The Barbarian's Pet (9 page)

“Not long now,” their ringleader said, “and you will be screaming our names.”

“She is not the one who will be screaming.”

A rough, dark voice broke through the undergrowth, followed by a whirlwind of motion. The bandits turned almost as one man but they were too late to defend themselves as Griffen burst into the clearing with the fury of the sun and the sky and every known element combined. His golden eyes flashed with rage, his sword raised high above his head. Sariah shut her eyes, but the sound of death was unmistakable, the clean slice of blade through air suddenly coming to a screaming halt against flesh and bone.

She chanced a glimpse as a crunching sound emanated from two skulls belonging to bandits who had thought to face him as a pair. Griffen rose above them, stronger, broader, taller and lit with fury she had never seen in his eyes. It was over in seconds, dark seconds in which Sariah closed her eyes again and tried to avoid not just the bloodshed, but the expression on Griffen’s face. She hardly recognized him in that moment; he was a different man, lit with a battle rage that transformed him completely.

Sariah realized in that moment just who she had crossed—a warrior and a king, a man whose little swats and slaps she had once found so difficult to bear. How laughable to complain about a slap delivered at the hands of a man capable of destroying five as if they were nothing but gnats. She now saw how truly gentle and merciful he had always been with her, how tender and soft.

She could barely imagine any of those moments anymore. He must be enraged with her too. Her punishment for running from him would no doubt be painful and protracted. She sank down against the tree, covering her ears with her hands, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, curled up to make herself as small as possible. Griffen’s footsteps vibrated through the earth. Even when she blocked her senses, she could still feel him. She let out a little whimper as he bent down, his bulk casting a shadow over her closed eyelids.

“Sariah.” He said her name tenderly. “Are you in pain?”

She nodded her head emphatically. She was in a lot of pain, physical and mental. Her foolishness had led to the loss of lives, and to an injury that hurt far more than she had realized it did when adrenaline was rushing through her veins, making everything numb.

“That ankle looks bad,” he said, concern roughing his voice. “Can you move it?”

“It’s not broken,” she said. “I twisted it when I fell in the woods. That’s how they got me.”

He let out a soft sigh, slid his arms under her knees and around her back, and picked her up. “That will be tended to at the camp.”

She chanced looking at him. The anger had faded, the twisted battle visage was gone, replaced with the man she knew intimately. His expression seemed to contain more concern and disappointment than ire. A sweeping relief washed through her, bringing with it a sudden gust of tears.

“I am sorry!” She wailed the words against his chest. “You saved me from… from…”

“I know,” he said gruffly. “We need not speak of horrors that did not happen, pet. All is well now, you are safe.”

She was safe, as safe as she ever had been and ever would be. Griffen had saved her from the bandits and from herself. As fear slid away, guilt began to replace it. She had been so foolish. She had put her life in danger, and Griffen’s too. And all for an impulsive act, a striking out for freedom that had turned into peril.

Her ankle throbbed and she winced, trying not to make any sounds of pain. She did not deserve sympathy. She did not deserve kindness. She did not deserve anything at all but the beating he would no doubt give her.

“Easy, pet,” Griffen said, not missing even the smallest of her expressions. “We have a healer who can make any ache subside.”

“Really? Why have I not heard of him before? I have ached many a night.”

“A very different ache, for a very different reason,” Griffen said, carrying her to the waiting horse which had been led into the clearing by Rafe. A dozen men were also waiting, though none of them had so much as drawn their blades. They had not needed to, for Griffen was like a one-man army.

Sariah found herself slung over the saddle in front of Griffen, her rear pointing skyward. He scuffed his hand at the fabric at the base of her spine, locking her in place as he urged the horse into motion. She was more than relieved to be carried off by him, even in a position which was as undignified as it was rough.

Little in the way of words were exchanged before they arrived back at the camp, where Griffen slid her off the horse and took her to his tent where a small bald man was waiting with pouches of herbs and smelly unctions.

“Merlin,” Griffen greeted him as he settled Sariah gently on the bed of furs. “Please tell me you can put my pet back together. She has been rough with herself.”

“A twisted ankle and a mild laceration,” the healer noted after a brief examination. “Simple enough wounds to tend. I will bind the ankle and apply herbal salve to the wounds and she will be quite recovered in a matter of days.”

The healer’s reassurances seemed to please Griffen greatly. “Then, in a matter of days, you and I will have a reckoning, pet,” he said, his dark tone making a tremor of fear blended with excitement rush through Sariah.

“I am sorry,” she said as the healer began to bind her ankle. It throbbed under his hands and she let out a little plaintive cry of pain. “I was foolish.”

“You were,” Griffen agreed. “But we will not speak of that now. You must rest and you must heal. Wounds can become septic and muscles can forever tear if the body is stressed. Merlin, do you have the brew the men use when recovering from battle?”

“I do,” Merlin nodded, patting the water skin at his waist. “This will keep her quiet until she is well enough to receive justice.”

Sariah scowled at him, not at all liking his tone, which was mild, but disapproving. Between Griffen and the healer, she was left feeling very small and sad. Sad she was the cause of the look on Griffen’s face. His expression was one of deep concern and more than that—a disappointment she had not seen there before. She had failed him, or perhaps worse than that, her desire to leave had hurt him. Was it possible for a peasant girl to hurt the feelings of a king?

Before she could ponder the question more fully, the healer presented a brew to her lips. Sariah took a sniff and then a little taste. Immediately her nose bunched up and she retracted her head from the foul liquid.

“Drink it,” the healer encouraged. “It will take the pain away and give you pleasant dreams.”

“It smells like rotten mushrooms,” she complained. “The pain is not so bad now.”

That was a lie. The ache was starting to deepen and shoot through her shin and foot alike. But pain was preferable to that green-black brew sloshing about in the healer’s chalice.

“Drink, Sariah,” Griffen said firmly.

“This will also ward off spirits that would infest your wounds and sores,” the healer continued. “It is very powerful. Drink it swiftly and you will not taste it.”

“No,” she whined.

“Sariah…” Griffen’s voice dropped to an authoritarian growl.

Not wishing to displease him after the leniency and kindness he’d shown her, Sariah tried to drink. The brew was truly foul, as unpleasant a taste as had ever sullied her mouth. It tasted of fungus and dirt, with a queer sandy texture that caught in her teeth, but she took a good three or four mouthfuls of it before the dregs made her gag.

“A goodly dose,” the healer said, pleased. “The men don’t usually drink so much. She will sleep very well.” He turned his attention back to Sariah. “Take note of any dreams you might have. This is a prophetic brew. The visions that come to you this evening will be more vivid than any other…”

“Enough, Merlin,” Griffen said. “She is a shepherd, not a seer.”

“The brew makes seers of us all,” the healer said, flashing a swift wink at Sariah, as if they were sharing a secret only he was aware of.

The pain was already starting to fade. Strangely enough it did not seem so much diminished as distant, as if she were moving away from it, telescoping far from her extremities. Her eyelids began to feel heavy as the soporific effects quickly took hold too.

She felt warm. She felt comfortable. She felt…

Sariah opened her eyes to a room of gold. A throne sat at the far end of it, some figure was upon it, but Sariah could not make the features of the man out at first, but as she drew closer she saw that it was Griffen. And by his side, some female figure in a gold silk robe, her curves exposed through high slits that made the length of her thigh and the curve of her hip peek appealingly through the veil of pretend modesty.

The woman was on all fours, her back arched, her hips held high as she crawled around the king’s throne, prowling like a panther. Sariah barely recognized herself in the figure, who was as powerful as she was proud in spite of the collar she wore. With the fluid motions, the rolling of ample buttocks, Sariah saw herself suddenly as beautiful in submission. A gold thread ran from the collar to the king’s hand. He had the sybaritic beast in his thrall, but she was not diminished for it.

Sariah had never seen herself in such a light before, nor had she appreciated Griffen for what he was—a barbarian with a heart and a head that placed him above all others. His expression was loving and benevolent, his control not quite as absolute as either of them would have liked. The thread connecting them was tenuous; only by her own will did she stay at his side.

She watched as the dream vision of herself curled up at his feet, rubbing her cheek against his thigh and being rewarded with a tender caress of his large hand. A sense of contentment washed through her, a security and a safety unlike any other. The herbal concoction’s strength began to fade and the vision with it, but the sense of being cared for remained as Sariah drifted into a deep healing sleep.

It was time for Sariah to pay for her trespasses. Three days had passed since her escape and thanks to the healer’s concoctions Sariah was almost entirely free of discomfort. She did not anticipate that respite lasting much longer, for Griffen had come to her and she knew by the set of his jaw and the look in his eyes that reckoning was upon her.

“Kneel before me, pet,” he commanded gently.

Sariah did as she was told, the welling guilt making her compliant. Griffen was solemn as he cupped her face in his hands and looked down at her with a searching gaze.

“Why did you run? Because I whipped you for your rudeness?”

Sariah spoke in a small voice, barely audible above the pounding of her heart in her ears. “Because I do not matter.”

Griffen’s handsome features contorted into confusion. “What would make you think that you were not of consequence to me?”

“I am your pet. Your plaything. You punish me often. I know there are many more pleasing women who have entertained you with their willing loins. For the moment I am your sole entertainment, but there will be others and you will forget me. “

“Do you know how many nights I have laid with women who smile like clay dolls and lay limp beneath me, making themselves objects to my lust?” Griffen chuckled darkly. “That is not what I want in a lover. I have had a lifetime of compliance and servitude. I could take a woman who shutters her senses and presents me with a hollow show of submission at any hour. But you, Sariah. Your eyes flash with feeling, your skin flushes with rebellion. I can read your moods in every motion you make. You are alive with passion, my pet. Even watching you frown pleases me, because I know that frown is your truth.”

She found herself blushing. The barbarian had a poetic ability to speak to her soul. Griffen was so much more than a king. And she… what was she but a shepherd girl? As much as she wanted to believe him, she could not bring herself to.

“What will prove my love for you, Sariah? How many bandits and barbarians need be slain?”

“I do not wish to see bloodshed again,” she said emphatically. “Too much has been spilled.”

“You have spilled a good dose of it,” he reminded her gently. “Obedience will save many lives where you are concerned. You must believe me when I tell you that you are mine, and that I will not forget about you, my pet. I doubt you would allow me to even if I did.”

Sariah smiled a small smile, tinged with sadness. Griffen’s reassurances filled her with warmth, but that warmth was tinged with sorrow. Running from the king had served more than one purpose. It was not mere rebellion that had seen her slipping out of the tent, or the prospect of jealousies in a harem. It was obligation to those she had left behind. For all the king’s prowess and power, she could not forget the image of her mother’s face.

“What troubles you?” Griffen pressed the question. “There is something more. Sheer petulance and maidenly concerns did not find you deep in foreign forest.”

“My mother will have mourned me,” she said. “I was all she had in the world. She will not be able to tend the sheep on her own. She will not be able to feed herself come winter. If the other villagers do not take pity on her and offer her charity, she will starve.”

“So you were returning to her. You could simply have told me of your concerns. I am not a monster, Sariah. I would not steal a daughter and leave her mother to starve. You have never so much as mentioned her plight until now.”

“I did not think you would care,” Sariah said. “I am your pet. Nothing more.”

“I have treated you with care and kindness from the beginning.” Griffen frowned down at her. “And you have been petulant, hidden your true feelings, and failed to appreciate my kindness. Very well. You will see what it means to be treated as you are imagining you have been treated.”

He grasped her by the collar and pulled her up, a rough kiss crushing her lips. Sariah squirmed as his tongue pressed into her mouth, lashing hers with demanding insistence that drove all thoughts of resistance from her mind.

“I’ve had something made for you, pet,” he growled against her mouth. “Something that will remind you of your place for a good long time.”

He opened a small chest and pulled out a tail much like the one Sariah had worn when pulling the cart, but the plug was not smooth wood. It was a ginger root, carved into a shape perfectly designed for insertion into a disobedient rear. Much like the wood tail, it was fashioned with strips of leather to emulate the tail of an animal, Griffen’s way of showing her that she was truly his pet.