by Jolie Mathis
He taunted, "Why dost thou run, Princess?"
Isabel's blood ran cold.
Another sneered, his yellowed teeth gleaming like tallow in the mid-morning light. "Whore! Has your lover cast you out now that he has taken what he wants?"
The third man shouted, "Aye, our homes and our dead sons." His voice broke with emotion. "Traitoress."
The first man lunged. Isabel fell back, only to feel the hands of another man clench upon her waist. He pushed her to the ground so forcefully, breath forsook her lungs.
She tried to stand, but someone shoved her down again. Stones gouged her palms and her knees. In the periphery of her vision, a door opened. Light footsteps approached. Those of a woman? Surely a woman would offer her refuge.
"Bitch!" Something soft and wet struck the side of her face. The remains of a decaying onion fell to the ground. "My man is dead because of you."
Hands slapped her buttocks, yanked her hair. Toes and heels jabbed her sides. Laughter and curses flooded her ears. Isabel dug her fingers into the ground, and felt the jagged edges of crushed mollusk shells press into her skin. Amidst the clamor, someone sobbed, and she realized it was herself. She clamped her teeth shut, just as a stone struck her side. She deserved this. Mud splattered onto her back.
A shout pierced the haze of Isabel's misery. A woman screamed. Footsteps retreated. Isabel lowered to crouch against the earth. Why could she not sink into it and disappear?
Two large hands touched her.
"No." She flinched. But the hands pushed her hair from her face, and moved over her back and sides. Men spoke the Norse tongue, in lowered voices.
He lifted her against his chest and for one astonishing moment she felt protected from all who threatened her. She did not need to look to know who held her.
His presence had become as familiar as her own.
Chapter 7
Kol kicked the oak plank shut in the faces of his guards, who clustered at the doorway to his chamber, doing their best to attain a glimpse of the princess. She curled like a sleeping child in his arms. He had held her once before like this.
As a girl, she had exuded innocence and light; whereas now, as a woman, her soul seemed cloaked in shadows.
How heartily he wished for her to cry, to curse him or even claw at his eyes. Instead she remained motionless, her face hidden against his chest.
He lay her on the bed. Though the chamber fire dwindled, her skin shone vivid against the furs. Tears glimmered on her lashes, but her eyes remained shut.
"Art thou injured?"
She made no response, save to lift her arms and cross them over her face. Kol diverted his gaze from the generous swell of breast, revealed by her damp, clinging gunna. At her knees, her skirts bunched haphazardly, and beneath, her stockings were torn. He pulled her hem down to cover her ankles, more for his comfort than hers.
"No scarlet slippers this day," he mused.
Instead she wore finely wrought leather boots, cut to display the delicate form of her ankle, the arch of her foot.
He much preferred the slippers. Perhaps because they offered a vision of Isabel he might never be allowed to see for himself. A vibrant young woman, with joy in her eyes, and laughter on her lips.
Had she been that woman before he'd loosed destruction upon her world? Having blazed so instantly and violently into her world, he knew not what assumptions to make. His gaze ascended the length of her body. Nothing bespoke an obvious injury. Betwixt her crossed arms, her mouth trembled.
Did she cry from emotional pain alone, or physical pain as well?
He made another attempt. "Art thou able to move your limbs?"
"Leave me," she ordered in a low, thick voice. She curled onto her side, away from him, and pressed her hands to her face. A sigh staggered from her lips.
"Nei, my lady. There are too many questions which require answers, and I would have those answers from you." He leaned forward to smooth the hair from her face. She jerked away, as he'd known she would.
He remained there, his hand motionless beside her cheek. How tempting it was to feel sympathy for her. To wish to comfort her. Did she inspire such a reaction in all men?
Was she the artful seductress he believed? A woman so wicked even her own people despised her? Something inside him did not find accord with that suspicion. At this moment she simply appeared to be a young woman whose heart had been shattered, but he recoiled from pitying someone who, like the enemies of his past, had chosen to betray him with lies.
"What sin did you commit that your own people would turn on you so completely?"
He did not expect an answer, only silence, and perhaps more tears. Instead she flung her arms from her face. A slight swelling affected her lower lip and a bruise formed on her temple. She lifted onto her elbows to glare at him with enough intensity to make his pulse trip, a rare occurrence, even in the most dire of battles.
"You wish to know my sin?" Heat sparked from deep within her eyes, and along with it, an obvious accusation of fault.
He frowned. "You look at me as if you hold me responsible for what they did."
"Oh, nay. I am entirely to blame." Acrimony tainted her voice. She pushed up to sit, wincing at some undisclosed discomfort. Tears swelled to her lashes. Beneath her stained gunna, her breasts rose and fell with ragged effort. "For if I had let you die in my brother's pit, none of this would have occurred."
He cautioned, "Perhaps it is best you return to your silence."
"You wish for me to be silent, when I have only just begun to speak?" She inhaled several times, as if breath eluded her. "Two winters ago I aided your escape for the simple reason I was a stupid girl who believed you had saved my life."
"And that I did."
Her scathing look told him she believed otherwise.
"That I did," he repeated harshly. "Do you believe the river spat you out of its own accord?"
She sat silently, but he saw the tremor which moved through her body. He knew she must be very cold. He withdrew to the hearth and added several logs, and kindling, to the ashen heap. All the while his mind worked.
Turning back, he demanded, "Of what do you accuse me, Isabel?"
" 'Tis no matter." She watched his every move with suspicion. "What matters is what they believe." She unfurled her arm toward the window, which, if opened, would overlook the burh.
"And what do they believe?"
Her face hardened, as if he forced her to confess a humiliation too shameful to bear. "They believe we were—"
She swallowed hard. Her face twisted, as if a bee had flown down her throat.
He found it difficult to contain his impatience. "Just say it."
"Lovers," she gritted.
Kol laughed, a sharp, mirthless sound. But in the next moment a stunning succession of images emerged from deep inside his mind. His body entwined with that of the princess. Sweat. Satiation and joy.
He rejected the visions.
He asked, "Why would they believe such a falsity? Have there been so many lovers in your past?"
The princess swept her hand over her cheeks, purging the tears which fell there. "Swine. You disgust me." She grabbed one of the embroidered cushions which lay like jewels atop the king's bed and flung it at him. He caught the cushion against his chest, a warning on his tongue— but Isabel went rigid atop the coverlet, and pressed her hand to her side. Short, shallow breaths came from her lips.
"Tröll hafi pig." He dropped the pillow and moved to her side. "You are injured. Twice in as many days. This self-endangerment must cease."
"I am not injured. I do not require your assistance." Pain weakened her voice, and undermined the legitimacy of her claims. Closing her eyes, she fell back onto the bed. "All I need is for you to leave, and to send my maidservant. She is called Berthilde and you will find her in the hall below."
"Nei." Kol shook his head. Already his hands moved over her torso.
"Do not touch me." She gripped his hands. Hers were shockingly cold.
"Your maid tends to the boy and will continue to do so."
Her dark lashes lowered, severing the connection. White teeth bit into her swollen lower lip. Clearly she had hoped he would allow her son to come with the maid. "If not her, then I beg you, please send for my sister."
"Speak you of the same sister who stabbed you last eventide?"
She shoved his hands away, her face white except for two vivid spots of color on her cheeks. "I would not have you tend to me in this manner."
Moving back, he shrugged his soiled jerkin to the floor, and rolled up his tunic sleeves. "I will entrust your care to no Saxon. Not after what I just witnessed."
Her gaze fell upon him, narrow and sharp:
"Do not misunderstand my concern. Two days henceforth we ride, and you must be well enough to travel at the pace of my men."
"Travel?" Alarm softened her tone. "Where?"
Gently, he took hold of her wrists. "Try to stand."
Frowning, she allowed him to raise her to her feet. Surely because she wished to get as far from the bed as possible.
She gripped his arm. "Answer me, please. Where do we ride?"
He guided her toward the hearth. "If I told you, then you'd have nothing to contemplate for the next two days." Her furrowed brow and down-turned lips confirmed she
did not at all appreciate his humor. "What of my son? Will he travel with us?"
Kol pulled a chair into the circle of warmth.
She caught his arm. "Answer me. Tis not safe to leave him here alone and unprotected. Even now I fear—oh."
She bent toward him, her face pallid.
He lowered her onto the stool and knelt. "You must trust me now."
"Of course." No smile accompanied her laughter. "I shall do that without hesitation."
He pulled his knife from his belt. "We must determine your injury, and your garment fits too snugly to pull over your head without causing you more discomfort. Your inability to breathe fully and the pain in your side imply you have a broken or bruised rib."
Flat with dread, her eyes lowered to the blade. "This becomes an unwelcome habit."
"Cease placing yourself in danger's path, and I shall cease with the daily destruction of your garments." Though he sought to speak lightly, his words issued like a threat; he realized that in the instant stiffening of her frame. He attempted to ease her fears. "Please be assured I have much experience with regard to injuries."
"As one whose existence centers upon killing and maiming most certainly would."
Kol exhaled. He would not allow her to goad him into overreaction as she had the night before.
He caught her hem in his fist, careful not to take hold of the kirtle beneath. The princess did not struggle; she did not speak one word of protest. Indeed, she moved nary a muscle. Through the thick wool, his blade whispered upward until he severed the last bit between her breasts.
From her shoulders and arms he pushed the gown, until it fell over the sides of the chair, into a dark pool upon the floor.
For a long moment they stared at one another.
All at once she looked away, and shivered, her eyes fixed on the hearth. In a low, husky voice she asked, "I beg of you, might I have some water, with which to wash?"
Such was not an unreasonable request. The examination could wait until afterward. "Of course."
He stood and crossed to the hearth. From above the fire he unhooked a small cauldron. Inside, water sloshed against the rounded sides of the vessel. He returned and held it for her use. She cupped her hands, and lifted the crystalline fluid to her face.
The liquid glistened upon her skin, and trickled downward to dampen the linen over her breasts. The cloth took on the same delicate flush as her flesh beneath.
"Better?" His mouth had gone too dry to allow more complex speech.
"A little."
He watched, transfixed, as she drew her hair over one shoulder, and threaded her fingers through. "If you would allow me to do so, I would wash the stench from my hair." The dark fringe of her lashes concealed her eyes. "And from my skin."
'Twas a wonder the pot did not shatter, so tightly he did clench it. If she smelled foul from whatever the Saxon horde had pelted her with, he could not tell. Perhaps his eyes, trained so intently upon the shadowed channel between her breasts, weakened the abilities of his other senses.
"Please," she murmured. "I cannot bear the smell another moment more."
His blood expanded, thickened in his veins. At the same time there awakened a dark suspicion within him.
But her invitation enticed too sweetly to be declined. Lifting the pot, he tilted it and allowed the water to pour over her raised palms, and her upturned face. She smoothed her hands across her cheeks, and into her hair. The water cascaded over her shoulders. Her neck. Her breasts. The kirtle went sheer against her body, revealing tautened nipples, and lower, the dark shadow at the joining of her thighs.
How skilled she was with this false enticement. She sought to seduce him, he knew. Just as she had the night before. To gain the return of her son. To manipulate.
How foolish he had been, holding onto the hope she was an honorable wife and mother, when in truth she was as wicked and purposeful a seductress as Samson's Delilah.
The cauldron dripped, empty now. He lowered it to the ground and knelt before her. Water permeated the knees of his braies.
Droplets sparkled on her eyelashes. She did not avoid his heated stare.
"Tell me where you feel the pain most strongly."
She took his hand, and pressed it against her side. "Here."
Beneath the wet linen, her skin radiated with faint warmth. Her hair, longer now that it was wet, gleamed over her shoulders and breasts. Methodically he examined each rib, pressing his fingertips along her torso.
"Here?" Kol frowned, attempting to smooth a wrinkle in the cloth so that he might better discern any variation. 'Twas difficult to discern anything with the blood buzzing so heavily in his head.
"You may remove it."
Her words echoed amidst the thunder of his pulse. She grasped her kirtle at the knees. Slowly she drew the garment up. He heard the wet slide of it against her thighs. "Would you not see better without it?"
Every inch of Kol's body throbbed, as if he'd drunk too much wine. Desire swirled low, in his groin, like a warm tongue, well practiced and bold with its promise of pleasure.
Again, she took his hand, but this time she placed it at his waist, over his knife. "Concern yourself not with my modesty. After all, you yourself said I must be prepared to ride, two days henceforth."
He pulled the knife free, and slit her kirtle up the center. Barely able to contain his anger, he stripped it from her limbs.
Her skin shone like amber in the firelight. Proudly she sat, her shoulders back, her breasts out-thrust. Legs covered only to the knee by her stockings, and slightly parted. He knew she watched him take his fill.
He slid close to the edge of the chasm. How easy it would be to accept what she offered, and to give her what she wanted in return. How pleasingly heavy her breasts would be in his hands.
His desire lengthened against his thigh. He drew his thumb along her naked skin, just beneath one breast.
He did not look at her face, for already he knew what he would see. He had seen it the night before. The sneer of her lips. The hatred in her eyes.
What a little fool she was to believe him so weak.
He splayed his hand over her naked skin. "You feel pain here?"
She nodded, turning her face aside, no doubt to hide her disgust.
In one sudden move he hooked his arm around her back. She gasped, and he knew he had hurt her.
"Is this what you want?" he demanded in a low whisper. He smoothed his hand over her breast.
"Aye," she breathed. "This is what I want." D
id passion or hatred fuel the light in her eyes?
He lowered his mouth to hers, gently at first, but as his arousal grew, his anger also surged, and his kiss turned more aggressive in nature. With his mouth, he challenged her. Demanded she yield. And she did, parting her lips and accepting the thrust of his tongue deep within. He squeezed her breast, and lowered to take its tip in his mouth. She moaned, and he heard the scrape of her boot against the floor.
Almost as if her response was sincere.
He was no fool. He nipped her, and she cried out. Her head fell back in a perfect portrayal of passion. His arousal, tightly encased in his braies, cleaved between her outspread thighs.
He moved too close to the edge.
Beside her ear, he said, "Is this how you always get what you desire?"
She stiffened against him.
"The boy. You want him returned to you."
"You know I do." She sounded choked.
"And you would give anything to have him."
"Aye." Her hands fisted into his tunic. "Anything."
He drew away, holding her firmly in place by her shoulders. Naked and vulnerable, she trembled, but held his stare with her own.
"Return him to me." She tried to wrap her arms around his waist, but he stood and left her with arms outstretched. Confusion lay plain upon her face. Had she never failed in her attempts to seduce?
Now. Throw her lies in her face.
"Explain to me, Isabel, why would I need to barter for possession of something that in truth already belongs to me?"
"What?" she gasped, her expression, not unlike a battlefield opponent who had received a spear to the stomach.
"The boy." His breathing slowed. She floundered, and he enjoyed seeing it. She deserved this for her lies. "Did you think I would not learn the truth?"
Speak the truth, Isabel. Speak it, and I may forgive.
The princess, however, did not choose to confess her lies. Instead she stood from the chair, a bit unsteadily, and left her garments behind. Naked, except for her stockings and boots, she walked away.
He wanted to grab her. To force her to reveal the name of her lover, the father of her child. The man whose punishment striped his back in deep furrows.
