Untamed (30 page)

A rending clash and slamming of lances, shields, and horses burst over the meadow. Both stallions staggered, recovered, and galloped to the far end of the meadow for another charge. Again thunder rolled. Again came the clash of metal and the thudding of flesh. Again the stallions staggered and regrouped for another pass.

And then again.

And again.

“They are too well matched,” Simon said grimly. “The stallions are within a stone's weight of one another and well-trained. Unless Duncan makes a mistake or a lance breaks—”

The
crack
of a shattering lance punctuated Simon's words. But it wasn't Duncan's lance that broke.

It was Dominic's.

Though he deflected the force of Duncan's blow with his shield, the sudden destruction of his lance unhorsed Dominic. He gained his feet quickly and ran toward his stallion, but Duncan's charger pivoted to cut off Dominic from Crusader.

Duncan's stallion pivoted again, striking Dominic with his shoulder, sending him rolling. Even as Dominic pulled himself to his feet, Duncan charged again. Cheers from the Reevers mixed with groans and curses from Blackthorne's knights.

Watching in horror, Meg laced her fingers together and bit back the scream that was tearing her throat as the massive brown stallion bore down on Dominic. Duncan's lance was leveled. If Dominic turned and fled he would be run down by the stallion. If he drew his sword and tried to fight, he would be killed by Duncan's lance or run down where he stood.

“
Nay!
”

No one heard Meg's terrible cry, for every voice was raised in cheers or exhortations. Simon held Meg at his side with fingers like bands of steel, preventing her from running onto the field of battle. She struggled wildly, then stood still, knowing there was nothing she could do.

Dominic stood unmoving, as though he had decided to take his death head-on. Every knight in the meadow expected him to leap aside at the last instant, evading both lance and stallion. It was a common tactic on the battlefield, giving the unmounted knight enough time for a friend to charge over and help the downed knight.

But no one would help Dominic. It was forbidden by custom and by law. God's judgment, not the speed or number of a man's friends, decreed the survivor of ritual combat.

Without help Dominic would be able to evade Duncan for a time, but soon a man afoot would tire or stumble. Then Duncan would be on him and Dominic would die.

The brown stallion charged toward Dominic, picking up speed with every stride. Dominic waited, half crouched, his weight on the balls of his feet, obviously ready to spring to either side. Poised to follow his quarry, Duncan lifted slightly out of his saddle, a savage grimace on his face as he bore down on the Norman lord.

In order to evade the lance, Dominic had to stand until the last possible instant before crossing or turning aside from the charger's path. By the time Dominic moved, the horse was so close that Dominic was pelted with the dirt spurting from beneath the stallion's feet. Just before he would have been crushed beneath the charger's hooves, he sprang away.

An odd sound rose above the crowd, a groan that
could have been for or against the lord of Blackthorne Keep. Again he was charged by Duncan. Again Dominic leaped away at the last instant. The game of cat and mouse continued for several more passes. Each time Duncan charged he leaned a little more forward in the stirrups, eager to end the lopsided battle.

On the sixth charge, Dominic leaped once more, but it was toward Duncan, not away. Grabbing Duncan's right foot, Dominic heaved upward with all his considerable strength. The tactic worked. Duncan lost his seat in the saddle.

Even as he came unhorsed, Duncan dropped the useless lance and grabbed for his sword. Although he landed hard on his shoulder, he rolled as Dominic had, coming to his feet like a cat.

Before Duncan could get set, Dominic hit him behind the knees with the flat of his sword. Duncan tumbled backward. There was no chance to regain his balance or to use his sword; Dominic slid the point of his broadsword between Duncan's chin and the gap in his chain mail hood.

Duncan froze, expecting to die in the next instant. Dominic stood above him, breathing hard from his exertions. Beneath the tip of the sword, blood trickled in a warm stream over Duncan's neck.

“You once told me you bent the knee to no one but your Scottish king,” Dominic said in a harsh voice that carried easily over the battle ground.

Duncan waited, his eyes narrowed in expectation of immediate death.

“I give you a choice, Duncan of Maxwell. Die now or accept me as your liege.”

For a long breath there was only silence in the meadow. Then the Scots Hammer swore, let go of the hilt of his sword, and smiled crookedly.

“Better your vassal than food for worms,” Duncan said.

Dominic threw back his head and laughed.

“Aye, Duncan. Much better.”

With an easy motion, Dominic sheathed his sword and held out a hand to help Duncan to his feet. But instead of standing, Duncan went down on one knee and bent his head, making it clear to everyone in the meadow that he would yield to Dominic le Sabre even when there wasn't a sword pricking his throat.

“Stand,” Dominic said.

When Duncan did, Dominic picked up Duncan's sword and handed it to him hilt first.

“You have given me your word,” Dominic said. “I need no other sign of your loyalty. And an unarmed knight is good to no one, least of all his liege.”

Duncan looked from his sword to Dominic's sheathed weapon, smiled oddly, and sheathed his own heavy sword with a quick stroke. As he did, a long sigh rose from people in the meadow.

Dominic turned to the waiting knights, but it was the Reevers who received the brunt of his measuring glance.

“I am giving Duncan of Maxwell a large estate on land disputed by the Scots and English kings.”

Duncan turned and stared at Dominic.

“Those of you who follow Duncan have a choice,” Dominic continued. “You may ride out unharmed and never again return to my domains.

“Or you may accept Duncan as your liege,
and through him, me
.”

W
HILE
D
OMINIC AND
S
IMON
oversaw the departure of the Reevers who had chosen to follow Rufus rather than remain with the Scots Hammer, Old Gwyn and Meg worked in the lord's solar, tending to knights from both sides who had been injured during the long day of games. The solar had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary, for the great hall was being readied for feasting.

“Ouch!” the Scots Hammer yelped, jerking back from Meg's hands. “That hurts!”

Duncan had insisted on being last to be treated, as his wounds were insignificant.

“Do be still,” Meg retorted. “You didn't complain nearly as much when Dominic's sword lay at your throat.”

“I expected to die. What use were complaints?”

Meg gave Duncan a cool look. As much as she liked the Scots Hammer, she would be a long time forgetting the sight of him bearing down on Dominic, ready to end the combat with a killing blow.

“Tip your head back,” she said. “I can't see your throat.”

“I don't like the look in your eyes, Meggie. It
would be like baring my throat to a she-wolf.”

She glanced at his hazel eyes, saw both the understanding and the rueful amusement, and felt some of her own tension fade.

“If Dominic can spare the life of an enemy,” she said wryly, “I can spare the life of a friend.”

Ignoring the barely concealed smiles of his knights, Duncan grimaced and tilted his head back to give Meg better access to his neck.

“'Tis just a scratch,” he muttered.

“Is that so?” Meg asked. “What with all your twitching and complaining, I thought your throat was fair slit from apple to ear.”

The knights remaining in the room laughed at the sight of a girl scolding one of the most feared warriors in all of England. Meg looked up and smiled at them.

“Go to supper, good knights,” she said. “Sir Duncan will be with you soon.”

As the men filed past Meg to the great hall, she bent once more and began prodding Duncan's throat with careful fingertips. Duncan had cast aside his battle clothing and was wearing little more than short leather breeches. Meg's hair, as usual, had come undone. When a thick lock slithered forward and threatened to get in her way, Duncan caught it, tugged it lightly, and tucked it behind Meg's ear. The casual gesture spoke of long familiarity between the Scots Hammer and the lady of Blackthorne Keep.

With hooded eyes, Dominic watched Duncan and Meg from the doorway. Each time Dominic drew a breath, he told himself there was no cause for the jealousy that was lying like molten lead in his gut. Yet seeing his wife's hands smoothing over the muscular width of Duncan's neck in search of injuries made vivid every bit of gossip he had heard both before and after coming to Blackthorne Keep.

Duncan's betrothed
.

Duncan's leman
.

The witch waits, smiling and biding her time
.

“You came very close to seeing God,” Meg muttered.

“Aye.” Duncan tugged on another stray lock of her hair and smiled whimsically. “Would you have missed me, Meggie?”

“The way a cat misses a dog.”

Duncan laughed and tucked the fiery lock away beneath Meg's head cloth. Bells chimed when he accidently pulled the cloth askew. He removed and refitted the circlet on her, setting bells to singing with every motion. If she objected to the intimacy, she didn't show it with word or action.

Affection between them
.

Pretending to be satisfied with her cold Norman lord
.

Smiling and biding her time
.

“Ouch! God blind me, are you trying to finish what your husband started?”

“Are you sure you have no trouble swallowing?” Meg asked.

“I'm certain.”

“Well, 'tis a lucky scoundrel you are, Duncan of Maxwell.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “But I'll never have a wife like you, Meggie.”

“For that you should thank the lord,” she retorted. “Ask Dominic. I'm such a trial to him that he makes me go belled like a cat or a falcon.”

“Is Dominic unkind to you?” Duncan asked, his voice no longer teasing.

“To his Glendruid wife? To his sole hope of legal heirs? Does my husband strike you as a stupid man?” Meg asked curtly.

“God's blood, no. The man is as cunning as a wolf.”

“He's as cunning as a pack of wolves. And he isn't unkind to me. My jesses, after all, are almost the equal of his fine peregrine's.”

Duncan shouted with laughter.

Smiling even as she scolded Duncan to sit still, Meg rubbed a salve into the various bruises that showed on Duncan's broad chest.

Biding her time
.

For the Scots Reever she has always loved
.

She waits
.

“If you should have any trouble swallowing, come directly to me,” Meg said as she rubbed salve into a bruise on Duncan's shoulder.

“I always do, Meggie. Your touch alone would heal a man, much less your magic Glendruid potions.”

Dominic pulled off his helm and dumped it onto a nearby table with enough force to make ale leap in the bowl Simon had left for the knights to drink.

Meg looked up swiftly. Her green eyes went over Dominic like intangible hands, searching for hidden wounds. What she saw was an icy anger that made her realize she was standing between Duncan's muscular thighs. A flush tinted her cheeks. Hastily she stepped back.

Duncan turned and looked at Dominic. The expression on the liege's face made it clear that he wasn't happy to find his wife alone with a half-naked Duncan of Maxwell. Duncan smiled rather sardonically.

“Now I know why you gave me an estate three days' ride from here,” he said.

“See that you get to it quickly,” Dominic said in a cold voice.

“Aye, lord. I'll do that. I like my head just where it is.”

Duncan stood and strode quickly from the solar, snagging his mantle on the way out. Dominic's cold
gray eyes bored into him every step of the way.

“I had Eadith prepare a bath,” Meg said. “It should be ready by now. Shall I call Simon to tend you?”

“Nay. I think I will sample the joys of your ‘healing touch' for myself.”

The words were like a whip. Meg stiffened.

“You have no reason to hint at anything improper,” she said angrily.

Dominic lifted a skeptical black eyebrow.

“There is naught between Duncan and me,” Meg said. “For the love of God, husband, I came to your bed a virgin!”

“But you can't do that every time, can you? A man can be certain only once of a woman's fidelity.”

Meg's eyes widened. “You can't mean that!”

“I can. I do. Once again, I regret not killing that Scots bastard.”

Stillness came over Meg like night flowing over the face of day.

“What have I done to earn your distrust?” she asked in a remote voice.

Meg's tone was like adding straw to the fire of Dominic's temper, which was already ablaze with the last, dying echoes of a battle he had come very close to losing.

“You were alone with a half-naked knight who is reputed to be the owner of your heart, if not your body,” Dominic retorted. “Were it Marie standing between Duncan's thighs, I would applaud. But it wasn't Marie who was simpering over Duncan's wounds. It was my wife!”

“I have never simpered over any man's wounds. I am a healer, not a prostitute.”

Dominic grunted. “At times, 'tis hard to know the difference.”

“Duncan has no such difficulty. He knows me for what I am, healer not whore. Would that mine own
husband knew me half as well!”

“I'm trying, wife. I'm trying. But I keep tripping over that Scots bastard at every turn. Tell me—for whom did you cheer while we fought?”

“How can you even ask that question?” she whispered.

Turning away, Meg began gathering her medicines with hands that shook from anger and something more, the chill fear that increased each time she understood how little of her husband's respect she had.

And of his trust, she had none.

“I'll send Simon to your bath,” Meg said.

“Nay.”

The command was as flat and cold as a sword.

“As you wish, lord,” Meg said, stalking past her fierce husband. “Though I would think a man who trusted me so little would be fearful of a dagger in his back.”

With a hissed phrase in Turkish, Dominic followed. He knew his temper was abrupt and his tongue was as slashing as the edge of his sword, but there was little he could do about the matter at the moment. His usual irritability after battle had turned to fury at the sight of Meg and the half-naked Scotsman.

Dominic stepped into the bathing room and yanked the drape across the doorway into place.

“Do you love that Scots bastard?” Dominic asked abruptly.

“As a cousin, a friend, the brother I never had, aye.”

With quick, curt motions, Dominic began undoing his battle gear.

“Did you once love Duncan as a woman loves a man?” he demanded.

“No.”

“But he loved you.”

Meg made a sound that was too sad and angry to be called laughter.

“Nay, lord. For me, Duncan felt some affection. For Blackthorne Keep, he had great love. Like you, Duncan saw me as a means of becoming a great lord. Unlike you, he was not the man the king commanded me to marry.”

“It is a noble woman's duty to increase her family's security through marriage.”

“Yes. I have done my duty.”

Dominic couldn't argue with Meg's quiet statement, yet he wanted to. He wanted her to say that it was more than noble duty that brought her to his bed, more than duty that made her soften at his touch, more than duty that called forth her sultry, passionate rain.

In a stiff silence Meg assisted Dominic out of his battle gear. When he peeled off the last of his clothing, his heavy arousal made her breath catch in her throat. Abruptly she began to understand why he might have been so angry at finding her with Duncan. The passion of battle had been transformed into another kind of passion altogether.

Meg could understand that, for she had felt the same. The terrible fear she had known while Duncan's charger bore down on her husband had been transformed in the space of a breath to intense desire.

Dominic was alive. She wanted to celebrate his survival in the most elemental of all ways.

“What? No sweet smiles and tender touches for your husband?” Dominic asked harshly as he stepped into the bath. “Aren't you going to stroke me and heal my battle wounds?”

“You look quite wonderfully healthy,” Meg said. “But I will stroke you anywhere you please.”

The change in his wife's voice from tight to husky both surprised and disarmed Dominic. He looked at Meg in time to see the sensual appraisal in her smile as his loins vanished into the bath. With hungry eyes he watched her remove her mantle and outer tunic, scoop up a handful of her own soap, and walk to the bath.

The water was hot and smelled like Meg's herbal. The soap was soft and smelled like Meg herself. The aches and bruises Dominic had gathered from battle dissolved, but not the hunger that held his body in a sensuous vise, nor the stark arousal that pulsed more heavily with each motion of Meg's hands as she bent over him.

In a low voice Meg sang the Glendruid chant of renewal while she bathed Dominic, washing away the mistakes and pains of the day, coaxing hope to come and live within her warrior's powerful body. When Dominic could bear no more of the tender torment, he took one of Meg's hands and dragged it down his chest to the part of him that ached more than any bruise could.

At the first touch of Meg's fingers on his aroused flesh, Dominic groaned. When her hand curled eagerly around and stroked from base to tip, he thought he would burst like a wineskin overfilled.

“
Meg
…”

The word sounded as though it had been torn from Dominic unwillingly.

“Yes, husband?” she murmured.

“Simon tells me I'm beastly after a battle.”

“Simon is correct.”

Meg pulled her nails delicately over Dominic's eager flesh, drawing another groan from him.

“But now that I know how to pull the thorn from my beast's paw,” she added, “I will be more understanding.”

“That is not a thorn.”

Soft, feminine laughter agreed with Dominic.

“Aye,” she whispered, stroking him. “'Tis a very fine, very magical sword.”

“Magic?” Dominic's breath hissed in as pleasure lanced through his whole body. “How so?”

“Though your sword is hard indeed, it is hot rather than cold, it brings pleasure rather than pain, joy rather than sorrow…life rather than death. That is a very great magic.”

With a throttled groan, Dominic tilted his head back against the rim of the bath and fought for control.

“I have never before been a jealous man,” he said, “but the thought of you touching Duncan like this makes me want to kill him out of hand.”

As Dominic spoke, his fingers went beneath the hem of Meg's inner tunic. He heard the sudden intake of her breath when he caressed her ankle. Smiling, he stroked his long fingers up the curves of one leg and down again.

“For a knight who is renowned for his logic and tactics,” Meg said breathlessly, “your jealousy makes little sense.”

Dominic's eyes narrowed into glittering gray slits as his palm stroked up the length of Meg's leg again. But this time he didn't stop at her thigh. His fingers sought the frail layer of cloth that lay between him and her sensual heat. He pulled once, sharply, and the barrier tore. An instant later his fingers were tangled in the warm thatch between her thighs. The shivering sound she made pleased him as much as the liquid fire his touch drew from her softness.