A Warrior's Heart Read online

  As disturbing as the extra awareness she'd sensed hovering on the edge of her consciousness as Drakthe kissed her. The closest she could come to describing the illusive sensation was that even as Drakthe invaded her mouth, he had invaded her mind.

  But that was impossible.

  Or was it?

  The insidious thought crept into Cheyna's mind and refused to dislodge. On Rpiere, she communicated with her Clan by mindlink, a skill the Raipier had refined to an elite form of communication. Yet that still did not make sense. The people of Scimtar were unable to mindlink. Just as she was. Without the powerful, trained minds of the Raipier, she could not begin to read what they projected.

  So why had she felt that tenuous thread touch her mind as Drakthe kissed her?

  Cheyna halted in front of Drakthe. He held out one hand, palm upward. She shivered, aware of standing on a precipice every bit as dangerous as that guarding the Falls of Shayla. An eternity passed before she touched her palm to his outstretched hand. A reassuring strength flowed from his large hand. Cheyna trembled as the callused roughness engulfed hers and an elusive familiarity teased her senses.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth. "My lady."

  A collective gasp spilled from the audience. The scandalized stir only nudged the edge of her consciousness.

  Drakthe turned to gaze out over the crowd in clear challenge. Stillness settled like death. He waited a moment longer before he faced the Elder Sere, her hand still locked securely in his.

  The old man, aware of the simmering anger in the Merchant Master, cleared his throat twice. His hands, twisted with age and covered by whispery, papyrus-thin skin, clasped Cheyna's left hand and placed it on top of Drakthe's left hand. An adherent moved forward and draped a baldric over the joined hands. He placed Drakthe's sheathe and krees on top of the baldric.

  The ceremony began.

  "Cheyna Rgan, Daughter of the House of Flowing Water, with the acceptance of this krees and sheathe, thou carry thy Lord's, Drakthe Fchion, Merchant Master to the High Lord Krthe, honor and future under thy heart and between thy palms. If thou accept the weight of responsibility, bind thy honor to his." His voice, oddly resonant from such a frail body, echoed in the packed courtyard.

  Cheyna searched the Merchant Master's gold eyes. A startling intensity filled his gaze.

  The Elder had not intoned the casual oath of a temporary trade bonding, but the more binding pledge of a traditional bonding. If she agreed, it made walking away from Drakthe when her mission was over more difficult. But if she refused to wear his badge she would shame Drakthe before all. Within a matter of hours, the knowledge that a daughter of a dying House had rejected the Merchant Master would be bandied over the city. It would be a much greater loss of prestige than her error of the night before.

  She could not do that to Drakthe.

  A wonderful serenity settled in her as all uncertainty fled. She was doing the right thing.

  With a flick of her wrist, Cheyna unfastened the cloak. The flowing material dropped to the earth, where it lay in a shimmering pile. Revealed was an identical bonding gown.

  "My honor, my life, becomes yours. As Daughter of the House of Flowing Water, I pledge to guard them from harm."

  Her warm, confident smile reached out to enfold Drakthe. The very breath knocked from his body, he passed the krees and sheathe to the adherent and removed the baldric. A fine tremor shook his hands as he placed the traditional symbol of his bondage around Cheyna's slender waist. Shaped from the soft, supple leather of the courdra snake, and tooled with the birth of a twin star system--one new sun blue, the other a warm gold--the baldric had cost an obscenely large pile of drekel. In the end, though, he got what he wanted, including a labyrinth lock carved from a rare Saiphaira crystal to protect his bonding claim.

  The slight snick as he secured the lock, shattered the silence of the hall. His voice husky, he made his pledge. "As night mates with day, as the dark Prisma of Consonance protects and is balanced by the light, so have we become. Blood from my body joins with yours--" The Elder Sere withdrew the krees from its sheathe and nicked first Drakthe, then Cheyna, in the center of the palm. He barely felt the prick but pain flickered in her eyes. Drakthe entwined his fingers with Cheyna's, holding their clasped hands up for all to see. Her hand was warm and slightly moist. Drakthe tightened his grip reassuringly. "--our breath flows as one," his forehead touched hers for a moment. "I claim Cheyna Rgan, Daughter of the House of Flowing Water, as my bondmate!" His voice rang out over the hushed courtyard. He fastened the sheathe to the baldric with his free hand. Accepting the krees from the Elder Sere, he seated the blade in the leather covering.

  Cheyna disengaged her hand from his. Mesmerized, unable to take his gaze from hers, Drakthe stood mute as she slipped the pendant over her head. Standing on tiptoe, she slipped the chain around his neck and secured the clasp. The pendant, which had rested between her breasts, fit snugly in the hollow of his throat. He swallowed, wanting, needing, to say something, but unable to find words. He lifted a hand, aware of a fine tremor, and touched the small gem.

  It was warm, almost hot.

  Without warning, Cheyna swayed. Alarmed, Drakthe closed his hands about her waist.

  She recovered almost immediately. He didn't think any of the guests noticed.

  "What happened?" He spoke in a low tone, so low that not even the Sere, a few feet away, heard.

  To his frustration, she just shook her head. Before he could press the point, Cheyna was surrounded and whisked away by the women.

  Drakthe slipped into a quiet niche, unable to stand one more show of false friendship from men who'd rather see him disgraced. The party raged on unabated, boisterous groups laughing, talking and dancing. Several men--men who would cross the street rather than take the chance of being forced to sully their reputations by engaging him in public conversation--called out for him to join them. Evidently, Drakthe mused with weary cynicism, the haze induced by free flowing rantanth wine made all sins look less serious. Even that of being born a bastard.

  He snagged a drink from a passing waiter--his first of the evening--and took a cautious taste of the wine. He stared broodingly into the lavishly etched cup, the dark, rich color reminding him of his bondwife's hair. Drakthe took another taste. The two had something else in common, he thought, as the wine slid down to ignite a warm glow in the pit of his stomach. Like his new bondmate, the wine possessed a kick in its deceptively tranquil depths.

  One shoulder propped against the wall, Drakthe raised the cup occasionally to sip. He had no intention of becoming drunk on his bonding night. A peal of laughter reached him over the noise of the celebration.

  He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping the crowded room. Drakthe unerringly located the woman who seemed to occupy all his waking thoughts.

  His mouth twisted.

  It figured she'd be with those tradewives. What had they said to produce such an uninhibited response from his proper House-daughter?

  He'd bet they were giving her advice on how to handle him, Jkael take them. Corrupting Cheyna before bonded a full day, before he'd even had the chance to bed her.

  Sometime between last night and the ceremony, he'd decided to make her his. And why not? She knew what being a tradewife entailed when she'd contracted with Lord Lcrier. Why shouldn't he expect the same from her?

  Another burst of laughter exploded from the small group.

  Drakthe fingered the krees at his waist. The same krees that only hours before he'd placed on Cheyna's baldric as a symbolic sign of his ownership. He got the distinct feeling he should have left it there to remind her where her allegiance lay.

  His proper little House-daughter would never know just how tempted to stay he'd been last eventide. Tonight would be different, however. Tonight the bastard warrior would claim his so-proper lady. Anticipation surged through him. He looked about for a place to set his half-empty cup and finally plunked it down on a stand. He started across the room.

  The tim
e had come to claim his lady.

  Cheyna's head jerked up. From out of nowhere, a crawling darkness, a malevolent fog intent on smothering all light from a soul, inched into her mind.

  The sensation was eerily familiar.

  The ceremony! A similar emanation had brushed her mind at the ceremony's conclusion. Then, she had dismissed the sensation as nerves. Now she was sure it was much more.

  Creeping intent nudged at the far reaches of her mind, tested her strengths and searched for weakness in her mental guard. Raw power battered her mind in that instant.

  Unrelenting pressure poured down onto her head until Cheyna thought it was going to burst. Alarmed, she threw up mental barriers, drawing with desperate determination on the techniques instilled by the Raipier since she was a cub.

  Another insidious touch forged past her guard and touched her mind with licks of fire.

  Panic exploded.

  "Drakthe!"

  Terrified, her mouth shaped his name but no sound emerged. Drakthe had promised to keep her safe and he would never go back on his bound word.

  A streak of fire lanced her brain.

  An anguished mental scream burst forth.

  "Drakthe!"

  Drakthe staggered, a hand going to his head. His name echoed in his head again, a loud, discordant scream that threatened to split his skull.

  He steadied himself with one hand against the wall. The fingers of the other hand massaged his forehead against the sudden sharp pain. His head shot up, his eyes narrowed against the piercing bit.

  Cheyna needed him. Drakthe plunged across the room.

  In his haste, he bumped into one man. The inebriated guest, unaware anything was wrong, went right back to his conversation. No one paid any attention to him. All around the merry talk and laughter continued unabated. He could see Cheyna standing by herself across the room, could see she was unmolested, yet the urgency pumping through his veins refused to abate.

  He reached her and settled his hands on her shoulders, his grip unconsciously bruising. "What is it? What's wrong?" he demanded in a raw, tortured tone.

  "Oh, Drakthe!" She whirled around, relief etched on her white, tense face. She did not hesitate, but hurled herself into his arms.

  Drakthe closed them about her with a hard strength. He didn't know whether he was reassuring Cheyna or himself.

  She was trembling so hard, he found it amazing she could stand. A surge of protectiveness welled inside him. Bending his head, blocking her from view, he demanded in a low voice. "What's happened? Has someone tried to harm you?" His mouth thinned. If someone had, that person would soon be watching his lifeblood drained into the earth.

  She buried her face in his shoulder, shaking her head. Fine tremors coursed through her slender limbs.

  "I--," she inhaled before looking up, her face composed, but waxen. Drakthe could see what the effort at control cost her. "I do not wish to speak of it here. May we leave? Please?" Cheyna's hands clutched the front of his shirt in a death grip, giving lie to her serene expression.

  He remembered her cool sarcasm upon waking from the stun baton. His lady didn't frighten easily. Staring down at her tightly controlled features, Drakthe had to stifle the urge to take his krees to the person responsible for scaring her.

  "Let's go. I'll find Jaab on our way out and have him inform Krthe of our leaving."

  She leaned against him, letting him guide her. Drakthe grew even more worried. They managed to exit unnoticed. In the hall he caught Cheyna as her knees buckled, sweeping her up into his arms.

  To his relief, she kept her face hidden when he asked Jaab to pass on their regrets to the High Lord. He'd rather the Housemaster not notice anything awry. He waited with concealed impatience for Jaab to assure him his bidding would be done. Words of assurance were not even out of Jaab's mouth before he was striding down the darkened hallway, leaving the elderly gentleman with a slight smile on his face.

  Once inside his chambers, he set Cheyna on her feet. He steadied her, then turned her to face him.

  "What happened back there?" Adrenaline pumped through his blood.

  Cheyna clutched her burnuese tighter. She took a step back.

  Drakthe didn't like the sudden look of distrust on her face.

  "Someone invaded my mind."

  Chapter 5

  "Someone invaded my mind," Cheyna repeated, the words stark and unadorned. She took another step backwards. All at once, even Drakthe seemed strange. What if Drakthe were the one breaching her thoughts? Did she not already think she had felt the touch of his mind? She pressed the tips of her fingers against her forehead, fighting a sudden surge of doubt.

  Stop it! Drakthe was a hard man but he was honorable. The touch invading her thoughts knew nothing of honor.

  Was it the act of an honorable man to kidnap another's bond-promised? To force her to bond with him instead?

  Drakthe had not forced her. Not really. He would have let her continue to Lord Lcrier if she had pressed the issue. The image of eyes colder and harder than volcanic ice rose to mock her. The rapid beating of her heart threatened to choke her.

  Did she dare trust Drakthe?

  Everything stilled as Cheyna absorbed her own question. That's what it all reduced to, wasn't it? Did she trust the man to whom she'd just bonded? Did she believe he would honor his pledge to her?

  "Cheyna," Drakthe growled in warning. "I am not in the mood to play games. Drop the nonsense and tell me what happened in there!"

  Cheyna stared at him. Here she was agonizing over whether Drakthe had invaded her mind and he didn't even believe it had happened. She swallowed the bubble of laughter that welled up. The man did not even believe her.

  A muscle twitched violently in his cheek.

  Somehow, Cheyna doubted he would appreciate the relief underlying her mirth. She decided to try and make him understand anyway.

  "For just a moment, I was afraid you were the one to invade my mind."

  He stared at her. His hard mask of intent slipped, replaced by concern. "Cheyna," he began and then stopped, at an obvious loss. He started again. "Wife, I know bonding has been a strain."

  "Are you, in your so delicate way, trying to tell me that I imagined that touch on my mind?" she demanded, his disbelief no longer amusing. He really did not believe her!

  "I am saying," Drakthe spoke with care, as if attempting to pick his way through a particularly dangerous lava field, "it is understandable if you are overwrought. This entire past ten-day has been unusual. A reaction isn't unexpected," he reassured her, moving to stand right in front of her, his large hands framing her face. "Jkael, even I have not been my usual self." He gave a small, self-deprecating smile before his grin slowly slipped. The expression in his eyes changed subtly.

  "I do not believe this. You think I am going crazy," she gritted, her teeth clenched with the need to scream. She would not allow Drakthe to goad her into losing control this time. She would remain serene if it killed her.

  "No," Drakthe countered, sounding raw and husky. "I think you're going to drive me crazy!" he said, his mouth covering hers. His hands tunneled in her hair. He tilted her head to one side, holding her still as the soft roughness of his tongue tasted her thoroughly.

  Cheyna forgot all about the disturbing mindtouch as Drakthe's frustration, fear, and burning desire washed over her. Her arms went around his neck.

  By the time he lifted his mouth from hers, Cheyna was having trouble controlling her breathing. She was pleased to see Drakthe wasn't unaffected, either.

  He inhaled shakily. His eyes never left hers as he sought the hidden clasp on her baldric. He cursed under his breath as he fumbled with the intricate lock.

  She laughed softly.

  "You find it amusing that I want you so much my hands shake?"

  Cheyna shook her head. "I," she confessed, a fierce rush of heat staining her cheeks, "feared you would find me unexciting after the women of Class."

  He gave a low growl of amused exasperation. "My l
ife has been anything but unexciting since you awoke to scold me."

  Warm, hard palms cradled her cheeks. The faint raspiness of his fingertips vividly reminded her of the night Drakthe had soothed her on the trail.

  His eyes were intent and serious as he reassured her. "Cheyna, I don't know exactly what you've heard about me, though I can guess," he drew a deep breath, "but most of my time is spent fulfilling my obligations to Krthe. What little I have to spare, I use preparing myself to move in accepted society. I mean to become a lord, Cheyna. It's important to me. What I'm trying to say," dull red stained his hard cheekbones, "is that little time is left for procuring a bedmate."

  "The Fire Krees? Lacking bedmates? I find that hard to believe." Alia and Jney had been the first to tease her, but at the bonding reception Cheyna had overheard other women speculating what it would be like to bed the Fire Krees.

  The dull color deepened. "I could find a bedmate, all right," he retorted, bitterness creeping in, "if I were content to be an object of curiosity. Or hung like a prize from a fancy baldric. Sleeping with the bastard Merchant Master! As wicked as a woman from a proper House dares to be! Or, better yet, finding out the truth about the Fire Krees. Oh, yes. I'm well aware of the speculation. They all want to know if the Fire Krees consumes a woman in a blaze hot as the Fire of Destruction? Are his abilities as unnatural in that private battle as they are as a warrior?"

  Did he really believe the only reason women sought him was because of his reputation and the hint of danger surrounding him? She might be I when it came to matters between men and women, but even she caught the nuances behind the comments. She shook her head in amazement.

  "Ah, Merchant Master," she whispered, "you make me forget that enjoying this is dangerous." Cheyna pulled his head down to hers, offering him her mouth before he could demand what she meant.

  Blood afire with need, Drakthe groaned. Jkael, how he needed her! He thrust his tongue inside in an insistent mating rhythm while his fingers blindly searched for the row of small fastenings running from collar to hip. He tore his mouth from hers.