Dreams Made Flesh

“Your offer to teach her was a kind gesture,” Lucivar said. “But, Marian? This is a witch who, when she was sixteen, blew up the kitchen at the Hall because she confused the spell she was putting together with the casserole she and her friend Karla were making and put the wrong mixture in the oven. Think about that for a minute. Casserole. Spell. They couldn’t tell the difference by looking at what was in the dishes.”



“She blew up the kitchen?”



“Destroyed it. Right down to the last wooden spoon.”



Marian shuddered.



“So the next time you want to do something kind for Jaenelle, make her a casserole or bake some nutcakes. But don’t let her play in the kitchen.”



Putting a shield around his hands so he wouldn’t drip yolk, Lucivar walked over to the sink and used Craft to turn on the water taps. As he washed his hands, he said, “Do I dare ask what’s for dinner?”



Marian hiccuped. “Eggs.”



He turned off the water and sighed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”



SIXTEEN



“I have work,” Marian said as Lucivar hauled her out of the kitchen and into the eyrie’s front room. Tassle followed them, making worried little huffy sounds.



“The work will still be there an hour from now,” Lucivar replied.



She looked at the thick drops of rain hitting the glass doors that led to the lawn beyond. If it got any colder, that rain would turn to snow. “You’re just doing this because you’re bored.”



Using Craft, Lucivar moved the furniture against the walls, leaving a large bare circle of stone floor. “If I was bored, I’d go to the Hall and annoy my father. That perks up both our days.”



Bet it doesn’t perk them up in the same way, Marian thought. “I don’t want to do this.”



“Whining about it won’t do you any good.”



Whining? She bristled at the insult. She wasn’t whining. She was pointing out the obvious to a thickheaded male. Females did not use Eyrien weapons. Ask any Eyrien male—except the one standing in front of her—and he’d tell you that.



Since being reasonable wasn’t going to work, she lowered her voice and tried menacing. “I’ve got a skillet, and I know how to use it.”



His quick grin wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for.



“That’s fine,” he said, turning. “Now you’re going to acquire skill with a traditional weapon.”



“I’m not—”



He spun back toward her, and shouted, “If you get hurt because you’re too damn stubborn to learn how to defend yourself, I will beat the shit out of you!”



Goaded by the unexpected verbal shove, she shoved back. “If you ever raise a hand to me, I will gut you!”



They stared at each other. She had that one moment for fear to zing through her as she realized she’d just threatened a Warlord Prince. Before she could move, his hands clamped on her waist. One quick toss in the air. As she came down, he wrapped his arms around her lower back and buttocks and spun her around and around.



“Ha! I knew you had it in you!” He laughed as he spun her.



“Stop!” Marian grabbed his shoulders. “Lucivar, stop!”



He stopped. Since the room was still circling, she clung to his shoulders. Her feet didn’t touch the floor, which put them eye to eye. With her heart pounding, she dared to look at him, hoping he wasn’t too angry with her.



He didn’t look angry at all. His eyes were lit with amusement, and he grinned at her as if she’d just done something wonderful.



Giving her a friendly squeeze, he said, “That’s my feisty hearth witch. Now give us a snarl. Say Grrrr.”



Heat flooded her face. She pushed at his shoulders, wanting to get down, wanting to get away. He just tightened his arms.



“I’m not putting you down until I get a snarl,” he said.



She looked away, mortified—and saw Tassle standing to one side, watching them. The wolf curled his lips, revealing an impressive set of teeth. After a moment, the lips relaxed. He waved the tip of his tail, then did the whole thing all over again.



She lowered her head, let her hair fall forward to hide her face. Great. Wonderful. A wolf was coaching her in how to snarl, and the man holding her off the ground . . .



She peeked at him. His grin had changed to that lazy, arrogant smile.



... would hold her like this all day if that’s how long it took to get what he wanted.



She took a breath. Blew it out.



As soon as she was free, she was going to hide in her room. He could fix his own meals, wash his own dishes. They’d just see how long he grinned about that.



She took another breath. Blew it out.



The way she was pressed against him, there was no mistaking his body’s response to hers. And there were all those warm, lovely muscles under her hands, just waiting to be touched, caressed . . .



Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.



Before she could do something stupid, she took another breath, raised her head, and said, “gr.”



Lucivar’s arrogant smile faded. His brows drew together in a frown. “What a prissy little gr. But it will have to do.” Sighing, he loosened his arms, letting her slide down his body until her feet touched the floor.



As soon as he released her, the rational part of her mind scampered off, leaving her with less sense than a rabbit. So she bolted.



Grab . . . lift . . . swing . . . plop. And she was right back where she’d started.



“You’re going to learn to defend yourself, Marian,” Lucivar said, an unyielding look in his gold eyes. “You don’t have to like it, but you’re going to learn.”



When he called in the Eyrien sticks, Marian sagged with relief. At least these were the sparring sticks and not the bladed sticks used for fighting. Even so, an opponent could take a terrible beating. Her father had done it enough times to young warriors he brought to her mother’s eyrie. He’d insist on a sparring session, with his daughters in attendance, so the young warrior could “show off his skills.” Even a skilled youth couldn’t match a full-grown Eyrien male who had been trained to fight.



And an unskilled hearth witch was no match for an Eyrien Warlord Prince.



She tightened her grip on the stick and set her feet in the stance she’d seen her father take.



Lucivar just looked at her feet. “What are you doing?”



She tensed, wondering where his first blow would hit. “This is the stance for sparring.”



“Only if you want to be knocked on your ass.”



She lowered the stick. “What?”



“You set your feet like that, you’re going to eat dirt unless your opponent is smaller than you are.”



So that explained why she’d never seen her father spar with anyone but half-trained youths. The fighting skills her father bragged about were nothing more than brags, just words without substance to justify what he did, and didn’t do, for his family.



She hadn’t thought about living with a man, hadn’t really wanted to. That had never been part of her dream. Now she wondered what it would be like to live that dream with a man who wasn’t like her father. With Lucivar.



“Marian?”



She looked at him and realized she had no idea how long he’d been standing there, waiting, while her thoughts had wandered. “Are we going to spar?”



His lips twitched. “We’ll get to it eventually. First you have to learn how to move.”



Slow. Quiet. As graceful as a dance. He took her through each move, his voice flowing over her as he explained, corrected, praised. The warmth of his hand on her waist or hip as he guided her body. The movement of his own muscles as he demonstrated the next move. The clean male scent of him.



“Now we’ll put all the moves together,” Lucivar said. “Watch.”



She watched. Grace and power. What would it be like to kiss him? Really kiss him? Would he bring all that grace and power to the bed? Would he be a generous lover? She’d only had one experience with sex after her Virgin Night, and that had been disappointing enough that she’d never been interested in trying again. But when a woman loved, wouldn’t there be some pleasure from the act even if the body received none?



The thought staggered her, thrilled her, terrified her. Had she been falling in love with him all along? That would be foolish, wouldn’t it? He might take a hearth witch for a lover to satisfy his body’s needs, but he’d never give his heart to one. Would he?



“That’s enough for the day.”



She tripped over the sound of his voice, struggled to regain her balance. “What?”



“That’s enough.” He tugged the stick out of her hands. “I’m not sure where your mind wandered off to, but you weren’t paying attention.”



Oh, she’d been paying attention, but she’d been focused on the man and not the lesson.



“It’s close to midday, and the weather has cleared.” Lucivar smiled at her. “Why don’t we fly down to the village? I’ll buy you a meal.”



Pain lanced her heart, fierce and deep. She shook her head and backed away from him. “I can’t.”



“Sure you can.” He sighed. “Marian, eating a meal you didn’t cook isn’t neglecting your work.”



“I can’t.” He’d mentioned once or twice that he’d never seen her fly, but she’d been able to avoid giving him a reason. Now . . .



“Why not?” Lucivar asked.



Tears filled her eyes. “I can’t fly! My wings . . . they were damaged. They’re useless.”



Grief and understanding filled his eyes. Here was someone who understood what that loss meant to her.



Then his eyes chilled. “Who told you that?” he asked too softly.



“It doesn’t matter. I can’t—”