Warrior's Lady Read Online Free Page A

than he felt her fingers entwine with his, felt the gentle squeeze of her hand.
    “She.” The word whispered past his lips, a sigh and a prayer.
    “I am here.”
    He looked into his soul and faced the truth. “I’m afraid.” The words slipped past his lips in a barely audible whisper. Coward , he thought, and despised himself for his weakness.
    She squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Thee is not a coward,” she remarked quietly. “A coward would have gone mad long since. Thee is a brave man, my Lord Jarrett of Gweneth.”
    Lord Jarrett. How long since he had been called by the title of his birth? Once it had seemed important, but no longer. “You know who I am?”
    “It has come to me, a little at a time.”
    “I would know your name and see your face before I die.”
    “No. Do not ask it of me.”
    “They will have my life. Never again will I feel thy touch, or hear thy voice.” How readily her quaint speech came to him, he thought, bemused.
    “I cannot…” She shook her head, not wanting to deny him anything that was in her power to give, and yet reluctant to give him any more of herself than her power to heal.
    “Please.” How easily he had grown used to begging, he thought. Please don’t hit me again. Please don’t burn me again. Please don’t cut me again. Please, please, please. It was ironic that he should have to beg to know a lady’s name, to see a lady’s face, he who had once had women of all ages at his beck and call, vying for his favors.
    He felt her fingers slide over his shoulders to rest at the lower edge of the hood.
    “Please.” He sensed her weakening and wondered if she could fathom how much he hated the hood that covered his face like a death shroud. It made him feel vulnerable, degraded, to be forever in darkness, to be robbed of his sight for no reason other than that the Gamesmen desired it.
    He held his breath as her fingers curled around the heavy black cloth. He raised his head from the table, waiting, hoping, and suddenly, with a sharp jerk, she yanked the hood from his head and tossed it to the floor.
    There was only a single candle in the room, but it was enough.
    She stared at him for a long moment, knowing it had been a mistake to remove the hood. If the eyes were indeed the mirror of the soul, then Jarrett’s soul was filled with pain. His eyes were green and dark and turbulent—haunting eyes that were filled with the pain he’d endured in the past, the knowledge of the pain that was to come. Eyes filled with weariness and frustration and silent rage.
    She wished she had never seen his eyes. She would never be free of them now.
    Jarrett blinked against the light, felt the breath rush from his body as his gaze focused on her face. For months, he had been mesmerized by the soft sweetness of her voice, imagining that the beautiful voice resided in an equally beautiful body. Now he saw that his dreams had not even come close to the vision that stood beside him.
    She wore a blue gown that should have been ugly, but it caressed her body lovingly, clearly outlining the feminine shape the All Father had given her, the narrow waist, the slim hips, the curve of her breasts. Her hands were small and delicate. Her eyes, wide-set and slanted, were the color of the wildflowers that grew near Greyebridge Castle on the isle of Gweneth, a deep dark-blue that was almost purple. Her brows were delicately arched, her lashes long and thick.
    “Thee is beautiful,” he murmured.
    A faint blush tinged her cheeks. “Thee thinks so?”
    “Indeed.” Her skin was the color of rich cream, her hair like fine strands of twined silver, bright, luminous. Unbound, it cascaded down her back, a glorious shimmering mass of waves that fell past her hips. Her lips were as pink as the sky at dawn.
    “Do not look at me so,” she murmured.
    “I cannot help myself. You are more lovely than I had imagined. Will you tell me your name?”
    It was hard to resist the gentle urging of his voice, the