Authors: Sophia Johnson
A young, red-haired page awaited in front of the mews' door. He held a bit of raw meat in one hand, and his arm cradled a small pewter cup of whiskey and one of water against his thin chest. Attempting to lift the overlarge plaid trailing in the dust, he stretched his narrow shoulders near as high as his ears.
Netta smiled at the boy, but eyed the meat with distaste as Mereck took it and the cups from him.
“Come, Netta, 'tis the kestrel's favorite food,” he coaxed.
Bracing herself with a smile, she motioned him to lead the way. Her nostrils flared, expecting the stench of Wycliffe's mews. The room's fresh smell surprised her. Simon stood by Cloud Dancer's perch. On seeing them, the raptors called for attention.
“Each raptor has its own time of day for free flight. They return when Simon raises his wrist and whistles.” Mereck stopped by each bird, quieting them with his voice. Their heads swivelled to follow his progress.
“Will they not fly away and not return?”
“Nay. They know where they are assured of a good treatâfrom the falconer's gauntlet.” Mereck looked down at her and smiled. “Have you a name for your kestrel?”
“Aye. Tuan. When I was a youngling, my nursemaid told me the myth of Tuan mac Carill. He lived for generations in different forms. One as an eagle. She said any creature given the name would have a long and happy life.” She peeked aside at Mereck. Would he think her foolish to credit such stories?
“Sprite is my kit's name. What think you?” she added.
He nodded, his face serious. “The name is most apt.” His hand on the back of her waist urged her toward Cloud Dancer's perch.
The eagle trilled a tune, which he promptly answered. “You must learn to whistle for Tuan. He will hear you and obey when he flies free.”
Netta worried her lip with her teeth. Could she learn to whistle a tune when she could not sing one? Hearing a chirping sound, her gaze followed it to spy a small nest next to Cloud Dancer. Cuddled within was the most uncomely bird she had ever seen. Her heart ached for the motherless eyas. She lifted the nest to bring it close.
Mereck had no need to tell Netta how to gain Tuan's love, for she crooned to the little one. She raised the nest to place her lips close to the tiny head. “Ohh, how sweet you are, my Tuan. We will be together always.”
Her lips played over Tuan's head and back, then her cheeks did the same, while she whispered to him. As she crooned, it was as if she was loving each raptor in the room. Even Cloud Dancer preened and swayed back and forth.
“Pick him up gently in both hands. I will bring the cup to your lips so you may water him.” His voice was rough, almost husky.
He shifted, restless. How would Netta's lips feel if she caressed his head and back in the same way? At the thought, shivers tickled the nape of his neck. He flexed his shoulders. All the while she lifted the little life into her soft hands, sipped the water from the cup and offered her lips to dribble it into the tiny beak, he did not take his gaze from her.
“Did it taste sweet, love?” She kept her lips close to Tuan's beak, letting him learn the scent of her breath. After she again sipped and offered water to Tuan, she whispered softly about how beautiful was her little love.
Mereck watched her pursed lips, so like a lover about to kiss her mate. At the thought of them on his bare flesh, his skin burned and his thigh muscles tensed. Blood surged in his veins and pooled betwixt his legs. His ballocks grew heavy and ached. He selected a sliver of meat and offered it to Netta. When she took it between her dainty teeth, his fingers lingered on the softness of her lips.
Each time Tuan took the proffered morsel, Netta praised him for being such a smart little raptor. When done, she remembered to compliment him on his great beauty, though at the moment the nestling was far from such. Mereck held the small cup of whiskey to Netta's lips.
“Cleanse your mouth well, wife, but dinna swallow.” His voice rasped with need.
She did as he told her. Netta held the small body close against her breasts, guarding it. He could not draw his gaze away.
He imagined her cuddling his face against those twin treasures. His tarse bucked and strained against the tight confines of his breeches.
Vivid dreams of Netta tormented his nights. Dreams so real he awoke feeling her hips meeting his as she had urged him deeper into her moist, hot body. Did she sleep alone, he would have already claimed her. From the time he had signed the contracts with her father, she was his as much as she would be after a priest heard their vows.
Father Matthew had best soon return, for he feared his lack of rest would take its toll on his temper. As fearful of him as she was, he did not want to chance losing control afore her.
Mereck reached into his pocket for the gauntlet he had bidden the tanner make for Netta. This past night, he had etched designs on the soft leather and had sewn on a silver hook to secure Tuan's jesses. Silver bells chimed from the jesses, sounding like an angel's tinkling laughter. Netta chuckled, her voice as sweet as music.
“Oh, 'tis beautiful, Mereck.”
She leaned forward and tugged the braid at his temple, then rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“Thank you. Never have I had such a wondrous gift.”
A strange feeling filled his chest, one ne'er felt afore. He wanted this marriage with Netta for Caer Cad-well, and the holdings she would bring to it. He was e'er conscious that by no other means could he gain such wealth. But the castle, lands and holdings were not the only advantages from this marriage.
He would have a wife that amused him at every turn. A mate he could surely train to be a passionate partner in bed-sport. If she lost her fear of him, mayhap he would also have her love. He need not return it. Dared not.
Upon reentering the great hall, they discovered a visitor standing beside Damron. The man was busy teasing Connor, who seemed flushed, his body tense.
“Oh, Netta, he's another one of those giants,” Elise whispered close to her ear. “Do you think he is another kin? His hair is as light as Mereck's, and he smiles like Connor.”
“Cease, or I will take a sword to your flabby arse.” Connor cuffed the man on the shoulder.
“Blessed saints. 'Tis a fight they start,” Elise shouted.
The men turned in surprise. The stranger sauntered over to Elise, captured her hand in his and bent to kiss it. Scowling at him, she promptly snatched it back and held it behind her.
“Eric of the MacLaren's, beautiful lass. I be kissing kin to the Morgans. If you willna suffer me to kiss your hand, perchance your cheek will do?” He gripped her shoulders, lifted her off her feet and kissed her on the cheek. Her feet kicked out at him, but he was agile in evading them.
“You are no kissing kin to Elise. Keep your fat lips off her.” Connor grabbed Elise out of Eric's arms and stood her on the floor.
Damron moved between them and ordered everyone to take their seats. “Eneuch. Both of ye. Canna ye see ye scare the lass with yer rough manners?” Before Damron escorted Brianna to the table, he lifted Serena from her arms, kissed the babe's forehead and handed her to her nursemaid.
Connor and Eric jostled each other until Mereck's hand gripped the back of Eric's sturdy neck. That ended the matter. Connor escorted Elise to the table, but the sneer he gave Eric didn't last for long.
Eric took the seat opposite Elise.
“Lass, you are far too bonny to waste on an uncouth Morgan.” Eric's admiring gaze roved over Elise. “Did Damron not tell you I must needs wed again for me puir son? You will find a MacLaren far more pleasurable than the scruffy lad at your side.” His eyes twinkled with mischief.
“If Connor doesna kill him, Elizabeth might.” Mereck chuckled, and spoke softly to Netta. “She hasna married. Whenever suitors ask for her hand, she flies into a lather, throws tankards of ale at them and tells them to be gone if they want no further bodily harm.”
Netta watched, fascinated, when Eric winked and made kissing noises with his mouth to Elizabeth Neilson, the steward's daughter.
“Why does she not want any of her suitors?”
“Perchance for the same reasons you scorned your suitors. The fellow was either too tall, too short, had bad teeth or did not bathe frequently. Likely she found they thought her to be dutiful. Who knows why a lass will forego such goodly offers?”
Did he tease her? Eric distracted her when he spoke.
“Laird, might I meet with you directly after the meal?” Eric's grin was huge when Damron nodded assent.
“Ow,” he soon yelped. Connor had kicked him under the table.
Netta gulped. Would they fight now? After a hard glare from Damron, the men quieted. She relaxed.
“We were all forever rivals as growing boys. We could ne'er let another best us, whether on the practice field or with the lassies,” Mereck murmured.
“Who won most often?” Netta turned to study his face.
“Well now, on the practice field 'twas even between Damron and me, and between Connor and Eric. We all went wanting with the lassies when Eric came to visit. It seems they canna resist his grin. Connor had best look to secure his dreams afore someone snatches them from under his nose,” he murmured.
Eric kept everybody on their toes with his wit. A flush never left Elise's face, for he flirted with her outrageously. Connor's scowl lasted throughout the meal. When they stood to leave the table, Eric waggled his brows at him and put his arm across Damron's shoulder as they left the room.
“Come. If you would wish your first lesson with the sword, change to one of your riding outfits and join me beneath the tree in the outer bailey.” Mereck stood and helped Netta to rise.
“Can I not wearâ¦?”
He cut her off. “You willna dress as a squire again, Netta. Obey me in this, or risk my anger.” Mereck scowled. His stern voice warned her not to object.
She thrust her chin in the air and hurried from the room.
When she arrived for her lesson, Elise and Meghan trailed behind her. Elise carried a blanket. All they needed was food. Mereck shook his head and rolled his eyes. Lasses could turn even a serious lesson into a family gathering. He carefully examined the wooden sword Meghan had given her. It would do.
“Where is your wooden sword, sir?” Netta's forehead creased when she eyed his short sword.
“I have no need of wood swords, wife. I have long since learned to control my weapon.” When Meghan snorted with laughter, he glared at her. Turning back to Netta, he handed her a shield and moved behind her. He used his foot to widen her stance. “The sword is a heavy weapon. You must balance yourself well.”
Her hips pressed against his thighs did naught to ease his eager tarse. He snaked an arm around her and showed her how to position her shield to protect her body when her weapon could not. He released her and picked up his sword. Her eyes were huge as she watched his blade.
“I am pleased you are afeared. If I were to use wood, you wouldna be as careful as you now are. No matter what happens, dinna take your eyes from your opponent's weapon. Remember this.” He nodded for emphasis.
He worked using slow movements until Netta learned to move the shield in place, before he showed her how to deflect his blade. Her hair escaped its ties. Her flushed face was sweetly serious, and her mouth pursed with concentration. He longed to hold her and kiss those sweet lips, to sink his tongue into her mouth. He ached to have her in his bed, naked and panting beneath him. Father Matthew could not arrive soon enough to suit him.
He eyed her breasts pushing against her tunic and pictured their soft roundness and pink nipples. He wet his lips as if he were ready to suckle there. His blood surged and his tarse rose to attention.
“Hah. Ye have control o'er yer weapon, do ye Mereck?” Meghan taunted. Her husky laughter floated on the air.
He couldna let Netta see his aroused state. Bad enough that Meghan would surely delight in telling her later. Netta's gaze darted to Meghan. His blade flashed to slit the ribbons at the neck of her tunic. The gown drooped at her shoulders and bared the tops of her lush breasts. She looked like a woman about to make love. He groaned aloud.
Netta yelped and dropped her shield to grab the tunic opening.
“I warned you to keep your eyes on your opponent's weapon. You could be dead now.” Mereck's long arm shot out. Turning his blade to the side, he tapped her across her delightful bottom. Though he thought he had done so softly, Netta lost her balance and sprawled face first on the ground.
Mereck sprang forward. He dropped to his knees and turned her over and to sit upright. Gently, so as not to chafe her delicate skin, he brushed the dirt from her face. His hands near shook when he cleaned the tops of those soft orbs he coveted overlong. Netta smacked at his hands, sputtered and made huffing noises trying to rid her lips of grass and dirt.
“Blessed Saint George. You did not have to hit me.”
“Saint George? Is he the saint o'er women who fight as men by chance? Or is he a saint who protects a lass who canna concentrate?”