CHAPTER
3
HEATH STOPPED TO PULL
HIS AXE FROM HIS SADDLEBAGS, which allowed Atira to slip into the
shade of the forest for a moment to try and release her
anger.
Here, the trees stood
tall, concealing the sky with their bright green leaves. Without
the sun, the air here was cooler. Heavier, somehow.
Atira
shivered.
She was a warrior of
the Plains, of the wide-open grasses. Yes, they had alders growing
by the waters that reached the height of a warrior and a bit
beyond—but nothing that grew as tall as these trees, towering over
her head, blocking out all light and sound. Atira felt hemmed in by
the trees, their stout trunks blocking her sight, and the
underbrush hampered her movement.
How was a warrior to
see, to know what was coming, to see what was behind? She shivered
again and took a step back before she caught herself.
“Ready,
milady?”
Heath’s voice
startled her, and she jumped slightly as he came to stand next to
her.
His blue eyes were
warm and understanding, which just angered her even
more.
“I am not your lady,”
she bit the words off. “That is a—”
“I know, I know,”
Heath said as he walked past her. “It is a Xyian way that is of the
city and therefore foul and evil.” He turned his head, looking
around. “Nothing good here. We need to go farther in.”
“There is wood here,”
Atira said, picking up some dried branches.
“Small sticks aren’t
going to cook a meal,” Heath said. “If it bothers you, go back and
look for dried dung.”
“There’s none,” Atira
said glumly.
“What, not interested
in fresh?” Heath looked back at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows
arched over his sparkling eyes, alight with mischief. His lips
curved ever so slightly.
Atira’s heart
lurched, and her own lips started up as well before she caught
herself and stiffened.
“I know you fear the
woods.” Heath turned away and started down a path that only he
could see.
“I do not fear it,”
Atira said angrily as she followed him.
“Remember how I felt,
when we were racing hard to catch up with the Warlord and his
armies? When I rode out on the Plains for the first time?” Heath
continued, ignoring her protest. “Couldn’t figure out which
direction we were traveling, much less where we were. The open sky
was a nightmare.”
“It was not,” Atira
said. “It has a beauty all its own.”
“So you told me
then.” Heath kept walking.
Atira stayed silent,
remembering all too well when she’d spoken those words. They’d been
naked, wrapped in blankets, sated and sweet in each other’s arms.
Heath had spoken his fears, and she’d comforted him with more than
just words.
Atira tried to
forget, but her body remembered.
“I am not afraid,”
she insisted, following Heath as he headed deeper within the
tangle. “I am . . . uncomfortable.” She stopped for a moment,
looking around. “The forest is so full. Everything moves in the
wind, and there is no clear path.”
“There are deer
tracks,” Heath chuckled. “We are following one now. And you need to
have a care for widowmakers, that’s for sure.”
Atira stopped, her
hand on her hilt. “What are those?”
Heath pointed up and
off the side. “There. Dead branches held up by other branches. They
can fall without warning and hurt anyone caught below. If they kill
a man, they make a widow.”
Atira stared at him.
Her command of Xyian was fairly good, but that was not a word she
knew. “What’s a widow?”
Heath paused. “A
widow is a woman who has lost her—” He stopped. “Maybe a better
word would be deadfall. If it falls on
you, you are dead.”
Atira glanced up,
looking at the mass of tree branches and leaves above her head.
“Deadfall,” she repeated, letting her frustration show. “So now, I
need to fear ‘up’ as well as what is around me?”
“There,” Heath
pointed. “That’s what we are looking for.”
It was a massive
tree, lying on its side, its dead branches bare. Heath hefted his
axe, and started to work at a thick branch. After a few blows, he
leaned his weight on it, breaking it away from the tree with a
sharp crack.
“It’s dry enough. You
should be able to break it in threes.” Heath helped her drag the
branch over to a clear area.
They worked in
silence, broken only by the ringing of Heath’s axe. After a bit,
birds started to sing again, becoming used to their presence. There
were other sounds as well. Atira stopped, lifting her head from the
work to try to identify the strange rustling noises around
them.
Heath paused,
breathing heavily. “Mice, probably. And squirrels.”
Atira looked around
even more. Heath had the most experience hunting in this land, and
he’d brought in a large sack of squirrels one night to camp. Lara
and Marcus had conferred, and the camp had been treated to
something called ‘squirrel stew.’ Atira would be more than willing
to have that again.
The work went fast.
They had a sizable pile, almost more than they could carry back to
camp. If Atira was to try once again to make things plain to him,
it must be now. Even with bells, there was little privacy in
camp.
“I want it understood
between us,” she started, cracking one last large branch. “You and
I have shared bodies, Heath of Xy, but this means little to me, as
this is the way of our people. You are mistaken in thinking it
means more.”
The chopping stopped
behind her. Good—he was listening for once.
“I am in the service
of the Warlord, and you serve the Warprize,” she said. “Our paths
are the same for now. But this talk of bonding needs to cease. We
cannot continue to argue in camp. It upsets the Warprize, and she
has more than enough of a load to bear.”
Atira turned to find
herself nose to nose with Heath.
He was standing
there, glowering, sweat gleaming on his brow. The breeze carried
his scent to her. Strong, clean . . . male. And so very
familiar.
Her mouth went dry.
This close, she could feel the warmth of his body and the heat of
his glare. Skies above, she wanted him still, even with his odd
city ways. She swayed toward him, licking her lips.
“What we shared,”
came his soft growl, “was not meaningless.”
Atira started. “I
didn’t mean—”
“So it was
meaningless,” his voice lowered, rough with desire, “when you were
lying there at Master Healer Eln’s, bored out of your mind while
your broken leg healed, and I came and read the Epic of Xyson for hours on end.”
“Heath,” Atira
whispered, fighting her rising need.
“I taught you to read
and write Xyian, and you taught me the language of the Plains,”
Heath continued. “Lying there, your leg all rigged up. So
beautiful. So determined to learn. To heal.”
“As the Warlord
commanded,” Atira said.
“Meaningless, the
first time I kissed you.” Heath lifted his hand and touched her
lips. “I couldn’t get enough of your sweet mouth. We got those
straps and weights all tangled, and Eln threatened to vivisect
me.”
Atira smiled faintly.
“I didn’t know what that word meant.”
“Eln explained it,
didn’t he? In vivid detail.” Heath drew closer. Atira lifted her
head, waiting . . . hoping . . .
“Then the day that
Eln let you walk, I suppose it was meaningless that we celebrated that night, late into the night.” Heath
put his hand on her hip. The heat of it burned through her
leathers. “Remember? That first night?”
“Heath,” Atira
breathed, letting her eyelids droop, taking in his scent. Waiting
for his kiss.
Instead, Heath knelt
down, his gaze never leaving hers as he lowered himself down at her
feet.
Atira caught her
breath.
Heath calmly started
to gather firewood.
“Meaningless. All of
it. Every danger, every bedding, everything we’ve shared.” Heath
gathered several pieces of firewood as he spoke.
Atira frowned down at
the top of his curly head. “That is not what I meant. You
Xyians—”
Heath stood up
abruptly and shoved the firewood at Atira. She took it, and then
stood there as he started loading more on. “This isn’t about Xy, or
the Plains. This is about you and me. It has been months since we
shared our bodies. Months since you threw me out of your tent.
Months since I asked you to bond with me.”
“I am of the Plains,”
Atira snapped. “I do not choose to bond. I am free to sleep with
any others that I choose. You—”
“But you haven’t,”
Heath said.
“What?” Atira stared
at the man.
“Months, now, since I
asked you to bond with me,” Heath repeated as he took a step
closer. “Since you threw me out of your tent and your life. But you
haven’t shared with anyone else in all that time,
Atira.”
“I . . .” Atira
raised her arms higher, as if the firewood could offer protection
from the heat of those eyes.
“Have you?” Heath
demanded.
“I—” Irritated at her
own stuttering, Atira blurted out the truth. “No.”
Heath pressed closer,
forcing her to step back. “You can protest all you want, Atira of
the Bear, but you and I know the truth. I love you. I want you, in
all ways. Your obligations to the tribe are done. You are free to
bond, free to choose a life with me. And that is what I want,
Atira. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“No.”
“You are afraid . .
.” Heath said, his eyes flashing.
“No,” Atira
denied.
“Uncomfortable then.”
Heath started to smile. “I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” He
moved close enough that the bark on the firewood brushed his chest.
“Don’t I?”
Atira pressed her
lips tight together, to keep from blurting out her fear. Of him. Of
her feelings.
Heath smirked. “I
scare you, my fierce warrior. I terrify you.”
Atira drew in a
breath to deny his words, but Heath leaned in, his lips close to
hers.
“Coward,” he
whispered.
With a snarl Atira
dropped the firewood and went for her dagger.
Heath danced back,
laughing, taunting her . . .
“Heyla, you
two.”
They both jerked
their heads around to see Prest coming toward them through the
wood.
“You are
wanted.”
“What is it?” Heath
asked, still keeping a wary eye on Atira.
“A messenger has
come,” Prest said. “He carries news of your ‘father.’”