Biondine, Shannah

by Shadow in Starlight(lit)

  You chose badly, Lady Warmonger. Waniands do not love.

  Could Preece do something so barbaric to her?

  "Glaryd, I understand now why you detest the royal castle. Had you told me, I would have - "

  "Wanted to leave that night or confront the king with what you knew," Glaryd interrupted. "Either would have caused you grief beyond your imaginings. I know him far better than you ever will. Dugan told me the plan has changed. Preece means to take you far away, outside Cronel's reach."

  "To Ataraxia. You remember Father spoke of it? 'Tis an island realm in the warm, tropic seas many leagues to the east."

  Glaryd nodded. "We must all go, and make haste, for if Cronel finds out you have betrayed him with this Waniand, he will have you slain, Moreya Fa. Do not doubt it. And cruelly misused beforehand until death comes as a mercy."

  The mention of her husband's race brought back the dark question hovering in Moreya's mind. "Have you ever known anyone lifemated to a Waniand? Lockram says I erred, that Waniands do not love. Indeed, Preece has said there is no equivalent term in his native tongue for the concept of cherishing one another as we do."

  "So that's the bone you're gnawing." Glaryd assisted Moreya in drying her long tresses and donning a clean kirtle. "Do not trouble yourself overmuch. Many husbands of every color and kind do not love. If he does not mistreat you, if he provides and protects, that is all you can hope for."

  "Oh." The maid must have heard the disappointment in Moreya's tone, mayhap even sensed it connected to her own years of loving Anthaal in vain.

  "Some change over time. I had no plan to ever give a boar's snout about that bastard in Glacia, yet I came to care, despite all my efforts to keep from it. That was the cruelest cut of all, Moreya."

  "You loved Cronel? But I thought 'twas my f - "

  "Your father, too. In a different way. The only way left to me, as a dear and true noble friend. I have loved twice and ever lost. Guard your heart, child." She shuffled to the chamber door, then turned with a wry, sad smile. "Hardly that any longer, are you? Or we'd not have spoken thus. Luncheon awaits you, milady, as does your new husband."

  By the time Moreya ventured down the stairs, Tivershem had begun serving the midday meal. Several tavern patrons ate noisily at the crude tables dotting the taproom, but Preece and his knights were nowhere to be seen. When Moreya inquired about them, she was told they'd gone out for weapons practice and to await Sieffre's return. Moreya next sought Brother Fense and was disappointed to learn he'd departed hours before.

  Her new husband burst in the tavern door. "Is my lady still - ? Moreya." He crossed to where she stood, tucked her arm through his, and led her to a table off to one side. "You are well?"

  She nodded, her mind swirling with a dozen unasked questions she did not dare put into words. His tunic was damp. "You're sodden. You went out for arms practice in the rain?"

  "It had stopped at daybreak. I'd hope we could depart today, but it's yet too muddy to make any distance and now the skies weep again. We'll be here another night."

  "Sieffre made it back safely, I trust. How's his shoulder?"

  Preece turned his attention to the meat and cheese Tivershem's serving wench placed before them. "Haven't seen him yet. This accursed storm must have delayed him. But the monk's gone, so Sieffre can have his chamber when he returns. I did not send him a great distance. I'm sure he'll make it afore dusk."

  But he didn't, and Moreya couldn't help but notice Preece seemed anxious. Distracted. He barely ate any of his supper and drank deeply of the wine Tivershem offered. Of course, Dugan and Lockram soaked up quite a few draughts, as well. Moreya noted Lockram and Preece seemed to keep apace of one another and she overheard talk that they'd crossed swords in the stable yard that day.

  So at least part of their comradeship had been restored. Indeed, when Preece announced quietly that she was to retire with him abovestairs, he also turned to Lockram. "Summon me if Sieffre comes, whatever the hour."

  "Do you fear something's happened to Sieffre?" Moreya asked as they reached the upper hall. "You seemed distracted."

  "By more than Sieffre's whereabouts," Preece admitted as he slid the bolt home on his chamber door behind them. "We are not yet lifemates. I am...unsettled by this. Being joined in your way, but not in mine own."

  Moreya took a slight step back. A shuffle only, but he noticed. "You fear me? What happened to yestereve's trust?"

  She never intended to, knew it was a breach of confidence, suspected it was unwise to reveal so much, and yet couldn't stop herself from blurting out Glaryd's horrific tale of abuse and female castration.

  Preece paced the length of the chamber as she digressed, slowing and coming to face her only when Moreya had run out of words and begun to breathe too quickly and shallowly. She'd made herself overset and then some.

  "This is indeed most unfortunate. That such occurred to a woman you value. I believe the tale, for I've heard foul whispers of such activities in the bastard's keep. But her timing, in revealing aught now, has only frightened you as it relates to the carnal behavior of women and men. This is why you are chary this eve."

  "How can I help but be?" Moreya demanded. "Lockram says your kind cannot love."

  "We have no concept like that of which your poets and minstrels speak," Preece agreed, squatting before her to take her hands in his. "Meseems that is but a flight of fancy, a sweven, to credit that one's heart can leave the corporeal body and be given unto another's keeping. Such is not Waniand."

  "There is no caring, even within a family? What of your own parents, did they not love and protect you?"

  "They were slain when I was yet a lad. I had no elders of my kind to teach me the ways of my bloodline. I lived with the mage, Bourke, enchanter of bat amulets."

  Moreya managed a tiny smile. Preece's manner softened. "He had ancient scrolls and texts with Waniand lore. However, the texts do not address the matter of lifemating outside our own race. I know many of the remaining Waniands in Glacia and other Known Realms interbred, which is why I am so detested. I am trueblooded, which is now rare. And hated on sight - which is not."

  Despite her misgivings, Moreya reached out to caress the side of his face. His ruggedly handsome face. "You know I do not share that prejudice."

  "And though I do not share this understanding of the love you spoke of, I assure you it is unfair to believe we do not care about kin." He dropped her hand and rose to his feet. "I am trueblooded, a direct descendant of the great man-bear of the far northern climes. Like a bear, I have a strong will to survive, to mate, to fight and protect, to assure Waniand blood remains strong for the future."

  "A bear?" Moreya choked out. She'd dismissed the half-beast ranting long ago, told herself it had all been distortion and bigoted lies. Now he'd just proclaimed himself some distant relation to a huge animal. "Do you hibernate a portion of the year?"

  "Nay, that was bred out of our kind centuries ago." When he realized she stared at him with something akin to repulsion, he waved his hands in front of his body and speared her with a challenging look. "Am I not the same man who melded his flesh with yours last eve? Did you not waken this morn in my bed, sit at my side as we broke bread at noontide and nightfall? What has changed?"

  Nothing.

  He was right. Nothing had truly changed, except she'd been fed too much dark knowledge too fast by those around her, who'd obviously sheltered her afore now. Afore her marriage and ascension into this...misery.

  "Everything has changed," she snapped peevishly. "I am maiden no longer. One of our men is missing. My trusted servant has withheld the truth of her past for years, and my husband has just announced he is ursine."

  "Ah, and you are upended by the discovery. As I was to find the woman entrusted into my care - who'd entered my chambers uninvited, kissed me, proclaimed me handsome, and tried to use her own bewitching beauty to bribe me - was also a beacon for firedrakes. Adjust your wits to encompass the truth. I had to."

  With that, he
stalked out of the chamber, leaving Moreya alone.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Preece lay rigid on the bed with Moreya asleep a mere foot away from him.

  He'd stalked out of his chamber in righteous choler over her words, over his own stupidity in thinking she'd accept what he revealed about his Waniand trueblood roots without qualm or distaste. He should have known better. Particularly as her maid had chosen the day after Moreya's introduction to bedding to reveal such a foul and terrifying secret.

  What female would not be afraid of the man she'd let sheathe himself within her after being told such an awful history?

  He understood that Moreya was overwrought. He'd tried to speak calmly and slowly, yet somehow everything had come out wrong and only added to her distress and distrust.

  And reading it in her eyes was more than he could stomach.

  So he'd sulked, visited his tahr, had a tankard or two with Lockram and poured Dugan into bed, then given up the pretense of avoidance and returned to his chamber.

  At least Moreya hadn't bolted his door.

  But now, lying nude beside her, wanting her to understand and interact with him in unspeakable ways...necessary ways...ah, this was torture, worse than that he'd suffered in a Krymore dungeon. At least when he'd been a war prisoner, he'd known his comrades might save him.

  Now only one person could stop the torment, and he'd no assurance that easing his burning lust would soon be part of her plans.

  He was fully in rut. The scent of her fear and the underlying sexual desire she'd tried to cloak had driven him beyond his ability to control his rising blood.

  His skin was clammy, his manhood rigid and ready, his sac heavy and aching with the need to empty his seed. He should have anticipated his cycle might arrive early - after all, he'd been aroused enough to mount Moreya the eve before. He'd been partially bestirred all day remembering their coitus. Weapons practice and a long run in the sleeting rain hadn't eased the mounting heat in his loins. But he'd embraced it, planning that this night he would perform the ritual.

  Yet he could not unless Moreya gave a sign of willingness.

  A warrior did not impress his lifemate into the union. To do so - to commit rape, whereby a male forced his rod into an unwilling female - was condemned by Waniand code. He had never taken any female against her will, even during past ruts, when he'd copulated like a dog with any bitch who bent over before him.

  They showed him their buttocks and damp slits eagerly enough. He had never coerced or brutally demanded coitus with them.

  And willingness was more crucial now, for he'd not been entirely forthright in his explanations thus far to Moreya. While the written records of his ancient race did not directly instruct or address the matter of mating with other humans, Bourke had verbally cautioned him that females not of Waniand blood themselves sometimes balked in the end and refused to complete the ritual.

  No fruit usually resulted from such unions. And in some instances, a terrible sickness had taken root instead. In order to live and procreate united with Moreya in his ways, she must embrace him and all that he was: warrior, bear-male, protector, implanter of get. She must desire his flesh, seek to know his mind, meld with his soul, willingly draw his blood.

  Moreya abruptly rolled over and tossed an arm across his belly. His cock leapt up and thumped back against him; Preece groaned aloud in misery.

  Her arm was like a hot brand searing already livid, quivering flesh.

  "Moreya, move over. Do not touch me. I am...unwell."

  She stirred, pressed the flat of her palm over his navel and jerked upright, tearing the covers away. "For pity's sake, you're burning with fever! Why did you not awaken me if you were ill? I'll fetch Glaryd and have her bring a basin and cloth."

  "Nay! It won't help. Not ill, as you know it. In rut."

  She scrambled from the bed and threw open the casement window. Preece closed his eyes as a damp coolness swept over his naked flesh. It assuaged his agony some. But not enough.

  He gritted his teeth. "I was uncharitable earlier this eve. I should not have spoken thus when you were obviously distressed. I frightened you. Mayhap even now, even worse. I am a beast. Here is your proof."

  He knew what he looked like: every muscle tensed, his manhood straining, sac nigh to bursting with fullness, eyes wild.

  "Nay, you are still the Warmonger, expecting hate and derision so much you defend even before attacked. I was...disconcerted." She returned to the bed, reaching out to lay both palms against his bare chest. His nipples instantly beaded, his cock burned all the worse, but he forced himself to remain absolutely still.

  Everything depended upon what she said and did next.

  He held his breath.

  She began to slowly rub his flesh, easing the cramping in his upper abdomen, working her way lower, until the fiercely tight band gripping his belly began to release its vicious hold.

  Preece was too stunned to move now.

  He'd suffered through occasional bouts like this, when his season had befallen him whilst in some remote barren locale, with no females nearby to ease his loins. At such times, he'd stiffened like a fool with the sinew-stretching disease. His body had drawn tight as a bowstring and there was no salvation except to bring himself to climax with his hands.

  He had never known female hands, for as soon as he sniffed out an available wench, he'd quickly divested her of her garments and set to mindlessly thrusting within her. So he'd never yet discovered this strange sensation of warmth and uncoiling. Of still being ready, yet being able to abide and enjoy the caress of fingers stroking his flesh.

  As he'd stroked hers the night before.

  As if her concern for his ailment had pushed chary fears from her mind. He glanced up at Moreya's face. She frowned slightly, worked his belly with longer, wider strokes, until he could not hold back deep growls of sensual enjoyment. "This is better?"

  Satan's own prick, how could he explain how very much better? The terrible fear and anguish were gone. She still found him easy to gaze upon. She willingly caressed his body. It was the sign he'd desperately needed. He wanted to weep with relief, to seize her in his grasp and roll her onto her hands and knees, rut until daybreak and beyond.

  Instead he opened his eyes and spoke to her soul.

  "You must not fear me again, Moreya. Ever. To cause harm to befall one's lifemate is the ultimate betrayal of our code. Always I must place your life and welfare, and that of our future children, above mine own. You must be willing to defend me just as fiercely. You must want me like this - " he gestured toward his erect and pulsing cock, "beyond rational thought, with bone and heartbeat and breath."

  "Aye." It was the tiniest whisper, and the room was dark but for the faint glow Preece ever detected around her. He stared into her eyes. Had he never really looked deeply into them before, never noticed the loneliness in their purple depths, never read the secret longing there? She felt profoundly alone, unique because of the dragons - a cruelty had it been, to harshly remind her of them - and she reached out, pleading for communion with a human who forgave and understood. Who accepted.

  As did he.

  She needed the very union he alone could give her.

  He gathered her into his arms and exhaled sharply as she eagerly puddled over and around him, enmeshing him in her arms and long tresses. "Moreya, hearken," he breathed into her ear. "Lifemates are bound closer than husbands and wives. We will be one in flesh, one in spirit, two halves of a fearsome whole that can surmount any obstacle, face any challenge. Cowls and dragons will not matter. The world beyond that door does not matter."

  He knew she'd begun to silently weep. He also sensed it was not out of fear or pain, but liberation. "Mate with me. Repeat the words I tell you now as you taste of me, and again as I take you. Tell me this is what you want, to mate with me."

  It was what she wanted, Moreya realized with a shock.

  Somehow, lying there naked and suffering, his limited words and t
he expression in his eyes had given her the reassurance she needed. The bond he spoke of truly was forever, with no legal dissolution or nullification possible. He would never look upon some newcomer with lust and cast Moreya aside. He would join his fierce strength and protectiveness with her, tempering her penchant for speaking too boldly, unleashing her need to act out passionate desires and challenge her natural curiosity.

  They had been very good together last night. It was the fear she might lose that, never taste of it again, that had most distressed her. To lose Preece after knowing him so intimately, after coming apart between his strong hands, after soaring aloft to heights beyond any dragon's lair - she could not have borne that.

  "I want to mate with you."

  He shifted on the mattress, guided her around to kneel in front of him. Then she was on all fours, gasping as his tongue trailed wetly over her left buttock. One powerful arm crossed under her stomach, anchoring her. The other hand cupped one of her breasts, kneaded and teased, and Moreya could feel his shaft sliding along the length of her cleft, taunting her.

  She moaned as he guided her to open, to arch back, to beg him to fill her.

  Then he did, and Moreya would have shattered if he hadn't anchored her in place with that sword arm of his.

  The ecstasy was immediate, gratifying yet spiraling, burgeoning, expanding until she imagined their combined need encompassed the heavens and all its sparkling stars. She rocked, he moaned. He grunted and thrust, she sobbed and writhed. She whimpered and keened until she feared she'd wake the sleeping dragons and one might attempt to fly in their open chamber window.

  Then he spilled himself within her.

  She repeated his sacred name, the sacred words he'd given her, whose meaning she did not know. He withdrew, still throbbing, still fully in rut, and commanded her to remain as she was.

  Prostrate and benumbed.

  He rummaged in his pack and padded back to the bed with his razor in his hand. "Place your left hand atop mine," he whispered. "You must guide my stroke, for I am forbidden to look. Trust is everything. You may slay me, do you misguide the blade. But you will not. You will only slice me, the barest cut. And then catch a droplet of my blood upon your tongue."