A Warrior's Heart Page 9

  When he recovered enough to be aware of his surroundings, Drakthe realized he still covered Cheyna from shoulder to toe.

  Like a warm, living blanket, he thought with a touch of whimsy. Then he realized she was holding him in a grip fierce enough to make his ribs ache.

  For an instant, he remembered the incredible sensation of Cheyna inside his mind. He shook his head, grinning ruefully. Talk about stress making a person see things. He'd have to apologize for making light of his bondwife's fear. Much as he hated to admit it, the experience had seemed so real.

  Drakthe dismissed the incident as he propped his weight on his elbows. Dipping his head, he licked at the tiny pool of sweat between the swell of her breasts. He supposed if he were any type of a gentleman, he'd move. After all, he had to be heavy on her slight weight.

  Then again, he mused, no one ever mistook a bastard soldier for a gentleman. He let his gaze wander down to their linked bodies.

  No, definitely not a gentleman.

  Hot color flooded her face as her gaze followed his.

  Drakthe chuckled. "After what we shared, you can still blush?" he teased, shifting his hips to remind her he was yet inside her.

  "It is precisely because of what we shared that I am blushing," she retorted. To Drakthe's amusement, Cheyna seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes.

  "You wanted all of me." He laughed, feeling young and carefree. "You still have all of me!"

  An odd smile curved her lips. "As you have all of me." She paused. "Drakthe?"

  "Mmm?" He nibbled on her shoulder, wondering if it was humanly possible to recover this fast.

  "Remember before? You started to tell me something? What were you going to say?"

  Drakthe froze. He lifted his head. He kept his gaze guarded. "It's not important now."

  "But--"

  Not willing to go down that path at the moment, Drakthe moved his hips, grinning when her breath caught. "We have other matters to discuss."

  "We will talk if you insist, but I have a much better idea." Her frosted nails found a nipple hiding beneath the matt of hair and scored it lightly.

  "I'm willing to negotiate," he gasped as her mouth followed her fingers, surrendering to the magic of her touch.

  Chapter 6

  Just before morningtide, the time when night prepares to give way to day and when shadows wage a savage fight for life, it entered, a thin tendril of shadow, no more substantial than smoke against the night sky. It stole into satisfying dreams and slinked past defenses protecting the hidden reaches of the subconscious. Closer and closer it crept, sending out searching fingers to probe for fine fault lines, weaknesses to exploit.

  A frisson of danger disturbed the pleasant tenor of Cheyna's dream. A soft moan escaped, only to vaporize on the night air. She shifted, huddling next to the warmth of Drakthe's naked body.

  Drakthe's lips curved in contentment. He was making love to Cheyna, basking in her honest need. He pulled her closer, molding her softness to his angles. An unnatural tension stole over him without warning. His smile faded, changing into a frown.

  His dream changed as shadow dominated coming day.

  Deep in sleep, he watched in disbelief as he saw himself rise from the pallet to stand beside his sleeping bondwife. His double's eyes were cold and merciless, its lips moving as it spoke to Cheyna in a noiseless whisper. Drakthe saw his double reach a hand toward Cheyna's temple.

  A hoarse scream of primal rage ripped from Drakthe's throat, made more terrible by the fact he knew he hadn't made a sound.

  His mirror image stopped, its head tilted in a feral, listening motion, as if checked by that silent shout. The figure reached for a familiar krees at its side, and held it poised over Cheyna's defenseless throat. The image lifted its head and looked directly at him. It held his agonized gaze as it lowered the krees, the honed edge of the blade savoring the coppery taste of blood to come.

  He had lied.

  He had promised to protect and care for Cheyna. Now, he was going to kill her.

  Drakthe fought the gossamer bonds holding him with a savage intensity.

  A tiny spark of sunlight pierced the night.

  The menacing image splintered into all the spectra of the Prisma, each shard curiously without color as they dissipated back into shrinking shadows.

  Drakthe slid back into sleep, his rest an uneasy one.

  Drakthe sat on the edge of the pallet, staring at the daegar he was about to buckle on his ankle. He flinched when Cheyna softly called his name, his hand closing about the haft.

  "Drakthe? Last eventide, what were you going to say to me?"

  His muscles tightened and his stomach knotted at the question. With a reluctance he couldn't explain, he lifted his gaze from the deadly sharpness of the daegar and met Cheyna's eyes in the mirror. The brush in her hand faltered.

  He didn't have to ask what she meant. He knew. She wanted to know about the ridiculous notion he'd almost given voice to, the insane idea that her mind had somehow wormed its way into his when he first joined their bodies.

  He didn't intend to discuss it.

  The whole idea was idiotic, anyway. What sane person actually believed someone could get inside another person's head or, worse yet, could invade yours. A shudder of distaste rippled through his entire body. That NaturPaths believed in empathy was bad enough, everyone knew they used the whole concept as a ploy for power, but to contemplate more? He shook his head once, in sharp denial. He refused to even consider the possibility.

  Last night he'd gone a little crazy, understandable considering the strain of the traditional bonding and Cheyna's fear at the reception. Her response to him had further addled his mind, he rationalized. Touching Cheyna was like touching a living flame. Was it any wonder he'd imagined things? And imagination was all it had been. No one could know your thoughts.

  Everyone knew that.

  Everyone, Drakthe repeated as he leaned down to buckled on the daegar, latching onto the simple task as an excuse to look away. One thought led to another, however, until he could no longer shake the feeling plaguing him since he awoke. He straightened, unable to dismiss the impression that his nightmare had been more than a nightmare. Tension snaked down his spine. He turned his apprehension and irritation on Cheyna.

  "What's the matter, House-daughter? Have you at last become aware of the power I have over you? Do you think to control me by knowing my every thought?"

  "You know that is not true," she whispered, looking stunned at the attack.

  "Isn't it?" he asked with deliberate cynicism. "It's quite a comedown for a House-daughter, even one from a declining House, to bind herself to a bastard warrior."

  Cheyna's face went dead white at the insult, her pupils expanding until they swallowed the blue of her irises.

  Drakthe switched his gaze to the brush in her hand. "Unless you want to be left behind, I suggest you get packed. We leave in two hours."

  "Why are you doing this?" She sounded bewildered as she rose to face him from across the length of the room.

  "Play time's over, House-daughter." He grasped his mantle and slung it around his shoulders, meeting her eyes. "It's time to get down to business."

  Her expression became a mask of serenity. "I do not know why you are acting this way, my lord, but I am your partner, not your servant. We do agree on one point, however. It is time--past time--we left. I have a mission, and the sooner it is completed, the sooner we can dissolve our bonding. I will be ready in one hour." She left their chamber with quiet dignity.

  Drakthe clenched his hands into fists as he watched her leave.

  Precisely one hour later Drakthe focused on the trail leading north out of Class. Behind him, Cheyna followed, as silent as a hunting lizcat. He tried to ignore her presence but it was impossible. And that bothered him. More than that, he feared his awareness of her would interfere with the mission, something he'd never allowed to happen before.

  Vague, early tide recallings of standing over Cheyna with hard i
ntent intruded, reigniting the furious tension of a trap creeping shut.

  Jkael, he didn't even have the slightest shred of evidence a threat existed, he derided with building disgust. Nothing except a heightened sense of foreboding. But, if fighting his way out of the streets had taught him one thing it was to never ignore his hunches. They were as much a part of his skill as a warrior, as his ability with a krees. Maybe more so.

  Krthe hadn't been happy with the change in plans.

  The Trade Baron had been in his office when he'd tracked him down. Krthe had appeared faintly surprised to see his Merchant Master standing in the doorway.

  "I was not expecting to see you so soon after your bonding. Is everything well?" Krthe sounded concerned.

  Drakthe stalked into the room, flinging himself into a large chair. A muscle flexed in his jaw. He became aware of the betraying sign of anger and squashed it, presenting a practiced, controlled front to the High Lord.

  He skirted around an answer. "Ours is a bond-of-trade." Drakthe propped one ankle on his knee and rested his hand on his calf, a move which put the concealed daegar just inches from his grip.

  Krthe raised an elegant eyebrow. "I gained the impression last eve you were pleased with the union." The Trade Baron settled back against the lush darkness of the silti leather, long fingers steepled beneath an aristocratic chin as he studied his Merchant Master.

  "You, of anyone, know I had no wish to bond, but to answer your question, no, the union does not displease me." Drakthe managed a credible version of an indifferent shrug. "I find it always a sound policy to keep your enemies guessing." He fostered the deliberate impression that was the only reason he'd decided to leave early. Not even to Krthe could he confess his peculiar imaginings of the night before. Drakthe redirected the conversation.

  "Were the arrangements satisfactory with Lcrier? I have no wish to protect my back out of the city as well as in it from his retaliatory attack." After pushing the bonding ceremony forward, he'd found the day didn't hold enough hours to accomplish all that needed to be done. Krthe's offer to negotiate the settlement to compensate Lcrier for the loss of his bond-promised was accepted with alacrity.

  "Let's just say Lord Lcrier was open to persuasion," Krthe commented, a cynical twist to mouth.

  Drakthe fingered the sturdy material of his breeches. "I suppose I was your persuasion?"

  "Of course. That is why our ventures are so profitable." Rare amusement sparked in the ebony gaze. "I simply pointed out to Lord Lcrier that if the Fire Krees wanted his bond-promised enough to kidnap her, then he might want her enough to kill for her."

  "That was sufficient?" Drakthe asked, skeptical.

  "Oh, he made some vague threats. I reminded Lcrier how you dealt with threats. He decided it was in his best interest to reconsider the value of a Daughter of a declining House, a Daughter who's reputation for healing was dubious at that. He became--how shall I phrase it?--very amenable."

  Drakthe curled his mouth upward in a predatory grin. "The man possesses more sense than I gave him credit for. Besides," he added, recalling Cheyna's surprising little dance when he'd kidnaped her, "Lcrier is not the man to handle Cheyna."

  "You are?"

  "I am," he stated, before turning the conversation to practical matters concerning his departure.

  All in all, Drakthe thought, his attention returning to the trail, it had been a relief to get out of the city. Amidst the crowds they were too vulnerable.

  Angling his mount down the narrow, rock-strewn path, he reflected on the possibility he had misjudged Cheyna's question this morning. He couldn't get her stricken expression out of his mind.

  Drakthe felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Had he been mistaken? Maybe. He wasn't sure. What he was sure of was he didn't want her mentioning what had happened last night and he wanted out of the city. And without having to explain why or answering endless questions.

  He should be pleased his accusation had accomplished both.

  So why wasn't he?

  Because he really hadn't expected her to agree.

  The answer leapt into existence, surprising Drakthe. He replayed the scene in their bedchamber in his mind. Cheyna was a passionate woman behind that serene facade. He'd learned that last night. When he attacked her, she should have been furious. Instead, she'd left, shutting the door behind her with quiet finality.

  Drakthe flexed his shoulders.

  He'd have felt better if she had slammed the door. Anger he could deal with, but the icy correctness with which she'd cloaked herself, he just didn't know how to handle.

  He remembered the fierce sense of satisfaction he had gained slamming the door as he left to track down Krthe. He'd made the right decision, Jkael take it, he repeated silently yet again. A fierce scowl pleated his brow.

  So why had he stood staring at the closed door of their chamber with the sinking sense of having pulled the wings off a ladyhawke?

  When would she learn? Cheyna berated herself. Had she not already decided she needed to focus on her mission and not let herself become distracted?

  Trying to control him! She burned at the unfairness of the accusation. All she wanted was for the man to admit something unique had occurred between them. Well, she would not make that mistake again. It mattered naught to her mission if Drakthe acknowledged a mindlink between them. Cheyna resolved to put the entire episode behind her.

  But, hours later, when the sun was heading for the horizon, she still could not dismiss her sense of outrage.

  "Arrogant male," she muttered under her breath. "I am your partner, your partner." That meant she was entitled to the respect given to a partner. Entitled to being consulted rather than ordered. If anyone was trying to control the other, it was her bondhusband. How dare he order her about like an errant servant?

  And that was the problem, Drakthe's wont to control everything and everyone around him. She could never submit to such a relationship with grace. She would push, try the bounds because it was her nature. Knowing this, she'd still gone forward with the traditional bonding. Her need to support Drakthe before his critics had overruled common sense. Now it was up to her to dissolve the union at the end of the mission, for both their sakes. She could not trust him to give her the freedom she craved to explore her burgeoning wonder for her birth world, and he plainly just did not trust her.

  Cheyna glared at Drakthe's broad back as another affront came to mind.

  And how dare he believe she would look down upon him because he lacked a proper House name?

  What caused him to turn on her this morn?

  The question haunted her despite all effort to put it out of her thoughts.

  Cheyna sighed, oblivious to the beauty of the purpling sun as it sank below the horizon. Any other time the clouds feathering the darkening sky with crimson, gold and green would have mesmerized her. But not tonight.

  Tonight her mind was filled with questions. Questions for which she had no answers. When Drakthe signaled a halt, Cheyna followed him inside the resthouse, preoccupied with her thoughts.

  Why could not her bondhusband be an easy man to understand? Her hand crept toward her pendant before she remembered it was now Drakthe's. Her hand dropped to her side.

  A mistake. Giving it to Drakthe had been a mistake. Unable to sit still, she began to pace. Eight paces to the far wall, then back again. She had misjudged him. He hadn't needed her reassurance. Her face heated. How he must have laughed at the gesture.

  Restless energy thrummed through her. The need to work herself into exhaustion, to forget her naive attempt at comfort, grew.

  She snapped her right foot into the air. Immediately, she turned one-hundred and eighty degrees, then dropped, sweeping her left leg out.

  He did not deserve to wear the gift of her parents.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of motion. Before she could even react, Drakthe's shoulder caught her square in the midsection. She went down, Drakthe on top of her.

  The
edge of a blade touched the side of her throat. Cheyna went stock-still.

  "Who sent you?"

  Twisting coils of color invaded her mind as Drakthe's fury swept over her.

  This was not supposed to happen, she cried out silently. She was psi-null! She had tested. Then Drakthe's question registered. "I do not understand." Her voice was a mere rasp of sound, a sibilant whisper of sand slipping under a footstep.

  He pressed his forearm across her throat. "Listen, lady. Enough of your games. That's some maneuver you've got there. It's too bad you're not my first assassin." Drakthe shook his head in disgust. "Jkael, you're good. I should have seen you coming, lady. What NaturPath would be accomplished in a warrior's art?"

  "Sai and Kai is not of the warriors' art!" Cheyna choked out, managing to sound indignant despite her precarious position. She was shocked Drakthe could misconstrue Sai and Kai's beauty as something so crude.

  Another bombarding wave of emotion from Drakthe washed over her. She felt battered by his rage.

  Cheyna feared she would drown in the welter of emotions pouring over her, filling her nostrils and lungs with thoughts and perceptions that were not her own.

  "No?" he drawled, his eyes glittering with mocking anger. Cheyna closed her eyes against the force of it. "Then I suppose you expect me to believe it was merely chance you heard me entering your cubicle on the travel-train that night? That you just happened to attack with both skill and speed? When less than a dozen men on this continent possess senses trained and acute enough to have heard me enter, much less take me by surprise?"

  Her eyes flew open. "Yes! No!" A tiny tentacle of panic nibbled at the shield of serenity she clung to for strength. She inhaled, trying to draw a breath to ease the ache in her lungs, but could not. "Please," she whispered, "you are hurting me."

  A deep well of stillness fell over him as he stared down into her eyes. Cheyna could not explain it, but the dark, writhing tendrils of rage and masculine fury were gone as quickly as they had come. Once more, he was an enigma to her.