A Warrior's Heart Read online

  Strong fingers closed on her chin. "You promise to grant me anything I wish?" he grated, his grip just short of painful. "No hedging at the last moment?"

  "I always keep my word." She refused to back down. This was too important to her. Her family was on Rpiere. She wanted her friends to stand with her.

  "Done. I'll send word of the date and hour." His large hand circled her wrist as he steered her out of the room. Once outside, he informed her, his tone hard, "It is too late to change your mind now."

  "I know." The numbing effect of the strong ale began wearing off in the damp coolness of night. Left in its wake was the remembrance of blood and deliberately inflicted pain.

  Cheyna held her tongue and walked beside Drakthe, letting the walk and the night air cool his temper. It was funny, she mused, how well she was coming to know this man. Not for a single second had she doubted he would come to her rescue. She had expected him to be a little upset with her recklessness, but still she had known Drakthe would not leave her to languish in safehouse.

  It would, Cheyna concluded wryly, deny him the chance to vent his ire. Although, now that she thought about it, he had shown remarkable restraint. Rage had burned in his eyes, but other than the strange promise he had extracted, he had let very little of his legendary temper surface.

  Cheyna wondered what that meant.

  "Have you no more brains than a tlinga?" he demanded, the words sounding torn from him. "Getting drunk with women you don't even know and becoming involved in a common brawl!"

  A resigned sigh slipped through Cheyna's lips. So much for restraint. Obviously, the dark rage she foolishly thought subsiding was merely getting a second wind. She winced at his insult. Tlinga birds were widely prized for their colorful plumage and their lack of brains that made catching them cubs play.

  "I was having fun," she offered quietly. "I liked them." She cocked her head to one side. "Am I drunk?"

  "Out of your proper little skull." A touch of amused exasperation entered the deep tones. "Just what were you drinking tonight?"

  She fluttered a hand, the one he didn't have leashed. "Something called moon ale, or something like that."

  "Amranth moon ale! You little fool, it's no wonder you're drunk. A couple of mugs can put a man my size under the table. Even that backwater village you call home must have heard of its reputation. Didn't you realize how potent it was?" He steadied her as she stumbled over a curb, his annoyance plain on his face.

  "No."

  He closed his eyes. "Saints give me patience," he muttered. His eyes snapped open. "Another mug and you wouldn't even remember your own name. It's nothing short of a miracle you can walk." His dark voice was scathing, all traces of amusement erased.

  With the careful dignity of the inebriated, Cheyna removed her hand from his arm. "You do not need to insult me." She chose to interpret his silence as a sign she had made her point.

  Only a single liquid crystal lamp remained burning outside the villa. For the first time she realized how late it was. The other occupants were long asleep. Chastened, she allowed Drakthe to lead her through a side door without protest.

  Tonight, Amranth was the stronger of the two moons, Ndigo on the wane. In the central courtyard, Cheyna stole a glance at her bond-promised. The light of the moon turned the blunt planes and angles of Drakthe's face to crimson stone.

  She shivered, uneasy all at once.

  Outside the Aqryne room, she turned with relief to say good night.

  "Not so fast, House-daughter." Drakthe shoved past her, into the chamber, holding the door open with mock politeness.

  Cheyna had the feeling he was willing to stand there until morn. Filled with an odd reluctance, she ventured inside, drawing a deep breath as the door shut behind her with a quiet finality.

  "There is the matter of your promise."

  "Surely that can wait for morn light. It is not proper for you to be in my chamber." Cheyna hovered by the door.

  He crossed the room and adjusted the liquid crystal lamp until it gave off a dim light. His expression was grim when he turned back to her. "It's a bit late to worry about propriety at this date. The point is moot anyway. We bond as of tomorrow."

  "But we have agreed on three days hence." Cheyna knew the protest was feeble, but it was all she could think to say at the moment.

  "In return for freeing you and your 'friends'," the word sounded like a sour taste in his mouth, "you promised to grant me anything I requested," he reminded her, his voice harsh. "I claim our immediate bonding as my boon."

  "Why?" she demanded, before understanding dawned. She felt her face stiffen as she tried to deal with the unpleasant knowledge. "I see. You do not trust me to honor my word to bond with you," she whispered.

  "Don't be an idiot. I want us to bond on the morrow so I can control your actions. As my bondmate, you will have to do as I say!" Drakthe snapped, sounding goaded.

  "Control! This is about control?" Cheyna drew herself up. "We have a partnership, my lord." Her shoulders slumped all at once. "This is not about control, though, is it? It is about honor and belief in that honor. You do not trust me even yet." Cheyna fought to hide her devastation at the revelation. Staring past his shoulder, she refused to meet his eyes.

  A short, potent silence fell, then, with deadly precision, "I trusted you with my honor today."

  Cheyna's gaze flew up, meeting his enigmatic one. Distressed, she took an involuntary step forward. Her hands twisted in her burnuese. "I did nothing to harm your honor!"

  "Do you call getting arrested and thrown into safehouse protecting my honor?" Voice hard, he threw the question at her.

  "That was a mistake!" she cried, ashamed to realize she had not considered the effect of her actions on Drakthe. Oh, she wished she had never come to Scimtar. On Rpiere she would have never dreamed of behaving in so irresponsible a manner. She had changed since her arrival, and not for the better. It would deeply distress Sbraithe and Slia to learn of her lapse.

  "One that will be spread by morrow's eve. Every tongue will wag with the news that the Merchant Master cannot manage his bond-promised. Whispers that the Merchant Master grows weak will spread faster than the Fire of Destruction." He stared down his nose at her, daring her to deny the truth of his statement.

  "My lord, I am truly sorry. I did not stop to think." Near tears at the harm, however unintentional, her actions had caused, she touched his arm, very much aware of the tensile strength beneath the soft material.

  "Do you really mean that?" he asked, his thoughts veiled from her.

  "Of course I do. I never meant to cause you harm, my lord. I only wished to have a little fun with my new friends."

  "You've never had much fun, have you?" Drakthe asked with unexpected understanding.

  "No. No, not like that. Not just for amusement's sake." Her hand fell to her side. Eyes downcast, she smoothed one finger up and down the silky material of her overdress. "That is no excuse, however. Your honor should have been kept in the front of my thoughts." Just as she should have kept her mission forefront in her mind. Despite the vital importance of it, she had cavorted like a cub before training.

  "Bond with me on the morrow. Restore my prestige."

  Cheyna searched his eyes, trying to see past that enigmatic shield guarding his thoughts. She couldn't. She took a deep breath. She must rectify the wrong done to Drakthe. Bowing her head, she folded her hands at her waist. "The Daughter of the House of Flowing Water regrets the damage done to Merchant Master Fchion, and offers reparation. I will bond with thee on the morrow."

  Drakthe went utterly still at her declaration.

  Convinced he had doubts, Cheyna lifted her head to explain he need not be concerned about her behavior in the future, only to find her lips parting under the urgent warmth of his mouth. Drakthe's tongue surged inside, tangling with hers.

  Shocked by the unexpected assault, she struggled at the unfamiliar intimacy, her hands fisted against his chest. Heat radiated from his body, wrapping around a
nd enfolding her into its embrace. Her struggle died. Drakthe's hands moved up and down her back, soothing and arousing her at the same time. Her hands flattened. Beneath her palms, his heart thundered. She skimmed her hands tentatively over his chest, delighted when powerful muscles rippled at her touch. Held close to Drakthe's massive strength, she gave herself up to this exotic new world of sensation.

  He ravaged her mouth, his tongue exploring the dark recess with devastating thoroughness. He tasted dark, warm and male. Her arms crept around his neck. She found the thong restraining his hair, and released it so she could ruffle the dark pelt. Drakthe groaned. A small spurt of power filled Cheyna at the husky sound.

  Drakthe tore his mouth from Cheyna's. He fought to steady his breathing. Jkael, he hadn't expected his blood to burn with need so fast. "I wonder what your response would be if I said my bargain included consummating our bonding tonight?"

  Her gaze as mysterious and shaded as the night, Cheyna asked, "Are you going to say that?"

  Drakthe stared down at the woman standing with in the circle of his arms. He doubted she realized her fingers were drawing erotic patterns on the nape of his neck. A man could drown in eyes blue as the sun. Drakthe shook himself.

  "No, I am not." He read the question in her eyes. "Tonight I was more furious than I can ever remember being before. More than my pride was involved. I was--" he hesitated, searching for the right words, "worried you were injured, and angry your lateness might be a ploy to punish me. Whatever your reasons, I won't make that a condition of our bargain."

  "Why?" A delicate flush rushed up and stained her cheeks.

  "Because if I do, you will forever believe it was a lack of trust on my part," he admitted. "You trusted me tonight. A somewhat...unusual experience." His breath caught as a heartbreaking smile lit the fine-boned strength of Cheyna's face.

  One hand slid from behind his neck, and up to caress his cheek with a light touch. "I thank thee."

  "Don't thank me," he rasped, moving her fingers with contrasting gentleness. "I have a nasty feeling I'm going to regret this before the break of day."

  "The Merchant Master is unfamiliar with the role of gentleman?" she teased, the warmth in her eyes belying her solemn expression.

  "The Merchant Master finds it...different." A wry tilt lifted one corner of his mouth. "It is not a role to which I am accustomed."

  "I trust your ability to cope with any situation, however unique." Her fingers wriggled in his hold, the innocent gesture raising his blood pressure another notch.

  "If my lady insists on provoking her lord, she will learn the scope of the Merchant Master's limits," he threatened without heat, his earlier anger completely banished. It seemed the daughter of a declining House possessed the instinctive skill of diffusing the wrath of the Fire Krees. The House-daughter was dangerous to his self-control. Something he would do well to remember.

  "Is my lord condescending to admit that a House-daughter has the power to beset a powerful Merchant Master?" Cheyna grinned, the mischievous tilt to her lips fracturing her air of dignity.

  "My lord knows the value of strategic retreat. Until the morrow, my lady." Drakthe backed out of the heady atmosphere of the bedchamber, shutting the door hastily behind him.

  Jkael, talk about close! His lady would never know just how close he had come to claiming her. But he had something to prove to Cheyna, and to himself. His hormones would not rule him. All his life, he had based his decisions on calm, logical reasoning. He wasn't going to change now. Drakthe did his best to ignore the ache pooling in his lower body.

  The inexplicable need to win Cheyna's approval had nothing whatsoever to do with his decision. No, he had a much more basic reason than that. She was too fond of getting her own way. Look at the way she had blackmailed him out of half his profit. The House-daughter needed to learn he wasn't at the mercy of his needs. Best she learned it early. The throbbing in his lower body intensified, mocking him.

  Cursing himself and cursing innocent blue eyes, Drakthe stalked the darkened halls back to his own chamber.

  * * *

  High Lord Krthe pulled off a minor miracle. Men and women from the most respected Houses assembled for the bonding ceremony between the Fire Krees and an unknown House-daughter. The guests, spectacular in brilliantly-hued cutaways and overdresses, resembled a flock of tlinga birds as they dove and flitted about the room, chattering.

  They crowded the High Lord's villa, each determined to spread the latest gossip. Speculation at the hastiness of the bonding became a muted rumble in the hall. Lord Lcrier, someone whispered, complained bitterly of the theft of his bond-promised, and had hinted the lady in question was under duress to comply. Coercion would explain the unseemly haste of the ceremony.

  No, contradicted another, the Merchant Master needs an official position from which to chastise his bondmate. She is wild, out of control. Why, it is common knowledge that she roams the city every night--without the Merchant Master. Several guests snickered.

  Wrong, everyone one of you, wrong. Surely even a simpleton can deduce the obvious reason for the traditional bonding instead of a standard trade-bonding. The woman is with child. House-daughter or not, her morals match those of her bastard warrior's. Knowing heads nodded.

  Drakthe, well aware of the rampant speculation about the unusual ceremony binding a trade-pact, clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. His hand inched toward his krees before he reined in his temper. The derogatory remarks concerning his ancestry no longer possessed the power to wound his pride. He had learned to shut them out long ago. No, it was the snide comments and observations about Cheyna that filled him with the need to strike.

  He stood just inside the entrance of the great hall, the unrelieved black of his cloak swirling about his shoulders. Drakthe knew he presented a somber and intimidating picture. He had, in fact, cultivated it. Savage satisfaction glittered from his eyes as fear, like the point of a krees, pricked between the shoulders of the more malicious gossips.

  Talk dwindled to a standstill as each wondered whether the Fire Krees had heard their less than flattering remarks.

  "It is considered uncouth to kill guests at your own bonding ceremony, Drakthe," High Lord Krthe chided, his dark gaze considering the Merchant Master thoughtfully.

  "Why should they expect better of a houseless bastard?" Drakthe asked, spearing one unfortunate man in place with a glare.

  "Because your bond-promised would never forgive you."

  "Which is why no blood stains the tiles." He switched his attention to another guest. "I will not stand having her maligned."

  "Stop scowling at everyone. You've made your point. Your guests are well aware of that now, even if they weren't before. Your decision to make this bonding traditional precipitated the gossip, so you have no one to blame but yourself if people talk." Krthe gave an austere nod to a member of the High Council. "I admit to a slight curiosity myself." The High Lord seemed amused by Drakthe's reaction to the scandal he had created.

  "I will not have Cheyna embarrassed," Drakthe stated, ignoring the gentle hint. He stared at the member of the High Council. The man hunched his shoulders and tried to melt into the crowd, a difficult task when attired in amranth red.

  "See? No one dares offend the Merchant Master."

  Someone giggled. Drakthe whipped his head around, glaring at the offender.

  A potent silence fell as everyone waited to see what the Fire Krees would do.

  A delicate tracing of chimes shattered the uneasy stillness. Once, twice, thrice they tolled, the traditional signal that bonding was to commence.

  Nerves tightened his stomach as he strode through the crowd and out into the central courtyard where an Elder Sere in pale blue robes waited. Drakthe was vaguely aware of the others following him. He took his place in front of the Sere.

  Eventide, the traditional hour of bonding, a time when day merges with night, as woman merges with man. Man, the dark end of the Prisma, full of violence, woman the light, gifted wit
h the power of healing. Consonance could not exist until the two joined, giving strength one to the other.

  A hushed murmur rippled through the crowd. He turned. Framed in the archway stood Cheyna. Even in the dim light she glowed.

  Drakthe's very breath caught in his chest. The brilliant cobalt blue of her bonding burnuese made a striking background for the blood red webbing of her braids.

  An involuntary smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Leave it to Cheyna to defy tradition. He had wondered if she would find the nerve. Drakthe shook his head. He should have known better. Amused, he decided it was a good thing he was a cautious man by nature and had prepared for the worse by wearing stark, unrelieved black. He couldn't have balanced an outfit with the strength of the sun otherwise.

  She walked down the aisle toward him.

  Cheyna willed the weekets fluttering in her stomach to be still as a mass of strange faces turned toward her. On many of those faces she saw disbelief and disdain. Her chin rose in response. How dare they presume to censor her? With regal arrogance, Cheyna swayed down the cleared path, her gaze locked on the man waiting for her. She saw approval in his eyes.

  Also gleaming in those remarkable golden eyes, were fierce pride, stubborn determination and a consuming hunger. That last awoke memories of early morn passion. Warmth stole over her, chasing away the chill of nerves.

  Her response to Drakthe's kiss had taken her aback. She had never given any thought to whether she was a passionate person. Oh, she knew what took place between a man and a woman, after all, as the Clan's NaturPath she was accustomed to all aspects of life and death. She had just never connected that passion with her own person. Not even when she first learned she was bond-promised to Lord Lcrier. She had pushed aside the knowledge that she would have to share a pallet with him.

  It was different with Drakthe. Since last eve, she could not look at the hard-bitten warrior without imagining how he would look unclothed. Cheyna pleated her brow in consternation. Such curiosity was...disturbing.