Wild Silver - the Delaneys

by Iris Johansen

  He laughed again. “I’m well aware of that, but for tonight, at least, we’ll call a truce. I gave orders that a boat not be launched until dawn, so we must rely on ourselves until then. Lay down your weapons, Silver. I promise I’m no threat to you and I’ll protect you from danger.” His ebony eyes twinkled in the firelight. “Including river monsters.”

  How foolish she was being, clinging to him as if he were a life preserver thrown to save her from the river. She released him and edged backward. “I feel very stupid. I’ll try not to be—”

  He placed two fingers on her lips, silencing her. “Not stupid,” he said softly. “Now, lie back down and rest while I see if I can find us something to eat. If you recall, we didn’t have dinner.”

  “I can help,” she said eagerly. “Apache girl children are taught exactly the same skills as boys until they reach the time for the rites of womanhood. I can travel forty miles a day through rough country. I can trap and hunt and fish and I was the best tracker in the village.” She frowned. “Though some of the warriors wouldn’t admit it. I told them—”

  “I’m sure you did,” Nicholas interrupted, his eyes dancing. “And I’m certain you’re as competent as you claim, but let me be the provider this time. I may not have your qualifications, but I have a certain amount of experience in foraging.”

  “But you’re—” She stopped.

  He lifted a brow. “Yes?”

  “You’re a prince.” She scowled. “And I think I’m hungry.”

  He burst out laughing as he rose to his feet. “I assure you, my entire existence hasn’t been spent in marble palaces being pampered by armies of servants. I’ll find you something to eat, Silver.” He glanced down at his bare feet. “Though I have no intention of hunting or trapping tonight. I know what stones and brush can do to unprotected feet.”

  “But I still think—”

  “No.” He turned away.

  She gasped, her gaze fastened in shock on the long line of his back. White scars crisscrossed his flesh from his shoulders to the base of his spine, scars that could only have been inflicted by the lash of a whip.

  He turned to look over his shoulder. “What’s the matter?” Then, as he saw her face, a crooked smile lit up his face. “As I said, palaces are not the full extent of my experience.” Then he faded into the dense forest shrubbery with a silent grace that surprised her.

  She sat frozen, staring after him in the darkness. She felt … strange. What kind of a man was Nicholas Savron? She couldn’t really know, since their every encounter had been colored by anger, conflict, and lust. She had seen glimpses of the character of the man in his relationship with Mikhail and Valentin, but had been too wary to believe what she had seen. Now her defenses were down and she was forced to accept another Nicholas. A Nicholas who had held her and comforted her with a tenderness she had never known, who had laughed and teased her, who had made her aware he possessed a past that could hold the same pain and humiliation she had known. A Nicholas who had saved her life at the risk of his own.

  He had saved her life! The realization came with the shocking force of a blow. “No!” She didn’t wish to owe Nicholas Savron anything. He was the enemy.

  But he had not been an enemy when he had held her in his arms and told her it was all right to be afraid. He had permitted her to lean on his strength and had taken nothing from her in return. How would it feel to be able to lean on someone else as Elspeth leaned on Dominic? Not that she needed support, she assured herself quickly. But it would be pleasant to know there was a hand to hold your own on a rough path. So pleasant …

  Pleasant. It was not a word to describe Nicholas Savron. He dazzled and wooed, he struck with the glittering sharpness of a renaissance dagger and then danced away to watch with an entrancing smile as his opponent crumpled. Yet she had felt something else in him tonight, a strongly anchored rock to cling to in the darkness.

  Oh, she just didn’t know. She was confused and weakened, as much from that moment of tenderness from Nicholas as she was from the blow on the head. She would think about it when she was fully herself again. Tonight he had offered a truce that she would gladly accept.

  The warm night breeze gently touched her cheeks and playfully tugged at her hair, bringing with it the pungent scent of moss, river, and burning wood. She had been imprisoned in cities too long. She glanced around her, curiously content with both this place and this moment. Two huge weeping willow trees showered veils of lacy fronds over the mossy bank, and the moonlight on the Mississippi was breathtakingly lovely. She could see the pale gleam of the riverboat hovering in the distance, but both the Rose and her captivity seemed far away.

  She drew closer to the fire, her gaze on the brightly glowing flames. The night was warm and the fire was not really a necessity but it would serve to finish drying her clothes. She threaded her fingers through her hair, holding the long straight strands out to let the heat flow through them. Her hair was nearly dry. She must have been unconscious longer than she had believed, yet the blow had been really nothing. It was very puzzling.

  Dear heaven, surely she hadn’t swooned? Indignation surged through her at the thought. She couldn’t have been such a ninny. She had been frightened but she did not swoon. It was ridiculous and she—

  She suddenly began to chuckle. Perhaps she had swooned. What difference did it make? She didn’t have to be strong all the time. As Nicholas had said, no one was strong every moment of every day.…

  “You have juice on the corner of your mouth.” Nicholas leaned forward to wipe away the errant drops with his index finger. “And you have raspberry lips.”

  “So do you,” Silver said placidly, glancing at his well-shaped lips dyed red-purple by the same juice that stained her own. “And you have some on your chin too. You look as if you’re wearing war paint.”

  Nicholas wiped the offending smudge away. “I’m surprised you’re not complaining that I managed to grab a few handfuls of your berries to stave off starvation. Do you always eat so heartily?”

  She nodded. “I like to eat. There are so many wonderful tastes.” She sighed blissfully. “Do you know that some flowers have a lovely taste? When I was a little girl, there was a honeysuckle bush beside the front door of the homestead at Killara. I used to pull the blossoms and suck the sweetness. I love to taste delicious things and breathe the scents of the earth and the flowers.” She inhaled deeply. “And woodsmoke. Is there anything more wonderful than the smell of woodsmoke? Tangy and rich.”

  Nicholas gazed at her thoughtfully. Sitting there across the fire, she was a wild, lovely pagan, completely at home in her surroundings. She radiated a natural sensuality that formed an aura of heat that reached out and touched like the warmth of the fire itself. If she was so responsive to taste and scent, how much more responsive would she be to touch?

  But he didn’t want to think about Silver’s responses tonight. He promised her a truce that was already proving a difficult vow to keep. He asked abruptly, “Do you want any more berries? There are plenty of bushes in that patch downriver. I would have brought more if I’d had a bucket. All I had was my handkerchief in which to carry them.”

  “Are you angry with me?” She suddenly looked like a hurt child. “Did I truly eat more than my share?” She jumped to her feet. “Stay here. I’ll get you some more raspberries. Why didn’t you tell me you were hungry?”

  “Silver …” His frown vanished and he began to laugh. “I’m not hungry and I’m not angry with you. I was joking before.”

  She gazed at him uncertainly. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he said a trifle impatiently. “For God’s sake, can’t you tell the difference?”

  “No,” she said simply. “Not always. I suppose I don’t really have a very good sense of humor. No one has really joked with me much.”

  Poignant tenderness caused his throat to tighten helplessly. Her answer caught him off guard and touched him with unbearable intensity. Christ, why did she have to say thin
gs like that? Wild child, lost child, fighting for acceptance with every ounce of her being and nothing left over for laughter. “I was joking,” he repeated. “Now, sit down and finish your berries.”

  She dropped to the ground, her gaze fixed thoughtfully on the fire. “Of course, my cousin Patrick sometimes joked with me. Patrick laughs a lot, but it’s never unkind.”

  “And was some of the laughter unkind?”

  “At times.” She lifted her gaze from the flames. “I am a half-breed.”

  The simple words hurt. He couldn’t stand it. He deliberately shuttered his emotions and smiled carelessly. “So am I. Serf and boyar.” He continued lightly. “I never understood why a pure strain was considered more prestigious than a mixed. More is surely better.”

  “Valentin told me your mother was not of the nobility.”

  His lips twisted. “Much to her dismay.” He shrugged. “When I was a small child I tried to comfort her by telling her about the firebird, but she dismissed it as foolishness.”

  “The firebird? You called me that once.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember. I recall thinking you reminded me of a firebird the first time I saw you.” His gaze gravely met hers. “The firehbird is a half-breed too, Silver. Half diety of the sun and half mortal bird.”

  She smiled tentatively. “A fairy story?”

  He nodded. “A fable. There are many stories about the firebird in Russia.” He turned away. “Lie down and try to sleep. This moss won’t make too poor a bed.”

  She lay down, curling up and laying her cheek on her arm. “Tell me about the firebird.”

  He gazed into the flames. “I told you, there are many stories.”

  “Tell me your favorite.”

  He laughed softly. “My firebird isn’t a god but a goddess.”

  “It would be,” Silver said dryly.

  “She was a creature so magnificent, no words could describe her. Her wings were like flames and her eyes pure crystal. She ate only golden apples and just one of her feathers could bring light to midnight darkness and banish the fears of the night.”

  “Beautiful,” Silver murmured dreamily. “She must have been beautiful.…”

  “Yes, she was beautiful, but she was more. She was magical.” Silver’s eyes were shining in the firelight like the shimmering crystal of the firebird, and for a moment he lost track of what he was saying. Then he pulled his gaze away and fastened it once again on the flames. “There was a mighty Cossack warrior who lived in a desolate, barren land. He was very ambitious and wanted to become a great leader. Then one day the firebird appeared before him and he climbed on her back and they soared away in a flare of flaming brilliance, locked together in a secret world of radiance. The warrior had never known such excitement and happiness, but in time he yearned for the victories and glories of the mortal world. So the firebird returned the warrior to his own land. She told the warrior she loved him but would not hold him with her magic. Instead, she gave him her magical blessing that insured he would receive all he desired, and she flew off toward the sun.”

  “Sad,” Silver murmured sleepily.

  “The warrior became a great leader and won riches and fame. Many maidens wished to mate with him as the years passed, but he found he couldn’t bring himself to marry. He continued to prosper but gradually realized a great loneliness was devouring his soul. Fame and riches meant nothing if he couldn’t have his firebird. He offered his palace and all his riches to any man who could lure the firebird back to earth and capture her. Many men tried to win the prize and capture the firebird, but to no avail. Finally, in great despair, the warrior left his fine palace and journeyed back to the canyon where he had last seen the firebird.”

  “Was she there?”

  “No, but he found one shining feather that had dropped from her wing as she flew away from the earth toward the sun. He picked it up and felt it throb as if it were alive beneath his fingers. Then he heard the surging of her great wings and the clouds parted and she landed beside him. She had felt his need of her when he had grasped the feather and been summoned back to him.”

  “And they flew away together and lived happily ever after,” Silver finished.

  “Perhaps.”

  “What do you mean, perhaps?” Silver covered her lips with her hand as she yawned. “How else could it end?”

  “This is a Russian fable.” Nicholas’s eyes twinkled. “Which makes it more complex. There are two endings. In one, the warrior mounted the back of the firebird and became her mate forever. In the other ending, the firebird had been so crazed by her grief that her heart now held only bitterness for the warrior and she rent him to death with her talons.”

  She scowled. “In this country we would never permit such an ending. I’m convinced Russians must be a very peculiar people.” She closed her eyes and her voice, though drowsy, was very firm. “The first ending is correct. I’m sure of it.”

  “Then who am I to disagree?” He settled down a few yards from where she lay, his eyes dark with secrets as they narrowed on her face. He didn’t speak for several minutes, and when he did, his voice was almost a whisper. “And who should know better … Firebird?”

  Silver didn’t answer, and Nicholas saw that she was asleep.

  The monster rushed toward her, its dark scales shining, its red eyes staring at her with hungry malevolence. He opened his giant mouth and she could see his pointed yellow teeth and smell the foulness of his breath—

  “No!” Silver sat bolt upright, her heart pounding wildly.

  Nicholas was beside her, his arms enfolding her. Solid strength, the scent of tobacco and musk … She clung to him with desperation. “Nicholas, it was a monster with big yellow teeth.”

  “It was only a nightmare.” His palm cupped the back of her head as he rocked her back and forth. “It wasn’t real.”

  “I don’t have nightmares,” she said indignantly.

  He laughed but made no rebuttal as he continued to rock her.

  She should move away, she thought, but it was very pleasant being held like this with her cheek pressed against the warm bare smoothness of Nicholas’s chest. “Elspeth used to have terrible dreams when she was ill.”

  “Did she? Then you know there’s no shame in having them.”

  “I didn’t say I was ashamed. I just never have them. I sleep very soundly.”

  Like a child, Nicholas thought tenderly, remembering those moments when he had watched her sleep that first night she had been brought to him.

  But it wasn’t a child he was holding in his arms, and he wasn’t accustomed to playing nursemaid to young women who were wrapped only in diaphanous bed curtains covered by linen shirts. His body was responding with an alacrity that signaled an achingly uncomfortable night if he didn’t move away from her.

  Her cheek nestled and rubbed against his chest like a cat against a satin pillow. Heat surged to his groin and he inhaled sharply. He should move away. He had promised.

  “Do you have nightmares?” she asked.

  Her warm breath caressed his flesh with every word, and the muscles of his stomach began to knot. “Sometimes. Not lately. I used to have them frequently.” Her hair was clinging to his fingers like tousled silk. She smelled of raspberries, moss, and something more elemental that caused his head to swim dizzily. One moment more and he’d move away from her.

  “What about? Monsters?”

  “No, about being buried alive.” He was scarcely aware of what he was saying. She had nestled closer and he could feel the womanly fullness of her breasts pressing against him. “Darkness. Not being able to breathe.”

  “How terrible,” she murmured. The thatch of dark golden hair on his chest looked invitingly springy, and Silver moved her cheek to rest against it. The texture was gently abrasive against the smoothness of her cheek. Her throat tightened and her heart suddenly began to pound. Such a tiny thing to ignite such excitement. His roughness against her softness, his maleness against her womanliness. How would her na
ked breasts feel pressed against that springy rough hair?

  The thought brought a tingling emptiness between her thighs that shocked her. This was not a yearning for comfort, this was lust. How had her body’s needs changed so quickly? She must slip out of his arms now, before he became aware of her weakness. Her breasts were swelling, the nipples hardening as they had last night when he had teased her. No, she mustn’t think of those moments. Her heart was throbbing so hard, she thought it would leap from her breast.

  His hand tangled in her hair. “Silver …” His voice was thick, soft, seductive. “I shouldn’t …”

  The heat of his body was enfolding her wherever flesh touched flesh, and she was aware of the changes taking place in his body. The tautening of the ridge of muscles beneath her cheek and the leaping drum of his heart that echoed her own. “What?”

  He muttered a curse. For one instant he crushed her to him, letting her feel the scorching heat of his body and an arousal that caused her breath to stop in her lungs. Then he was gone, his hands dropping away from her hair as he edged back away from her to his former place by the fire. “Go to sleep,” he said between his teeth. “For God’s sake, go back to sleep.”

  He was hurting, hungry, so aroused that she could feel the vibrations of his desire like a great bell resonating, summoning, enticing. It seemed impossible that she had ever wanted him to hurt like this. Now she understood that pain because it was throbbing in her own body. Emptiness, heat, aching, a passionate urge to leave loneliness behind and join with Nicholas.

  “Don’t look at me like that.” His dark eyes were blazing at her across the few yards separating them. “I’m trying to remember you were hurt tonight and have no defenses.” He closed his eyes but he could still see her gazing at him, crystal-gray eyes shining with excitement and curiosity. The eyes of a firebird. “I’m not used to being self-sacrificing, dammit.”

  Even if he was unaccustomed to self-denial, he was still doing it, Silver thought. Another facet of this complex man revealed. The soul of a poet, Valentin had said, and she had seen that tonight herself. But it was not the poet in him that was flooding her body with heat. How beautiful he was lying there with his rumpled golden hair and the long clean lines of his body taut and rigid with desire. Not Apollo now, but a man, and a man more vulnerable than she had ever seen him. A strong wave of tenderness shimmered through her, blending with desire until she did not know where one ended and the other began.