Dye's Kingdom: Wanting It Forever Page 3

  There was more than a hint of arrogance in her slow smile. “Yes, sir. Which two would you have, sir…and where would you have them?”

  Now the king’s eyes narrowed at her impudence. His hand traveled slowly to his forehead as he demonstrated the two-finger salute for his new captain. Just as slowly, Martigay’s fingers rose to her temple to snap off a salute, then dropped to her lips, where they lingered an instant, before tipping toward him. With a smart turn, Martigay was out of the tent.

  Uncertainly, Dye stared at the tent’s door. Had his new Captain of Messengers just blown him a kiss?

  Unsmiling, he shook his head as he tugged at his ties and tried to loop them into a knot, his eyes still on the tent’s exit. After several attempts, he looked down at the leather strings and realized his work was complicated by a rising tide of thickening flesh.

  Falling back into his chair, he shook his head again—in frustration—as he drummed up the memory of the last woman he’d laid. Then the one before that and, when that didn’t work, the one before that. But intruding into these memories was a saucy vixen with rich red hair, tan doeskins hugging the curves of her legs, her jerkin cut low on her chest and barely held closed with a thin twist of leather.

  Like a spring uncoiling, Dye stood suddenly and bolted through the tent’s opening.

  His two guards followed him to the river, where he threw himself into the cold rush. Gasping, he surfaced in the icy stream, slicking his hair back and blinking the water out of his eyes before slogging his way slowly toward the bank, water sliding off his hair and down his shoulders as the river dragged at his legs.

  He was just going to have to get wed, he thought. To Bruthinia of Vandaland. He would do well to remember that…whether he wanted to or not.

  Chapter Four

  Dye reined in his mount and glanced back over his shoulder. He’d noticed the wasps’ nest clinging to the old bristlecone when he’d passed the ancient tree. Now he pulled his mount to a halt fifty paces beyond the tree. Reaching for his bow and stringing it, he motioned to Lieutenant Prithan, then waited for the lieutenant’s unit to go by, pulling the girl out as she passed.

  The woman was far too sure of herself for his liking and he’d been looking for an opportunity to bring her down a notch since the boot incident in his tent. As a commander, he knew the danger of impertinence and disrespect—knew its ability to destroy an army from within. And if the girl thought she was going to charm her way through the ranks by blowing kisses where a salute was appropriate—she had better start rethinking. It was time to put the soldier in her place.

  The wasps’ nest wasn’t huge, probably housing no more than twenty or thirty of the nasty wee beasts, but he thought it would serve his purpose.

  “Captain Martigay,” he started, “Lieutenant Prithan and I have a wager going.” He pointed to the wasps’ nest in the distance.

  Prithan’s expression was one of surprise while the girl’s was wary as she regarded the distant nest—a muddy, mottled blotch hugging a wide split in the old bristlecone.

  Dye pulled an arrow from the quiver holster on his saddle. “You can judge the outcome of the contest for us. I’m to hit that wasps’ nest to win.” Drawing the bowstring tighter than was warranted, he let the arrow fly. There was a dull, distant thud as the arrowhead was driven through the nest and its head sank deep into the tree’s trunk. Immediately, a cloud of dusty specks appeared to dip and hover about the pierced nest.

  Dye looked at the girl.

  “It was a large enough target,” she pointed out.

  He held her eye. “Damn,” he delivered, coolly and unconvincingly. “I’ve just realized. That was my lucky arrow.” The woman looked as though she’d been expecting exactly this, but waited for the order just the same. “Retrieve my arrow, soldier.”

  He caught just a flicker of fire in her eyes before she turned her pony’s head and cantered easily in the direction of the tree. As she rode away, he caught sight of a long, saw-toothed scar running down the back of her arm. For some reason, the sight of that soft female curve, so viciously defaced, released an unanticipated flood of compassion for the girl. Immediately, he regretted his command. Clenching his teeth to keep from canceling his order, Dye wheeled his impatient mount as he watched her come level with the tree, but off to one side about twenty paces as she turned her horse to face the bristlecone.

  Frowning at the distant figure, he wondered what she had in mind. He knew the arrow’s shaft was set firmly in the tree’s trunk and would take some wrestling to work free. As he watched, he saw her head toss, swore he saw her eyes slide toward him with a mean, metallic gleam of warning. He watched her lean over her pony’s neck, her mouth close to the pony’s ear—and the horse was off. He saw the little paint fly past the tree without slowing. Waiting for the paint to turn, he pulled at his reins as his horse tossed its head.

  Twenty paces past the tree, the soldier pulled her mount into a wide turn and he looked for the arrow. She held it aloft in one hand and he cursed.

  But it was a curse of relief—as well as pleasure.

  Tearing across the ground toward him, the soldier reined her pony to a prancing halt before him. A swift glance at her face and arms assured him she was unharmed as he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Her leg swung over the back of her mount and she landed lightly on the ground before she took the few paces between them. She held the arrow forward in both hands, like an offering, and he reached for it—then frowned at the bent shaft in his fist.

  He nodded at the arrow without comment, assuming it must have come close to snapping when she’d grabbed it at a gallop.

  “Guess it won’t be very lucky anymore,” she said lightly, without a shade of remorse.

  Still frowning, his gaze was drawn to hers. Although she smiled, an angry, contained fire danced behind her smoke-blue eyes. “I could give you some suggestions…of what you could do with it…next,” she quietly stated.

  Still nodding and frowning, he answered her. “Thank you, Captain. That won’t be necessary.”

  For several heartbeats, her gaze didn’t waver from his face, though his own was distracted by an evil curl of yellow in her hair, obscenely humping at her dark tresses. Caught in the dark mass of her hair, the angry wasp tried repeatedly to set his barb in her scalp, finding no solid ground for his penetration. As she started to turn, Dye stopped her with a word. “Martigay!”

  Throwing a leg over his mount’s neck, he slipped from the horse’s back. His hand shot toward her head and she flinched but held her ground. Crushing the wasp in his fist, he realized that she’d thought he would strike her. Slowly, he unwound his fist and showed her the insect in his hand. Several seconds were lost as he watched her gaze go to his palm then flick to his face with the first real warmth he’d ever seen in her eyes.

  She’d taken his action as an offering of peace, apparently touched by the fact that he hadn’t wanted to see her harmed…despite his earlier, antagonizing behavior.

  “You’re stung,” she murmured as she took his hand in both of hers, drawing it toward her breast.

  “It’s nothing,” he argued, only now feeling the tiny bite of pain in the heel of his palm. And well worth it he decided in the next instant, glad he’d taken the sting he’d meant for her, as his fingers rested against the round warmth of her breast.

  Very rapidly, a familiar ache grew in his loins and his flesh shivered as he was stabbed through with a shudder of physical need immediate and demanding. Her head dipped before he had a chance to react and the next thing he felt were her lips on his palm, a strange, deep warmth and then her teeth pulling the stinger he had thought too deeply set to be retrieved.

  Just as he’d thought the arrow so deeply set.

  Abruptly, the warmth was gone as her hands curled his knuckles closed and she spat on the ground, clearing the stinger from her mouth.

  He was surprised to find his other hand curled around her upper arm, gently holding her—keeping her—before
him. Beneath his fingers was the rough, puckered surface of the long, evil scar that tore a line down the back of her arm. Gently, he ran his fingertips along its length. As if in answer, she pulled away, shuddering.

  “Is there a story that goes with that scar?” he asked her gently, before she could escape him.

  Her eyes flashed with unexpected, uncharacteristic panic.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured in concern. “Is it something you’d rather not talk about?”

  “My Lord,” the words seemed to strangle her, “it’s something I’d rather not think about.” Abruptly, she turned, taking her warmth with her as he watched her back, absently reaching behind him for his horse’s reins. It took a few pawing swipes to locate them.

  Mithra and Donar Together at Once! Did blue eyes ever get any prouder? Was there a more defiant chin anywhere in the world? Was there a more impudent nose? And what did she do to her hair? It was the richest, darkest shade of red he’d ever seen—bar none—all the way down to her shoulders. In waves.

  In waves, he thought, and shook his head again. Thick glossy waves a man could knot around his fingers, and use to drag a woman’s face—

  Her legs, clad in tight doeskins.

  Nay, he decided abruptly, he wouldn’t think of her legs. His imagination had a tendency to keep wrapping them around his hips. As he resolved to abandon this line of thought, his mind halted, rested and languished on her impressively bold, round breasts and he groaned—audibly. Her nipples didn’t show through the doeskin jerkin she wore. He regretted that. Regretted that with all his heart as well as with every single inch of his rigid, aching cock.

  Raising his fist to his mouth, he stroked the heel of his palm with his bottom lip. His little ruse to put the proud sprite in her place hadn’t turned out exactly as he’d anticipated. He’d put her in her place, all right—and now found her permanently placed at the forefront of his very distracted attention, when his intent had been the utter opposite.

  Chapter Five

  “Did you want me, sir?”

  Dye looked up from his conversation with his scout. Martigay stood just inside his tent. “Aye,” he said, without thinking, as he stared at her a few more unthinking seconds. “Aye.” Determinedly, he lowered his eyes to the parchment on the table. “I have a message to go out to all of my lieutenants based on new scouting reports.”

  The army was still more than a day’s ride from the outlying towns of Amdahl, but Saharat riders had been sighted in the south and the news of his army’s approach would soon reach the enemy. An update would have to be sent to his lieutenants, each of whom were separated by about half a league’s distance in order to assure grazing for the army’s mounts. “It will be a minute. Take a seat, Martigay. Thank you, Brand.”

  Dismissed, the man seated before the king stood, saluted, and smiled at Martigay on his way across the tent.

  Martigay slouched lazily in her chair. “What’s with him?” she asked on the scout’s departure.

  Dye gave her five seconds of impatient silence. “If you mean my Scout Captain—Brand—he’s a Raith.”

  The girl’s jaw dropped. “No! A Raith? Really? Do all of them have blue hair?”

  “As far as I know, they do. They’re fairly rare this far north. You’ve never seen one before?”

  She shook her head. “Is it true they can disappear? Become invisible?”

  “Not disappear. Dematerialize.”

  “Dema…”

  “Like a ghost. Without substance. But you can’t tell when a Raith is dematerializing, because they don’t look any different when they’re doing it. You can’t…see through them,” he finished.

  “Really!” She stared at the door thoughtfully. “He had nice eyes,” she said slowly, and turned her own smoke-blue eyes on the king.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” he grunted.

  “That must make them impossible to hit in battle,” she said, picking up their earlier thread of conversation.

  Dye shook his head. “They can’t keep it up indefinitely. Only as long as a few heartbeats. But,” he stopped significantly, “that can be long enough to pass through the thick walls of a battlement.”

  Martigay appeared to think about this. “What happens to their clothing?” she asked with a grin. “Do they come out naked on the other side?”

  Dye rolled his eyes. “They’re able to take their clothing with them, as well as anything they’re carrying. Some of them, in fact, are strong enough to take larger things with them, so long as they’re touching them.”

  Martigay shrugged. “You mean like a trunk full of treasure? Another person?”

  “Only the strongest Raith could take someone with him,” he told her brusquely, scratching out the quick message on a short scroll of parchment. He slapped it into her hand. “Have each of my lieutenants read this. When you’re done, report back to me.” When she stood and turned, he watched her swagger out of the tent, his eyes locked on her shapely derriere.

  Upon his exit a few moments later, Dye’s eyes swept his environs briefly. His army’s tents were randomly spaced, separated at wide intervals on the rolling meadow of short, pale grass. As he began to turn, he stopped instead, slapping his gloves in his hand. About fifteen paces distant, at the meadow’s edge, Martigay stood head to head with the Raith. Brand’s head dipped to meet hers as if they shared some intimate secret just before the scout grabbed her by the waist and threw her on her horse. Roughly, the man squeezed her upper thigh then reached for his own mount, threw himself into the saddle, and spurred away.

  Dye heard her laugh and call out parting words as he turned on his heel and put the girl behind him. Several jarring steps later he realized he was grinding his teeth and made a mental effort to halt the action. As she passed him, mounted on her pony, she turned her body to salute the king with a closed fist.

  Irritated and annoyed—at the girl, her salute, his scout, and at his own unexpected reaction to the sight of Brand’s hand on her thigh—he sought her feelings and…came up empty!

  Again, he set his mind to scan her feelings before she was out of range and again he felt nothing. With uneasy suspicion tugging at his senses, his eyes narrowed on her back as he watched the paint canter out of camp.

  From his Westerman grandfather he’d inherited the ability to see in the dark. From his Slurian grandmother had come the capacity to sense others’ emotions—so long as he was within thirty feet of the subject. Never in his life had he run across a man or woman he couldn’t read. Of course, he hadn’t tried to read everyone he came into contact with, but generally he was aware of a person’s feelings without trying. It was odd that he hadn’t noticed the absence before, but most of his encounters with the little soldier hadn’t been one on one. More often than not, she was surrounded by the rest of his army. He’d not have noticed her absence of emotion in a crowd of people.

  And when he was alone with her, she was…such a damned distraction. Now he walked slowly through the camp scanning for another anomaly, finding none. Apparently Captain Martigay was an enigma, he concluded. A very curious aberration.

  It was late in the day before she returned from her task and sauntered into his tent, a plate of stew in one hand, a slab of fry bread in the other. Motioning her into a chair, Dye continued through several pieces of correspondence while she ate. At the end of each item, he scanned—tentatively—across the space that separated them, probing for any trace of emotion. Eventually giving up, he wondered if the woman was somehow able to sense and block his probe. A few surreptitious glances in her direction revealed nothing in her expression to indicate that was the case.

  “You were gone longer than necessary,” he said shortly.

  Martigay nodded around a mouthful of hot bread. “Your lieutenants had a lot to say.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Sir?”

  “What did my lieutenants have to say?”

  She shook her head. “There were no messages for you, sir.”

  “That’s
not what I asked, soldier.”

  Martigay stopped chewing and stared at him for two instants. Swallowing the bread, she leaned back in her chair.

  “Thank you, Martigay,” she recited, “how’s it going? How do you like being the king’s messenger? Never mind, you’ll get used to him. Really! I didn’t know that! Well, I expect we’ll all have to get used to him, then.

  “Hey, Martigay. Thanks for the message. What kind of mood is he in today? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Thanks for the warning. Right. Watch yourself, girl. The man has no sense of humor.

  “Martigay! I wasn’t expecting you! Do you have time to stop? I’ve some tea brewing. I won’t keep you long. Okay, then, if you must. What did you decide about tomorrow night? Are we still on for—?”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Martigay regarded the king with eyes full of life and laughter. “Were you born without a sense of humor or have you worked hard at it all your life?”

  He ignored the impertinence of her remark. “Do you take nothing seriously?”

  “Sex,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I take sex seriously. What about you?”

  “You want to know what I take seriously?”

  Martigay rolled her eyes. “No. I think I’ve got that bit puzzled out, sir. What I’m wondering is—how you feel about sex.” When there was no response, she continued. “Is there anything you pursue at your leisure, anything you do without purpose, without ambitious intent?”

  His mouth was a flat line in his face.

  “Not even sex?”

  “Nay.”

  The girl shifted lazily in her chair. “Glad to hear it,” she murmured to no one in particular. “You don’t believe in meaningless sex, then.” Eyes full of teasing challenge, she returned her gaze to his.

  He stared at her a long, hard time. “I might be willing to make an exception,” he finally said, “under the right circumstances.”

  Her lips parted in a devilish grin that was filled with pleased mischief.