Master of Craving (13 page)

would become of me should Magnus hold me responsible for Dag’s death.”

 

“I’d wager ’twill be his pride that will suffer most.”

 

“Is a man’s pride so blind?”

 

“Sometimes, my lady, pride is all a man has.”

She looked up at him, and as physically close as they had been up to this day, she saw him for the first time. A proud man with nothing but his horse and sword. If it were not for the ragged scar that was barely healing along his face, he would be most handsome. His thick blood-bay-colored hair hung just to his shoulders, and the way it softly waved away from his face gave him a predator look. The shadow of a beard stubbled his jaw line. His eyes were a brilliant lapis, his nose strong and defined, as were his stubborn chin and cheekbones. She swallowed hard. There was nothing soft about this man.

“You slew the nephew of the man I am to marry.”

 

“He challenged me, ’twas he or I. I have no remorse.”

 

“The remorse is mine.”

 

“Aye? Then the next time I see you set upon by a craven knave I will continue on my way.”

Arian opened her mouth to defend herself, but how could she? Dag would not have been stayed by her. There was only one way to handle one such as he, and that was with violence.

“Sir, my thanks for preserving my virtue, it is worth more than you know. I am just sorry the price paid for it was the life of a man.”

 

“He was not worthy of you. Give him no more thought.”

 

Arian shook her head, unable to understand his callous disregard. “I do not dismiss a life as easily as you.”

 

“Do you think Dag cared?”

 

She shook her head again, unable to argue the truth. “The wound on your face—how came you by it?”

“A gruesome reminder to pay closer attention to my enemy,” he said. “Aye, ’tis most gruesome,” she agreed, holding his stare. She swallowed, and asked a question that plagued her. “Do—are you—” Heat flushed her cheeks. “When the ransom is

met, do you plan to harm me before you release me?”

His brilliant eyes held her gaze, and for a long time she thought he would not answer. He growled low in his chest, and said, “I have never laid a hand upon a woman in anger or revenge.”

“Your oath then,” she pressed.

 

The Saxon nodded. “For the second time, I give it.”

Arian let out a long relieved breath, then offered a small olive branch. “I would return your favor and sew your face. It needs to be lanced, cleansed, and resewn, or you will have a most unsightly scar.”

“Scars do not bother me. Do they you?”

 

Her impulse was to confess that they did but, for some ungodly reason she did not want to appear so shallow as that to this man. “I can live with them if you can.”

 

“Then do so.”

 

“But it reddens and is festering. If left untended, the flesh will blacken and you may have less of a face then you do now. No woman would want you.”

He laughed bitterly. “What makes you think they do now? I am a bastard. A mercenary knight, Lady Arian. I buy women with my blood coin. They are content with that and so too am I. ’Tis enough for me.”

And by his simple admission, Arian began to understand this dark, angry man. She felt a stirring of compassion for him. Her emotion must have shown on her face, for he scowled heavily. “Do not pity me!” he snarled. Abruptly he stood and strode angrily from the room, slamming the studded front door behind him.

Stunned by his sudden mood swing, Arian sat quietly for a long moment, trying hard to understand the ways of men. From her father to her brother to Dag and now this man, she had not the slightest understanding of them. Should Magnus take her, sullied as she was, would he too prove to be as complex? She shook her head, too tired to contemplate the male sex more than what she knew. Men were guided by what hung between their legs. ’Twas the same with the stallions she bred. They were zealous in their lust for a mare in season, their mating sometimes violent. Many a mare had been injured beneath an aggressive stallion, but when they were through, they abandoned their mate.

Silently she cleared the table; suddenly exhausted, she turned to the chamber and climbed between the sheets. Though the lodge was dark and quiet, and she was more tired than she could remember being, sleep was elusive. The cry of a hawk, followed by the terrified scream of its prey, sent her skin crawling. Arian shivered and pulled the sheet up tighter to her chin. Long moments later, she heard the outer door open, then shut, followed by the thud of the bolt.

She stiffened, wondering what the Saxon had in store for her. She could hear him moving around the great room. Quietly she slipped from the bed and listened at the door. His soft curses piqued her curiosity. Carefully she opened the door and moved down the short hall and peered around the corner. Gasping at the sight that greeted her, Arian pressed her hand to her lips. The angry knight sat at the table with a knife in his hand, staring into a crude mirror. Blood dripped down his cheek.

EIGHT
Arian watched, horrified, as Stefan sawed each stitch from his face.

 

Shaking her head at such butchery, Arian moved into the room. “You will cause more damage. Let me do it.”

 

His head snapped around, and his eyes narrowed in the halo of the light from the sconces he had pulled close around him. He flung his hand out, slapping hers away. “Let me be.”

 

She was not deterred. “Your pride will kill you! Give me the knife.”

 

“Then you should be pleased.”

 

Arian stood with her hand out, palm up. “Give me the knife.”

 

He sat rigid, the blade grasped tightly in his bloody fist. Her gaze moved to his cheek, and she cringed. “It bleeds and it looks feverish. Give me the knife.”

When he did not move, she took it from him and set it down on the trestle top. “I will open the shutters closest so that I have better light.” Once she had them open she turned to the surly knight. Placing her hands against his chest, she pushed him back into the high-backed chair he sat in. The hard planes of his muscles bunched beneath her fingertips. The hard thump of his heart reverberated against her palms. He was warm. Quickly she withdrew her hands, and pulled the sconces closer so that she could see from all angles. Taking his chin into her hand, she tilted his head back, then side to side. “You have made a mess of your face. While I am a skilled embroiderer, I do not know if my skill is sufficient to make you whole again.”

He did not say a word, but his hot gaze bore into her. She took the cloth he had soaked in wine and wrung it out, then wiped the blood and ooze from his cheek. Once it was cleaned, she reached for the knife, and as she did, he grasped her hand. Slowly wrapping his fingers around hers, he pulled her close, his warm breath mingling with hers. “Give me your oath you will only tend the wound and not slit my throat.”

She smiled and leaned into him, her gesture rewarded by his narrowing eyes. “Does the fearsome Saxon mercenary knight fear the helpless princess?”

 

He pulled her closer so that their lips were parted by only an inch of air. “There is nothing helpless about you.”

Her body trembled in a way that was most disconcerting. It tended to do that when he touched her. “I give you my oath I will not slit your throat, sir knight. But do not hold me to other body parts.”

He tried to smile, but the gesture was too painful. He pushed her carefully away from him. “Do your worst. It cannot hurt any more than it already does.”

And she did. The cutting of the old threads was the worst of it. But once the wound was lanced open and cleaned, she could see there was healthy tissue beneath. More than grateful that his knife was deadly sharp, she was able to cut away all of the decaying skin. Finally, it laid open, free of yellow ooze. She turned her eyes up to his. “Where is the balm you used on me?”

“There in the pouch,” he said, pointing to the table.

Arian cleaned her hands in a fresh bowl of wine and water, then opened the pouch and dipped her fingers into it. Gently she smoothed it inside the open wound. Stefan released a long breath and rested his head against the chair back. “It eases already.”

“You were foolish to tend it yourself. The poison would have killed you.”

 

“Why then did you not leave it?”

 

She regarded him honestly. “Because I could not live with myself if I allowed you to die when I could have saved you.”

 

“Even if it meant you escaped me?”

 

She nodded. “Even if it meant I escaped you.”

He handed her the needle he had threaded. Arian nodded, and as their fingers touched when she took the needle from him, something akin to lightning struck. She gasped, the sensation catching her off guard. He hissed in a sharp breath, his rough fingers tightening around hers. She dared to look up into his hot gaze and her heart thudded like a drum against her chest. She did not see his wounded face, or his full lips pulled back in a snarl; nay, she only saw a man who despite his ravaged body was all too aware of her as a woman. Slowly, Arian pulled her hand from his grasp, breaking the thick tension.

“See to it,” he said roughly.

And she found it a most difficult chore, for flesh and muscle were not nearly as easy to work with as silk thread and linen. She swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat and told herself ’twas but a simple stitch and nothing more. And with that in mind, she proceeded to neatly sew the gash that ran from the edge of his right eye down the outer edge of his cheek to just above his jaw.

“ ’Tis bad,” she said softly, gently wiping the blood from his cheek.

He took the mirror from the trestle top and held it up to his face. For a long moment, he stared. Arian held her breath. ’Twas better by far than his effort, but it was so damaged she was not sure it would not fester again. He set the mirror down and looked to her, his eyes dark and steady. Slowly he stood, his tall muscular body filling the small space between them. He reached a hand down to her and drew her to him. Her legs trembled and warmth skittered across her skin. As she had done to him, he took her chin into his hand and tilted her head back, and as he did his lips lowered to hers. “You are very brave, princess—a trait I admire.”

When his lips touched hers, she started. They were warm and surprisingly soft. Not hard and cruel as the time before. More gentle than during her delirium. And more shocking was what they did to her when she was clear-headed, and very much in control of herself. Warmth infused every inch of her body. Her skin tingled in the most private places. Her belly tightened, and the ache returned. He slipped a strong arm around her waist, pressing her closer to him, holding her steady, deepening his kiss.

He was all around her, tall, hard, and making her feel things she had never felt. And it scared her. She trembled, never having been held so intimately by a man. She had allowed Magnus to kiss her but she did not recall feeling so warm or so weak. Arian opened her lips wider to tell him to stop when his tongue slid slowly against her lips. She stiffened, fighting the wanton sensation it provoked. It seemed as if her entire body had lit up, and she could not control it.

“Please,” she softly said against him.

 

“Please what?” he softly queried.

She closed her eyes, and for a very brief moment wondered what it would be like to lie with a man such as this. He would be dominating and insatiable. She caught her breath— and possessive—and she knew he would never let her go.

“Please, unhand me.” And he did, immediately. But he did not move away from her. His eyes had darkened to the color of a moonless night. Fire burned hot in their depths. “I think, sir, you should not do that again.”

“Not even if you wish it?”

 

“Most especially
if I wish it.”

He smiled a genuine smile, and his entire face transformed from that of a haunted demon to that of a joyous angel. She gasped, and felt once again a tightening in her lower parts. She stepped away, wanting physical and emotional distance. “It seems to me, sir, that I am in somewhat of a predicament.”

“And that is?”

 

“Lord Dag is dead and I am not without blame. The soldiers I traveled with will not rest until I am found.”

 

“In time they will know of your whereabouts.” “In your time?”

 

“Aye, my time.”

 

“I fear Magnus will be angered beyond repair.”

 

“Your devoted husband-to-be?”

 

She narrowed her eyes. “Aye, my betrothed. ’Tis to him I travel.”

 

“To Yorkshire?”

 

“To Moorwood, his holding just south of York.”

 

“Pray he holds you on such a high pedestal he will look past your indiscretion.”

 

“My
indiscretion? I have done nothing wrong! ’Twas Dag who trespassed. Magnus will see that. He is a man of honor and will wed me, of that I am sure.”

 

“Do you think when he hears that you rode off naked with the man who slew his nephew he will welcome you with open arms?”

 

“He will!”

 

“The Vikings that accompanied you, are they the Jarl’s men or Dag’s?”

 

Arian swallowed hard, as her nightmare of Dag’s attack and what followed reared its ugly head. Doubt filled her.
Would
Magnus reject her? “Dag’s, mostly.”

 

“Were you so precious to him, your foolish betrothed would have sent his own men to keep guard.”

 

“You are wrong! Magnus is a good man. He chose me over all women. I am sure he had utmost confidence in his nephew. Love blinds, sir.”

 

Stefan snorted and nodded. “Aye, as does the promise of gold and glory.”

 

Arian watched his features twist and a scowl erupt at his words. “Did your lady love fly for the promise of gold and glory?”

Long-buried memories surfaced with a force so powerful Stefan’s chest heaved. The princess was too smart for her own good. Her question struck deep into his heart and twisted it as surely as if she had taken his dagger and done the deed.

“My past is none of your concern. But it seems our present is destined to intertwine. We can be of use to the other.”

“I do not wish to help you. I want only to be released.” She grabbed his hands, moving toward him. “I have gold! I will pay you for safe passage to my betrothed. He will give you more upon my delivery!”