A Warrior's Heart Read online

  "Which is it going to be--yes or no?"

  She licked her lips, wishing he would remove the krees from her throat. The implied violence in the gesture was making her very nervous. She forced herself to meet Drakthe's golden gaze.

  "No, hearing you enter my cubicle was not purely accidental. Sli--My family taught me the value of listening at an early age. They encouraged me to listen below the surface."

  Earnestly, she attempted to convince the hard-face warrior the truth of her words. "They said hearing the expected, the obvious, is easy, but you must listen to her sighs, her shift of moods, her silence to understand nature. I learned to distinguish the difference between grains of sand toppled by the wind, and sand started by footfall."

  "My...teacher said that to heal, I must learn to listen with my soul and my ears."

  She sounded so persuasive, so sincere that Drakthe wanted to believe her. How much he wanted to believe the assurances falling from her lips scared him. "Did your teacher teach you to lie convincingly as well as kill?" he taunted, hiding his sudden weakening behind harsh words.

  "No!" Her eyes blazed with passionate denial. "I could not kill anyone. You must believe me, my lord."

  "Almost," he whispered, "just almost I could believe your words, House-daughter, if it were not for your skill as a warrior. You are as unique as your warrior's art. I must admit, you're the first female assassin I've heard of. You should have killed me last night while I slept," he said matter-of-factly.

  His had been the blade to her throat. His had been the intention to kill.

  No! A nightmare, nothing more. The uneasiness he'd felt, the urgency to get out of the city, must have been his instinct recognizing Cheyna as a threat. Only he hadn't recognized his danger in time to prevent bonding with the woman sent to kill him. He wondered if Lcrier was Cheyna's employer. He intended to find out, then he'd decide what to do with the little 'House-daughter'.

  "Why do you insist on calling it warriors' art? Sai and Kai does not represent violence but a form of meditation and exercise."

  "Lady, you are something. A form of exercise," he gibed. "This Sai and Kai as you call it, is one of the most effective methods of surprising an opponent and creating an opening for attack I've seen in a very long time. It is also, without a doubt, the most elegant. You're good, lady. You're very good." Drakthe squashed a stab of admiration. He didn't want to admire anything about a woman willing to sleep with him one night, then kill him the next.

  "Why will you not believe me?" She squeezed her eyes shut. "Sai and Kai was never designed to injure, just to strengthen."

  "Why should I believe you?" he rasped. Jkael, he must be losing his mind to even consider accepting her word on anything. The word of an assassin.

  Her lashes lifted to reveal eyes shadowed and darkened by a deep pain. "Because I would never harm you, my lord. I bound my honor to yours. I swore as my duty to protect you."

  The simple declaration cut through him, a solid blow that robbed his lungs of air. He searched her eyes, looking for even the smallest hint of deception. Honesty shown back. She couldn't be that good a liar. A groan tore from deep inside his chest.

  "How is it that you can make me forget logic?"

  "I do not understand, my lord?" Cheyna frowned at him.

  "I begin to believe that."

  "My lord?"

  "It is your duty to protect me, hmm?" Drakthe wasn't sure he liked the idea.

  "Does this mean you believe I mean you no harm?" She sounded wondering.

  He sounded disgusted. "Yeah. Jkael. I probably need a NaturPath to check my head, but I believe you on this." Drakthe removed his forearm from her throat and sat up, his knees on either side of her hips. He sheathed his krees, his gaze riveted on the faint redness on her throat. He leaned down and pressed his lips to the already fading mark.

  "It seems I am always hurting you. My fingers left marks on your throat at the resthouse and tonight I've marked you again." He dropped his gaze to Cheyna's breasts. Visible in the open throat of her tunic was a faint, purplish smudge.

  "Even last night, when all I wanted was to please you, I marred your flesh." He nudged her tunic aside so he could lave the bruise with the tip of his tongue.

  Cheyna stretched at the first touch of his mouth. "It will fade." Her fingers massaged the tense muscles of his neck.

  "I bruised you last eve, Cheyna." His passionate response to his bondwife shocked him. He was not a man accustomed to having his control shaken.

  A delicate tint stained her porcelain skin. "I did not mind."

  Drakthe remembered the feel of oval nails, the same rich shade as the brangalia flower, raking his back. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Neither did I." He gave a full-throated laugh as her cheeks blazed with color.

  "Drakthe!"

  He became serious. "Do you really see it as your duty to protect me?"

  "Of course, my lord."

  She made the declaration sound so patent. As if he were in need of her protection. The concept was ridiculous, of course. He hadn't needed protecting since he was seven. Still, her concern touched a chord deep inside him. A chord he hadn't even been aware existed. He searched for words.

  "I--I'm not quite sure what to say. I've never had anyone want to protect me before."

  "It makes you uncomfortable?" she asked with an disconcerting degree of perception. "My lord, it is the bondmate's duty to protect her lord's life and honor," she instructed him in a firm voice.

  Drakthe lost interest in whose duty it was to protect whom when she shifted beneath him. "I'd rather you pleasure me instead," he murmured, burning with sensual heat.

  "Then it is most fortunate, my lord, that duty requires both." She wound her arms around his neck, her eyes lighting with an answering sensual warmth.

  He resisted the gentle tug of her arms. "I would have more than a sense of duty bring you to me." Drakthe recalled his arrogant statement about duty the night he got her out of safehouse, and cursed under his breath.

  Chapter 7

  Cheyna regarded Drakthe. Did he realize he had just admitted a need of her that went beyond the physical? She shook her head in a tiny negative movement. She doubted it. Her warrior had been alone for a long time. An admission of need would not be easy for him to make. In light of Drakthe's inadvertent revelation, though, his actions made even less sense.

  Her agile brain began searching for pieces of the puzzle. Drakthe's attack had wounded her and made her so angry she hadn't objected to his demand to leave ahead of schedule. In fact, she'd been so furious she had insisted on leaving even earlier.

  The pieces fell together all at once.

  Sbraithe would appreciate the nuances of her bondmate's mind.

  "Why did you manipulate our departure?" she asked, then chuckled at the look of surprise on his face. "Yes, I've finally realized you were manipulating me. What I do not comprehend is why?"

  His chest heaved. "I wanted to get out of the city."

  "Then that is all you had to say." She couldn't prevent the hint of hurt from creeping into her voice. "You did not need trickery."

  "You would have come without question?" His thumbs began rotating on the corner of her lips, soothing her against her will.

  "Well, maybe not without question." Even as a child, Slia and Sbraithe had lamented her endless questions. No, she would not have come without question, but she would have come.

  "What if I had been unable to answer your questions? What then? Would you have still come with me?"

  "I would have come."

  "Because it is your duty?" he pressed, a note of hardness entering the satin darkness of his voice.

  "Because I trust your judgement."

  He caught her close, crushing her in a tight embrace. "I am unused to consulting others on my actions, House-daughter."

  "House-daughter no longer. Now I am a tradewife."

  He lifted his head, scowling. "You are my bondmate. We had a proper bonding ceremony."


  Cheyna reverted to her original question. "Why did you manipulate me into leaving the city, my lord?"

  "Drakthe," he snapped, before heaving another sigh. He stared down into her eyes and seemed to come to a decision. "I have reason to believe we were unsafe in the city."

  "You did not believe I would understand something so serious?" she asked, devastated that he would think her so lacking in sense.

  He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "I didn't give it much thought," he said, and then winced.

  "Because you are used to giving the orders. You work alone." She nodded, working it out in her mind as she spoke. "Time must have been of the essence for you to have acted so--" she paused for an infinitesimal second, "precipitously."

  Drakthe looked stunned. "Jkael take it, lady! I was cruel, not precipitous this morn. I wanted to hurt you, can't you understand that? You should be furious." He glared down at her.

  "You are upset?" Cheyna frowned. "Do you want me to be angry with you?"

  "No, I don't want you to be angry with me!"

  "Then why are you yelling?"

  "Jkael take it! I'm not yelling!"

  "I do not understand what you want, my lord," she ventured, stroking his neck. She felt the tension drained out of him.

  "Neither do I," he muttered, and drew a deep breath. "Cheyna? Why aren't you angry over the manner in which I treated you this morn?" he asked, an unmistakable note of urgency in his voice.

  "Once you explained that you feared for our safety your actions made sense. I do not approve of the method you used," she cautioned him, "but I understand how hard it must be for a man accustomed to wielding power to consult others."

  He shook his head. "Any other woman on this planet would have wanted my head on a staff."

  Cheyna bit back the impulse to confess she was not raised on this planet. "I was . . . angry this morn."

  "Why do you make it sound as if you committed an unspeakable crime?"

  She shifted at the question. "Anger is not an acceptable method of communicating."

  "Was your family so very strict, then?"

  Cheyna ran her fingers through his hair, slipping the leather thong off. She loved his hair, the way it smelled, the way it felt when he leaned over her, the ends brushing her skin. She let the silky strands sift through her fingers. Especially the way it felt brushing her skin. "Of course not. My parents loved me. They taught by example. Anger is unproductive and destructive. It leads to violence." A delicate shudder coursed through her and her hands tightened in his hair.

  "You find the mere thought of violence repulsive, don't you?" he asked, his voice neutral.

  "Yes. The idea of one person deliberately hurting another," she trailed off, shaking her head. "Never, until I came to Sc...." Cheyna stumbled to a halt, her stomach churning at the enormity of the mistake she'd nearly made. She recovered swiftly. "--came to Class was I exposed to wanton violence." She expelled a silent sigh of relief when it appeared her slip went unnoticed.

  "I introduced you to violence when I kidnaped you." Drakthe sounded distant.

  Cheyna quit playing with his hair and looked at him. "My lord," she began cautiously, sensing the conversation heading into shifting sands and not at all certain she wanted to explore them.

  "Don't deny it. We both know it is the truth. By your own admission, you lived a very sheltered life until I kidnaped you from the trade-train." A muscle pulsated under the tanned skin of his jaw. The gold gaze remained locked on hers, but she doubted he saw her.

  "Do you find me repulsive?"

  All at once she understood. All his life, Drakthe had been rejected and found wanting, except when it came to his skill at violence. By making her position on violence clear, Drakthe was sure he was going to be found lacking yet again. Only this time, circumstances beyond his control, such as his birth, were not to blame but his method of survival and advancement.

  "No, my lord! Never think that," she breathed, cupping the hard planes and angles of his face between tender palms. Her heart filled with the pain he had experienced since a child. Willing him to look into her eyes, to really look and see the truth, she met the shuttered gaze with a steady one of her own.

  A violent tremor racked his body as he speared hard fingers through her hair, loosening a tumble of curls. "Hold me, Cheyna. Make me believe it is me you want. For Jkael's sake, make me believe it is more than duty. Even if it isn't," he groaned as he stilled her instinctive protest.

  Responding to the desperate need, she found the smooth contours of his shoulders beneath the sturdy shirt. Beneath her exploring fingers, his skin heated, like moonsilk drying in Rpiere's desert air: hot, sleek, and oh-so alluring to touch. His arms tightened around her, holding her as if he would absorb her into his body. She cupped the back of his head, wondering how Drakthe could be so blind. With him, she was like the rosanthia, moving compulsively across the desert because it sensed a source of moisture. She could no more deny Drakthe than the rosanthia could resist the lure of water.

  Drakthe stretched on the pallet, his hand searching for the already familiar warmth of Cheyna, only to encounter cold bedclothes. He shot upright, his gut knotting with the certainty she had left him. He was reaching for the edge of the bedding when he noticed her. His heart slammed into his ribs as it sank in that Cheyna hadn't changed her mind and concluded she couldn't face the violence inherent in him.

  She hadn't crept away in the night, after all.

  Ignoring the thunderous relief pounding in his veins, he sank back against the pillows, his eyes glued to the slender back of his bondwife. A slow frown formed.

  What in the name of Jkael was she doing? Cheyna's back was blade straight, her legs crossed with each ankle resting on the opposing thigh. Her hands were relaxed, palms up, on her knees. The pose looked oddly familiar. Where...? Then it came to him; the first night on the trail, after he had kidnaped her from the travel-train, she had sat just like that.

  For hours.

  Cheyna began to stir, and he narrowed his eyes until they were mere slits, curious to see what she would do next.

  Rising with slow, controlled grace, she stretched, beginning with her neck and continuing until her entire body was limber. Drakthe tried convincing himself that she was merely exercising, and that there was nothing in the slightest bit arousing about watching another person exercise.

  Intellectually, he conceded what she was doing might constitute a form of exercise. His body, on the other hand, insisted it was an erotic dance and his mind could take a flying leap.

  Cheyna's head moved in slow, languid circles as she loosened the muscles of her neck and shoulders. Her unbound hair fell past her waist in a shimmering scarlet cascade, a startling contrast to the ice-black moonsilk of her outfit. She turned sideways, giving Drakthe an excellent view of the way the material clung to the tips of her breasts and molded the rounded fullness of her hips. Feeling like a voyeur, Drakthe tried to concentrate elsewhere.

  The oddness of her attire caught his attention. Cheyna wasn't wearing the tunic and breeches common for the trail. Instead, the top, a short tunic ending just above the juncture of her thighs, wrapped around her slender figure. A length of woven material tied about her waist held it in place. As for the breeches, Drakthe didn't recognize the fashion. Loose-fitting and shapeless, the silky material clung to her legs with each motion. Her feet were bare.

  Arms held out, she first began undulating her fingers, then her wrists, until both arms were engaged in an intricate dance. Her torso twisted and turned, stretched and tautened in seemingly random movements, each somehow controlled and in tune with her arms. Cheyna's right leg began a graceful arch to the side and continued until her calf was perpendicular to her cheek; the gesture relaxed and unstrained, she stood there for what seemed like hours.

  To his amazement, her balance never wavered. Not even when she lowered her right leg and repeated the entire procedure with her left. Drakthe's mouth went dry when she braced one foot on the rough wood of the wall.
He waited, not daring to breathe for fear he'd disturb her. She stretched her upper body the length of her leg, causing the material of her breeches to pull tight and mold the mounds of her bottom in intimate detail.

  "What are you doing?" The words burst from him, sounding hoarse.

  Cheyna's concentration never wavered. "It is the third mental level of Sai and Kai. It prepares me for the second physical level."

  "Sai and Kai?" he parroted, unable to remember why the words sounded familiar. He tried, he really tried, to force his attention to what she was saying, but all he seemed able to concentrate on was the delightfully detailed picture of her bottom the position afforded him. When she twisted to face him, his gaze switched to the hint of bosom peeking through the mass of hair.

  She lowered her leg, and placed her feet shoulder-width apart. Cheyna dropped her upper torso until her palms rested flat on the rough wood of the floor. Upside down, she looked between her legs and reminded him, "Sai and Kai. Last eve you called it a warrior's art."

  "What?" Drakthe dragged his gaze away from her posterior and met the gleaming blue eyes. "I remember. You insisted it was a form of meditation and exercise." If she didn't move soon, he was going to cross the room and shock his House-daughter right out of her calm, serene, little skull.

  "Drakthe! You still cannot believe it is more!" she scolded. "Come, my lord. I will prove you err." She straightened, placing her hands on her hips in clear challenge.

  The woman didn't know what she asked. His House-daughter was so naive she couldn't tell he was already half aroused. Drakthe knew if he came any closer than halfway across the room, he wouldn't be able to prevent himself from touching her. The smart thing to do was stay right where he was. He listed the reasons, they needed to get on the trail, others were trying to open the route, lingering in any one place was dangerous. Then he saw the laughing taunt in her eyes.

  His own narrowed. Perhaps not so naive, after all. He lowered his lashes, deciding to call his House-daughter's bluff.

  Throwing back the bedding, uncaring that the rich morn light outlined his growing arousal, he strode across the plank floor, coming to halt, little more than a breath between them. Her scent, warm, spicy and womanly, enhanced from her workout, rose to tease his senses.