Darklands 02 - Something Wild This Way Comes Page 6

  It was Mathin who broke away. Panting, he stared at the whimpering vixen beneath him, shaken by the speed of her surrender. In his wildest dreams he couldn't have conjured up a more provocative lover, and it sobered him like a glacial blast of lake water. She was completely uninhibited, like no woman he'd known before. She trusted him. She wanted him. Him, not his reputation or his silver.

  This complete abandon once he'd breached the barriers of her mind and tapped into pure emotion told him things about her feelings he knew she wasn't willing to admit. Not yet.

  And so he backed off, giving her time. Giving them both time, because he suddenly realized this wasn't going to be like any of the other times. Andrea was something special, and it would take time to figure out how he was going to deal with her.

  "Why did you--" It was a shaky whisper.

  "Shh...." So she would know it wasn't rejection of her that made him stop, he eased behind her on the couch and simply held her, allowing the need to slow to a more bearable simmer. Not for anything would he leave her in pain.

  Bafflement drained some of the heat from her blood. This was not a side of Mathin she'd anticipated. He kept surprising her with his mercurial mood shifts. She didn't know how to deal with him. "Did I do something wrong?"

  His gentle laugh shook both their bodies. "No." He kissed the rim of her ear. "It was very right. So right I was tempted to take you here and now, but I did not think you were ready. Was I wrong?"

  Her face heated as she tried to squirm out of his embrace.

  Mathin's arms tightened. "I'm not mocking you, wildflower. Stay with me. I like you here in my arms."

  "I don't think that's a good idea." Her brain was clearing and as it did the familiar resentment returned. This hadn't been anything special for him. Look how calm he was! He couldn't have felt what she had or he could never be so relaxed. "Let me go."

  Since he attributed her stiffness to embarrassment, Mathin complied, spreading his arms wide. Had he thought otherwise she would never have escaped so easily.

  She scrambled off the couch and glared down at him, resenting his blasé calm. "Don't touch me again."

  Mathin grabbed her wrist, stopping her as she would have fled. He wasn't sure why she was so angry, but he didn't like leaving it unresolved. "I was not the only one doing the touching, my rogue." And it rankled she would imply otherwise.

  Andrea glared at his hand without result. "I'm not your plaything, Mathin."

  A dangerous light entered his eyes. "Don't tempt me to prove myself, woman. These waters are deeper than you know." He held her gaze, let her see his unshielded desire just long enough to start her shivering before he released her.

  Seriously off balance, she stumbled hastily from the room.

  Crossing his hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling and brooded. Why did women have to make everything harder than it was? He was a man of action. If he wanted something, he went for it. He'd certainly never stayed up nights worrying whether he deserved it or not. What was it about females that made them protest every gift and analyze every action? More often than not they came to the wrong conclusion anyway and then blamed the man.

  Moving her to the Darklands wasn't going to be easy. Nor would she take the move in good grace, especially with her grandmother to consider. He felt no guilt over his plan--not when the alternative was seeing her fall into the wrong hands. Adaptation might be difficult, but she was young and he would be there to help. Odds were that Jasmine and Rihlia would also be delighted to see a face from home and would willingly take Andrea into their circle.

  Yes, she would definitely benefit from the move. Now all he had to do was get her there.

  * * * *

  "She doesn't even see it!" Mathin gestured to his blade angrily. Its weight on his hip vindicated him.

  The old man said nothing, merely watched him as the redwoods rustled around them. The wind sighed in the silence.

  Undaunted, Mathin repeated again, "I've earned this with my own blood and many hard battles. Did she think it was easy? How dare she say she doesn't see it!"

  "Perhaps it is not there to see," the old man replied at last, and disappeared.

  Sudden panic struck Mathin. He looked, and his blade was gone.

  * * * *

  On a gasp of breath Mathin sat up, clutching the blankets that bunched around his naked hips. The after-midnight twilight said the time was somewhere between one and three a.m.

  Still caught up in his dream, his hand shot out, seeking the hilt of his sword on the bedside table. Hard metal met his palm, and he sighed. The mattress creaked as he fell back on the bed, his hand still wrapped around the grip.

  The remnants of the dream lingered with disturbing power, chiding him. In the dream he'd complained that Andrea saw no honor in him, a deep affront for a man who'd worked hard to become the epitome of the honorable warrior.

  Was that why she ran from his passion? He caressed the hilt of his blade, considering. Were the men here so shallow they'd put such serious pursuit into winning a woman only for physical gratification? He grimaced, answering his own question. Of course they did. They were human. It was one of the things his people despised about them.

  Not that he'd never seduced a woman--but in the manner of his kind he'd been forthright about his desires. Never had he deluded a woman into thinking he wanted more from her than pleasure and companionship.

  A sharp twinge of conscience smote him at that thought. Very well, he admitted reluctantly. There might have been a heart or two burned in the process. If he were completely honest with himself he'd admit it was part of the reason for his recent abstinence. He didn't enjoy hurting women.

  But that was why he was the perfect mate for her, he assured himself, laying aside the blade. Never would he willingly hurt her, and never had he pursued a woman with such fierce determination. The trick would be to convince her of that.

  If last night's experience were anything to go by, persuading her of his honorable intentions might be the challenge of his life.

  * * * *

  The sun was high, its warm golden light spilling across the bed, but Andrea woke shivering. Unable to get warm, she tugged the covers high and curled into a ball. The hypoglycemic attack filled her with unnatural dread. Why had she eaten that ice cream?

  Familiar with the consequences of her over-indulgence, she forced herself to leave the dubious warmth of her bed. Chills rattled her bones the moment she exited. Dragging the quilt with her, she wrapped it tight around her body and sought out the bathroom.

  To her relief no one was about as she entered the hall. Ever since the doctor her mother had forced her to go to told her she was imagining her symptoms and recommended a psychiatrist she'd hated having witnesses to her attacks. Though logically she knew the condition wasn't her fault, it didn't stop her from feeling guilty that she couldn't will herself well. It was a miserable hell to live with, and harder to explain. Secretly she feared what it would do the career she dreamed about. Though she'd told no one, the panic attacks, shakes and lethargy brought on by stress had already forced her to quit more than one job, and she'd barely made it through the culinary academy. Only the discovery of low-carbohydrate eating and the curative powers of vinegar and sassafras tea had gotten her so far. But though she searched the Internet and scoured books on her condition, she was out of tricks. Part of her feared that the deep depressions caused by her occasional deviations from her diet plan would one day cause her to do the unthinkable.

  Binges were guilty pleasure for others. For her, they were potentially deadly.

  Still shivering, Andrea turned on the water in the huge bathtub, forcing herself to take calming breaths as the stream warmed. The textured ceramic tiles felt cool against her bare feet as she sat on the commode, so she worked her toes into the thick white pile of bath mat as she waited. As soon as the water warmed she plugged the drain, shed the blanket and her nightgown and entered the water. While she waited for the warm liquid to normalize her body
temperature she listened dully to the gurgle of the falling water; anything to distract herself from her misery.

  It didn't work very well. Self-pity tried to swamp her. What would Mathin think of this? A crooked smile twisted her lips. No doubt he'd run fast and far when he discovered the reality of her life. Not that he'd planned on staying. Her lids closed in defeat as her muscles involuntarily flexed, shaking off the tension. Today was going to be one of those days.

  The first thing she did as she literally stumbled into the kitchen following her bath was head straight for the fridge and a tall glass of milk.

  "Are you all right?"

  In no mood for company, much less Mathin's, Andrea mumbled an affirmative and sipped her milk. A rainbow danced in her eyes from the prism in the window, forcing her to avert her face. Hopefully he wouldn't notice the small tremor of her hands. The lethargy he'd likely attribute to sleepiness.

  Mathin observed her for a quiet moment. More than her disoriented manner, her glassy eyes gave her away. Although she'd dressed in jeans and a sleeveless khaki turtleneck her hair was damp and upbraided, and her hand shook a little as she brushed it from her face. "You're not feeling well, are you?"

  Startled into looking at him, she reluctantly shook her head.

  "What do you need?" Privately he thought she needed to sit down, but first he had to draw the information about her care from her. Odds were she'd stubbornly clamp her mouth shut if he pressed her now, against her best interests.

  Unsettled by his concern, she searched her fuzzy brain for answers. The milk was helping, but solid food wouldn't hurt. "Protein and veggies--meat and vegetables," she explained when he frowned in consternation. "It'll clear my head." And none-too-soon. Already she felt the blood draining from her head. She gripped the counter, prepared to sink to the floor and put her head between her knees, but before she could Mathin was there.

  "Put me down!" she mumbled into his navy t-shirt, embarrassed. She could walk, after all--in a moment or two.

  Unfortunately the solid chest underneath her cheek was as inflexible as the man. "On the couch," he agreed, striding quickly to the living room. A single, grim glance at her face was all he allowed himself. The look of intense concentration there chilled him. Whatever she was fighting, it seemed painful. Voicing his thoughts, he asked gently, "Does it hurt?"

  Andrea shook her head. "No."

  Doubtful of her veracity he nevertheless eased her down to the coach. "Stay here. I'll go find something for you to eat."

  A wry smile curved her lips. It wasn't as if she were going anywhere.

  Mathin clenched his jaw tight as he sliced vegetables and salami, arranging them on a platter. This entire situation was foolishness. All she needed was a symbiont, and that could be easily arranged with a trek to the Darklands. Health and protection from the cults, all in one stroke.

  The cleaver came down hard on a bell pepper. Frustration and indecision were new to him. He was never slow to act and thus rarely suffered frustration. Clearly his new-found resolve to give Andrea choices couldn't extend to allowing her to stay here, not if he valued her life. Jaw tight with resolve, he tossed down the knife and sprinkled the platter with red wine vinegar, pepper and salt.

  Andrea's eyes widened when she saw the size of the platter. "I hope that's not all for me." There was no way she'd ever manage to eat it all.

  "We can share." Mathin said tersely, causing her to glance at him sharply. Before she could ask what was wrong he said a quick blessing, forestalling her.

  Uneasy with what she perceived as grumpiness at his having to serve her, she muttered, "Don't worry, I don't plan to make a habit of this." Not that she had any choice, but it's not like she did it on purpose.

  "It's nothing. I was hungry anyway."

  Ouch! Andrea winced. Was that a hint that she should have been up and cooking? Several minutes passed while she dwelt on that, growing more and more resentful. The only thing keeping her mouth shut was the knowledge that it wasn't Mathin she was really mad at, but herself.

  Although perfectly aware of her irritable mood--not that he fathomed the source--Mathin kept his thoughts to himself. In his experience prodding a grumpy beast never produced good results. And speaking of beasts....

  "Fallon and I were thinking of going horse-back riding later on. He wants to inspect a piece of land he owns. Will you come?"

  Taken off guard by his invitation, she looked at him doubtfully. Already the food was kicking in, bringing renewed strength. Still, riding horses was a bit strenuous. "I don't know ... I've never ridden a horse before. I wouldn't know what to do."

  He waved a hand. "You can ride with me. Although not what we're accustomed to, Fallon assures me that the beasts make better speed than a hu--” barely catching himself in time, he smoothly corrected, “--a person on foot." He looked at her entreatingly, using just a touch of sensual power. "It will be fun." Whether it was or not he would find a way to convince her to go. Earth was well enough for a visit, but it was time to go home.

  Unaware that her answer was about to change her entire life, she thought for few seconds and then agreed. "Okay. When are we leaving?"

  Barely an hour later, still faintly woozy, Andrea found herself on the back of a black and white horse. The thing was as huge as it was beautiful, but Mathin didn't seem in the least perturbed. If anything, he seemed less than impressed with the beast.

  Fallon saw the disappointment on his face and laughed. "Not what you're used to, Mathin? I warned you."

  Mathin simply grunted in response. The stags he was accustomed to had nearly as much intelligence as their riders and volcanic levels of energy and spirit. It took great control, constant dominance and sensitivity to master one, and the Haunt took great pride in their ability to do so. By contrast this poor beast was as insipid as water. Plodding, even.

  Still chuckling, Fallon nudged his beast into motion.

  Aware that this would likely be his last view of Earth, Mathin looked around closely, observing the white trunks of the birch and enjoying the strange shape of the spruce. He glanced to the side, thinking of his passenger. What would she think if she knew?

  The warming spring air was pleasant, though still cool enough to make her grateful for her light jacket. Andrea wondered how Fallon and Mathin could be comfortable without one. What kind of climate were they used to? "Aren't you cold?"

  Mathin glanced over his shoulder. "Should I be?"

  Reminded of their proximity--not that she'd been in danger of forgetting; not with their bodies practically pasted together--she answered a bit breathlessly, "I don't know. Is it cold where you come from?"

  With an enigmatic smile, he turned back around. "Rather steamy at times, actually. Depends on the mood of the weather. Like this, though?" His gesture encompassed their surroundings. "It is rarely this chill."

  "Must be nice," she said hopefully, fishing for more information. Why were these guys so secretive about their country? They couldn't be illegal aliens, not with the kind of cars Fallon flashed.

  The men exchanged amused glances.

  "You would find it very exotic," Fallon answered, reining his horse around a broken stump. "Not many are privileged to see it."

  As if that told her much. "Why is that? Does it have to do with your government? Is it communist or something?"

  Fallon grinned. "No communists. The people are not oppressed or in fear for their lives. The leader of our country, Jayems, is well liked. We are merely selective about immigrants."

  "What about visitors? Is there much of a tourist trade?" She felt Mathin chuckle.

  "No tourists," Fallon confirmed.

  Stumped by his description, she guessed, "Is it an island?"

  "I'll tell you what," Mathin offered, guiding his horse onto the thin game trail Fallon turned onto. His voice held more than a hint of amusement. "Save your questions until we stop for a rest. After that I'll answer any question you ask." When they stopped she would see the answers to most of her questions with h
er own eyes. The challenge would be to keep her from bolting with panic once she understood where they were. To that end, he said casually, "But since it's a long ride, let me tell you another story of the Haunt of the Darklands."

  As they rode he told her more of the history of his people, including the Symbiont War.

  "Wait a minute," she interrupted, confused. "I thought there were no humans in the Darklands."

  "So did the Haunt, at first," he explained. "Soon they discovered they weren't alone in their new world. Humans had discovered it first, and there was a small swarm of them about. Since the humans didn't want to share and the Haunt weren't about to go back, they made war." He frowned. "A war that shed much blood on both sides, yet ended in a draw. In the end the humans withdrew into the swamps with their symbionts and the Haunt settled the land near the portal, where they remain to this day."

  Dark thoughts dampened his mood. Too well he remembered the bloody war and his father's part in it. Fallon's sympathetic glance didn't help. His father was someone he'd rather forget.

  Unaware of his black reflections, she swatted a mosquito from his back, then whacked another one buzzing around her face. The little monsters were voracious. Even repellent didn't work--the little suckers seemed to like it. "What are symbionts? You keep mentioning them, but never say what they are."

  "No one really knows," he answered easily, ignoring Fallon's dark look. "The Haunt like to call them parasites, but any Symbiont-human will argue that they are anything but. For one, they restore life and health to their human host, feeding off the impurities and dead cells in their body. In return they enable rapid healing, agility and an increased life span."

  "Huh. Sounds kind of gross. Is it like a bug?" Andrea mussed aloud, thinking of several Star Trek episodes. She smashed another mosquito. "I hate bugs."

  "It's not a bug," Mathin told her, annoyed at Fallon's snort of amusement. "And if we ever enter into the Darklands it's the first thing I'll find for you."

  Andrea grimaced. "Thanks, but no thanks. Not interested."