Leyla’s heart skipped a beat when she glanced up to see Jarrett in the doorway. Each time she saw him was like the first time. Just looking at him warmed the innermost core of her being. He was so tall, so very masculine, everything within her was drawn to him.
Laying her needlework aside, she hurried into his arms. “I missed thee,” she murmured, thinking how she had worried over his absence, fearing that he might be recognized in town, or captured by the king’s men.
Jarrett held her close. She felt so good in his arms, so right. “I brought the priest. Do you wish to be wed this evening, or wait until the morrow?”
Leyla tilted her head back, her eyes sparkling. “This evening, most assuredly, my Lord.”
“I will send my mother to help you get ready.” He kissed her gently on the cheek, his hands kneading her shoulders. Soon, he thought. Soon she would be his. “Be quick, beloved.”
An hour later, Leyla entered the family chapel to take her place at Jarrett’s side. It was a beautiful place. The pews and the altar were of burnished oak. Wrought iron candelabras held dozens of tall white candles, filling the chapel with a soft glow. A shaft of moonlight fell on the stained glass window behind the altar.
Sherriza and Tannya, both dressed in their finest, moved up to take their places beside Leyla, but Jarrett had eyes only for his bride.
She wore a full-skirted gown of gold-and-silver cloth; a gossamer veil covered her face. She looked like a goddess recently descended from heaven, an angel who had come to earth to steal his breath away. Her lustrous silver hair fell in loose waves down her back save for one silken curl that fell over her left shoulder. She held a single, long-stemmed midnight flower in her hand.
He couldn’t seem to take his gaze from her face, not even when the priest began to speak the words that would unite them now and forevermore.
Jarrett spoke the proper words when the time came, slipped a heavy gold band over Leyla’s slender finger and then, with the priest’s blessing, he lifted the veil from her face.
For a long moment, he gazed into the depths of her eyes, overcome with the love he saw reflected there. And then, very gently, he kissed her, silently reaffirming his pledge of love and devotion.
And then he kissed her again. And again.
Reverently, he lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. “Beloved,” he murmured in a voice thick with emotion. “My own.”
“Always,” Leyla replied quietly. She basked in the love and adoration shining in her husband’s eyes. Never had he looked quite so handsome, so masculine. So desirable. He wore snug black breeches, black boots and a dark-green tunic that matched the color of his eyes. Her gaze moved over him lovingly, caressing the width of his shoulders, pleased by the smile that was for her alone.
A soft cough drew her attention to the fact that they weren’t alone. Cheeks flushed, she turned to find Sherriza and Tannya standing at her elbow, grinning at each other.
“Welcome to the family, child,” Sherriza said. Stepping forward, she pressed her cheek to Leyla’s. “If he mistreats you in any way, you come to me.”
“Or to me,” Tannya said, giving Leyla a hug. “He was a terrible bully as a lad. Don’t let him get away with it now.”
“I won’t,” Leyla said, and then the priest was hugging her and wishing her well.
“My turn,” Jarrett insisted, and drew Leyla into his arms, holding her to his side as if he would never again let her go.
For Leyla, the next hour passed in a haze of laughter, excitement and anticipation. Using the food stuffs Father Lamaan had brought, Tannya had prepared a wedding dinner, complete with golden honey cakes for dessert.
Sherriza kept the conversation light, the wine glasses filled. The priest spoke of the latest gossip in the village, of the marriage of the blacksmith to the baker’s daughter. He told of Jorrad’s wife giving birth to twins, and how Jorrad had accused her of being unfaithful because of it.
Leyla listened in astonishment, amazed that a man of the church would know of such things. She was ever aware of Jarrett’s eyes caressing her, of his nearness. He found numerous excuses to touch her hand, her arm. When he smiled, her heart soared. The sound of his laughter filled her with joy. It was so good to see him at ease in his own home, surrounded by those who loved him as she loved him. She prayed that being home again would banish his nightmares forever.
A warm rush of heat flooded her cheeks when Jarrett stood up and announced it was time for bed. Sherriza and Tannya exchanged knowing looks. The priest seemed suddenly intent upon the contents of his wine glass.
“Good sleep, my mother.” Jarrett said, bowing in Sherriza’s direction. “Tannya. Father.”
“Good sleep to you, my son,” Sherriza replied. She smiled at her new daughter, felt a little tug of nostalgia as she remembered her own wedding night. Jarrett’s father had been every bit as handsome, as tall, as strong. All the young women in the village had turned their eyes in Shammah’s direction, fascinated by his prowess as a hunter and fighter, by the curling black of his hair, the deep green of his eyes, but, to her eternal gratitude, Shammah had chosen her for his wife. Sherriza uttered a silent prayer, hoping that Leyla would find the same enduring happiness in Jarrett’s arms that she had found in his father’s.
Hand in hand Leyla and Jarrett climbed the spiral staircase that led to Jarrett’s room. There was freshly washed bedding on the huge four-poster bed, the covers had been turned back, a fire crackled in the raised hearth.
Leyla gave a little start when Jarrett closed the door. They were alone now. Quite alone.
“Leyla…”
She swallowed hard. “My Lord?”
“I have not changed.”
“My Lord?”
“You look at me as if you think I’m going to attack you like some wild beast.”
Embarrassed, she looked away. She had wanted this moment, had been wanting it almost from the first day she had seen him in that horrid little cell in the bowels of the Pavilion, but now…
She looked up at him, wondering how she could make him understand, how she could explain her sudden apprehension. She had never known a man. She wanted Jarrett. She feared the loss of her powers. So many doubts and fears crowded her mind. How could she explain them to Jarrett?
“Do not be afraid of me, beloved. I will not hurt you.” He took a deep breath. “Nor will I touch you until you wish it.”
Her gaze slipped away from his. “It is thy right.”
“’Tis true, but I will respect your wishes, now and always.”
“It’s just… I mean.” Still not meeting his eyes, she took a deep breath. “I am sorry, my Lord.”
Murmuring her name, Jarrett gathered Leyla into his arms and held her close, one hand lightly stroking her hair. “You are so beautiful. Your hair outshines the sun, and your eyes…ah, beloved, your eyes are as blue as the Azure Sea.”
At his words, a single tear slid down her cheek. He was so kind, so patient. His arm was warm and strong around her waist, his hand gentle in her hair. His scent swirled around her, filling her nostrils with the aroma of wine and leather and fine-spun cloth. Of man. Her man. Her husband, if she but had the courage to let him show her the secrets she yearned to know.
Sweeping Leyla into his arms, Jarrett carried her to the comfortable old leather chair beside the fireplace and sat down.
Settling her on his hip as if she were a sleepy child, he pressed his lips to her hair.
“Only let me hold you,” he said. “Nothing more.”
“Would thee perchance grant me one kiss, my Lord?”
He obliged her willingly. She tasted of sweet wine and tangy cheese, of apples and spice. The scent of wild roses lingered in her hair and rose from her skin, tantalizing his senses. Her breast was warm where it pressed against his chest, her mouth a honeycomb filled with secrets he yearned to explore.
He was breathing as though he had run a great distance when he took his lips from hers. “Leyla, beloved…”
“I am
here,” she whispered, her eyes dark with trepidation and desire. “I will always be here.”
Jarrett gazed into her eyes and knew a sudden, gut-wrenching fear. She had never known a man, and he had not had a woman in almost a year.
He groaned low in his throat. He needed her more than his next breath, and yet he was afraid, so afraid. He wanted their first time together to be filled with tenderness, and yet he was afraid to touch her for fear he wouldn’t be able to control the desire that was clawing at his insides like some beast on a rampage. What if he hurt her? Or frightened her so badly that she refused to let him touch her ever again?
Almost a year without a woman. Just touching her was torture of the most exquisite kind. How often had he dreamed of her only to wake in a cold sweat to find himself alone, imprisoned in a world of darkness?
But she was here now, enfolded in his arms, a magical creature with hair like moonlight, her innocent blue eyes filled with love and trust.
“Jarrett?” Her hands caressed his face as she gazed into his eyes. The arms holding her close were trembling. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Is something wrong?”
His throat was as dry as the Serimite desert. Slowly he shook his head. “I’m afraid.”
“Afraid? Thee?” Astonished by his reply, she drew back to look at him more clearly. “Of what?”
“Of hurting you.” He covered one of her hands with his, noting how very different they were. His hand was large and brown, heavily calloused, made for hard work and fighting. Hers was small and slender, smooth and unblemished, created to give solace. “It’s been so long…”
“Do not be afraid, my Lord,” she whispered tremulously. “I do not fear thy touch or…or thy desire.”
He kissed her again, and yet again felt her breath quicken, the rapid beating of her heart, saw the wonder that filled her eyes.
One slender hand curled around his neck, the other delved inside his shirt to stroke his chest. Her touch was like fire, burning away his self-control, incinerating the last of his doubts.
He lowered his head to nuzzle the slender curve of her neck, marveling anew at the warmth that radiated from her, the sweetness. He touched her and everything else faded from his mind. She was truly a magical creature, able to heal his wounds, to read his thoughts, to conjure fire…
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Fire. She had truly lit a fire in him, he mused. It burned him now, blazing in his loins, threatening to consume him.
Leyla let her head fall back against Jarrett’s arm, giving him access to her throat, reveling in the hot little kisses that rained down on the sensitive skin of her neck. There was magic in his touch, she thought, a magic stronger and more potent than any she had ever known.
She shuddered with pleasure as his mouth covered hers yet again, his tongue sliding over her lower lip. Her lips parted on a sigh and his tongue delved into her mouth, unleashing a torrent of sensations, quickening a response from deep within her, a warmth that unfurled like a leaf and permeated her whole being, brighter, warmer, than sunlight.
She offered no protest when he carried her to the bed and removed her gown and silken undergarments, bending to kiss the curve of her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, the silken heat of her breasts. With a ragged sigh, he quickly stripped off his shirt, boots and breeches, and then stretched out beside her, drawing her into his arms.
Moaning softly, Leyla turned toward him, her body opening to receive him as a flower opens to the sun.
The unexpected beauty of it, the brilliance, caught them both unaware, and then they were moving together, two halves of the same whole, forever joined, forever one.
Like a river flowing into the sea, his seed spilled into her, flooding her with heat, and life…
Chapter Sixteen
Leyla stood at the tower window, gazing across the courtyard at the rising sun. The sky was afire, splashed with broad strokes of crimson, as red as the virginal blood that had stained her thighs.
She glanced over her shoulder to where Jarrett lay asleep. Even in repose, he was splendid to look upon. His hair was spread like thick black silk against the white satin pillow covering. His jaw was shadowed with dark stubble. His skin was the color of dark copper touched with gold.
Her husband. She had lain in his arms all the night long, learning the contours of his body, her fingers measuring the width of his shoulders, the length of arms and legs corded with muscle. She had touched him and tasted him; she had filled her nostrils with the warm musky scent of him, heard the hunger in his voice when he murmured her name.
She did not regret her marriage or the loss of her innocence. She had found only joy in the arms of her husband, in the touch of his lips, in his whispered words of love. And yet…
She gazed down at her hands, resting lightly on the windowsill. Her power to heal was gone. Of that there was no doubt. She felt the loss of her gift keenly, as though a part of her soul had been cut away, leaving her outwardly whole and yet forever incomplete.
She hadn’t heard a sound, but suddenly Jarrett was standing behind her, his hands on her upper arms, his chin resting on her shoulder.
“What is it?” he asked.
His breath was warm, stirring the hair at her nape. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
She turned in his arms and laid her head against his chest, listening to the sure, steady beat of his heart. How could she tell him what she was feeling when she didn’t fully understand it herself?
She felt the sudden tensing of his body. Looking up, she saw that his jaw was tightly clenched, his eyes dark with self-reproach.
“Are you sorry?” he asked. “Is that what’s wrong?”
“No,” she replied quickly, fervently. “No, I am not sorry. Thee must not ever think that.”
“Then what is it that troubles you?”
She drew a breath that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul. “My powers are gone.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.” A single tear glistened in the corner of one eye. “I did not believe he would do it,” she said, very softly. “I guess I did not want to believe it. I thought it was only his anger that made him speak so.”
Jarrett’s arm tightened around her waist as a raw, aching pain clawed at his insides, sharper than Thai’s longboar knife, more agonizing than the touch of Gar’s whip. He had taken more than her innocence, he had robbed her of her birthright.
“I’m sorry, beloved.”
“It is not thy fault. I came to thee freely, willingly.” She placed the palm of her hand against his cheek. “I would do it again.” Her eyes searched his. “Thee does not believe me.”
“I do.”
“I see doubts in thy mind, my Lord Jarrett, and thee must never doubt my love for thee. Be assured that I will speak only the truth to thee.”
“You can still read my mind?”
“Yes.” The thought pleased her greatly. “I have lost only the power of healing.” She gestured at the hearth. A small fire burned within, giving light and warmth to the room. “As thee can see, I can still conjure fire.”
“Perhaps the gift of healing will return, in time.”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No, my Lord. Once revoked, the gift of healing cannot be restored.”
“My Lord,” he said, smiling down at her. “Why do you continue to call me that?”
“If fits thee so well. Does thee wish me to stop?”
“No.” His hands moved restlessly over her shoulders, reaching up into the wealth of her hair, sliding down her arms, then locking around her waist. “Leyla, beloved, you make me weak.”
She gazed into the depths of his eyes, as clear and green as the Aldanian glass so prized by the Maje. Her smile was softly seductive as she took him by the hand.
“Come,” she said, leading him toward the bed. “I need no mystical power to make thee strong again.”
“You have more power than you know,” he muttered, and drawing her down b
eside him, he covered her body with his, surrendering to the power in her hands—not the power of healing, but the power of love.
It was late afternoon when hunger drove them down to the Great Hall.
Sherriza looked up from the altar cloth she had been mending, a knowing smile lighting her face. Her son looked relaxed and happy as he placed a possessive arm around his bride’s shoulders. And Leyla was radiant, her summer-sky eyes aglow with love and adoration when she looked at her husband.
“Did you sleep well, my children?” Sherriza asked, her voice tinged with tender amusement.
“Very well indeed, my mother,” Jarrett replied. Noting the blush creeping into his wife’s cheeks, he drew Leyla closer to his side. “Where’s Tannya?”
“Preparing Second Meal.” Sherriza met his gaze. “She thought you might be ravenous when you finally decided to come down.”
“She was right.”
Jarrett held a chair for Leyla, then sat down beside her, his hand reaching for his bride’s as if he could not bear to lose contact with her, even for a moment. His gaze was intent upon her face, his eyes filled with adoration. And Leyla returned his gaze, her deep blue eyes brimming with love and devotion.
Sherriza felt a tug at her heart. It was obvious that they were very much in love, and she uttered a silent prayer that it might always be so.
Moments later, Tannya entered the Hall, fussing at Jarrett for missing First Meal, smiling at Leyla, asking if there was anything special she desired.
When they were all seated at the table, Jarrett asked after the priest’s whereabouts.
“Father Lamaan left this morning,” Sherriza said. “He said to tell you he’ll be back soon. He helped us plant the seedlings before he left.”
Jarrett nodded. The good father had managed to obtain quite an assortment of young vegetable plants to restock their garden. Due to the short growing season, it was critical to plant as early as possible.
“He said he’d bring a cow and a few sheep when he returns. And some cloth, if he can manage it.”
Jarrett grunted softly. Greyebridge had never been forced to accept charity before. Always it had been Greyebridge Castle that had helped alleviate whatever need there had been on the island, but those days were gone, at least for now. Much as it galled him to accept help, he could not let his pride keep food off the table. He could not let the women of his household suffer because of his insufferable arrogance.
Warrior's Lady Page 13
