Gayle Eden (13 page)

Pagan suddenly went deeper, faster.

Illara could not keep up, and did not need to. He moved them both and climaxed deep, swelling and pulsing inside her, soothing and warm.

She lay heavily against the wall a moment essentially getting her body back together from the white-hot fragments of lust—while Pagan adjusted his clothing. She bit her lip, thinking he was rather like a hot-blooded stallion, almost too strong and too intense to handle, but somehow powerfully perfect.

Illara felt his nudge as he handed her a dampened cloth. It smelled of herbs. Illara cleaned herself. Having fixed her clothing she turned around.

Pagan braced his hands above her head and kissed her again, loose and easy, sensually and delving in with tongue strokes, swipes that had her hot all over again, then ending with smaller kisses of sex softened lips.

Sleepily relaxed, she grinned a little when he lifted his head. Her hand found his chest, wishing she could touch skin. “That was a nice ride.”

His chuckle was raspy, low, and surprised her. Illara milked it and added, “The last half was the most exciting.”

He kissed her quick then reminded, “I’ve work to do.”

“As do I.” She reluctantly pulled away after rubbing her hand on his chest in an affectionate manner, then she walked out with him.

Randulf was striding past and halted. Even covered it was obvious his gaze went back and fourth between them.

Illara strolled toward him and offered gravely, “Thank you, for allowing me to accompany Pagan on this journey.”

“It is his decision.”

“Aye. But your agreement makes it easier.” She reached out, ignoring his flinch as she plucked a piece of straw from his hair. Her gaze touched his. “I don’t want to take your sister’s place. I could not. I do not aspire to take anyone’s place. I simply want to belong—to have you care for me. If you can, trust me—and know that I yearn to live and feel life, as much as anyone.”

Randulf gazed down at her, and his scrutiny was intense, but he returned, “Let him finish what he started. He deserves it.”

“I want him to. I do not—”

“You distract him.”

She saw it then... the fear, a mix of envy and perhaps pain. Her stomach quivered and it was all she could do not to weep, or show pity herself. She said instead, “I will make an effort not to, and I will expect you to remind me if I am. I will even let you put me to chores, so long as you don’t do it just to be ill-tempered.”

He was silent, staring, and then laughed short, as if he could not help it, and sighed. “You may regret that.”

“I probably will,” her tone was dry but she grinned. She peeked over her shoulder to see Pagan standing, arms crossed and feet apart, appearing to observe them.

She glanced back at Randulf, again struck by the gray beauty of his eyes and seeing more, a soul there, one that ran deep. “I can love you, also, you know. Just in a different way.”

Before he could recover from his surprise, she headed toward the keep. Stunning herself too by realizing she was very close to being in love with her husband. In love—with the beast of Northumberland.

Chapter Six

She had no more time with him before they departed.

There was much to do and little time to prepare because of the change in plan. Illara helped the women sew her wardrobe, and on off time, she fitted a hidden sheathe into her leather cloak.

Her trunks were packed, her body garbed in the wool breeches and warm tunic, and the leggings, which would protect her further on horseback. She noted as she entered the yard that dawn, that Randulf wore a rich black cloak and that his warhorse was a pure white. The saddle, bridle, and blanket were all splendid, decorated crimson and black.

As she passed by him, looking up as he glanced down, she saw he wore a red mask that had a U shape cut out for his lips and chin, a vented ridge over his nose, and it was made from some kind of padded metal with swirls and markings around his eyes. He seemed fierce and also intimidating—even his eyes were colder.

She looked away and went to hand a satchel up to Beroun, who drove the team. The cooks apparently loved him, and had prepared sweets for his journey.

Dressed in black and a red cloak, a hooded tunic and richer boots, his handsome face appeared rather smug as he said, “I may save you one, my lady.”

She laughed. “I doubt it. Mag said that though you are smaller than most men, you have hollow legs—she vows you eat more than a man twice your size.”

They were laughing when a deep snort sounded, and Illara knew it was Pagan’s warhorse, the beast had the devils own arrogance. Indeed her husband rode toward them, his shroud in place, and that destrier, having a studded black bridle and saddle, a full blanket edged in red and its coat polished to a high shine.

She peered up into the hood, musing how frightening she had thought him, and still seeing why most would.

“Do you need a leg up?”

“No.”

His dry tone reminded her she was not seated on her horse and ready. She went to it, bounded from her feet, and pulled herself into the saddle. Gathering the reins, she reached to adjust the sword across her back, and pulled her hood up.

Pagan moved so that she was between himself and Randulf, and they were off, the wagon rumbling behind.

Illara was to learn in the coming hours, that winter travel was cold and when it drizzled, wet, and as the wind howled, miserable. They made speed and let the wagon set its own pace. Illara, aware that both men could have made better time without her.

She heard the mutterings at nightfall about camp, and was not surprised when it turned out to be a spot in the woods with the three of them sharing a lean to. The next day was not much better, and until they reached the first village, few words passed between them.

It was Pagan’s intent to skip one of the Tourneys and he told her that Baron Ryngild’s castle lay east. She scarcely cared which direction they went in after being pelted with stones through the village, and nearly being unseated when one struck her horse.

It was four or perhaps five days before the weather calmed and though muddy, they at least set camp in a clearing and dismounted. The horses were seen to. She took off her cloak and hung it on a branch. Figuring Beroun would be a few hours behind with the supplies, after seeking privacy Illara walked a ways from the brothers, who were attending their horses. It was a clear and still night after the constant fluctuation of drizzle, rain, deluge, and more rain. She needed to walk and when Beroun arrived, she cared more about getting her clothing dry than eating.

She turned at the snap of a twig, seeing Pagan before he was handing her a wine skin. She unplugged it and drank deep then handed it back.

“Are you well?”

“Aye.”

His eyes went over her. She knew her hair was mussed, her face chaffed, and she would salve her lips, having learned the hard way what the wind could do. Her clothing was damp and stretched.

“Clean your weapons tonight.”

“I will.”

He lifted a gloved hand and touched her cheek before turning back to the clearing.

Illara walked around it, swinging her arms and watching her breath puff out. They’d found enough twigs and moss to start a fire, and the horses were well sheltered. She was heading back toward them when the team came at a fast clip, mud splashed and dirty, but a welcome site. She quickened her pace.

At the camp, Randulf and Pagan helped with the team. She also made herself useful, accomplishing whatever Randulf delighted in telling her to. As tired as she was, Illara chuckled at his commands—it was obvious he was having fun with her, and seeing how good her word was.

“She’s tired—” Pagan began when Randulf told her to put one of the benches by the fire.

“I am well,” she called back and did so. While the brothers growled at each other, she helped lay out food and place the mead by the flames. Next she waited until Beroun had a canopy erected from the side of the wagon, and found herself dry clothing. Illara leaned over and called to the men in general that a bit of privacy was required.

They went to tend the horses—again.

Shivering, she stripped down and unloaded her boots of weapons, then pulled on flannel, leather, waterproofed breeches, and a tunic over her shirt. She combed her hair, braided it, and tucked it under before she salved her lips. Illara put on her dry boots, turning the lining out of the others and carried them to the fire. The men had also spread cloaks to dry.

Going back for her daggers and sword, she carried the cloth and oil to the fire, and then sat on a three-legged stool and cleaned them.

Beroun returned and grabbed up a chunk of bread before digging for clothing himself and vanishing. She stared up as Pagan and his brother returned, apparently wise enough to eat first, they were half way through before Pagan was before her, reaching her a cup of warm mead.

She took it.

“Eat.”

“I will.” She sipped and then slid the weapons in their coverings, one dagger in each boot. Her sword she lay across her thighs in its sheath. Illara watched Pagan cut a lump of cheese and skim off from the smoked meat. He brought it to her.

“I would have eaten.”

He grunted and went to the wagon. She saw him walk out into the dark.

Randulf exited when Pagan returned.

“Sleep in the wagon,” Pagan instructed. “We have our bedding.”

Illara groaned when she arose and walked to him, gazing up and whispering, “Kiss me good night. It may help me forget my arse is black and blue.”

Pagan laughed in that rasping way. His hands were bare when he cupped her cheeks. Leaning down he kissed her carefully, his gaze when he rose telling her that anything more than that was too tempting.

She smiled wryly and found her way to the wagon, shoving things aside enough to fit her body in. She was asleep in seconds.

The morning was thick with fog, but devoid of rain, thankfully. They broke camp quickly and were on their way again. The routine did not vary much after that, save there was a bit humor now and then, to relieve the tedium, particularly when Illara muttered about men being able to piss standing up, and she had to go to all sorts of trouble.

At one village outskirt, they made use of a half-fallen barn, musky and rather cozy, it was a good place to pamper the horses and rest before the next leg.

Having pulled the wagon behind it, Randulf and Beroun seemed to take one side of the structure, and give Illara and Pagan the other. After filling their bellies, Randulf rolled in a fur. Beroun whistled softly and lay on his back on a stretch of hide, apparently day dreaming.

Illara was seated on the packed earth, back propped against the wall, legs out and slightly leaning toward Pagan, who lazed as she did. They were dry and tired.

“How much further?”

“To Ryngild?”

She glanced at him and nodded.

“Two days. There are two villages and a good sized township around it.”

Illara sensed all day that Pagan was mentally somewhere else. She looked away and asked next, “Afterwards?”

“We can make the London fair.”

“Or?”

She felt him shrug. “We can travel to Thresford. Randulf is off after Ryngild. He’s a holding that he needs to look into.”

“Will he live in any of those castles?”

“All are not, some are farms and manors, not fortresses. But, aye, I imagine that he will choose Fawston.”

“Why is that?”

“’
Tis the biggest, and most defensible. If he’s to finish his own intentions, he will have to find a good Bailiff and men to hire. I doubt he will keep all the lands he has accumulated. It is coming to the time when many knights and mercenaries can afford to settle, and fewer seek war in foreign lands.

There is always combat somewhere, for a knight to earn his spurs or find his glory, and paid mercenaries are abundant. Our king will engage in war sooner than not. But what we gained from leaving England was an awakening that our own holdings need tending.”

She nodded and sighed. “It would be nice to see Dunnewicke rebuilt and thriving.”

“It would.”

“But if it never is a town again. We will still make the castle and lands what they were.”

“Aye—perhaps.”

“We will.” She leaned more toward him and yawned. “Is it accounted as distracting if I sleep near you?”

”Aye,” Pagan said gruffly. “But consider it a boon for tonight.” His arm went round her, pulling her more to his chest.

Illara rolled to her side and against him, her head on that warm surface. “Just for tonight.” She drifted off to sleep.

Pagan held her and went over in his head all the times he had seen Ryngild joust. He had studied him and was sure he knew the man’s flaws. Two of the Knights, Mellore and Sir Auther would also be on the list. There remained only Stroth, whom he assumed had gone north for a richer prize.

Pagan felt Illara shift against him, closer to him, and wondered that he mentioned taking her to Thresford. He had planned to do that in the spring. Yet, Randulf had surprised him by saying on their journey, that he would leave them for Fawston Castle. Although Pagan realized his brother needed to be about his future, and needed to assess what he did hold, and find trustworthy men—it was still difficult to imagine that they would be months apart. They had always been together.