“Then invite them to Fair Isle. Knowledge knows no master, knowledge is power!”
As Tulkhan stared into her upturned face, a vision of Fair Isle’s future swamped him. Was it possible to eliminate disease, free the farmer from endless toil, and create an island where the weak did not fear the strong?
She lifted his hands to her breast. “You do see it!”
He flinched.
The Dhamfeer had done it again. She’d reached into his mind and invaded his thoughts. He felt defiled.
Revulsion flooded him. He flung her hands away. Fury goaded him to inflict the same measure of pain on her. Catching her by the upper arms, he shook her, pressing his fingers savagely into her flesh.
“Don’t ever do that again!” he growled. Even as he spoke he registered the confusion in her face. She didn’t understand his anger. A sheen of unshed tears glistened in her eyes and he realized he’d hurt her.
She’d offered him a vision of the future and he’d thrown it aside. Damn her!
Damn her beautiful, trembling mouth.
He had to kiss her. It made no sense. He ignored the small sensible part of his brain which warned him not to give in. One kiss would never be enough. Instead of heeding common sense he let the need which had been steadily building within his body, guide his actions.
He caught her to him, capturing her lips with his.
She tasted so good. Her skin was soft, her mouth hot. The curves of her slender body pressed against his. He felt her quicken under his touch and recognized her raw and uninhibited reaction. Her ragged breath fanned his face, her hands caught his neck as she strained against him. She was an innocent wanton. The thought inflamed him.
Drunk on sensation, he felt like laughing till he heard a silken whisper in his mind. Tulkhan registered her unspoken plea for more. He froze. She’d done it again—she’d invaded his mind!
He broke the contact abruptly, thrusting her aside. As he pulled back he noted her flushed face, her lips swollen by his kisses.
“Get on your horse, Dhamfeer!” But his hands held her close, pressed to his body, thigh to thigh.
She blinked. He realized that she didn’t understand his abrupt change. Was it possible that she didn’t even know she was doing it? Were her abilities intuitive, rather than controlled? The analytical part of Tulkhan’s mind put this thought aside for future consideration.
A ragged cheer broke from the Elite Guard. It surprised Tulkhan. Their embrace must have appeared spontaneous and passionate to his men, who were too far away to have caught the undertones.
He met Imoshen’s eyes, saw her cheeks flush.
Sliding his arm around her shoulder, Tulkhan turned her to face the men, who cheered again. He felt the first stirring of resistance and when Imoshen would have shrugged free of him, he tightened his grip.
Still grinning, he hissed, “Never disappoint your people, Imoshen! Didn’t they teach you anything?”
She turned into his embrace and caught his face in her hands. “More than you think, General.”
This time when she kissed him the unexpectedness of it ignited his passion, bypassing all logic. His body was ready for hers.
Then snap, her teeth closed painfully on his bottom lip before she pulled back, Dhamfeer eyes alight. Stunned, he released her.
Laughing, she jumped lightly to the ground and freed her mount’s reins.
Tulkhan tasted his own blood on his tongue. The pain was nothing, but the challenge baited him. Damn her vow of celibacy. He would have her, and she would beg him for more!
They rode into Landsend as the sun set. Tulkhan had timed it perfectly for the sun gilded their polished armor and weapons. A curious populace escorted them up the winding rise to the Abbey, cheering. It appeared the purpose of their visit was already known. Good news traveled fast.
Though the Dhamfeer was his captive, she was greeted with honor, almost reverence, by the Abbey scholars, reminding Tulkhan forcibly that Imoshen was the last of the T’En.
The Abbey leader, the Seculate, was a woman who wielded the power of her office with quiet authority. Again, he was reminded of Fair Isle’s differences. In Gheeaba a woman would never have commanded a man, yet here the male priests not only listened attentively to the Seculate’s every word but they scurried to do her bidding.
The troops were housed in the township itself, only the Elite Guard were quartered within the Abbey. Tulkhan remained outwardly impassive, but he was on edge. If she planned treachery, the Seculate could have them all murdered in their sleep and leave his men leaderless.
Yet the more he saw of these people the more he was impressed by their culture, their architecture and by their reverence for knowledge. Their meal was simple but delicious and they were entertained in the courtyard by music and obscure plays which he found hard to follow. He would have much preferred to follow Imoshen when she withdrew with her maidservant.
The sounds of revelry drifted up the stairwell as Imoshen and Kalleen made their way to their chamber.
Imoshen noticed how Kalleen tilted her head to catch the noises from the courtyard. She realized the poor girl would rather be out there joining in the fun than helping prepare a bath, so she dismissed her. Kalleen didn’t need to be told twice.
In the bath chamber Imoshen stripped.
Ha, she thought, let Tulkhan pretend to be unimpressed by hot running water! Even she was impressed. The Stronghold did not indulge in such luxuries. For the first time she wondered why the church, devoted to serving the T’En, should allow its members this kind of luxury. A niggling worm of disquiet troubled her. The Aayel’s talk of the Beatific returned to Imoshen.
But the Beatific was far away in T’Diemn and she was here in Landsend.
Imoshen sank into the water, reveling in its heat. She washed her hair with scented soap. It was a luxury to be clean. After delaying as long as she could she climbed out and dried herself.
Taking her time, she inspected the bruises caused by her fall when Tulkhan tackled her. Her heart still thudded when she recalled how her life had hung in the balance.
Yet, for a moment when they looked out over Landsend she’d felt he shared her vision. She’d seen the leap of understanding in his eyes. Then he had thrust her aside. Just when she thought there was something more to him, he had proved her wrong.
As for that kiss!
Her lips tingled and her body thrummed with the memory. She had to admit he had moved her, but the man was such an odd mixture of scholar and barbarian! He could learn a country’s language before invading it, then be forced to cloak his surprise when he saw the Abbey Seculate was a woman.
What must he think of her!
Imoshen stalked from the mosaic-tiled bathing room into her chamber. Tightening the drawstring of her nightgown under her breasts, she knelt in front of the fire, enjoying its warmth. Methodically, she spread her hair over her fingers to dry it.
She would not think about him.
Yet, the General had withstood the effects of that ancient evil. He’d pretended scorn after their encounter but she sensed he’d been unnerved, even a little frightened by what he’d experienced. She had been truly afraid for a moment, afraid that he would attack her, that she would have to fight for her life and it wouldn’t have been him she was fighting. Imoshen tried not to dwell on her strange reluctance to hurt him.
Somehow Tulkhan had found the strength of will to throw off the ancient power’s domination. Her hands slowed as she finger-combed her hair. She could tell he disliked being out of control. He was truly a man of rational thought, a man ahead of his time, ahead of his own people. Not that he wasn’t a barbarian, she amended, then grinned, aware of her twisted logic.
The Aayel had said he was a man trapped by his own culture. The General could barely believe her great-aunt was a threat to him. From what she had overheard, Imoshen knew the Ghebite religion regarded the “Dhamfeer” as less than human. Though Tulkhan was a contradiction, a soldier who strove to learn he was still a pro
duct of his upbringing. He would have been taught to despise the T’En and their innate powers, that must be why he feared her. Imoshen frowned.
She was still his captive, for all that the Seculate had presented her with this room and had asked her to perform the ceremony over the meal tonight.
Yet Tulkhan feared her?
She shook her head wearily. Too much had happened.
The fire was warm and she spread her hair to dry, running her fingers through the thick waves which hung past her waist. She wouldn’t think about him again.
Perversely, her mind presented her with a picture of General Tulkhan watching her during the meal tonight. Twice she had caught him staring, his gaze calculating, weighing. She knew he didn’t trust her, she was too well liked by the people. Her life hung by a thread. Imoshen shivered, despite the fire. Yet, the desire in Tulkhan’s eyes had been real enough tonight. There had been no mistaking his intention when he kissed her.
A soft click made Imoshen turn. Her heart thudded uneasily in her chest. As she scanned the room, she saw a panel beside the fireplace eased slowly apart.
Light-footed, she darted over to the traveling bag and drew out her knife as the panel opened. A figure stood in the darkness of the secret passage.
Imoshen lifted the knife, prepared to use it. Should she throw and risk missing a fatal blow or wait till she could aim for the attacker’s heart?
A soft chuckle made her skin prickle.
Reothe stepped into the dim glow of the firelight. He was dressed in battle gear but had discarded his armor, leaving only leggings and chest leather. His slender, sinewy arms were bare and his narrow, intelligent face watched her closely. The fine silver tendrils of his hair glistened in the firelight as he moved toward her, one side of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile.
“If you mean to use that knife throw it now, because I’ll disarm you if you let me get within arm’s length,” he warned.
“This knife isn’t for you.” She found his assurance annoying, but her body reacted to him as it had once before. What was it about him that made her heart race and her head swim?
She let the knife point drop with an odd reluctance and he smiled, his eyes brilliant pools in his pale face.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me? Did you guess I’d survived?”
“Hardly. General Tulkhan—”
“Tulkhan? That northern usurper?” His harsh tone made her wince. Suddenly he stepped nearer, still not touching her, but close enough for his breath to stir the fine hairs on her forehead. “I’ve been thinking of you. Imagining you. We would have been bonded this spring if the Ghebites hadn’t invaded. Now I’m a renegade, my estates forfeited and you’re a captive—but I’ve come for you.”
Imoshen swallowed, trying to concentrate. His scent was achingly familiar, reminding her of the day they took the oath of betrothal—how his eyes had consumed her, how he had promised to bond to her and no other.
Reothe represented her people, her loyalty was to him and her family, her land. Wasn’t it?
He lifted one long hand and pulled undone the drawstring at her throat so that the neck of her garment loosened and slid over her shoulders to hang below her breasts, where the second drawstring held it in place. She heard his sharp intake of breath and felt her skin tighten. Her nipples hardened under his gaze. A wanton heat suffused her, confused her.
When he spoke his voice was deeper, thicker. “I’ve lain awake in the fields, hidden in caves and imagined you like this, imagined claiming you. You gave your word and I gave mine. I’ve come for you.”
“What, now?”
“Now! You must come away with me. I’ll take you south. I have followers who are loyal, contacts in the southern kingdoms who will help me raise an army as well as friends on the islands of the archipelago. Come spring we can return to retake our island. We’ll drive these Ghebite barbarians out!”
Imoshen’s head swam. She hadn’t considered raising an army of mercenaries. Was it possible to retake their land, to fight at Reothe’s side?
He snatched her hand and took the knife. Lifting its sharp blade to his lips he kissed it.
Imoshen swallowed. No, he couldn’t mean to make a formal bond here and now.
“With my blood,” he breathed and slit his left wrist, the one nearest his heart. “I vow to bond only unto you, Imoshen of the T’En.”
She stared dumbfounded as the blood oozed from the cut, gathering momentum. He lifted her left hand. Suddenly she knew she didn’t want this.
“No.”
“Yes.” His voice was implacable. “I made a promise to your family, to you.”
She gasped as the blade cut through the flesh of her left wrist and he pressed the two wounds together.
“By the joining of our blood, by the breath in my body, I cleave to you.” His fierce eyes held hers. He gave their bonded wrists a little shake. “Say it. Say the vow. I have a boat waiting in a hidden cove below. We can escape through the passage to the sea—”
“I can’t do it!” The words were torn from her.
“Why not?”
“I can’t leave them now.” Imoshen felt a rush of heat take her as she thought not of the people who trusted her but of General Tulkhan as he listened so intently to her language lessons. “If I go now the people will think me false. They will revolt and the Ghebites will turn on them. The harvest will fail, blood will stain the fields and starvation will stalk the snows. Better I stay and be the General’s prisoner, a guarantee of their behavior, than leave them to their fate.”
“Farmers?” he repeated incredulously. “I’m offering you a chance to retake our lands, to drive the Ghebite General and his army out.”
“More fighting, more bloodshed and what will the people eat? Will you war till not a house stands, till weeds cover the fields because no one is left to plow them? No!” She wrenched her wrist away and grasped it to stop the flow of blood. She needed to bind it and take something against the poisons getting into her system.
“We made a vow.”
“In another world. When my family lived and—”
He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her off her feet, so that she felt his hard thighs against hers and how much he wanted her.
“I made a vow,” he ground out. “I don’t go back on my word, Imoshen.”
“I can’t do it. I pledged my word to the General, the people trust me, they depend on me.”
“Your word to General Tulkhan?” He gave an odd, strangled laugh. “What is the word of a captive? What choice did you have? You aren’t bound by it. Our vow stands true, it is of an older making.”
She watched the blood from her wrist trickle down across the muscle of his shoulder so that it appeared he was bleeding. He was probably staining her gown. Her breasts pressed against the leather of his jerkin and she could smell his unique male scent. Her head spun with an intoxicating passion. What was it about Reothe that called to her? Was it because he was one of her own kind?
His voice changed, softened. “You want me, don’t deny it. Come away with me now.”
Before she knew he meant to, he lowered his head and inhaled her scent, a ragged groan escaped him. His involuntary moan made her body shudder, then his lips were on hers and it was like the other time in the woods, only this time she was as good as naked with nothing but a thin gown fixed under her breasts. He did not restrain himself, he devoured her.
Did he hope the force of his passion would convince her, obliterate all but his will?
His passion frightened her, ignited her. His scent was so familiar, all the things she had learned about him before returned as if some deep inner truth were being confirmed.
“Imoshen,” he breathed her name, his lips on hers. “You can’t stay here.”
“I can’t leave my people.” This time it was a plea for understanding. “They need me.”
He uttered a groan and let her weight slide down his body till her toes touched the ground, then he released her and stepped b
ack. She could see what it cost him to maintain his control. Right at this moment her body raged against her mind.
“You have a hard head, Imoshen.”
“I must—”
“What about your heart? The honor of your family?”
“I . . .” she swallowed. “Practicality guides me. Honor is useless if you’re dead and . . . and I have no heart.”
He nearly laughed. “A lie. Very well. I will come again.”
“No! They’ll catch you and kill you!”
This time he did laugh. “I’m going now, but I’ll be back—and next time I’ll claim you and take you with me!”
He caught her wrist and pressed it against his, reaffirming the bond. His eyes held hers.
Imoshen felt her body yearn for him, but she refused to succumb to the power of his will. “I haven’t taken the vow.”
“I have. I knew you were meant for me when I saw you in the palace. Then when I came to the Stronghold last autumn I felt it in my body and you did too.”
“No, no I—”
“Don’t bother to deny it.” He lifted her wrist to his mouth and she thought he was going to kiss her wound, but he closed his eyes. “Seal flesh.”
Then ran his tongue across the torn flesh.
A flash of heat stung her and she snatched her hand from his. There was a new pale pink scar on the fine white skin of her inner wrist where the wound had been.
She gasped. “How did you do that?”
His wine-dark eyes which were so like hers, held her gaze. “There’s much I could teach you. We’re the last of our kind, we can’t let our line die out, we can’t let the knowledge and the gifts die with us.”
He lifted his own wrist and held it to her face. “Heal me.”
“I ... I can’t—”
“Nonsense. You can do it. Heal me.”
Tentatively she caught his hand, feeling the bones, the strength in him. She turned his wrist to her mouth and touched the tip of her tongue to his wound, tasting his blood as she drew along the torn skin. In her mind’s eye she saw the skin closing, sealing. When she looked again, a fine pale scar closed his bonding-wound.
Broken Vows Page 10
