by Shay Savage
I covered my eyes with my hands. My mind raced—so many different thoughts cramming together all at once. How badly was he hurt? What if he lived but his arm was broken? If I wanted to pray to his God, where would I begin? I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“No, no, no,” I heard myself whispering through ragged breaths. The hand on my shoulder began to shake me.
“Alexandra, look!” Ida’s voice was forceful. “He’s walking off the field on his own. He’s even yelling at his page. He is fine, Alexandra! He is fine!”
“Fine?” I whispered as I dared open my eyes. Ida was correct. When I looked down on the field, I could see Branford stomping off, shoving Michael out of his way as he did. He held his left arm out away from his body, his face in a grimace. Air finally filled my lungs again.
“I want to go to him,” I said as I turned to her. Ida narrowed her eyes, and her lips smashed into a hard line. She seemed to debate for a moment before nodding and grabbing my hand in hers. She turned and pulled me into the crowd behind us as they pushed in the opposite direction, trying to get a better view of the victor. I followed, my hand grasped in Ida’s tiny fingers as she dragged me down the steps at the back of the stands and around the edge of the arena walls. On the far side, she spied Sir Parnell and quickly brought me over to him.
“Ida, what are you doing here?” Sir Parnell inquired as we approached. “You should be up in the stands. I shall be competing next, and you know this is no place for a lady.”
He smiled and stroked her cheek with his gloved thumb.
“Alexandra wanted to find Branford.”
Sir Parnell’s eyes narrowed slightly, though not unkindly, as he shook his head. He glanced off into the distance where the outer wall of the castle displayed an open arch leading to a field and trees beyond. I let go of Ida’s hand and started in the direction of the arch.
“No, Alexandra,” Sir Parnell said. His hand coiled around my arm, and he held me back. “You do not want to be near him right now.”
“He is hurt!”
“Let him be.”
I looked down at my arm and saw Sir Parnell’s gloved fingers encircling it while flashes of Branford’s obviously pained face invaded my mind.
“Release me.” I could hardly hear myself speak.
“You are not going down there,” Sir Parnell said again. “I know of which I speak. He does not want or need anyone near him right after he has been bested. You need to—”
“I said, release me!” I shouted at him. Sir Parnell’s eyes went wide, and I was not sure which of us was more surprised by my outburst. I felt his fingers relax and pull away from me a second later.
“Yes, my lady,” he said quietly as he bowed his head. “Please forgive me. I meant no disrespect. I have known Branford all my life, and he will not be…‘pleasant’ at the moment. He will want his privacy.”
“Once I know he is not badly injured, he can have it!” I turned and held up my skirts so I could walk quickly down the wooden steps to the edge of the arena then around the side of the castle wall until I reached the opening where Branford had disappeared. I walked through the gate and up a path leading to the buildings that housed the animals. I saw movement next to a high stone wall covered in vines and quickened my pace as I made my way toward it.
Branford was seated on a stone bench with his sword propped up against the wall and his helmet beside him. Two large trees grew close to the wall where he sat, their roots making a tangled mess around the bench. He held his left arm away from his body while the right one gripped his hair. His eyes were closed and his mouth drawn into a vicious looking scowl. Sir Parnell’s warning ran through my head, but I shook the thought away. If Branford was badly hurt, it was better to help him as quickly as possible.
Lifting my skirts again, I closed the distance between us. When a dry branch snapped under my foot, he looked up, alerted to my presence. My husband’s eyes opened, and I heard myself gasp as he glared at me. His green eyes looked black with his fury.
“Get away from me!” His voice was a snarl.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” I replied. I felt my teeth sink into my lip, and I looked down at the ground near his plate-encased feet.
“I said, ‘Get away!’” he screamed as he stood abruptly and took a step closer. The fingers of his right hand clenched as he leaned toward me, his fist drawn back. I saw the muscles in his left hand also twitch to form a fist, but his fingers did not comply, and I saw my husband wince in pain.
“Give me your hand,” I said. I tried to keep my voice low and calm. Branford’s entire body seemed to strain against itself, like he was having trouble keeping his muscles bound within his skin. His jaw was tight, his nostrils flared, and I could have sworn I heard a low growl in the back of his throat.
“You need to leave,” my husband said through clenched teeth. “Now.”
“I am not leaving until you let me look at it!” Again, my own outburst seemed to startle me as much as it did Branford. His eyes went wide for a moment as he looked upon me with mouth agape. The fire was still in his eyes.
“Please,” I whispered. I took another tentative step toward him. “Let me make sure you are all right.”
He glared at me and shook his head as he dropped back down to the hard bench with a clang of metal against stone. His right hand ran through his hair again, and it splayed out over his forehead in tangled, sweaty lines.
“It is nothing,” Branford said. “It is not even my sword arm. Go back to the stands. I do not wish to speak with you or anyone else!”
Taking the remaining steps needed to reach his side, I slowly knelt beside the stone bench and reached for his hand anyway. At first, he drew it away from my grasp but eventually sighed and allowed me to look at it. The edge of his hand and wrist were already turning purple with bruises though there was no blood. I ran my fingers lightly over his hand and arm as I knelt by his side. Though it did look like a bad bruise, it did not appear to be too grave. His arm was straight with no indication of a break.
“Are you able to make your hand into a fist?” I asked.
“What difference does it make?” Branford asked, still growling but not as harshly as he had been.
“I want to see if your fingers are broken.”
Branford mumbled under his breath but still complied. He hissed as his hand clenched, and though it was obviously painful, he did make a proper fist, and the bones appeared to be intact.
“I told you,” he said again, “it is nothing.”
I glanced up at him and found his dark and glaring gaze trained to mine, full of the angry tyrant that lived inside of him. I refused to look aside, determined not to allow him to push me away when he was hurt unless I was sure he would be all right. I tried to breathe normally as I held his gaze, but it was difficult.
Slowly, the fire in his eyes dimmed, and he sighed heavily. His expression turned strangely shy as he looked away from me to the ground near his feet. I traced my fingers slowly over the edge of his battered arm. His gaze swiveled back to mine and widened for a moment, and I was sure he was holding his breath. He parted his lips as if he were going to speak but closed them again before he had uttered a sound, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. He reached out slowly with his right hand and touched my cheek, his thumb running tenderly across my cheekbone. The expression on his face was so strange, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
“What is wrong, Branford?”
He shook his head, dropped his hand from my face, and closed his eyes. The unusual look in his eyes was gone when he looked back to me again.
“I want to win…for you,” he finally admitted. He sighed deeply. “I wanted to present you with whatever the prize may be, and I managed to not even make it through the first trial.”
“It does not matter to me if you win,” I said, “I only want you unhurt.”
Our gazes met again, and I could not understand his expression as he looked down at me. Branford closed his eyes an
d shook his head.
“He should not have bested me,” Branford said as he narrowed his eyes. “I have beaten him before both with lance and sword.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Sir Leland,” Branford said. “He is not a particularly pleasant fellow, and you are not to go near him if you see him.”
“I would not know his face,” I told him. “I would only know him if he was wearing that same armor—with the griffon on the front.”
“He is young,” Branford said. “Younger than I—maybe nineteen years. His hair is blond and trimmed short, the same color as Michael’s. Just…I do not want you walking around on your own. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my Branford.”
I looked over his arm again, making sure I had not missed anything important.
“How do you know of the care of wounds? Did someone teach you?”
“Edith taught me some things,” I replied. “I do not have much knowledge, but there was a boy in Hadebrand who fell from a tree and broke his arm. I helped her care for it to make sure it healed straight. He was almost as good as new afterwards. She told me to keep a cut covered up, and it would heal faster and sometimes not even scar. Your arm is not broken though. I think it is just a bruise.”
“As I already told you, I am perfectly fine,” he said as he raised his eyebrows.
“I think so,” I replied. I ducked my head down to my chin as the realization washed over me that I had outwardly defied him by not respecting his wishes. I ran my fingers over his arm and hand a final time. I heard Branford huff through his nose.
“Have my injuries been sufficiently examined, wife?” he asked sharply.
I looked up and found his eyes, if not his words, had softened. I traced the edge of the bruise with my fingertips, careful not to put pressure on the wound. I nodded once more and released his hand.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I just wanted to know you were all right.”
“Come here,” he said as he patted his hand against his legs. I stood, and Branford reached out with his right arm to pull me onto his lap. I placed my hands on the cold, smooth breastplate of his bronze armor as he pulled me closer and wrapped his fingers around my hair. Our lips met, and he kissed me softly. When he backed away, I could see the hunger in his eyes, and his look made my stomach tighten.
He stared at me for a long moment without speaking, and I did not wish to interrupt his thoughts. The cold metal of his plate armor was uncomfortable as a seat, but I did not fidget or complain. I watched as he took a deep breath and leaned in to give me one more, quick kiss.
“I need to make sure Romero has been properly secured for the evening,” Branford finally said. “Come with me.”
“Of course,” I responded as I stood. Branford sheathed his sword and grabbed his helm. I took his right arm, and he led me back toward the arch, turning sharply once we were back inside the wall, and we headed to the stables.
The building was huge, the largest abode for horses I had ever seen. Branford explained that Lord Sawyer bred the very best horses in the entire realm, which is why the building was so large. Romero, as well as most of Branford’s other horses, had come from Sawyer. One of these, a sleek, white stallion named Vanquish, was Branford’s alternate steed and had accompanied us to the tournament. Both of Branford’s horses were at the end of the building—the farthest away from where we had entered.
“Michael!” Branford called out as we walked between the rows of mostly empty stalls. The young blond boy looked up quickly from where he held a bucket of water for Branford’s horse. Branford dropped his hand from my arm, and captured my hand with his, lacing our fingers together. He began to walk faster, pulling me along. “Make sure the farrier checks his left back hoof. I think the shoe might be loose.”
“Yes, Sir Branford,” Michael responded. His eyes met mine for the briefest of moments before he looked away again.
“Alexandra, I realize you have not been properly introduced before,” Branford said. “This is Michael, my page. Michael, this is my wife, Lady Alexandra.”
“An honor, my lady,” the young man said quietly as he bowed to me. His blond hair hung down to his eyes, and he looked to be around my age. I nodded back, biting my lip. Branford released my hand and ran his fingers over Romero’s neck for a moment before ordering Michael to help him remove his armor. Bits of metal seemed to end up everywhere, and Michael began to gather it all as Branford went back to his horse.
I smiled as I watched my husband’s fingers gently massage the proud stallion’s neck and mane, glad to see the handsome boy make an appearance in his eyes for a moment. When I looked over to Michael again, I felt a little uncomfortable with the look in his eyes as he glanced at me and smiled behind Branford’s back. Branford started to bark out instructions to the page, but I had the feeling Michael might not have been listening as intently as he should have. I looked away toward the door to the barn.
Suddenly, Michael’s sharp cry of pain echoed through the building. I turned in time to see Branford hauling him off the ground, his lip bleeding. Branford grabbed the young man by his shoulders and shoved him against the wall of the stall.
“If I ever see you gawking at my wife like that again, I will tear your eyes from their sockets!” Branford yelled. He coiled his fingers around Michael’s neck. “That is, right before I gut you on the ground. Am I perfectly clear?”
“Yes…sire…” Michael gasped as he tried to draw breath into his lungs.
Branford released his grip, and Michael fell to the ground.
“Get out! Go find out when the farrier is available, and do not come anywhere near me again tonight!”
“Yes…yes, Sir Branford!” Michael cried as he dragged himself from the ground and raced out of our sight.
Everything had happened so fast, I had not even had time to process it before it was over. Branford stood with both hands in tight fists—which had to be painful for the left one—as he stared at the retreating page. I stood frozen as I watched his shoulders rise and fall with his deep breaths as he tried to regain his senses. He growled out a curse and turned back to me, his eyes full of fury again. He reached out and pulled me to him, his lips crashing against mine and his tongue pushing its way into my mouth.
He moved his hands from my hips to my hair, then to my shoulders and down my arms before he grasped my hips again and held me tight. His mouth continued its assault until I was completely out of breath from the kisses and the suddenness of his actions. Finally allowing me to breathe, he moved to my jaw and then my neck.
“I need you, Alexandra.” Branford panted hotly into my ear. “Right now. Right here.”
“Here?” I heard myself repeat in disbelief.
“Here,” he said again. He wrapped his forearm around my waist, and he pulled me with him as he walked backwards through the doorway of Romero’s stall. I found myself against the inside wall, Branford’s strong arms holding me off the ground as his mouth covered mine again. He released his grip on me and let my feet touch the ground and moved his hands up to cup my breasts as his mouth latched on to my throat. “Please.”
My heart pounded in my chest as I felt my husband’s hot desire pressed tightly against my stomach. “I will attempt to seduce you in the stables at midday,” he had said. Apparently, that was also not a jest though this did not resemble seduction, either. This was exactly what he had called it. This was need. I did not understand it, but I would not deny him. Lifting my arms to reach him, I tangled my fingers into his hair and guided his mouth to mine, pushing my tongue into his mouth this time as he grunted his acceptance. He found my face with his hands and pulled me back for a moment.
“You are mine,” he said, his voice sounding desperate. “My wife.”
I nodded quickly.
“Take me,” I whispered.
I felt the muscles in his shoulders and arms relax for a moment as his eyelids drifted closed, and he drew in a long breath. His hands still cupped my face, gent
le at first as if he were trying to hold back, but soon his need was again apparent as his tongue ran over mine, and he used his hands to roam over my body again. He pulled back, panting.
“Pull up your skirts,” Branford commanded. “Hold them out of the way.”
I complied, hefting the bunched up fabric around my waist as I felt Branford’s hands slide up the outside of my thighs and grip my undergarment. He pulled at the sides, and it fell to my ankles. I heard the clink of his sword as he loosened the clasp, and it fell to the ground. He grabbed my hips and pulled me up against his flesh and took a step forward, anchoring me with a thud against the wall of Romero’s stall. He grabbed my legs and placed them over his hips, and I tightened my grip around his waist.
The horse nickered softly, and I found myself blushing and hoping he was far too busy with his bucket of oats to pay attention. The thought left my mind as quickly as it had arrived as Branford reached around and gripped my backside, and I felt him at my entrance.
“Ahh!” I cried out as he entered me swiftly while moaning softly into my ear. He pulled with his hands as he thrust, grinding himself so deeply inside me, I could not help but cry out until his mouth stifled my sounds. I wrapped my hands around his neck and held him tightly as he thrust upwards, practically impaling me against the wall.
This was so different than our nights in our bed. This was raw, fast, and primitive. There was nothing gentle about it at all. At the same time, I did not think I had ever felt so desired by him as I had at that very moment. Whatever the reason for this change in his behavior—his defeat, his injury, or Michael’s inappropriate gaze—the tyrant was now taking my body with quick, brutal strokes as retaliation.
And it was wonderful.
I felt my body respond to his motions, tightening up around him and rippling quickly from my core and outward though my legs. My moans were again muffled by my husband’s kisses. As I slumped against the wall, Branford released my mouth, tucked his forehead against my shoulder, and increased his relentless motions.
