Master of Craving (10 page)

“Stefan, if you allow the wound to fester you will have no face left.”

 

He turned away from her. “Then your worries will be over.”

 

“Aye, and for that I would be glad. You have no right holding me captive. Why do you?”

“Because it suits me.” “There is more to it than that,” she scoffed. “And only because I am as fatigued as you, I will not push. But be sure on the morrow you will have your hands full.” Grasping his chin with her hand, she turned him back to look at her and pressed the cloth to his face. “Come

with me to the stream edge so that I can keep the cloth wet and cool.”

He snatched it from her hand, rose slowly, and proceeded to do it himself. Stubborn man! As he tended himself, Arian took a good long look at their surroundings. The clearing was small and the horse close. If she could get to the stallion while the knight slept, she could be gone before the man could limp his way to the camp’s edge. She looked up as he walked slowly back toward her. Fatigue lined his face, and she could see from his slow gait and haggard look that he was as exhausted as she. He would sleep well tonight with a full belly. And, despite her own fatigue and lingering fever, she would fly. And as they had these past two days, she would keep to the wood and bide her time.

He motioned for her to return to her side of the fire. He handed her the strip of cloth, and reluctantly she took it.

 

“The swelling has gone down some,” she commented.

 

“The pain eases. Thank you,” he said gruffly, then moved to where he had been sitting.

A lone wolf howled at the high moon. Arian shivered where she lay curled up in a ball near the fire, and refused to think of the furry beasts running wild in the forest. If she did not escape, she was good as dead. Gazing up at the star-studded sky and silver moon, she thanked the Goddess. ’Twas high and full and would light her way. Soft snores from across the fire gave her courage. Rolling onto her side, Arian grabbed a small stone and tossed it toward her captor. It bounced off his knee and she squeezed her eyes shut, praying he did not wake. When she heard no sound, she opened one eye, let out a long breath, then opened the other. He slept.

Keeping low to the ground, she moved to the saddlebags and drew his short dagger. Having nowhere to sheathe it, she bit down on the blade, the sharp edge facing out, and hurried to the great black horse whose ears perked up at her approach. He snorted, shaking his head. Arian stopped short when she realized his bridle was nowhere to be found. Only a slack rope looped around his thick neck and tied to a nearby tree stayed him. She turned and peered at the slumbering knight. There, tucked beneath his left leg, the bridle! She did not waver. Setting the dagger down on the ground, she took another deep breath.

Noiselessly she moved toward him, praying with each step that he would not open his eyes. Biting her bottom lip, she crouched beside him, touched the brow band, and slowly tugged. Her heart beat like a drum against her chest, she could feel her blood pulse through her limbs, and she could scarce breathe. As the last inch of the reins slipped from beneath his weight, she almost cried out in joy. She grabbed the metal bit tight in her fist so that it would not jangle, and as quietly as a mouse she took a step backward, then another, never once taking her eyes from the sleeping knight.

She backed into the horse’s head and he nipped at her back; she squeaked out in pain and immediately focused on the two angry eyes fixed on her. Guiltily she pushed the bridle behind her back, and like a child who had stolen a tart from the kitchen, she looked down at her feet. She would not run blindly into the forest as she had the night before, nor would she attempt to mount the horse and flee, because despite his injuries and fatigue she knew in her gut he would stop her and then there would be the devil to pay. And with those thoughts, anger overrode her guilt. Her head snapped back and she glared at him.

He drew up onto one arm and speared her with his own hot gaze. “You sorely try my patience, princess.”

 

“You try mine as well! You have no right to keep me half-clothed and captive! I am not your property. Let me go!”

 

“Nay.”

Angrily, she stripped the gold and silver bracelets from her arms, and the gold ring Magnus had given her in Dublin from her finger. Thrusting the small fortune at him, she said, “Here, take these, they are a worthy ransom!”

But he was not so inclined. “The bridle,” he said softly, his voice low and deadly, his hand extended palm up.

Furious, she threw the bridle at him, the ends of the reins catching the right side of his face. He flinched at the impact. Arian winced. ’Twas not her intent. His eyes narrowed menacingly. He sat up, then slowly stood, his great height intimidating. His attempt to hide his pain was feeble. He took a half-step toward her with his good leg, threw a long arm, grabbed her by a hank of hair, and yanked her toward him. She cried out, stumbling against his chest. His free hand snaked around her waist and he lowered his head to her. “I have shown great restraint when it comes to you, milady, and my patience is at its end.” He reached down and grabbed the bridle. In a quick deft move, he snaked the reins around her neck, cutting off her breath, then yanked her toward him.

“You will lie beside me this night. Every time you move, we will both feel the bite of the leather.”

He stepped back and drew her with him. Grasping at the leather, Arian pulled it until it loosened enough for her to breathe. Stefan sat down where he had lain, pulling the reins toward him. She glared, rearing back, refusing to submit. He yanked her down with a short hard jerk, causing her to sprawl across his chest.

Arian lashed out to dig her nails into his face. He smacked her hands away and rolled over, pinning her to the ground. She flailed, trying to roll out from beneath him, but he was too big and too strong. He pinned her where she fell. As the leather wound tighter around her neck, her breath began to fade. Her fists stopped pounding his shoulders. As she lessened her attack, he eased up on the leather. Her chest heaved as she gasped and coughed for breath. He lowered his face to hers again, their breaths warm and mingling. “ ’Tis past time I was rewarded for putting up with you,” he whispered.

Arian arched, and had opened her mouth to scream when his lips descended upon hers, silencing her. Instantly she stilled, terrified he would go where Dag had tried but failed. Cruelly his lips assaulted her, taking her fight from her. She could not breathe. She dared not move.

When he pressed his hips to her, she squeezed her eyes shut tighter. His passion thrust hard against her belly. Arian struggled against him, turning her face from him, gasping for air. He let go of the reins and dug his fingers into her hair and forced her to face him, then kissed her again, this time not so cruelly. Her body trembled, her blood quickened, and she did not understand the sudden heaviness in her breasts. His hot lips traveled from her lips to her chin across her jaw to her neck, where he nipped at her skin. She arched at the primal action and he moaned.

Her limbs felt heavy and afire, and her head buzzed. She could feel him inhale her scent, as his hot breath branded her skin. “Please,” she whispered, “do not violate me.”

 

“Nay, princess, I will not, I gave you my oath.”

He drew slightly away from her, so that when she opened her eyes, she could clearly see his penetrating gaze in the low fire. “But know that each time you thwart me, you will suffer another kiss, or”—he laughed low, the sound sending the hair along the nape of her neck on end—“mayhap more.”

She gasped, and he smiled wickedly, the pull of the wound along his cheek twisting his lips demonically. “Aye, I thought that would get your attention. Not only am I terrifying to gaze upon, but I am a bastard knight with no possessions to my name except yonder steed and saddle. You could do worse only if I were a field slave.” He moved from her then, but pulled her toward him as he lay down against the saddle. “Until I can trust you, you will sleep beside me as if you were my sword.”

“Nay!”

 

“Aye. Now shut thy mouth so that we both may sleep.”

The next morning Stefan made haste to break camp. The fire in his face had lessened some, but he noted that the lady’s body, which had repeatedly found itself pressed against his chest, had begun to warm again. In quick fashion, they tended their wounds and were ahorse before the blush of the sun peeked over the eastern forest.

Much later, as the sun made its final descent into the Black Mountains, they broke through a thicket that in actuality was a hidden passageway to a well-marked trail. The burden in his arms had long since given him the chore of keeping her a-saddle. He admitted he did not mind so much. But his concern grew as the day waxed. Her teeth began to chatter as they moved along the trail, but her body burned once more with fever. He pushed the collar of the tunic down to reveal the sword wound. He frowned. Though it was swollen and red around the threads, there was no trace of poison. He slid his hand up the slender column of her throat, liking the way it felt against his callused hands. If the wound did not fester, why then the fever? Was there something more wrong?

His concern rose. He told himself it was because if she died she was useless to him, and he had a great use for her. But … he gazed down at her face. She was comely, her long black lashes spiked out across the golden skin that had lost its luster. Her chest rose and fell almost in cadence with Apollo’s steps. His arm tightened around her waist, and he admitted he wanted her to live, for if she died the earth would be a little less bright.

He snapped his head back at such a ridiculous notion. Bah! Women were useful for but two things, sport and bearing sons. Nothing more.

Apollo threw his head and neighed as they broke through another copse of wood and his pace quickened. Stefan grunted as the small lodge came into view. He reined the horse to a stop just before they broke clear and exposed themselves to anyone abiding within. For long minutes, he sat astride and listened. Only the sounds of the forest spoke. No wisps of smoke from the hearth, no sound of conversation or laughter. The windows were shuttered tight, and no hounds bayed at the intrusion.

“Allez,”
he softly commanded. Apollo moved forward.

Cagily, always on guard, Stefan’s gaze crisscrossed the small estate grounds. It was as he remembered it when he and several Blood Swords spent a night here. He knew the lord to whom it belonged and knew he had fought against him at Hereford. He doubted that, had he survived, he would return so soon to the hunting lodge. Indeed, he was most likely scourging the northern part of Herefordshire with countless other defiant Saxons.

Behind the low structure was a small stable, and beyond a thick forest. Stefan halted the black at the door to the back of the structure near the cookhouse and the well. Cool water against his parched throat was tempting, but first he wanted to get the ill princess to a bed. He dismounted, bringing her with him. She struggled for a moment in her delirium, but that was all. With no other option, he slung her over his shoulder and groaned at the added pressure on his leg. He moved to the strapped door and pushed hard against it, expecting resistance.

The door easily opened. Cautiously he made his way in and immediately stopped.

The great room, though empty and covered with a thin layer of dust, looked as if the habitants had hastily departed. Goblets and moldy trenchers of food sat upon the trestle table. Flies swarmed the area, the stench most odious.

Arian moaned, stirring in his arms. He turned left to the only private chamber in the structure. He pushed open the door with an elbow, glad to see it free of flies. The bed was unmade but he doubted she would mind. Carefully he laid her upon the rumpled linens, then set about opening the high shutters to give the room air.

He moved slowly from the small chamber into the large gathering room and proceeded to fling open the shutters there to clear the odor. Then he set about removing the rancid food from the room. Mayhap when Edric sent out the call to arms against Normandy earlier in the month, Lord Alefric, whose holding this was, and his men had hastened to their master’s bidding.

Though it had been only weeks, there was a thin film of undisturbed dust everywhere, the only marks in the dust the small footprints of rats. There was a small cauldron hanging from a swing bar in the large hearth, dried foodstuff hardened at the bottom. Outside, he inspected the small cookhouse to find it sufficiently stocked with utensils and crockery; in the small secured larder were seasonings, a barrel of turnips and some other rotten vegetables, and an untapped casket of what he guessed was wine.

In the stable, he found several bags of oats that the forest creatures had yet to devour, and a good many tools in one of the stalls. So provisioned, Stefan had no reservations staying here. As much as he did not want to lie low in one place, for in doing so he presented a greater chance of discovery, and it would be that much longer for his brothers’ release, he could not deny that his leg needed the rest and the princess needed to get stronger. Dead, she was useless to him.

He turned the black loose in the small paddock and filled the manger with oats and hay. He set several snares along the forest edge, wanting meat for his meal, not boiled turnips. As he limped back to the lodge, he nodded to himself, satisfied for the moment. But as soon as he was able, he would take flight south to Draceadon, where he would be welcomed and not condemned for kidnapping a princess.

He scoffed. Indeed, he would be hailed a hero. But to be a hero he must first see to his hostage’s health. Stopping at the well, he pulled up a full bucket of cool water. Before he entered the chamber, he lit several tapers in the great room and brought one with him into the chamber, where he lit several more. As he lit the last one, the princess softly moaned and writhed upon the sheets. Setting the taper down on a small table near the bed and the bucket down on the floor, Stefan felt her brow. It burned. He dug through the drawers in the corner and found several drying linens. He ripped two of them in half and submerged them in the cool water.