Biondine, Shannah

by Shadow in Starlight(lit)

  She accepted the cup, set her lips where his had been, and drained the last of the wine. Preece bit his lower lip to keep from gasping his relief and sexual excitement. She would make his dream real.

  And he could not make himself admit it, could not find words to describe to her fully how imperative that had become to him. For reasons he did not understand.

  Waniands were sexual beings. Their rutting frenzies were well known and feared, if misunderstood. A Waniand warrior with an erection was considered by anyone a fearsome sight, for never were Waniands closer to their primal animalistic roots than at such times.

  Yet they lacked the finesse, the interplay and courtship other races were capable of and engaged in with regularity.

  It was the hot rut that made other humans fear them.

  It was the cool delight Waniands needed to understand and assimilate.

  Moreya could give him both within the constancy of their lifemate bond.

  He stretched out full length upon the bench and reached for a loop of her shiny hair. Moreya slowly knelt and began using the strand to constrict his flesh.

  Preece gripped the sides of the padded couch so hard his knuckles went white.

  Whatever he'd expected, this searing white-hot fire was beyond his weening desire. He groaned aloud, repeatedly, without shame or hesitation, letting the last dark memories of his torture and reconstruction play through his mind at long last. Every ounce of pain and agony, every flickering tremor of arousal and sensual bliss.

  The slick travail of Moreya's tongue sent flames licking along his naked shaft. She became scourge and whip, oppressor and fiendish purple demon in truth. He labored to breathe, gulping at the warm air of their bathing chamber as if he'd just come from the battlefield.

  Strange words whispered in the back of his mind and abruptly Preece relaxed. This was what he'd asked for, longed for. She was his lifemate, his wife. She held his very maleness in her hands and took him deep within her mouth. To give him extreme pleasure.

  Because the purple demon he'd been fascinated by and so feared was human and frail. She was solace and hope. Need created and fulfilled. She cherished him.

  He understood as he had not when he'd wed her, even when he'd first taken her. She truly cherished his flesh, his life, his soul. He had only to accept it.

  He saw himself alone on a high rocky peak, saw his arms open, and saw himself go spinning downward into a dark, seemingly bottomless abyss even as he felt the throes of ecstasy overtake the nerves of his body.

  He cried out and thrashed, twisted, pleaded for mercy.

  Still Moreya kept his manhood trapped in the warmth of her lips, forced him to endure the powerful stroking and suction of her tongue, and he could do nothing but lie there helplessly. Stunned.

  At length she released him and began to unwind the bright tress she'd used as a ligature.

  He had to mount her. He would go mad if he did not.

  And the bench was designed for the Waniand preference. He could simply bend her forward over the projection and thrust himself into her. This was the way of his people, the way of the man-bears for centuries.

  But he drew Moreya to where he lay, still supine, and thrust himself up inside her while she crouched above him with her knees bent. "I am not like the others," he panted, guiding her hips with his hands. "I cannot be like them. Will not. I could not rule. I am Waniand, yet still do not feel one of my own kind. Help me."

  "Stop fighting, Kaelan."

  Could the answer be so very simple? He wrapped his arms around her torso, pulling her down onto his chest as he surged upward, straining against her hot, sheathing flesh. He watched the joy billow and swell in the depths of her violet eyes. She had always held the answer locked away inside her soul. Mayhap he'd known the answer all along, but been afraid to look hard enough to see it.

  Stop fighting.

  They wrestled as one in the way of impassioned lovers, rolling, competing for supremacy, surrendering, then vying once more until they both let the pleasure sweep them into the next dark abyss.

  A long while later, he carried her back to his bed and took pleasure with her once more. They dozed, awakened in wonder, explored, and finally lay completely spent, listening to the crackle of the wood in his bedchamber brazier and the low thudding of one another's hearts.

  "You are different now, Kaelan. The tenacity and grimness is . . ."

  "Gone?" His question was a low rumble that seemed overloud in the chamber. Preece realized it had been hours since he'd spoken a single intelligible word. "You knew all along, methinks. Why did you not tell me from the first?"

  "Like the firedrakes? Some miracles must be witnessed. Lived. They cannot be explained. They cannot be drawn with ink and parchment or parabled beside a fire until repetition makes them valid. I had feared you might never understand."

  They both had become cognizant in a myriad of ways this day. Beyond what she said, Preece knew she had a need for him to put it into words. Words that had the power granted them by her people, her ways. "I love you, Moreya."

  "I have known it since you crashed through the door of the solar," she whispered, snuggling close to him. "But it pleases me that you have said so, for Waniands do not tell lies."

  He could not help himself. By Satan's horns, he had to laugh out loud.

  "There is another you love, as well," she whispered, pressing a tender kiss to the underside of his throat. "The most unlovable, unworthy of men. Yet always have I borne him great affection and devotion, and it pleases me you have decided to join the ranks of the devoted. The Warmonger is a most honorable, fierce, staunchly loyal fellow. You simply must look beneath his dark cowl. His soul is not black, you see, but shining, like molten silver."

  He lost the Glacian words. His mind just refused to sort them and assemble them into logical strings he could rattle off his tongue. The Waniand phrases and words came, so he used them. He told her of his childhood, of the day his parents were slain, of his loneliness in Ataraxia, how he'd saved a child and been honored with a banquet. How he'd met Taroch.

  She fell asleep at some point in his long tale, but he took no offense. She fathomed most of it whether she comprehended his foreign speech or not. She slumbered in his arms, warm and faintly evanescing, and again he marveled that he should call this female his own. Marveled at what had passed between them and the strange prophecy that had led him to this place and time.

  At length he reflected on his surrender that day.

  He felt no shame, no anger, no hurt or misgivings of any kind. Always he'd felt apart from Bevan and Taroch and the others. Like them, yet never truly one with them. He'd naturally supposed it was due to the long separation. The others had been raised together from childhood; he'd been misplaced and shunned for his bloodline.

  Yet he knew now it was not that, but something else which had kept him so fierce and surly. He was just as strong, just as talented as ever with a sword or shield, outwardly no different than the Warmonger they all knew. Only Moreya knew that the true tournament had been held on a tupping couch that afternoon. He had been challenged and met that challenge.

  He had both won and lost.

  And in defeat found his greatest triumph.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Vulpina sent one of her kirtles to Preece's chamber with a serving maid, who insisted on helping Moreya try the gown on while she adjusted the fit. "The queen says we have many guests in the great hall. It would not do, to have the chancellor's mate appear in male clothing or ill-fitting female garb."

  The gown the queen had chosen was gilt-trimmed, shiny satin in a greenish-blue summery shade. The hue clashed against Moreya's hair. She frowned, then braided her tresses into a long single plait and wound into a coil atop her head. She'd just secured it with the maid's assistance when Preece entered the sitting room.

  Her husband had donned his long chancellor's robe.

  He stood so proudly tall and regal before her, Moreya could scarce
ly credit this was the very same man who'd nakedly offered himself like an imprisoned slave just hours before. But he had, and just the memory of her power over his flesh and feelings, the melding of their desires and thoughts, made Moreya's breasts tingle anew.

  She met Preece's blue gaze and held it. A silent affirmation passed between them. They'd crossed a threshold; tasted new pleasure, finding with it a bittersweet remorse; forged yet another link in their lifetime bond.

  This night Moreya would appear publicly at Preece's side for the first time and forge another: the public persona of the lord high chancellor's lady.

  Her hand on Preece's arm, they strode confidently into the great hall just as the tables were being laid with the evening feast. Moreya hesitated, uncertain what response her presence would bring. The last time some of these noble guests had seen her, she'd been stalking onto the tournament lists with a dragon behind her. She had never deliberately caused a public display of her unique "talent" afore and could only recall the times in her past when her father had berated her. When he'd hidden her away in mortification after firedrakes appeared above her.

  What must these people think?

  But as she and Preece stepped onto the dais, she heard only the scraping of benches and chairs. The gathering had fallen oddly silent. She glanced about quickly and discovered every nobleman in the hall had risen to his feet. With their wives or courtesans beside them dropping into deep curtsies, the men bowed toward her. In obeisance, she was stunned to realize.

  She glanced up at Preece, who nodded solemnly. He reached for the full chalice of ale before him and hoisted it symbolically as he spoke.

  "I present my wife and lifemate, Moreya. Formerly of the House of Anthaal Fa, trusted ambassador to the Glacian crown. To the Lady Moreya Preece."

  She nearly gasped aloud. Even as the words had registered in her mind, she'd seen the startled looks on several Waniand faces.

  Their kind did not recognize matrimony, nor did female mates of Waniand warriors change their names to that of their lifemate's clan. For Preece to boldly announce her birthright and attach his surname to her given one was tantamount to commanding those present to acknowledge her marriage to Preece as superseding their Waniand lifemated bond.

  The king, charming as usual, stepped into the breach. Taroch cleared his throat and raised his own cup in toast.

  "My cousin was fortunate enough to win himself a Yune beauty. How the Warmonger accomplished such a feat still remains a mystery, but as he also secured the bejeweled crown I so proudly wear, I've no quarrel with the methods of my Royal Blade."

  A ripple of benedictions swept the hall, then the king commanded everyone to be seated and the feasting to begin. Moreya noticed the wary looks a few servants gave her husband. From the tone of conversations as they supped, Moreya realized several of the nobles at court respected Preece, but as yet seemed bemused by his presence...as well as his dark past.

  For 'twas no secret, but openly discussed. That he'd always lived in Glacia, traveled through Dredonia, often been at court before. Just never at the long tables freely eating and drinking with other guests. Preece was still an enigma and likely always would be.

  The man who was once scorned until he dared not show his handsome face now sat tall and imposing beside Moreya. Agleam from head to foot in flowing silvery white, he looked like an angel from the distant heavens. Not an ogre. A pristinely rugged and beautiful avenging angel.

  As the trenchers were cleared away and dancers filed in, Preece turned to Moreya and was about to speak when he was interrupted.

  A stranger approached them. "My lord? I have a matter of some difficulty weighing upon my mind. It requires wisdom and the instincts of a trained fighter. Might I beg a moment of your time?"

  Before he could reply, the doors to the hall opened with a resounding thud and a hush came over the sprawling chamber. A group of strangers entered, at the forefront a pair of elderly men with stooped shoulders. They shuffled to the bottom of the dais and raised their faces to Preece and King Taroch.

  Moreya gaped in amazement. Like Preece and Taroch themselves, these men were nearly exact duplicates of one another. They both had deep furrows around their icy blue eyes, balding pates, long and straight locks glistening like new snow.

  "Son of Tal," one of the elders said, nodding and bowing to Preece. "I misthought never to gaze upon you, for we feared you were long dead. I knew your father. This is my youngest brother, Ovmer. Four other warriors sprung from our father's loins, but the others passed away over these last winters. Only Ovmer and I remain, each the first of his respective triad, and your most humbly devoted servants. I am Sennock."

  Ovmer looked at Taroch and frowned. "You are not Preece clan. Why do you sit on the throne?"

  "He is Tarochin," Preece replied. Moreya was belatedly stunned to realize she'd understood every word. Though they all were clearly of Waniand blood, they spoke perfect Glacian. Mayhap so all present would understand their words. "First of Taroch clan and first cousin to me, he is the son of Tal's brother and begotten by a female of Taroch blood. He is king. I am high judge. You honor us, Old Ones."

  There was yet another surprise in store for Moreya. Her husband, the stern warrior who seldom laughed and socialized, left the dais and openly embraced the pair of Waniand elders. The one called Sennock wept and gripped Preece's upper arms so tightly, the knuckles of his gnarled fingers seemed ready to burst through his thinning pale skin.

  "Sit and eat with us," Preece offered. The two sank onto a nearby bench and nodded grimly to a hovering servant. The fumbling youth nearly dropped the platter of meat he carried in his haste to place food before the hunched old visitors.

  Taroch called the hall to attention and spoke at length in the strange tongue Moreya had come to recognize as her husband's native speech. The Waniands around her listened attentively, stared at the newcomers, then at Preece. Preece also offered what seemed to be a lengthy oration. When he stopped speaking, the hall was silent for a moment, then the odd tension eased and most of the guests resumed drinking or eating and visiting with those seated around them at the many tables.

  It was as though the stilted interlude had never been.

  "Who are those old men?" Moreya asked quietly when Preece turned his attention back to her at last. "They knew your parents?"

  "Very well. The older one, Sennock, in his youth trained as squire to my father before he became high clan ruler. It is a great honor they bestow upon us, to have come here. They walked the last sixty leagues through hip-deep snows to pay their respects."

  Another Waniand - the one called Jareth, Moreya thought she recollected - leaned down to speak to Preece. His eyes captured Moreya's gaze and held it as he explained to her, "They pay your lifemate the greatest honor a man can earn. Because he assures them his hand rests evermore on the back of the throne, they will go back to their people and forestall war against us."

  "War? But you're all Waniands! Why would they want to - "

  "They are elders, Moreya," Preece reminded kindly. "They follow the ancient ways, live by rules fixed and unyielding. We are a new regime, children of a new dawn, and they wished only to see for themselves that we are strong and deserving. If they did not trust in us, they would tell the leaders of their small clans to band together and wrest the throne away from us. Taroch's father, mine uncle, was a warrior quick to boast and slow to act. I assured them his son shows no such failing."

  "I see," Moreya answered. She didn't really, but another nobleman was even now edging toward the table, looking at Preece with beseeching eyes.

  "They enjoyed the story of the tournament very much," Preece whispered, the hint of amusement gleaming in his eyes. "They had never before met a young warrior who could get firedrakes to do his bidding. They look upon Taroch with awe."

  "And this gentleman looks upon you with impatience. I fear he also wishes audience," she warned.

  Preece noted the fellow had another man behind him. "You see my lot now in this
keep," he mumbled in her ear.

  "Ah, but you must speak with them," she encouraged. "Do you not appreciate the irony? Once the nobles here spat upon you. Now they seek your counsel and show you utmost reverence and respect."

  "The chancellor is not alone in garnering such, madam," came a deep voice from her left. Moreya turned to see an elegantly dressed nobleman bowing before her. "I likewise beg audience. With you."

  Preece had convinced his gaggle of supplicants that it was most difficult to hear their complaints over the music and whirling dancers; they'd gone to a quiet chamber off the great hall. She could not use her husband as an excuse.

  "Forgive me," she demurred. "Lord . . .?" She lifted a brow in question, certain she had not before been formally introduced to this particular person.

  "Baron Exleigh," he supplied. "I reside along the farthest northern border of Outer Glacia. There is a strange orelike substance my workers have dug out of the snow and rocks on my demesne, and I was hoping you might come look at it and decide whether I must tithe a portion to the crown, should ship it as the Dredonians do their ores, or what course I should pursue."

  "I would offer you assistance were I able, sir," she responded in confusion, "but I'm afraid my expertise is - "

  "Exleigh, this is a feast!" King Taroch announced, scowling. He strode to Moreya's bench and offered her his hand. She placed hers in his palm and dropped into a deep curtsy. "Lady Preece has only just been reunited with my cousin, and I assure you he is extremely watchful over her. I could not permit her to travel to your demesne, for he would insist upon accompanying her, and - "

  "Don't blame him one whit!" some man shouted, "Look at what happened when Velansare let another escort her!"

  Moreya blushed bright pink as the jests continued, growing more ribald in nature. But ever the charmer, Taroch easily turned the topic away from bawdy speculation as to the depth of her attachment to Lord Preece and back to the matter of Baron Exleigh's request. "I have other advisors with knowledge of metalworking and smithing. Mayhap this Glacian Rumwaldt I've heard so much about could be sent back with you to - "