A Warrior's Heart Page 5

  "I was in a hurry. Come on, let's go. I don't have all day."

  Cheyna had the astonishing impression her action made him uncomfortable. This time she was smart enough to hide her smile. "Yes, my lord, I am indeed ready."

  Her heart lighter than it had been since the start of her journey, Cheyna linked her arm with Drakthe's as they left the shaded coolness of the villa and joined the milling throng choking the thoroughfare.

  A city of great contrast, of poverty alongside wealth, tall, towering buildings stood cheek by jowl with squalid stalls. Dotted alongside the walkways, enormous hanging baskets of flowers added a brilliant counterpoint to dreary storefronts. Men and women of all ages shouted out to potential customers, argued over quality and prices, and generally added to the air of utter chaos. Children darted through the crowd, avoiding the hooves of startled taigers and the fists of their irate owners. The smell of cooking meat, perfume and refuse hovered in the stifling heat of the summer day.

  Busy taking it all in, Cheyna paid no heed to where they were going until Drakthe stopped in front of a small, inconspicuous building.

  Cheyna eyed it. Not even the Merchant Master's manners could be so lacking as to enter a private dwelling without permission, could they?

  They could.

  Drakthe opened the door and swept Cheyna inside before she could object. To her relief, she saw it was a shop.

  Arranged like the finest gemstones were bolts of cloth, from the highest quality caratek wool, so finely spun the weave was impossible to see, to expensive moonsilk. The shrewd display of fabrics, ranging from the palest hues to brilliant jeweled tones, intrigued Cheyna. One bolt in particular caught her eye and she stopped.

  "Welcome, my lord. As always, it is an honor to serve you. What can I do for you on this fine day?"

  Cheyna looked up. A woman, she assumed she was the owner of the shop, stared back with an assessing gaze. Cheyna saw several other things in her eyes as well: the eagerness of a businesswoman recognizing a substantial sale, speculation, and, overriding it all, curiosity.

  "My bond-promised requires a bonding outfit, tunics and breeches for travel, and several formal overdresses."

  "For travel, my lord?" the woman questioned with delicate interest.

  "For travel."

  Cheyna wondered that Drakthe's gaze didn't give the sempstress frostbite, it was that cold. She felt sorry for the poor woman.

  "Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord," the woman gushed, obviously realizing she had overstepped her bounds. Bypassing several rows of material of lesser quality, she led them to a selection of moonsilk. "My lady will look magnificent in this shade of pale gold. With her hair, it will provide the perfect frame."

  Drakthe slid the material through his fingers, the fragility of the moonsilk an evocative contrast to the masculine strength of his hand.

  The sempstress and Drakthe seemed content to complete the purchase without her. Cheyna deemed it time to remind them of her presence. "I will choose my own clothes, my lord." She lifted her chin when his head swung in her direction. "By myself."

  Drakthe's gaze locked with hers for an endless moment. Without taking his eyes from hers, Drakthe informed the shopkeeper, "Deliver whatever my bond-promised requires to High Lord Krthe's residence. Send the bill to me, I will pay." The words were a dismissal and the sempstress moved discreetly out of hearing.

  Cheyna thought she heard the door to the shop open, but couldn't take her eyes off Drakthe long enough to see whether someone had entered.

  "I hope you will not choose something inappropriate simply to make a statement?" He stroked the delicate material with the back of one finger. For some reason, the small gesture made her heart race.

  She remembered he'd asked her a question. "You can trust me."

  "Not if your appreciation of the tradewives' outfits is any indication," he muttered. "But, yes, though I may wind up ruing it later, I trust you not to deliberately tarnish my honor."

  Cheyna searched the savage face for mockery, and found none. Touched, she vowed, "Your honor is as mine."

  Scarred fingertips rasped along the high bones of her cheek. "I'm beginning to think you mean that, House-daughter," he whispered. Drakthe dropped his hand and strode to the door. In the opening, he turned.

  "When you are ready to return, send word to the villa and I will come get you."

  Cheyna swiftly hid her smile. Though the Merchant Master would never admit it, behind his curt tone lay concern for her welfare. "Yes, my lord."

  Drakthe stared hard for a moment. Then he nodded, and left.

  The sempstress, an interested spectator to the exchange, hurried over to Cheyna, removing the bolt of light gold moonsilk from the shelf. "My lady, I will have this made up in a bonding overdress. If you will step into the fitting room for measurement. . . ."

  "No," Cheyna announced, her eyes lingering on the door for a moment. Giving herself a mental shake, she walked to the bolt which had captured her interest. "I prefer this material." Moonsilk floated through her fingers, ripples of saturated blue to rival the color of the sun.

  "Gold is the traditional color for bonding," the woman objected, visibly alarmed at the thought of angering the Merchant Master. Cheyna was sure that if her hands had not been full of material, the shopkeeper would have been wringing them.

  "Merchant Master Fchion will not blame you," Cheyna reassured her. "He understands I am not a traditional bondmate." A small defiance, Cheyna assured herself, but not one likely to harm Drakthe.

  "I will also require three overdresses. Oh, and tunics. You will have to advise me on the proper style for travel."

  Several hours later, outside the sempstress's establishment and garbed in a ready-made outfit, Cheyna was well pleased. Not even Drakthe could quibble over her purchases, she thought in satisfaction. Cheyna flexed one foot, admiring her new slippers. Brightly colored and embroidered in moonsilk, she hadn't been able to resist them. The shoes wouldn't stand up to even a modest day's walk, but she didn't care. For the first time in her life, she didn't want to be practical.

  "I was inside when you entered with the Fire Krees. Did I hear right? Is he entering a trade-pact?" The voice behind her was light, amused.

  Cheyna turned and found herself confronting a woman with cropped hair so light it was almost white. The newcomer was wearing a tunic that bordered on indecent. The garment ended several inches above mid thigh. Cheyna blushed when she noticed the lace leggings the woman wore beneath it left little to the imagination.

  Just the kind of outfit Drakthe hated.

  Fascinated despite her embarrassment, Cheyna asked, "The Fire Krees?"

  "I don't believe it. You're going to bond with the man and you don't even know his reputation. Jney! Bthany! Come here. You won't believe this." Next door, a woman poked her head outside, her hair a riot of blonde curls. A darker head hovered behind hers in the doorway.

  "Are you a tradewife?" Cheyna gathered her nerve to ask the first woman. The women, with their sassy haircuts and short tunics, would have outraged Slia. It occurred to Cheyna that her foster mother and bond-promised had something in common.

  "Not currently." She glanced at Cheyna. "That is the arrangement you made with the Fire Krees?" she asked carefully. At Cheyna's nod, the woman grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the other shop.

  "Ladies, forget the spices. We have more important matters to which to attend. We're taking our new friend for a drink." She slanted a wise look down at the bemused Cheyna. "Hon, no offense, but you need smartening before you take on such a wily and experienced negotiator as the Fire Krees. We're just the ones to help. By the way, my name is Alia."

  Eager to learn about tradewives firsthand, Cheyna allowed herself to be swept away by her new friends. Wide-eyed, she soaked up the less than savory atmosphere of an actual pvern. She could imagine nothing further from the esoteric atmosphere on Rpiere.

  Mind-altering beverages were not used on her adopted planet except for medicinal purposes, and C
heyna was unsure whether she liked the taste of the deep crimson ale. By the third pvern, however, she found herself growing accustomed to the bitter brew. She forgot Drakthe's instructions to send for him as she joined in with the boisterous women intent on having a good time.

  Alia--that was the taller woman's name, she remembered fuzzily--and Jney were giving advice on a bond-of-trade. Cheyna nodded and smiled, not understanding half of what the women were saying.

  "Why do you call Drakthe the Fire Krees?" she asked, her words slurring just the tiniest bit. She had trouble forming the question. Lifting her mug, she frowned upon discovering it was empty. Actually, once one became accustomed to the sharp heaviness, the ale was quite good. She caught the tender's eye, and boldly signaled for another.

  "Because of his unnatural affinity with his krees, of course. It becomes an extension of him, slicing like fire through cloth. No man can match the Fire Krees in battle." Alia leaned across the table and lowered her voice. "They also say that during battle, the same deadly brilliance of the Fire of Destruction glows in his eyes." The blonde straightened and shrugged. "Or so rumor goes. In any event, the Fire Krees is alive." She took a hearty taste of her drink. "I wonder what made the Fire Krees lower himself to a trade-pact?"

  A man's ale-laden breath wafted between them, saving Cheyna from having to answer.

  "How much will it cost to join the fun?"

  Cheyna stared at him blankly until Alia told the drunken man to go screw himself and save some poor woman the trouble. Beginning to wish that she were elsewhere, Cheyna politely focused her eyes on her mug of ale, but it had lost its appeal.

  The man reached across her and grabbed Alia by the arm, berating her for coming on to him, promising a man a good time and then backing out. Out of the corner of her eye, Cheyna saw Jney lift her mug. Jney smashed it over the man's head and, for the first time in her life, Cheyna found herself in the middle of a free-for-all.

  The sudden shift to violence unnerved her. Nothing in all her experience prepared her for the deliberate brutality. Bodies went flying everywhere as bystanders joined in with horrifying relish.

  A man landed at Cheyna's brand new slippers. Seeing the dazed, pain-filled eyes, her NaturPath's empathic sense took control. She knelt to tend to his wounds.

  "Leave him, Cheyna," Alia advised hurriedly, eyeing the enthusiastic mob. "Someone's bound to have called the safeguards by now. We have to leave right now unless we want to be rounded up with the rest. Jkael, the Fire Krees will peel my hide for involving you in a brawl!" She tugged at Cheyna.

  Alia's callous attitude appalled Cheyna. Leave with men broken and bleeding all over the room? Surely Alia did not mean what she was saying? Could she not feel the waves of pain? The man at her feet groaned. Ignoring the entreaties of her new friend, Cheyna pressed her hand to the wounded man's bloody forehead. Her gaze turned inward.

  "Shh, my friend, I will help you. Trust me."

  Above her, Alia groaned in heartfelt dismay as she detected the stark darkness of safeguard uniforms coming through the doors. "May Jkael take my soul for taiger droppings. We're in for it. The safeguards have spotted us."

  Cheyna looked up at the man crossing the littered floor in their direction. "Request some bandages for me." She paused. "I will also require dzion ointment." She returned to stemming the blood flowing from the jagged slash, oblivious to her companions' disbelieving stares.

  Chapter 4

  "Soliciting!"

  Drakthe gripped Cheyna's upper arms. Hard. "I've spent half the night scouring this accursed city for you, my lady, and where do I find you? In safehouse and arrested for prostitution!"

  A vein thumped painfully in his temple. When Cheyna hadn't sent word for him to fetch her in time for evening meal, he'd immediately jumped to the conclusion she was intent on proving her independence. He had waited an additional two hours, growing more infuriated as the clock marked each passing minute. Anger turned to worry when full night fell and he had yet to hear from her. For a naive daughter of a backward House trouble was all too easy to find.

  Or have it find her.

  Cheyna, with her quaint, old-fashioned mannerisms, had about as much protection as the thornless dtarni flower. Untamed men filled Class--men who would find the allure of sun-blue eyes and a mane of wild moonsilk irresistible, men who would not hesitate to take what they wanted.

  Unless the little idiot had the sense to proclaim she was the Fire Krees' woman.

  Drakthe remembered his fury when Jaab tracked him down several hours later with a message from Cheyna. Jaab, familiar with his many dark moods, had been moved to caution him against rash behavior as he passed the missive.

  The warning had made sense when he read the note. Even now, just thinking about its contents was enough to raise his blood pressure several more points.

  Drakthe stared down at the woman clutching the front of his shirt. He felt a betraying tic at the corner of his left eye as he caught the unmistakable odor of liquor and saw the gentle bemusement on Cheyna's face. His naive House-daughter was drunk.

  Blind to his rage, she turned her head to smile in triumphant at the women behind her. "See. I told you Drakthe would come."

  His hands spasmed shut on the fragile bones of her wrists, causing her to glanced up inquiringly, that ridiculous smile still pasted on her face.

  "Uh, my lord, you know this woman?" the safehouse's keeper asked, careful to keep a safe distance between himself and his powerful visitor.

  Cheyna, her hands braced on his chest, glared at the keeper with bleary hauteur. "Of course he knows me! I am his bond-promised." She swayed as she tilted her head back to tell Drakthe, "I told him you would straighten this whole mess out and release us from this horrid place." She winced as his grip involuntarily tightened.

  Drakthe couldn't tear his gaze from her upturned face. "What is the full extent of the charges?" he demanded, his voice raw with restraint.

  The keeper squirmed, his gaze sliding to the stone floor. "Public drunkenness, starting a brawl and soliciting." He cleared his throat, the implications of arresting the Merchant Master's bond-promised obviously just hitting him.

  "Starting a brawl!" Taking a deep breath, Drakthe made a conscious effort to relax his grip on Cheyna. Never before had he wanted to strip the hide from a woman with a tleera belt and the fool woman just kept staring up at him with joyful and trusting blue eyes. "Who, exactly, is pressing charges?"

  It wouldn't do for the Merchant Master to kill his bond-promised before witnesses. He'd wait until they were in private, Drakthe decided in savage anticipation.

  "Well...no one. The owner of the pvern called us in to control a brawl. We found milady and her friends bent over a man. He was bleeding profusely."

  "Of course I was bent over the man. I was attempting to aid him."

  Drakthe ignored Cheyna and concentrated on what the keeper was saying.

  "One man complained she solicited him and then made a fool of him," the man cited weakly, clearing his throat again.

  "What of the pvern owner? Does he wish to press for damages?" Drakthe ignored the persistent tugging at his sleeve.

  "Drakthe, I was...."

  Both men acted as if Cheyna hadn't spoken.

  "Well, much wasn't broken outside some mugs and chairs."

  "Inform the owner I will make reparation. If no one is making a formal complaint, I see no reason my bond-promised cannot leave. Do you?" Drakthe turned his head and pinned the man with a lethal glance.

  "No. No, my lord," he was quickly assured. "If you will just sign...."

  Cheyna tugged harder, insisting on his attention. "But, Drakthe, what of my friends? I cannot go to my bed and leave them here."

  For a moment, a red mist curtained his vision. Drakthe closed his eyes and counted all the ways he'd make Cheyna regret she'd ever thought to disregard his orders. When he reached thirty-five, he gave up and opened his eyes. "I suggest you take care not to push me any further tonight, House-daughter."

/>   The three women still in the cell echoed his warning. "Forget us. We can take care of ourselves."

  Cheyna looked shocked. "Never," she declared. "You are my friends. I will not desert you. Besides, Drakthe will not mind."

  "Cheyna, they are well equipped to spend one--" Drakthe began, exasperated.

  "Please, my lord." She stared up at him, her eyes pleading for his agreement. "They are my friends and I had so much fun tonight. Please."

  Her insistence baffled him, but it was easy to see she wanted this very badly. "Will you grant me a boon if I do as you ask?"

  She did not hesitate. "Anything. Just tell me what you want in return."

  "Just like that? No querying what I want first? No attempts to bargain?" He lowered his brows. "You aren't under the misapprehension that I'll let you slide out of the deal later, are you? If so, you are misleading only yourself." Drakthe intended to make sure there could be no misunderstanding his terms. "Once I do as you ask, I'll be free to demand whatever I please and you'll be honor bound to carry through on your promise."

  Certain she'd see the foolishness of her request now and reconsider, Drakthe waited.

  Cheyna freed one hand and touched Drakthe's hard jaw. "I trust you." A flame flared to life in his gold eyes. Her heart lurched in response, and began beating faster.

  "Release them." He tossed the command over his shoulder to the keeper, his eyes not leaving hers. "I'll stand for my bondmate's friends' share of the damage." The keeper hurried to obey. "Let's go, Cheyna." He turned to leave, his cape flapping like huge wings with his impatience.

  "Oh, wait! Alia, Jney, Bthany, I want to invite you to my bonding. Will you come?"

  "Uh, Cheyna, I don't think that would be such a good idea," Alia said, eyeing Drakthe warily.

  "Nonsense," Cheyna declared.

  "Neither do I. Let us leave, Cheyna," Drakthe ordered, taking her by the arm.

  "Drakthe!" Cheyna rounded on him, embarrassed and appalled at his lack of manners. "My lord, might I remind you that I have no one in the city to stand with me. Will you deny me the right of asking friends of my choosing to support me?" Jkael take the man, she swore, unconsciously falling into Drakthe's habit of cursing. The man was impossible.