“Oh, Lock,” she panted, “I love you. I love you so much.”
His hands slipped beneath her buttocks and kneaded as he sucked her clit and poked his tongue into her pussy. He licked her soft, heated folds of flesh and used the tip of his tongue to tease her perineum.
Sparrow gripped his hair, her eyes closed tightly as his marvelous tongue thrust her into orgasm. She moaned and writhed helplessly beneath his onslaught. All the while his lips and tongue never ceased their lusty motions. Finally she lay still, except for the rise and fall of her breasts as her breathing returned to normal.
Her pleasure was tainted by one horrible thought. If Miska killed him tomorrow, she doubted she could bear it.
* * * * *
“So you really like to dance?” Sparrow nestled against Lock’s side, taking one of his hands in hers and studying the texture of his skin and the shape of his long fingers.
“I love it.”
“I never would have imagined.”
“Like I said, my mother made me learn when I was young.”
“Your mother should have been whipped for what she did to you.”
“Forget about her. Like I said before. She’s dead to me.”
“But you can still love to dance, even after what you went through?”
“I do it in private, for myself. This afternoon was the first time I performed in public since I was twelve. From now on, it’s just for you.”
Sparrow smiled, her body tingling again. She draped her leg across Lock’s, her foot running up his hair-roughened calf. “I look forward to it. But we have a problem, Lock. What are we going to do about getting married?”
“We’ll move on when you’re ready.”
“I knew it! You only wanted to do this so you could go back to sea.”
“No. I said I’m not taking you to sea.”
“But I want to—”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” He kissed the top of her head. “Right now I need some sleep. I want to be sharp when I meet Miska.”
Sparrow nodded, her smile fading. He didn’t even have to add he wanted to be sharp or else Miska would destroy him.
* * * * *
Sparrow wrapped her arms tightly around her body as she huddled in one corner of the cage in the Empress’s ring. Guards stood at attention around the perimeter of the cage, and the sounds of chatting and laughter wafted from the balcony where Daryn, Lords and Ladies, and their servants awaited the beginning of the games. Slaves, little more than slender boys dressed in simple muslin tunics, filled the ring, raking the dirt floor smooth.
Sparrow stared at her booted feet, fighting waves of nausea as she shivered slightly in spite of the warmth of the ring. Sunlight poured in through the open roof, and the day was dreadfully humid. Even in her thin tunic, heat prickled along her spine. She hadn’t slept at all the night before, but had watched Lock, studied every line of his face as he rested so easily she wondered if he’d ever felt nervous about anything in his life.
He might die today
, Sparrow thought then closed her eyes and shook her head. She couldn’t think that way. She wouldn’t.
She sighed as the slaves filed past her, carrying rakes, their tanned faces misted with sweat. The cage was sheltered by overhanging stone and, other than the balcony, was probably the coolest area in the ring. For some reason he wouldn’t disclose, Lock had insisted she watch from the cage, and Daryn had agreed. The Empress hadn’t mentioned the previous evening, and Sparrow guessed she didn’t want to admit her lack of memory due to Shea-Ann’s potion. Sparrow wished her old friend were with her. She could have used her company as she awaited Lock’s fight.
“Keep back,” one of the guards told Sparrow as he lifted his sword.
The first two fighters rushed through the open doors at the back of the cage. In the ring, they attacked one another, dirt flying, their grunts, bellows, and panting breath filling the structure. Sparrow watched them without really seeing the fight. Her mind churned with thoughts of Lock and Miska. Since Thea’s death, she’d never felt such desolation and terror.
The first fight ended without a kill, and the second passed just as quickly. Sparrow watched the slaves return with their rakes, smoothing the dirt and clearing away bloodstains.
The guards suddenly tensed, their weapons drawn. They stood so close together Sparrow had to stand on her toes and search for an empty space between their shoulders to see Lock. Dressed in calf-high boots and brown leather pants, his chest protected by a chain mail vest, he swept through the doors. Metal cuffs wrapped around his forearms. He held a short, straight sword comfortably in his right hand. His long hair hung in a tight braid down his back, and not a muscle moved in his face as his pale gaze fixed on the cage doors. Sparrow doubted he saw her. She knew he was aware of nothing but the coming of Miska.
A deep battle cry erupted from the inner wall. Sparrow jumped, her nerves already frayed to the breaking point. She felt the ground shake as Miska, wearing a knee-length leather skirt and metal plates on his chest and back, stormed through the door and out of the cage, directly toward Lock.
* * * * *
Lock’s grip tightened on his sword as he watched Miska soaring toward him, his red hair flying behind him, his teeth bared and eyes gleaming. The first blow of metal on metal jarred Lock to the bone. Miska was as powerful as he appeared. Nearly as tall as Lock and even more thickly built, Miska had certainly earned his reputation in the ring. As Lock blocked blow upon blow, he searched for an opening, but the gladiator’s defense proved just as good as his attack. It had been several months since Lock had fought an opponent. When he was at sea, fights occurred often, and though he’d practiced fighting diligently and kept in peak physical condition with riding, swimming, dancing, and wood chopping, nothing compared with a live opponent. Still, once fighting was in the blood, it seldom left, and within moments, Lock was reading Miska’s motions through his eyes and sensing each of the gladiator’s blows almost before they landed.
The men broke, circling each other, their chests heaving from the force of their attack combined with the oppressive heat. Miska’s teeth gleamed as he sneered, “The Empress said you wanted to fight me.”
“No, I want to kill you.”
“Is it because I kicked you on your ass in the square a few weeks ago?”
“I’m honored you remember.” Lock’s voice dripped sarcasm.
“Most men would remember Lock the White. You have a reputation. Killing you will be good for my status in the ring.” Miska licked his thick lips. “And when I’m through here, I’m asking the Empress to give me that woman of yours. I like her kind. Small, innocent looking. Tell me, pirate, does she like it rough? She better.”
Lock’s teeth ground, but he forced himself to remain calm. Miska wanted to enrage him, wanted him to fight foolishly. Still, the gladiator’s words worried Lock. He hadn’t considered the danger Sparrow might be in when he’d asked to fight Miska. If he lost, she’d be alone and unprotected against the same animal who brutalized her sister.
“You’ll never find out, Miska.”
Simultaneously, the men attacked. Their blades locked. He stared into the gladiator’s furious green eyes, thought of Sparrow’s sister at the mercy of this man strong enough to become the Empress’s favorite gladiator, and hated him. Long ago, he’d been the victim of such pigs. Even worse, Miska had hurt Sparrow.
Lock’s foot shot out in a kick powerful enough to hurl Miska almost to his knees. He struck an overhead blow before the gladiator could fully recover, still the man blocked it, his own kick smashing Lock’s ribs.
With a snarl of pure animal fury, Miska doubled his attack, raining blows upon Lock from every direction. The man was very skilled. Whoever had taught him to fight had done well. Lock spun and blocked an overhead blow. Blades locked, and Miska’s sword flew from his hand. Lock thrust his weapon, but Miska caught his arm at the wrist and snapped backward. Lock lost his blade and crashed to his back. The landing knocked the wind from him, every bone in his body protesting the attack. Miska dove at him, but Lock flipped to his feet and kicked Miska in the back of the head. The gladiator crashed face first in the dirt. Lock leapt on him from behind, his arms tightening around Miska’s thick neck. The gladiator’s fingers bit into Lock’s forearms. Lock grunted in pain as he felt flesh tearing, Miska’s nails practically hitting bone. One of the gladiator’s hands reached up, grasped a handful of Lock’s hair, and yanked so hard the white and brown tendrils tore out at the root. He felt blood mingling with the sweat running down his neck as he glanced at the bloody mass of hair dropping from the gladiator’s hand. Miska stood, lifting Lock’s feet from the ground as he ran backwards into the ring’s stone wall.
He’s strong as a White Island Yak
, Lock thought, feeling his vision blacken as Miska repeatedly rammed backwards into the wall, striking Lock’s head each time. Again Lock struck against the stone. At the same time, Miska’s elbow rammed backwards. Pain flared up Lock’s side as he felt his ribs crack, the sound echoing across the ring. His hold loosened on Miska who tore away, falling to his knees and coughing as he attempted to regain his breath. Lock, one arm holding his throbbing side, kicked the gladiator in the face. Miska noticed the blow coming and moved slightly. Though he avoided the full impact, blood still spurted from his broken nose. His foot struck out at Lock who caught his leg and stomped his groin.
Miska hollered in pain, clutching his balls. Lock dropped to his knees behind the gladiator, wrapped one arm around his neck, and punched him in the temple. Miska’s head lolled to the side, his eyes unfocused. Lock grasped him by the arm and dragged him across the ring, pausing only to pick up one of the discarded blades. His ribs aching with each ragged breath, the back of his head and forearms stinging as blood oozed from torn flesh, he approached the cage.
Blinking sweat from his eyes, he searched for Sparrow who pushed her way past the guards. She stared at him, her face pale and her eyes wide. To ensure the gladiator’s immobility, Lock rammed his knee into Miska’s back, and the semi-conscious man groaned. Lock flung him at Sparrow’s feet and offered her the blade.
“He’s yours.”
* * * * *
Sparrow stared at Lock, her heart pounding. As she’d watched him fight, part of her soul had felt every blow. She just wanted the damn match to end. Several times she thought Miska might win. He was so powerful, so skilled. To Sparrow, since the day he’d murdered Thea, he’d been a symbol of fear and pure evil. She thought the one thing she wanted most was revenge, but if the price of revenge was Lock’s pain—or worse, his life—she didn’t want any part of it. Miska was evil and Thea was dead. Nothing would bring her back, least of all Lock’s death.
“He’s yours,” Lock repeated, his words roughly spoken through gasps of air. Blood and dirt caked his face, and the artery running along the side of his neck pounded beneath sweat-sheened flesh. Sparrow noted one of his arms still pressed against his side. Though his features were calmly assembled, his eyes gleamed with excitement tinged with pain.
Miska was finally hers, but at what price?
The gladiator’s eyes blinked rapidly as he fought for consciousness.
Sparrow glanced from the sword, to Miska, to Lock. She shook her head and turned away.
She stared at the rock wall as she heard the sound of metal slicing flesh followed by a gurgling sound. The crowd shrieked, boos mingling with cheers. She heard a body drop and knew Lock had finished Miska. She walked into the darkness of the inner wall.
No sooner had she stepped into the labyrinth-like corridors when Sparrow nearly crashed into a broad chest covered in black silk, a circle of red thorns embroidered around a ruby over the wearer’s heart. She looked into the face of a tall man with chestnut hair. A second man, blond, wearing an identical uniform, stood beside him. Their tunics were recognized in almost every part of the world. Knights of the Ruby Order.
“Excuse me, Sirs,” Sparrow murmured.
“No, excuse us,” said the chestnut-haired Knight. Both bowed their heads and stepped aside for her to pass.
“Sparrow!” Lock called.
She turned to him. He glanced at the Knights.
“We’ve come for Miska’s body,” said the blond Knight. “Though we don’t advocate killing, you’ve done us a service.”
Lock nodded at them but focused his attention on Sparrow. “You’re still angry.”
She took a step closer to him and wiped blood running from the corner of his torn mouth. “You’re hurt. Let me help you get cleaned up.”
“Allow us to assist you,” the dark-haired Knight said. “I’m Sir Erik. This is Sir Warrant. We’re of the Ruby Order—”
“We know who you are,” Lock told them.
“Knights are respected healers,” Sparrow said. “We’d be glad for your help.”
“I’ll see to Miska’s body,” Warrant said.
Erik nodded and motioned for Lock and Sparrow to follow him to one of the small, empty chambers running along both sides of the corridor.
Lock sat on the ground while the Knight knelt beside him, removing a leather bag from his shoulder and searching through his healing supplies. He glanced at Sparrow. “I could use some water.”
“I’ll get it.” She met Lock’s eyes before leaving the chamber.
* * * * *
“Let me help you get this off,” Erik lifted the mail vest from Lock and tossed it aside. Lock winced in pain as he raised his arms to remove the sweat-soaked shirt beneath. The Knight examined his side. “I knew these ribs had to be broken. You took a few hard blows out there.”