Master of Craving (30 page)

“Silence!” he hissed, grabbing her backside and spreading her full buttocks. He pulled her toward his stiff cock. He looked down at that moment and halted all movement. The sight of her body sickened him. She pressed into him, the tip of his cock sliding up between her buttocks. In a fit of anger, Stefan shoved her away from him and stood gathering his braies, tying them in short jerky movements.

She turned over, panic-stricken. “My lord, do I not please you?”

Fury tore through him. Arian had ruined him! She had made it impossible for him to touch another and not make a comparison! She had made it impossible for him to lose himself in another’s body no matter how willing or comely that body was!

“ ’Tis not you,” he growled, then strode from the stall to the hall.
He approached his men and the Welsh and Norse guard outside the door of the woman who had ruined him. While his men moved from the door, the Welshman and Norse did not. “I will hack you down where you stand if you do not move from the doorway,” he

threatened.

 

“Sir, no one—” the largest of the Norse began to say.

 

Ioan and Rorick drew their swords. The guards stepped aside, and the solitary Welshman stood aside as well. Stefan pounded on the door.

 

“Who goes there?” Arian called from the other side.

 

“Stefan,” he ground out.

After a long moment, the door slowly opened. He pushed her away as he entered, then flung the door closed behind him. He did not know why he was there or what he was to say, he only knew a seething rage he could not control, and all of it directed at one person. The proud and beautiful Arianrhod of Dinefwr.

“Why are you here?” she demanded.

 

Gone was the innocent maid he had rescued, gone was the hostage. In her place stood a woman who knew her mind and her destiny, and who refused to allow him to be a part of it.

 

He strode past her and began to pace the room. “You smell of your whore,” Arian spat when he passed close to her.

 

He whirled around and faced her. “You reek of Viking!”

Arian strode past him toward the door. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Nay, Arian, you will not cast me out like a soiled cloth.” In a wild fit of passion he could not control, Stefan tore her kirtle down the front, exposing creamy white breasts. Hungrily he caught one in his mouth. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her harder against him. Her scent, her silky smooth skin, her voice tantalized him beyond mortal control.

“Nay, Stefan.” She twisted away from his grasp to the far side of the chamber. “Why are you here?” she demanded.

 

“Jesu,
Ari,” he groaned hoarsely. How could he tell her he ached for her? That every part of his body screamed for her and only her?

 

“Why are you here?”

Arian held her breath. His eyes blazed furiously, his hands opening and closing into fists at his side. He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. “Tell me,” she whispered, hoping yet dreading, that he came to claim her.

“I—” He bowed, and when his eyes lifted to hers she knew any hope of them together was gone. “My pardon.” He whirled around and left the room as abruptly as he entered. As the door slammed shut, her body jerked and her heart broke. For had Stefan pledged his oath of love to her, she would have set Magnus aside, forfeiting her dowry and all that was hers for the nameless Norman.

Just as the door closed behind him, it opened again. Arian’s heart leapt in her chest, then plummeted; ’twas only the maid whom she had encountered earlier.

She bobbed and stopped in her steps, her eyes widened and Arian realized her disheveled appearance was most shocking. Drawing her kirtle over her bare chest, she demanded, “Where is my woman?”

“She—she midwifes in the village.”

 

“There are no others to see to a birth?”

 

“There are complications, she left with the woman’s husband a short time ago. She bade me to offer her regrets but promised to return in the morn to ready you for your marriage.”

 

Arian let out a long breath. Of all people, she wanted Jane with her this night, but she understood there were few as skilled as Jane in seeing a new babe into the world.

 

“Very well.” Arian let out a long, tired breath and asked, “What is your name?”

 

“Miriam, my lady.”

 

“Miriam, I am weary and seek my bed. Fetch me a chemise from the wardrobe, then see yourself to the pallet.”

 

Miriam bobbed her head and saw to the task.

For more candle notches than not, Arian tossed and turned upon the large bed. Sleep eluded her. Stefan’s scent clung to her. He was all she could think of. He was all she wanted. Each time she inhaled his scent she felt his presence as if he were there, lying beside her. A deep ache clawed at her heart, so intense it pained her to breathe.

Had he just said he loved her, had he just asked her to be his, she would have given all to him. Angrily she threw a pillow across the room and sat up. But he had not. Because he did not return her love. And after what she had said to him at Worthington, she could not blame him.

She flopped back into the sheets and closed her eyes, praying for sleep. But when it came, nightmares assailed her. Visions of blood and war and fire—and death.

Arian woke with a start as the gray fingers of dawn inched through the cracked shutters. Fatigue pressed upon her as she stifled one yawn after another. The reality of what the day would bring prodded her wide awake. ’Twas her wedding day. Calmly she accepted her fate. Stefan had his chance and did not take it. And though profound sadness and an unexplainable sense of loss engulfed her, she would not cry. She would not wish, she would never beg. What was done was done. Slowly she arose from the bed.

The morning was a whirlwind of activity; as Arian sank into a hot, soapy bath, Jane hurried into the chamber. “A thousand pardons, my lady, but—”

 

“Do not apologize, Jane, all is well now that you are here.”

As Miriam stripped the linens, replacing them with fresh sheets, she crumbled sweetsmelling herbs and flowers amongst them. Instead of settling her nerves, the overwhelming scent clogged Arian’s nostrils. Her stomach fluttered when she thought of Magnus laying her upon them later that eve, touching her as Stefan had, and more.

“Leave us, Miriam,” Jane commanded.

 

The maid bobbed her head, scooped up the basket of soiled linens, and hurried from the chamber.

 

“That girl irritates me with her nervous head-bobbing. She seems to be afraid of her own shadow!” Jane complained.

 

“I doubt she has served a lady before,” Arian said.

 

“Then she should not be practicing on you!”

Jane set about bathing Arian, washing her thick golden-red hair and rinsing it with scented water. Once she was dried and seated before the murky mirror, the chamber suddenly bustled with females. One maid to create an ornate braided crown, another to smooth the fine lines from the silken wedding gown, one to manicure her nails and feet, and yet another to rub down her limbs with fragrant oils. Even Lady Lisette came to help, and for the first time the woman did not bait her with a snide look or sour words. Indeed, she seemed most content.

When Arian was finally dressed and bejeweled, there was a knock on the door. ’Twas Magnus’s manservant. He carried a gold-inlaid willow box before him. Making a quick bow to Arian and Lady Lisette, he set the box down on the table beside Arian. “My lady, my lord Magnus asked that you honor him this day by wearing the crown of Trygg.”

Arian watched as he withdrew a magnificent crown of entwined gold, silver, and shining copper, encrusted with glittering precious jewels. A leaping stag of burnished gold centered the crown. She bowed, and he set it upon her head. ’Twas heavy and uncomfortable, but she would wear it with pride.

Taking a deep breath, she caught Jane’s gaze and smiled. “I am ready,” Arian said. She stood, and all the ladies in the room gasped in praise.

 

“You are a vision, my lady,” the manservant gushed. “My lord will be pleased.”

 

Another knock at the door saw Rhodri, followed by Cadoc. Her brother stopped in midstride, the smile on his face nearly splitting it. “My God, Arian, you are beautiful!”

She could only smile, too afraid that the emotion tightening in her chest would be misconstrued. She had longed for her wedding day, to marry her one true love who would place her on a pedestal and treasure her over all men and women. But the one she cherished would not claim her, and the one she did not love was only too happy to.

With a will of tempered steel, Arian forced all thoughts of Stefan from her heart. On this, her wedding day, she would show Magnus the respect he deserved, and not wish for another as she vowed to be a dutiful wife.

Rhodri extended his arm. Arian looked up into his eyes, barely able to see him through the tears she could not control.

He drew her into his embrace and kissed her cheeks. “You are a vision any man would fight to the death to have, dear sister. Including Magnus. He has been pacing a hole in the hall and now eagerly awaits you in the chapel.” He placed her hand on his forearm. “Come.”

Refusing to bear witness to the nuptials, Stefan sat in the empty stall beside Arian’s mare, along with his brothers, and emptied a second wineskin. It did nothing to ease the ache in his heart. Longing twisted with a desperate need for the woman he could not have. Emptiness filled his soul, and he felt as if there was no reason to take his next breath. For Arian was his life, and without her, ’twas as if he had no sustenance. And though he would ride, and battle, and see to his king’s needs, the most vital parts of him would be missing. His heart and his soul.

The clamoring cheers yanked him from his sour musings, and he realized the vows had been sealed. If the destrier had kicked him in the gut it would have hurt less than the sound of the cheering people of Moorwood.

Despair that he had never experienced even in Jubb now consumed him. On the morrow, he would leave with his brothers and travel to Wales with word of the nuptials, and Wulf would hold his lady in his arms once again. Envy pricked at his gut as the cheers grew louder.

He threw his head back and took a long draught of wine. “I promised her I would not look back when we rode west,” Stefan said, to no one in particular.

 

“ ’Tis for the best,” Wulfson said.

 

Stefan’s head snapped back, and he eyed his brother. “Is it?” He shook his head. “I do not know if I can do it!” Misery flooded him.

’Twas easy for Wulfson. He had found the one woman in all of Christendom he would love; but Stefan had found his own one and only and now he was to stand aside as she wed another. He drank more of the wine, wanting it to numb his aching heart, but it only made him more morose. And the anger he thought he could control simmered just beneath the surface. He could not control it after all.

He clenched his jaw and stood, fury, longing, and love filling him. He punched a wooden beam. “I cannot stand the torture of her lying with another!” He threw his head back and screamed his battle cry, then dropped to his knees. “I cannot bear it.”

For a long time the men were silent. Stefan rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, slowly shaking his head. “I cannot do this,” he moaned. “I cannot sit here whilst that Viking salivates.”

“Then take her,” Rohan growled. “Take her and be done with it!”

 

“Take her?” Stefan asked, incredulous. “She is wed!”

 

Wulfson stood and stepped toward him, placing a meaty hand on his shoulder. “Is it lust and jealousy in your heart, Stefan, that drives you? Of having something you cannot have?”

 

Miserably, he shook his head. “ ’Tis more. It pains my heart.”

 

“Do you love her?” Ioan asked, stepping forward.

 

Sudden clarity shook through Stefan. “Aye, above my own life.”

 

“Then go to her, man, and plead your case!” Rorick urged.

 

“She is wed!”

 

Rohan laughed, the sound demonic. “Aye, but there is still a way. An old Norman law dating back to Rollo’s time.”

 

“Tell me!” Stefan demanded.

 

“Jus primae noctis.”

 

“But I am not lord here,” Stefan said.

 

“You are captain of William’s guard, and in his stead you are lord here!” Rohan shouted. “Your word is law!”

 

’Twould later be a matter of great debate, but Stefan did not care. He wanted only one thing, and would use an archaic law to grasp it. And even without the law on his side, he would not be denied. He pushed his brothers aside and ran for the hall.

Arian lay back on the cool linens, her teeth chattering, her knees quaking, modesty overcoming her. She could not bear to meet the eyes of Father John, her brother who could not meet hers, the Norman Sir Ralph, and Magnus’s cousin Helm. All present to bear witness that she bled when her husband performed his duty. All there to bear witness that no sheep’s blood was smeared on the sheets, all there to bear witness that she was a virgin until her husband breached her.

Even Magnus seemed nervous. Slowly, his man undressed him, as did Jane Arian. When her lady was clothed only in her silken chemise, Jane drew the screen so that she was at least afforded some privacy as she slid into the large bed. Arian pulled the sheet up to her chin and forced herself to watch Magnus undress. When he stood naked before her, she swallowed hard. His manhood stood rigid before him.

He pulled the sheet back and sat upon the bed as Father John came around to her side of the bed and lifted the sheet so that he could see her.

 

“Your pardon, Lady Arian, but ’tis necessary.”

She nodded. Closing her eyes, she held her breath when Magnus’s great body covered hers. She felt him hard and warm against her thigh and nearly cried out in fear. She did not want this.

He smoothed the hair back from her cheeks, and softly said, “ ’Twill be over soon, then they will go.”

 

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, and nodded, wishing he would get it over with. Slowly she parted her thighs.

A hoarse shout, followed by a hard thump in the hallway startled her. Arian’s eyes flew open just as the door burst open. Stefan strode across the threshold, his sword drawn, his men behind him prepared for battle.