The Barbarian

by Georgia Fox

  Impressed, he smiled. "What else?"

  "I had a pet toad when I was twelve. My favorite color is black. I once ate an entire pigeon pie on a dare."

  He arched an eyebrow. "What else?"

  She sighed, took a breath, wound her kerchief in a knot. "A soothsayer told my mother that I would be a boy and so she chose the name Armand. I was a great disappointment, naturally. I cried so much as a babe that the nurse put me out in a basket one night, hoping a wolf would take me."

  He'd expected a rehearsed list of accomplishments along the lines of embroidery and cooking, but this was far more interesting. "And did it?"

  "I am still here, am I not?"

  Watching her steady expression he couldn't be sure whether she fibbed about the wolf story. "What else?" he pressed again.

  "I am not afraid of the dark."

  Of course not; her favorite color was black.

  One hand still wrapped in her hair, he reached down with the other and ran his fingers down the length of his penis, cupped his balls and then invited her again to touch him.

  "I explored you earlier. Now 'tis your turn." He was hot for this woman, intrigued by her. She kept herself aloof. No, she was not afraid of the dark, but she feared to smile, to laugh before him. He wanted to know the secrets she held onto so tightly.

  Her haughty, imperious gaze stroked his manhood and it was almost as arousing as her soft clean fingers would be. When he licked her to orgasm in the forest earlier that day he had denied himself the full pleasure of spending. All the way home, with her body slung across his lap, he was hard as a rock. But whatever she thought of him—whatever names she called him— he would not take her by force. Consequently he'd suffered all evening, trying to ignore the need. Failing.

  Now his balls ached. He knew he must have release before the day was out.

  Since she refused to touch him, he would pleasure himself. He gripped his shaft and began to work it in the familiar way, making waves that splashed up again and further wet the front of her gown.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded, her eyes following the motion, her fingers withdrawn from the water and curled around the edge of the tub.

  "What does it look like?" he grunted with a terse laugh, concentrating on her lips, his hand moving faster. "What happens if a cow is not milked regularly?"

  She shook her head, shoulders lifted.

  "It gets ill-tempered and sore," he said. "And the teats leak, wasting milk."

  Amias pouted in disbelief, her lips gathered tight as the strings of a miser's purse.

  "The same as it is for a woman's breasts when she's nursing. See?" He showed her the bead of liquid dripping from his seed hole. "A man needs milking too."

  "I never heard of such a thing."

  Stryker resumed his masturbation, while she watched, the waves of her thick hair loose over her shoulders, an abundant autumnal display that seemed as bright now as the fire in the cookhouse hearth.

  "Does it hurt?" she asked.

  "Yessss." Stryker looked down at his aching, bulging cockhead and longed to feel lips around it. Pussy or mouth. His fist was adequate but never as good as those other choices. The thick veins of his warrior were clearly outlined now, the helmet dark and swollen.

  "Stop then."

  "I can't. Look. Touch it," he gasped, feeling the rush of heat build to a tumultuous pressure, the fountain ready to gush.

  With one hand she reached out and her fingertips trailed over his crest. It was all he needed. A stream of white seed shot out and startled her. She fell back with a small yelp of alarm, but kept watching as he pumped the last of that pent up cream high into the air.

  His shoulders falling back into the water, he laughed. Well, she was definitely an inexperienced virgin. The thought pleased him, although until now he was never troubled by a woman's previous sexual adventures. This wench would be solely his. He would be her first lover and her last.

  "You wasted your milk," she observed wryly, looking at some of it splattered on her gown.

  "That is your fault."

  "Why? What could I have done?"

  He eyed her lazily, his body relaxed now as he sank lower into the cloudy water. "Taken my seed into you."

  "You promised my uncle not to breach my maidenhead until the wedding night."

  "No matter." Stryker grinned. "There are other avenues to that pleasure." He brought his hands out of the water and swept them back over his hair. "You could have taken me in your mouth."

  She eyed him skeptically again.

  "You could have drunk from me," he explained, "as I drank from you today." He had not known many inexperienced, shy women when it came to sex, he realized. Out here they bred them lusty and forward. But this woman must have been raised in a sheltered environment. She was a proper lady, not a plump little mud-lark he might tumble in the hayfield while she giggled and thought it an honor. In this woman's eyes she did him the honor.

  Perhaps she was right, he mused. Perhaps he was nothing more than a barbarian who got lucky. Her dew, when he tasted it earlier, was sticky and sweet as honey, her skin the softest he'd ever felt under his palms. It took all his willpower to keep from claiming her fully that afternoon in the forest. And Stryker did not possess a vast deal of willpower. The sooner this wedding took place the better if she truly meant to cling to her maidenhead, because he wasn't sure how much longer he could wait.

  "But of course," he added with a sigh, "you are a lady. I cannot expect you to behave like a whore. Our coupling is for duty's sake, not for desire."

  After a moment she reached for the blanket folded nearby. "Are you done now then? The water will soon be cold and I'd like to bathe."

  Stryker leaned back. "I have a thought in my head."

  "Treat it gently," she quipped, "'Tis in a strange place, no doubt."

  He ignored the slight. "Why don't you climb in here with me, my lady?" He would like that, he thought—to have her naked there with him. He could wash her hair for her. This was a strange idea to come into his head for he'd never felt such an urge as that before, but his imagination dwelt on the image, took a liking to it. He would unravel his tightly bound lady, bring her down from her lofty, superior height. Touch by touch, inch by inch.

  She clutched the blanket to her chest. "I would rather bathe alone."

  Slowly he smiled. "You are quite safe. I just spent. My cockerel sleeps content."

  Still she stared, unsure of him, wary as a wild animal.

  "I will not take your virginity before the wedding. There, you have my word."

  "I still would like my own bath."

  "No more water will be heated tonight," he assured her. "Bathe with me or not at all." Was it his dirty water that made her object? Or his presence? She'd just have to get used to both, he reasoned.

  She tipped her chin up. "Then I will forgo the pleasure. Thank you."

  "You don't trust me?"

  "After what happened in the forest, why should I? Trust is earned."

  She had a point, he supposed, chagrinned. Perhaps he had been too rough with her, too anxious to show off in front of Ifyr.

  But she was not as delicate as she looked, nor was she so frigid. Her juice had flowed just as readily as her curses when he had her on her back and worked her oyster open with his tongue. She was tightly bound up in distrust and suspicion. Stryker was frustrated, but with himself as much as he was with her.

  Suddenly the doors groaned open and a gust of wind blew through the cookhouse, almost knocking the wooden screen over. "They're here! They're here! The whores are here," Ifyr's excited voice rang out. "My lord, the whores from Marazion are here."

  He glanced up at his bride-to-be. She stood beside the bath, holding the fleece out for him. "It seems you have company."

  Awkward. Although why it should be he couldn't imagine. Whatever signs there had been of any softening in her expression were now wiped away. Her portcullis was lowered, her drawbridge raised again.

  Chapter Four


  Thus she spent her first night in her new home, listening to the raucous celebrations in the great hall, while she and Villette were shut away for their own "good" in a small private chamber adjoining the main building. It was little more than a cupboard and smelled strongly of wet dog. A brief perusal of the place by candlelight turned up scattered remnants of armor, a few dented shields, a rusty mace hanging on the wall and a row of helmets that looked as if the person who last wore them had not lived to tell the tale.

  Two small, narrow pallets were laid out for them, covered with furs and fleece. It was an attempt at comfort for "ladies" in this place of mostly men. Ami wondered how many discussions it took for his counselors to decide upon the number of fleeces two dainty women might require.

  Villette, peering through slits in the wooden door, kept her abreast of the action, whether she wished to know or not. Apparently the whores performed a dance of sorts to the accompaniment of drums, while the men sat around and enjoyed the vulgar display.

  "I do not see Stryker Bloodaxe," Villette exclaimed at one point.

  Relief cooled her head like a sudden, unexpected shower of rain. But she shook it off. Why should that matter to her? She was Ami the Unbreakable. Nothing he did would dent her armor. She'd known him less than a day and what experience she had of him was not exactly a sterling reference.

  Ami made a fuss of re-arranging her blankets before lying down and then called Villette away from the door. "Blow out the candles," she muttered.

  The maid took her time, lingering at the door crack, but eventually she came to her bed, dragging her feet. It was as if the long journey and the events of that day were already forgotten and now she had a fresh burst of life.

  "I saw heather on the moor, my lady. I shall gather some for you."

  "Make sure you take a guard. That moor is not a safe place for a girl alone."

  "Yes, mistress." After a pause she chattered onward. "The wedding is to be tomorrow, my lady. He has brought it forward."

  "How do you know this, Villette?"

  "I'm sorry, my lady," the maid replied. "I listened to gossip as you told me not to. I fear it is a bad habit not easy for me to break."

  "Gossip from whom?"

  "The kitchen maids, my lady."

  She wondered what else those giggling girls might have told Villette. But she would never ask. So he had brought it forward. Why? He was anxious for her bridal purse of course, foolish question.

  "The wedding was to be a week from today, but he has ordered it for tomorrow. A monk from Exeter is to perform the service and the neighbors are to come—a Norman knight and his wife. I hope your wedding gown is not too wrinkled, my lady."

  "I'm sure whatever state it's in, the gown will suffice."

  Villette snorted. "He'll probably rip it off you at night in any case. They say he is a lusty beast. You shall not be cold tomorrow night, my lady."

  Ami shivered and curled up under her blankets, pulling them tight to her chin and over her chilled ears. Tomorrow night. She had thought often of her wedding night, of course, having come close to one four times already. Never had the idea set such a whirl of anxiety spinning in her mind. The duties of the marriage bed were a mystery to her and tonight she cursed her naïveté. She did not like handing control over to anyone and yet Stryker Bloodaxe would take it from her tomorrow. Just as he did under the bare trees in the forest.

  Oh, don't think of that, you fool woman.

  Her pussy moistened at the swift recall of his clever, insistent tongue and its dastardly magic.

  Well, there was no getting out of it. This husband wasn't sending her back. She hadn't been able to frighten him off, but then she hadn't tried particularly hard. In fact, she hadn't wanted to.

  Suddenly Villette spoke up again, popping her head out of the blankets like a wriggling grub emerging from a cocoon. "They say he never got over Elsinora Gudderthsdottir."

  She stilled. "What?"

  "Elsinora, the neighboring landowner's wife. She was supposed to marry Stryker Bloodaxe, but she chose another. It broke his heart."

  Ami curled her fingers around the blanket and loosened it from beneath her chin. "Who told you this?"

  "That soldier, Ifyr, my lady. 'Tis well known hereabouts. Elsinora is a great beauty and he was in love with her. Funny to think of a great big man like that one head over heels in love, isn't it? But Ifyr says your dowry shall make up for it."

  She listened to Villette's gossipy chatter, staring into the dark, her heart thrusting hard and angry. Might have known there was something amiss. This husband wasn't at death's door, or too young—but he was in love with another. She'd been through this twice before. It should no longer bother her. It should not.

  Turning over to face the wall, she sniveled into her kerchief and felt her eyes sting as they watered. Damn cold. It was the worst time in the world for her to get sick. Her eyes would be red and puffy come the morning. What a sight she would be.

  No matter. This was a marriage of convenience, as he'd said. He wanted her dowry and she needed rescue from spinsterhood. What sort of idiot was she, to look for a straw of hope and think she'd found one? His easy charm and the way he joked with her—told his self-effacing stories of adolescent failures—had momentarily blinded her to the truth of their situation. Thank goodness she hadn't let down her guard and laughed at the thought of him landing face first in a cowpat.

  Amusing as it might be.

  She heard rustling and fussing in the pallet next to her. "My lady? Are you laughing?"

  Was she laughing or weeping? A little of both perhaps at first. But her dark sense of humor soon won out and chuckles shook the entire length of her body. No point weeping over spilled milk, was there? In the dark she could laugh to her heart's content. She'd save the tears until later for there would surely be plenty married to that barbarian.

  ****

  Stryker convened his counsel early the next morning. Many of them suffered thick heads from a night of carousing, but Stryker had not participated in the revelry so he was wide awake, bursting with a sunny vitality that made his counselors grimace and groan.

  "I see we have not done as much as we could to make this manor suitable for my bride," he exclaimed, banging his fist on the table. "There should be more comfort for her here."

  His oldest advisor, Rolf—a remnant of his father's time—looked up slowly and yawned. "But we built the lass a new privy."

  "Aye, with a fancy wooden seat," one of the others chirped up, clearly annoyed at being roused so early from his drunken sleep.

  "And we cleaned up the pig shit from the hall," said another.

  Stryker leaned his knuckles on the table and looked around at their dour grey faces. He'd been up half the night too, but not drinking and playing with whores. He'd sat up in his hayloft and thought about Amias of York, his high-born lady. When he first heard that King William was sending him a bride, he'd viewed this new woman as the king's attempt to appease him. She would be poor reparation for Elsinora—the wife he'd lost to that Norman villain, Dominic Coeur-du-Loup.

  But that was before he met her and saw how she came bravely into his territory and faced him without flinching. She held mystery in her rich brown eyes, treasure he would mine. His compensation prize was sexually alluring in a way he'd never expected. She was a challenge. Amias also held his interest as no other woman ever had. Stryker realized that he wanted to impress her.

  And so far he had not, that much was plain.

  "Rolf," he snapped impatiently, "do we not have a tapestry of some sort for the wall. I remember something from my father's day. Tapestry with a crest upon it."

  The old man screwed up his face to think and then replied, "That ol' thing? It was moth-bit and stank o' mold."

  "But where is it? Surely it can be cleaned."

  "It was buried with your father. His corpse was wrapped in it."

  Well, he couldn't very well dig his father up, could he? "Do we have nothing else to decorate the walls?"


  The men looked at one another and grumbled, all slouching in their chairs, some with bloodshot eyes and drool-encrusted mouths.These, he thought sadly, were his twelve best men. Six were elderly and valued for their vast experience; six were young men, needed for their new ideas, but who could also learn from the others and carry the knowledge onward. Today, when he counted, they were a man short.

  "Where is Ifyr this morn?" he demanded.

  "Probably in the arms o' some whore," one of the men grunted. "Or three. Last time I saw him he was balls-deep, still going by first light."

  "He knows I called a meeting?"

  Rolf nodded. "He knows."

  Stryker's temper mounted. Clearly he gave Ifyr too much leniency. "Then he's due for a dunking in the rain barrel and a few hours in the drunk shed. No more whores for him until I say so."

  That made a few of the men sit straighter and make greater attempt to look alert, propping themselves up with elbows and knuckles.

  "My wife can make a few bowers of greenery for the great hall," Rolf volunteered. "For the wedding feast. Her fingers aren't so nimble as they once were, but she can show the cookhouse girls how to twine some willow and wind it with ivy."

  "And we've horns from the stags we hunted yesterday," another man suggested. "They've yet to be washed and hung up."

  "Women like soft things," someone muttered disapprovingly. "Feather pillows on chairs."

  Stryker nodded. "Better. I want to see more effort about the place. More candles and things that smell sweet."

  The men looked at him blankly.

  "Herbs," he snapped. "Flowers."

  "'Tis winter, sire. No flowers about. In this weather 'tis a bugger to find anything growing."

  "There must be something growing that smells good. Find what you can. And watch your language around my Lady Amias. She's come from a large town with modern conveniences and lordly men who don't fart in public."

  "What do they do then?" one of the younger men inquired.

  "They must hold it in," said Rolf with a smirk. "Until it bursts out of them in a gush of hot air. Then they call it verse and slap a tune to it for wooing."