Rituals of Passion (Brides of Caralon, Book One)

by Alexander, Lacey

  RITUALS OF PASSION

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, July 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1056 Home Ave.

  Akron, OH 44310

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0285-7

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  RITUALS OF PASSION Copyright © 2005 LACEY ALEXANDER

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Heather Osborn.

  Cover art by Christine Clavel.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Rituals of Passion has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Brides of Caralon:

  Rituals of Passion

  Lacey Alexander

  Dedication

  The Brides of Caralon series is dedicated to Leonie Daniels, who first encouraged me to try my hand at erotica, and to Anya Bast, who gave me a helpful tip or two along the way.

  3585 A.D.

  Chapter One

  Maven entered the large kitchen just after sunrise, jerking to a halt at what she saw. Senya, one of the maids, sat perched high on the cook’s table, her pale leather dress hiked to her hips, her legs wrapped around the waist of Arleck, the fortress’ gardener. Maven held in her gasp, aware they didn’t see her. Her first thought was to retreat, leave them in privacy—yet an odd pulling sensation at her inner thighs urged her to stay. With her heart beating against her chest like the thunder of hooves, she ducked back into the shadows provided by the large stone oven.

  “Tell me what you want,” Arleck demanded hotly of Senya. His voice was tempered with just a hint of playfulness that confused Maven. Was he angry or amused?

  Senya’s answer was practically a growl. “More of you. Deeper. Give it to me.”

  Only as Arleck pulled her body toward his in a rough jolt did Maven notice his hands were on the maid’s bare ass. Senya groaned at the impact, and Maven burned to see between their bodies, to understand exactly what feral act took place between men and women. Ares above, it was a curse to be a daughter of royalty, kept in the dark about the act that everyone else seemed to understand so well—and to indulge in with great frequency.

  Just last week she’d come upon Senya in the garden with a shopkeeper from town. That time, their bodies had not been pressed together like this—the man had instead knelt between her legs. She’d been seated on a garden bench, seeming to tease the man by pulling her dress up one scant inch at a time. Maven had forced herself to leave on that occasion—due to propriety, and embarrassment—but now her curiosity was getting the best of her, dictating her decisions. Curiosity, as well as the sensations that had taken over her body lately—sometimes a mere tickle, other times a tingle, at worst an insatiable itch of sorts. She felt like an idiot watching them while not even understanding what she witnessed, but such was the fate of a royal girl in Caralon.

  Arleck continued pushing his hips at Senya’s with great groans that Maven feared might wake the whole fortress. The maid released small sobs, but her face shone with such passion that Maven was convinced Arleck caused her no pain.

  “Yes, lover,” Senya purred now, “just like that. Hard. Harder. Mmm, yes.”

  The entire room dripped with a raw sensuality Maven couldn’t comprehend, but which she felt just the same. It seemed to seep from the pair at the table and ooze onto her, causing a lately familiar moisture between her thighs.

  “Mmm, yes, Arleck, now,” Senya demanded, her voice turning harsher. “Now!” The two bodies beat together in what Maven sensed must be an ancient rhythm, as old as the land of Caralon itself, stretching back to the Before Times and beyond. “Oh, Arleck,” Senya whispered, her movements slowing into something more sensuous than frantic, “that was very fine.”

  “Tell me you want more,” he said, his voice going lower. “Tell me you want more of my cock.”

  Senya licked her lips in the dim morning light. “I want more of your cock, lover,” she imparted with a wicked smile. “I want you to ram it into me so hard and deep that I scream.”

  The words made Maven flinch. She’d never realized the act was so…violent. What Senya asked for sounded painful. And still Maven’s crotch felt silky and wet, anxiously awaiting more of their performance as she peeked around the oven.

  Again Arleck pulled the maid to him, even fiercer now, although Maven would not have believed it possible. And just as she’d requested, Senya let out a shriek each time their bodies collided.

  Maven’s own body dripped with sweat. Partly from the oven—their morning breads were baking. In fact, that was why she’d come—she’d awakened early, hungry, perhaps from the gnawing ache that grated at her thighs and breasts these past months. So far, she’d found nothing in the kitchen to ease that ache—it continued to grow and expand, leaving her certain some of her perspiration could also be attributed to watching Senya and Arleck thrust themselves together with such wild abandon.

  Soon Arleck’s cries joined Senya’s, and Maven felt the tension between them building, rising, even from her spot in the corner. Finally the gardener let out a long, low moan before slumping over the maid, resting his forehead on her shoulder.

  When he rose to face her a moment later, his eyes took on the amused look Maven had seen earlier. “Naughty Senya. You always start my day off right.”

  The two shared a giggle and Maven suddenly understood that this bizarre act of passion and violence had likely taken place in the kitchen before—perhaps often. She drew in her breath. Imagine—this going on, right here in her own home, and her none the wiser!

  “When you manage to get here first,” Senya said with a wicked laugh.

  Arleck chuckled, too. “I’m sure Ragan and Elger were most disappointed to find I’d beaten them this morning.”

  Maven warmed even further—from the oven or the conversation, she didn’t know. It sounded as if Senya kept their kitchen even busier than she’d first thought. She bit her lip at the implication of Senya knowing so many lovers. Maven would never have that opportunity. Not that she was even certain she’d want it. At the moment, the act between man and woman seemed less appealing than usual—she’d never imagined there would be such screaming and struggling involved.

  Even so, her thighs grew damper still. Perspiration, she told herself. From the oven.

  Yet as she watched Senya and Arleck kiss and cuddle, f
inally finding a good time to sneak from the room, she couldn’t deny the yearning in her breasts, the tingle in her crotch, all for the strange, secret rituals that awaited her in the marriage bed.

  * * * * *

  Later that day, Maven sat near the window, practicing with the Maran tiles as her younger sisters, Teesia and Laela, watched. Laela studied the pyramid of wooden tiles with rapt fascination while Teesia only glanced down from time to time, trying to hide her interest—but Maven knew both sisters were as mystified and curious about the tiles as she. Their time to learn the sacred game, however, would not come until after Maven had been gifted as a bride.

  She supposed it could be any day now, given that she’d turned bride’s age a full week ago. Perhaps that was why her curiosity, and the tingling sensations, had escalated lately. Her stomach clenched with nervousness as she studied the tiles, unable to find another move.

  “Oh, there—those match,” Laela said eagerly, pointing at two tiles.

  Maven raked her long blonde braid over her shoulder and scowled. “Quiet! I am to play the game, not you.”

  Laela pushed her bottom lip into a pout, her pale chestnut plait seeming to droop along with her expression. “Only trying to help.”

  “Well, no one will be there to help me at my wedding rituals, will they? If you two wish to watch, I expect you to be silent and allow me to concentrate.”

  “Sorry, Maven,” Laela murmured meekly, even as Teesia rolled her eyes at Maven’s tone. But Maven didn’t care—she had every right to be emotional over the tiles. As with all brides of royalty, she didn’t know what significance the Maran tiles held in the wedding ceremony, only that it was important she be skilled in the game.

  Just then, the large wooden door to Maven’s chamber opened to admit her maid, Lavonia, who had cared for her needs since her childhood. All three girls looked up with a start from where they sat around the Maran board.

  Lavonia cast a typically teasing look. “A good thing I am not your mother, yes?” Traditionally, the Maran game was so sacred that the bride-to-be was not to practice it in the presence of younger siblings.

  “Please don’t tell, Lavonia,” Laela implored.

  Lavonia planted her hands on her rounded hips, looking skeptical. “So long as you girls are not hindering Maven’s play, not interfering in any way.”

  Maven thought her youngest sister looked guilty as sin, blinking rapidly as she said, “Oh, no, of course not. Just watching. And…well, wondering.”

  For the first time in a while, Teesia spoke, leaning her head in a persuasive tilt. “Lavonia, won’t you tell us now?”

  The maid flashed a derisive look. “You know better than to even ask. The secret of the tiles will be revealed to Maven on the night of her wedding. As for the two of you, you shall find out in good time.”

  “Not even a hint, a clue?” Laela begged. “We wouldn’t ever tell that you told.”

  Maven continued studying the tiles, but her heart beat with the same curiosity she heard in her sisters’ voices, that same curiosity that haunted her these days. Why must the wedding rituals be so secretive? She’d have given anything to know what relevance the Maran board held in store for her.

  Lavonia shifted her dark blue gaze from girl to girl, until Maven felt it land on her. “If Maven wishes to know about the Maran tiles, then perhaps I can tell you all…a little something.”

  “Oh, please, Maven, please,” Laela begged.

  Laela’s immaturity at fifteen was thoroughly grating, yet Maven still gave in to the temptation being offered. She looked up at her maid and tried to sound aloof. “Yes, I suppose I would like to know whatever you can tell us.”

  “All right then,” Lavonia said, “but gather round, so I can speak quietly.”

  Lavonia lowered her voluptuous frame onto Maven’s bed and motioned for the three girls to come closer. As they pulled up near her on the floor, Maven saw the giddy light in Lavonia’s eyes. She knew from years of experience that her maid played the picture of obedience in her work, but that she privately enjoyed telling secrets or passing along any sort of scandalous gossip. “What I am going to share with you must not leave this room,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “It is the history of the Maran tiles.”

  Laela gasped in awe as Maven and Teesia simply exchanged more mature looks of interest.

  “Legend holds that there was once a great ruler named Arend who took for his wife a girl called Maran.”

  “Was this back in the Before Times?” Laela asked.

  “No one knows for sure,” Lavonia said, “but most think not. Most think Arend was a heroic leader of our age and that this is why the royal follow his marriage rituals to this day.”

  “Go on,” Maven urged. Despite her efforts at maturity, she wanted to hear the story.

  “Well, it seems that Maran was a very shy and backward girl and that she was frightened of Arend’s…um, attention on their wedding night. Now, most powerful men would not have cared in the slightest how the girl felt, but Arend, being a far wiser man than most, wished his new wife to enjoy their marriage.

  “So rather than proceed with the usual events of the wedding night, he exercised great patience, and he spent many evenings creating the Maran tiles, a game he felt would prepare his young wife for his attentions. He was correct—the tiles led Maran to…let us say, a full understanding of the joys of marriage—” Lavonia imparted on a light giggle, “—and Arend and Maran shared great happiness from that day on.”

  Maven only pursed her lips as Teesia voiced the question in Maven’s mind. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell us?”

  “I think it sounds utterly romantic,” Laela cooed, only to earn frowns from her sisters.

  Lavonia just laughed. “You didn’t think I’d tell you the secret, did you? Why, your father would likely take away my position if he knew I’d told you even this much. No, the real truth of the tiles will be revealed to each of you at the appropriate time, and all you need to know is that the game shall bring you pleasure such as you have never known.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning Maven lay abed, awash in sensations she still didn’t understand. Watching the gardener and the maid the previous morning—and she’d been sorely tempted to sneak down this morning as well, but had resisted, afraid of getting caught—had only created more questions for her, without providing any answers.

  The spot between her thighs tingled madly. This particular sensation was of the something-like-an-itch variety and it radiated up through her belly and down through her thighs with startling energy. She couldn’t help thinking the dratted feelings had started growing more persistent ever since she’d started playing with the Maran tiles some months back. What sway did the wooden tiles, painted with simple curving symbols, hold over her? And Lavonia promised the game would bring her joy? At the moment, all she felt was maddened. Despite her growing skill in the game, the tiles seemed to instill in her this exasperating prickling sensation that kept her from sleep.

  Of course, for all she knew, her excursion to the kitchen yesterday morning had contributed to the itch as well. It was beyond her to sort it all out. She hated being royalty! It wasn’t fair that a girl her own age—like Senya—knew every secret of a man’s body, yet Maven was kept in pure ignorance so she would be a more desirable bride.

  She was tempted to try scratching away the nagging sensations between her thighs, but she’d attempted that before, without success. Oddly, her efforts at scratching the area only seemed to aggravate the condition further.

  Of course, she recalled, had not all her attempts been made when fully clothed in furs or leathers? Would the result be different now, wearing only a silk sleeping gown?

  Biting her lip, she eased her hands beneath the silk sheet that covered her. Using one to pull the soft fabric of her gown aside, she eased the other between her thighs. Oh Ares, she was so wet down there! Of course, she’d experienced such moisture along with the tingling long b
efore this, but sinking her fingers directly into the fissure where she was so slick made her flinch. Awe and a steep jolt of satisfaction assaulted her.

  But wait, no—perhaps not satisfaction, only something very near to it.

  It had occurred to her to ask Lavonia, yet she knew her maid would only giggle and tell her, “All in good time.” It had also occurred to her ask her mother, but the Mistress of Caralon was equally as secretive about the marriage rituals. Her dark eyes were kinder than Lavonia’s on the occasions Maven’s bride price—her virginity—was mentioned, as if her mother understood her frustration, yet still she said nothing to lessen the mystery of the marriage bed.

  Maven continued scratching, although perhaps it had become more of a stroking now—a strong, firm, repetitive stroking that seemed to ease the ache even as it deepened it. “Oh, Ares above,” she murmured. “Deliver me from this. Let me be wed soon, so I might finally know the answers.”

  As Maven’s breath grew labored, she realized her entire body was responding to the strong rubbing, her fingers sinking deeper and deeper into the slick, opened folds. Drat it all, now even her breasts ached—why, why, why? What was she to do? In utter desperation, she slid her free hand across the silk covering her belly and closed her fingers tight around one breast through the thin material. Her nipple jutted firm and erect into her palm, as if begging—itching—in the same way as below.

  Instinct made her pinch the hard little protrusion of flesh between her fingertips. She gasped, the resulting stir spreading through her as if some thick, warm liquid was being poured inside her.

  Instinct also told her that if she just kept stroking the wet slit between her legs, it would get better somehow—the ache would be eased. Rubbing harder, faster, the frustration inflated tenfold, yet intuition kept her stroking, petting, her fingers drenched by her own juices.