White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  “I am sorry I dinna come sooner, Scota.”

  She looked back at him warily.

  “Think back and tell me all you remember.”

  “Does it matter, Boyden? Whatever happened, whatever magical intervention, it saved my life.”

  Some of the anger seemed to leave him and his nostrils flared.

  “She did not hurt me, Boyden.”

  “She?”

  “I sensed a female presence, not male.”

  His eyes narrowed with speculation. “It is true the fey claim beauty for their own.”

  “A fey born shared of herself so I might live.” She would give him a partial truth for now. A small part of her feared his knowing the full certainty of what happened.

  He turned away and she forced calmness into her body.

  “Who is this she? Give me her name. The fey doona offer kindness without reason, without want.”

  She looked away, unable to answer.

  After a long, tense moment, he asked. “Are you hungry?”

  She gave him a hesitant nod and climbed to her feet, swaying unsteadily.

  He was there, supporting her, holding her close. Crisp, golden chest hair tickled her nose.

  “I am sorry,” he murmured into her hair.

  Her arms slid around his waist, her cheek resting against warm skin.

  He sighed heavily and turned her in his arms.

  “Come, the food is back here, near the chamber. Can you walk?”

  She nodded and leaned heavily into him.

  He guided her to a deep bend near the front of a small chamber and helped her sit.

  “I am not very hungry,” she said, her stomach muttering with disagreement. She tugged at the hem of her woolen shirt fluttering loose above her waist, shortened from the frequent need for bandages.

  He stepped away with a low chuckle. “Your body disagrees, warrior.”

  Mesmerized, she watched him bend on one knee, offering her an appealing view of a tight male bottom. His height was mostly in his legs and the rest of him continued to enthrall her. The muscles in his lower back and arms flexed while he gathered his offering to her. She licked her lips, pausing, sensing …

  Inhaling deeply, Scota lifted her nose in the air. Standing stones lined the small span of a passage outside the burial tomb. This passage grave was empty except for the moldy scent of … she turned and met the green jewel gaze of a large-headed spriggan. She recognized the fey born instantly, misty images of form and consciousness from the blood memories left behind by the primordial wind being. Apparently, she left some of her superior senses behind, as well.

  The rock faery sat cross-legged on the oval mound to her right. He wore a green, rock-encrusted coat and pants the color of soil. Fey borns remained invisible to mortals unless they willed to be seen, and this one most definitely did not will to be seen. Yet, she saw him and attributed it to the magic of her connection with the Faery Wind.

  Spriggans were minders of burial tombs and dolmans, sacred places of the Otherworld. The spriggan, a bringer of mischief, tugged on his coarse black beard. Confident of his invisibility, his green eyes studied her with vile curiosity. She could taste the creature’s lust in the air. He was anxious to witness the mating of the large male with the dark-haired female.

  She tilted her head, met his gaze, and smiled.

  The rock faery peered at her, unsure.

  Scota waved at him.

  He jumped to his bare feet and winked out.

  “What are you looking at?” Boyden asked, pulling her attention back.

  Scota smiled warmly at her mate. “A hairy-nosed spriggan.”

  “A hairy-nosed spriggan,” he repeated dully and looked back at the mound.

  “He has left, Boyden.”

  Her handsome mate nodded without comment and placed food in front of her.

  CHAPTER 13

  BOYDEN SAT BACK ON HIS haunches, studying his lovely mate as she in turn studied the stale bread and cold mutton he had stolen from the food bags of the dead men. The tattered remains of her white woolen shirt hung from slender shoulders, unmarked by blade or dagger. The frayed laces were undone, and he caught a tantalizing view of white breasts.

  His gaze slid back to her face. He did not consider himself a fool. She should have died. He had seen wounds of that type many times before in battle and in accident. Death always occurred a day or two after. He fingered the leaf-shaped arrowhead in his right hand, warmed by his skin. The smooth flint impaled flesh, but it was not magical, not spell cast, and he set it aside.

  The shirt slipped farther down her arm, exposing the sleek line of her. Laces rested on the crest of a breast’s tantalizing peek. He licked his lips. The Darkshade scar at his temple continued to itch in healing. It was a withering of the dark enchantment that had nearly spoiled his blood and taken his life. A true guardian born would have died swiftly in progressing misery and pain. He was not true born. The dagger attacked only the magical blood threads within him, bringing upon an eventual death. Ending did not happen because of Derina’s spellbound herbal concoction and because of Scota’s courage.

  With a quick tug, she yanked the shirt back over her shoulder but not before a pebbled nipple poked through the laces. His lower stomach clenched, and he shifted to hide his arousal. Her efforts had saved his life. He knew it well. Since ending did not happen, he chose to no longer ponder it. He was a warrior who lived in the here and now. He breathed in. Another fragrance mixed with hers. Light and easily missed, it was a scent born of the winds. Suspicion gnawed away at him. Answers skirted his senses just out of reach. His warrior mate was a peculiar mixture of courage and vulnerability, providing a strong attraction for him. He would know what happened to her out there.

  He caught her looking at him, the tip of her tongue tracing a delectable bottom lip.

  “Eat.” He gestured.

  With a single finger, his fussy mate poked at the bread.

  Reaching out, he tore off a small piece of the stale bread, plopped it in his mouth, and took a swig of water from a leather pouch. The pouch was another confiscation.

  She watched him, her turquoise eyes full of strange golden intensities.

  “Thirsty?” he inquired and offered the small pouch to her. She took it, her movements slow and unsure in continuing weakness. As he watched, she fumbled and nearly dropped it. They could not afford the spilling of the precious water upon the ground.

  “Not like that.” Scooting closer, he took the leather pouch out of her hands and held the narrow lip near her mouth.

  “Open your mouth,” he commanded.

  Head tilting back, her lips parted in obedience. He poured the cool, life-sustaining spring water into her. The scent of his mating bite made him sweat.

  Cool, white fingers wrapped around his wrist, needful in their purpose.

  She drank from his offering, her gaze cast downward, her mouth and throat working until the bag was empty.

  “There is no more, Scota.”

  She released his wrist, dropping her hand to her lap.

  “I have another pouch of water,” he offered, but did not reach for it. “Methinks you should put food in your belly first to get your strength back.”

  Beads of water dotted her lips, and when her tongue darted out, he turned away.

  “Eat,” he grumbled again, grabbing a leg of cold mutton for himself. He took a bite and met her hungry gaze. Barely swallowing the meat, he held the mutton leg out to her. “You want this one?”

  Leaning forward, she took a small bite near his finger, the plump softness of her lip grazing his thumb.

  The muscles in his stomach tightened even more.

  She chewed in pleasure as if she had never tasted cold mutton before.

  He could not look away from her.

  She leaned forward again, the woolen shirt slipping, exposing the curve of a white shoulder. Small teeth nipped free another piece of meat. He felt caught and spell cast with covetousness.

  Anothe
r bite and he broke out in a sweat.

  He held the leg for her, his hand a platter from which they shared.

  In amazement, he watched her go from fussy princess to ravenous warrior. One hand locked around his wrist with fierce strength while the other guided the mutton leg to her mouth. He hoped she would leave his fingers intact. She cleaned the bone, her teeth ravaging and chewing the plain fare. Finishing it in a few more bites, she sat back with a huge sigh, sated and full, clutching his wrist.

  He gave a little tug and she released him with a shy smile. Tossing the bone aside, he turned back and found her eyelids fluttering closed. Hunger appeased, sleep called her to a deeper healing.

  “Time to rest, Scota.” Scooping her up in his arms, he returned her to the bed of leaves and healing herbs he had made for her. She lay on her back, her head lolling to the side, away from him. Gently slipping his arms free from under her back and legs, he sat down next to her in the shadows. Pressing his back to the stone wall for support, he adjusted himself, then rested an arm on a bent knee.

  “Do not leave, Boyden,” she whispered.

  “I am here, Scota. Go to sleep and regain your health.”

  Her hands curled protectively in front of her face and her body relaxed.

  Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the hardness of stone, his hearing tuned to the sounds of possible threat.

  “We are safe,” she said softly, convincingly.

  “Aye.” He wished he could believe her, but knew better. Somewhere outside, the captain searched for them, driven on by greed and resentment. He needed to get back to his tribe and prepare for the battle to come. He ran a hand through his hair. What was he going to do with her? She was his mate, a mistake made in the heat of the moment. Though she came from a faraway land, intent on invasion, she felt tantalizingly familiar, even more so since the arrow wounding.

  He exhaled. Fatigue pushed all troubling thoughts aside. Eyes closing, he let sleep take him on a recuperative journey, the old nightmare unknowingly lost in the breath of the one he guarded.

  Scota opened her eyes after a short time of rest and breathed deeply of the twilight shadows balanced outside the tomb. As long as she sensed the outside land and air, the fear of small places remained confined. She always disliked closed-in places, but she could tolerate them if need be. Life’s choices were not always formed of sunlight but sometimes of clouds and storms. And she preferred life, in all its forms, to death.

  The weakness of her body felt nearly gone. She rolled to her side and admired her virile mate. His eyes were closed, lips parted in slumber. He sat with his back propped against the wall, a most uncomfortable position from the looks of it. Head tilted back, supported by a wedge in the wall, he rested. He breathed in and out in a slow cadence.

  He was beautiful in the ways of a sleeping male, a poised strength, an explosion of quickness only a breath away. Lines of fatigue edged his mouth, increasing her desire to get closer to him.

  As her need rose …

  … so did the cold, living wind.

  Strands of hair danced in front of her face, a feathery touch of recognition in swirls of glittering mist.

  Boyden’s name echoed in her mind along with the word share, laced with an Elemental’s excitement, an anticipation of a mating.

  Scota’s fists clenched. It was time to honor her vow.

  “SHARE?”

  “Do him no harm,” she whispered with firmness.

  “NEVER,” came the reply.

  “I remain who I am,” she added quickly, staring at the circling mist.

  “ALWAYS.”

  Her brows drew together. “You will not hurt my babe.”

  “NEVER.”

  She nodded. “Afterward, you will leave me be.”

  “ALWAYS.”

  “He may not want to mate,” she added. “He sleeps.”

  “MAKE HIM WANT.”

  Pushing aside her trepidation, Scota nodded abruptly.

  “BREATHE.” The word lingered in her mind, a stream of awareness.

  Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. Chilled air swept inside her lungs, inside her body, an ancient being’s sharing of desires and wants combined.

  Scota blinked.

  She pushed up on her knees, a breathing flame rising within her womb. Her white shirt dangling open, laces trailing on the ground, she crawled silently between Boyden’s outstretched legs. Pausing at the apex of his long limbs, she immediately noticed the large bulge there. This was how he gave her earthly pleasure last time, his thrusts sending spiraling sparks of light and darkness through her blood. She quivered with remembrance.

  The laces of his brown breeches were loose, offering her a tiny glimpse of his flaxen nest. Her fingertips brushed the tip of his root, and he stirred in sleep. Arms braced under her, she leaned in lustfully, and inhaled the light musky scent of him. Through the laces, she fitted her mouth over his thick shaft and …

  Hands locked in her hair.

  He dragged her up a hard chest.

  “By the winds,” he muttered in a ragged breath before his mouth clamped down on hers.

  Thrill and desire arched through her womb like bolts of lightning in a gathering windstorm.

  Lightning flashed through Boyden, too, and he crushed her slender body to him. Never had he awoken with a female’s mouth sucking hard on him, and he reacted instinctively. His kiss, anything but gentle, reached for her passion, as she in turn demanded his. Tongues entwined, battling, plunging, he kissed her fiercely and put her on her back though he suspected she wanted him on his. She tasted of storms, a craving that could not be contained. Something untamed rose up to claim him, and he shuddered, roughly breaking the kiss.

  “Doona let me hurt you, warrior,” he growled low, staring down into glazed eyes.

  Scota quaked within, wanting him desperately. She wanted him forceful, taking and giving. Never had she felt such yearning for a male to pleasure her. In the deep reaches of her mind, part of her recognized another’s desire, but it was a small part. The rest belonged wholly to her, the passion, the yearning. She had fallen hopelessly and intolerably in love with the enemy. Unfamiliar tears stung her eyes, and she blinked at the swift understanding. By the gods and goddesses, I do love him.

  “Scota, I am sorry.” He misinterpreted her tears. Pushing back, he inspected her side, his hand tenderly tracing. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, Boyden,” she answered huskily. Burying her hands in his hair, she reclaimed his lips. She would not let him withdraw, not while craving for him gnawed a hole inside her womb. She dragged him back, taking his tongue inside her mouth and suckled. Through the clothes, she felt his man root flex against her belly and wrapped her legs around his lean hips. She pushed up against the hardness of him, rubbing her throbbing cave against his root. A growl of excitement vibrated in his throat, into her mouth.

  In the next moment, large impatient hands held her face, fingers tightened, and his kiss turned demanding. He tilted her head, his mouth ravenous, taking her as she wished to be taken. She battled a male’s command for submission. Within her, the Elemental struggled for domination, her hunger sharp and ancient, recognizing no superior.

  A ripple of unease flowed through him, and Boyden forced himself to slow down.

  She was gasping for breath, and his tongue stroked across her cheek, teeth scraping her jaw where the scent of his mating claim reigned. Her legs abruptly tightened around him, sending a surge of hot lust into his blood. Grabbing her shins, he forced his release.

  Scota helped him remove her clothes, pulling the tattered shirt off first. Her boots and breeches followed. Next, he quickly removed his clothes and tossed them aside. Her heart nearly stopped at the raw power of him returning between her legs. Veins clearly outlined in muscular arms, he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, a male storm fierce and ready for her. One knee parted her legs, and his large body blanketed hers.

  “Tá tú go h-álainn,” he murmured, his mouth returning to dev
our hers, matching hungers, matching dominances.

  The olden words, you are beautiful, echoed in her mind, knowledge from the Elemental, then evaporated into yearnings. Scota shifted, reaching down firm stomach muscles for his man root. Her fingers grazed the purple tip, only to be caught, held, and prevented. Air escaped her lungs in frustration. He pulled her hands above her head, imprisoning her with greater strength, his relentless mouth moving to her breasts. His tongue swirled, teasing, suckling, driving her beyond madness.

  Gasping, she fought imprisonment, hands aching to lead him to the place of hurtful needs. His root pressed against her cave, and she nearly wept in relief. Again he pressed, hard, insistent. Spreading her legs apart, she tilted her hips.

  Boyden needed no further incentive. Releasing her breast, he poised above her and thrust into moist heat. She jolted under him in a cry of pleasure. He gauged her resistance and released her wrists. Bracing for balance with one hand, he cupped her curvy bottom, lifting her white hips to plunge deeper. Her body clenched hotly around him, and he fought his body’s savage release, his mind tuned to the cries and tension within her. He would make her forget the existence of all other males.

  Scota barely breathed, her nails scoring his shoulders and arms attempting to get closer, his body commanding hers. He thrust relentlessly between her thighs, building tension. Veins pulsed in his neck, and her world narrowed to him. Her body gripped his root with insatiable want and he answered. Deeper and faster his hips moved, answering her calling.

  Tension mounted and expanded.

  She could no longer breathe …

  Light dimmed to her innermost essence, centering in her womb.

  Her mouth opened in a silent cry of ecstasy and agony.

  The air and all that she was went up in flames.

  His body surging, Boyden thrust harder and deeper to the very edge of his control. She stiffened under him, her body strung taut in a female’s provoking release. He continued pumping to keening cries muffled against his forearm, his body reaching for the unbearable explosion, raging, coiling … and … it … came.