by Lisa Cach
She had to keep him in his place.
“How do I look?” he asked, turning toward her with a helmet on his head, his face concealed by a visor.
She smothered a chuckle. It should not be hard to maintain control of him. “Much better.”
He turned his head to one side, angling up his chin. He held the pose for a moment, then changed it, standing with legs spread and hands on hips, face-forward. A moment later he changed it again, twisting to the side and lowering one knee to the ground. He raised a fisted hand in front of his downturned face, the muscle in his arm bulging.
She watched in puzzled fascination. “By St. Michael, what are you doing?”
“Just playing,” he said, standing again. “You do play, mistress, don’t you? Or have you no time for that, alone in your castle?”
“Play?”
“You know. Have fun.” He walked slowly toward her.
She checked the urge to step back, forcing herself to hold her ground. She would not let him cow her! She was in control! “You see I have no servants. There is much to do, and little time for playing games.”
“Is that so? I could have sworn you were playing one right now.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice rising.
“I think you like to pretend.” He stepped closer still.
She could smell the hint of sweat on his body, and the trace of spices she had noted the night before. He was close enough that she could feel the heat emanating from his chest. Her breathing quickened, and her thoughts became muddled. She fought against the stirring desires of her body. “Pretend at what?” she asked and looked up at his visored face.
His eyes were hidden in the shadows behind the visor, visible only as a faint glint of reflected light. He was as faceless as she, and silent. The tilt of his head was the only indication that he was looking at her.
As the moment stretched, Alizon was suddenly overcome by a vision of him taking her in his arms and lowering her to the ground, his hand sliding up her leg to touch her most intimate places, it all happening in faceless silence. Her eyes half-closed of their own accord, and she swayed on her feet.
“You pretend at everything,” he said.
The spell of his physical closeness was broken by a spurt of fear. She stepped back, ducking her head down as she realized he might have seen more of her face than she had thought. If he did not know for certain she was not the crone, then he at least suspected. “If I do, then I am not the only one present who does so.”
He lifted the helmet from his head and ran his fingers through his dark hair, pushing it back from his face. “There is more truth to that than I would like to admit.”
She stared at him, startled that he should make such an admission.
He was oblivious to her surprise. “I wish I could take this home with me,” he said, stepping back and holding the helmet out in front of him. He rubbed at a spot with his thumb.
“You may buy it from me.”
His eyes lifted to hers, and he grinned. “I should have known you would put a price on it, no matter that it is of no use to you. But alas, my darling, I have no gold or silver, so I must decline your offer.” He moved to put it on the pile of discarded junk.
“You may work for it,” she blurted, then grimaced at her idiocy. She had just made an offer that might keep him here even longer.
“Will I have to work, too, for the rent of the weapons?”
“The killing of Belch will be payment enough,” she said, trying to backtrack.
“And if I fail, as you believe I will?”
“We can talk about it then, if you still live. You look to be a strong man. I will find something for you to do.” The thought came to her that she could use this as the leverage to have him take Emoni and her daughter away from Markesew: that could be his payment if he failed—as he would—to kill the dragon. She smiled beneath her hood, pleased with the simple solution.
“I can think of a few things a strong fellow like myself could do for you,” he said and waggled his eyebrows at her.
She gaped at him. He could not mean … “Like what?”
He dumped the helmet onto the pile and picked up the sword he had chosen, then with it made chopping motions through the air. “Chopping and hauling wood, perhaps?”
She struggled to keep her voice calm. “You may do that for the helmet, if you wish.” The fool had her not knowing if she was coming or going, and it made her want to scream.
“I’ll do it for my room and board, the wood chopping and whatever else you would have me do. I can’t expect you to continue feeding me for free.”
Now he was being considerate. She could not stand it! “Speak with Milo, and he will show you what to do.”
“Great! And where should I stay? I assume you don’t still think me so dangerous that I need to be locked in a bare cell again.”
“You may stay with Milo.”
He made a face. “Is there no place here in the castle I could sleep? Milo’s cottage is, ah … small for two large men.”
“There are no rooms fit for guests,” she lied. Have him sleeping in the castle, free to roam around? She would not sleep a wink, and she would never be able to keep the virgins from revealing themselves. “The bedding is rotten. Damp got in.”
“A pile of blankets by the fire in the kitchen, then?”
“You would be more comfortable with Milo.”
He stalked to the open doorway to the old garrison room, where the soldiers of times past had slept and eaten. He braced his hands on the wall to either side and ducked his head down to stare into the room. “I can stay in here.”
“There?” she squeaked. Her room, and those that the virgins shared, were directly overhead. They would have to walk on tiptoe and whisper every word.
“I will be out of your way, and those mattresses look usable. It will be a good place to plan my attack, as well, since the armor is right here. I’ll know what I have to work with. Do you have any objection?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder at her.
“I cannot let you wander at will… .”
“I promise not to creep into your bedroom.”
“That was not what I meant! You might come to harm, is what I fear.”
“You are worried about my safety?” he asked, laughter in his voice.
“You do not know all the dangers. Belch sometimes stirs at night. I should not like him to find you wandering on the terrace, unarmed.”
“And yet you have survived quite well all these years. I should think I would fare no worse.”
What argument could she possibly give that he could not counter? A mist of anger fogged her brain. Why did she have to give any argument whatsoever? “Sleep with Milo,” she commanded.
“No.”
“It is not for you to say ‘no’! I say, sleep with Milo!”
“And still, I say ‘no.’ ”
“I am mistress here!” she gasped.
“Mistress of an empty castle. There’s no reason I shouldn’t stay here rather than in a cramped and, let us say it, filthy cottage.”
“It is not your decision!”
“I will not be bound by another’s unreasoning demands, especially when that person doesn’t own the castle she claims to command! You clearly don’t use these rooms, so it will be no invasion of your privacy to have me stay in them. Unless you can give me a sound reason for your refusal, I see no reason to abide by it. I’m not a child who will be forced to make do with an explanation such as ‘Because I said so.’ ”
Alizon pursed her lips together, those very words having been on the verge of spilling out. She fumed silently, anger sucking away any ability to come up with a fitting response.
He came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders, the weight of his palms heavy and warm. She wanted to snap her teeth into his arm, like an angry dog.
“If you are afraid of me, you have no need to be,” he said, his voice softening.
“I fear no man.”
/> “I don’t wish to be your enemy. I’m here to kill the dragon, not to harm you.”
But he would. She suddenly knew that if it was not the world she had built on the mount he destroyed, it would be something within herself. She had spent twelve years building a fortress around her heart, and she would not let him tear it down. She would not be left weak and helpless, and she would not put herself at the mercy of another.
“Sleep here if you must,” she ground out, “but give your word that you will not wander from these rooms.”
“Done.” He grinned and squeezed her shoulders.
She pushed off his hands. She could not trust his word, and she would put her faith in her own plans for keeping him where he belonged.
Chapter Eleven
George caught a whiff of himself and grimaced. Damn that Athena; what was she spritzing him with now? Between his own body odor and the smoke from the central hearth, he could barely stand to breathe.
He stacked the final load of wood against the wall in the kitchen and straightened, then arched his back, stretching it. Chopping and carrying wood was almost better than a circuit on the gym equipment. His muscles felt as if he truly had been exercising, not just imagining it.
He had forgotten for several hours, in fact, that he wasn’t really here; that here didn’t exist except in his mind.
The creeping doubt came back that maybe this was real. He played for a moment with the idea that somehow he really had slipped through a crack in time and space and landed himself in medieval times. A new sheen of sweat burst from his pores, and he felt a whimper in the back of his throat.
Stuck in the Middle Ages, truly, with no doctors or antibiotics, no telephones, and no one whom he knew and loved?
But no, that couldn’t be. What of Belch? There was no such thing as dragons.
But was Belch really a dragon? Maybe he was a holdover from the age of dinosaurs, like some claimed the Loch Ness monster to be. Belch looked similar enough to a crocodile that George could believe he was a product of the natural world.
And the hot spring! That would explain why Belch was here. Some warm ocean current had brought him, and he had found a cozy nest for himself, the cave being the only place he could survive in this chilly climate after the warm current had gone away.
It was plausible.
To believe that, he would also have to believe that Athena’s antique-mall crystal was possessed of some magical power, as was she; and that he couldn’t do.
He would follow Occam’s Razor: the simplest solution was most likely the correct one. He had been hypnotized, that was all.
Besides, time-travel wasn’t possible.
Was it?
He dimly remembered a theory about all time and all matter existing at once, in the same space— that sequential time as everyone knew it was an illusion.
It would be so easy to believe that this was all real; it certainly felt real enough. Perhaps something about that crystal, its structure, the reflections of light, had opened a window from one point to another—
No! It was lunacy to think that way. He had to act as if this was real, to work through the puzzle of this dream, but it was acting only.
He wondered what his mysterious mistress would say if he told her she was not a real person, but instead the personification of his feminine side.
She would probably drag him down to the cavern and throw him over the rail.
And what would a psychologist say, if he confessed he was having lewd thoughts about the faceless personification of a side of himself? Even George himself had to admit there was something perverse about it.
All manner of kinky thoughts were getting into his head. Thoughts of that hood staying on but everything else coming off. Of lush white breasts and rounded hips. Of the robe thrown back over her shoulders and hanging as a backdrop as the mistress walked toward him, naked and inviting. Of her riding atop him, his hands on her waist as she rose and fell, her soft thighs over his hips, her body wet and hot and tight, squeezing him as she reached her climax, moaning …
He felt pressure in his groin as he became engorged, his erection stretching against his briefs and leggings. Thank God for the old shirt he had found in one of those chests in the garrison room. It was cut full enough that he was able to get it on, although it was likely made for a smaller man. It smelled musty and was splotched with stains, but it hung down to mid-thigh, concealing all evidence of his physical attraction to the bad-tempered mistress.
“Here’s your supper,” his temptress said, dropping his bowl onto the table with a clunk.
“Thank you.” It was killing him not to know what she looked like. He went to the hot spring basin and washed his hands.
She sat where she had during his lunch, with nothing in front of her.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“I will eat later. I have no wish to be watched while I sup.”
He raised a brow at her, but if she recognized the irony of her watching him while he ate, she gave no sign. He sat, and pulled his bowl toward him.
It looked like the same stew of that afternoon, this time with a hunk of brown bread on the side, getting soggy. Thoughts of multiplying bacteria squirmed in his head. He had been taught to eat whatever was put before him, but he didn’t think his mother meant to do so at the risk of his intestinal health. “Er … when did you make this stew?”
“Yesterday.”
“Ah. Hmm. Where do you store food, between meals?”
“In a pot, of course.”
“You have no cool place?”
“We have a cellar for roots and apples, cheeses, things like that.”
His eyebrows rose. “ ‘We’?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Milo and I.”
“Milo eats with you?”
“He, ah, stores things here on occasion, and sometimes will eat with me. He prefers his privacy, though. As do I.”
He ignored the comment, suspicions aroused. “And no one else?”
“Who else should there be? No one dares come to Devil’s Mount.”
He stared at her, trying to gain some clue from the shadowed chin and the hands that she held tightly together on the table.
A startling thought hit him. Might she have a boyfriend who even now was somewhere in the castle?
That would explain why she seemed so determined to keep George under lock and key. She might be afraid he would find out and tell the townsfolk. Her days of living in the relative luxury of a castle and romping with her boyfriend would be over.
He wondered who the guy was, and if he might be able to oust him. It wasn’t very sporting of him, but dammit! She was his personification, his anima, not someone else’s!
Oh, Lord. He was losing his mind. He was going to need to see a real shrink by the time he came out of this trance. Now he was imagining rivals to his imaginary lust-object. It said plenty about his repressed sex drive.
There had been a time in his wrestling career when picking up an all-too-eager female groupie while on the road had seemed a good way to spend the night, but Athena’s single motherhood of Gabrielle had been the beginning of the end of such entertainments. He had started to see things from the girl’s point of view, and then all the fun had gone out of it. He had no wish to take advantage of the naïveté of star-blinded young women.
He knew better than to start an affair with one of his female co-workers, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to pay for it from some unfortunate, drug-addicted, virus-carrying prostitute.
Which left him with no choice but to abstain. It had been two years since he had had sex with anything but his hand and some pretty pictures. He could hardly be blamed for the wet dream he was having now.
“There should be no one else,” he said, belatedly answering her question.
He took a bite of the lukewarm stew. It was seasoned with salt and pepper, and with his own appetite, which made the greatest difference of the three. He was used to eating four or five meals a
day, and he had been ravenous for hours.
There had been more than one pale face at the windows, and the giggling and footsteps outside his cell this morning had been female, not male. Neither spoke of a male rival lurking in the castle, but rather of something more supernatural.
Ugh. The ghosts of dead virgins.
He shuddered.
There were too many strange things creeping around in his unconscious. He was getting a headache again. Better to think about something constructive.
He downed several more mouthfuls of the stew, which he now noticed had a slightly bitter taste. He stirred his spoon through it, finding bits of what he assumed to be turnip. He had never had turnips before. Perhaps they accounted for the flavor. He swigged some beer.
“Have you made your plan for killing Belch?” his hostess asked.
He sopped up gravy with his bread and wolfed it down. “I have a few ideas. It would help to know what others have tried, before. The de Burroughs and their soldiers must have tried to kill him.”
She shrugged. “Most ran. Whatever stories may say about the bravery of warriors, when faced with such a beast most choose to flee rather than fight. Those that did stay to fight, died.”
“And no one has tried since?”
“One or two. Their bones and mail lie at the bottom of Belch’s pool.”
He scooped up the last of the stew, then set his spoon in the empty bowl. “It’s difficult to believe that the townsfolk of Markesew should go on so long, giving up their young women to the dragon without trying again and again to be rid of it.”
“Yes, it is difficult to believe, isn’t it?” she said, and there was more raw emotion in her voice than he had heard all evening. She was not taunting him now. Her fingertips had gone white where they clenched against the backs of her hands.
“It should be their soldiers going to the lair, not girls,” he said, testing what more of a response he could draw from her.
“They claim to be farmers, not soldiers.” Her tone was bitter.
“Then they should use their gold to hire men to fight Belch, or they could offer a prize to the one who succeeded. I should think there would be many who would work to win it.”
