A Warrior's Heart Page 4

  She would be lying if she said she hadn’t enjoyed the focused attention of both knights, but it was the watchful eyes of Sir Roran that motivated her to keep at it. To see that glimmer of approval in his eyes, the one he rarely gifted to anyone, was worth the ache.

  That look was almost as rare as the flash of fury she’d witnessed when he’d discovered her injuries. Flecks of gold flared to flame within pools of brown, a timely reminder of the fierce and deadly warrior that lay beneath the controlled exterior of the disciplined knight.

  That he would be so moved by her injuries was unexpected; the soft burn of warmth in her chest at his reaction, even more so. Even now a tingle of awareness travelled the length of her spine at the memory. Of his big, strong hands tending to her cuts and bruises with such gentle efficiency...

  Brighid lunged, swallowing the pain as her injured leg gave out. ‘Twould not do to lose herself in ridiculous notions. Fanciful daydreams were exactly the reason the bumbling lads had been able to catch her in the first place.

  She forced herself to her feet and lunged again. And again. Remembering her place was imperative to achieving her purpose – getting to Scamallhaven unscathed and unrecognized. To Sir Roran, she was but a piteous squire. And he was, somewhat regrettably, only a means to an end.

  Chapter Eight

  It had been several days since they had settled in the glen. Situated along the large stream that wound its way steadily north, it was the ideal place to train before continuing their journey. Soft grasses filled a clearing large enough for them to move freely. The nearby forest provided them with sufficient small game for meals, and that which they could not hunt or procure with cunning was available for coin in the village a scant half-a-day’s ride away.

  Despite the close quarters, his squire did not eat with them, sleep near them, or bathe with them. Occasionally he would be incited to pick up a weapon and spar with them – Sean thought the lad’s speed would improve the skills of the others – but he did not train with them on a regular basis. On the rare occasions when he did, Sean would end the sessions prematurely, confiding to Roran later that the boys tended to become unusually aggressive after a short while, though he was at a loss to explain why.

  Roran agreed. At first he thought his protective instincts had to do with the boy’s small stature, but as time went on, he was forced to admit it was more than that. There was something else, something that pulled at Roran on a deeper, more disturbing level, and he was going to have to deal with it before something unconscionable happened.

  “Will you brand him with the others at tonight’s ceremony, then?” Sean asked.

  Roran thought carefully. The branding ceremony was a traditional ritual. Those officially entering training for the king’s service were tattooed with the king’s mark upon their left biceps. It was the first in what would be a series of markings, an indication of their induction into service. For every milestone, the design would be embellished. The longer a warrior served, the higher he rose in the ranks, the greater his deeds, the more enhancements to his markings. Roran’s currently now extended down both arms and across his back, marking him as one of the most decorated of the king’s men.

  “Aye,” he said after some deliberation. “He’s earned it. What he lacks in size and strength he has more than made up for in stealth and cunning.”

  *

  “Remove your shirt.” Sean’s terse command struck terror in Brighid’s heart. She watched in horror as one by one, the boys sat before Roran and received the mark of the king upon their flesh while Sean spoke eloquently of the long-standing tradition and honor of the King’s Guard. Still, she had little cause to fret, she told herself. She was not a warrior in training, after all. She was but a simple squire. They would not think to mark her.

  “Squire!” Roran bellowed, dispelling that theory. Brighid stepped farther back into the shadows as the others began to look around for her. Ever since the unfortunate “bad stew” incident, they tended to give her a wider berth, though they did look at her with wary suspicion occasionally.

  Roran’s keen eyes unerringly found her, despite her efforts to go unseen. “Come. You will receive the mark as well.”

  Her eyes widened and she shook her head.

  “Aye. Come.” It was a command, not a request.

  When she still refused to move, Sean appeared behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. “He wishes to honor you in front of the others,” he spoke quietly so that only she could her. “’Tis an honor you would do well not to refuse, lest you openly insult him by questioning his judgment.”

  All eyes turned to her. Several of the others smirked, no doubt thinking she was afraid. She was, but not for the reasons they thought. As she stepped forward, the others drew in closer, anxious to watch.

  “Remove your shirt,” Sir Sean said, just as he had to the others.

  Brighid froze, her mind working furiously. She could not openly refuse Sir Roran without serious repercussions, especially not when she understood that he was doing this for her. In his own way, he was letting the others know that he considered her worthy, despite the fact that she was little more than a servant. Had she not been so terrified, she would have savored the feeling a bit longer. As it was, those reflections would have to wait until later when all was quiet and she allowed her mind to wander – assuming, of course, that she was still here and capable of doing so.

  Seeing no other option, Brighid unlaced the top two ties of her simple shirt with trembling fingers. Then she grabbed the edge about her left wrist with her right hand, lowered her shoulder and withdrew her left arm from the long sleeve. The others watched, bemused, as she manipulated her arm out of the shirt sleeve while keeping her tunic and the rest of herself well covered.

  Roran narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing when she sat down and offered him her now-bared arm. If she revealed any more, her game would be forfeit. Either he would accept it or he wouldn’t.

  *

  Roran was aware of everyone’s gaze as they waited to see what he would do. His squire’s bizarre actions had surprised him as much as anyone, but he did not let it show. He looked at his squire, expecting to find the usual downcast eyes. Instead, he found a burning gaze that confused the hell out of him.

  Unnerved, Roran dipped the sharpened tip into the ink. One hand clasped his squire’s upper arm firmly while the other poised above the flesh. It looked and felt delicate against his much larger, calloused hands. Roran gritted his teeth against the strange current that seemed to flow from the point of contact, through the lad’s arm and into his, coursing through his veins like a cozy little bolt of lightning.

  “Do not move,” he warned, his voice a low growl.

  The squire didn’t. He didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as blink as the needle lanced his skin repeatedly. Rich blood the color of rubies beaded along each quick jab. He watched, transfixed, as a small but intricate pattern appeared each time the blood was blotted away. Roran was quiet, intent upon his work. Even Sean seemed to have lost the desire to speak, his eyes drawn to them as if he, too, could sense the strange energy in the air between them.

  When Roran finished, he blotted away the last of the blood and smeared a pungent salve over the mark. It was perfect - stark inky black amidst a sea of creamy white. Roran sucked in a breath when he saw what he had unwittingly done – he had given his squire the king’s mark, but he had embellished it as well, adding his own special touches giving his squire a unique image.

  It was not just a mark, he realized with sudden clarity. It was a brand. His brand. A symbol of possession, not to just the king, but to him as well.

  Why had he done such a thing? Roran felt a wave of confusion. It simply wasn’t like him to vary from the norm like that. His eyes met his squire’s briefly before turning away. In that single moment, he saw the same confusion mirrored there, and something else, too. Something else he absolutely refused to recognize. Something that flared up with brilliance and fired into every last ner
ve in his body as it fired to life.

  Roran released the lad’s arm, shoving himself away from the table a bit more roughly than necessary. Barking orders for the squire to clean up, he turned on his heel and thundered back to his tent, ignoring the stares of the others.

  Chapter Nine

  Roran paced back and forth. Something had been nagging at the back of his mind. Something so unnerving, so troubling, that he dare not let it rise to the forefront of his thoughts. Unfortunately, he could not exercise such self-control in his sleep, and so he was loathe to close his eyes and allow his mind to travel to those forbidden, unholy places he had no wish to be.

  Those eyes. Shockingly clear blue eyes, looking deep into his and affecting him in a way they should not. Skin as pale as alabaster, soft to the touch beneath his calloused hands. Small delicate features more befitting of a pixie than a boy.

  He paused mid-step, considering the impossible. Was the boy perhaps half-Fae? Roran was not a particularly superstitious man, but he knew the whispers and legends as well as anyone; tales of fairy mounds and the amorous immortals who liked to frolic with mortals occasionally.

  As quickly as the thought came to him, Roran dismissed it.

  The lingering heat in his blood was not so easily dismissed, however. Nor was the anger at his own lack of self-control. He wondered briefly if the others felt it, too. If perhaps that might be one of the reasons they had taken an instant dislike to the boy. They blamed him for the way they felt around him, as if it was somehow his fault instead of their own. After all, hadn’t Roran just done the same thing? Pushed the lad away, assuming that the unease he felt was caused by the lad and not his own shortcomings?

  “What in the devil’s name was that all about?” Sean asked later that night, pouring himself a tankard of ale. Restless and unable to sleep, he’d joined Roran in his tent once the others had bedded down for the night.

  Roran shook his head. He’d been wondering the same thing himself, along with other things he had no wish to discuss with another man. Ever.

  “He is a flexible little bastard,” Sean mused, envisioning the boy extracting his arm without removing his shirt. “I have never seen a lad with the ability to contort himself so. A few wenches, perhaps, when a quick tup in the back room would not permit a full disrobing.”

  Roran scowled in his direction, but if Sean saw it, he ignored it. “Do you remember that first day of testing, when he near folded himself in half to avoid a strike?”

  Yes, Roran did remember. All too well, actually. Just as he could clearly recall the way his squire was capable of leaping and crouching like a sprite, or his ability to climb like a squirrel. His mind whirred with a hundred such recollections of agility, performed with a natural grace. He desperately smothered the feeling of unease that tried to rise at the sheer pleasure Roran took from watching the way his squire moved.

  Fairy. Nae.

  “Is he disfigured, do you think?”

  Stunned, Roran blinked and stopped his pacing to look at his fellow knight. “Well, it would make sense, would it not?” Sean continued thoughtfully. “The lad may bear some horrible scars that he does not wish to reveal. Have you ever seen the boy not fully covered from neck to ankle?”

  “Nae,” Roran murmured. Not once since they had left Donatirim had he seen the lad bare any skin besides his face, hands, and feet. His squire did not bathe with the others, and often slipped off into the woods only to reappear washed and dressed. Even in sparring beneath the sweltering sun, the lad remained fully clothed instead of barebacked like the others.

  Sean’s conjecture provided some measure of relief. It was certainly better than his own Fae-human suppositions. It offered sound, reasonable logic for tonight’s odd behavior, as well other things Roran was hard-pressed to explain. The lad was obviously different from the others, and as a general rule, anyone “different” was viewed with suspicion and contempt. Who could blame the boy for not wanting to provide them with any more reason to ridicule him?

  Even Roran, who was more accepting than most, had been affected by the boy’s strange behavior. Hadn’t he just been questioning himself before Sean’s timely visit? If the lad evoked that kind of reaction in him – a man of discipline and honor – what must it have done to others, those less educated, less experienced, less sure of themselves?

  If there was anything Roran had learned, it was that people did not like those things that raised doubts about themselves. His squire definitely had a way of making others take pause. Despite the fact that the lad was small and silent and quite possibly the most nonthreatening child Roran had ever come across, he managed to raise a lot of hackles.

  In addition to his own musings, Roran had seen evidence of that repeatedly over the last few weeks. The others resented his squire, looked upon him with suspicion and mistrust. Had they not tried to ambush him at every opportunity? Did they not taunt and tease him in the hopes of an excuse to exert their superiority and thus prove that they were, in fact, every bit as strong and solid and normal as they liked to believe?

  “Mayhap we should just strip the boy and get it over with,” Sean mused. “Get it all out in the open and stop the whispers and conjectures.”

  While he took some small measure of satisfaction in the idea that he was not the only one flexing his mind as to the whys and wherefores surrounding the odd little squire, it was more troubling to realize that the others had been thinking upon it as well. And Roran did not like the hint of anticipation he saw on Sean’s face at the idea.

  With an unexpected vehemence, something reared up in Roran. He was feeling quite protective of his squire all of a sudden. He would not allow anyone to shame his squire in that way, to put him on public display and gawk at him like some freak just so they could feel better about themselves.

  “Nae,” Roran said firmly. “Let the lad keep his secrets.”

  “But - ”

  “But nothing. The boy has done nothing wrong, and no matter what, he is one of us. We will not add to whatever shame haunts him.”

  Roran felt somewhat better after Sean left. And how pathetic was it, he thought as he readied himself for bed, that the suspected abuse of a small boy and some nominal act of benevolence on his part could soothe the frayed edges of his morality?

  He was a knight, he reminded himself. A warrior at heart. His very existence was based on a code of honor and high standards. Anything that threatened that was bound to give him some pause. ‘Twas only natural, and, perhaps in some bizarre way, good for him. A test, possibly, to ensure that his foundations and beliefs in what was decent and acceptable were in good repair.

  Oh, he was not naïve. It was impossible to spend the majority of his life among other males almost exclusively, and not be aware that such ... connections ... did sometimes occur between men. That was not, and never had been, something he had fully understood.

  Nor did he want to.

  Roran drifted off to sleep, feeling wearier than he had in a long time. For the first few hours, all was well. Entombed by a dreamless heavy slumber, Roran’s body sought the rest it so desperately needed. But a few hours before dawn, he became restless.

  Beneath his closed lids, visions began to form. His now-rested body began to awaken, tingling in awareness. Before he realized what was happening, before he could stop it, his subconscious assumed control of his dreams, rising from the depths with sudden intensity.

  It was a dream. Roran knew it was a dream, but he was powerless to exert any control over it. His hands clenched the blankets, but it was not wool that he felt between his fingers. It was the finest, softest silk. His dream-self looked down. In the soft candlelight he saw shimmers of hair so black it appeared almost blue, spilling over his hands as he cupped a head to his groin. He felt the tug on his engorged cock, at first gentle and tentative, becoming increasingly demanding. Roran groaned at the sheer bliss of it; no woman had ever aroused such a blinding lust.

  Her small white hands stroked at his shaft in perfect rhythm
with her wicked mouth, her tongue fluttering against the thick veins with each hard pull. He felt her other hand grasping his sack, massaging and squeezing the seed with an exquisite agony as the heat from her skin nearly scorched him.

  His release was coming hard and fast; there was no way to stop it, not even to delay it. He grunted out his warning to this erotic angel, hoping fervently she would not pull away for he so desperately wanted – no needed – to inject himself into her, to mark her and claim her as his own.

  He nearly sobbed with relief when she gripped him tighter, swallowed him deeper, took him into her as far as he could possibly go, her clever little hands leaving his shaft only to clutch at his arse. Her nails dug into his flesh as if she feared he might try to get away, to deny her this.

  As if he could.

  Roran clenched his teeth together hard as the first jet ripped from his cock. He gripped her head as her nails flexed in his arse, kneading him, coaxing the seed from his shaft, her throat closing around him with each swallow.

  When he had spent himself completely, Roran’s dream-self staggered backward, feeling weak and dizzy. With a wet sound, his erotic angel released his cock. Using the last of his strength, Roran forced his eyes open that he might look upon his fantasy.

  Crystal clear blue eyes looked at him. Familiar eyes amidst the delicate white features.

  Roran roared his anguish. He awoke from the hellish dream in a cold sweat, jerking upright, his heart beating hard and heavy against the inner walls of his chest, his gut clenched tight and his manhood spent and wet. He covered his face with his hands as if he could stop the visions of those crystal clear blue eyes and soft alabaster skin burning him from the inside out. Roran fought to control his breath, heaving as if he was fighting a battle for his very soul.