Morgan's Mercenaries: Heart Of The Warrior Read online

  Roan heard Marcellino give a cry. Jerking his head around, he saw the colonel drop the pistol from his hand. Grabbing at his throat, he squawked and took two steps back, his face going white and then a gray-blue color. His eyeballs bulged from their sockets. His mouth contorted in a soundless scream.

  “Do not presume you can kill me, Colonel,” Inca snarled.

  Roan blinked. Something invisible had the colonel by the throat, strangling him. He cried out and crashed to his knees, wrestling with the invisible force. He cried out again and began to choke.

  Julian grabbed the tent pole to steady himself. When he saw what was happening, he leaped forward. “Papa!”

  Roan turned, his back against Inca’s. His narrowed gaze swept the men, who were now mesmerized and frightened by the unfolding spectacle. Automatically, he drew his pistol and held it in readiness, should any one of them try to shoot Inca.

  Jaime choked. Slobber sputtered from the corners of his gaping mouth. He felt as if some large, powerful animal had gripped him by the throat with its invisible jaws. He was dying! Unable to draw in a breath of air, he fell, writhing, to the damp ground. All he saw were Inca’s willow-green eyes, thoughtful and concentrated upon him. Devastated and shocked by her power, he kicked out. The table went flying.

  Julian fell to his side, sobbing for breath. “Stop! Stop!” he begged Inca. “Don’t kill him! He’s my father!”

  Inca lifted her chin slightly. She ordered her spirit guardian, Topazio, to release the white-faced colonel from his massive jaws. The army officer, now semiconscious, fell into his son’s arms. “Very well, Julian. For you, I do this,” she stated.

  Marcellino gasped and then gagged. He rolled onto his side and vomited. Julian pulled out his handkerchief and cleaned around his father’s mouth, then held him protectively in his arms.

  Gripping his neck weakly, Jaime swore he could still feel the invisible force, though the sensation was dissipating rapidly. Head hanging down, he lay in his son’s arms, breathing harshly. How good it felt to have air in his lungs again!

  Julian’s hand fluttered nervously over his shoulders. “Leave me!” he ordered his son hoarsely. “I’ll be fine!” And Jaime forced himself to sit up on his own. Angrily, he shoved his son away from him, embarrassed that his men had seen him in such a compromising position.

  Julian winced and staggered to his feet. Trying to hide his hurt over his father’s rejection, he sought out and found Inca’s gaze. “T-thank you….”

  “Everyone stand down,” Roan ordered, his voice carrying across the assemblage. “Inca came in peace and she’s going to leave that way. If I see anyone lift a weapon, I’ll fire first and ask questions later.” He held up the pistol as a reminder.

  Rage fueled Marcellino. He staggered to his hands and knees, and sat down unceremoniously, still dizzied. Spitting out the acid taste in his mouth, he twisted his head and glared up at the cool, collected woman warrior at whose boots he sat at like a pet dog.

  “You promised not to hurt me,” Inca reminded him in a dark tone. “You went back on your word. You are not to be trusted. I came here to help you.”

  “And you will,” Jaime rasped as he staggered to his feet. Gripping the edge of the table with one hand, he wiped his other hand across his mouth. “The great Green Warrior will go back on her word, eh? So now you refuse to lead us?”

  Inca smiled a deadly smile. “I will lead you, Colonel. My word is my bond. The only thing that will break it is death. But I am warning you—do not go through the swamp. It is too dangerous at this time of year as we move from wet to dry season.”

  “Inca, you’d better leave,” Roan warned over his shoulder.

  She smiled laconically and slid her fingers beneath the leather strap of her rifle, which rested on her right shoulder. “I am leaving now.”

  Julian rushed forward. He gripped Inca’s arm.

  Inca froze momentarily. She looked down at the lieutenant.

  “Thank you,” he whispered unsteadily, giving her arm an awkward pat. “For your compassion, your understanding…”

  There was something heart-wrenchingly innocent and vulnerable about Julian. Inca reached over and placed her hand across his. “I did it for you, Tenente. Not for him.” And she glared at the colonel. “Your son needs you as a father. I hope you realize that someday. You treat him like a mongrel dog come late to your family, and that is wrong.”

  Marcellino stared in shock at Inca as she turned on her booted feet and imperiously marched off the same way she’d come. He hated her. She had murdered Rafael. In the twilight, as she reached the rain forest beyond his gaping soldiers, Inca seemed to disappear into thin air. Rubbing his eyes angrily, Marcellino told himself it was the poor light of the coming dusk that tricked him. Gently touching his aching throat, he tried to explain away the pain that still throbbed where invisible hands—or jaws—had wrapped powerfully around his throat and damn near choked him to death.

  “Pick up my pistol,” he ordered Braga in a scratchy voice that warbled with fear. Irritated, humiliated in front of his men, Marcellino turned on all of them. They looked as if they’d seen a ghost. “All of you!” he roared, his voice breaking. “Get back to your quarters and your posts. We rise at 0500. Get some sleep!”

  The men quickly departed. Marcellino saw Roan holster his pistol and come back to the table, his black brows drawn down with displeasure. Too bad. Grabbing the map, Marcellino threw it at his attaché.

  “We go through the swamp, Captain.”

  Braga blanched, but took the map and gently folded it up. “Yes, sir, Colonel.”

  Roan stood there in shock. Was the man crazy? And then it dawned on him that whatever Inca said, Marcellino was going to do the exact opposite. Fuming, he turned away.

  “I’ll see you at 0600, Colonel.”

  Nodding brusquely, Marcellino turned and hurried back to his tent.

  Roan moved back into the darkening rain forest. Very little light trickled down through the canopy as, with monkeys screaming and chattering, the cape of night was drawn across Amazonia. Being careful where he walked, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. What the hell had prompted Inca to make that kind of entrance? What was going through her mind? She was a proud woman. And she probably couldn’t stand not being in on the planning of the march. In some ways, Roan didn’t blame her.

  He moved along the trail back to their hiding place. A sound—someone crying possibly—drifted into earshot. Halting, Roan keyed his hearing. Yes…there is was again: a soft, halting sobbing. Where? He turned and slowly allowed his ears to become his eyes. Turning off the trail, he moved quietly down a slight incline. Below were six silk-cotton trees, their winged roots splaying out around them. The grove looked like a darkened fortress in the twilight. The sound was coming from there.

  Scowling, Roan lightened his step. It was someone crying. A woman weeping. Who? Frowning, he stepped down into the clearing among the trees. As he rounded one of the huge, winglike roots, he stopped. Shock jolted through him. It was Inca! Crouched there, her head bowed upon her arms, she was crying hard. Taken aback, Roan stood, unsure of what to do. He felt embarrassed for her, for coming upon her without her knowledge. Why was she weeping? Stymied, he cleared his throat on purpose to let her know he was there. Every particle of him wanted to rush over and embrace her and hold her. He felt her pain.

  Sniffing, Inca jerked up her head. Roan stood no more than five feet away from her. Shaken and surprised, she quickly wiped her face free of tears. Why hadn’t her guardian warned her that he was coming? Feeling broken and distraught, Inca knew emotionally she was out of balance with herself. When she was in this state, her guardian often had a tough time trying to get her attention. She was, after all, painfully human, and when she allowed her emotions to get the better of her, she was as vulnerable as any other person.

  “What do you want?” she muttered, humiliated that he’d seen her crying.

  “Stay where you are,” Roan urged softly. Taking a
chance, a helluva big one, he moved over to her. He slowly crouched down in front of her, their knees barely touching. “I don’t care if you are the jaguar goddess,” he whispered as he lifted his hand and reached out to her. His fingers grazed her head, the thick braid hanging across her left shoulder. Her hair felt crinkly from the high humidity.

  Inca wasn’t expecting Roan’s gesture and she stiffened momentarily as his long, scarred fingers brushed the crown of her head. Warmth flowed down through Inca. She was shaken by his continued, soothing stroking of her hair. At first she wanted to jerk away, but the energy in his touch was something she desperately needed. Forcing herself to remain still, Inca leaned back against the trunk of the tree and closed her eyes. An unwilling sob rose in her. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore her tumultuous feelings.

  Roan moved closer, sensing her capitulation to his grazing touches. He saw the suffering in her face, the way the corners of her mouth were pulled in with pain. “I’m glad to see you this way,” he said wryly. “It’s nice to know you are human, that you can cry, that you can let someone else help you….” And it was. Each time his fingers stroked her soft, thick hair, a burning fire scalded his lower body. Roan wanted to lean down and brush her parted lips with his, to soothe the trembling of her lower lip with the touch of his mouth. More tears squeezed from beneath her thick, black lashes.

  “I cry for Julian,” she managed to whisper hoarsely, in explanation of her tears. “I felt his pain so sharply. Julian adores his father, and yet his father does not even realize he exists.” Sniffing, Inca wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She looked up at Roan’s dark, heavy features. His eyes were tender as he leaned over her. She felt safe. Truly safe. It was such an unusual feeling for Inca. Her whole life was one of being on the run, being hunted, with no place to let down her guard. Yet she felt safe with Roan.

  Smiling gently, Roan settled down next to Inca. It was a bold move, and yet he listened to his heart, not his head. He eased himself behind her, placing his legs on either side of her.

  “You’re crying for Julian. Tears for the boy who needs a father.” Roan whispered. He allowed his fingers to caress the back of Inca’s neck. Her muscles were tight. As he slowly began to massage her long, slender form, he felt her relax trustingly.

  Everything was so tenuous. So fragile between them. As if an internal thunderstorm was ready to let loose within him, Roan felt driven to hold her, to comfort her, to be man to her woman.

  Inca trembled. Roan’s fingers worked a magic all their own on her tight, tense neck muscles. She leaned forward, her head bowed, resting her arms on her drawn-up knees so that he could continue to ease the tension from her.

  More tears dribbled from her tightly shut eyes as he massaged her neck. “Julian is sweet. He is innocent, like the children I try to help and heal. He tries so hard to please his father. Back there, I watched him. He was a man. More of a man than his father. And he is right about the path. I was surprised he accepted my route.”

  Roan could smell her sweet, musky odor and inhaled it. She was like a rare, fragrant orchid in that moment. It would be so easy to pull her into an embrace, but his heart warned him that it would be rushing Inca and could destroy her growing trust in him. No, one small step at a time.

  “If Julian knew you were crying for him, I think he would cry, too.”

  Choking on a sob and laughter, Inca nodded. “I like him. He is a kind man. He reminds me of Father Titus, the old Catholic priest who raised me for a while.”

  “You don’t see many of those kind of men down here, do you?” Roan moved his hand tentatively from her neck to her shoulders and began to ease the tension from them.

  Inca moaned. “You have hands like no one else.”

  “Feel good?” He smiled a little, heartened by her unexpected response.

  “Wonderful…”

  “You let me know when you’ve had enough, okay?” Roan knew it was important for Inca to set her own emotional boundaries with him. She trusted him, if only a little. His heart soared wildly. He was close enough to press a warm, moist kiss on her exposed neck. What would her flesh feel like? Taste like? And how would she respond, being such a wild, natural woman?

  Lifting her head, Inca gave him an apologetic look. “Much touches my heart.”

  “You just don’t let others know that about you,” Roan murmured as he moved his hand firmly against her shoulders. “Why?”

  “Because the miners, those who steal the timber and those who put my people in bondage will think it is a sign of weakness.” Inca wrinkled her nose. “What do you think Colonel Marcellino would do if he saw me crying over how he treated his devoted and loving son? He would put that pistol to my head faster than he tried to today.”

  “I can’t argue with you,” Roan said heavily. “How do your neck and shoulders feel now?” He gave her a slight smile as she turned sideways and regarded him from beneath tear-matted lashes.

  “Better.” Inca managed a broken, trembling smile. “Thank you…” She shyly reached out and slid her fingers across his large hand, which rested on his thigh. It was an exhilarating and bold move on her part and she could see Roan invited her touch. She’d never had the urges she felt around him. And right now her heart was crying out for his continued touch, but she felt too shamed and embarrassed to ask him to do more.

  “Anytime.”

  “Really?”

  He grinned a little. “Really.”

  She lifted her hand from his, her fingertips tingling pleasantly from the contact. The back of his hand was hairy. She felt the inherent strength of him, as a man, in that hand. Yet he’d been so incredibly gentle with her that she felt like melting into the earth.

  “I think you are a healer and do not know it yet.”

  Roan lifted his hands. “My mother wished that her medicine had moved through me, my blood, but it didn’t. Sorry.” Giving Inca a humorous look, he told her conspiratorially, “If I can ease a little of your pain, or massage away some tight muscles, then I’m a happy man.”

  She snorted softly and wiped the last of her tears from her cheeks. “It takes very little to make you happy, then, Storm Walker.”

  “I don’t consider what we share as little or unimportant,” he told her seriously. “I like touching you, helping you. You carry the weight of the world on those proud shoulders of yours. If I can ease a little of that load, then it does make me happy.”

  Inca considered his words, which fell like a warming blanket around her. She craved Roan’s continued closeness. She liked the way his bulk fit next to her. In some ways, he was like a giant tree whose limbs stretched gently overhead, protecting her. She smiled brokenly at the thought. The warmth of his body was pleasant, too, with the humidity so high and the sun gone away for the night. The night hours were always chilly to her. What would Roan think if she moved just a few inches and leaned her back against his body? Frightened and unsure, Inca did nothing. But she wanted to.

  “What is it about you that makes me feel as I do?” she demanded suddenly, her voice strong and challenging.

  Eyebrows raising, Roan stared down at her. The way her petulant lips were set, the spark of challenge in her eyes, made him smile a little at her boldness. “What do you mean? Do I make you feel bad? Uncomfortable?”

  “No…just the opposite. I like being close to you. You remind me of a big tree with large, spreading branches—arms that reach out and protect people.”

  “That’s my nature,” Roan said in a low tone. He saw her eyes narrow with confusion for a moment. Her tentative feelings for him were genuine and his heart soared wildly with that knowledge. Roan knew instinctively that Inca was an innocent. He realized she was a virgin, in more ways than one. Her relationship skills were not honed. Yet the honest way she had reached out to him touched his heart as nothing else ever could.

  “You make me feel safe in my world—and in my world there is no safety.” Inca’s lips twisted wryly. “How can that be?”

  “Someti
mes,” Roan told her gravely, “certain men and women can give one another that gift. It is about trust, too.”

  Inca sighed. “Oh, trust…yes, that. Grandfather Adaire said until I could trust someone else with my life, that I would never grow. That I was stuck.” She frowned and leaned her head back, looking up at the silhouettes of the trees in the darkness surrounding them.

  “And what did Grandmother Alaria say?”

  Surprised, Inca twisted to look up at him. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, rich with irony and humor. “How do you know she said anything to me?”

  “She’s the leader of the village, isn’t she? I’d think that she’d have something positive to say to you while you’re working on the emotional blocks that were created by your being abandoned at birth.”

  His insight was startling. Inca found herself not feeling alarmed about it as she normally would. Raising her hands, she said, “Grandmother Alaria said my heart wound was stopping me from trusting, but that, at some point when I was a little older, more mature, I would work on this blockage. She said she had faith in me to do it.”

  “Because you have a magnificent heart, Inca. That’s why she said those words to you.”

  Deeply touched by his praise, she said, “I am a bad person, Roan. Grandfather Adaire has said that of me many times. A bad person trying to fulfill the Sisterhood of Light’s plan to help all my relations here in Amazonia.”

  Reaching out, Roan captured some errant, crinkled strands of her hair and gently tucked them behind her ear. He saw her eyes mirror surprise and then pleasure. Good, she was beginning to see his touch as something positive in her life. Tonight Inca had opened her heart to him. The trust in him that inspired that made him feel like he was walking on air. The joy that thrummed through him was new and made him breathless.

  “You’re a good person, Inca. Don’t listen to Grandfather Adaire. Good people make mistakes.” He frowned and thought of how he hadn’t given Sarah his medicine necklace to wear on that fateful climb. Why, oh why, hadn’t he followed his instincts? “Guaranteed, they do. Sometimes really disastrous mistakes. But that doesn’t make them bad.” Just sorry for an eternity, but he didn’t mouth those words to Inca. She was suffering enough and didn’t need to know from what experience his words came.