Free Warrior's Lady by Amanda Ashley Page B

Dragora’s breath, shocking her senses. Tor would not kiss her like that. He would ask her permission before daring to indulge in such intimacy. His touch would be as gentle as the morning rain, as soft as dandelion down. He wouldn’t make her heart race or her blood sing. He wouldn’t make her limbs go weak, or cause the world to spin out of focus…
    Stop it! She shook her head, bewildered at the turn of her thoughts. She was a Maje. A Maje did not marry for pleasure or carnal desire, but to perpetuate the race, that there might always be someone to heal the pain inflicted by others, someone to see beauty in the midst of ugliness, someone to speak for peace in time of war.
    She stared down at Jarrett when he touched her arm, so lost in thought she hadn’t been aware that they’d stopped.
    “We’ll rest here for the night,” he said.
    She nodded, her senses reeling as his hands closed around her waist to lift her from the back of the horse.
    He held her for several moments, his dark-green eyes gazing into hers, making it difficult to breathe. She wondered why he didn’t put her down, wondered why she couldn’t read his thoughts as he held her, suspended in the air, her eyes on a level with his.
    “What is thee staring at?” she asked.
    “At sky-blue eyes and lips that would tempt a heavenly messenger.”
    “Thee should put me down.”
    “Should I?”
    There was fire in the depths of his eyes, flames as hot as the pools of Mereck, heat that threatened to melt her defenses. “Please,” she whispered.
    Slowly, he lowered her feet to the ground.
    Slowly, he took his hands from her waist.
    Slowly, he bent his head toward hers. Freed of all restraint, she was still powerless to resist and she stood quiescent as his mouth descended on hers. Featherlight, his lips caressed hers, more tempting than sweet Freywine, more tantalizing than a Siren’s call.
    She gazed into his eyes, felt the fervent heat of his desire leap between them even though their bodies were not touching. There was only the undemanding pressure of his lips on hers, silently entreating, quietly pleading for her surrender.
    “No.” Unable to draw her gaze from his, she shook her head. “No. I cannot give thee what thee desires.”
    “I haven’t asked thee for anything.” His voice was deep and low, husky with yearning.
    “Thee does not need to ask. Thy desire is clearly mirrored in the depths of thy eyes, in the silent entreaty of thy lips.”
    “It displeases thee?”
    She stared at him in confusion. She should be angry. She should be offended. Why, then, was she pleased that he found her desirable?
    “Thee has not answered me. Does my ardor displease thee?”
    “No…yes…” She drew a deep, steadying breath, willing herself to think of Majeulla, of her betrothed, of her duty to her people. “Please let me go.”
    He lifted one black brow. “I am not holding thee.”
    But he was. His deep green gaze imprisoned her more surely than chains or iron bars.
    “Jarrett, to give in to thy desire will give thee a moment’s pleasure, but it will destroy everything I am, everything I hold dear. Please do not ask it of me.”
    “And if I did?”
    “I fear I would give it to thee.”
    Her words filled him with joy, and pain. Summoning every ounce of self-control that he possessed, he turned and walked away from her. Even if she were willing, he couldn’t take her innocence, couldn’t rob her of her gift just to ease the awful ache that plagued him. She was a Maje, born to heal. She belonged in a world far different from his. High in the mist-shrouded mountains of her homeland, she would live in peace and harmony with her people. She would listen to the song of the Hoada and the whisper of the south wind. On moonlit nights, she would tell her children tales of Dragora. And, perhaps, some dark eve, she would tell them of the horrors of the Pavilion, and of the renegade warrior whose pain and misery she had alleviated over and over