Warrior's Lady

by Amanda Ashley

  “Jarrett, what are we to do?”

  What, indeed? he thought bleakly.

  Reaching through the bars, he cupped her face in his hands. Her cheeks were damp with tears. “Don’t weep, beloved,” he murmured, and leaning forward, he kissed away her tears. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be nearby.”

  “No. There are too many of them. Does thee hope to fight them all?”

  “No, only to outsmart an old rival. Kiss me now, quickly, and then I must go.”

  The touch of his lips boosted her courage and then he was gone, silent as a shadow.

  Moments later, one of the king’s men entered the dungeon bearing a lantern and two tin plates. He slid a plate under the door of each cell, shrugged in apology at the poor fare, and left the dungeon, plunging them into darkness once again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Leyla sat in a corner of her cell, her legs drawn up to her chest, her arms folded around her knees. She was afraid to close her eyes, afraid to sleep for fear she’d wake to find rats, or worse things, crawling on her skin or nesting in her hair.

  The darkness was oppressive, and she wondered how Jarrett had survived in the Pavilion for so many months, how he had endured the long dark nights, the endless days of pain, the thick black hood. She knew she would have gone mad if she’d been forced to wear that awful hood for more than a day. It was a constant reminder that death was never far away, a subtle form of imprisonment far more cruel than the shackles that had bound him or the cell that had caged him.

  The darkness. It was stifling in its completeness. She held up her hand and saw only blackness. She had never realized she was afraid of the dark until now, but then, she’d never been completely alone in darkness like this.

  How slowly the hours passed! The stone floor was cold and damp. The chill crept into her, climbing up her legs, her arms, her back, until she was shivering uncontrollably.

  How long until dawn, she wondered, and then laughed. What difference did it make? She wouldn’t be able to see the sun. It could be morning now and she’d never know it.

  A faint light appeared at the far end of the passageway. Leyla scrambled to her feet and moved toward the front of the cell, her heart pounding with hope.

  But it wasn’t Jarrett come to rescue them. It was Rorke. He stopped at Sherriza’s cell. “Are you ready to answer my questions now?” be asked, his voice curt.

  “I have nothing to tell you,” Sherriza replied.

  “Perhaps you’ll think more clearly on an empty stomach.”

  “Your threats do not frighten me, Rorke. Do to me as you wish, but I would ask that you let my cousin go. She has no part in this.”

  “You try my patience, woman. Now, hear my decree. You will be sent to the King’s Tower this very day. Perhaps a night or two in the company of the King’s Executioner will loosen your tongue. As for the girl…” Rorke shrugged. “I shall keep her here with me. I shall abide here awhile, just in case Jarrett shows up. She can keep me company.”

  “I warn you, Rorke, do not lay a hand on that child. You will sorely regret it if you do.”

  “A threat, my Lady?”

  “A warning.”

  “Take her,” Rorke said, and four men appeared out of the shadows. Unlocking the cell door, they escorted Sherriza out of the dungeon.

  Torch in hand, Rorke walked to Leyla’s cell. “So, have you anything you would like to tell me?”

  Leyla stared at him, at the cruel twist of his mouth, the cold black eyes, and shook her head.

  “This is no place for a lady such as yourself. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll see that you’re taken to your home in safety.” His gaze narrowed imperceptibly. “You know where he is, don’t you? Don’t you!”

  She had never told a lie in her life. It took all her willpower to speak one now. “No. I would tell thee if I did.”

  “Would you? I wonder.” His gaze moved over her in a long assessing glance. “We shall see what song you sing after a few days without food and water, my little silver-haired angel. And if that doesn’t loosen your tongue, there are other ways.” His black eyes glittered. “Ways that I’ll find most pleasant.”

  Leyla stared after him as he walked away, her gaze fixed on the light of the torch as it grew fainter and fainter and then disappeared.

  And now she was truly alone.

  No one came to her for what seemed like days. She lost all track of time. Hunger gnawed at her belly, her throat grew dry. She huddled in her corner, shivering from the cold, from the fear that held her fast. Where was Jarrett? Why didn’t he come for her? Had he been captured? But surely, if he’d been taken prisoner, he’d have been brought here. Had he decided the risk was too great and abandoned her?

  No! She would not believe that.

  She tried to think of something pleasant: the unicorn meadow at home, the touch of Jarrett’s hands, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the awful fear that she’d been left here to die, alone, in the dark.

  When she heard the muffled sound of footsteps, she didn’t bother to look up, assuming it was Rorke coming to see if hunger had loosened her tongue.

  “Leyla.”

  His whispered voice went straight to her heart. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried toward the cell door. “Jarrett! Oh, Jarrett.” Tears of joy and relief burned her eyes.

  “Shhh, it’s all right.”

  She heard the harsh rasp of a key in the lock, and then the door swung open and she was in his arms, holding on as if she would never let go. He was here. She breathed in the scent of him, let her arms twine around his neck. She could hear his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Yes, he was here. He was real.

  She clung to him when he tried to loosen her hold. “A moment more,” she begged.

  “Leyla, there’s no time for that now. Come, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  He took her hand and led her down the passageway. It was narrow and cold, so dark she couldn’t see him ahead of her. They walked for a long distance, then turned left.

  She felt Jarrett’s arms wrap around her, and then he was pulling her close, his hands moving over her shoulders and back, caressing her face.

  She pressed herself against him. “Is something wrong?” she asked anxiously.

  “No.” She heard the smile in his voice. “I just can’t wait to hold you any longer.”

  For several moments they stood in each other’s arms. And then, reluctantly, he let her go. “We have to crawl the rest of the way,” he said, “but it isn’t far.”

  The stones were hard and cold beneath her hands and feet as she followed Jarrett along the narrow passageway. She felt his tension as they made their way through the darkness, knew he was fighting memories of another kind of darkness.

  At last, she saw light ahead. Moments later, they were in a small vessel headed across the moat.

  When they reached the far side, Jarrett caught hold of a sturdy vine and climbed up the side of the moat.

  “Grab hold,” he called, tossing the vine to her, “and I’ll pull you up.”

  She knew a moment of sweet relief when she was standing beside him.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and taking her hand, he led her into the cover of the trees.

  “What now?” she asked when they were out of sight of the castle.

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I can’t very well storm the King’s Tower alone and I can’t leave my mother in there to rot at Rorke’s leisure. Rorke.” He spat the name as if it tasted bad. “I can’t believe the King knows what’s going on.”

  Jarrett ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe Rorke was acting on Tyrell’s orders when he sent me to the Pavilion. I can’t believe Tyrell would think I’d turn traitor, that he would strip me of my lands and title because I refused to kill those women and children.”

  Jarrett swore under his breath. “Tyrell’s a hard man, but he’s never made war on helpless folk before. Why would he change now? Why wasn’t I allowed to plead my c
ause before the King?”

  “Do you think he will help thee?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He shook his head again. There were too many things he didn’t know, too many things that didn’t make sense.

  “Come,” he said, taking her hand, “we’ll rest until nightfall, and then I’ll see if I can steal a couple of horses.”

  She was too weary to argue, too worried to do more than follow him deeper into the forest. Exhausted mentally and physically, weak from hunger, she curled up in his arms as soon as they found a place to hide. Moments later, she was asleep.

  When she woke up, Jarrett was sitting beside her slicing into a loaf of black bread. Her stomach growled loudly, bringing a flush to her cheeks as she sat up.

  With a grin, Jarrett handed her a chunk of bread and a flask of wine.

  “Go on,” he said, “it’s all for you. I’ve eaten.”

  She took a bite of the bread. It was fresh from the oven and she was certain nothing had ever tasted so good. The wine was warm and sweet.

  “Where did thee get this?” she asked when she’d taken the edge off her hunger.

  “From Tannya.”

  “She is well?”

  Jarrett nodded. “They won’t hurt her. She’s too old to be a threat, and if they did away with her, they’d have to cook for themselves.”

  He stared out into the darkness. The outline of Greyebridge Castle rose in the distance, shadowy, mystical. Home. The only home he’d ever known. And now Rorke was there. Was it possible that Greyebridge was what Rorke had been after all along? Had sending Jarrett to the Pavilion been the first step toward that end? With Sherriza locked in the King’s Tower, there was no one to protest if Rorke decided to take over Greyebridge Castle.

  Jarrett frowned thoughtfully. Rorke was the King’s brother-in-law. He had security and wealth and the King’s confidence. His wife had a small estate near Heth, as well as several other places of residence. But Rorke didn’t have lands or a castle of his own.

  And Greyebridge was a castle almost without equal. If Rorke could gain possession of Greyebridge, he might be able to persuade the King to restore the surrounding lands and holdings that had been forfeit to the Crown when Jarrett was accused of treason.

  “My Lord?”

  He turned to see Leyla watching him carefully. “Feeling better?” he asked.

  Leyla nodded. She licked the last of the bread crumbs from her fingers, took a sip of wine and handed the flask to Jarrett.

  He took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ready?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To see the King.”

  “Is that wise?”

  “You mean is it safe, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope so, but one way or another, I have to get my mother out of the tower. And I have to know if Rorke was acting on the King’s orders when he sent me to the Pavilion.”

  Taking Leyla by the hand, Jarrett helped her to her feet, then drew her into his arms. His gaze held hers for a long moment, and then, ever so tenderly, he kissed her, his lips moving in a gentle caress over her mouth and nose, her closed eyelids, the curve of her cheek.

  He had been wrong to take her away from her home in the mountains, he thought, wrong to make her his wife when his life was in such turmoil. And yet, selfishly, he was glad of her presence at his side.

  Leyla smiled up at him. “I would not have let thee leave me behind,” she remarked, her eyes sparkling like costly jewels. “I would have followed thee to the bowels of Hadra and back again.”

  “Would you, my beauty?”

  “Thee knows it’s true.”

  “I fear such devotion will bring you harm, beloved. More harm than you can imagine.”

  “I am not afraid.”

  “You needn’t be. I’m frightened enough for both of us.”

  Bending, he kissed her again, his lips claiming hers in a kiss filled with passion and possession. He longed to press her down on the grass, to take her, there, in the shadowed woodlands, to brand her as his for all time, but Rorke was too close, the chance of discovery too great.

  He hugged her close one last time and then he released her. “It’s time to go,” he said. Finding a leafy branch, he erased their footsteps, then scattered dirt and leaves over the smooth ground. It would not fool a good tracker for long, but it might stall Rorke’s men for a while.

  Two horses waited for them in a clearing a short distance away. Jarrett lifted Leyla onto the back of a long-legged bay mare, swung onto the back of a blue roan and turned his horse north, toward the sea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They located a small ship flying the Fenduzian flag moored off the coast.

  Jarrett watched it for a long while, and when he was satisfied that there were only a few men aboard, he left Leyla with the horses and boarded the ship. He dispatched two of the sailors by striking them over the head with the hilt of his sword. The third sensed his presence and turned to fight. It was a brief skirmish, quickly over, and when it was done, Jarrett dumped the man’s body into the sea.

  Hurrying now, he returned for Leyla. Regretfully, he was forced to leave the horses behind. A short time later, they were underway, headed across the narrow channel toward the Fenduzian border.

  Leyla stood at the rail, the wind in her face, as she watched Jarrett maneuver the sleek craft. His jaw was thick with black stubble and the breeze tossed his long black hair over his shoulder. A bit of moonlight glinted off the hilt of his sword. She had often compared him to a Giddeon pirate, she mused, but never had he looked the part more than he did this night.

  He turned his head, his hooded gaze meeting hers, and she felt her stomach curl with pleasure at the fervent look in his eyes. Ah, those dark eyes that made her heart beat fast and her blood sing; those fathomless green eyes that had haunted her night and day since first she’d seen them.

  “What are you thinking?” Jarrett asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You do not play fair,” he chided gently. “I lack the power to read your thoughts as you so readily read mine.”

  “I was admiring thee, my Lord Pirate,” she admitted shyly, and felt the heat climb into her cheeks.

  “Were you?”

  She nodded and he held out his arm, bidding her come to him.

  She moved instantly to his side, sighing as his arm slid around her waist. She would have risked any danger, she thought, any peril, just to be near him, to feel his strength, see the caring in his eyes, hear the sound of his voice murmuring her name.

  The pale Hovis moons were low in a cloudless sky when Jarrett anchored the ship in a small cove sheltered from the wind by a ridge of jagged yellow mountains that looked like dragon’s teeth. For a time, he contemplated spending the night on board, but the thought of being enclosed, of being unable to take flight should the need arise, changed his mind.

  Finding a large knapsack, he filled it with what provisions he could find and added candles and flint, two bowls, a flask of ale. There were blankets in a small cabin below decks, as well as a limited supply of men’s clothing. He found a clean white linen shirt and a pair of tan breeches that fit him well enough.

  After a moment’s consideration, Leyla slipped off her long gown and donned a pair of buff-colored breeches and a red-and-black striped seaman’s shirt. “How do I look?” she asked.

  “You’ll do for first mate,” Jarrett answered with a wicked grin. His gaze moved over her in warm appreciation. The breeches clearly outlined her shapely legs; the shirt, though at least one size too large, did little to disguise the feminine curves beneath.

  “I had best be thy only mate,” Leyla chided. “As thee shall be mine.”

  Jarrett nodded, his expression suddenly sober. “Naught but death shall part us,” he vowed, and felt a sharp pain at the thought that, by marrying her, by keeping her with him, he was undoubtedly putting her life in grave danger. If they were captured by Rorke’s men,
she would be of no more value to them than any other woman now that she no longer possessed the ability to heal. They would use her until they wearied of her and then dispose of her.

  Leyla took his hand and pressed it over her heart. “Not even death shall part me from thee,” she whispered fervently, “for I shall follow thee even there.”

  “No.” He placed his hand over her lips. “For my sake, you must live. You must not risk your life for mine. Promise me.”

  She saw the anguish in his eyes, the silent pleading. Slowly she nodded.

  A deep sigh escaped his lips, and then he kissed her with all the love in his heart, his hands sliding into her hair, delighting in its softness.

  Someday he would buy her jewel-encrusted combs and a golden tiara for her hair, costly gowns and laces, though such riches would never shine as bright as the woman herself. Someday.

  “Come,” he said. “We must find a place to pass the night.”

  Tor stood in the Great Hall, his face impassive as he endured Rorke’s scrutiny. In a vision, he had seen Leyla imprisoned in the dungeon of Greyebridge, and he had followed the Sight to this place, determined to take her back home no matter what the cost. But upon waking that morning, he had realized that Leyla was no longer in the castle. She had left Gweneth sometime late last night, bound for the King’s Palace in Heth.

  “So,” Rorke asked after a time, “why have you come here, Tor of Majeulla?”

  “To take my woman home.”

  Rorke sat forward in his chair, his elbows braced on his knees. “The silver-haired one?”

  “Yes. But she is no longer here.”

  “How can you know that?” Rorke demanded, for news of her disappearance had not yet been made known.

  “I have the Sight, my Lord.”

  Rorke stroked his beard thoughtfully. If he could find the silver-haired woman, he might find Jarrett as well. “Where has she gone?”

  “She travels the back roads toward Heth with the man thee seek.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  Tor nodded. “Quite sure, my Lord.”

  Rorke nodded. A motion of his hand brought two guards swiftly forward. “Bind him.”