Caitlyn Box Set

by Elizabeth Davies

  I spied Brihtric astride a huge bay stallion, his golden-white hair shining in the sun like the golden crown I believed he coveted. He looked every inch a prince, and the image was disconcerting and more than a little troubling. I could not help but compare him to the russet-haired William. William, though younger, was broader of shoulder and taller too, but only by a hair’s breadth. My Duke was gruff, the Earl more polished; the Duke was more outspoken and forthright, the Earl softer, subtler, with fewer sharp edges. But from the way he sat his horse and from how he had handled the new sword earlier, I had no doubt Brihtric was proficient on the battlefield. He held himself with unconscious ease and confidence, much the same as William did. But the main difference was that William had a legitimate claim to the throne of England and Brihtric did not. I would do well to remember that.

  He saw me observing him and smiled that lazy smile of his. Nudging his horse’s flanks with his heels, he urged the mount forward, wending his way between the milling crowd, dodging horses, grooms, servants, and the barking, whining hounds, to make his way to my side.

  ‘Where is my horse?’ I demanded, looking here, there, anywhere but at him.

  ‘Osric! Fetch the lady her steed,’ he cried, and my eyes narrowed as a servant led a steady, plodding gelding towards me.

  ‘I think not, my lord,’ I said. ‘I did not expect to have to ride a carthorse.’

  ‘He will treat you well,’ Brihtric argued. ‘I cannot have one of Duke William’s retinue, and such a beautiful one at that, fall and injure herself.’

  ‘I will not ride such a beast.’ I gave the hapless servant a stern glare. ‘Bring me something which can keep up with the rest of the field,’ I commanded.

  Caught between us, the servant understandably obeyed Brihtric, and made no move to do as I bid. In turn, I made no move to mount the animal, and there was a stand-off for a few moments until Brihtric realised that I intended to forgo the hunt, rather than ride such a slow creature.

  ‘Do as the lady asks.’ He sighed dramatically, and the servant led the carthorse back to the stables.

  There was a bit of a wait until he returned, but when he did my heart almost leapt into my throat. This was no beast of burden. What the stable-hand led behind him was a smaller version of Brihtric’s warhorse. And, actually, not that much smaller, either. This animal probably belonged to a nobleman’s son, and would be used to train the boy in the art of warfare.

  I knew that I had guessed correctly when the beast’s head snaked forward for a bite as I approached. I rapped it sharply on the nose and it jerked its head up and out of reach.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ I told it, hoping it could not sense my apprehension. I was a skilled enough rider under normal circumstances, but a mad dash across the countryside on a beast trained to take its rider into battle was not normal circumstances for me.

  The servant took a firm hold of its bridle, and another bent down beside the horse’s left flank and cupped his hands. I placed one booted foot in his interwoven fingers and he almost threw me into the saddle, then he darted to the side as the creature pawed the ground.

  I arranged my skirts, thrust my feet into the stirrups, and gathered up the reins. The servant holding the bridle let go, and I took charge, shortening the reins and squeezing my thighs. After a bit of prancing and head tossing, the animal settled down somewhat, and my confidence grew as the hunting party started to trot out through the castle gates in a steady stream, the dogs leading the way and baying with excitement. Brihtric and I rode towards the rear. Once the horse was in motion, the beast seemed much happier and I put his antics down to freshness and eagerness to be off. My mount seemed as relieved to be outside as I was, and we settled into a steady canter with the occasional bucking stride just to let me know that I wasn’t wholly in command.

  Brihtric hardly left my side, our legs almost touching, and although I was grateful for his presence, a part of me was disturbed by it, too. I swore I could almost feel the heat of his skin through my skirts, though that was impossible, and I also thought I could smell him underneath the aroma of horse and leather, though that was impossible too, since our speed blew a fresh breeze in my face.

  Exhilaration shot through me. For the first time in a long while, I felt alive. The wind-whipped tendrils of escaped hair about my face; the power of the stallion was between my thighs; the steady, bounding gait, the snorting breath of the horse, and my own harsh breathing, all served to send bolts of sheer joy through me. This was no headless rush to flee danger, no necessary journey commanded by my mistress, no trundling visit from one of the Duke’s residences to the next. This ride was for me, all mine, and solely for the excitement of it. No agenda, no plotting, no spying. Exuberance was not a feeling I was too familiar with, but I was certainly feeling it now.

  Urging my mount into a gallop, I sensed Brihtric’s horse do the same, keeping pace, and I laughed aloud, sending a look his way, a wide smile on my lips. I had not felt this free since I was a child, and it was silly to think that such a simple act as going hunting could bring back those long-dormant emotions.

  For a heartbeat, I let myself imagine galloping into the fast-approaching woodland and carrying on until I was out the other side. And still, I would not slow my headlong flight.

  A sudden impulse made me yank the stallion’s head to the left. I wanted to be alone, to pretend that I was totally and utterly free. I did not want others around me. I did not want to see any other horses’ rump, nor the riders atop them. I did not want to hear their calls, or the jingle of their bridles, or the stomp of hooves on hard earth. I did not want to listen to the dogs’ high-pitched barks, or the deeper baying as they scented their quarry.

  I wanted to be me, without being controlled by anyone else, without being constricted by rules or appearances, or by the expectations of men and women I did not know, and by those I did. I wanted to be me again.

  And, for a brief moment, I had my wish.

  We plunged into the trees, my horse and I, a good three hundred paces ahead of the rest of the hunting party and further to the left of where they would enter the woods, for I was not so far out of my wits as to wreck their chances of flushing out a deer or two.

  The trees were thin at first, easy enough to manoeuvre around, but they would soon thicken, and our speed would become dangerous. But it was when I pulled on the stallion’s reins and drew his head up, slowing him to a canter, then a trot, that I realised my wish for solitude had not been granted.

  Hoofbeats came from behind, as did the snorting breath of a second horse and rattle of tack which did not belong to my animal. After ducking under a low-hanging branch, I glanced over my shoulder to see Brihtric a length or two behind. He looked as rested as though he had just stepped out of his chamber, whereas I probably looked as windswept and ragged as I felt. The ride had taken its toll on my hair, my skirt, and my cloak. A great deal of the former had escaped from its braid, and both my skirts and my cloak were in disarray, the skirts had bunched too far up my thighs and the cloak had twisted around to half strangle me.

  I dropped the reins for a heartbeat, to try to adjust my clothing.

  It was a mistake I would live to regret, because what followed did neither me nor Brihtric much good. Not in the long run.

  Maybe Brihtric’s steed got too close, or maybe my beast saw his chance to rid himself of the irritating person on his back, but whatever the reason, the animal lashed out with his hind hooves. I heard a cry of ‘Woah!’ from Brihtric, and the squeal of an enraged stallion. My smaller horse wisely dodged to the side, probably to avoid a set of yellowed snapping teeth aimed at his ample backside, and in doing so he threw me off.

  I landed on my back and the breath was driven out of my lungs by the force of my fall. Something hard and sharp caught me on the side of my head, and a huge shadow loomed over me, hairy legs flashing past my face, hooves the size of platters narrowly missing my skull, as the stallion plunged past. The only thought in my head was that it was lucky the
steed hadn’t trampled me – after all, they were trained to crush any figure beneath their hooves.

  Before I could blink, Brihtric was on the ground and kneeling by my side. ‘Are you hurt?’ A horsey head peered over his shoulder and whuffled at me and he shoved it away with his shoulder. ‘Are you hurt?’ he repeated, more anxiously now. Hands ran over my body, feeling and probing.

  I wished I could say something, but there was no air in my lungs and I lacked the ability to draw any in. My ribs weren’t working, and I opened my mouth, trying to gasp for air, then I—

  Chapter 21

  The dream was a strange one, yet I was reluctant to leave it. I was watching my mother in church as she knelt at the altar to take the flesh and blood of Christ, the priest laying a hand on the top of her head and chanting the usual words. I saw her throat move as she swallowed and knew how much it cost her to do homage to this god who was not of her choosing. I would not be surprised if she spat out the wine and the bread when she thought no one was looking. After all, it would not be the first time; she kept a scrap of cloth in her pocket for that very purpose. But she had to take great care, because if someone witnessed her sacrilege it would not go well for her, so I was surprised when she turned to me and opened her mouth to show me it was empty.

  What was she trying to tell me? That she had made peace with the Christian God and now worshipped Him? Or was she trying to convey to me that if this God could embrace my mother, a non-believer and a worshiper of false gods, then maybe there was hope for me too? Was she telling me that my soul wasn’t forever damned? That because she had taken the Host into herself, I could do the same?

  But when she closed her mouth and smiled, I could have sworn her lips were tinged with red and it was not from the stain of red wine, either. It was blood, and as her tongue came out to lick it off, someone called my name, distracting me.

  ‘Caitlyn.’ It was said with some urgency, and I looked about me, wondering who it could be.

  No one was there. The church behind me was empty save for the single figure of a woman, an old one, hunched into a shawl, her head bowed. When I turned back to look at my mother, the priest had gone. My mother was still there, but she had a mouthful of blood and it was dribbling down her chin. She continued smiling, and now she was pointing at the painted figure of Christ on his cross.

  I opened my own mouth to scream.

  ‘Caitlyn.’ A light tap on my cheek accompanied the voice, and the image of my mother faded, becoming fainter, more ethereal.

  ‘No,’ I moaned, wanting to run to her, to feel her arms around me once more. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, what I could do to help her, but another strained “Caitlyn” chased the remains of the dream away and I opened my eyes, albeit reluctantly.

  My head rested on someone’s lap, and an upside-down face loomed above me. A calloused palm stroked my cheek. ‘Thank the Lord,’ the voice said, and at that my memories came flooding back.

  I struggled to sit up, but Brihtric held me down. ‘Stay still, my lady. You’ve had a nasty fall.’

  ‘I didn’t fall. The little shit threw me.’

  Brihtric barked out a laugh at the profanity. ‘It matters not how it happened—’ he began, but I didn’t let him finish.

  ‘Yes, it does! I did not fall.’ Anyone would think that I simply slipped off my mount due to incompetence.

  ‘Are you injured?’ he asked, and my cheeks flamed as I remembered his hands wandering intimately over my body before I passed out.

  I wiggled my toes and fingers. They all appeared to be working normally. I took a deep breath, astonished that I could breathe at all. The last thing I remembered was not being able to perform that very necessary function…

  ‘You hit the ground hard,’ Brihtric said. ‘I am relieved you have not broken anything.’

  As was I. The last thing I needed was a leg or an arm in a splint. Or worse. ‘I am fine,’ I insisted, and this time when I attempted to sit up, he helped and not hindered me.

  Strange, but as soon as my head left the comforting circle of his lap, I wanted to lay it right back down. It had been nice, being cradled by him.

  When I tried to get to my feet, I realised the fall had affected me more than I had thought as the world spun and the ground rushed up to meet me.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he said, his arms around my waist, as I slumped against him. ‘Take your time. You will be fine. You fainted, that is all. The fall winded you.’

  ‘I know,’ I replied, somewhat crossly. My ire was not because of my weakness, rather it was because I was enjoying being held by him far too much. His arms were like bands of sweet steel, and I felt I could stay within their confines forever.

  He held me close to his chest, so close I felt the throb of his heart beneath his boiled leather jerkin. So close I smelled his scent – a heady mix of man and horse, and summer meadows. So close, that his breath was hot on my ear, steady and even, just like him. So close, that I felt the hardness of him, those arms, that chest, those legs. And wait… was there another part? A growing part?

  Another flush of blood, but this time it was further south than my face. Heat swept through me and in an instant, the atmosphere changed. I felt him stiffen, in more ways than one, and I let out a small sigh.

  What was this thing I felt, this sudden unexpected lust? I could not explain it. I had been bedded before, and often, by my husband, and once by Duke Robert, but neither man had stirred me the way that this knight was doing, and Brihtric had not even touched me yet. Not really, not where I wanted to be touched…

  Abruptly, I wanted him to take me. I wanted, no I needed, to feel his hands on my breasts, to feel his lips on mine, his cock—

  Ah, dear Lord, what was happening?

  I closed my eyes. His arms still held me up, but now my weakness was more from desire than faintness, and he knew it too. I swore he sensed my reaction to him, because those same arms became less nurturing and more demanding as he gathered me into him, crushing me to his chest. And, oh my, his manhood was hard and insistent, poking me in my lower belly.

  I couldn’t help myself and I wriggled against it, pushing back. His groan made the juncture between my thighs flood with liquid heat, and I gave an answering moan.

  Then his lips were on mine, hard and hot, and I opened my mouth, giving him access. His tongue danced with mine, and he tasted of honey and mead, and of the delights to come.

  I gasped and melted into him, all sense fled. The only thought in my head was of him – there was no room for anything else. He consumed me, his mouth, his hands, his straining manhood. With one arm holding me close, the fingers of the other hand dug into the back of my head, grasping my hair. His mouth was hard and demanding. I was being eaten by him, and I felt myself falling into the delight of it until nothing else existed but those lips.

  This was no trembling first kiss, and not the kiss of a man who had a right to take his wife, whether she wanted to be taken or not. This was a wanton kiss, a kiss full of promise, and I knew in my heart that he would not simply take what he desired, but he would give, too. For the first time I understood those women who said that they lusted after their menfolk, who giggled about being pleasured, and claimed that they looked forward to the marriage bed.

  I was just like them, burning with my need as it raged through me like a forest fire, and I panted and moaned through the kiss.

  When he broke away, I thought I might die. ‘Please, no,’ I begged and his chuckle sent shivers down my spine.

  He was going nowhere, except where I wanted him to go, the chuckle told me as he lay me down on the leaf-strewn ground, among the ferns. The aroma of fresh, green, growing things assaulted my nose, mingling with the scent of desire which emanated from me in waves. I could smell my own lust, a hot, heavy, succulent scent, and I knew he could smell it too.

  His pupils were enlarged so hardly a sliver of blue showed, and I lost myself in their depths as his face drew closer to mine. He lay down by my side, turning to me, h
is lips claiming mine once more, and his hand, oh his hand! He found my cloth-encased breast and kneaded and stroked, stoking my desire to a frenzy, and he had yet to touch me skin on skin.

  When I thought I couldn’t take the pleasure of it anymore and I squirmed and writhed under him with need, he stopped to undo my bodice, untying the knots with deliberate slowness, teasing me beyond measure.

  I growled deep in my throat, urging him to get on with it. Another chuckle – the bastard knew what he was doing to me and he was revelling in it. Slowly, slowly, he undid the ties, and slowly, slowly, he parted the fabric. When he revealed the swell of my breast then the stiff pink nipple, his hungry gaze, was intoxicating. He made love to me with his eyes before he lowered his head, his breath fanning my skin, hardening the nipple even more.

  ‘Please,’ I begged again, desperate to feel his mouth around the nub, frantic to feel his hands on my flesh. I arched my back, thrusting my breasts at him, and his breath caught.

  ‘Jesus, but you are beautiful,’ he murmured, then he sucked my nipple into his mouth, and I gasped with pleasure, losing myself in the bliss of those lips, that tongue.

  ‘The other one,’ I urged, and cried out at the loss of his mouth on the one breast, even as I moved to allow him access to the other. With his lips teasing the second nipple, his fingers found the first again, and he rolled it and rubbed it until I was panting with a desire I never knew existed.

  Heat scorched that tender spot between my legs, throbbing urgently, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to be filled. Now!