B00CGOH3US EBOK Page 10

  "What the heck was that?"

  Baelin stopped in mid-chew and glanced at her, his expression cautious. "What?"

  "That thing that just came out of your mouth. What is the deal with your tongue?"

  "'Tis naught." He turned his attention to the path ahead of them, refusing to look at her as he picked up the pace. She had to hurtle over a fallen tree before she caught up with him.

  "Nothing my Aunt Fanny. That looked suspiciously like a forked snake's tongue."

  He sighed and stopped walking. "You already know I retain some of my dragon traits in my human form. That my tongue is forked should not shock you so."

  "Wings on your back, fireballs in your lungs, acid in your blood, and now a dragon's tongue in your mouth. What else on you failed to make the transformation?"

  Her gaze raked him from head to toe, before coming to a screeching halt at his crotch. Her memory recalled in intimate detail the first night when he'd stood before her naked in the firelight. There was no doubt just how nicely his male anatomy had made the transformation. No sirree Bob, definitely no dragon remnants left there. Baelin's impressive package had made the shift just fine—every red-blooded, glorious, male inch of him.

  When she realized what she was doing, her eyes shot back to his face to find him watching her intently. She felt herself blush, embarrassed to be caught ogling him once again.

  This time she was the one who started them walking again, but she was so distracted she had difficulty maneuvering around several bushes and nearly ran into a small tree. Try as she might, she was unable to get the image of his nude body or his tongue out of her mind.

  His forked tongue.

  What would it feel like if he kissed her with it? How would it feel in her mouth?

  On her body?

  In her body?

  A burst of fire shot down between her legs. Jill groaned. Well, if this just wasn't the most warped thing she could imagine. Her, lusting after dragon-man. What in the world was wrong with her? She'd never been into kink and yet here she was, all hot and bothered over a walking, talking human iguana.

  Baelin's hand on her shoulder startled her and brought her face to face with the object of her raging libido.

  "Are you unwell?" he asked. Concern filled his eyes—eyes like pools of rich, creamy chocolate she could easily drown in.

  "I'm fine. Just having a momentary lapse of sanity, that's all."

  He nodded in understanding. "'Tis probably the apple. I warned you it was unwise to eat it uncooked." To prove his point, he tossed his half-eaten fruit into the forest.

  "Oh, believe me. It has nothing to do with the apple," she mumbled.

  But he wasn't paying attention to her. Instead, he stared into the woods in the direction where his apple had disappeared. She craned her neck to see what he was looking at, but all she saw were trees, trees, and more trees.

  Finally, he urged her to resume walking with a gentle push on her shoulder. "Come, we had best keep moving."

  A twinge raced down her arm from where his fingers brushed her, making the tips of her breasts tighten. It amazed her how a slight touch could carry such a spark.

  "Good idea."

  And it was probably a good idea to get her mind off hunky dragon men with wicked sex toys for tongues.

  As they trudged through the forest, she could feel the tension radiating off him. Why? Was it because she'd glimpsed the briefest hint of desire in his eyes and he was feeling as awkward as she was? Or had it been nothing more than her twisted imagination? Probably best not to examine that bizarre train of thought.

  But then he jerked her to his side, sending a thrill rippling through her body. Was he going to kiss her now? Did she want him to?

  "Baelin…"

  "Silence!" He hissed.

  "Wha—"

  He slapped his hand over her mouth so fast, she nearly choked on the air forced down her throat.

  "Silence, woman. We are being followed."

  Any desire she felt died in an instant. All she could do was make a garbled sound until he finally removed his hand.

  "How do you know?" she whispered as her gaze darted around the forest, checking each tree and bush for someone lurking in the shadows.

  "I can smell them."

  "Smell them? What are you, part bloodhound now?"

  Ignoring her comment, he scrutinized the area around them from beneath hooded eyes. "They have been following us for quite some time, mayhap since we broke camp this morn."

  She didn't know whether to be scared or angry. "But that was hours ago. Why didn't you say something before?"

  "I had hoped I was wrong, but I fear I am not."

  The little hairs on the back of her neck prickled. "I take it this is not a good thing?"

  "I have no desire to find out."

  Baelin gripped her by her upper arm, guiding her between trees and underbrush. His other hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at any moment.

  Her mouth went dry at the thought he might actually have to. The idea of a knight in shining armor ready to defend her was a heady thing, but the imminent reality of it—that if he drew his sword, it would not be for show—was something entirely different.

  She attempted to move as quickly and quietly as possible, but every step she took snapped a twig or crunched dry leaves beneath her feet. Her breathing came in rasps and pants, sounding louder the more she tried to silence it.

  From behind a tree, a man stepped in front of them, blocking their way. Savage and half wild, his beard was matted and his clothing stained and worn.

  Baelin stopped, tensing at her side. She wondered why. After all, there was only one of him and two of them. Then one by one, more rough-looking men surrounded them, dark specters stepping out of the forest shadows. She counted five, but was afraid to turn around to see if there were more. Five was too many already.

  No words were uttered, no demands made. The malicious intent of this scraggly band was evident in their cold, hard stares.

  Shoving her behind him, Baelin's blade hissed from the scabbard. Two of the men charged him at once and the clang of metal against metal rang through the forest.

  Jill used a tree to shield herself as he fought them, taking on each man as they attacked. Even to her inexperienced eye, she could tell these were not skilled swordsmen or practiced knights. By contrast, Baelin was fluid motion, his movements graceful, his blade glinting in the stray beams of sunlight filtering through the trees.

  Two of men shifted behind Baelin while he fended off the other three. Jill panicked, wanting to help him, but she knew she would just get in the way. Her throat constricted, the urge to call out a warning to him nearly choking her, but she was afraid it would only distract him.

  There was no need. Baelin seemed to sense their every movement before they made it. He whirled and with a sickening thud, chopped off one man's arm above the elbow. Blood spurted and pulsed from the severed limb, spraying the dry leaves on the ground as the man screamed, clutching at what was left of his arm.

  Baelin did not pause. His blade sliced again, slitting open the stomach of another. Jill gagged as the man's intestines spilled from the gaping wound like ground beef from a butcher's meat grinder. Paralyzed, she stood transfixed, her mind frozen to the sight. It was like watching a B-horror movie, only these weren't bad actors playing parts. They were real flesh and blood men, dying in front of her eyes at the hand of the man sworn to protect her.

  Two of them engaged Baelin as one shouted, "Get the woman!"

  The third remaining man turned his attention to her with wild, crazed eyes.

  Run, she commanded her shaking legs. Run now or you will die here.

  Jill bolted into the trees, hoping against hope the man would not follow. The crash of his body through the underbrush told her that hope was in vain. As she raced through the trees, low hanging branches and thorny bushes snatched at her gown, as if deliberately trying to slow her down and prevent her escape.

  "N
o!" she screamed as she was grabbed by the hair and jerked back against the man's hard body, a sharp blade pressed at her throat. "Please, don't hurt me."

  "Ye're going to pay dearly for what yer man has done to mine." His foul breath hissed against the side of her face. "Ye'll wish ye were dead long afore we let ye breathe yer last."

  He forced her back toward the others, dragging her through the trees by her hair.

  "Unhand her!" Baelin shouted as the other two bandits abandoned the fight and joined the man who'd captured her.

  The man twisted Jill around, holding her as a shield before him. "Not bloody likely. Drop yer sword or I'll slit her throat right afore yer eyes."

  Baelin stood motionless, the rapid rise and fall of his mail-covered chest the only movement in his rigid frame. Growling low in his throat, he tossed his sword aside.

  The man chuckled as he and the others backed away, dragging her with them into the woods. "Don't worry. We'll let her go—after we're done with her. But don't ye be thinkin' to follow us. If we catch sight of ye, the woman is as good as dead."

  Baelin's eyes blazed, the golden fire within flaring with his rage. He reached up slowly and released the clasp on his cloak, letting the voluminous garment fall to the forest floor in a puddle at his feet. The dragon wings on his back unfolded and he made an inhuman sound, the warning hiss of a predatory animal about to strike.

  The man holding her trembled. "Blessed Mother Mary."

  Baelin advanced, his wings spread wide, his white surcoat splattered with blood, his fingers curved into claws at his side.

  In his panic, the man stumbled and lost his grip on her. Jill shoved herself away from him. She tried to run as he made a desperate lunge for her. She fell with a thud, then clawed at the leaf-covered ground, kicking with her feet to escape him.

  "Devil's whore!" he shrieked as he crawled up her body.

  She turned just as the man raised his arm, a dagger clutched in his hand.

  Baelin roared. A blinding flash of light flared as a fireball shot out of his mouth, blasting the man off his knees and slamming him into a tree. The bandit's cry of agony rose up into the forest canopy and the stench of burning flesh filled the air.

  He spun as flames consumed his ragged clothing, igniting dry brush as he passed. Stumbling, he reached out blindly with flaming fingers before collapsing to the ground.

  Unlike his two companions who'd fled into the forest, Jill couldn't move. She couldn't make a sound. All she could do was stare in detached horror at the body as it burned at her feet, a smoking, blackened husk that no longer looked human.

  At the sound of crunching leaves, she tore her gaze away and watched as Baelin walked slowly toward her, his blood-covered hand outstretched.

  Only then did she scream.

  CHAPTER 10

  He ran as fast as he could, but gained no ground.

  The blood-soaked earth sucked at his feet and the weight of his mail pressed down on him. His sword arm ached, not that he'd had a chance to use it. The weapon was useless against a dragon.

  The trees. There would be protection in the trees. But the forest was so far away. He was never going to reach it in time. Even now, he could feel the heat of the beast at his back, coming for him.

  Osmund raced ahead.

  Run! he shouted. One of us must survive.

  Hot. So hot. No air left to breathe. Smoke and heat choking him, smothering him. The steady beat of death on the wind drummed in his ears, coming closer, ever closer. A brave knight would turn and face death with honor and bravery. But he was not that brave. He had yet to see his first battle, had yet to kill another.

  Blistering heat passed by his head and he smelled his burning hair as it crackled at the side of his face. He watched as a fireball shot by him like a flaming stone from the catapult and sailed through the sky.

  Osmund!

  The burst of fire blinded him, the heat of the explosion scorching his face. When his vision cleared, Osmund was nowhere to be seen. In his place stood a burning pillar, the dark outline of a figure barely visible within the center of the flames.

  Then the figure turned. What had once been a face peered through the flames, the eyes dark, sightless holes and the skin blackened leather. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, drifting to him, the smoke enveloping him in a ghostly embrace. Through the roar of the fire and the screams on the battlefield, he heard Osmund's voice.

  "Help me."

  Baelin jerked awake, roused by the sound of his own rapid breathing, expecting to see the fallen bodies of his fellow knights frozen in charred agony on the scorched moor. But all that surrounded him were the tall trees standing silent while they slept. He looked at the girl across the dwindling fire, relieved to see her sleeping face instead of the blackened ones that haunted his dreams.

  He rubbed his temples, trying to drive the images from his mind. It was futile. The dreams still tormented him, even after all these years. But this time, it was more vivid than ever before. Why? Was it because Lady Jill had made him remember? Or because he'd been forced to kill a man using the dragon's weapon?

  He struggled to calm the rapid beating of the beast's heart as it sent its heated blood racing through his human body. If he did not gain control, the creature's rage might rise and turn on Lady Jill. He had to get away from her before that happened.

  He rose and walked into the forest. Not far. Just enough to give him space to tame the beast raging within.

  Coming upon a tall beech tree, he drew his sword. He hacked and chopped and sliced at the trunk, bits of bark and chunks of pulp flying in all directions. He attacked the tree viciously, all the while seeing the bandits' dirty faces, their filthy hands grabbing at Lady Jill. Threatening her. Frightening her. Touching her.

  Bile rose in his throat. He'd felt so helpless, just as he had the day Osmund died.

  When the man had raised his blade at Lady Jill, rage like none he'd ever known had gripped him. He couldn't risk losing her. Not if she was the one. Too far away to stop the man, Baelin had saved her the only way he could.

  Dear God, the horror on her face. He couldn't blame her. He repulsed himself. He hadn't wanted to kill the man the way Osmund had been slain. No one should have to die that way. But he'd had no choice. In that one terrifying moment, desperation had melded with instinct.

  The dragon's instinct. When the knight could not save the maiden, the dragon had.

  Baelin ceased his attack on the helpless tree and leaned his forehead against the trunk. He cursed himself. All those years living in that damn cave, his skills had gone beyond useless.

  Sparring with trees and imaginary foes was a poor substitute for real combat and because of that, he'd been ill-prepared for the attack. He looked down at the sword in his grip, all but snarling at it. Shame threatened to choke him. He was no longer the skilled knight he'd once been, but a man dressed in mail pretending to be one. Worse yet, forced to use his dragon's powers to save Lady Jill, now he couldn't even claim to be a man.

  Shoving away from the tree, he resumed his practice, not wishing to be caught off guard ever again. Over and over, he swung his sword, until he and the blade became one. When exhaustion threatened to overtake him, he stopped, panting as sweat trickled down his neck into his aketon. His tension easing, he welcomed the calm and breathed deep of the moist forest air.

  Examining his blade, Baelin checked for nicks and chinks in the metal. The tree had not been forgiving. He would have to sharpen it at first chance. He sheathed his sword, feeling once again in control.

  The feeling didn't last long. Unease whispered on the air before he came in sight of the camp. In their brief time together, he'd become accustomed to Lady Jill's scent, aware of her every movement. At this moment, he was intensely aware of none of them.

  She was gone.

  Panic placed its icy grip on him as he started running. Had he been unwise to leave her alone, even for such a brief time? Had the remaining bandits returned and taken her?

&n
bsp; Reaching the camp, he observed no signs of a struggle, no indication she had been taken against her will. Then he noticed her blanket and satchel were missing, and he knew the ugly truth.

  She'd left on her own.

  Baelin stared at the empty spot by the dying fire, the remaining embers little more than smoking ash. His dragon heart constricted painfully within his human chest. How could she run away from him? How could she break her word?

  For a brief moment by the fire the other night, he thought she might be near to, if not liking him, at least understanding him. But he knew now any hope of that had vanished with the attack. The terror and revulsion in her eyes had been evident. Now, she no doubt saw him as all the others did—as a monster, something to be feared and despised. He should be accustomed to it by now, but somehow knowing she felt that way about him cut deeper than the rejection of all the other maids who had come before her.

  As the reality settled in, he glanced around the campsite. Only one of the supply satchels was missing. Either she had a care and left him with something, or she'd taken only what she could carry.

  Then a horrifying thought gripped him. He dropped to his knees and rummaged in the remaining satchel.

  Gone. The tapestry was gone.

  The edges of his vision darkened, tunneling to where his hands gripped the opening of the leather satchel. How could she take the tapestry? His only hope of returning to the man he once was, gone. The calm he'd tried so hard to regain in the forest vanished in an instant, replaced by the dragon's possessive rage.

  Damn the wench. She had no idea what misfortune could befall her, traveling alone. She likely thought to sell the tapestry in the first village or township she came upon. She had no idea of its true worth.

  Anger at her betrayal consumed the shock of her leaving. He would find her. In the short time they'd been together, he'd learned her scent. He knew her. There was no place she could run, no place she could hide, that he would not find her.

  And woe beware the maid when he did.

  Jill kept up a brisk pace along a rutted path cutting a jagged brown scar across the green grass of the rolling hillside, the tapestry tucked securely in her satchel. She refused to feel guilty about taking it. She'd only done what she had to. After all, it was her only way home.