Dreams Made Flesh bj-5 Read online

  The only thing she could figure out was the clothing signaled an attempt to leave him. Coming to the kitchen now might provoke another attack, even though a nightgown was hardly sufficient clothing if she tried to leave the eyrie in this storm, but he'd been gone so long, she'd become worried about him.

  Apparently, she'd worried for nothing. He was standing at the stove, tending the skillets filled with food, looking much the way he did on other mornings when he insisted on cooking breakfast…if she discounted the fact that he was naked, half aroused, and didn't seem to notice the warming spells had faded to the point where the eyrie was chilly, almost cold.

  Lucivar had put the warming spells on the eyrie the morning the storm started and told her they would last two days before he'd have to replenish the power in the spells. Which meant they were starting the third day of the rut. Maybe it was over, or at least easing. Should she mention the warming spells?

  She shifted from one foot to the other as the cold seeping up from the stone floor bit into her bare feet.

  Lucivar gave her a slashing look before turning his attention back to the food. "Go back to bed."

  "I could—"

  He charged. She stumbled back and hit the wall. His hands slapped the stone on either side of her head.

  She stared into those wild, glazed eyes. No, the rut hadn't eased.

  "You need to eat," he snarled. "I'll bring you food."

  She swallowed hard. "I could—"

  "You're not going anywhere! There's a damn blizzard out there. Nothing is going anywhere until it blows out. And the only thing you're doing is getting back into bed." He pushed away from the wall and went back to the stove. "Get out of here before I take you where you stand."

  She recognized a threat when she heard one, so she slipped out of the kitchen while he watched her with eyes that held more cold fury than hot lust. She kept her movements slow until she was on the other side of the wall, out of his sight. Then she ran back to the bedroom.

  The fires in the other rooms had burned out, but Lucivar had fed the one in the bedroom. A small table and two chairs were set before the hearth. They usually sat under one of the bedroom windows. He had moved them before going into the kitchen. Had she, on some level, taken that gesture to mean a return of the man she knew? An error on her part. Maybe he had some lucid moments, but the rut was still driving Lucivar…and she couldn't even guess what he would do when he returned to the bedroom.

  Chilled inside and out, Marian sat in a chair close to the fire. That helped warm her, but her feet were freezing. Before she could decide if wrapping herself in a blanket would provoke a violent response, he was back in the bedroom, setting two plates of food on the table.

  The look in his eyes… Any man facing him on a battlefield would look at those eyes and see death. All she could do was hope she would survive whatever mood was riding him now.

  "Eat," he said, sitting down in the other chair.

  Silverware and two mugs of coffee appeared on the table.

  Steak, scrambled eggs, and thick pieces of toasted bread spread with butter and some of the berry jam she'd made.

  He made no move to begin his own meal. Just watched her.

  Eat, he'd said. The first bite of meat stuck in her throat, but she sensed something in him relax as she accepted the food he'd provided. When she tried the toast, his attention turned to his own meal.

  Despite the fire and the hot food, she was still so chilled, she didn't hesitate to scramble back into bed when Lucivar told her to. But even with the covers tucked around her, she couldn't warm up, and she waited impatiently for him to get back from whatever cleanup he was doing in the kitchen.

  The moment he slipped into bed, she felt that wonderful heat that pumped out of him and didn't hesitate to snuggle up against him. So warm. So wonderfully warm and…

  The sound he made fell between a scream and a roar as he lifted straight up out of bed, flinging the covers every which way. The next moment, he was standing beside the bed, his Eyrien war blade in his hand, his eyes scanning the room.

  Marian scrambled to the head of the bed and crouched there, her heart pounding. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry."

  "Get over here," Lucivar said. "There's something in the room. Something in the bed."

  "There's nothing…"

  "Something touched me," he snapped. "Something icy."

  "My feet." Her teeth started to chatter. She wasn't sure if it was from fear or cold.

  His eyes stopped scanning the room. His head turned slowly until he looked at her. "What?"

  "My feet are cold and…"

  "Your feet? That was your feet?" He swore with obscene creativity as he vanished the war blade, plopped her back down on the bed, pulled up the covers, and got in with her. He sucked in a breath and let it out in a hiss as he wrapped himself around her and pressed her feet against his legs. "Why aren't you wearing socks?"

  She didn't want to tell him she'd been afraid of provoking his temper, so she said the first thing that came to mind. "It didn't seem romantic."

  He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her in disbelief. "You think wearing socks isn't romantic, but putting a block of ice against a man's balls is romantic?"

  "They weren't close to your balls," she muttered. Although, if he hadn't screamed and leaped out of bed like that, she would have tried to tuck her feet a little higher up. After all, his thighs were a lot warmer than his shins.

  Muttering dark things about female logic, he settled down. In a couple of minutes, she was sleepy and toasty warm, even her feet.

  "Lucivar?" she said softly.

  No response except to try to pull her a little closer.

  "Lucivar?"

  The arm around her grew heavy. His breathing was slow and even.

  For the first time since the rut began, Lucivar was sound asleep.

  EIGHTEEN

  Encouraged by the heat coming from the stone walls, indicating the warming spells had been renewed, Marian made her way to the kitchen the following morning. This time, she wore socks and slippers, as well as a heavy shawl over her nightgown. If Lucivar snarled at her, she could point out that he didn't like cold feet, but she didn't think he'd snarl. After he'd slept for several hours yesterday, he'd been just as hungry for her as he'd been the other days, but it had changed as the day wore on. More of their couplings had been leisurely…not a holding back to prolong the moment of climax, just… quieter, sweeter. More like she'd imagined he would be as a lover after his initial hunger was sated.

  She paused when she reached the front room. The drapes she'd made to cover the glass doors were pulled back, revealing a clear, sunny day, which meant the storm had finally ended. She hoped the snow piled so high against the glass was due to drifts, but she suspected that wasn't the case. Which meant Ebon Rih was well and truly buried.

  Buried.

  She looked around…and felt shaky relief when she saw the bowls near the front door. One held water, the other chunks of meat that might have come from a package of venison she'd had in the freeze box. She hadn't dared ask about Tassle, hadn't dared try to contact the wolf on a psychic thread to find out if he was all right for fear Lucivar would sense it and think she was trying to summon another male as a rival to him. There was no other sign of Tassle, but Lucivar must have confirmed the wolf was nearby before he put out food and water.

  When she entered the kitchen, she found Lucivar, fully dressed, drinking coffee from one of those plain white mugs he preferred to use. He turned away from the window, gave her one quick look, then turned back to study the world beyond the kitchen.

  His eyes were no longer wild and glazed, but there was no warmth in them, either. If anything, he seemed… uneasy.

  Uncertain about what he expected from her, she tried to smile. "Good morning."

  "Storm's finally blown out."

  She wondered if he meant the blizzard or the storm inside himself.

  He moved away from the window, then s
topped, as if he didn't want to get too close to her. And he wouldn't look at her.

  He took a swallow of coffee, then set the mug on the counter. "Do you need a Healer?"

  The abrupt question startled her. She wasn't sure what she'd expected when the rut finally ended, but she hadn't expected him to act like she was a stranger he'd given shelter to during the storm. "No, I don't need a Healer."

  He took a step toward her…and she could have sworn he cringed before he backed away.

  "I need to check on the villages, make sure everyone got through the storm all right."

  "Do you want some breakfast before you go?" she asked.

  "No," he replied too quickly. "I don't want—" He hesitated, then shook his head. "I have to go." He gave her one more glance before he hurried down the domestic corridor that led to the side door.

  A moment later, she heard the door slam behind him.

  Stunned, Marian sank into a chair and wrapped her arms around herself for comfort.

  He'd run from her. Lucivar Yaslana, the Ebon-gray Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, had fled from his own home to get away from her.

  He didn't want. That was it, wasn't it? That was the reason for his uneasiness, his embarrassment. He didn't want. What he'd taken out of need, she'd given out of love. But now that the rut was over…Was he ashamed that, having no other females to choose from, he'd taken his housekeeper to his bed? Or was he afraid that, having seen him through the rut, she now expected him to reciprocate and accommodate her whenever she wanted a man?

  She hadn't asked him for anything, had she? Having fallen in love with him, she'd hoped he would feel some warmth for her when the rut was over, maybe even want to remain lovers, but she hadn't expected anything in return for what she'd given.

  Except courtesy. Or some word of appreciation before he drew the line that separated them into servant and employer would have been nice. A line, she thought with growing resentment, that he made every effort to erase whenever she tried to maintain that distinction.

  "Ask me if I need a Healer," she muttered as she hurried to her own room and dressed in her warmest clothes. "As if I'm some feeble female who will collapse after a long bout of lusty sex. Who does he think he is, anyway? He doesn't want me? Fine. Who asked him to want me? If I have feelings that aren't returned, well, that's my problem, isn't it? I didn't ask him to love me." But I want him to. Oh, I do want him to—and all he wanted was to get away from me.

  She had to move, had to work. If she didn't do something, she'd curl up and cry until her heart broke. And that would be the worst thing of all. If he knew she'd given him her heart as well as her body, he might feel uncomfortable about her staying even as his housekeeper.

  Work didn't cure a bruised heart, but it gave her an outlet for all that fretful energy. Moving quickly, she fetched the snow shovel from the mud room. When she'd found it in one of the merchant shops, she'd been delighted. It was easy enough to use Craft to remove snow from pathways and streets, but Craft couldn't take the place of exercise to warm and strengthen the body. Today she wanted to shovel snow until she couldn't lift another bladeful. Today she'd sweep and scrub and polish the eyrie until she was too tired to think.

  She opened the front door and stared at the waist-high snow. If she wanted to get out without shoveling snow into the eyrie, she'd have to use Craft to clear a space to stand in. Vanishing a block of snow as wide as the front door and as long as the shovel, she called it back in and let it drop in the yard beside the eyrie. Then she stepped outside.

  *Marian!*

  She didn't have to look far to findTassle. His face filled a rough opening in a large mound of snow.

  "Tassle?" Was he trapped under the snow? She lifted her hand, prepared to vanish more blocks of snow to reach him, when his face disappeared from the opening. Moments later, he scrambled out of the mound and bounded to the top of the snowbank next to her, dancing in his delight to see her.

  Dancing. On top of the snow.

  "How are you doing that?" Marian asked.

  *I am air walking.* Tassle danced a little more to show off his skill.

  Well, that explained the times when she'd seen Tassle trot over muddy ground and still enter the eyrie with clean paws.

  *Yas can teach you,* Tassle said. *The Lady taught the kindred to air walk, and she taught Yas and her human friends, too.*

  She wasn't sure Lucivar would be willing to teach her anything at this point. She didn't want to think about that, so she focused on the wolf. "Did you manage all right during the blizzard?"

  *Yas left food and water for me, and he said I could stay in the front room of the eyrie, and I did stay there at night, but Kaelas and the Lady taught the wolves who live with the High Lord how to make dens out of snow. Kaelas is Arcerian, and they make snow dens to live in during the winter. So I made a den.* He paused. *Now that you and Yas have mated, are you going to have puppies?*

  Mother Night. She hadn't considered that, hadn't done anything to prevent that. After a quick, desperate counting of days, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was well past her fertile time. She couldn't imagine how Lucivar would react to being told a woman he no longer wanted was pregnant with his child. She'd learned enough about his past to feel certain his response would be less than friendly.

  Work. Hard labor would keep her thoughts from wandering toward things that wouldn't be.

  She dug in and started flinging shovelfuls of snow as far as she could, ignoring Tassle's repeated offers to use Craft to clear the path for her. Why should he care if the path was cleared. He, and a certain Eyrien Warlord Prince, could just walk above the snow. *Marian?*

  The only person who was trapped in the eyrie by the snow was the female, who was only good for mating and… making puppies. *Marian!*

  The whine in that sending finally made her stop and look at the wolf…who looked back at her with woeful eyes, his head and shoulders covered with the snow she'd flung in that direction.

  Then someone quietly cleared his throat to gain her attention. Marian looked to her left…and considered flinging herself into the deepest drift and just staying there.

  The High Lord, standing on air, looked down at her. A snow goatee hung from his chin, and his clothes were liberally spattered with the snow she'd thrown at him. Unknowingly, to be sure, but still… "Good morning, High Lord," Marian said.

  He brushed the snow from his chin and clothes. "Good morning, Lady Marian."

  She couldn't tell by his tone if he was amused or annoyed. "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked meekly. "That would be welcome."

  Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. Could the day get any worse?

  Of course, watching him walk down the snow as if he were descending stairs only he could see produced a spurt of resentment that she quickly tamped down. It wasn't his fault Lucivar hadn't thought to teach her anything as useful as air walking.

  Pushing that thought aside, she vanished the shovel and her cape and boots as she hurried to the kitchen. Saetan paused in the front room long enough to hang his cape on the coat tree before joining her.

  As she filled the teakettle, she said, "Prince Yaslana isn't here at the moment."

  "I know," Saetan replied, leaning against the counter. "I came to see you." He paused. "Do you need a Healer?"

  "Do I look like I need a Healer?" she snapped, slamming the kettle down on the stove. Witchfire flared up beneath it. Cursing silently, she pulled the fire back to its proper level.

  "Nooo," Saetan replied dryly, "but the question has to be asked."

  She turned on him. "I can't be the only woman who spent most of the past three days in bed. Are they going to be asked if they need a Healer?"

  "Probably not. But they didn't spend that time with a Warlord Prince in rut."

  She turned away to get out cups and saucers. "I'm all right."

  "Physically, I tend to agree. But you're not all right, Marian. You're upset about something, and most likely, it has to do with the
rut."

  She kept silent while she made the tea and set a cup in front of him when he took a seat at the pine table. She didn't join him. A week ago, she would have. But right now, she felt more like a paid servant than she'd felt in all the months she'd worked for Lucivar.

  "He ran away," she said, feeling her heart ache as she said the words. "He could barely stand to look at me before he… bolted out of the eyrie."

  "He's afraid," Saetan said quietly.

  Baffled, she studied the man watching her. "Of what?"

  Temper flashed in Saetan's eyes. "You have no idea what it's like to be caught in the rut, to be driven by something that eclipses everything else, to lose the veneer of civilized behavior that makes it possible for Warlord Princes to live with other people."

  "I know what it's like to be with that kind of man," Marian flashed back.

  "Do you remember everything that happened from the time the rut began until it ended?"

  "Of course I do!"

  "He doesn't."

  She watched Saetan rein in his temper, watched the visible effort to chain strong feelings.

  "He doesn't," Saetan said again. "Warlord Princes are not held accountable for anything they do during the rut, but that doesn't mean we don't have… regrets… about things that happen."

  We. It hit her like a fist. Saetan was a Warlord Prince, too, and had gone through the rut.

  Her nerves danced. She licked her dry lips. "How can a woman know what it's like for you if you never tell her?"

  He shuddered. The High Lord of Hell actually shuddered. That, more than anything, made her wonder what Lucivar remembered about the past three days.

  Setting the tea aside, Saetan rose. "Well. I have things to see to." Another strong man tucking his tail between his legs and running away because of the rut.