Untamed (16 page)

Dominic was not such a saint that he could fault his wife for following her sensual nature. Yet the thought of Meg lying abandoned across Duncan's
lap while he plundered the feminine riches that lay open to him made a killing rage leap in Dominic.

To control it, he forced himself to note the state of the rooms that opened on either side of the aisle. These rooms were neatly kept, and had been even before his edict.

Meg's doing, I'll warrant
, Dominic admitted silently.
She is as clean as a cat. Pity she's as independent as one, too. The most simple command is beyond her ability to obey
.

Dominic ducked beneath the low lintel of the herbal. No sooner had he straightened than Meg's voice came to him. Her back was turned as she worked over a mortar and pestle on a long stone table that looked as though it grew from the earth beneath her feet.

“Whoever it is,” Meg said without turning around, “leave the torch outside. It fouls the air in the herbal. How many times must I remind the keep's people of that?”

“As many times as I must tell you to stay in your rooms, perhaps?” retorted Dominic.

Meg spun around. In the leaping torchlight her eyes were wide, startled. The light made her skin as golden as the jewelry Dominic had thrown in disgust on her bed upstairs.

“You!” she said. “What are you doing here? This is my place!”

“Nay, madam. The keep and everything in it is mine,” Dominic said curtly. “It is a fact you would do well to remember.”

Cloth swirled as Meg went back to working over the mortar. She cast a quick eye at the water keeper and picked up the pace of her strokes.

“I am speaking to you,” Dominic said, holding on to his temper with an effort that thinned his lips.

“I am hearing you.”

“Did you hear me when I said you were to remain in your quarters unless I was with you?”

Silence.

“Answer me,” Dominic snapped.

“Yes, I heard you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“The herbal is part of my quarters,” Meg retorted.

“Don't try my patience.”

“How could I?” she muttered. “You have none.”

Dominic, who prided himself on his patience, discovered he was out of it. He crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed Meg's arm with one hand.

“Enough of this foolishness,” he said curtly. “You stood before God and promised to obey your husband. And by God, you shall. To your room, madam.”

“Soon,” she said, “but the leaves must be worked for a little time yet.”

Dominic didn't argue. He just turned to go, pulling Meg in his wake.

When Meg felt herself being dragged away from the table, she didn't try to argue, either. She didn't even think. The fear that had driven her since she had awakened exploded in a mindless black rush. She jerked her arm and twisted wildly from side to side in an attempt to break Dominic's hold.

“What in God's name…” he muttered.

Meg dropped the pestle and clawed at Dominic's hand, trying to force him to free her. His fingers didn't loosen at all, so she tried to pry them off one by one.

It was futile. He was far stronger than she was.

“Stop this thrashing about before you hurt yourself,” Dominic said curtly.

“Let go of me!”

“Not until you're in your quarters.”

“No,” Meg said hoarsely. “I must finish what I started!”

Dominic shifted his grip with lightning speed. Between one instant and the next, Meg found herself hauled up off the ground, her feet flailing, as helpless as a bird in a net. Thinking only of the irreplaceable leaves that must be prepared immediately or ruined beyond use, she fought back with a fury that was all the more startling for its silence.

The torch dipped and arced frantically as Dominic sought to subdue Meg one-handed. The sullen flames came breathtakingly close to her eyes, her hair, her cheek. She didn't notice. Her head cloth and circlet came off, sending her hair cascading wildly about.

“God's teeth,” Dominic hissed. “You little idiot, you'll burn yourself!”

Meg didn't seem to hear. The torch's flame careened against her unprotected wrist as she made a frantic grab for Dominic's face. With a savage oath, he dropped the torch and ground it out underfoot.

Once both hands were free, Dominic quickly finished the struggle. Before Meg knew what had happened, he had her flat against the wall, her wrists locked over her head in one of his hands, her chin in the other, and her knees clamped between his. No matter how hard she fought, she could do little more than breathe.

Dominic looked at the frantic face of his wife and wondered what had possessed her to attack him. He had expected Meg to argue or to plead, or perhaps to drag her feet and sulk the length of the keep when he insisted that she obey him. He hadn't expected her to turn on him like a cornered wildcat.

Slowly Meg's thrashing abated. She watched him with feral eyes as she fought to draw breath into
her lungs despite the weight of his body pressing her into the wall.

“Are you finished?” Dominic asked with sardonic politeness.

Meg nodded her head.

“Then we will go to your rooms and—”

Dominic's words broke off as he felt the tension in Meg's body return.

“If I let go of you, you'll fight me again, won't you?” he asked.

Meg said nothing. She didn't have to. The fierce tautness of her body told its own story.

Perplexed, Dominic regarded his wife in the light of the sweetly scented, cleanly burning candles of the herbal. Meg was clearly defeated in this contest of strength, and she knew it as well as he. Just as clearly, she would continue to fight if he relaxed his grip.

There was a long, seething silence while Dominic considered Meg's watchful green eyes. Abruptly he remembered the initial cause of the problem.

“Are you, by chance, working with the leaves you gathered this morning?” Dominic asked curiously.

“Aye,” she whispered. Then, in a tumble of hopeful words, “Please, let me finish. It's more important than you know. I must prepare them before they lose their potency.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” Meg admitted. “I just know that I must do it or something fearful will happen to Blackthorne Keep.”

Dominic cocked his head as though listening to an inner voice. What he heard was the faint slow dripping of water somewhere nearby. He turned and saw a silver bowl suspended above an ebony bowl. Water dripped down with measured speed.

“Is it a Glendruid matter?” he asked, turning back to the wife who was more an enigma to him with every hour.

“Aye.”

“Old Gwyn mentioned danger this morning. Something she sensed. She said you had probably sensed it, too.”

Meg nodded eagerly.

“What danger?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

Dominic grunted. “It seems you know little, Glendruid witch. Or is it that you simply won't tell me?”

“I—I dreamed,” she said in a low voice. “There was a danger I couldn't name. Then I saw the leaves of this plant. I knew I must gather them to avert disaster. Please, Lord Dominic. Allow me to finish what I began. I can't replace these leaves for at least one fortnight, perhaps two.
Please
.”

Anxiously Meg watched Dominic, knowing that her well-being—and the future of Blackthorne Keep—depended on his being reasonable after she had tested him far beyond the limits of most men's patience.

Before Dominic spoke, Meg sensed his answer. The feel of his body changed subtly as it relaxed against her without freeing her in the least. His caging of her became sensual rather than enraged. Suddenly she became aware of the very masculine contours of his body pressed against the length of hers.

“Shall we bargain, then?” Dominic asked huskily. “What will you give me if I let you finish preparing your Glendruid potion?”

“All you want from me is a son,” Meg said, trying to keep the bitterness of defeat from her voice. “That is beyond my power to give you.”

His eyes narrowed in a mixture of anger, rueful humor, and speculation.

“There is more to man and maid than simply making babes,” Dominic pointed out.

“Is there? You've not spoken of it to me.”

“Aye,” he said slowly. “I've erred in that.”

“Lord?” Meg asked.

“My name is Dominic,” he said as he brushed his lips across hers. “Let me hear you say it.”

“Dominic…”

He absorbed the whispering warmth of the word against his lips.

“You do that very well, sweet witch.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Dominic eased the pressure of his body from Meg.

“You owe me a favor of my choice at a time of my choice,” he said thickly. “Agreed?”

“Aye.”

“So quick? Aren't you worried what I might want?”

“Nay,” Meg said anxiously, looking toward the table, where water dripped relentlessly into the keeper bowl. “I'm worried only about the leaves. If I don't finish the preparation soon, all will be for naught.”

“A kiss to seal our bargain, then.”

“Now?” she asked, dismayed.

“Why not?”

Meg explained in a rush, not knowing how much time she had. “By the time we finish kissing it will be too late and my mind will be a muddle and my fingers will be all thumbs. You kiss in a most distracting way.”

When Dominic understood the meaning of the tumbled words, he smiled sensually. His thumb traced the faint trembling of Meg's lower lip.

“Does Duncan?” he murmured.

“Duncan?” Meg blinked, perplexed. “What in heaven does he have to do with kissing? He has never muddled my mind one bit.”

“Do I?”

“You know you do,” she said, exasperated. “I just told you so. And if you don't stop running your thumb over my lip I shall bite you!”

“Where? Here?”

As Dominic spoke, he drew one of Meg's captive hands to his mouth, bit the base of her thumb with great care, and was rewarded by the swift, sensual breaking of her breath.

“Oh, stop,” she begged. “I must have steady hands.”

Dominic tried not to show his pleasure at her response to him, but found it impossible. He freed Meg and laughed to make the stones ring.

“Finish your work, sweet witch. Then we'll go to your rooms and discuss the nature of your captivity.”

Before Dominic finished speaking, Simon ducked beneath the lintel and stepped into the herbal.

“Is she here?” he asked.

“Aye,” Dominic answered, his voice still rich with laughter. “Come, we'll wait outside. The torch you're carrying fouls the air of Meg's herbal.”

Outside, Simon gave Dominic a curious look. “The maid must indeed be a witch.”

Dominic made a questioning sound that was rather like a satisfied purr.

“I left you angry enough to flay her alive,” Simon said, “and a short time later I find you laughing like a boy.”

The smile Dominic gave Simon made him uneasy.

“It's a serious matter,” Simon said.

“Why? Can't I laugh like other men?”

“She has bewitched you,” Simon said bluntly, “just as Eadith said she would.”

“'Tis a sweet enchantment,” Dominic said, smiling.

“God's blood, you are bewitched. Look to your soul, brother, or soon Duncan of Maxwell will have by treachery what he couldn't take by force!”

M
EG CARRIED THE TIGHTLY STOPPERED
bottle in both hands through the keep and up to her own rooms. Normally she would have left the potion to ripen in a dark area of the herbal, but she was afraid to let the bottle out of her sight.

With a mixture of irritation and amusement, Dominic watched Meg open a concealed panel in the wooden partition that divided her quarters into a bedchamber and a sitting room. She put the bottle in the secret niche, closed the panel, and let out a long sigh of relief.

“You won't tell anyone where the bottle is?” she asked anxiously, turning toward the silent man who had followed her every step of the way from the herbal.

Dominic shrugged and shut the door behind him. “Does it matter that much?”

“If anything happens to that bottle, I can't replace the medicine for at least a fortnight. By then, it might be too late.”

“Why? What is it for?”

Meg thought quickly, wondering how much she could tell Dominic without breaking her word to Old Gwyn. After a brief hesitation, Meg spoke, choosing
her truths carefully, for she disliked lying.

“Some of my medicines are quite strong. If given wrongly, they can kill. That,” Meg gestured toward the hidden bottle, “is an antidote to one of my most powerful pain medicines. After John died, I made a new batch of the pain medicine, so it is only prudent to make the antidote as well.”

“For whom?”

“I don't understand.”

“John is dead. For whom are you preparing such risky medicines?”

The blunt question made Meg wince. Again, she chose her truths with great care.

“I've seen that your knights train most strenuously. Soon or late, your men will hurt one another. Now I will be prepared to help them.”

For a long count of three, Dominic looked into the Glendruid eyes that were watching him with barely concealed anxiety. He suspected he wasn't being told the whole truth, and he knew there was no way to be certain.

“I'll tell no one except Simon,” Dominic said finally, “and he already knows that you took the bottle to your rooms.”

“See that he tells no one.”

Dominic nodded. Then he smiled rather darkly.

“That is two boons you owe me, wife.”

Meg's cheeks colored at the combination of sensuality and triumph in Dominic's smile.

“Aye.”

Nervously, Meg turned to tend the fire. Dominic watched as she bent to the hearth to stir up the embers. The more he was with his wife, the more impatient he became for her monthly flux to come and go so that he could plant the seeds of dynasty within her soft body. The grace of her movements aroused him to the point of pain.

And the quick skill of her hands told him that tending the fire was a task she performed often.

“Eadith barely earns her keep,” he said in a disgusted voice.

“What?”

“Your handmaiden seems to spend little time doing her tasks.”

“'Tis easier to do some things than to send word for one of the servants. In any case, Eadith wouldn't have been a handmaiden if her father or husband had lived. She would have been a lady with a handmaiden of her own. I spare her pride where it is possible.”

“What happened to her family's lands?” Dominic asked.

“The same thing that happened to all of England—William or his sons took the land and divided it among their Norman knights.”

Dominic listened carefully, but discovered none of the hatred he had sensed in Eadith's voice when she talked of the Normans—a hatred more than a few of Blackthorne Keep's servants bore despite their love of Meg. Nor did Dominic hear the refusal to accept his position that had been obvious in Duncan's voice. Meg was as matter-of-fact as though she were describing the number of sheep in a fold. She didn't even look up from her rummaging in the beaten brass container that held wood for the fire.

“Don't you hate the Normans as many of the keep's folk do?” Dominic asked curiously.

“Some of them are brutal, bloodthirsty, and cruel,” Meg said bluntly as she chose a length of oak.

“You could say that of men from Scotland, Normandy, or the Holy Land,” Dominic pointed out.

“Aye,” Meg agreed, watching broodingly as tiny flames sank their teeth into the wood she had just laid in the hearth. “Cruelty knows no clan boundaries.”

Dominic went to the bed and picked up the long golden chains with their sweetly chiming bells. Meg turned toward him, charmed by the musical sounds.

“What is that?” she asked.

“A wedding gift for my bride.”

Meg stood and came to him, called by the golden voices of the bells.

“Truly?” she asked, surprised.

“Will you wear them, or must I require it of you as one of my boons?”

“Whatever do you mean? They're beautiful. Of course I'll wear them.”

“But you didn't wear the brooch I gave you,” he pointed out.

“Glendruid maids wear only silver before they are married.”

Pointedly, Dominic looked at Meg's long tunic. It was barren of any decoration.

“You are married now.”

Meg unlaced enough of the outer tunic to show that the brooch was fastened to her inner tunic, below the hollow of her throat.

“Ah,” Dominic said. “I see.”

And he did. What he saw was the proud rise of Meg's breasts and the delicate hollow of her throat.

“I envy my gift,” he said.

Puzzled, Meg looked at the stranger who was also her husband. “Envy, lord—er, Dominic. How so?”

“It is free to lie between your breasts.”

Red bloomed along Meg's cheekbones. Rather clumsily she fastened her tunic again.

Dominic was watching, smiling in a way that made her breath catch. She cleared her throat and pointed to the long chains he held.

“How shall I wear those?” Meg asked.

“I'll show you.”

With a muscular grace that pleased Meg, Dominic
sat on his heels in front of her.

“Put your foot on my thigh,” he said.

Hesitantly, Meg obeyed. Beneath her tunic, warm, strong fingers closed gently around her ankle. She made a startled sound. Before she could withdraw her foot, Dominic's hand closed firmly. The grip both steadied and restrained her.

“Be easy,” he said. “There is nothing to fear.”

“'Tis rather unsettling,” she said.

“Being touched?”

“No. Realizing that a man I've known only a few days has the right to touch me however and whenever he wishes.”

“Unsettling,” Dominic repeated thoughtfully. “Do you fear me? Is that why you ran into the wood?”

“I expect to feel pain when I lie beneath you, but that isn't why I went to the wood.”

“The tiny leaves for your potion?” he asked.

“Aye.”

Bells rang discreetly as Dominic wrapped one chain around Meg's ankle and fastened the clasp. He tested the security of the clasp and then stroked his palm up Meg's calf. Her breath came in audibly. The subtle jerk of her body set the bells to whispering musically.

“Why do you expect to feel pain when you lie with me?” Dominic asked, stroking Meg slowly. “Is it that difficult for you to accept a man?”

“Accept? How so?”

“Into your body.”

Meg's breath came in swiftly. “I don't know. Eadith has told me 'tis no pleasure.”

Dominic's hand paused, then resumed its slow, gentle strokes.

“Yet she flirts so intently,” he pointed out.

“That is work, not pleasure. She is casting for a husband. Just as you are casting for an heir.”

Dominic was too much a tactician to deny the truth. He simply feinted in another direction, distracting his opponent, keeping her off balance.

“Do you like it when I touch you?” he asked, squeezing Meg's calf with sensual care.

“I…” Her breath caught as he stoked her calf again. “I think so. 'Tis strange.”

“What is?”

“Your hand is very large and strong. You make me feel rather fragile by comparison. Yet I don't think of myself as delicate at all.”

“Does that frighten you?” he asked.

“It should.”

“Why? Do you think me brutal after all?” Dominic asked.

“I think I'm quite glad that you don't beat falcons.”

He laughed, but he didn't cease the slow caress of his palm up Meg's calf to the back of her knee. Tender frissons of fire raced through her body.

“You were very angry when you came into the herbal,” she said, trying not to be distracted.

“Yes.”

“And you're quite strong.”

“Yes,” Dominic said, hiding his smile against Meg's tunic. “But you fought me anyway, small falcon.”

Slowly he traced the sensitive crease at the back of her knee and felt the subtle, almost unwilling shiver of her body in response. Carefully he shifted her foot from his thigh to the floor.

“Now the other foot,” Dominic said.

When Meg moved, bells chimed beneath her tunic. She waited in taut anticipation of more of the disturbing caresses while Dominic wrapped a second chain around her ankle and fastened the clasp. As unsettling as his touch was, she found she liked
the shimmering sensations that came in the wake of his caress. It made her want to forget what she knew all too well—beneath her husband's careful seduction burned a warrior's cold ambition rather than a lover's hot passion for his mate.

Dominic straightened with a grace that reminded Meg of Black Tom. He stood so close to her that her breasts almost brushed against him with each breath she took.

“Now your wrists,” he said.

His low voice ruffled Meg's nerve endings almost as much as his touch. She moved skittishly, making bells cry beneath her skirts. Tentatively she held out both hands.

In a silence that was somehow intensified by the muted stirring of golden bells, Dominic wrapped bracelets around each of Meg's slender wrists. When he was finished, he lifted first one of Meg's hands and then the other. Slowly, he kissed the center of each palm, then tasted her with a single touch of his tongue.

The sound Meg made was a combination of surprise and sensual discovery. It went to Dominic's head like winter wine. He wanted very much to pull her into his arms for a thorough kissing, but his body had hardened in a rush that boded ill for the careful, and unfinished, seduction he must conduct if he were to win the first skirmish in his war to seduce a Glendruid witch.

A man too impatient to train his falcon will lose her the first time he takes off the leash
, Dominic reminded himself.
I have barely succeeded in putting my leash in place, much less in training her to fly at my command and for my pleasure
.

To take her now would be to lose the war for the sake of winning one sweet battle. Only a fool is ruled by his passion
.

Cold determination banked the sensual fires burning within Dominic, leaving him in command of himself and of the seductive battle.

Releasing Meg's hands, Dominic turned her so that her back was to him. He removed the circlet and head cloth that she had hastily replaced after their battle. In the muted light of the room, her hair glowed richly. The temptation to sink his hands into its silky luxury was so great he almost succumbed. Instead, he smoothed her hair quickly into braids, wrapped a chain around each one, and left bells trailing down.

When Dominic finished, he had just one long chain remaining in his hands. He wrapped it around Meg's narrow waist, brought the gold around the fullness of her hips and tied the chain as she would have a girdle, allowing the long ends to trail almost to the floor.

Meg stood wrapped in delicate riches and muted music. With every breath she took, with each movement she made, bells chimed softly.

“You are like a falcon made of fire,” Dominic said, looking at the play of candlelight through Meg's hair. “And you wear golden jesses as such a magical falcon should.”

Deliberately he turned Meg until she was facing him. He looked down at her with eyes as clear and cold as springwater while he caught her face between his hands.

“Are you hungry, wife?”

“Aye,” she said in a low voice. “I've eaten only a piece of bread and cheese since dawn.”

With an odd smile, Dominic turned away and went to the door. He opened it and saw the cold supper he had requested that Simon bring.

“Breads, cheeses, fowl, mustard, ale…” Dominic said.

He picked up the tray and walked into the room, closing the door behind him with a casual movement of his foot.

“…figs, raisins, nutmeats, honeyed almonds,” he continued, “and a pile of raw greens whose purpose eludes me. Was Simon expecting a rabbit to join us for supper?”

Meg smiled. “'Tis Marta, the cook. She knows I have a fondness for fresh greens in the springtime.”

“Indeed?”

A single black eyebrow lifted as Dominic looked skeptically at the small heap of greenery.

“Is it a Glendruid ritual?” he asked.

“Nay,” Meg said, laughing and reaching for a piece of crisp green. “Even Gwyn teases me about grazing in my garden like a sheep.”

Dominic turned aside, blocking Meg's hand with his body before she could take any food.

“Patience, small falcon. There are a few things that must be done before you eat.”

Perplexed, Meg watched as Dominic set the tray on the table near her big chair and then calmly went about extinguishing every candle and oil lamp in the room. There were many to be put out, for she craved light with the same instinctive yearning she had for clean water and growing plants.

“What…?” she asked, alarmed.

“The mews are kept in darkness. Or would you rather go hooded?”

“You can't be serious.”

“I can. I am. Darkened mews or a silken hood for my small falcon. I leave the choice to you.”

The cold steel beneath Dominic's matter-of-fact tone told Meg that she had pushed her husband too far. The words he had spoken in the church rang ominously in her ears:
A wise man will understand
that his lord is merciful rather than weak. A foolish man will try my patience. And die
. She had already defied him in front of vassals and keep. To do so again would not be wise.