Time Everlastin' Book 5 (15 page)

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Four sleeping cycles passed
before Broc left his chamber, his restlessness making his own
company unbearable.

The gargoyle hadn't made an
appearance and not so much as a peep had he heard from the woman.
Despite the long years of his self-training to block out mortal
needs, her presence had nonetheless affected him—as Karok well knew
it would.

Alone, he could pretend this
prison was but a dream.
She
made it all too real.

Five months. Did she even
realize how long she had been below?

Probably no’. Time is a
human state o’ mind in Beastieland.

Recording each sleep cycle
on his Wall of Remembrance was all that kept him abreast of the
years he had resided here. That, and the dates on the story-sheets
the clan above left him in his gift offerings. He knew numbers.
Could write to one hundred. His vocabulary was another matter. Most
times he couldn't follow the stories the sheets provided. He did
realize the world above had changed dramatically. He belonged here
now more than above.

A mon wi’ou’ a
country.

A mon wi’ou’ a
time.

He doubted another man in
history had paid such a long punishment for a crime—exempting
death, of course. Death was an end at least. A living death was
everlasting.

He shuffled through the
passages, resisting an urge to scratch where the "new" clothing
abraded his skin. It wouldn't be difficult to convince Karok he
wanted the woman to remain. He did, somewhat. He relished the
bantering, and her ability to take him by surprise. She was spit
and fire, and a distraction from his accursed boredom.

Muttering beneath his
breath, he combed his long beard with his fingers and did likewise
with the sides of his hair. He had even dabbed on some of the
good-smelling white stuff he'd received from above. Amazing how the
modern world had created a cologne that didn't spill.

As he neared her quarters, a
tightness formed in his chest.

What if cleaned up, she
still rejects me?

A grim grin twitched at one
corner of his mouth. If that happened, he would have her company a
time longer.

He frowned.

Boredom, now that he thought
about it, was less trouble.

Entering her den took all
his willpower. Finding her gone, his heart rose into his throat,
and a fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his brow. It was just
like her to not be available when he was ready to seduce
her.

Damnation, she pulled his
strings even when she wasn't aware she was doing it.

A scream shattered the
stillness. He bolted back into the main passage, stopped and keened
his ears, and mutely ordered her to make another sound.
Excruciating seconds ticked by. The hammering of his heart
thundered in his ears, and his lungs felt weighted and lacking
air.

"Help!" shrilled, resonating
through the corridors like a rampaging banshee.

"Where are ye!" he bellowed,
his hands fisted at his sides.

Sobs traveled through the
rock-walled passageways.

He ran and ran, searching
every vacant den, every nook and cranny, fear companioning him like
a specter of death at his heels. As he approached Karok's temple,
he heard weeping, and, "What can I do? How can I help?"

He crossed the threshold and
stopped short when he spied a new scene gouged into the wall across
the way. It was of the woman and himself, from her first fall from
the steps, to their confrontations, to their joined plummet, to her
bathing him. There was enough room on the wall to continue the
story, as well Karok would as it unfolded.

Thirty feet away, in front
of the standing altar stone, the woman knelt alongside the
Gargoyle, who lay on his back, writhing. Low guttural moans
emanated from the beast, and with each, a new sob wracked her
violently trembling body.

Her head shot up and she
looked at him as if he were a savior bathed in celestial
luminance.

"Hurry!" she cried. "He's
dying!"

Approaching, Broc stared
down at his nemesis, apathy born of a hatred deeply rooted in his
soul. The creature's skin was as pale as ash and cracked with
dryness, its eyes glazed, unfocused.

Taryn tugged on Broc's kilt.
"Don't just stand there! Do something!"

"Naught I can do," he said
coldly. "Tis his way o' grievin'."

"He's dying!"

"Leave him be," Broc said
bitterly. When he attempted to pull her to her feet, she fisted his
hand aside.

"He's in pain," she wept.
"Where is your heart?"

"Scattered abou' down here,
no doubt."

Karok's coarse fingers
folded about Taryn's left hand and, to Broc's unease, the fool
woman lowered her head to the beast's chest and wept all the
harder.

"Bloody hell, womon," he
grumbled, and went down on a knee. "Fetch me some water.
Now!"

"Water? Why—"

"Twill ease his fever. Do as
I say!"

Hesitating due to a
suspicion that he meant to harm the creature, she slipped her hand
from Karok's grasp, jumped up, and dashed from the room. When she
was out of sight, Broc braced a forearm across his raised knee and
narrowed his eyes at his enemy.

"Got to her, didna ye, ye
deil?"

The green eyes strained to
fix on his face, their dullness telling Broc the creature was
suffering the most difficult phase of its grieving
process.

"Surprisin', isna she? Miss
Spit an' Fire aweepin' for the likes o' ye." He shook his head.
"Does it hurt ye bein' like this? I hope it hurts like bloody hell.
Hurts till ye think yer bones will shatter for the pain o'
it."

"Leave him alone!" Taryn
said sharply as she crossed the room, balancing a bowl in her
hands, water sloshing with each step she took.

She knelt at the creature's
other side and shakily lowered the bowl to the floor. Broc scowled
as she dipped her hands into it and tenderly patted water on
Karok’s brow and craggy cheeks. The creature moaned and turned its
face to her. Taryn cupped water in one hand and held it to his
lips. A thick tongue languidly drew the cool liquid into its mouth,
lapping like an old hound too hot and tired to expend much energy.
With her free hand, she continued to transfer the water to his neck
and chest.

Unbearable heat bled into
Broc's gut. She had long, slender fingers and, until now, he hadn't
thought her capable of using them in such a caring manner.
Unbidden, memories of the last woman who had touched him in such a
way, dominated his mind, and prompted a painful lurch of his heart.
In that brief week so long ago, he had lived a thousand lives in
her arms. Unlike this crude-tongued temptress before him, that
woman had been soft-spoken and refined. He believed then, as he did
now, that he was unworthy of her understanding, her gentleness, the
pleasures her body had afforded him.

As Karok had hoped, her
departure had nearly rendered him insane. The loneliness he had
come to terms with had returned tenfold, and he'd vowed he would
never again submit himself to that kind of pain.

Now, watching this woman
administer to Karok, he yearned to know her touch. A warm, naked,
submissive body to comfort him did not require her personality to
equal that other woman's. If anything, unbridled, lustful
fulfillment would prevent his heart's trespass, and Karok’s intent
to exact yet another punishment on him, would fail.

Karok released a long,
liquid-sounding, hoarse sigh. His eyelids closed, and his chest
rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, signifying the beast had at last
fallen asleep.

Brushing the back of an arm
across her brow, Taryn stood and stretched a kink in her lower
back. Broc positioned himself behind her left side, his gaze taking
in the riotous layers of curls trailing down her back to just below
her waist.

"Come wi' me," he said
curtly.

Taryn turned, the fiery
anger in her eyes lifting his eyebrows in a challenge.

"Go away," she said in a
stage whisper, and pointed to the entrance. "I'm staying with him.
We don't need or want you here."

"He will wake his old self.
Now...come wi' me. I've words to—"

"You smell like toothpaste,"
she said, eyeing him speculatively. She sniffed, then leaned closer
and sniffed again. When she straightened back, she was frowning.
"Why do your clothes smell like toothpaste?"

"Cologne," he
corrected.

"Toothpaste." Her gaze ran
down and up the length of him. "Clean clothes. What crawled up your
ass?"

Perplexed by her words, he
scratched the back of his head and scowled.

She offered a nasty, little
chuckle. "Ahh. I get it. A bath. Clean clothes. You were hoping to
seduce me, but our friend here side-tracked the plan,
huh?"

"The time be
now."

Taryn blinked. "I see.
Barbarian says ‘spread ‘em,' and intended says, ‘yes, sir.'" She
made a caustic sound in her throat. "I wouldn't surrender my corpse
to you."

"If ye want ou' o'
here—"

"Not even my corpse," she
said through clenched teeth.

"I can pleasure
ye."

"Pleasure and puking don't
exactly make for a romantic interlude."

"Pukin'?"

She pointed to his beard as
if it were something slimy and skirmy.

"Wha' be wrong wi' ma
beard?" he bit out.

"It's repulsive."

"Ma beard?" he asked,
incredulous.

"I don't let men with a
mustache touch me, creepzoid! Go...away."

"Ye expect me
to—"

"I don't expect or want
anything from you."

"So...ye plan to live here
always, do ye?"

Taryn glanced at the
peaceful features of the gargoyle. "When he's feeling
better—"

"He willna care wha' ye have
done for him," Broc hissed, and gripped her arm. "He cares for
naught but his revenge, ye foolish womon!"

"Keep your voice
down!"

"Then come wi' me!" he
snarled, and dragged her behind him into the corridor. No sooner
had her feet crossed the threshold, he shoved her against the wall
and placed a restraining forearm against her throat.

"I want ye away!"

"Back off!"

Breathing heavily through
his nostrils, he glared into her eyes for a time before lowering
the arm. "I want ye away," he said, emphasizing each word. "Beddin'
ye is ma only recourse."

"I would sooner sleep with
him!" she spat, jerking a thumb toward the entrance.

Broc shuddered then ran his
palms down his face. When he looked into her glower, he decided it
was futile to continue the argument.

"Ma beard." He wearily shook
his head. "Ye spare a mon no quarter," he grumbled. "I'll return
when the deed be done."

With a brisk stride, he
headed down the corridor, leaving Taryn to stare after him. When he
was out of sight, she muttered, "Shave your attitude while you're
at it," then returned to Karok’s side. She settled comfortably on
the floor, drew her legs to her chest, wound her arms about them,
and rested her chin atop her knees.

"Men," she grumbled, and
shifted her gaze to the creature's ill-planed face. His color was
better—as far as his norm went—and she noted the dryness of his
skin was gradually improving.

Without warning, the
barbarian's eyes dominated her mindscreen. Attempts to will the
image away, failed, and she released a long sigh of
exasperation.

What would he look like
without all that facial hair?

He had sensual dark eyes,
similar to Lachlan's, so dark, the pupils were
invisible.

"Lachlan," she whispered,
and choked back a sob when tears sprang anew in her eyes. "Don't do
this," she chided herself, refusing to release the
moisture.

Damn you,
Lachlan.

The dam broke and she buried
her face in her arms.

How could she love a man
she'd known so briefly? A man utterly devoted to
another?

Yes, she wanted out of this
realm. But...down here, the pain of Lachlan's rejection hurt far
less.

"You fool," she wept
quietly. "You have a life in the States. Sleep with the barbarian.
Pretend he's Lachlan, and move on."

Lifting her head, she swiped
the back of an arm under her moist nostrils. "Damn you, Lachlan.
What is it about you that has me so confused? Love?" She released a
soft, bitter laugh. "Love. It's just a four-lettered word. Never
had, desired, or needed it."

She drew in a fortifying
breath and stared resentfully at the gargoyle. "A girl has to do
what a girl has to do," she murmured, stood, and left the
room.

Before she was out of sight,
Karok opened his eyes and smiled knowingly.

Chapter 8