“Daire!” Rowan gasped. “Why, I could break that scrawny, ugly, little—” He broke off when he realized she was giving him some of his own back. “I know how to punish you for that,” he said, looking fierce. The next moment he was on her, tickling her until she was squealing with laughter and writhing between his legs.
The writhing made him forget that he was “punishing” her, and in a moment they were kissing as hungrily as if they had not seen one another for a year. The kissing led to a long lovemaking, then both fell into a short but deep sleep.
The rumbling of Rowan’s stomach woke them both.
“I do not want to leave here,” Rowan said, holding her close to him. “Out there rages the world. No doubt Brita has already declared war on the Irials, and it is my fault for not seeing to her.”
His tone was so gloomy that she kissed his nose then her head came up. “Someone comes.”
Instantly, Rowan was out of the bed, pulled a cover over his shoulder to cover his nakedness, and grabbed his sword. “Stay here,” he ordered Jura. “And I mean that.”
He left the tent to await the arrival of the lone horseman, who, when he saw Rowan, increased his pace.
It was Xante and he looked at Rowan—nude but for the wool blanket over one shoulder and trailing behind him, his sword drawn—with amusement. “It is good I am not an enemy,” Xante said. “You took long enough to hear me.”
“What is wrong?” Rowan asked, his voice heavy and sharing none of Xante’s humor. “How am I needed?”
Xante paused a moment before answering, his jaw working. “You are not needed. Your sister has sent you food and clothing for Jura.” He raised an eyebrow at Rowan. “She seemed to think Jura’s clothing would not last the night.” Xante gave a big smile at the reddening of Rowan’s face.
Rowan cursed his fair skin and the Lanconian smugness as he took the baskets from Xante. “Brita is all right? She is not angered because I was not with her last night?”
“Young Geralt entered her tent last night and has not yet come out. We Lanconians seem able to do some things on our own, brother.”
“Brother?” Rowan asked.
Xante’s face turned hard, as if preparing for Rowan’s disapproval. “I married your sister last night,” he said almost defiantly.
Rowan’s grin almost split his face. “It seems we English are not so incompetent. She has you delivering goods and messages the morning after your marriage. Could you not keep her in bed this morning?”
It was Xante’s turn to look sheepish, then he smiled. “There is enough food there for two days and there is no need for you to come back. Everyone is…interested in each other. There will be many children nine months from today. I bid you good morning, for I have my own children to beget.” He waved his hand in farewell and turned his horse away.
Jura came out of the tent wearing Rowan’s tunic, a small eating knife in her hand. “So now you have the captain of the guard on your side,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder if Geralt knows of this.”
Rowan put two fingers to her lips. “Peace for as long as possible, remember? Do not speak of your brother today, please. Let us eat and make love and swim and sing.”
Jura smiled at this. “Can we actually do what we want today? No uniting of tribes nor any other state business?”
“We shall be lovers and do what lovers do. Shall I play my lute and sing for you?”
“I’d rather you showed me that trick you have of throwing a knife. I have tried it but I cannot move my wrist as you do. It would be very useful in battle to be able to throw a knife and kill a man so cleanly and quickly. I could—” Once again, Rowan put his fingers over her lips.
“An hour’s knife practice, an hour of singing, and the rest of the day making love,” he said.
Jura looked thoughtful. “That seems like an equal division to me,” she said seriously, her eyes twinkling. “Shall we eat first or bathe first?”
“Eat,” he said, reaching for her, but laughing, she eluded him and grabbed the basket of food. When his blanket fell away and she saw that he wanted more than food, she ignored him as she sat on the ground and began to eat. But all through the meal she stretched her legs often and bent so he could see down the front of the loose tunic.
It was a heavenly day to both of them, the first they had shared as people, not as enemies. Rowan reluctantly showed Jura how to throw a knife, but he soon realized that she had a natural aptitude for using a weapon and after an hour’s practice she was nearly as good as he.
“You should teach my men,” he said grudgingly.
“Not that Neile,” Jura snapped. “I do not like that man.”
Rowan started to correct her but, instead, he said nothing. Perhaps Neile was offending other Lanconians as well as Jura.
For both of them the day was too short. Although they had been married for some weeks, they knew very little about each other, and so much anger had been between them that they could not easily trust. But each of them had been reared to do nothing except train for war. Rowan had had Lora to teach him some of the gentler ways and he had come to believe that was a woman’s place in life. Jura had no idea what Rowan expected of her.
They spent the day tentatively trying to please the other, neither of them knowing what the other expected in a marriage mate. Jura wanted to have an archery contest—after all it was what had made Daire ask her to marry him. But Rowan did not like that idea. He wanted to show Jura how to play a lute or to sing some English songs. Jura knew she had a musical sense that was made of lead and she did not want to appear to be a fool in front of him. It seemed that neither of them was willing to do what he knew the other one excelled at.
So they ate and made love and they talked. Rowan listened with some wonder at Jura’s story of her childhood. He had been so horrified at the idea of a women’s guard at first that he had dismissed the women, but now he listened more openly because he had seen the way Jura protected his back.
“But when did you dance and play?” he asked. “When did you ride out in the fields to look at the spring flowers?”
“The same time you did,” she answered.
They made love again that night and slept twined in each other’s arms. It wasn’t quite dawn when the sound of a horse, coming at a run, woke them. Jura and Rowan rolled out of bed instantly, both pulling on a tunic while they ran toward the tent door. Rowan ordered Jura to stay behind, but she made no move to obey him. She stood beside him, sword in hand, and waited for the rider.
It was Geralt, his dark face black with rage—and across his saddle, hands and feet tied, mouth gagged, was Brita.
Chapter Thirteen
YOU JAPING FOOL,” Rowan bellowed before Geralt spoke. Rowan caught the halter of the horse then pulled Brita into his arms. The Vatell queen’s eyes were on fire with fury.
“What did she do?” Jura asked her brother.
“It does not matter what she did,” Rowan yelled. “You have ruined us with your stupid little-boy temper.”
Geralt grabbed his sword as he dismounted and Jura put herself between her husband and her brother.
“You will not fight over this,” Jura said. “We will talk and see what can be done.”
Rowan hefted Brita in his arms. The rage and anger on the woman’s face spelled the end of all his dreams for a united Lanconia and all because of the childish temper of this half-brother of his. Geralt wanted power only for power’s sake, not because he meant to do some good with the power.
“I heard her planning to attack the Irials,” Geralt said, his voice full of hatred for Rowan. “She slipped from the bed we shared last night—the foolish woman thought I was asleep.” He glared at Brita. “It will take more than what an old woman like you can give me to make me sleep,” he spat at her. “I followed her. She went to one of her guard and ordered him to find your tent and kill both of you. I killed the guard and then, when this viper slept, I took her.”
Jura looked to Rowan. “My brother has saved yo
ur life and mine as well. You should not have doubted him.”
Rowan was aghast. “He has caused a war because he could not keep a woman in bed with him and I should not have doubted him?”
“You—” Geralt shouted, and advanced on Rowan, sword drawn.
Rowan was about to put Brita down and go after Geralt, but again Jura stepped between them.
“We must prevent war!” she yelled. “If the Vatells find their queen gone, they will murder the Irials as they sleep. We must work with what has been done—and it must be done quickly.”
Rowan stood holding Brita, ignoring her squirming in his arms, her noise made through the gag, and glared at his half-brother. He was seeing dreams and hopes crumble all because of this boy’s uncontrollable temper. No doubt Geralt was angry because Brita could leave his bed and felt the woman was insulting his masculinity.
“Rowan!” Jura shouted, trying to get his attention because all he seemed able to do was glare at Geralt with hate in his eyes. “We must make plans.”
Rowan could think of nothing except his anger. Slowly, he turned to look at Jura. “You side with him.”
“There are not sides to take,” she said. “Geralt thought he was saving your life, and it looks like he was.” She turned to her half-brother. “What did you do with the guard’s body?”
“I pushed it off Foran Cliff.”
“Get it,” she ordered, but Geralt didn’t move. “Go get the body and fasten it to sit a horse. We will take this queen back to the village and she will tell them she means to ride with us to Yaine.”
Brita gave a sharp “Ha!” through her gag.
“Go!” Jura screeched at Geralt. “We need to act quickly before someone suspects.”
Geralt rode away, toward the village, while Jura walked past Rowan into the tent. “We must dress,” she said, “and put her down.”
Rowan, still carrying Brita, followed her into the tent. “Damn you, Jura, you’ll not start giving orders again.”
She was wrapping her cross garters about her legs. “I should have stood there and let you two fight one another over her?” She looked up at him. “Do you enjoy holding her?”
Rowan tossed the tightly bound Brita onto the bed and put his hands on Jura’s shoulders. “Could we not be at peace, you and I? Must you always take the side of others against me?”
“I told you I did not choose sides. What is done is done, now we must solve it. We must do something to keep the Vatells from realizing that their queen is held captive.” She picked up Brita’s feet and removed her belt.
Rowan straightened. “All right, I will take her back to the village and she will tell her men that she rides with us to the Fearen village. We will bring back Fearens to marry into the Vatells and Irials.” Again there was protest from Brita.
Jura leaned over the woman on the bed, put her face close to Brita’s, and said in a silky voice, “We will have arrows aimed at you, and if you do not say what we want and you somehow escape, I will come after you, and one day, while you sleep, I will creep into your bedchamber and cut the end of your nose off. Never again will you fascinate a pretty young prince.” She smiled coldly at Brita and touched the woman’s nose with her fingertip.
Rowan threw up his hands in exasperation. “Go get Daire,” he said. “The Vatells will believe she rides freely with us if her son stands beside her. We will say Yaine has agreed to see us, and two hours from now we will ride toward Fearen land. And may God be with us.”
Jura finished dressing and left the tent to go to her horse. Rowan came after her and caught her arm.
“It didn’t last long, did it? Our peace, I mean.”
“My brother probably saved your life,” she said. “He kept your vicious, lying queen busy so she wouldn’t notice you had lied about marrying her, and he killed a Vatell guard who was being sent to kill you. If someone had seen Geralt do the killing, he would be dead now, you and I might also be dead, and there would be a war started. He risked much for you, yet you condemn him.”
“You see killing as the only solution. You Lanconians live your lives training for war. I wonder if you are capable of living in peace. You plot and plan against each other so much that—”
“If you despise us so much, why don’t you return to your perfect, peaceful England?” she shot at him. “We do not need you to constantly tell us that we are wrong, that everything we do does not live up to your knightly standards. We have survived centuries without you and we can continue to survive.”
“All you do is survive!” he said with anger. “Each tribe of Lanconia lives in a prison. You have no roads, no outside merchants, no trade between tribes; you have nothing but weapons and warfare. And you fight me, your own king, at every turn. We had two days of peace and now the Vatell queen lies tied and gagged.”
“Geralt should have let the guard come for you,” she said, her eyes black with anger. The man was English: he thought like an Englishman, he talked like an Englishman, he reasoned like an Englishman.
Rowan took a step backward. “You do not mean that,” he whispered.
“Hear me well, Englishman: I will always choose my country over any single life. I would die now if it would help my country. My brother, who you insult, is the same. You have taken a throne which should be his, but he killed to save your life because he too wants peace between the tribes. We see, more than you ever could, the impossibility of the task, but we are risking our lives to help you, yet you despise us for it.”
“I despise your tempers,” Rowan shot back. “You think with a battle-ax in your hands. Geralt was angry because a Vatell queen dared threaten the life of an Irial. Geralt thinks only of the Irials, not of what is good for all of Lanconia. He would be a good king of one tribe, but he does not consider himself part of all the country. He should have come to me and warned me. He should not have kidnapped the Vatell queen and risked war.” Rowan leaned closer to her. “Or perhaps your brother would like this peace to fail. The people would no doubt turn on me and kill me if I had brought the Vatells here and they attacked. Geralt would be king then.”
He caught her hand before she slapped him. “Go,” he said. “Get Daire and Cilean. We will ride into the Fearens as soon as possible.”
Rowan watched her ride away, then went back into the tent. Brita lay on the bed, her eyes watching him as he walked across the room. He drank deeply of wine to fortify himself. He cursed Geralt for his stupidity. Rowan had meant to try to persuade Brita to travel to Yaine’s country in peace, and, more important, he was waiting for his messenger to return with the news that Yaine would receive the new king.
Now Geralt had forced Rowan to accelerate his plans and now Rowan had an enraged queen on his hands. And, Rowan thought sadly, a wife who once again hated him. He had proved nothing to her, had made her see nothing of his way of thinking. Still, she assumed her jealous brother was doing what was good for Lanconia and that her husband was an outsider who understood nothing.
Rowan cursed as he put down the empty wineglass. He would have to take Geralt with him into Fearen territory. Jura might believe the man to be interested in his country’s good but Rowan didn’t trust him. There was something more than anger in Geralt’s eyes, something that was greedy and repulsive, and Rowan’s instincts told him that Geralt wanted the peace between the Irials and the Vatells to fail. Cynically, Rowan wondered if Geralt had tried to get Brita to join forces with him against Rowan and the woman had refused. Brita would never settle for a boy prince; she would want only a king who could match her in strength.
If Rowan was right about Geralt, he could not afford to leave him behind so that he could break the fragile peace between the tribes. Rowan had hoped to remain in the Irial village for a month or more and preside over the peaceful union of his people—and over the peace in his own marriage—but now he would have to leave the tribes to themselves.
“Damn him!” Rowan muttered. Geralt had ruined everything, and now the hot-tempered boy would have to go with them.
If Rowan was right about Geralt, he would have to watch his back.
His back, he thought with a grimace. Jura would never protect her husband’s back from her brother’s arrows.
He turned back to Brita. “It’s time to go.” He pulled the gag from her mouth.
She spat in his face. “My guards will kill you for this. I will never go with you and my people will never believe that Irial son of mine. He was fool enough to be taken by Thal, so what do I want with a coward like him?”
“From what I heard, Daire was just a boy when he was taken and he attacked Thal himself.”
“He lost, though,” she said. “He was not a true son to his father. My husband was a magnificent man, a Vatell, not an Irial like that puny boy you sent to my bed.”
Rowan was untying her hands. “Whatever you think of us, you are going to help us now.”
“You think the threats of that nothing whore you married frighten me?”
Rowan wrapped the neck of her gown in his hand. “She is more than you will ever be,” he said, “and if her threats do not frighten you, let me tell you that if you are not a convincing liar to your people and make them believe you want to go with us to Yaine, I will remove more than your nose. I will remove your head.”
She glared at him, but she made no more threats while he finished untying her. “What has Yaine to do with me?”
“I want you to marry him,” Rowan said, pulling her from the bed.
Brita began to laugh. “You are more a fool than I thought. Me marry that brigand? If I did, I would rule the Fearens as well as the Vatells and I would destroy you.”
Rowan began pulling her out of the tent and toward his horse. “Perhaps Yaine believes he will rule the Vatells.”
“I will kill him if he dares try to take my power,” she seethed.
Rowan picked her up and dropped her into the saddle. “Good, maybe you two will fight each other for control and I will be the winner. I hear Yaine has a pretty daughter, perhaps she can marry Daire.”