Biondine, Shannah Read online

  Now she blinked, momentarily befuddled. "'Twas your race they slandered, not mine."

  "Because I stated I was your protector, and as such would abide no leering. Their slurs against my bloodline and manhood were simply another form of improper suggestion. They sought to impress you by disparaging me."

  He was back to appearing vexed and somber. All vestige of humor had fled, to be replaced by something of a different, darker ilk. An intensity, impressions of coiled readiness lurking behind his outward mien. That disturbed her. She'd accustomed herself to his surliness. She understood the gruff knight and how to respond to the boor.

  But the suspicion she could not now predict what he might say or do next unnerved her. She was not fond of unpredictable natures.

  "I suppose I should be appreciative that you were concerned for my honor. It's unlikely Prince Velansare would bother. He's apt to care less for my esteem in the eyes of strangers than whether he dines on squid or mutton."

  Moreya could not believe she'd spoken her dismal thoughts aloud. It was bad enough she secretly contrasted many things about her bridegroom against what she knew of this Waniand. She had neither right nor reason to compare one man to the other. But to let her escort know she harbored such unseemly ideas was wrong indeed.

  Preece leaned in close. "We must speak frankly, Lady Fa. But not here." He shot a quick glance in both directions, as if to verify they alone stood in the hall. He seized her hand in his. "Come to my chambers. You'll be back afore Glaryd discovers you missing."

  Moreya followed, but when he closed his bedchamber door behind them, she regretted her easy capitulation. For a moment she'd imagined them as secret friends, allies. Two wayward children, sneaking about when they should be safely abed, whispering and conspiring together.

  But they were not children. Her late-night visit to his bedchamber suggested an entirely different sort of collusion.

  "This is...imprudent. I should not have come," she murmured. "I'll return to my own chamber." She reached for the door, but he still held her hand, firmly nestled between both his strong, roughened palms.

  "You spoke of your betrothed and his disinterest. If there were somewhere else you might go, would you still bid me escort you to the prince regent? You suggested once you wished to avoid your fate. I know of a distant land, a land well beyond Greensward's borders. I could take you there."

  She wanted to dismiss his words as the effects of too much ale, but she did not believe he was insensible. In truth, a part of her mind prayed that he made perfect sense, longed to find the reason in his argument and be persuaded by it. Yet she should not listen a second longer.

  "No land is distant enough." She shook her head, willing her heart to slow down, her reason to prevail. "The crowned heads of both Greensward and Glacia would rage in fury were I to ignore the betrothal. To defy our monarch's edict is treason, as well you must know. You taunted King Cronel with your rebellious tongue, but you did not defy him outright."

  "In this I will."

  She clutched at Preece's fingers. What he offered tempted her beyond sanity. An escape from the arranged marriage she never wanted...The chance to make her own choice about her future...

  But she could not give into temptation.

  "Nay. Do not speak so. To even discuss such a possibility is itself an act of insurgence. I do not know of which far realm you speak, nor do I wish to. Your duty is to take me safely to Greensward Palace. Once settled there, I've only to venture into a garden or open field if I'm miserable with life as princess. All the royal guardsmen at Velansare's disposal could not hold me, do I decide to call down the dragons and fly away."

  "The dragons are why you must not wed Velansare."

  Why should hearing him say that cut to her very soul?

  A logical assessment, after all. She'd actually debated the notion of telling Velansare about the beasts herself, in order to persuade him to nullify the betrothal contract. For a trained knight and strategist to point out the obvious should not have stung her pride. Yet she'd hoped the Warmonger might see her as more than a harbinger of disaster.

  "Where would you take me?" she bit out.

  Her eyes smarted with the threat of tears. What a fool she'd been, with her girlish thoughts of whispered secrets and her heart aflutter at finding herself alone in his room. She'd actually let herself imagine he'd drawn her here with the intent of kissing her again. But no, it seemed he was only operating as any good mercenary ought, seeking to bolster his purse with a change in plans. She had attempted to bribe him, she reminded herself.

  "Ataraxia," he answered slowly. He seemed to wait for a reaction. She offered none - though she'd heard of the realm, and at the mention of the name, her heart thudded in her breast. Ataraxia was indeed many thousands of leagues away, an island realm of warm sun and tropics.

  "I've been saving for a vessel and crew," Preece confided. "It's ever been my goal to sail there. In truth, 'tis why I've sold my sword. I long to see Ataraxia, to live there. You could come with me."

  With him? Just what was he suggesting? Against all common sense, her mind began spinning those illicit images again, of the two of them embracing, kissing, entwined in passion. But she could not be sure that was what he meant.

  He crossed to the chamber's sole window and opened the shutters, admitting the cool night breeze. He stood with his back to her, staring out at the moonless dark beyond the sill.

  "I might as well speak plainly." His voice came in words measured, deep and slow. "I've not amassed coin enough, nor do I have my full cache with me. To detour so I might fetch it would cost precious time we cannot spare. I need a boon. One of those terrestars your maid showed me would be enough to secure a vessel. There's a harbor in northern Greensward along the Great Seas. If we cut north toward Zankarat instead of due east, we could set sail before anyone at the palace realizes we're overdue."

  Ah, so indeed he invited her purse, not her maidenly softness! This was a mercenary speaking to her, she reminded herself harshly, not some highborn noble. Mercenary. What in all of Heaven's breadth would make him pine to transplant himself to such a place as Ataraxia?

  "Your sword would rust from disuse where you propose to live, Preece. My father visited that realm. He said Ataraxians opposed trade with outsiders. The realm has no army and survives tranquilly upon its natural resources. You would be useless there, Warmonger. No one would hire your sword."

  "Were hefting a sword my sole interest in life, I'd not go," he countered smoothly. "But Waniands fight to defend their loins, land, and kin. Our warriors do not fear death. We are reared with but one true purpose: to procreate. When there is no danger, procreation and studying Waniand lore and traditions are worthy pursuits. I should like time to reflect upon the mysteries and intricacies of the natural world, to raise my sons with a steady hand. I would know peace as intimately as I do war."

  Moreya stared at his back. Every time she stripped away an obscuring layer, more beauty was revealed. An ever-surprising beauty.

  He abruptly turned to face her. "Ataraxia is bound on all sides by restless ocean tides. The clime is warm, the land itself low, with a dearth of mountains or rocky pinnacles. There are few places suited for dragon aeries. You would be like others there, without worry of attracting winged reptiles. You could live in the sun, Moreya."

  She sank onto the edge of his bed. Only part of her mind even registered the impropriety of her actions. Bed or no, she had to sit on something, lest her buckling knees drop her onto the floor.

  You could live in the sun.

  He did understand.

  He must, or he never would have offered that inducement. He could have assured her she'd be spared a husband who preferred fondling men. He could have suggested she take haven in a convent or enter some distant citadel, there to disappear into a faceless crowd. But he offered her a life in the sun.

  How many times had she wished for exactly that?

  Prayed for such an existence, the ordinary life of a milkmaid o
r farming peasant woman? Vowed she'd purchase such from the Creator, did it cost every dragon stone in her collection? He'd spoken of his own secret longings . . .

  Moreya had ever been willing to bargain her immortal soul with Satan himself to be like any other mortal woman.

  And now Satan had sent one of his minions to the bargaining table.

  Under the guise of an emancipating blond saint.

  "Would you also live in the sun, Preece, no longer hiding your bloodline beneath dark cowls?"

  He rubbed a palm along the outside of his thigh. "That would depend upon the reception I find. While Ataraxians are reported to eschew trade and ground troops, the legends also say they allow the occasional stranger to live in their midst. Peaceable strangers, with no thought of conquering or disrupting Ataraxian ways. I hate wearing cowls. I need the freedom of a new beginning."

  He squatted on his haunches before her, reaching to squeeze her shoulder. "I've disturbed your rest. I apologize, but you can understand that tonight's words could not be spoken where others might overhear the topic we discuss. You haven't answered me, Lady Fa."

  She caught his wrist and stared into his eyes. The chamber was gloomy, but she could make out his features in the dim light. "Why would you risk your life this way now, of a sudden? You claim not to know Prince Velansare. My concerns over his abhorrent tastes did not sway you afore. Yet now you would abandon your duty, defy our king...do you need a terrestar so badly?"

  "Do you wish to find yourself imprisoned again? What can the palace become, but another stone fortress whose walls entomb you? What do you suppose will happen when the royals learn about the firedrakes? Despite his royal blood, I know you do not want the prince regent. I am a mere Waniand, embittered soldier and fighter, but at least I would get many children on you."

  So he did intend they should become lovers.

  Moreya could hardly imagine a less pretty speech. In typical warrior fashion, he'd cut through the outer defenses to the crux of the decision. Her choice was between the freedom he offered or living in a prison, trapped in a marriage that would be naught but a twisted lie, knowing she may never birth more than one child. A future king needed but one heir.

  "We would . . .?" She didn't know precisely how to phrase her question. Did Waniands have courtships?

  He lowered his voice so she had to strain to make out the words, though he was merely a breath away. "I am not in season, yet I find myself plagued with unseemly thoughts and an unaccustomed desire to be near you. This urgency is different than any I've known before."

  "My."

  Moreya was too startled to be articulate. But he'd still found his tongue - he who'd been staggering in the passageway less than an hour before - and he went on with his private confession.

  "I allowed myself to be drawn into the fray with those strangers because they regarded you with sexual want. They wished to mount you."

  Was it dark enough in his chamber to completely mask her red face?

  "I was infuriated by that knowledge, for I would mount you, Moreya Fa."

  She let out a tiny gasp. Of surging hope, but she prayed he'd take it as outraged shock due to his brashness. And it was brash, unforgivably so. She forgave him all the same.

  "You are unused to Yune womenfolk. Such a physical reaction is said to be common in men who are not of Yunish descent. We are overfavored by - "

  He shook his head. "I've seen other Yune females in Cronel's court. Very beauteous Yunes, with flesh like the meat of ripe summer fruits. They wore gossamer clothing, balmed their skin with exotic scents, and had males clustered around them. I have never responded thusly to them."

  "But how can you be certain? I am the sole Yune female now and you have spent much time physically close by my side these past days. Mayhap 'tis - "

  "I noticed you from the moment I entered the throne room. I saw your unique glow, but I fought any affinity. I did not wish to befriend you. Yet you befriended me, and left me no choice. I cannot seem to avoid experiencing the dual desire to both crush and protect you."

  She had to admit defeat on this particular jousting field. She was torn herself - between the desire to slap him or laugh at him, yet take him seriously. With an urge to sneer even as she admired him. To run. To throw herself into his arms and demand another wet kiss.

  Still, her dilemma wasn't comparable. She was a slip of a female, too thin and willowy, not much of a morsel, even for a young dragon. He was a seasoned warrior of lithe strength and taut sinews - who spoke of crushing her.

  "You'll not entice me into sailing away in a ship purchased with one of my gemstones by proclaiming you want to crush me," she sniffed.

  He smiled. Smiled.

  She saw his teeth flash in the darkness and her insides clenched. Again she acknowledged the murky, coiled feeling that was not fear, but had her wary, nonetheless.

  "The undoing is worth the price of a gemstone and more, believe me. There are other aspects to my nature too intensely private to speak about here and now. Say you will go to Ataraxia with me, and I will share the mysteries of warriors of my kind, fair one."

  Damn his Waniand soul. He'd offered her freedom, a new life, the promise of children. Now he threw in mystic secrets known only to males of his blood. "Words and hints. I would have more, Preece."

  "A sensible answer," he whispered, drawing closer, "deserving a show of faith." He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. There was no jolt, no searing flash of heat. The flame slowly ignited and began licking at her vitals as he traced the hollows of her mouth with his tongue.

  He moved one hand to a breast even as he pressed her fingers to his nether region. "Soon we will become mates and your touch will harden me like forged Aldean steel," he promised in a hot whisper.

  Each boldly caressed the other, accepted the mutual heat and attraction. Moreya thought she'd suffocate and die...of pleasure. Intense pleasure. Pure as his silvery locks or ice blue eyes. Hot and sweet as cherukom peppers.

  Damn his Waniand soul. Damn her, for wanting to own it.

  She pulled away and drew a quaking breath so she might be capable of speech. "Ataraxia...yes, I'll give you a stone. I must leave now." She darted for the door, for the haven of her room and its dully snoring maidservant.

  But hiding in her bed behind a barred door made no difference. Preece had been correct in his boasts. She wanted him, wanted to claim his dark secrets for herself. Wanted to stir the embers of unholy fire, to see those distant shores of glittering bright sand, wanted children and a life in the sun.

  Enough to pay Satan's price.

  Treason.

  The least of what she'd just agreed to.

  * * *

  CHAPTER NINE

  Moreya gave up all pretense of getting any rest shortly before dawn. She dressed quickly and left Glaryd still asleep in their bedchamber.

  The taproom was all but deserted at the early hour, except for Tivershem pushing a broom across the floor and a solitary man slumped near the hearth. Tivershem swept the refuse toward the front door and cracked it open. Moreya heard the sound of steady rain. "Huh," Tivershem groused, squinting. "I vow that's a rider in the distance. Can hardly make out his shape in this downpour. Just what I need. Another drenched soul 'neath my roof."

  Moreya joined him to peer out of the open doorway. There was indeed someone coming. A lone stranger on a soaked and plodding donkey. The man repeatedly dug his heels into the beast's sides, to no avail.

  "By the looks of this storm, no one'll be leaving here for another day or two. Gave your party the bulk of my chambers. My other rooms are occupied, too. I know Preece won't set out in this foul murk." Tivershem shook his head and started back toward the kitchen. "Best see to the stewpot and figure out where I'll put up the newcomer. Even my stable's full. My ostler will have to give up the stall he usually sleeps in for that donkey."

  Moreya followed Tivershem into the kitchen and took an apple from the sideboard. "I'm sure we can work out something. You can't turn the p
oor fellow away." She poured herself a cup of milk and headed back to the warmth of the taproom.

  A short time later a stranger entered, slogging water and mud behind him. Moreya bade him remove his wet cloak and was mildly surprised to discover a coarse cleric's robe and tonsure. Their new visitor announced he was a monk hying to Axcroft, a monastery some ten leagues further south of this outpost.

  He joined Moreya at a table near the fire and gazed with obvious longing at the stew and bread Tivershem set before them. "I fear I've no way to pay for board or a room. I'd have been safely amongst my brethren by now if not for the rain. I've no coin, kind sir. More's the pity."

  "I will pay whatever is required," Moreya announced, gesturing toward the food. "And you're welcome to stay, even if means a blanket on the floor. We are all at the mercy of the weather, and shall huddle together to make the best of things. I'm sure Sir Preece would agree to extending you aid."

  "I would? How can you be certain of that?"

  She turned and found him standing at the base of the stairs. Dressed in one of his dark tunics, but with its hood folded back on his shoulders instead of drawn up covering his head. She smiled. How the sight pleased her.

  The monk mumbled thanks - both to his benefactors and the Lord - then dug into the stew. Moreya glanced at him, then back at the tall knight, and suddenly gained a new appreciation for the Creator's brilliance. Sailing off with a valiant knight to some distant land presented a dilemma for her as an unwed maiden. A woman of virtue simply did not do such things. She'd tossed and fretted over the problem most of the night. Then the answer had ridden up on a wet donkey.

  "You would not have Tivershem turn this poor holy man out into the storm for lack of coin, would you, sir? I offered to pay bed and board for . . .?"

  "Brother Fense," the man supplied, in between great gulping bites of bread. The poor fellow must have gone some time without a decent meal.

  "For Brother Fense. He is a monk from Axcroft, a monastery not far away, who was caught in the rain. The tavern's full. Mayhap Brother Fense could share a chamber with Sieffre."