Butterfly Swords Page 7

  ‘Were you a soldier over there?’ she asked.

  He let out a short, cutting laugh. ‘Not a very good one.’

  The fish was reduced to a spiny comb. He tossed the bones into the fire and lay back, resting his head on his arms to watch the trees. Sunlight filtered in pockets through the leaves, dappling his face in light and shadow. His sword was laid out beside him by the bank. Even sheathed within the leather scabbard, the weapon radiated a savage energy.

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘He was no soldier either. Couldn’t take orders.’

  ‘You said he was no longer with you.’

  ‘No.’

  He spoke without emotion, but his hands curled tight before releasing. She nearly missed the gesture. Ryam didn’t appear much older than her, yet he had lost his homeland and his family. She couldn’t imagine any greater sorrow than that. She searched for something to say to honour his ancestor’s spirit.

  ‘He must have been a formidable swordsman. His name must have been very well respected.’

  ‘Well respected?’ Ryam sat up so abruptly she fell back. ‘Why are you asking all these questions?’

  ‘I—I’m sorry.’

  He exhaled sharply before turning to look at her. ‘In a week you’ll be safe at home and I’ll be—’ Scowling, he scrubbed his knuckles over the back of his neck. ‘There’s no use in remembering. We’ll never return. We were lucky enough to have survived the journey here.’

  She knew better than to be so personal with a stranger, but his open nature made her forget her manners. ‘I just wanted to know what your life was like.’

  His gaze raked over her. The corded muscle of shoulders gradually lowered and he let his arms fall to his sides. ‘My life is not very interesting at all,’ he replied with a calmness that unnerved her.

  She wasn’t accustomed to this sudden shifting of mood. One moment, he would be smiling and pleasant, then, in the blink of an eye, he could replace all that warmth with a mask of detachment.

  ‘What else do you want to know?’ he asked.

  Possessed by morbid curiosity, her eyes darted to the scar that cut just over his ear. She’d found it shortly after they met, while he lay unconscious in the grass.

  He didn’t need to ask what had caught her attention. ‘I got that in a fight against imperial soldiers. Ask me why.’

  She shook her head, unable to bring herself to do it. The cocoon of warmth that had enveloped the entire afternoon unwound itself in an instant.

  ‘Are you having second thoughts about being here with me?’ He planted a hand into the grass, edging closer.

  ‘No. I trust you.’

  He was giving her all the time in the world to shove him away, to rise, to flee. Her heartbeat quickened as she watched him. Moving ever so slowly, he braced an arm on either side of her, his fingers sinking into the moss.

  ‘I asked you to come with me.’ Despite her words, she dug her heels into the ground and inched backwards. ‘I feel safe with you.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  He affected a lazy smile as she retreated until her back pressed against the knotted roots that crawled along the ground. His boldness was so unexpected, so exciting. She held her breath and waited.

  Her pulse jumped when he reached for her. She’d been imagining this moment ever since their first duel and wondering whether it would take another swordfight for him to come near her again. His fingers curled gently against the back of her neck, giving her one last chance to escape.

  Then he lowered his mouth and kissed her.

  Chapter Five

  Ryam wove his fingers into Ailey’s hair. Her lips parted the moment he touched his mouth to hers. Back in familiar territory.

  He dragged his lips over hers until she moaned and yielded against him. No more questions from her. No more thinking at all.

  It was as natural as breathing to wrap his arms around her and lower her to the ground. He settled his weight against her hips. The perfume of her skin mixed with the damp scent of the moss beneath them. At some point, her sense of propriety would win over. Until then he let his body flood with raw desire. It felt good to kiss her the way he wanted to. It felt damn good.

  He slipped his tongue past her lips to where she was warm and smooth and inviting. Her hands clutched at his shirt as she returned his kiss. A muted sound escaped from her throat. He swallowed her cry, using his hands to circle her wrists: rough enough to make her breath catch, gentle enough to have her opening her knees, cradling his hips with her long legs. He stroked himself against her, already hard beyond belief. He groaned when she responded, instinctively pressing closer.

  ‘I need to see you,’ he said.

  The sash around her waist fell aside in two urgent tugs while his other hand stole beneath her tunic. She gasped when his fingers brushed the swath of cloth at her breasts. The faint, helpless sound nearly lifted him out of the haze of desire.

  He didn’t want to think too hard about this. Not yet. He felt for the edge of the binding.

  ‘In back.’ She spoke in barely a whisper, a sigh on his soul.

  She peered up at him, her face in shadow as he parted her tunic. She watched him in much the same way she had when they had first met: curious, fearless, her eyes a swirl of green and gold. He pulled at the tight cloth until Ailey’s warm, feminine flesh swelled into his hands.

  He soothed his palms over the cruel welts left by the bindings. She bit down against her lip as blood rushed back into the tortured flesh. With great care, he stroked her nipples, teasing them until they grew tight beneath his roughened fingertips. God’s breath. Perfect. He wanted his mouth on her and still it wouldn’t be enough. Her heart beat out a chaotic rhythm. His own echoed the same restless pulse.

  ‘I knew it would be like this.’ His words came out hoarse with passion.

  At that moment he’d have given his soul to have her. But somewhere in his thick skull, he knew he had a beautiful, vulnerable girl who trusted him pressed against the bare earth. He sensed the hitch in her breathing and how her fingers dug nervously into his shoulders, even as her hips arched into him.

  He ran his thumb gently over the reddened mark that ran just below her collarbone and felt her shiver beneath him. With Ailey’s swords and determined spirit, it was easy to forget that she was innocent. He couldn’t close his mind and let himself sink into the pleasure of the moment. Actions had consequences and he needed to tear himself away while he still could.

  ‘Please.’

  Her breath stroked softly against his ear and made him want to forget the consequences. He buried his face against her neck, against the softest skin in the world. His hand trailed down over the smooth plane of her stomach. She gasped as his fingertips slid past the edge of her trousers.

  ‘Please stop.’

  Startled, he released her. She sat up and backed way, fumbling for her tunic.

  ‘We can’t.’

  She clutched the edges of the garment over her chest defensively. A wave of dark hair fell loose around her face. The sight of it sent another stab of lust through him. His body ached, every fibre wound tight, not yet realising that he would never have her. The taste of her lingered in his mouth.

  He turned away and could hear nothing but the rustle of cloth as she dressed herself. By God’s bones, he hoped she wasn’t crying.

  ‘It cannot be this way between us,’ she said brokenly.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Never with you.’

  Her words cut to the quick and poured ice into his veins. When she faced him, her eyes were dry. Her hands tugged nervously at her clothing as if she would never be able to set herself right.

  ‘Nothing happened, Ailey. No harm done.’

  His tone held more of a bite than he intended. She shot him a hard look in reply and then bent to scoop up her knapsack. Turning on her heel, she headed down the river, her braid swinging across her back.

  He supposed anger was preferable to tears. With a curse, he
fastened the sword belt about his waist. This was why he didn’t seduce virgins. Too many complications. And he had stopped far short of seduction, by his reckoning. She still had half her clothes on at the worst of it. He muttered a final oath before following after her, refusing to hurry to catch up.

  Ailey’s cheeks burned with the memory of his rough hands against her breasts and the wet, searching stroke of his tongue in her mouth. The secret place between her legs had flooded with dampness while a drugged and aching sense of yearning filled her. She had never imagined seeking a man’s touch with such mindless abandon.

  It was wonderful. It was terrifying.

  She had barely summoned enough will to ask him to stop.

  ‘We lost our heads for a moment, that was all,’ he said.

  His first words to her after almost half an hour of excruciating silence. He walked beside her, acting as if the earth had not just opened up. Perhaps it hadn’t for him.

  She gritted her teeth and fought to control her anger. She didn’t even understand her anger. Did she want to be ruined? She was supposed to be returning home to warn her father, not kissing foreigners she barely knew.

  ‘I suppose you’ve kissed hundreds of women like that.’

  ‘More than I can remember,’ he replied, his tone flat.

  This was exactly what she needed to hear, but she felt as if a fist had crushed the breath from her throat. She threw him a look of black poison and fire while he kept his eyes deliberately ahead. His neck must have been stiff from staring in one direction for so long.

  Everything about him confused her; his boldness, the way he looked at her, the way he listened to her every word as if she wasn’t a sixth child and an insignificant female. But it was nothing but empty charm. This must be a game he played with all women.

  Her voice grew deadly quiet. ‘Do not try that again with me.’

  He scowled. ‘I can control myself.’

  ‘Swear it.’

  ‘God’s teeth,’ he growled beneath his breath. ‘Fine, I swear it.’

  His stride lengthened, his footsteps vibrating with anger. She had an abundance of anger to match. Anger was easier to understand than the unnameable emotions swirling through her.

  ‘Don’t kiss me back then,’ he muttered.

  In a flash, she had her weapon in hand. ‘Draw your sword.’

  ‘Whoa! Ailey…’

  She waved the point of the blade at him. ‘Do not think I will not cut you to pieces because you are unarmed.’

  ‘I won’t do anything. I won’t even touch you.’

  ‘Draw your sword!’

  Everything he said only added fuel to her frustration. She was so torn with desire, embarrassment and confusion that the only choices were to cry or to exact violence. And she wasn’t going to dishonour herself by crying.

  She was being irrational and she knew it, but she advanced on him regardless, satisfied that the smug look on his face had disappeared. He backed away and threw his hands up in defence. The steady chop of an axe in the distance interrupted his protests.

  ‘That could be a village,’ he said quickly.

  Without waiting for her response, he started towards the sound. She glared at his retreating shoulder blades and sheathed her sword. Wisely, he said nothing as they moved along the river.

  The river led them to a thicket where columns of green bamboo sprouted straight up from the ground, replacing the twisted trees. In the distance, a group of woodsmen hacked at the stalks with machetes, collecting the sections into woven baskets.

  ‘I’ll speak to them,’ she said, stepping forwards.

  He caught her arm. The shock of his touch and the memory it invoked vibrated through her. She shook out of his grasp, once again hiding behind her anger.

  The three men paused as she approached to ask about their village. They motioned past the bamboo thicket, all the while looking past her to stare at Ryam. He stationed himself securely at her side as they passed.

  ‘I don’t like how they’re looking at you.’

  ‘It was you they were staring at.’

  He shot them a final, feral glance.

  ‘No one will help us if you threaten them.’

  His show of protectiveness pleased her more than it should have. She had to remind herself that he was a barbarian and a scoundrel who would never be permitted to kiss her again.

  At the river bend, a huddle of wood cabins peeked through the trees, their rooftops patched with straw and reed. An elderly man hunched over a boat at the water’s edge, his gnarled hands working at a length of rope. He stopped his work to regard them from beneath the wide brim of his hat as they came close.

  ‘Greetings, Uncle.’

  The fisherman’s sharp gaze fixed on to Ryam and she fumbled for an explanation.

  ‘My guard is one of the desert people.’ Except the desert tribesman were dark-skinned. She cringed at her lack of guile, but continued. ‘Would the honourable fisherman be kind enough to take in two strangers for the night? We can pay.’

  She rifled through her knapsack, only to come up empty-handed. The purse was gone. She thought back with dismay to her tumble from the wagon. They were still a week from the capital and she was without a copper. She was prepared to beg her way home if she had to. Before she could form her plea, the boatman handed her a shallow basket and pointed to a plot between the two huts.

  ‘Fill the basket,’ he instructed. ‘You may stay in the boathouse.’ He went back to work untangling his nets.

  They walked away from the river and found a patch where broad leaves sprouted from the ground.

  ‘Are you sure we can trust him?’ Ryam asked as soon as they moved beyond the first hut.

  ‘He strikes me as an honourable man.’

  ‘But you thought I was honourable,’ he pointed out with a quirk of his mouth.

  She shoved the basket into his hands, eyes narrowed. ‘Start picking yams, ghost man. It will be dark soon.’

  Kneeling, she took hold of a thick stalk and pulled at it. The leaves tore off in her hand. Ryam dropped down beside her, placing the basket between them.

  He blew out a forced breath. ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘So you’ve said.’ She twisted the purple yam loose and tossed it into the basket.

  Ryam was wrong. Something had happened. She had done things, felt things with him she needed to forget. But she couldn’t when she was so aware of every movement he made. She stared at his hands as he worked his fingers into the black soil and couldn’t help thinking of those broad hands moving over her.

  To her surprise, he spoke next in what was almost a northern dialect. ‘Ai Li, don’t be angry.’

  ‘Your accent is pretty good,’ she replied. ‘Do you apologise often?’

  He presented her with a half-smile, looking triumphant that he had her speaking to him. ‘I’m well versed. I know how to say, you look pretty.’

  Ignoring him, she attacked the next yam with a stick.

  ‘I can also say, you look pretty when angry.’

  She blushed despite her dark mood. ‘I am not angry.’

  ‘Truly? Because you are the last woman I’d want angry at me. You wield very sharp swords.’

  She threw the yam at him. It bounced off his chest, leaving a smudge of dirt.

  ‘I know you’re above me.’ He forged on, cutting off her protest. ‘You’re a very beautiful woman and I’m not a particularly good man.’

  She kept her gaze to the ground. His humility wounded her. ‘That was not what I meant.’

  Why then had both guilt and pleasure flooded her when he held her in his arms? If she didn’t marry Li Tao, she would marry another man her family chose. That was the way of things and she had never questioned it before. But in these woods far from home, her entire being reached out to Ryam, seeking the unknown emotions churning within her. She couldn’t understand this new longing and she couldn’t control it.

  ‘I know the sort of people you come from,’ he said. ‘I may be a b
arbarian, but I’m not entirely without honour. I swear to you on my father’s sword, I won’t touch you.’ He smiled in an attempt to lighten the moment. ‘I can’t promise I won’t think of it.’

  His words left her hollow inside. He held out his hand, palm up, and she could only blink at it, not understanding.

  ‘We shake hands. It means we understand each other. Like an agreement between swordsmen.’

  ‘An oath?’

  Uncertain, she placed her hand into his. His fingers surrounded hers, rough and warm. A tremor coursed down her arm.

  ‘No more argument?’ she asked. ‘We treat each other like swordsmen from now on?’

  He released her with a frown. ‘Fellow swordsmen,’ he echoed. ‘Yes, something like that.’

  The phantom of his touch lingered long after he released her. She went back to work, completely uncertain of what, if anything, had been decided between them.

  Five days. That was how long he figured it would take to get Ailey home. Untouched, he reminded himself.

  Throughout the day, he had found himself relaxing beside her, shaking off the weight of all that had happened and sometimes it seemed that sense of peace she gave him was all he needed. But then she’d look at him in that way that pierced right through him. In those moments, he knew he’d never have enough of her.

  He’d sworn, whatever that meant. He simply would have to avoid her touch, the sight of her, the sound of her laughter.

  Once their task was done, the boatman led them to the shed by the river and returned a while later with a frayed woollen blanket and a bowl filled with boiled yams. They knelt by the riverbank and Ailey folded up her sleeves to dip her hands into the swirling water. Her bare skin glowed like ivory and her arms curved with the graceful strength that marked all of her movements.

  It had been too long since he’d enjoyed the soft touch of a woman. The moment he formed the excuse, he knew it wasn’t true. His regard for Ailey had nothing to do with hurried couplings in brothels, with coarse seduction in patches of wild grass. Ailey was young and confused. She didn’t know what she wanted—although she had made it abundantly clear she didn’t want him.