Lost Lady of Thessaly (Halcyon Romance Series Book 7) Page 4

  Plans which didn’t involve an exiled satyr with nothing to his name.

  Not that such truths stopped Iora from trying. She tempted him in the most vexatious, flirtatious manners, testing every ounce of his restraint. When she wasn’t casting him coquettish propositions, fluttering those thick ivory lashes and biting those plump red lips, she spoke to him of her existence. They shared their pasts and found even more in common than a misfit like him ought to have with a Lady like her.

  They both loved rainbows and bards and shooting stars, and suffered a mutual distaste for wild hare, which, unfortunately, was a frequent meal on their journey.

  Today, in the mid-morning sun, Iora paused, examined the horizon, and climbed to the center of the hilltop. She removed an object from her satchel and placed it on the ground. This time, it was a dagger, and she jammed the blade straight into a rock. It should have been impossible, but the knife glowed with an amber luminescence as it slid right in, as though the object welcomed its fate.

  “Only a few left.” Iora shot him a wink and marked off the location on one of her scrolls.

  He nodded, though she hadn’t revealed precisely what they were doing. Only that, every so often, along the boundaries of the centaur lands, she placed another enchanted object.

  This location was near Petraeus’s lands. His castle of Austere Pass, atop one of the six Meteora, the great cliffs spread across centaur territory, rested not half a day from here.

  As it turned out, Iora had been watching her siblings carefully, for years. Each of her brothers was fated to meet his mate, and the Lord and Lady of the Underworld had been working to ensure those unions. However, Petraeus, being the stubbornly wild male that he was, had been estranged from his mate for far too long. Iora had suggested a visit might cure his friend of his irksome pride.

  As afternoon fell, they approached the castle and Alder scented his friend within, accompanied by the ripe stench of self-pity.

  Poor bastard.

  “Are you certain you wish to venture inside?” He extended his arm for Iora, who linked her slender hand around his bicep.

  “Oh yes.” She studied Austere Pass, fascination sparkling in her round eyes, as they climbed the staircase together. They paused in the entry to Petraeus’s chamber. The centaur sprawled across the wood plank floor, an empty bottle in his hand.

  “It’s probably best he not encounter me,” Iora whispered at Alder’s side. “Why don’t you speak with him while I explore?” A mischievous twinkle lit up her eyes. Bloody hell, he’d likely regret letting her loose in the castle.

  “Oh look, he’s dreaming.” She pointed at Petraeus’s hind leg, which twitched in his sleep, and chimed a laugh.

  “Aye, I’ll wake him.” As Alder spoke, she skipped off, disappearing around a corner.

  “Who’s there?” Petraeus raised his head and grumbled, “Oh, it’s you. Who were you talking to? I thought I heard a female.”

  “No one, and I’m glad to see you too, mate.” To cover his falsehood, he grabbed several apples from the bowl on the long table and perched on its ledge, juggling the apples to keep his hands busy. A quick glance at his friend’s disheveled appearance confirmed his concerns. Petraeus’s white-blond locks were plastered to his head in a matted mess. “You’re a sorry sight, though, I must say.”

  “And you are never a welcome sight.” Petraeus grimaced. “Leave me be and don’t make me regret offering you a bed.”

  He frowned at the misery in his friend’s pained tone. Poor bastard. Halting his juggling, he took a bite of one apple. “You could always go after her.”

  “Or I could stuff that apple down your throat.” Petraeus thumped his head onto the floor. “Aye, that would grant me greater pleasure.”

  Alder crossed his legs and scratched his head. Then he hopped off the table and dropped an apple onto Petraeus’s chest. “You have to eat something other than your sorrows.” He would give anything to end his friend’s misery. “I owe you everything, Petraeus. Just know that.” Alder patted his shoulder and stole another apple before roaming from the chamber, his chest feeling both light and heavy. He ached from witnessing Petraeus in pain, yet if he trusted Iora, his friend would find happiness soon.

  Such a fate might not be his own. Treading through the stone-walled corridors of Austere Pass only served to remind him—this wasn’t his household. Not his castle. Not his land.

  He had nothing to his name other than what he carried upon his back.

  Lady Iora might be an outcast too, but she had a birthright waiting for her to claim.

  He wasn’t worthy of her. That would be the first inequity her family would point out. He could delude himself with visions of a future together, but those imaginings would be wiped away and the truth of their existences would become clear.

  Frowning, he glared at the wooden door to his chamber. No, not even his chamber. Just a room he occupied at the good grace of Petraeus.

  He twisted the knob and stepped inside, freezing at the sight of Iora on his bed. Nude. The cream sheets wove around her curves, revealing the merest hints of her bare flesh.

  “Iora.” Quickly, he shut the door behind him and faced her, shaking his head. “Don’t tempt me, love.”

  “Hmm?” She rolled onto her back, her lush breasts nearly spilling from the concealment of the sheets. “Are you tempted, Alder?”

  He groaned and tore his gaze off her, leaning his forehead against the stone wall. “You know that I am, lass,” he griped. Perhaps the stones would acknowledge his torment.

  “Then why do you deny both of us?”

  He fisted his hand. Perhaps, it was time to tell her the truth. The harshness of what only someone as untainted as she couldn’t perceive.

  “Look around you, sweetling. None of this is mine. I have naught to offer you, and mayhap, you would be content with me, but more than likely, not. I’m the first male you’ve come across in all your long, lonely years, but trust me, I’m not the most charming or engaging. You can deny it all you wish, but once you’re restored, I assure you, your brothers and father will wholeheartedly agree with me.”

  He dragged his stare to her and prepared for the final blow. “Trust me. Soon enough, you’ll realize I’m not worthy of you.”

  ***

  Iora blinked away hot tears at each of Alder’s arguments. Bitterness pulsed in her veins. Resentment, hatred. Most of all, for those who’d made this kind-hearted soul assume he had nothing to offer.

  “I don’t care about lands or titles.” Indignation rose in her. “How dare you presume I would? That I couldn’t care for someone who had nothing to offer me but himself?”

  Now, he’d provoked her ire. Her temper flared and flashed hot across her vision. “The only thing keeping you from happiness is yourself. Do you truly think so little of me, that I would give myself to the first male I stumbled across? That I wouldn’t have a thousand damned good reasons for wanting you. Just you.” Huffing, she tossed her gown over her head and rushed toward him, pausing a foot away. “You are correct about one thing, satyr. If you don’t believe you deserve me, then you don’t.”

  She spun on her heel and stormed from the chamber, letting loose the heated tears. Ugh. Pig-headed, exasperating males. Why was it so hard for them to accept their mates?

  Not that she was about to admit as much to Alder. If he couldn’t see the truth for what it was, she refused to enlighten him.

  A female could survive without her mate. A male, not so much.

  She hadn’t even made up her mind about whether she wished to be restored to her family. Having five overbearing, irksome males as brothers had never seemed so irritating as it did to her in this moment. She’d rather take her chances in the Underworld.

  Iora fisted her hands and paced into the gardens. One fact remained. She had no choice in anything until her tasks were complete.

  A screech above snagged her attention. An owl dropped a scroll onto the path before her. Ah, a message from Persephone. She plucked the
scroll and examined it. Two dots glowed. One in Lapith lands and one nearby, in centaur lands. Oh, yes. Right about now, Hector would be uncovering some rather interesting information involving his wife. That must be the purpose of this scroll. She stuffed it into her satchel and hurried through the castle gates. Alder didn’t trail after her, and perhaps, their distance was for the best.

  He would only be her equal if he chose to.

  She exhaled the tension clutching her chest and pressed forward through the woods, toward the first dot.

  A good distance into the woods, she sensed a presence trailing her. Iora sniffed the air and caught the bonding scent of her mate. Perching her hands on her hips, she spun around and puffed, “If you’re going to follow me, you might as well do so at a closer distance.”

  Alder poked his head out from behind a tree. “I’ve not yet finished my task and I never go back on my word.” His voice was gruff and his mannerism perturbed as he grumbled and crossed his arms, in an irritatingly masculine manner that managed to send yearnings shooting through her body.

  “Fine. I care not what you do.” She whirled and proceeded forward, as though a surly, brooding satyr were not following her every movement with his intensely devastating focus.

  ***

  It had taken them two nights to reach the location on the map, and every step of the journey was a torment like iron spikes stabbing into Alder’s cloven hooves. Everything in him howled with the impulse to swing Iora into his arms and clasp her so tightly, he’d never let her go.

  Every time she swung her gaze his way, disappointment swirled in her eyes. She hadn’t forgiven him for their disagreement, nor did she seem to accept his arguments. If only it were so simple.

  As much as he yearned to claim her, he could be a stubborn creature, too. Unlike her centaur brothers, no gods or goddesses had passed favor over his union with Iora. None had proclaimed her his true mate. Never would he deny her a future that might not include him.

  They’d delivered the scroll to Iora’s brother Hector, and the enchantment she’d cast over them had prevented both Hector and his mate, Delia, from recognizing either of them. It was bizarre, passing by a male he respected without receiving any acknowledgment. If he were unknown to the centaurs, perhaps he would be better received as a suitor for Iora.

  Then again, perhaps not.

  Hector and Delia would be off to aid in the rescue of nearly a thousand nymphs imprisoned by the Lapith King Philaeus. The Amazons were organizing the mission, and although Iora had contact with them, she wasn’t a part of that rescue. They had another, far more pressing task to attend to—placing these enchanted objects along the boundary. They had three remaining, and then, their task would be complete.

  After, he might never encounter Iora again.

  The thought sobered him, pinching his chest. He didn’t want this to be the end, but what other option lay before them? They stood at a crossroads, and he wasn’t certain they would choose the same path.

  Evening was falling as they crossed a thicket, darkness condensing around them with an ominous reflection of their doomed future. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted and he sniffed as a familiar, earthy scent crossed his nostrils. He’d shrugged off his unease as a result of his quarrel with Iora and their trek through enemy Lapith lands to meet Hector. But nay, that charred stump there, in the center of the clearing, he recognized it. Even worse, those peaked heights to the north winked at him in the fading rays of the sun like the greetings of old friends.

  They stood in enemy lands, true enough, but this place belonged to foes he’d long forgotten. Panic flushed through his veins. He’d been trailing Iora, who followed her maps, and not once had he questioned precisely in which direction they were headed. He could have sworn they were miles from where they actually stood. Bloody hell.

  Suddenly, a cacophony of bawdy voices rang from the south. Alder froze, the song ringing in his ears.

  Oh gods, no. He recognized the melody, and the voices singing it.

  Nothing good would come of this.

  He waved Iora behind a bush, praying they wouldn’t scent her.

  “Well, well, well,” one booming voice called out, ending in a low whistle, and the band of males behind him halted in their bellowing.

  Alder cringed, squeezing his eyes shut for an instant, then fisted his hands and shook away his nerves. It had only been a matter of time before he encountered his family again. After all, the loud, lewd, and licentious satyrs didn’t exactly steal about.

  He inclined his head toward his father’s clan as they shuffled into the thicket, forming a half-circle in front of himself and the bush where Iora hid. “Krotos, Ampelos, Leneus, Napaeus, Gemon, Scirtus, Tityroi…” he droned off, no point in acknowledging each one. For the simple truth was, he and Iora were badly outnumbered. At least two dozen satyrs faced off against them. All brawny and burly, their beastlike legs covered in matted furs of every hue. Their clothes were equally unwashed and tattered, and in general, they looked a sorry lot. Unkempt and more savage than he recalled. Instinctively, he stepped in front of the bush concealing Iora, though that wouldn’t prevent these brutes from leering at her if they detected her.

  Mayhap not all satyrs were as barbaric as his clan, but at least now Iora would fathom the nature of his origins, and why he was so very unworthy of her.

  The last he’d seen of them, he’d been naught but a scrawny lad, unable to defend himself against any of their torments. Alder had grown into far more than a frightened youngling. Even more, he had something worth protecting. He flexed his fingers and stared them down.

  One tall male shoved to the front of the crowd. Lykon. His eldest brother. Alder craned his neck past the male, but caught not a glimpse of their father. Hmm.

  Lykon was only marginally more presentable, his leather vest weathered but not torn, and his scraggy beard somewhat trimmed. Two stubby horns protruded from the top of his curly, dark-haired head and the center of his rust-hued eyes burned like banked coals. “Imagine seeing you again, little sapling.” He snickered and Alder flinched at the diminutive term that was nothing near an endearment.

  Aye, he’d been the smallest of his siblings, the runt. Not once had they let him forget his half-breed origins.

  Now, he stood taller than Lykon, and though not as stocky, he was at least a physical match. Petraeus had taught Alder to fight, and to fight well.

  “Yes, well, as much as I’d like to catch up, I’m afraid I have a most pressing engagement.” He nodded once to the group and veered to the left.

  One satyr, bearing a spear, stepped into his path, planting the spear upright in the ground facing Alder.

  “After so many years, I’m certain you could spare a few moments. After all, you are on our lands.” Lykon’s menacing tone spiked the hairs on the back of Alder’s neck.

  He paused and reluctantly twisted around. “A mistake, I assure you.”

  “Hardly. We’ve been expecting you.”

  A sinister inkling crept down his spine and he had a frigid premonition that his presence here was no coincidence.

  The calculating gleam in Lykon’s gaze glinted as he studied him. “The years have been kinder to you than to us. Don’t you even wish to know our father’s fate?”

  A round of snickers passed through the throng.

  Alder pinched the bridge of his nose. The best plan would be to play along for a few minutes more. “Where is he?” His sire was close to the last person he wished to ever encounter again. All he recalled of the brutal male was his lashings.

  A wide grin spread across Lykon’s face, revealing uneven, yellowed teeth. “I killed him.”

  The crowd behind him howled and cajoled, but an icy bead of perspiration trickled down Alder’s spine. “I don’t suppose I wish to ask why?” he intoned dryly.

  “That old haggard was content with letting us starve and waste into poverty.” He sneered. “But not I. Under my rule, the satyrs will claim their birthright. Imagine,” he snorte
d, “centaurs stole those lands from us, and we’ll steal them back.”

  Rage flooded Alder’s veins. The satyrs had no notion of what they proclaimed. “You’ll require more than luck to accomplish that.” He scoffed. “The centaurs have better numbers and better skill than any of you.”

  Lykon stalked in a circle around him and suddenly halted, drawing a blade and flashing it at Alder’s throat. “Ah, but we have you.”

  Iora drew in a sharp breath and slapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The satyrs whipped their heads in her direction—the sound had carried to their keen ears.

  Oh gods. They circled around the bush wherein she hid, flushing her out. Rather than cower, she straightened her shoulders and stepped out of hiding, steeling her spine though panic rushed through her.

  Alder’s wide scrutiny assessed her and his brows bunched together; perhaps he calculated their odds of survival.

  The males around her whistled and yapped, swiping their grimy hands in her direction. She exhaled and dodged their groping, but her avoidance only urged them on.

  “Ho, ho.” The one named Lykon, and the apparent leader, scratched his jaw, his lewd gape passing over her. “What a sweet strumpet you’ve been concealing.”

  She clenched her hands at her sides. “Call me that again and you’ll find your tongue sorely absent from your mouth.”

  He barked a laugh and raised his hands in mock fear, before stalking close and rounding on her ear, his rancid breath scorching her neck. “You should know, I like them feisty.” This, he directed at Alder, whose knuckles had spread white from his tightly clenched fists.

  Alone in the darkness with this fiendish band, she ought to have experienced fear, yet Iora possessed talents not even Alder knew of.

  Yet.

  “You don’t need Alder to face off against the centaurs. All you truly require is me.”

  “Iora, no,” Alder rumbled in warning.

  The satyrs ignored him, all switching their attention to her words.

  “Pray tell, why would that be?” Lykon cocked his head, sniffing her.