Wicked Lord of Thessaly (Halcyon Romance Series Book 3) (2 page)

A pang shot through his flank and he clenched his fist, debating his best route to survival. “Forgive me the offense,
Agrotere
. I had no intention of trespassing, nor any knowledge I had done so.” He raised his gaze to hers, peering into those shining depths. “But if we’re disclosing lineage, I must inform you I am the son of King Cheiron and my death at your hands would not—” Her sharp intake of breath was the response he’d sought. “Permit me to
morphos
and heal myself. After, I give you my word I will quit these lands.”

Damn.
He’d not ventured so far, or risked so much, only to scurry home with his tail between his legs.

Wariness flickered in her drawn features, but she waved the tip of her arrow at his chest. “Very well.
Morphos
, but you must go, or I will cry for my brothers, and rest assured, they will shoot for your true heart. And not miss.”

Such steel in her voice. He bit down on a grin. Had they not been born from opposing families, he would have followed her home and requested to court her. His father had long hinted that Agrius wed, yet no female had tempted him.

Until her.

Bloody cursed weaving of the Fates. To place such forbidden temptation in front of him.

“Aye.” He nodded, then focused on not dying. Gritting his teeth, he cut into the wound with his dagger and plucked the arrow, tossing it aside. The
morphos
stretched his limbs, breaking and reforming muscle and bone, until he rested before her, a human male only in form.

His heart would always beat with the vigor of his centaur blood.

Agrius remained on the ground, lifting his chin to study the female clad in a male’s breeches and hunting cloak. He might have mistaken her for a commoner, if not for the regal bearing of her shoulders. “Thank you.” He extended his hand. “My name is Lord Agrius. Second son of King Cheiron.”

Her stare narrowed on his hand. “Lady Eione. Second daughter of Lord Macareus.” She lifted her chin to glare at him. “Now, leave.”

Though the
morphos
helped to mend him, he’d never taken a direct hit in the heart before. He lowered his hand to his middle and grimaced at his crimson-stained fingers. The wound bled, seeping through his ivory tunic. “I would, but…”

Sudden faintness claimed him, spinning the trees to his left. He blinked at the dazzling female and slunk to the ground as she faded from his view.

Eione’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her arm pained from clutching the string of her bow taut, yet she didn’t dare ease her grip. Lord Agrius blinked at her once before collapsing on the forest floor.

A trick?

She inched forward and kicked at his leg with the toe of her boot. Just enough to test his response.

None.

Is he dead?
She bit the inside of her cheek.
Oh gods.
She’d never killed a man before.

Though he was half beast.

Stepping closer, she hovered above him, arrow still aimed at his human heart. His chest rose and fell evenly. Not dead, then.

Her chest tightened. She was only partly relieved. What was she to do with him? If she revealed his presence to her father and the twins, they would surely hang him.

She’d never met a centaur before, but the tapestries hanging from their Great Hall proclaimed her family’s stance on the treaties. Each lavishly woven tapestry depicted the barbaric centaur race raping, pillaging, and murdering her people. And after, the Lapiths struck back, beheading the vile savages and brandishing their heads like trophies.

This male, however, hadn’t spoken in a slurred, crude language. He’d communicated in
Olympian
, the refined dialect of the gods and their descendants. As beautiful as a god himself, his square jaw and etched features had been carved with an exotic artistry. His equally seductive pewter eyes had shone with intelligence and kindness. She’d anticipated feeling less intimidated now that he’d transformed from his massive centaur form, yet the male below her was fashioned of pure brawn. A raw virility shaped his thick muscles. Even as he lay on the ground, she perceived he was tall and solid, his frame so differently hewn than the burly statures of her brothers.

This male was decadent.

Which also meant dangerous.

She drew her brows together. If her family executed this male, his family would retaliate. How much blood would be shed before vengeance was served?

If she healed him, would he indeed quit her family’s lands? What had tempted a centaur to traipse about in hostile territory anyway?

She huffed and lowered her bow. There was no choice to be made. The Fates had strewn this male across her path and she must do whatever she could to aid him.

Eione rushed to her sled and dragged it through the forest toward the male. She snagged her hands beneath his arms and, grunting, hoisted him onto it. Gods, but the male was solid.

Wrapping the straps around her upper body, she trudged forward, tugging the sled toward her childhood play den. Carved beneath an ancient oak, the hollow was her secret hideaway where she sought sanctuary. No one would come across the centaur here, so it was much safer than transporting him into the village.

At the entrance, she untangled herself from the straps, rolled her sore shoulders, and clasped her arms around the male once more, hauling him into the shelter.

At least he’d transformed. Had he remained in centaur form, she wouldn’t have been able to heft his weight.

After towing the male inside, she propped him against the earthen wall. Though sunlight streamed in from the entry, the chamber proved too dim to tend to his wound, so she retrieved an oil lamp from the shelf and lit it, then returned the lamp to the ledge.

After withdrawing a box of healing supplies from the shelf above them, Eione stole a deep breath and peeled aside the male’s coat and ivory shirt, squinting at him through the flickering illumination.

Crimson liquid dribbled from a gash in his middle.
Indeed, you bleed just as we do. Hmm.

Doubtful the arrow had pierced any other organ, she pressed a clean cloth to the wound and slowed the bleeding. She snagged a bottle of rum from the shelf and uncorked it with her teeth, then lifted the cloth and poured a generous dose across the laceration.

The male groaned and his eyes fluttered behind their lids, but he didn’t wake.

Probably for the best.

She wiped away the blood, drew out a needle and thread from the box, and sewed the wound shut. This male had ruined her entire morning. Now, she had no stag to offer the villagers. The twins would be out of bed soon and Eione couldn’t risk them stumbling upon the centaur.

Yet she couldn’t direct her ire at Agrius. In his peaceful slumber, he was simply too beautiful to hate.

***

Agrius dragged a hand across his face, opening his eyes and blinking into the darkness.
Where the hell am I?

A damp, earthy scent filled his nostrils. He clambered to sit and winced at the sharp stabbing ache in his gut.

Right. Arrow.

Where was the seductive beauty who’d shot him?

He jolted, whipping his head around, scanning into the dim chamber. His centaur sense of smell told him no other person was present, although a faint, floral scent permeated the space.

Her.

His horse reared, itching to sprint from his place and seek her out. The Lady Eione must have hauled him here, but why?

Why save my life?

He pressed a hand to his side.
Why stitch my wound?

He’d given her no just cause for aiding him.

A padding echo thumped from outside. He tensed at having no weapon in his hands.

“Are you awake, centaur?” a feminine voice called.

The anxiety departed his body on a heaved sigh. “Aye,
Agrotere
.”

First, a glinting blade pressed forward, followed by the maiden. He squinted into this damned dim chamber. He must have been half out of his mind and on the brink of death earlier, because his horse jolted inside him as she neared.

Agrius sniffed, and aye, no mistaking her scent. Or how the fragrance affected his horse. The poor beast thrashed against its reins, squealing and demanding one thing.

Claim her.

He swallowed thickly, clearing his throat. Mayhap the maiden had cast a spell upon him, because the only other explanation was…

No.

Clenching his fists, he tore his appreciation off her lovely form and slowed his breaths, staring at the earthen wall.

What a cruel twist of the Fates that would be.

For both of them.

“Why did you save me?” he rasped, his throat dry from lack of water.

She slid one foot forward and knocked a flask off the shelf above him with the tip of her blade.

He caught the vessel and removed the cork, then guzzled.

“I took a gamble, centaur. That less blood would be shed should I sew you up and send you on your way. I suggest you don’t prove me wrong.” The spiked tip inched closer to the base of his throat.

Setting aside the flask, he flicked his scrutiny to her. A mistake, for those sultry eyes were swirling pools of entrancement meant to drown him.

Not that he would care. One taste of those full, petal-pink lips and he’d die a happy male.

“I thank you. In truth, I mean you and your family no harm.” The words came out easier after his parched throat had been soothed, although a new thirst claimed its place. His cock stirred, growing thick and long as his survey dropped to the soft buckskin breeches caressing the fine curves of her hips.

“Eyes on my face, centaur.” The tip poked into his neck.

He jolted, dragging his admiration off her fine shape. “Forgive me. One does not normally encounter noblewomen clad in the garb of men. Does your family permit your attire?”

Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth twitched at the corners. “No,” she waved him to the side with her blade, “which is why you’ll turn your back while I change.”

His attention drifted to the shelf on his left and the feminine garments tucked inside.
Brazen.
He grinned, shifting to his side to give her his back, despite every instinct inside him screaming to aid her in the process of undressing.

And then to perform other acts her family would undoubtedly frown upon.

The rustling of her clothes as she changed was a pained screeching in his ears, but at last, she hummed from the entryway. “Finished. You may turn around.”

He rolled onto his back, wincing at the panging reminder of his wound.

“
Hmm.
You should let me examine your injury.” Strangely enough, she queried instead of demanded, her stiff stance hesitative. Was she intimidated by him, even in human form?

“Aye, thank you.” He nodded and she approached him as one would a wounded bear.
Ha.
“I’ll not bite you, lass.” A lie for certain. He’d bet every inch of her curves would demand some form of nibble. Still, he winked, easing his head to rest flat, and attempted to appear far more innocuous than he truly was.

Her breath sucked in while she knelt beside him, folding open his waistcoat and peeling aside his ivory tunic. His muscles jerked at her feather-light touch, and he whipped his gaze to hers. The same sparks flared in her eyes.

They both suffered this attraction.

Eione frowned at his abdomen. “The gash ought to have healed faster than this.” She tugged that plump bottom lip between her teeth, making him fight a groan. “I fear your wound may have become infected. Your skin is already flushed and heated.”

Her nearness drove his horse to madness. She smelled so damn sweet. The pain in his abdomen blurred like a distant dream, but a searing agony flamed across his upper left arm. His entire body burned, not from fever of infection.

Oh, hell, no.

The
lyssa
.

Eione brushed her fingers across the male’s sculpted abdomen, biting back a moan at how the muscles danced along her fingertips, jolting at her touch as though she played a tune on a lyre. This intoxicating attraction toward the handsome male could prove damning in so many ways.

Already, she risked much by saving his life. By concealing his presence.