Dark Peril Page 0,24

a place she often chose in which to recuperate, from her memory, and added a warm fire and a few soft chairs. In her dream, she could afford to be feminine, although she wasn't beautiful like Juliette or Jasmine; her body bore too many scars and she'd long ago forgotten how to smile--unless she was with him. Even though she wanted to see herself as beautiful in her dream world, it was impossible. She couldn't imagine smooth, flawless skin or a willowy body.

The nice part about her dream man was he didn't mind that she wasn't perfect or not feminine enough. He didn't mind that she sometimes wept, or showed to him what she couldn't show to the rest of the world. And he would never betray her, never disappoint her; she could whisper her deepest fears and worst secrets and he would still accept her. He knew things about her no one else did.

She pictured the cavern, the Mayan artwork decorating the walls, stories of lives long gone, a world in the distant past where the moon and stars were close and jaguars walked the night upright--men to respect and revere, not shun and despise. A much happier time. She couldn't imagine herself in a dress, a soft feminine outfit like Juliette often wore, but she made certain she appeared as nice as she could. Her favorite top, soft and clingy, which sometimes made her feel a bit of a fool. She never wore it in public, not even around her cousins, but when she wanted to feel feminine and maybe a little pretty, she put it on--just for a moment.

Of course she wore jeans, never a full skirt, because he'd see the scars up and down her legs. She knew he wouldn't care, but she wanted to appear her best for him. She'd considered trying earrings, and once, MaryAnn, a woman she knew and admired, had painted her nails, which for some strange reason made her feel more feminine, yet she was too embarrassed to try to conjure that detail up in her dreams as well.

She sat by the fire, barefoot, looking as nice as she could, her heart pounding, waiting for him. It was silly really, that she had so much invested in a man who wasn't real, but she had no one else. She ran a hand through her thick mane of hair. It was more the color of the dark rosettes in the jaguar's fur than the golden tawny color of her pelt. Almost a sable, it was nearly unmanageable the way it grew.

There wasn't much time left. It was impossible to keep fighting and not end up dead. A few more inches and her latest wound would have killed her. And life in the jaguar camp was far worse than dying. If they succeeded in their attempts to capture her--and they knew her now and were actively seeking her--she would find a way to take her own life.

Do not say that. Do not even think it. I would come to you. Sustain you. And I would find a way to free you.

The jaguar closed her eyes tighter, as if that could keep him with her. She saw him coming toward her, emerging out of the shadows thrown by the edges of the fire. She loved the way he moved, that sure confidence, those long strides. He was always like that, so confident in himself that he never raised his voice or appeared to be upset, even when he was reprimanding her for cowardice.

Not cowardice, he objected, flowing across the room with his usual grace until he loomed in front of her, towering over her, making her feel small and feminine instead of an Amazon woman. She wasn't tall by any means; she was compact, certainly not fashionably slender. It was a strange thing to have such complete and utter confidence in herself as a warrior, and yet none at all as a woman.

You are tired, csitri , that is all. Come lie down in my arms and let me hold you while you rest. But first, I must see to your injury.

He had often called her csitri, his tongue caressing the word. She had no idea what it meant, but that single word made a swarm of butterflies take flight in her stomach. She stared up at him, afraid to move or blink, terrified he would disappear, that her perfect dream would shatter. She didn't want him to see her injury. In her dream