Warrior's Lady (9 page)

Jarrett shrugged. “There is a first time for all things.”

Leyla grinned at him, then slid from the back of her horse. Taking a flask from her saddlebag, she offered Jarrett a drink.

It was brandywine, smoky and sweet, and he took a long, appreciative swallow. Dismounting, he handed her the flask.

“I love it here,” Leyla said. She took a small drink, then laid the flask aside. “There is a legend among the Maje that the goddess Judeau gave birth to her twin sons on this peak. The first-born son touched his mother’s heart and became the first Maje. The second-born son touched the soft inner flesh of her thigh and became the father of all other races.”

“What happened to Judeau’s husband?”

“He was killed by an evil sorcerer, and when he died, his soul united with the sun. Judeau went into mourning. She gave all her riches away, except for the jewels her husband had left her. These she threw into the night sky, and they became the stars. When she died, her soul merged with the moon nearest to our world. Whenever you see the sun pass in front of that moon, you know their souls are touching.”

Jarrett smiled at Leyla, charmed by the fanciful tale, enchanted by the woman. She glanced up at him and their gazes met, and held.

“Leyla…”

She shook her head, afraid of what he might ask of her, afraid of what her answer might be. Her body yearned for his touch. He was tall and strong, more virile, more masculine, than any man she had ever known. She loved the color of his hair, the depths of his eyes, the feel of his skin that she knew so well. And she loved him. The words trembled on the tip of her tongue but she dared not say them. Once put into words, she could never take them back. To say it would be the first step toward disobedience to her parents, to her people.

Jarrett studied her face, wondering at her silence. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

It was the last thing she had expected him to say. “Tomorrow? But why? The wedding…thee promised to stay.”

“I cannot.”

“But I do not want thee to leave.”

“I cannot stay,” he said, his voice thick with anguish. “I cannot watch you marry Tor.”

“I do not want to marry him.”

She spoke the words so softly that he was sure he had imagined them.

Leyla bowed her head, ashamed because she had no wish to be obedient to her parents’ wishes, confused by her feelings for a man who was so different from her own people. All her life, she had known she would marry Tor. They had grown up together, knowing that one day their lives would be joined. Her parents called him son. But it was Jarrett who made her blood tingle with excitement, Jarrett who had given her life meaning in the foul dungeons of the Pavilion, Jarrett who had risked his life to bring her home. Right or wrong, it was Jarrett who held her heart.

“Leyla, look at me.”

“No, I am too ashamed.”

“Ashamed? Of what?”

“Everything. Nothing.” She looked up at him then, her eyes filled with tears. “I have never disobeyed my parents or the Law of the Maje. Until I was captured by the Fen…”
until I met thee
… “my life had order, serenity.”

She shook her head, her expression as bewildered as that of a child told that the truths she’d been taught were wrong. “Please do not go away.”

Leaving her was the last thing he wanted. But he couldn’t stay, couldn’t watch her marry another man. To do so would be the worst kind of torture.

Agitated, he ran a hand through his hair. If only he could just grab her and carry her to Gweneth. “I cannot stay. Do not ask it of me.”

“I beg it of thee.” Knowing it was wrong, she placed her head against his chest. Closing her eyes, she listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart.

“Leyla.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, his lips moving in her hair as he whispered her name over and over again.

They stood that way for a long while, content to be in each other’s arms, to pretend, if only for a little while, that nothing else mattered.

She leaned against him, secure in his strength. He was so different from Tor, from her father, from any man she had ever known. The Maje were peaceful, serene, full of wisdom. They had no weapons save their agile minds and whatever gifts had been bequeathed to them. Were it not for the terrors and dangers of the Mountains of the Blue Mist, her people would have been overrun long ago, subjected to tyranny and captivity.

But Jarrett was different. He was a fighter, a warrior. He used a sword as if it were an extension of his body. Clubs and knives and the shedding of blood were second nature to him, and she knew intuitively that he would die for her if need be.

With Tor, she would be always at peace. Each day would be the same as the last, with no pain and no surprises. He would treat her with kindness and respect. They would have children who would be blessed with the gifts of the Maje. They would grow old together, but there would be no magic between them. His touch would not make her heart soar, his kisses would not make her heart sing or drain the strength from her limbs.

A life with Jarrett would be fraught with turmoil, but she would also know the wonder of discovery. Their children would be born in passion. The nights in his arms would be filled with flash and fire, like a comet crossing the heavens, and she knew she would gladly turn her back on her own people, on the life she’d been born to live, to be with Jarrett. If only he would ask her.

“Leyla.” His hand stroked the wealth of her hair, the curve of her cheek. “What do you want from me?”

“Whatever thee wishes to give.”

“My heart? My soul? My life? They have all been yours since the day you first placed your hands upon me.”

“I do not want thy gratitude, Lord Jarrett.”

“It isn’t just gratitude.”

“What then?”

“Can you not see it in my mind, hear it in my thoughts?”

“I would rather hear it from thy lips.”

“I love you, Leyla,” he murmured. “I think I have always loved you.”

“As I have loved thee,” she replied ardently. “From the first day I was brought to thee, I loved thy courage, the sound of thy voice. I knew it was wrong but I was glad they had imprisoned thee.”

“I cannot be glad for the pain,” Jarrett said with a grin, “but I am glad of thee.”

“Thee will not leave? Promise me.”

“I will not leave thee, but what of Tor?”

“I will annul our betrothal.”

“Are you sure this is what you want? I have nothing to offer you but a castle fallen into ruin. That and my love.”

“It is enough,” she replied, her heart swelling with joy. “Enough and more.”

Chapter Thirteen

Telling her parents she had decided to annul her betrothal to Tor was the hardest thing Leyla had ever done. For a long moment, they stared at her, too stunned to speak.

And then her father cleared his throat. “I cannot believe thee is serious. What has happened to change thy mind? Has Tor behaved toward thee in an unseemly manner?”

“No, Father. I…we have been apart a long time. I…” She bit down on her lower lip, wondering how to explain that she’d fallen in love with an outsider. Her mother saved her the trouble.

“It is because of the man, Jarrett, is it not?” Vestri surmised. “Thee has healed him often and a bond has formed between thee.”

Sudaan stared at Leyla, his gaze sharp. “Answer thy mother.”

“Yes,” Leyla admitted. “I have fallen in love with my Lord Jarrett. It is my wish to marry him.”

Vestri and Sudaan exchanged glances.

“No,” Sudaan said curtly. “I will not permit it.”

“Nor I,” Vestri added. “He is an outsider, a man of violence. His ways are not ours, his faith is not ours. Our people are few in number, my daughter. Thee must not betray thy heritage.”

“I will not marry Tor,” Leyla exclaimed. “I do not love him. I never will!”

“We will not discuss it,” Sudaan said gruffly. “I have made my decision. Thy betrothal to Tor stands.”

Sudaan’s expression hardened as he took a step toward his daughter. “Know this. Should thee marry against my wishes, I will invoke the Recantation.”

Leyla stared at her father in horror, the threat of being stripped of her powers rendering her momentarily speechless. Surely he would not do such a thing! To her knowledge, the Recantation had been used only once in the history of recorded time.

“Go to thy room, child,” Vestri said quietly. “When thee has had time to think, thee will see that thy father has only thy best interests at heart.”

Leyla clasped her hands to her breast, summoning the courage to ask, “What of Jarrett?”

“He leaves in the morning.” Her father’s voice was firm, with no hope of reprieve.

“Tor has invited him to the wedding,” Leyla said, grasping for any excuse that might keep Jarrett in the stronghold.

She glanced at her mother beseechingly. “It would be discourteous to send him away.”

“I will speak to Tor,” Sudaan said. “Considering the circumstances, I am sure he will understand.”

Sudaan wrapped his arm around Leyla’s shoulders and hugged her to his side.

“I bid thee good sleep, daughter,” he said, his tone softening as he gazed into her luminous blue eyes.

“Good sleep, Father,” she replied, forcing the words past the growing lump in her throat. “Mother.”

Blinking back her tears, Leyla fled for the solitude of her own room. She should have known they would not approve, but in her happiness, she had dared to hope they would understand, they would share her felicity.

She paced her room for several minutes, her thoughts troubled. She could never marry Tor now. Once, she had thought she would grow to love him, but she knew now it would never happen. She loved Jarrett—not just because of the bond that had formed between them in the Pavilion. She loved his courage, his kindness, the warmth that was ever in his eyes when he looked at her. She loved the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand in her hair, the knowledge that he didn’t want to live without her.

She thought of what her father had said—and knew she would willingly sacrifice all her powers for the chance to be Jarrett’s wife.

With a sigh, she went to her window and stared down into the walled garden below. A movement in the shadows caught her eye and she felt her heart give a leap of joy.

Impulsively, she grabbed her cloak. Hurrying down the corridor, she left the fortress and ran to the garden, hoping he was still there.

Jarrett turned at the sound of her footsteps. “Leyla,” he exclaimed, pleased beyond words to see her.

“Jarrett, oh Jarrett,” she wailed softly, and hurled herself into his arms.

“What is it?” he asked gently, grieved by her tears. “What has happened?”

“My parents refuse to let me cancel the wedding. They said I must marry Tor, that I must fulfill my heritage.”

It was what he had expected, what he had feared. Ever since he’d promised Leyla he would stay, he had been plagued by doubts, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

Leyla was so young, so innocent. She had no real knowledge of life beyond the shelter of her mountain, no true concept of the hardships of daily existence. She had been reared in a society where there was no conflict, no contention, only harmony and beauty. Even in the Pavilion, she had been treated with courtesy and respect. No one had abused her. She hadn’t gone hungry or been forced to do menial tasks.

How could he even think of taking her away from her beloved mountains? He had no idea of what awaited him at his castle in Gweneth, no way of knowing if his home was still standing. And if Fenduzia and Aldane went to war, Gweneth would be caught in the middle. Jarrett had sworn an oath of allegiance to Tyrell, but he was related by blood to Morrad, the ruler of Aldane.

Bending down, he pressed a kiss to the top of Leyla’s head. He had known it could never be, he thought bleakly. From the very beginning, he’d known she could never be his.

Leyla wrapped her arms around Jarrett’s waist, holding him with all her strength. She could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, feel the hard wall of his chest beneath her fingertips.

She sighed as his arms curled around her, holding her tight. This was where she yearned to be, only here, only forever.

But it was not to be. She knew it as soon as she heard the sound of footsteps.

And then her father’s voice cut across the stillness of the night, thick with anger and sharp rebuke. “Leyla!”

Jarrett swore softly as he met Sudaan’s gaze. For a moment, his arms tightened around Leyla and then, reluctantly, he let her go.

Only then did he notice that Sudaan had not come alone. Tor stood behind Leyla’s father, and behind him, a half dozen men. They were not armed; the Maje kept no weapons of war. But then, he wasn’t armed, either.

“Daughter, Tor will take thee to thy room.”

Leyla looked at Jarrett, her eyes pleading for him to do something, but he only shook his head. And then Tor was leading her away.

Sudaan waited until Leyla had left the garden before he spoke again. “I would have the truth from thy lips,” he demanded. “Has thee defiled my daughter?”

“No.”

Sudaan gazed at him for a long moment, and Jarrett knew the Maje was probing his mind, seeking to know if he spoke the truth.

“We have made thee welcome as a guest,” Sudaan remarked. “We are grateful for thy kindness in returning our daughter.”

Jarrett curled his hands into fists. “But?”

“But I think it will be better for thee and for Leyla if thee departs on the morrow.”

“And if I refuse?”

Sudaan inclined his head toward the men who had fanned out around him. “We will convince thee. These men will escort thee to thy room. Tor will see thee on thy journey on the morrow.”

“In other words, I’m your prisoner?”

“Thee has said it.”

Knowing it was useless to argue, Jarrett left the garden and made his way back to his room, followed by the six Maje.

When he closed the door, he heard a key turn in the lock and the muted sound of voices as the Maje decided who would take the first watch.

He was a prisoner again, though this time his jail was infinitely more hospitable.

Too agitated to sleep, Jarrett paced the floor. Restless as a caged blue tiger, he prowled the confines of the room. They weren’t going to let him see Leyla again. He knew it as surely as he knew he had no choice but to leave in the morning. No choice at all. The Maje would see to that. They’d taken his weapons and weren’t likely to give them back. And even if they handed him his sword, he couldn’t fight them all.

He went to the window and stared into the darkness, his future looming before him as black as the sky now that he knew she wouldn’t be there to brighten it.

They came early the following morning, bringing First Meal into his room along with a change of clothing and a ewer of hot water to wash with.

An hour later, Sudaan and Tor came for him.

“Tor and one of our young men will escort thee to the path that leads to Dragora’s lair,” Sudaan said curtly.

“Where’s Leyla?”

“My daughter’s whereabouts need no longer concern thee.”

“I love her.”

“Our ways are not thy ways,” Sudaan said, his voice tinged with compassion. “Forget what thee has seen here and return to thy people.”

Jarrett drew a deep breath. “Can I at least tell her goodbye?”

Sudaan shook his head. “It will only make thy parting more difficult.”

“Please.” Jarrett forced the word through his teeth.
Please. Please
. The plea echoed down the corridors of his mind. How many times had he begged for mercy in the dungeon of the Pavilion, only to have his words thrown back at him? But he didn’t mind begging this time. He would have debased himself to any degree required for the chance to see her one last time.

Sudaan held Jarrett’s gaze for stretched seconds, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Jarrett stood firm, not caring that the Maje was reading his mind, judging the depths of his feelings for Leyla. In a moment, he became aware of another presence, and knew that Tor was also probing his thoughts.

Sudaan grunted softly, and then he nodded. “I will send her to thee.”

“No!” The exclamation burst from Tor’s lips. “She is my betrothed. I will not permit it.”

“She is my daughter,” Sudaan said, his voice sharp with reproval. “This man saved her life and returned her to us. I will allow them a few minutes to say Godspeed.”

“I am against it!”

Tor’s deep brown eyes glittered with uncharacteristic anger, making Jarrett wonder if all the tales of Majeullian docility might be a myth. He could feel the other man’s animosity reaching toward him, see it in the depths of his eyes, in the clenching of his fists.

“I will send her to thee, Lord Jarrett,” Sudaan repeated. “Tor, let us depart in peace.”

Tor glared at Jarrett. “Do not make the mistake of thinking we are soft or weak,” he warned. “Force and fear are not the only strengths.”

Jarrett loosed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind his visitors. They would let him tell her goodbye. He would see her one last time. For now, that was all that mattered.

It seemed like hours before she knocked at his door, though he knew it had only been a few minutes, and then she was there, close enough to touch.

For a time, he could only look at her, imprinting her image in his mind: the pale opalescence of her skin, the shimmering silver of her hair, the deep blue of her eyes, the rosy hue of her lips. Soft, sweet lips that tasted of Sylvan honey. She wore a flowing gown of powder-blue softsilk. There were matching slippers on her feet. She looked like an angel recently come from the courts of heaven.

“Leyla.” Her name whispered past his lips.

“I am here.”

Her familiar reply made his heart ache with sweet regret. He longed to go to her, to enfold her in his arms and feel her life force, her caring warmth. He yearned to bury his face in the wealth of her hair, to cover her face with kisses. To hold her close and never let her go.

Instead, he murmured her name again, the anguish in his voice betraying every thought, every desire.

“My Lord Jarrett, I came to thank thee for bringing me home.” She blinked back the tears that burned her throat and eyes as she delivered the carefully rehearsed speech. “I wish to thank thee for making my life in the Pavilion more bearable, for having the courage to flee thy captivity and the generosity of heart to take me with thee. I am honored to have known thee, and wish thee every happiness.”

She was crying openly now and she saw him through a blur of tears that made him no less handsome. Green eyes, as green as Dragora’s scales. Skin the color of sun-kissed Majeullian earth, warm and rich and brown. Hair as black as ebony. She committed each feature to memory. A nose as straight as a blade, a strong square jaw, the high cheekbones inherent to all Gweneth males. Large hands capable of unspeakable violence. Indescribable tenderness. Arms corded with muscle, strong legs that could carry him up the side of a mountain and across rivers. Broad shoulders that could bear any burden placed upon them.

“Jarrett.” She laced her fingers together to keep from reaching for him.

“I know,” he murmured brokenly. “I know.”

It was time to go. Her father had allowed her only a few minutes to say farewell, and that grudgingly.

“Jarrett.” She couldn’t seem to say anything but his name. Heart filled with anguish, she could only look at him, wishing that things could have been different between them, wishing she were an outsider, or that he were a Maje, so that they could have joined together. Obedience to the Law. Fidelity to truth. Loyalty to kith and kin. Suddenly, the tenets by which she had lived her whole life meant nothing; only the knowledge that he was leaving, that she would never see him again, had any meaning at all.