Authors: Karin Tabke
Deftly he stripped the dirty tunic from her body and inspected the wound on her breast. It swelled but not overly so. As he had done for himself when he was feverish, Stefan pressed the cool cloths to her hot skin and repeated as they warmed. She fought against him, mumbling incoherent words in Welsh.
Much later, when her soft moans subsided and her body quieted, Stefan left fresh damp linens upon her naked body. He checked the snares and smiled when he spied a grouse fluttering in one of them. Snapping its neck, he pulled it from the snare and reset it. In the kitchen he dressed the bird, set a cauldron of water to boil, then refilled the bucket from the well. The dirt and grime of the day in the saddle itched his skin. Since his time in the Saracen prison, bound and gagged, lying for days, sometimes weeks, in his own urine and feces, he had an aversion to dirt and grime on his body. He was an aesthete in his daily bathing.
As he thought of that unholy place and the terrible torture he and his brothers had endured, his frustration mounted. They had survived the beatings, the whip, the breaking of their bones, starvation, and the final act, the seared imprint of their own swords burned into their bare chests. The bond they forged in that cesspool was unbreakable, and as he thought of what his brothers might now be suffering at the hands of the Welsh king, it served to renew his vow to see them freed at any cost, even his own life!
He swiped his hand across his face. He could not set the wheels of his plan into motion until the princess was able to ride. He teetered on whether to take her as she was and pray she endured the rest of the journey to Draceadon, or take the more prudent route of giving her time to heal. For each moment they stayed here, ’twas another agonizing moment of torture for his brothers.
Irritated, he bathed, then tended his wounds. He walked naked back into the lodge. For a long moment, he stood and stared down at the feverish princess. Her slender body looked small in the large bed.
Pulling the warm linens from her body, he could not help but admire her. Even the damage to her breast did nothing to detract from her uncommon beauty. Aye, she was a most exotic bird amongst the simple sparrows of England. As he dampened fresh linens in the bucket of cool water he brought in with him, Stefan could not help a smile. If she knew how he looked upon her now, those silver eyes of hers would turn molten in outrage. He liked that part of her. She was no ninny crying at the first sign of danger. He wagered if properly trained she would be a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. He pressed the linen to her chest, and felt her nipples pucker beneath his fingers.
His blood quickened. She was not shy, but bold and courageous—he would venture she would be the same as a lover. His hand trailed down her waist to the cradle of her hips, marveling at the smooth, velvety softness of her skin. He longed to press his lips to her belly, then to the soft down that shielded her. She would be sweet as honey. He itched to go where he knew he should not. She moaned softly, and when she did, her hips moved, pressing into the palm of his hand. Cursing, he stepped back from her, doused another linen, and placed it over the lower half of her body.
The heat in his body subsided somewhat when he donned the sturdy pair of woolen chauses and worn braies he found in a trunk in the great room. As he dug deeper, he pulled out several rough tunics such as one would don for the hunt. They were clean and would do. Once dressed and his sword belt secured around his waist, Stefan felt more like himself. Spitting the grouse, he set about securing the small dwelling.
Later, he pulled the bird from the spit, filled a goblet with wine, and made his way back to the small chamber. He settled into the lone chair, ate the meager meal, and drank heartily of the wine, never once tearing his eyes from the woman who would set his brothers free.
Heat swirled about her, as if she were in the depths of hell. Dark laughter filled her ears. Foreign words murmured in the hot shadows ebbed and flowed as if an audience observed her from behind a heavy curtain. She lay naked, spread-eagled and tied down upon a cold stone altar. Arian cried out when she realized there was no escape. Harsh laughter filled the flaming chamber. Craning her neck to see who taunted her, Arian’s heart stopped. Through the swirling smoke and livid flames, Dag emerged naked, his jutting rod menacing and smeared with blood. She swallowed hard. Horns protruded from his bald head. His teeth were long and sharp, his lips full and red as if he had drunk blood. Arian could not breathe. She dared to look down her naked body and screamed. The same blood smeared the inside of her thighs. Desperately she fought against the bindings. “Nay!”
Arian struggled against the gentling hand. Soft French words soothed her; she wanted desperately to trust the voice that went with the hand, but she feared Dag more. She twisted away from the hand, yanking hard at the rope binding her wrists to the slab of stone.
Dag’s claw-like hand touched her foot, his nails digging into her tender flesh. Arian kicked at him, but he held her legs down with his hands. When he sank his teeth into her thigh, Arian screamed again and arched, fighting desperately for her freedom. Hands pressed her shoulders back to the slab. She twisted and flailed. When she opened her eyes, she screamed again. Brilliant blue eyes flashed at her with the intensity of summer lightning. His face was a ghastly blend of perfection and deformity. But the eyes—they would not release her from their fierce hold.
His voice, though, was gentle. “Arian, wake up,” he called from far away. She flung her arm up to ward him off, and to her amazement, the ropes vanished. She was free! Hurling herself up, she fought strong arms that pulled her back.
She turned and threw her arms around his neck, pressing into him, and sobbed. She cried as if the ills of the world were hers alone to bear. She was not accustomed to such things as rape and being captive. But her captor was the only thing keeping her alive at the moment. And, she sniffed hard, he did not force himself upon her. Her spine stiffened. But he did not free her either!
She let out a long breath as muddled thoughts swirled about her. Her body no longer burned, but she felt as weak as a lamb. “I—thought …” Her gaze rose to his. “Would you cast your wife away if she were not pure?” she blurted out.
She could see the question caught him completely off guard. When he did not answer, she pressed him. “If she were raped and could do nothing to prevent it, would you hold her accountable?”
He brought her chin up with two fingers and looked hard at her. Again, he shook his head. “Nay, I would never condemn her for that over which she had no control. I would bring her closer for comfort,
after
I killed the scourge who shamed her.”
A hard lump gathered in her throat. Arian tried to swallow it down, but it would not move. “Thank you,” she said softly, then moved back into the bed and pulled the sheets up to her chin. “Thank you,” she murmured again, then closed her eyes and let exhaustion claim her.
Stefan stood for a long time in stunned silence. A wash of emotions he did not welcome welled up inside his chest. But more than that, the thought of a child, of a daughter,
his
daughter so abused as what Dag had intended, soured the wine and food in his belly. He had witnessed many inhumane acts. Jubb had been the crudest testament to what a man could do to a man. The day he and his brothers escaped was the day they were condemned to die—to be plunged into a cistern of flesh-eating bats, to be eaten alive, only their bones left as a gravestone. Aye, he had nearly died at the hands of a maniacal Saracen in Iberia, and, he was ashamed to admit, he had on more than one occasion promised a maid more than what he intended to give if she were to but lie with him.
Never once after a coupling had he given thought to a child born of his seed. He had no doubt there were bastards with his unusual blue eyes littering Iberia, France, Wales, and mayhap this ungrateful island, but he had never felt the stirring of emotion for a child. He looked down at the troubled princess and something more stirred in his gut. In her fitful slumber, the sheet had fallen to her waist. Her high breasts rose and fell with each breath. The blush-colored nipples puckered as if they knew they were being watched. His gaze swept lower, to the indentation of her smooth belly, to her softly flaring hips. He swallowed hard and pressed his hand to her belly, a fingertip sweeping the soft down that shielded her. Would she die giving birth? For as tall as she was, she was slender, and though softly flared, her hips were not as wide as he thought they should be, to hold, then pass, a child.
She moaned softly and pressed her hips against his hand. He froze. She moaned again and swept her hand down to rest upon his. Stefan’s gaze raked her taut body, and he fought the urge to press his lips to her downy mound and kiss her there. He wanted to touch her breasts, to taste them, to make them plumpen. He wanted to hear her cry out to him for more. His cock filled and lengthened.
He hurried from the chamber, fearful he might not be able to control his craving. He strode out to the cookhouse and filled another skin with wine, then limped down to the stable where he told Apollo, in great detail, of his frustration. The stallion snorted and tossed his head in understanding.
When he returned, he was glad to see her cheeks were only slightly flushed, and that her breathing had settled into a deep, even pattern. He let out a long breath. The fever had broken, and she would no doubt be a handful when she awoke. His bleary eyes rose to the high window. The sky was just barely gray now, the sun making its way up across the forest. He moved around to the other side of the bed and lay down fully clothed and armed upon the sheets.
Closing his eyes, Stefan told himself ’twould be only until the sun fully broke. He was young, and though not at his best, he was used to days with no sleep. But it eluded him. For a long time he stared up at the mud-cracked ceiling. The body beside his tossed and turned, her soft moans keeping his body on high alert. Each time she kicked the sheet from her naked body, he hastened to cover her. Finally, when he could no longer endure her thrashing about, he rolled over and took her into his arms. She fought him, but he shushed her with soft words as he stroked her long silky hair. As her body settled against his, a new tension flared within him. He was damned either way with her.
Lying on his back, as rigid as his sword, her soft breath against his cheek, Stefan was nearly at his breaking point. His hands fisted and unfisted. He was tired, hungry, irritated and so full of lust for the woman in his arms that he felt as if he would come apart at every seam. Carefully, so that she would not touch a part of him that would set him off, Stefan rolled her over onto her back. Her arms slid up around his neck. “Nay,” she breathed, “do not leave me.”
His blood raced like quicksilver through him, his body tightened, and he rose to capacity against her. Her naked body pressed to his, her soft lips were parted, and her breathing had increased, causing her full breasts to move in a most erotic fashion. He could not help himself when he lowered his lips to one taut, tempting nipple. Her body arched in a slow undulation beneath him. He opened his lips wider to take more of her soft succulent flesh into his mouth, his fingers dug deep into her thick hair. Fire consumed him.
His lips trailed across her chest, to her throat, up to her waiting lips, he molded into her as his tongue swirled in her mouth, tasting the sweet surrender. He knew the moment she realized she was not dreaming. Her body stiffened, her hands upon his back tightened. Gasping for breath, she pleaded, “Please, leave me.”
Most reluctantly he did, putting a wide space between himself and her warmth. He lay on his side and watched her collect herself, pleased to see it was not so easy for her. She lay on her back, her firm, rosy breasts trembling, her nipples dewy from his kisses. She brushed back her hair from her face and gulped for a breath. He watched her hand trail down her belly to her mons. When she pressed the palm of her hand there, she gasped and arched. The tension in Stefan’s groin tightened at the wanton sight. She turned her head and stared at him, her lips full and pouty from his assault on them, her eyes a deep smoky gray.