noted. She answered, dipping her chin, but kept his gaze. This man wanted to destroy her lover and she’d see his body twisted and broken before she allowed that to happen. A niggle of enchantment touched her essence. A deadly confrontation approached rapidly. Inside, her jaguar paced.

Taric growled, “Myla, don’t.”

“I do nothing but return his civility…and his promise of bloodshed.” She turned to him and smiled. “Never fear, my charge. I have not been bested yet at protecting you and I have no intentions of allowing that to occur.”

“I’m not afraid of him, Myla. My hatred pushes all fear aside.”

“Hatred can blind you and must be controlled. Do not allow him to gain an advantage by using your emotions. Approach the problem coldly and with deliberation.”

With a snort, Taric turned back to his father. Her eyes locked once more with Marchen’s.
Cold. Dead cold
. She felt the ice in his stare and promised herself his blood would feel the same if he harmed one golden hair on Taric’s head. Myla never made promises lightly.

a
b

If there were finer breasts in all of Eldwyn, he’d never seen them. And he’d looked. Bryton stretched his arms high above his head, muscles creaking and bones cracking, before a yawn forced him to relax. He snuffed the candle and crawled naked into bed. Dawn would come too early and he must be at his best to guard Taric’s back. This was history happening, things he would one day tell his children about.

But he didn’t want to think about children right now. He wanted to think about creamy cleavage with a deep shadow and a smile like pink blossoms. Katina, she’d called herself. A smile softened his lips.

A third-level student of enchanted arts, she captivated him more by her scent than by the charmed tricks she’d displayed for him. She and her plain classmate had been called in to act as Truthbearers since this accusation was largely of one person’s word against another’s. Balic balked at the intrusion of magical verification but Taric shrugged it off, saying he had no fear and no reason to lie. His claims were proven in Elora’s own hand. Bryton hoped that was true.

Katina. He’d playfully called her Kat and she’d blushed but agreed to walk in the gardens with him after Taric retired. Thankfully, his friend had retired early with his own lusty plans for the evening, leaving Bryton free to explore the charms of a certain blonde spellsinger. Her kisses tasted of wine and sugared sweets. Kat fostered for her training at Endicort, less than a full day’s ride from Thistlemount. Bryton had been willing to let things linger and grow before making a move. Kat had made the move for him, slipping her magic fingers inside his waistband. It could never be said Bryton left a woman wanting.

His body reacted in memory, tenting the sheet and forcing sweat to form along his brow. Now was not a good time to be enraptured by a set of breasts, even if they were the most magnificent he’d ever tasted. He had a duty to do which required his full attention. Punching the down pillow, he rolled to his side and prayed for dreams of night-hushed winds whispering across creamy skin and feminine sighs breathing his name.

The image formed in his slumbering mind. The bed dipped and a warm slight hand traced up his spine. He moaned low and arched into the tantalizing dreamlike touch. Soft lips fell to his shoulder and he woke, confusion muddling his thoughts. Jerking around, he grabbed the slim wrist and a screech eked out. It sounded nothing like the sugared-wine voice of his dream.

In the pale moonglow, Elora Marchen’s dark hair was haloed in silver and her startled face shone blue-white. She ripped from his grip, backing away from the bed.

Bryton didn’t bother asking what she was doing here. It was obvious. This was Taric’s assigned room and her nightdress spoke volumes.

“Sorry to disappoint you, sweetling, but he’s not here.”

“I—I—I wanted to speak with Prince Taric…about the challenge.”

“Of course you did. The best time for those types of discussions is always late at night and in your nightclothes. Not to mention in the bed with back rubs and kisses as an opener. You could at the very least have used some tongue.” Rising, he strode to his clothes and pulled his breeches on, not caring that she averted her face quickly. “Kind of late to play the blushing virgin, Elora. You crawl in bed with a man, he’s not going to buy that act.”

“I want to speak with Taric.”

Her lips quivered as if freezing and he forced himself not to offer her a blanket. It was better if she were uncomfortable, better still if the fingers of panic tickled up her spine. While he did not enjoy questioning prisoners, he did it well. His size alone intimidated many men, and this slight woman swallowed in fear, gawking at his kill marks. He planted his feet wide and crossed his arms. Her frightened eyes locked on his biceps, which he deliberately tightened and bulged. Terror was a powerful motivator.

“He’s with his bride-to-be across the hall. Want me to announce you? I’m sure Myla would love to know you just tried to climb in her betrothed’s bed.”

“He will not return?”

Bryton snorted cruelly, playing off the apprehension on her face. She’d sought to place his friend in a compromising position and he’d gladly return the favor. Terror for a man was far different than terror for a woman. He steeled his gut to deliver that fear.

“Now why would he return? I snore and Myla has better inducements for him. But since you’re here…” Towering over her, Bryton traced his fingers along her shivering jaw. She shrank from him so he leaned close and whispered in a falsely seductive tone, “Now, is that any way to behave? So unfriendly. You came to this room for a reason and aren’t all men alike in the dark?” His tongue swiped the cool silk of her cheek.

Her nightdress flapped down the empty hall with his chuckle chasing her footsteps. He waited until she had vanished from sight for a ten count before the smirk fell from his face and he banged on Myla’s door. Taric did not look pleased when he opened it but Bryton figured his mood was about to get worse.

“Sorry to bother you, Prince Popular, but you just had a visitor.”

a
b

Elora slammed back into her room, chest heaving and out of breath. Marchen jerked his sight from the window. Anger and disappointment shot through him like a winter wind and he smacked his palm on the table. His bastard daughter squeaked like a mouse and jumped, whirling to face him.

“You failed. Not even Balic’s brat is that fast in the sheets.”

“He…Taric wasn’t there. He’s with his intended.”

The chair skidded across the room with the force of his kick. He might have known a Segur couldn’t keep his breeches up around a beautiful woman. He should have taken Elora to Luta’s and let the bitch and her tight-closed knees work for him there.

Snarling in frustration, Marchen thrust his wide hands through his hair, gripping the thick locks with a punishing grip. He was so tired of being thwarted by a Segur. Balic’s destruction lay within his reach and everything seemed to conspire against him, even the meek creature he was saddled with. He needed a damn memory in her empty head, a remembered night of pain and blood that would ring through the Council with scorching truth.

“Papa, I don’t think I can… His guard was there and he… I can’t, Papa, I just can’t.”

“Oh, you will.” Magic bubbled in his veins, a cauldron of rage sending ripples of power through him. Delving into his coin purse, he withdrew a small packet of herbs and stalked toward the shivering girl in front of him.

Tears pooled over her lashes but he would not let a few water drops change his course now. He was too close after far too long.

Deep red wine had grown warm in a pitcher but it suited his purposes well and he filled one plain cup to the brim. The herbs swirled on top of the brew for an instant until they were sucked into the wine and began to work their magic. He pressed the cup to his daughter’s quivering mouth, uncaring that fine droplets dripped onto her linen shift, staining the pristine fabric like blood.

“Drink, Elora, drink and let it calm you.” Low and soothing, he spoke in rhythmic charm until her pale brown eyes glazed and her mind opened to his power. Holding his huge palm before her sightless gaze, he channeled every morsel of enchantment from his being and funneled it to her memory, twisting it, distorting it and embellishing it in a pink-tinged glow.

Revenge lured him to cross boundaries he’d never tested but nothing would stop him from his task. If her mind collapsed, so be it.

When she crumpled into a sobbing heap on the carpet, he strode from the chamber, a curl to his lip. He’d exhausted his capabilities for the night but he considered the quiver in his muscles a small payment to bring Balic to ruination.

Taric, and Balic, would never see the blow that knocked the crown from their golden heads. While they reeled with loss, he’d show them what true pain was like. He could almost feel the warm blood between his fingers, gold-green eyes wide in terror, before they closed in sleep forever.

Chapter Ten

“If she tried to come to you last night, then they’re desperate. They know their claim has no basis to stand on.” Balic paced the antechamber of his assigned quarters.

“It makes no sense.” Taric rubbed his temples and frowned. After Bryton’s intrusion last night, he’d not been able to sleep, his suspicion that things were moving behind closed political doors too strong. “Something’s off. Why would they try something this late? The Council meets in a half hour. Waiting to the last minute for a staged seduction is sloppy work, not Marchen’s style at all.”

Bryton crossed his ankles. “I’m willing to bet it wasn’t seduction but capture. She had no intention of giving up shit. I’d bet her father was waiting with a group of witnesses to barge in at just the right moment. A few tears, a few angry shouts and you got yourself a new princess by forced marriage. Myla’s sudden appearance may have rushed their plans but—”

“No.” Taric snapped to his feet and paced opposite the king. The raw burn of an invisible noose was tightening around his neck and he was powerless to stop it. “There’s something else, something missing. Think, why would you send your daughter, who’s as seductive as a piece of wet toast, to your enemy’s room the night before you had him called to task? Why risk discovery? What do you gain?”

“A headache.” Balic sighed and rubbed his bandaged shoulder. All three men snorted but no answers came.

Lunian banged into the chamber, elaborately gowned but with her forehead lined with sweat. She shook her head and scowled at him. “She’s a lovely girl and I’m becoming quite fond of her but I swear she complains more than a laboring dog about her clothing.”

“Her clothes?” Taric could not imagine Myla becoming fussy about fashion.

“Yes, she refused to wear her new gown because it was too restrictive for fighting. I had to convince her you’d not allow her into the Council without the proper dress and it would leave your back unguarded.”

Bryton waved from his spot along the wall. “My Queen? I guard here and have for several summers now. I’m not too shabby at it, actually.”

Furious feminine eyes flew to him and she pointed her finger. “You hush. It worked.”

The verbal lash fell on Taric as well as his guard. Ego stung, Bryton pushed away from the wall. “Well, I think I’ll just take my worthless carcass down to the Council Room and do a fast check on things. Balic’s guards are outside the door so my unimportant presence should barely be noticed.” The door shook with the force of his swing.

With her mouth open, Lunian watched him leave before whirling to Taric. “I didn’t mean—”

“None of us got much sleep last night. I’ll talk to him,” Taric placated her, staring after his friend.

“Bryton’s a fine captain.” Balic fixed Taric with a firm look. “If you—
when
you succeed in finding a way to make your guardian human, you’ll come to rely on him more. For the first time, you’ll be unprotected except for his sword.”

“Papa, I know Bryton’s talents more than any but I too trained under Mactog. It wasn’t Myla or Bryton atop Falcon during every fray or who ended up with sore shoulders from the weight of a sword and armor. Of course, I’ll need Bryton. I’m not stupid but neither am I helpless.”

“No, you’re not. You’ll just no longer have eyes in the back of your head. And you’ll need them.”

Balic pulled a long string from beneath his tunic and fit a small key into the chest on the desk. Without words, he handed a flat wooden box to Lunian and one to Taric before reaching inside again. Taric flipped the latch and pulled out his coronet. Unlike his father’s vaulted and arched crown, the bedecked circlet of gold carried only sapphires in a line around his head. Worn only on special Court occasions and for ceremonial practices, it marked him as the Heir Apparent. A younger Balic had preferred the rubied version still in Thistlemount’s vault. This diadem had been his grandfather’s before him and Taric took a moment to rub the smooth stones in appreciation. It settled on his head with little weight but heavy responsibility.

Lunian angled her neck, using a hairpin to secure her encrusted tiara and Balic handed another box to Taric. He took it with a frown, unsure what it could be. His breath caught when he opened the slender top and his gaze jumped to the king.

“It was your mother’s. If Myla is the Princess Presumptive, then you need to crown her as such so that everyone knows you’re to be married.”

“Me?” Taric gaped. The thin silver coronet was fashioned like braided rope and came to a point in the middle of the forehead. A tiny diamond hung there, a star that reflected the bright morning sunshine.

Taric had known he would place a tiara on Myla’s head when they married and one day, long in the future he hoped, he would crown her his queen, but he had not expected the duty to fall so soon.

“Yes, you. You’re the one marrying her. Tradition says it should be done in front of her father.” Balic shrugged his uninjured shoulder with a grin. “But in this case, we’ll ignore that little fact. That is, if your bride ever comes out of her chamber. Consider it practice for your wedding.”

Taric had never seen this coronet. Of course, both times Balic had remarried, he’d been king and had no need for a princess. Only Tarsha had worn this piece. Cool and hard under his fingers, the silver gleamed with pristine simplicity. The pointed diamond winked in the morning light and a flash of the river came to him. A smile raised the corner of his lip. It seemed fitting to crown Myla with a star.

“Do you remember the words?”

Balic’s question pulled Taric from the mental waters and he searched his mind for long-ago lessons. Taric slowly bobbed his head and stared at the delicate headdress. This made it real in the eyes of the Council, the eyes of the men he would one day rule, if he won the day. It announced wordlessly that Myla was to be respected and revered above all women save the queen. A smile broadened his mouth. He placed her far beyond all people without such adornment.

“Do not laugh at me.”

Myla’s voice held just enough irritation that he firmed his lips before raising his head. They fell slack when he saw her. Her beauty blanked his mind. He’d seen her garbed in homespun, clad in armor and kissed naked with the moon’s magic but never had he seen her look…like a princess.

The emerald green silk gown elongated her height and smoothed along curves in the best possible places. High on her neck, the material arced along the back but left her throat open. His tongue longed to lodge in the hollow showing. The tight embroidered bodice cupped and held her perfect breasts high, displaying just a hint more than he’d like other men to see, but they called to his palms. From a nipped waist, yards of fabric fell like a waterfall to the carpet, fanning out at her knees to allow for walking. He wanted to peel the gem color from her and spend the entire week in bed. Even the pointed sleeves traced her arms like a second skin. An additional set of sleeves lined in mint hung useless but pretty from her elbows to the gown hem. Pinned back from her face in a low and simple chignon, her hair framed wide eyes glittering with annoyance.

“It is no wonder women of this world do not fight. They would break their bones just trying to flee in garments like these. I can barely breathe, let alone draw a sword.”

Taric had to find his voice before he could reply. “Myla, you’re beautiful.”

The corners of her lips lifted. “You think so?”

“I’ve always thought so but now… Oh, Myla.” Shaking his head to knock his brain into functioning, he remembered the silver in his hands and stepped to her. “This marks you as my bride-to-be. Will you let…will you wear this and acknowledge my claim?”

Head slanted to the left, she smiled wider. “Taric, you know I am yours in every way. If it please you to have me wear this, then I will wear it…for you.”

Her eyes closed and her head dipped toward him. His stomach lurched. He was crowning his princess, the first of three times he would crown her in his life. This was real. He would make her real. Shaky and more nervous than he expected, he put the thin circlet on her head and adjusted the dangling diamond. Its shimmer dimmed when her eyes opened to his and he had to dig for the ceremonial words.

“And now you are the Princess Presumptive of Taric Batu, Crowned Prince of the Land of Eldwyn, the twelve provinces therein and the Islands of Parot, Haverstead and Gillum, Heir Apparent to King Balic Segur’s reign. Welcome, my bride-to-be, to the family that honors you.”

Lunian quickly stepped behind Myla and whispered in her ear. Regally, Myla curtsied, first to him and then to his father. Tradition had been observed. A breath blew out he didn’t realize he’d been holding and Balic chuckled before gripping his arm.

“Not so easy, is it?”

Taric laughed and shook his head before taking Myla’s hand. It was a wonderful way to begin his morning. It got better when she went into his arms. He could have just held her like that for hours but the antechamber door opened softly and a bright copper head appeared.

“Time.”

Bryton’s soft tone intruded in his joy but the task ahead could not be pushed aside any longer. In the small room, tensions vaulted.

Myla picked up the leather folder containing Elora’s letters and held them like a dagger, her jaw firmed and battle-ready. She was prepared to fight for him and he would go down swinging for every chance to be with her. They’d get through this day and embrace their future.

“Lu, be easy,” Balic muttered, a pained flash lining his face. Lunian gasped and brushed an apologetic hand over his shoulder. Worry formed hard lines about her lips but she smiled and took his arm gingerly. Balic would not wear his sling, casting off the sign of weakness. He would appear whole and vigorous before the court. His hardened gaze landed on Taric and Taric straightened. Balic, as monarch, sat at the head of the Elders’ Council but today would have no vote. Taric was totally on his own to face Marchen and his daughter.

Myla’s fingers found their way into his hand and he looked down into her face. He wasn’t alone. He never had been. Myla had always been with him and he would find a way to keep her forever by his side. She gave him resolve and his chin lifted.

Duty and ritual swallowed him. The Crowned Prince of Eldwyn placed the Princess Presumptive’s hand on his arm and escorted her out of the room. They walked into the waiting flank of royal guards and down the long corridor to his trial.

Myla felt the throng of people before they came into sight, seething like a den of serpents, hissing and snapping. The bright hall pulsed, a beating heart with a loud murmured rhythm that ricocheted from wall to wall. The hallway seemed overly dark compared to the glow from the room at the end and Myla’s skin prickled in warning.

Bryton entered from the light. “The Marchens are taking their place.”

Taric’s nod was silent but the entourage paused. Bryton stepped before the armed guard. Dressed in the royal successor’s colors of deep blue and silver, his fiery hair gleamed like a beacon even though his jaw was tight and serious. He led them into the now-hushed hall and her magical sense for danger twanged like a broken harp string.

All conversation had softened before their entry but now it halted completely. Myla mimicked Taric and kept her eyes firmly fixed ahead but her magical gaze scoured for threats. While her magic searched, the woman in her fought a blush and she was suddenly very glad Taric had approved her dress. Murmurs rose regarding the braided silver on her head and the significance it carried. Her rank vaulted from special guest of the crown to future queen. To honor Taric, she kept her head high.

The flanking guards falling to the sides, Taric led Myla straight toward the center of the room with only Bryton before him. His captain reached the small round dais half-circled by a low baluster, spun smartly on his heel and waited. Taric stopped before stepping into the circle of his judgment.

A few feet away on a similar dais, Marchen shot evil from his silvered gaze. Elora hunched beside him, shrinking from view. Serenely beautiful, the young woman seemed blanched and frightened. She did not raise her face at all. Narrowing her eyes, Myla studied each man at each table assembled before them. Not all could meet her stare. Her jaguar began growling inside.

“Bry, take Myla to her seat…and stay with her.” Taric’s lips barely moved.

Bryton’s bright blue eyes flew to his in surprise and Myla whipped her head around. Her fingers tightened on his arm. “I will not leave your side.”

“Nor will I,” Bryton barked in a soft rumble.

“Bry, take her now. If you’re my guard, guard my heart and take her.”

Bryton swallowed and shifted but before he could move, Myla whispered in a deadly tone. “Touch me, Sir Bryton, and I break your hand while all watch. None shall part me from my charge.”

The threat was not empty and they all knew it. Taric sighed in resignation and Myla lifted her chin higher. Every eye in the room fell to them, the weight more oppressive than doubled armor but Taric did not move onto the platform.

Bryton furrowed his brows in confusion and his low voice barely broke the air. “You have more allies here than enemies.”

Taric nodded but still did not move forward. He must make the step on his own but he was not alone. Myla’s protective soul battled the urge to lead the movement. She was here as his woman, not his guardian. She would not shame him by leading him for everyone to see.