A Warrior's Heart Page 8

  "Jkael! They invented these things to drive a man to violence."

  A small secret smile curving her lips, Cheyna stepped away and presented her back to him. "Perhaps they intended them to test a man's patience?"

  "His lack of patience more likely!" His exasperation faded. Unable to resist the allure of her nape, made vulnerable by the upswept hair, he pressed a tiny kiss on the sensitive skin, inhaling the delicate fragrance of moonflowers. Cheyna shivered. Encouraged, he bit down gently as he drew intricate patterns with the tip of his tongue. He smiled against her skin as she shivered again, her body curving toward his.

  Breathing hard, he forced his attention away from her neck and returned it to her gown. How was it that hands that held steady in the fiercest of battles trembled when he tried to unfasten a slip of material? Drakthe wondered wryly. He attacked the task with methodical purpose until, at last, the gown fell, pooling around her feet.

  Cheyna turned.

  Drakthe's throat tightened and his breath caught deep in the back of his throat. Jkael, she was so beautiful it hurt to breathe. He cupped one hand about the slender reed of her throat. Beneath his light touch her pulse beat erratically.

  A tide of red rushed from the tips of her breasts to her cheeks. "I," she inhaled, a small quavery sigh of distress that sank into the stillness, "I am not sure what to do next." Her lashes fluttered down, small, crimson fans against the pale purity of her cheeks.

  A flood of something very akin to tenderness flooded Drakthe. "Don't worry. We'll figure it out." He read the need for further reassurance in her eyes. "How can we not when just looking at you makes me burn."

  A deep feminine curiosity flared to life in her eyes.

  "Don't tell me you didn't realize. You had to have known." His mouth quirked upward in self-deprecating amusement. "Jkael knows I couldn't hide it." He traced a slow path from the frantic pulse beating at the base of her throat, to the slight indentation of her navel.

  Cheyna gasped.

  Encouraged, Drakthe dipped his finger inside. She was so smooth, her skin like moonsilk. Chills raced over her flesh as he continued his erotic exploration. He rasped the tips of his fingers over her breasts. Her nipples tightened. Drakthe's mouth went dry. He swallowed.

  "You remind me of a thella. You have the same exotic blue eyes filled with a wondering curiosity for your surroundings. That same touch of whimsy to your expression, as if there is a joke to which only you are privileged." His fingers brushed her braids. "The same riot of crimson flowing down your back. Surely you know you move with the same flowing grace as a running thella; all long, clean lines filled with innocence and eagerness to explore." Need a rhythmic pounding in his veins, Drakthe knew he had to move with caution. Like the plain's animal he'd compared her to, Cheyna would bolt if startled. He had to let her come to him. With the sure instincts of a hunter, he knew she would if the trap was baited sweetly enough.

  Enchanted, Cheyna stared up at Drakthe. "Do you really see me like that?"

  A faint smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "From the time you tried to take my head off in such a graceful gesture that I almost stood there and let you just so I could watch." He moved his hand until it came to rest on the gentle curve of her hip.

  She deliberately pushed the thought of her mission aside. Maybe it was wrong, but, oh, she wanted so much to explore the dark and fascinating world Drakthe was offering her.

  I will not forget why I am here, she silently apologized to Slia and Sbraithe.

  Cheyna grasped Drakthe's free hand and pressed her palm to his, intertwining their fingers. She heard his indrawn breath with a tiny thrill of feminine satisfaction.

  Such a beautiful hand, she thought, looking down as she explored its sinewy strength. Compared to his, her hand was small and fragile. She liked the contrast his darker flesh made against the pale gleam of hers. She untangled their fingers so she could unfasten first the cuff of one sleeve and then the other. She slid her hands up under the material, reveling in the hard strength of his arms. A fine tremor followed in the wake of her touch. His hands dropped to her waist.

  The feel of his hands on her skin distracted her for a moment, but the need to touch Drakthe soon had her smoothing her hands up his arms to rest on his shoulders. The moonsilk of his shirt was cool, but the heat of his skin burned beneath the finely-made material.

  Fever hot, she marveled, testing the strength of his massive shoulders. She slid the tips of her fingers just beneath the edge of his shirt and traced the ragged scar on his collarbone. So hot. Like fire.

  They were wrong, those women at the bonding ceremony. Cheyna knew that with a sudden, indisputable certainty. She pressed her lips to the small V of hard, hot flesh visible. Foolish women. Drakthe's fire was not the consuming Fire of Destruction, but that fire which gave life. She couldn't help but be glad, though, only she recognized that truth.

  He jolted at the first touch of her lips. His hands flexed with exquisite gentleness on her hips. Beneath her lips, his heart pounded as she grew bolder.

  Enthralled with the freedom Drakthe was allowing her with his body, she moved the hand at her waist until Drakthe was cupping her breast. He began massaging the tender flesh without being told what she wanted. When the pad of his thumb brushed the sensitive crest, Cheyna barely restrained a small cry of excitement. The tip of her tongue darted out and tasted his chest. He tasted slightly salty.

  Her heart raced with excitement, filling her ears with a hard, thundering sound.

  All these years she'd had no idea how alluring it was to explore a man's body, to touch him as she willed. Desire lapped over her in ever higher waves, surging against her control, eroding her ability to think.

  No. Wait. Something was not right. Cheyna struggled with the pressing need to reach out and take.

  Drakthe!

  Cheyna nearly wailed as she felt her pleasure at learning him swamped by the overpowering swell of his emotion.

  No! She would not be denied.

  Intent on subduing the fierce rush, she failed to recognize the significance of the connection.

  Or its power.

  One thread at a time, she forced the mindlink under control until it was no longer a distraction but an added sensual sensation. Cheyna returned her attention to Drakthe. She unlaced the formal shirt with infinite care, dragging out the small task until they were both breathing raggedly.

  Large hands shot down and clamped about her wrists as she reached for the scuffed and scarred baldric Drakthe wore belted low on his hips. A pained smile twisted his mouth. "Sorry, House-daughter. Unless you want our first joining to be over before it even begins, I'd better take over."

  Cheyna gave a little squeak as, without warning, he scooped her up in his arms. Carrying her, he strode over to the sleeping pallet. Deep, vivid cerulean moonsilk sheets made a slight slithering sound as he put one knee on the mattress and settled her in the center of the wide pallet. Around the pallet, loosely gathered diaphanous gold drapes protected their privacy. The bedding reflected the colors of the sun and fire, of beginning and end.

  Cheyna had a sneaking suspicion that Jaab's romantic hand was at work.

  Drakthe shed his shirt, dropping it on the floor with a distinct disregard for order. He removed the baldric, taking the time to place the much-used krees and sheathe under the edge of the pallet, well within reach. Propping his right foot up on the bed he unbuckled the short, two-edged daegar strapped to his ankle. It soon joined its mate.

  Cheyna was appalled. "You felt the need to wear a weapon on your bonding day?" The sensual hunger in her dimmed.

  "A warrior without weapons by choice is a dead warrior. The price of staying alive is being prepared. I am always prepared," he tossed offhandedly as he undid his breeches and slid them off his hips. Drakthe straightened.

  Cheyna's breath caught as Drakthe emerged naked. He was magnificent. Wide shoulders, heavy with muscles honed by work and battle, narrowed down to a lean, taut waist. Fine, dark hair dusted his
arms and legs. Her eyes dipped lower. Her previous disquiet forgotten, warmth returned to her blood with a rush.

  "And does being a warrior prepare you for all situations?" she asked, stroking the hard muscle of his thigh. It jerked under her light touch.

  A wide, feral warrior's grin slashed Drakthe's face. "It gives one the experience to handle unexpected situations." He placed one knee on the soft cushion of the pallet.

  "As a NaturPath, I am always in search of new experience."

  His hand shot out and snagged her jaw as a lancing gold gaze pinned her to the luxurious moonsilk sheets. In the blink of an eye he changed from teasing lover to deadly warrior.

  "Is that all I am, House-daughter? A new experience?" His fingers tightened a fraction.

  Shaken at the abrupt switch, Cheyna stared up at the man who, just a few hours earlier, had become her bondmate. The man leaning over her, caging her naked body with his, was a different person from that one. This man was the hard-faced stranger she awoke from a stun baton to find. The hair-roughened forearm pressing between her breasts, reinforced her vulnerable position. Cheyna darted a glance at the pile of shimmering material on the floor. She measured the distance from the sleeping pallet to the overdress. Too far.

  Drakthe shook her, warning her without words not to be foolish. The pendant, the one she had given him, dangled from the hollow of his throat.

  Regret knifed Cheyna. Her foster parents had intended the pendant--a gift to the Clans from Scimtar's first Great Lord--to remind her she was always in the thoughts of the Raipier.

  Why had she given in to the insane impulse to reassure Drakthe she was coming to him freely?

  "Answer me. Am I no more than a new experience for you?"

  Wave after wave of anger washed over her. Drakthe's anger.

  She felt it as clearly as she felt her own nervousness.

  Maybe if she didn't fight him she could discover how to banish the warrior and bring back the man to whom she'd bonded. Cheyna braced herself and opened her mind.

  Immediately, she was sucked into a whirlpool of rage. She gasped, terrified of losing herself completely. Ever-so-slowly, Cheyna began to sense something else, something Drakthe kept buried from even himself. She sorted through the tangle of emotions, untying a knot here, following a single thread there. It was difficult. Drakthe's responses were so different from her own, harsher, sharper-edged.

  Something slid by, gone too quick for her to catch. Cheyna returned. Hiding behind a writhing mass of rage was a single thread. She reached for the retreating tendril. It lashed out with stinging force. Cheyna recoiled before she could stop herself.

  Forget the pain, Cheyna ordered herself. She was too close to be defeated now. She reached out again, this time with the same care that she handled the most fragile herb.

  Sheer power and outrage screamed through her mind, the firestorm overwhelming.

  Betrayal!

  Drakthe's sense of betrayal scalded her with his fury and fire.

  She was like all the others. All she wanted was to bed a legend.

  "No. Oh, no, my warrior lord, you are much more than mere experience." His anger paused and the waiting silence pulsed with restraint. Cheyna hurried on, desperate to convince him she was sincere. "Tonight, when we bonded, you became the dark to my light. My blood mingles with yours. My breath is in your body. Has not the time come for my soul to know yours?"

  The destructive blaze in Drakthe's eyes died down and became a warm ember. He tipped his head to one side. "Has the daughter of a backward House decided to try her hand at seducing a bastard warrior?"

  Cheyna was acutely aware of the stroking motion of his fingers, the steady glide of roughened fingertips over her jaw. Even the pressure of his arm changed, became seductive in its weight rather than imprisoning.

  She closed her eyes, letting her muscles relax. The danger was past. She peeked through her lashes and decided it safe to tease him a bit. "That depends. Is the bastard warrior succumbing?"

  "What do you think?" he asked, just before his mouth covered hers, hot, heavy and insistent. His thumbs sought the tips of her breasts, rasping back and forth until they puckered under his touch, shamelessly begging for more. Drakthe complied at once, dragging his mouth from hers, nuzzling his way over her chin and down, down until he was able to take a rosy nipple between his teeth.

  Cheyna heard herself gasp as Drakthe bit down with exquisite care. She arched beneath him, encouraging him not to stop.

  His hand trailed down to the apex of her thighs, to the scarlet triangle there. There, he explored her hidden secrets. "So warm and wet," he muttered against her skin as his fingers parted her soft folds to paint intricate patterns. "You want me. You really want me."

  She shifted her legs, restless, unable to hold still. Her hands roamed the broad back, wanting to arouse him as thoroughly as he was arousing her. It took several moments for his words to penetrate the sexual haze engulfing her.

  She forced her lashes up, meeting the dazed amazement in his eyes. Also there was a lingering uncertainty. She found it amazing that so confident a warrior could be so unsure of his appeal as a man.

  Framing his face in her hands, Cheyna pressed a tiny kiss on one ebony brow. "I want the Merchant Master," another kiss brushed the muscle flexing in his jaw, "the bastard warrior," her lips trailed to the corner of his beautiful mouth, "the Fire Krees," her lips parted beneath his, "I want you. All of you." With a feminine aggression that matched his own, her tongue surged inside, tasting, tempting, tormenting.

  Her softly spoken declaration seemed to push Drakthe over an invisible edge. He took control of the kiss, nudging one knee between her thighs. He nipped at the lobe of her ear, ordering, pleading, "Open for me, sweet lady. Let me warm myself at your hearth."

  Cheyna's head rolled on the pillow. "Fire," she breathed. "It is you who holds the fire." She could not seem to catch her breath. Without thought, wanting only to satisfy the spiraling ache, she opened herself to Drakthe.

  He stilled her restless shifting, forcing her to meet the gleaming gold of his eyes in the muted light.

  "My fire will never burn you beyond repair. It is for your protection, never to consume you."

  It meant a great deal to Drakthe that she trusted him, Cheyna realized with a sense of wonder. She smiled, a smile as ancient as Scimtar itself, as she assured him, "I believe you." She moved her head so she could trace the obstinate line of his jaw with the tip of her tongue. She savored the slight bite of sweat.

  "I hope so. For both our sakes, I hope so," he groaned as she found the inside of his ear. "I'm sorry, lady, I don't think I can make our first joining slow. I need you too much."

  Wide shoulders moved to loom above Cheyna, shutting out the dim light of the liquid crystal lamp, enclosing them in the intimate cocoon made by the bridal pallet. Bronzed skin gleamed with perspiration from the effort to hold back, to not take her in one swift thrust. His face was savage with the intensity of his effort to control his base instincts.

  The surging onslaught of battling desires battered unexpectedly at Cheyna. For the third time that night, she became part of Drakthe. The tremendous effort required to subdue his desire, became hers. She experienced the trembling muscles, the exploding heartbeat as intimately as if they were her own. Drakthe didn't have to tell her of the thin, fragile hold he maintained over his raging need to make this an explosive, savage mating. She knew. Her mind echoed with each harsh, ragged breath, keeping time with what her ears heard in mirror image.

  Vaguely, she wondered if she were becoming accustomed to the unusual mindlink, for this time the swirling flow of emotion was incredibly erotic instead of frightening. She stopped thinking when the tip of Drakthe's manhood entered her body. How could she concentrate with Drakthe storming her mind and body in a slow sensuous assault?

  Burning up. She was burning up. Cheyna writhed under him, her body straining, coaxing, pleading, taunting him for more than the slow, careful mating. The flame Drakthe kindle
d, as elemental and necessary as the Flame of Life, licked higher, tormenting her until she was almost crying with aching need. Her hands gripped his muscular buttocks as she sought to complete the joining.

  He removed her hands from his body, chaining both of her wrists in one large, war-scarred grip. "No, you don't. Not yet. Next time you can touch me all you want, but not this time. I don't have the control." He ran his free hand down her body, brushing her with the fire. For a moment, she felt his control slip before she felt his determination strengthen.

  No! Cheyna wanted to scream with frustration. He couldn't deny her. Not now, not when she was so close. Not even thinking about what she was doing, she shaped an explicit image of Drakthe surging inside, filling her completely and deeply as his hand slid between their bodies in intimate exploration.

  Drakthe's head snapped back so fast his ears rang as Cheyna slid into his mind, a fit more comfortable and familiar than that of his krees sliding into its sheathe. Stunned, he stared into the smug, mischievous gaze of the woman pinned beneath him. His shoulders, sleek with sweat, bunched as if under a blow. His throat worked.

  "Cheyna, I...you...." Drakthe scraped to a halt, unable to describe the image seared into his mind. An image he would have sworn his last drekel on had originated with the woman waiting, arms clamped high above her head, her slender legs wrapped around his hips as if she'd never let him go.

  His control broke before he could form words that wouldn't make him sound crazy. He slipped inside her warm sheathe with the finality of a daegar slipping between ribs. No room left for individual thought, individual reaction; they were one on every level, from the physical to the mental. A spiraling core of aching need began building to an explosive pitch.

  Jkael, never in his wildest fantasy had he dreamed making love could be so earthshattering.

  Drakthe ceased to think at all as Cheyna's inner muscles clenched around his hot flesh in tiny convulsions. The soft skin of her shoulder muffled his guttural shout of release as he shuddered over and over, before collapsing on top of her.