A Warrior's Heart Read online

  The compelling gold eyes turned molten. One hand, the palm and fingertips roughened, descended on the bones of her neck, the thumb resting in the vulnerable hollow of her throat while long fingers cupped her nape. He exerted just enough pressure to make Cheyna excruciatingly aware of her danger. Beneath his thumb, her pulse skittered in an erratic beat. He pressed a little harder.

  "At last you have the sense to fear me," he drawled from deep in the back of his throat. "Feel how my hand circles your neck? Without effort I could break it. Kill you for your impudence. No one," he informed her, his voice level and whisper soft, "takes from me what is mine."

  Heart racing, Cheyna met eyes of fire, eyes that promised death and hell in their searing glance. "Then kill me, Merchant Master, and kill your best opportunity for fulfilling your dreams because along with me they die."

  The hand cupping her neck tightened, stopping just short of the point of pain. "I have no guarantee the NaturPaths will even talk to you," he snarled.

  Aware that the slightest push could send the furious man over the edge, she remained motionless. "If I do not succeed, I gain nothing but a ride back to Class." Her cup of cooling tea in one hand, Cheyna risked placing the other on his wrist, vibrantly alive to its corded strength. "That alone will warrant my complete cooperation." Beneath her touch, the sinews and tendons of his arm throbbed with leashed power.

  "You will abide by my every command," he growled. "You will not question any order I give. None. Is that understood?" Seething fury burned out of the Merchant Master's gold eyes, a fire hot enough to melt volcanic ice.

  Despite his restraining hand, Cheyna lifted her chin. Did he believe he could browbeat her--a man who made his living by violence? A warrior? An unfamiliar anger of her own began to unfurl, only to cool at the echo of Slia's wise counsel.

  Easy, my cub-daughter, easy. A soft word will gain more than a harsh one. You have won the most important battle. Do not lose the war.

  Her chin lost its regal tilt. She lowered her eyes and bowed her neck in a gesture of appeasement.

  "I will do as you bid, my lord."

  Drakthe glared down at the woman, taken aback by her sudden surrender. He felt cheated of his prey. He suspected the House-daughter of mocking him, but when he met her gaze he saw only honesty. Some of his fury at having to bargain away half his profit drained away. His hand fell to his thigh where it clenched as if he could still feel the silky softness of her skin beneath his fingers.

  "We'll leave as soon as I pack," he said, his voice harsh to counter the sensation. When she acknowledged his order with a regal nod, Drakthe saw the faint imprints his fingers had left on the nape of her neck. The sight of the red marks marring the creamy skin caused an unfamiliar emotion to well. It took Drakthe a minute to place it.

  Guilt.

  "My lord?"

  "My name is Drakthe Fchion," he said, his voice gruff as he tried to come to terms with the new emotion.

  "Is it not proper for a bondwife to call her mate my lord?"

  "Ours is a bond-of-trade. I prefer that you address me by my given name." Drakthe hid his discomfort by moving to check on the fire. "What did you want?" He shook the sleeprugs with a sharp motion to dislodge any unwanted guests and made swift work of rolling the bedding so it could be secured behind the saddles. Drakthe stuffed the rest of his gear into a pack.

  "Yes...Drakthe." She tripped over his name. "I was wondering if you had the contract for our bonding with you so we could record our agreement."

  Drakthe concentrated on fastening the pack. Not until he was finished did he turn slowly. "You asked me earlier if nothing was inviolate on Scimtar. There is. My word. You'll have to trust I will uphold my end of the bargain." Tension tightened his muscles. To his surprise, she bowed her head in that graceful manner she had.

  "I bind my honor with yours."

  At the ancient words of acceptance, something inside him relaxed.

  "My lord?"

  "Drakthe," he corrected absently, mulling over the implications of Cheyna's willingness to trust he would keep his word.

  She hesitated a moment. "Are all my possessions still on the travel-train?"

  She gained his full attention then. "A curse on Jkael! Lady, I had my hands full with you. I was not about to tote your baggage!"

  "Then I am to assume you will provide a bonding outfit and travel clothes as mine remain on the train." A hint of sarcasm seeped through the refined tones.

  "Of course I will." He scowled. Jkael, he was unused to making allowance for another's comfort. Especially a woman's. Drakthe remembered the oft-overheard complaints about the extra care a tradewife demanded of a man. Now he wished he had listened with greater attention.

  He hefted the pack in his left hand, keeping his face turned from her watchful gaze. Not only had he failed to consider the matter of her clothing, but also Lord Lcrier's bond-contract. He'd have to see about making reparations there, too. Drakthe added the additional expense in his head. Immediate gain from the trade-train shrank at an alarming rate.

  His mood soured even more. He'd bet an indecent amount of drekel the 'biddable' House-daughter wouldn't part with a single credit for any expense incurred on her behalf. The leather crumpled under his grip. Without a word, he stalked outside.

  He threw a saddle over his mount and cinched the girth with a quick, impatient motion. Sensing his mood, the male taiger gave a low growl of sympathy and butted Drakthe in the chest. Then, snaking his neck toward the smaller female, the animal bared his teeth and laid his ears back.

  The female turned her head, supremely unimpressed by the bluster.

  Diverted from his unpleasant speculations, Drakthe smoothed a hand down the glossy, mahogany hide. "Yeah, I know. Me, too." Reminded of his own inability to put the little House-daughter in her place, he finished saddling the animals, his jaw locked.

  The cool mist of the morn nothing more than wishful memory, Cheyna plucked at the material of her elegant overdress as it clung to her skin. Both she and the overdress had wilted hours ago in the unremitting humidity. Not a breath of air stirred as Drakthe pushed with grim resolve through the dense green growth, following a trail she couldn't see. Even the ear-shattering chorus of birds was, for the moment, blessedly silent.

  She licked her lips, amazed in air so wet she could be so dry. She resisted the urge to ask if they could take a rest. Drakthe had made it very clear he wanted as little to do with her as possible.

  To be blunt, the Merchant Master ignored her.

  Cheyna, mouth set in a firm line, decided she was growing tired of staring at the Merchant Master's broad back. After three days she knew that rigid length of spine every bit as well as she knew her own hand. She shifted her weight in the saddle to ease the stiffness in her own spine. When that didn't help the ache, she rubbed her lower back and listed her complaints.

  She was tired. Tired of her taiger's bone-jarring gait, tired of not being treated with the comforting formality to which she was accustomed, and tired of the geekt-headed man setting the killing pace.

  She was tired.

  Her teeth snapped together. She would not reproach him, though. Oh, no, she refused to give the Merchant Master that pleasure. Sweat ran down her neck and pooled between her breasts, mocking her resolve. Cheyna gripped her mount's sides with knees that trembled. He would see, she vowed, no matter what pace he set, she would not fall behind.

  A Tyrian dusk had descended by the time they stopped at a dilapidated resthouse. Exhausted by the unrelenting pace and close humidity of the lush planet, Cheyna did not care about its condition. If it had a sleeping pallet, she'd be content. All she wanted was to find a few hours oblivion from the pall of weariness weighing her down.

  Saints, she was tired. Every bone in her body ached and the headache from the stun baton had returned with a vengeance. If Drakthe's aim had been to make her aware of his displeasure with their bargain, he had succeeded.

  Cheyna slumped in the saddle, watching through bleary eye
s as Drakthe made short work of looking after his animal. He was inside the resthouse before she could muster the energy to dismount. She groaned as she threw a leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. Her knees gave way. Cheyna grabbed hold of the saddle horn and held on for dear life.

  She leaned her hot, aching brow against the worn leather, finding comfort from its warm surface despite the heat. Her eyes drifted closed. Perhaps she would spend the night right here.

  The taiger stomped, jarring Cheyna from her half-stupor. Sighing, she managed to stand upright. Her arm feeling almost too heavy to lift, Cheyna patted the animal's sweat-dampened shoulder.

  "Sorry, girl. I know you are just as tired as I am, probably more so. You had to do all the walking. Slia would fuss if she knew I left you unattended. Slia is my mother. Well, foster mother really," she confided to her mount. The animal's ears twitched.

  "Do not think me weak. I am accustomed to hard work." Despite her longing to leave the taiger and go collapse inside the shelter, a strong sense of responsibility spurred Cheyna to ignore her own fatigue. She worked at the intricate knot securing the saddle.

  "The Raipier," she told the perplexed animal as she tugged at the uncooperative strap, "though scholarly and technologically minded, prefer the old methods for day to day living. They believe to hone the mind, you must first strengthen the body." She removed the saddle, staggering a little under its weight. Cheyna draped it over a corral post, grunting with the effort to lift the heavy saddle to the topmost bar.

  "Most of the time I agree," she said as she returned to the animal's side. Bathed in the light of the twin moons, Amranth and Ndigo, Cheyna began wiping down the weary animal with a soft cloth. "Tonight, I--" she lowered her voice. "Promise not to tell?" The taiger's ears twitched once. Cheyna took that as agreement. "Tonight, tonight I wish I could snap my fingers and our journey would be magically completed."

  She gave a soft laugh. "Silly, huh?" The brisk rub slowed to long, slow sweeps. Her female taiger purred with pleasure. The animal stamped a hoof and snuffled through her nostrils. Cheyna almost swore the taiger was in accord with her.

  She opened the corral gate and led her animal inside, shooting a disgruntled glare at Drakthe's taiger as his cloven hoof whooshed by her head, missing her by mere inches. A glittering green gaze filled with malevolence, followed her as she firmly closed the gate behind her.

  Surly beast. He possessed the manners of his master.

  Just outside the door of the resthouse, Cheyna tried to shake the wrinkles from her overdress, though why she bothered she didn't know. Only Drakthe would see her and did she really care what he thought of her? She gave the gown one last shake.

  The moment she stepped inside, the aroma of prepackaged stew hit her. Her stomach did a queer little flip. Cheyna swallowed hard and steered a path around the fire. Her gaze fixed on the floor, she made her way to the pallet cast in half-shadow.

  Cheyna began the calming ritual of Sai and Kai.

  Drakthe watched Cheyna.

  He had little experience with women such as the House-daughter. His duties for Krthe required far too much time and energy to leave him free to hunt up company. In any event, he preferred the wilds of the North Continent to having some woman want to spend time with him just because of his reputation. He'd learned long ago that fleeting moments of pleasure was poor recompense for the distaste left in his mouth afterwards.

  Drakthe admitted to himself that for the first time in his life he hadn't the slightest idea of how to proceed. Now that the House-daughter was his, he hadn't a clue what to do with her.

  His hand clutched about his spoon, the knuckles whitening with the force. He spooned food into his mouth without tasting it. What was she thinking? Was she regretting their bargain? She'd turned her back to him the moment she walked in the door. Did the House-daughter think she was so far above him that she couldn't bear being in his company? Was her silence her way of warning him that while she might have made a bargain with him, she had no intention of associating with him?

  Anger gnawed at Drakthe's gut. Jkael, at the start of their journey the woman wouldn't shut up.

  Or was she mad because he wouldn't dance attendance on her?

  The more he thought about it, the more sense that last made.

  The Daughter of a House, she was probably accustomed to everyone falling all over themselves to see to her comfort. Well, it was time the House-daughter learned what the life of a tradewife was like.

  "Quit sulking and eat."

  Without warning, Drakthe found himself engulfed in a firestorm. Cheyna jumped to her feet and whirled to face him, the rich blue of her overdress swirling in a dizzying shimmer around her slender figure.

  "Sulking! You accuse me of sulking? Listen, my lord,"--the title sounded like something you couldn't repeat in polite society--"I am tired, too tired to eat, too tired to sleep. For the first time in my entire life, I have not freshened in three days. Three days! My head is threatening to separate from my neck, a reminder of that nasty little trick you used to stun me. I am sick to my stomach and I am sick of traveling with a sullen man who pouts when the bargain he has forced turns out differently than he expected."

  Cheyna shuddered to a halt and stared at him with a stricken expression. She sank down on the edge of the pallet, averting her face.

  Drakthe sat there for a moment, then got to his feet. "For a properly raised Daughter of a House, you have quite a temper." He settled next to her on the pallet. The thin mattress dipped beneath his weight. He saw tears glisten on her lashes. Something inside him twisted.

  He moved closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. When she didn't object to his touch, he began working the tense muscles. He was so close he could smell her warm womanly scent, so close his breath brushed the fine hairs on her neck.

  "Why did you not say the pace was too harsh?"

  She didn't to answer. Drakthe mulled over her silence, his fingers finding each knot and kneading until it relaxed.

  "Ah, I think I see. Pride. After I refused to take part in your attempts at conversation, your pride refused to allow you to be the first to cry quit."

  "I can understand pride," he said after a long pause. "You learn pride early when you're on the streets with no House name or family to protect you."

  The straight line of her back began curving toward him. "It must have been hard without family. Were yours killed during the Great Battle of Destruction?"

  "It's possible my father was. My mother always maintained that he belonged to the Great Lord's houseguards." He couldn't prevent a bleak smile from shaping his mouth. "She died during that time, at the hands of a jealous lover. I was seven."

  Drakthe came back from the dark hell of his past, aware of the renewed tension in the slender woman. He'd dimmed the cryslight before joining her, leaving only the muted glow of the fire to light the room. In the gloom, he was all too conscious of her scent, the sound of her breathing, and of the rapid beat of her heart against his chest. Not wanting to lose the harmony between them, he sought a way to lighten the taut atmosphere.

  "How does a daughter of a backward House come by pride?"

  "Good breeding, my lord, good breeding," she said, then laughed, a pure mischievous sound that coaxed a genuine smile to his lips.

  "I suppose I asked for that. Okay, then tell me how a woman of good breeding comes to participate in a bond-of-trade?" He settled her a fraction closer. A tiny wisp of a sigh escaped her as he massaged her temples.

  She was silent for a long time. The flickering, sporadic light of the tangi wood fire warmed one side of her face while casting intriguing shadows on the other. From his vantage point, her head resting on his shoulder, Drakthe could see every expression that chased across her face, a face oddly expressive for being so serene. He saw the strength in the fine bones of her face, a strength that warned him not to be too hasty in his judgement. A strong need to know what motivated a woman of Cheyna's obvious class to engage in a trade-pact came from out
of nowhere.

  Drakthe thought she might have fallen asleep until, her eyes closed, she began speaking.

  "Do you know what it is to wake up one morn and discover that you want more than tradition, more than duty? That after years of being content, a hunger lives inside you?" She spoke quicker, as if just recognizing the depth of her discontent herself. "I know it must seem I am throwing away all you have fought for, but can you understand what that is like?" A vulnerable, wistful droop tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  Drakthe resisted the impulse to kiss it away. When he spoke, his breath warmed the shell of her ear. "I, more than anyone, understand. Being denied roots makes one all-the-more determined to sink them deep. Life has taught me is that we all trade one thing or another to realize a dream." Drakthe saw Cheyna touch something under her bodice, caressing it. He remembered she did the same thing that first night.

  "What is that?"

  Cheyna turned, lifting a pendant from beneath her overdress. "This?" She held it up for him to see. "It is a bonding gift from my parents."

  Drakthe slipped his hand under the pendant and cradled it with exquisite care. Against the breadth of his hand, it looked ridiculously fragile, as if by just closing his hand he could reduce it to dust. He studied the small jewel. "It's very beautiful. Your parents must care for you very much."

  The craftsmanship of the pendant, fashioned into the shape of a krees and sheathe, was extraordinary. The visible hilt of the serpentine blade was wrought of silver, the sheathe carved from a single black crystal.

  Drakthe frowned and peered closer. Contained within the sheathe's curved surface, a hypnotic, ever-changing clash of colors swirled. He'd never seen a stone like it before.

  Fascinated, Drakthe concentrated harder. His palm tingled.

  Drakthe dropped the pendant as if burnt.