WinterofThorns (2 page)

It was not only her concern for the Lord of
Lavenfeld that drove her but the sure knowledge that he was her Chosen One, the
male the goddess had decreed to be her life-mate. She knew she was destined to
be Seyzon Montyne’s wife.

But beyond their Joining, she could not see
the future and that disturbed her greatly. No matter how hard she tried to scry
what was to come past that day, it was kept hidden from her. She had no idea if
there would be children of their union or if the two of them would live into
old age.

Beneath her hand, the warrior tried to move
his head. She saw his eyes flutter though they did not open and she heard a
slight groan from deep in his throat. One quick glance at the arm that lay
closest to her and she watched his fingers flex.

“I fear he is trying to wake,” she said.

“I am almost finished with the suturing,”
the healer told her.

She leaned down until her lips were at the
warrior’s ear. He groaned again and his body tensed. “Shh,” she whispered.
“Stay sleeping, milord.”

“There,” the healer said. “All done. You
can remove the cloth from his face.” He looked at her. “I will get a measure of
triso
to help with the pain he will know the moment he wakes.”

She nodded absently for she was watching
Seyzon’s eyes. When his lids fluttered again, she frowned, willing him to
remain unconscious. She laid the cloth aside and let her eyes wander over the
strong, slightly upturned nose, the faint cleft in his proud chin, the mouth
that drew her like iron filings to a magnet. The shadow of his beard gave him a
rugged, dangerous look that was eased only by the stillness of his features.
Those chiseled lips parted and behind them she caught a glimpse of straight,
white teeth. Another low moan came from him and she ran her fingers down his
cheek.

“Shh,” she repeated and did so again.

His dark, finely arched brows drew together
and she knew pain was reaching up to claim him. Her heart ached, knowing he
hurt. She laid her palm on his forehead and the moment she did, his eyes eased
slowly open. He stared up at her—the lustrous blue of his irises dulled with
pain—and sluggishly ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip.

There was a commotion at the door and she
heard low voices. A quick glance told her the men she had asked her brother to
find were there to give blood. For once Alden had done as she’d bid without too
much complaint.

“Where?” she heard the warrior ask in a
weak, husky voice.

“You are safe, milord,” she said, smoothing
the worry lines on his brow. “You are at Riverglade and Prince Vindan’s men are
nearby.”

She straightened as the healer came back to
the table with a vac-syringe in his hand. At the older man’s nod, she gently
tilted Seyzon’s face toward her to give the healer access to the thick column
of the warrior’s neck. She felt their patient tense as the fiery load was
administered. Almost instantly, his eyes closed again.

“Sleep well, milord,” she said then moved
aside as the healer rolled another table close to Seyzon’s then bid a volunteer
to stretch out atop it.

* * * * *

Seyzon wasn’t sure if he was conscious. He
thought he was because he hurt so badly. His chest and stomach felt as though
they were on fire and when he tried to move, pain ripped across him from one
side to the other. Surely if he was unconscious, he wouldn’t feel such ungodly
agony.

He had no idea where he was though he
remembered being told. His sixth sense wasn’t niggling him so he didn’t think
he was in enemy hands. Though he hurt, he didn’t feel dread. He wasn’t
distressed about his whereabouts even as the pain throbbed through his body.
Instinct told him he was being cared for by people who meant him no harm.

Thirst made his mouth feel encased in
cotton and when he ran his tongue over his lips, he wasn’t surprised to find
them cracked. He was fairly sure he had a fever for his head throbbed
unmercifully and he was sweating profusely, the sting of salt running into his
eyes. The moment a soft, cool hand eased under his neck to lift his head, he
forced his eyes open. All he could see was the rim of a cup placed at his lips.

“Just a little now.”

The voice was soft, very feminine, sweet as
honey, and it wound around him like a protective vine. Its owner held his head
steady as water was drizzled down his parched throat. He drank greedily,
groaning when the cup was taken away.

“A little more?”

He tried to speak and couldn’t, but apparently
words weren’t needed for the angel administering to him returned the cup to his
mouth. Another few sips exhausted him. She laid his head down gently on the
pillow. He desperately wanted her to move into his line of vision, and when she
did—her smiling face looking down at him with encouragement—he felt his heart
thud dangerously in his chest.

“Good morn,” she said.

She was lovely beyond words as she stood
there gazing down at him. He remembered her from the battlefield, recognized
her gentle voice and tender touch but could not bring to mind her name.

“Jana,” she said as though she’d
intercepted his confusion. “Jana Reynaud. You are at Riverglade and Commander
Vashteel has been wearing a path in the corridor, wanting to see you.” Her
smile wavered. “Unfortunately, you have contracted an infection. Your fever has
been dangerously high for several days now but you’ll be just fine. Healer
Cronin just wants to limit the exposure of those around you for the time
being.”

“You?” he managed to ask, swallowing against
the terrible dryness that had invaded his mouth again.

“I’ve been caring for you since we operated,”
she said. “There were a few warriors who were in to donate blood but Healer
Cronin was very selective about which of them were allowed to do so.”

“Operated?” he echoed, frowning.

“You were stabbed, milord,” she said. “Your
spleen had to be removed.”

Ah,
he
thought. That was why he hurt so badly. It wasn’t just the blade that had
lanced his side. The gods-be-damned thing had done some damage.

“No need for you to worry,” she continued.
“You will be up in a day or two.”

He sighed heavily. Tried to lift his hand
and didn’t have the strength. He closed his eyes against the wave of nausea
that rippled up his throat because he’d dared move.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” she
asked.

“No,” he said. “It just hurts.”

“Oh,” she said. “I have something that will
help.”

He wedged his eyes open and tracked her
across the room. She went to a cabinet, opened it and took something from a
shelf. Closing the cabinet securely, she came back with a vac-syringe.

“Healer Cronin showed me how to administer
the injection. He filled the vac-syringe before he went down to break his
fast.” She titled her head slightly to the right. “Would you like me to give
this to you?”

He wanted to say no but the pain was too
intense. “Aye.”

As gently as a leaf floating from a limb on
a soft summer’s breeze, she cupped his chin and eased his head to the side.
With firm yet tender strength, she put the nozzle of the vac-syringe to his
carotid artery and sent the burning drug into his neck. He tried not to flinch
but the fire racing through his blood felt like a cautery had been laid to his
flesh.

“I know it hurts,” she said, putting down
the vac-syringe then placing her fingertips over the injection site. She softly
massaged his flesh in tiny circles. “I’ve had more than my share of
triso
injections.”

He wondered why she would need the
heavy-duty painkiller and wanted to ask but the potent drug suddenly grabbed
him in its numbing fist. Through a soft haze, he stared up at her lovely face
and tried to smile at her though he didn’t think his facial muscles were
complying. Instead, he locked his attention on her and kept it there as the
waves of tingling relief began drifting through his mind.

Her hair was in an intricate braid that
hung all the way to her shapely hips. The color was an unusual shade of deep,
rich burgundy that contrasted beautifully with her pale-gray eyes. Her eyebrows
were perfectly arched over those vibrant, smiling eyes and she had the longest
lashes of any woman he’d ever seen. A pert little nose, high cheekbones and the
sweetest pair of pale-rose lips completed a face that was as mesmerizing as it
was beautiful. Though she was short—probably no taller than five foot four—she had
the buxomness of a much larger woman. He knew the breasts that were hidden by
the bodice of her dark-gray gown would be more than a handful for any man. Idly
he wondered if her nipples and areolas were the same striking color as her
lips. His gaze drifting downward, he liked the tiny indention of her waist that
flared into a pair of very curvaceous hips and knew her legs would be as
slender and shapely as her arms. Taken as a whole, the woman was breathtakingly
gorgeous and to add to the physical side of her was that angelic voice that
soothed even as it enticed.

“Better?” she asked and he drew in a slow
breath as she put the back of her hand to his forehead. Though he knew she was
testing his fever, he wanted to pretend she was touching him as a man and not
the patient he was.

“Aye,” he whispered.

“You are not quite so hot to the touch,”
she said.

Touch me below the belt
then
say that,
he thought. Between his thighs he was aflame
and hard as forged steel. Thankfully her gaze was on his face and not where the
sheet that covered him was tented.

“Try to sleep,” she said. “Rest is what you
need right now.”

Rest wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted the
angel hovering over him with her gentle smile and her soft hands. He wanted her
so badly he ached to the marrow of his bones.

“Stay with me,” he asked hoarsely.

She smiled. “Always, milord,” she replied
and laid her hand on his bare shoulder. Where she touched him, his flesh
tingled. She ran her hand down his arm then threaded her fingers with his.
“Always.”

It was a promise that made his heart swell
with such intense joy he felt tears prickling his eyes. As the
triso
finally took him over completely, he dropped into sleep, content and happy for
the first time in ten years.

* * * * *

He walked slowly along the cobblestone
path, her arm linked with his. It was a day of bright colors. A beautiful day
with an azure sky lit by a mellow, orange sun. Green shrubs sported myriad
pastel-colored flowers and vines held graduating shades of red. Rose bushes of
every conceivable hue lined the walkway and lent the air a sweet fragrance that
tickled the nose. A good-sized sapphire-tinted pond rippled as numerous
varieties of koi swam beneath the surface and among giant lotus pads that was
dotted with deep purple, magenta, vibrant pink and creamy blue water lilies.

“Did you know,” Jana began, “that water
lilies stands for perfect beauty?”

“I did not,” he replied. He was winded and
his abdomen hurt as he stopped at the pond’s edge.

“Every flower has a meaning.”

“Which is your favorite flower, milady?” he
asked, bringing her hand to his lips and looking at her through his lowered
lashes as he kissed her soft fingers.

“The honeysuckle,” she said, pointing
across the vast garden to where a stand of split-rail fences marched.
Melon-colored blooms clung to the gray, weathered wood.

“And what meaning do the honeysuckle
flowers have?” he queried as he threaded his fingers through hers.

She smiled. “The bond of love. Devoted love
and fidelity. It also makes a statement.”

“Which is?”

“Let me bind you. Be my captive.”

Seyzon put his other hand up to cup her
cheek. “You have bound me, milady, and I will be your heart’s captive for as
long as I draw breath and even into the Thereafter.”

“Such courtly words, milord,” she said.

He tilted her head so he could do what he
had been dying to do since the moment he had opened his eyes on the battlefield
and seen her hovering above him.

“That is because I am courting you,” he
whispered. He lowered his mouth to hers to claim her lips. He did not close his
eyes nor did she. Their gazes was fused like silk to wet skin.

Her lips were as sweet and soft as he knew
they would be. He drank from their nectar for a long moment then gently pressed
his tongue to their fullness. She opened like a flower beneath his tender
insistence and he slipped inside the warm, honeyed depths. He heard her draw in
a quick breath as he swept his tongue across hers and was a bit surprised when
she answered suit. He released her hand and put his to her other cheek,
bringing her mouth harder to his. Increasing the thrust of his tongue, going
deeper past her lips, he pivoted his lips over hers until he was wringing from
her every ounce of restraint, every bit of resistance. She sagged in his grip
as her body melted into his.

“I love you,” he said against her mouth. “I
am
in
love with you.”

“And I with you.” Her arms went around his
waist, her lush breasts pressing tightly to his chest. “From the moment you
first entered my dreams.”

He wound his arms around her and slipped
his thigh between hers. The quiver that ran through her slender body brought
with it an overpowering urge to protect her, keep her safe from all that would
harm or hurt her. That quiver—and the way she clung to him—told him, without
her actually saying the words, that she was surrendering to him, giving herself
to him.

“I will cherish you for all time,” he
whispered then set her back from him.

A look of concern settled on her beautiful
features for a moment but when he sank to one knee before her, she drew in a
ragged breath and the look turned hot as the embers of hell.

“Jana Reynaud,” he said, looking up at her
as he held her left hand between both of his calloused palms. “Would you do me
the honor of becoming my lady-wife?”