The archers who had fought from the battlements inside had already reached the drawbridge and were lowering it by the time she got there. They’d no more dropped it over the moat when she went flying across it, still mentally connected to Roarke, knowing exactly where he was.
Thankfully, he was not too far from the gates. Still on his knees where she had left him mentally, still staring at his blood-soaked hand. Several of his men surrounded him, but parted when she approached.
She dropped to the ground as soon as she reached him, sweeping his hair away from his dirt-streaked face. His eyes were filled with pain—dull, nearly lifeless and half-closed. The normal sun-darkened color had left his face, replaced instead by a pallor that made her worry her bottom lip.
“You stayed with me,” he whispered.
Solara fought back the tears that threatened to tear her apart. “Of course I did. I could not leave.” She moved his hand, taking a thick cloth one of the villagers handed her and pressing it against the wound at his side. Blood flooded the cloth immediately and she replaced it with another, pressing hard despite his wince of pain.
“You shouldn’t have seen all this. Blood, carnage, death…”
“Shhh,” she whispered. “I did not fear what I saw. You needed all our magic to defeat the wizards. You and your men performed admirably.”
Roarke offered a half-smile, then reached his blood-soaked hand out to caress her cheek. “Thank you, my faerie. You gave me strength.”
Before she could respond, he crumpled against her and passed out.
Roarke’s men picked him up and carried him inside, depositing him on the bed in his chambers.
She pushed the physician aside, wanting no one to care for him but herself. She was more knowledgeable about medicines and herbs than the man who doubled as the castle’s barber.
Thankful for the medicinal lessons she had received from her mother, she immediately stripped off Roarke’s battle gear and tunic, then his boots and breeches. Isolde and Noele stayed with her, helping to remove his clothes.
Neither said a word about Solara being in the room while Roarke was completely undressed. If they had, she would still have refused to leave. They did not know that she had seen all of him, and at this point it did not matter what anyone knew. The only thing that mattered was stopping the flow of blood before Roarke died.
Already it had soaked the cloths underneath him. If possible, he was even more pale now than he had been on the battlefield, his face as ghastly white as the wizards he had fought.
Solara cleaned the wound, a long gash at his side which bled much, but did not appear to be too deep.
“It does not appear that any of his organs were affected,” she said, cleaning inside the cut. “But he has lost much blood.”
Isolde sewed the wound closed, then Solara applied medicinal herbs, covering it with a clean cloth. At least the blood had stopped flowing now.
“All we can do is wait and see how he recovers. If the wizards poisoned their swords, infection could set in.”
Noele voiced what Solara knew to be true. “We can only pray that such is not the case.”
“He needs rest, Solara, as do you,” Noele said, placing her hand on Solara’s shoulder.
After securing the bandage with strips of cloth, she pulled the covers over Roarke, then turned to Noele.
“I need no rest. I am not the one who fought a battle and was wounded.”
“You expended much of your energy propelling yourself into his mind as you did. Giving up your strength, your magic, is exhausting.”
Solara smiled at Noele. “You are the one who should be resting. Garick will have my head if something happens to you or the babe.”
“There is nothing wrong with me. I am as fit as can be and have more than enough energy for both me and the baby.”
Solara frowned. “I thought you were ill.”
Noele’s eyes widened. Isolde coughed and turned away.
“What I meant was, I’m feeling much better now. I believe the worst of the initial illness is over.” Something wasn’t right, but Solara did not have time to ponder. “Either way, you need your rest, and Isolde is needed to watch over you. Go. See to the others who have been wounded. I will sit here with Roarke awhile, and then I promise to rest.”
After Noele and Isolde left, she sat on the bed next to Roarke, constantly feeling his head to check for signs of fever. He slept soundly, not even moving once all through the night.
Solara did not sleep, nor did she leave his side. She could not, would not, until she was certain he would recover. Part of her wished he would awaken, yet the logical part of her knew that while he slept, he healed. As long as his skin remained cool to the touch, he would be fine.
If only she believed her own thoughts.
What would she do if Roarke didn’t recover? No, she refused to think about that possibility. She stood and paced his bed, watching for any signs of flushed skin or delirium. Clutching her arms around her middle, she pondered all that had happened between them.
There was no doubt that, physically, she wanted him. He called to her in ways she was convinced no other man would be able to. But there was more than that. His honor, his sense of duty and loyalty, the way he cared for her. All of those things made him the man she…
Loved.
The word she had tried so hard not to think about stood front and center in her mind. And because she loved him she had been blinded to his need to see to his duty. She had asked him to sacrifice his honor for her. She sat on the bed and held his hand.
“Oh Roarke,” she whispered, “What have I done? I have given my heart to you, my very soul, and look at the havoc it has created. How can I say I love you and at the same time put you through such torment?”
Isolde brought her food late in the evening, but she felt no hunger.
How could she feel anything but guilt? If it were not for her and her insistence on tormenting Roarke, he would not have felt it necessary to leave the castle grounds and patrol. She had literally driven him from the safety of Winterland in an effort to flee from her and her foolish seduction.
The wizards had obviously been waiting for an opportunity to attack, and because of her the garrison had been left vulnerable. They had lost six men today, not a very large amount considering the number of wizards that had attacked, yet six men lost their lives who shouldn’t have.
All because of her childish notions of love and desire.
If she had left Roarke alone and stayed committed to her fate to marry Braedon, he wouldn’t be near death right now.
Nay, she would not leave his side until she atoned for the sins she had committed.
She would not leave until Roarke was awake, for she had much to tell him.
Roarke’s eyes would not open. He fought, willing them to open, yet his struggle was for naught.
’Twas as if something pressed down on his entire body, a heavy weight that prevented him from moving his limbs.
He could still see, although the visions were distorted.
Sweeping colors of the sky. A meadow, a rainbow of sensual delights surrounding him, yet he could not lift his arm and touch that one elusive thing he wanted more than anything.
Solara.
She stood in the middle of a field of green, dressed all in white. Riotous colors spread out like a carpet of flowers at her feet. Yellows, purples, blues, like a sudden burst of springtime. Solara’s feet were bare, her wings spread wide, hair unbound and flowing to her waist. Her golden green eyes gazed directly at him, dark lashes fluttering against her cheek as she blinked.
Her smile was warm and welcoming.
“Come to me, Roarke. I need you.”
He started to move, but could not, the endless weight holding him back. Opening his mouth to speak, he found no sound forthcoming, despite the shouting of his voice in his own mind.
Solara frowned. “Roarke, why do you tease me so? Can you not see how much I want you? How much I need you? Please, come to me now.” She spread her arms, beckoning him to her.
And still, the heaviness upon him held him at bay. He struggled mightily, but found he had no strength left in his body. So he touched her the only way he could—with his mind.
“I cannot come to you Solara. Something binds me.”
“I need you Roarke. Please, before it is too late for us.” Too late? How could it ever be too late? From the moment he first saw her, he knew in his heart that she was his fate, that she was meant to be his. And yet an invisible wall kept them apart, preventing him from reaching out to her.
Frustration mounted, building with every passing moment. She was so close, and yet ’twas as if she stood miles away.
Now her eyes filled with moisture, tears streaking her face. Her bottom lip trembled as she pleaded with him. “Roarke, I do not have much time. You must come to me now, or we will never be.” Hopelessness filled every part of his being as he fought against the invisible bonds. “I cannot, Solara. Something keeps me from you.”
She began to fade right in front of his eyes. The colors surrounding her muted, becoming hazy, brown, lifeless. Her white sheath turned black, her hair disappeared, her skin sinking into itself.
“It is too late for us Roarke. You should have come to me sooner. I must go.”
“No! Wait!” He fought until his skin burned from the struggle. But as he did so, a part of him knew his efforts were for naught. She was nearly gone, no more than a shimmering cloud.
“Too late for us, my love. It is too late. You waited too long.” Even her voice had lost its melodic beauty, her tone flat, sadness evident in every word.
He was a fool! He should have tried harder, done something, anything to break the bonds so he could reach her.
And now she would never be his.
Solara was gone.
* * * * *
The fever had started early this morning. She had left him for only a moment to bathe and eat, and when she had returned, Isolde had told her that Roarke had worsened.
Not many survived the fever of the wizards. A poison in the blood, it spread quickly.
There was no known cure. No herbs, no medicines, nothing would help. Nothing but prayer and hope that Roarke was strong enough to withstand the effects of the toxin trying to destroy him.
For hours he had battled, his body shaking uncontrollably, nearly unintelligible words spilling from his lips. She had held him down when the convulsions threatened to send him catapulting off the bed, finally having to resort to magic to hold him still so he would not injure himself.
She kept his skin moist and cool with frequent bathing. Noele and Isolde stopped in frequently, but they knew as well as Solara did that there was nothing that could be done for him. He would either live or die, and they could not control what would happen.
“Witch,” he mumbled. “You left me, faerie. You left me when I needed you. Do not go. Do not leave me.”
His words made no sense. Witch? Faerie? She did not know of whom he spoke.
Until he said her name. “Solara, I cannot come to you. I have tried, but it holds me back.” She forgot to breathe as the anguishing pain in his words squeezed her heart. “Roarke, I am here.” He shook his head vehemently. “You are gone. I have lost you. I cannot come to you. I cannot.” Bathing his fevered face and neck, she whispered against his ear. “Roarke, do not fight it so. You need to rest, you need your strength.”
“I have no strength. I have nothing. I could have…I almost took that which was not mine to have. My honor…’tis nothing without your love. But I have duty. Must not…” His words faded again. Yet Solara knew what pained him.
It was her. He struggled within himself, wanting her and knowing he could not have her.
She caused his pain, both physically and emotionally. Her selfishness in wanting something she could not have, had brought Roarke to this state.
And now he might die. None of this should have happened, would have happened, if she had done what she was destined to do.
“Roarke, listen to me.” She grabbed his shoulders, closed her eyes and entered his world. She took the risk to herself, knowing that giving him a vital part of her magic might well save his life while destroying hers.
Yet she had to do it.
’Twas like entering the gates of hell. Fire greeted her, the licking flames attempting to hold her back.
Undaunted, she walked through the inferno. Roarke stood there, naked and glorious like some kind of god. He looked around as if he were lost. Then he saw her, and smiled.
“I have been looking for you, faerie,” he said, his voice hot, husky with desire. His cock sprang to life, engorging, lengthening.
“You have found me, Roarke.”
“Come to me.”
She stepped forward, mindless of the blaze burning around them, unable to feel any other heat except the flame of his need for her.
He did not know he existed in a dream state, and she would not tell him. When he woke, when he was healed, he would know what had happened. But now, she would let him believe that they were together, that this was reality.
His naked skin scalded her when he pulled her against him. “I have waited a lifetime to touch you, to have you in my arms.”
Her breath was lost as her heart pounded against her breast. “As have I. I am yours now, Roarke. I have always been yours. I always will be. No other will have my heart.” She knew that later he would recall what was said and done here in this magical state, yet she wanted him to know. After she was gone, she wanted him to remember that she had given him her heart.
“And remember, when you are far away, that my heart will be with you. I should not tell you this, but I cannot help myself. You are mine, Solara of D’Naath. You have been from the moment I greeted you.” She squeezed her eyes shut in the hopes that he wouldn’t see her tears. Yet his thumb brushed her cheek, swiping away the one drop that escaped. When she opened them, she saw him smiling down at her.
“I might not live through this. I need you, Solara.” He knew where he was. She should have realized his force of will would push past the fantasy in his mind and accept that they could only touch within the boundaries of this dream.