by Kim Bowman
The current match was won by a mere submission, so Marek prepared the best he could. His opponent was nearly a boot-length taller and twice as big around the middle. Marek had watched the man carefully during previous matches; the way he moved, how he swung his sword. He was slow but powerful.
Marek stepped into the arena.
“We can do this two ways, friend. My way or the easy way. The choice is yours.” Marek circled his opponent with wide strides, adjusting the grip on the hilt of his sword. The large man standing in front of him wore leather-plated armor and carried a wooden shield over his forearm… two things Marek wished he had thought to bring. Had he known this was what he must do to gain favor with his lady, he might not have come at all.
“And what might your way be?” the man sneered, countering Marek’s steps.
“You withdraw, and I will not beat you into submission.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because I’m tired,” Marek answered honestly.
The man laughed and swung a testing strike in Marek’s direction.
He easily dodged the blow. “I give you fair warning. You will feel the pain.”
“Do your worst, Highlander.”
Marek shrugged. “We don’t have time for my worst.” He brought about his sword with a flick of his wrist and dodged an oncoming swing by tucking up his knees and rolling under the unrestrained arc of his opponent’s blade. Marek jumped to his feet behind the burly man and brought a boot up to his backside, knocking him to his knees.
Making quick use of his opponent’s vulnerable state, Marek stepped to the side, balled his fist, and connected it with the man’s jaw. He watched two eyelids flutter, the jaw slacken, and shoulders drop in defeat. The opponent slumped to the ground, unconscious.
“I told you I was tired.” Marek wiped the perspiration from his brow and returned to his stool to await his next match.
The following battle droned on. Both men were equally matched and Marek would battle the victor. He studied each carefully, marking their movements in his mind. It had been many years since Marek had tested his worthiness on a battlefield against such experienced warriors. He could only pray those skills ingrained as a boy wouldn’t fail him — not today.
Without so much as a warning, the winning blow was delivered when the victor spotted a vulnerability on his opponent’s side and swung full force against the loser’s chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. The man submitted in defeat.
The victor tossed up his arms and let out a ferocious roar to the crowd. They cheered in response.
“Would ye like to use my shield, lad?” A stranger approached, offering a simple wooden shield that had seen better days.
Marek released a long, slow breath. He certainly could use the protection. No, he must do this by himself, with no shield nor armor. He’d made it this far — he could finish it on his own. “Thank you, my friend, but I have everything to prove. You understand?”
The aging man grinned. “Aye, I do. And when he beats the piss out of ye, you can take a visit to the healer’s tent. She fixed me up good, you see?” He held up his limb to show off a clean bandage wrapped around his upper arm. “She’s quite the pretty little thing, too. Nice to look at.”
“So I’ve heard.” Marek pulled his hair back past the nape and secured it with a strip of fabric.
~~~~
Marek entered the arena, his head held high. He radiated confidence. A flame ignited deep inside Brynn. The sun glinted off his chest, slick with perspiration from the afternoon heat. His movements were an intricate dance, choreographed by instinct alone. Many nights she had welcomed sleep and the dreams that followed. The image of his nakedness pressed against her own still lived vividly in her mind.
Brynn stared at the god-like statue before her, securing the bindings around his blade. His lips formed inaudible words. He brought the weapon to his lips and gave its center a gentle kiss. A breath caught in her throat.
Marek outstretched his sword, holding it horizontal to the ground. He pointed the tip of the blade at his intended prize — her. By the gods, he had to fight — he must win. She wanted to be claimed… be his.
~~~~
The men circled, nipping at one another’s heels — testing, each sizing up the other man. Marek’s opponent, Donnell, showed no hesitation and attacked within moments of their fetid dance. Marek rolled his shoulder back, turning his body away from the strike in one fluid motion, and countered with his blade. He narrowly missed his intended target, striking a shield instead.
Donnell rebounded with the strength of a bear.
Marek lost his footing while blocking the ferocious swing and tumbled to the ground. The vibrations of steel hitting steel still echoed throughout Marek’s body.
Donnell let out a ferocious yell, bringing his boot to Marek’s chest. Marek rolled, but Donnell caught a bit of flesh on Marek’s side. A trickle of warmth crept along his skin.
Marek shook off his nervousness. Donnell’s presence was intimidating, but he couldn’t let that best him. He could beat the halfwit — he only needed to find his thoughts. He had battled far greater enemies and slaughtered more men than he cared to think about. Winning this mock battle should be the easiest fight of his life.
Marek returned to his feet, adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword, and focused his thoughts on his opponent. When Donnell moved, Marek anticipated the attack and executed a string of unwavering blows. A fury of raw power flowed through his veins — Marek only needed to unleash it.
~~~~
Brynn dug her nails into the rail — her heart beat in an unsteady rhythm as she watched the battle unfold before her. The beginning of the match had been questionable, but Marek seemed to have found his stride. His movements powerful, his muscles fully flexed — he looked magnificent.
A woman standing next to Brynn licked her lips. “Mmm… delicious.”
“Which one? The fat one or the piece of meat I want to rip my teeth into?” another woman replied, elbowing her companion in the ribs.
“I wonder if the rest of him is as tasty as the top half.” The women giggled and continued their gawking while the match continued, and Brynn did her best to ignore them.
“Has he won yet?” A golden-haired head popped up between the fence rails.
Brynn ruffled the unruly locks of yellow curls as Talon contorted his body through the rails to get a better view. “No, not yet. He’s still fighting but doing a fine job in the arena.”
Again, the women chimed in with their lustful comments. “Aye, and I bet he would do a fine job in my bed, too!”
“Perhaps he will pick you as the prize?” one said.
Talon beamed a toothy grin at the women. “That’s me da. He will pick my mum.” He pointed a finger at Brynn as if no other option existed.
Brynn watched two sets of eyes widen and two sets of cheeks flush a deep, rosy hue. She turned her back on the women, biting the inside of her cheek to keep them from seeing her own color of blush. A smug smile contorted her mouth as she concentrated her thoughts on the battle raging on before her.
Brynn didn’t quite catch the sequence of events that brought the match to an abrupt halt, but Donnell was sprawled with his face smashed into the boot-trodden dirt. The victor, Marek, fell to his knees in relief. The hilt of his sword rolled from his fingers to the ground.
“He’s done it. He’s won.” Brynn muttered the words into the palm she pressed against her lips.
The crowd roared in celebration. A few eliminated competitors rushed the arena to help Marek to his feet, and several attended to the defeated Donnell.
“The new champion of the sword!” The presenter of the games raised Marek’s arm in triumph. “You, sir, may now pick your much deserved prize.” The man grinned, wide and toothy, insinuating more than his words implied.
Marek strolled around the arena, calm and casual, as if surveying a herd of farm animals for purchase, toying with the women. They pressed their bodies a
gainst one another in hopes of being chosen, but soon realized he played them as fools — the man had eyes for only one. He stopped his saunter near the center of the arena, and motioned the presenter to his side. “I have chosen.”
“And who might the lucky lass be?”
~~~~
Brynn stood on the lowest rail of the fence, her arms clinging to one of the longer vertical support beams. A tepid wind swirled her curls with each little gust, and a soft smile formed on the lips he had waited years to kiss. Marek raised a finger and pointed to the beauty in the blue dress.
“The widow?”
“She is no widow… she is my wife.” His steps fell with purpose.
“What is this nonsense you speak of?” Brynn gazed down at him, her eyes searing a hole through the very heart she held.
“Do not contradict me, woman.” His lips twitched, exposing the beginnings of a grin. She would be his, whether she agreed to it or not.
“You speak the truth?” Her breathless whisper barely audible.
“Aye, if you’ll have me.” Marek met her bewildered gaze.
Brynn stared back at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words left her lips. The silence was almost unbearable. “Well?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Are ye goin’ to kiss me, or not, husband?”
In one fluid burst of movement, Marek planted a boot on the fence, hoisting himself level with her.
The kiss that followed nearly knocked him to his backside. Her fingers laced through his hair — rough and wanting. She pulled his lips to hers and kissed him like she meant it… every heavy breath, every flick of her tongue against his. The crowd cheered.
His need for her grew to a feverish pitch.
Without the slightest warning, Brynn broke the kiss.
Marek sucked in a ragged breath, willing himself to suppress his urge to ravish her on the very fence keeping them apart. He pressed his forehead to hers. The sweet smell of her breath on his lips intoxicated his mind.
“I must go.” The words escaped her lips on a restrained pant.
“Damn it, not again.” Marek refused to loosen his grip on her.
“I must return to my tent. I have been away far too long. Poor Gràinne, I left her alone to clean up your mess.” Brynn turned her face from Marek, a sudden shyness consuming her. “Besides, I fear we shall produce quite the show for our audience if I continue to kiss you like that.”
Marek chuckled. “Very true.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Lie to Me
“You will be fine.” Brynn rolled her eyes. “Go. Drink. Dance. Leave my tent.”
“But, but… I think I am losing too much blood,” the patient stammered, searching for an excuse to stay in the medical tent.
“Maurice. You are not bleeding. ’Tis but a scratch, honestly. The way you are carrying on, one would think you were at death’s door. Now off with you.” Taking him by the arm, Brynn led him to the exit, urging him to use it.
“Are you sure, mistress?” Maurice paused. “I can come back later so you might redress it.”
“Maurice, if I see you back in my tent this day, rest assured you will be bleeding by the time you leave it.”
The man’s eyes bulged, and he promptly left.
Gràinne giggled from across the tent. “Methinks you have a few admirers, mistress.”
“Aye, such foolishness. If I didn’t know any better, I would swear these men are injuring themselves on purpose.” A frown tugged at her mouth as Brynn tinkered with her supplies, entertaining the thought.
“Would you like me to gather the supplies?”
“I can manage this, Gràinne. Take your wages for today and go enjoy yourself. I will see you in the morning.”
The girl, tall and willowy, thanked Brynn for the coin, tidied her workstation, and scurried from the tent.
“Do you have time for one more, mistress?” Marek stood just outside the entrance, waiting.
The smooth tone of his voice tickled her insides. She finished rearranging her tools then sauntered in his direction. Placing her hand on her hip, she said, “I suppose I could make time for the champion of the sword. Do you have injuries that need tending?”
“Hmm.” He strolled into the depths of the tent. “Perhaps I could find a few.”
Brynn bit her bottom lip to keep from grinning like a child.
“But then again,” he added, taking a step closer, “I believe that is your task, is it not?”
She waved him closer. “Come, let me take a look.”
Marek closed the gap between them in two long strides. Standing in front of the examination table, he placed his hands behind him on the flat wooden surface and hoisted himself up to a sitting position. He removed his tunic in one fluid motion, discarding it on the table next to him. “You are welcome to look, my love. I believe we’ve had this conversation before.”
Brynn filled a bowl with water and found a few clean rags. Even from a distance, she could feel Marek’s glaze burning into her backside. She found the courage to return to him and did her best to push the impure thoughts bubbling to the surface from her mind. She wet a rag, wrung out the excess, and gingerly pressed it to his chest. A trickle of water etched a path across his ribcage and arched around the sharp edges of his abdomen before being devoured by the hem of his trousers.
She dragged the cloth down the length of his torso, methodically washing away the smears of mud and sweat. She stopped mid-swipe when his arms encircled her. His hands settled on the small of her back, pressing her closer. Fingers clenched the thin cloth of her dress, their tips digging into her flesh. Brynn sucked in a breath and held it when his legs spread, encouraging her to fall against him. A small cry escaped her lips.
The cloth slipped from her fingers, all but forgotten.
His embrace wandered, caressing her with a brazen desire. Up her back, to her shoulders — his hands carved a path, settling along the roundness of her bottom. He squeezed, drew her to him, and pressed ever closer. His lips found the pulse on her neck and he flicked his tongue over it. His breath, warm and wet, lingered on her cheek.
Her thoughts spiraled into madness.
He tasted her, the salt from her skin clinging to his lips. His mouth explored the slight indentation of her collarbone, and he traced the delicate lines with his lips, murmuring incoherent words in his lyrical lilt. A thumb brushed over her nipple, leaving a tantalizing hardness in its wake. Marek gave the shell of Brynn’s ear a playful nip before finding her lips. He parted them with his tongue, coaxing her, tempting her. Slow, deep kisses, his mouth reclaimed every part of her.
Brynn turned her face up to his, her palms aimlessly wandering in half-felt protest. She trembled beneath him — every deliberate touch set her insides on fire. Feelings she hadn’t realized she was still capable of having only added to the sweet torture. Brynn buried her hands in his hair, urging him to continue his welcomed seduction. “More…” The word escaped on a whisper.
“I had forgotten just how delicious you are.”
In a deliberate disruption, a stranger made his presence known by clearing his throat.
Marek’s touch of pleasure turned protective in an instant. He stood, shielding his woman with his body. The sun cast a shadow over the imposing figure making it impossible to identify the man at first glance.
“Is this the healer’s tent?” The man asked.
The grip on Brynn’s arms tightened. Engel words.
The words seemed so foreign — an echo of her past she’d nearly forgotten. Every ounce of pain, every night terror, every thought of death suddenly consumed her. The world slowly collapsed, constricting every breath. Hot tears stung her eyes.
Brynn peeked from behind her protector.
“Michael?”
“Is it truly you, my dear sister?” Michael let out a laugh. “I thought my eyes played cruel tricks at the arena, but yet, here you are, standing before me. All this time, I thought you dead.”
“What are you doing
this far north? Do you travel alone? Did you bring Marcus with you? How long have you been in the Highlands?” The Archaean words spewed from her mouth in excited tones until she realized Michael’s contorted face was one of confusion.
Michael shuffled closer, his stance awkward and uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t know the Archaean words you speak.”
Marek brushed a fallen tear from Brynn’s cheek. “I don’t know why he’s here,” he whispered, “but we must be cautious. My instincts tell me this is wrong.”
“Please, Marek. Help me speak to him.” Brynn locked eyes with her warrior and didn’t waver until she won the silent battle between them. She struggled for a translation. Had it really been that long? Had she forgotten the tongue of her birth so quickly — and so willingly? “Why is it that I cannot speak the words I learned as a child?”
“Just focus your mind and you will remember them.”
Brynn took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and forced herself to remember. Memories she had suppressed long ago intruded her thoughts. A smiling, laughing, happy little girl chased boys in a field of green. Satin the color of the summer sky. A man crouching in a stable. Broken promises. Pain. Lies. A betrayal like no other.
Her eyes flashed open.
“Why are you here, Michael?” She stumbled over the words, but they were there. Brynn swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat to recede.
“I’m just passing through… a courier.” He explained. “I heard of the games and thought I would enjoy the day. And then I saw you. I thought you were a ghost, standing there next to the arena. I had to see for myself if you were indeed… alive.”
“Indeed I am.”
“How — how are you? Are you well?”
“I’m well enough.” No thanks to you.
“We should go, Brynn.” Marek’s voice cut the tension in the air like a freshly sharpened blade. “Talon.”
“It was good to see you, Michael.” Brynn managed a weak smile and gathered her things, a sickening feeling settling in her belly.
