by Louisa Trent
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Atlantic Bridge/Liquid Silver Books
www.liquidsilverbooks.com
Copyright ©2003 Louisa Trent
First Published by Liquid Silver Books, July, 2003
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2003, Louisa Trent. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
The year 1100—at the court of King William Rufus...
The telltale squeak of the closing portal roused Geoffrey de Sage from his night terrors. Weapon at the ready, he kicked free of the silvery wolf pelts and leapt from bed. Spinning in a precise arc, the two-sided blade of his broadsword silently slashing the air, he searched all corners, prepared to end the life of whoever dared enter his private bedchamber unannounced, uninvited, in the dead of night.
A taper floated in the room's dark recesses, its feeble yellow flame revealing the soft shape of a female form. Ample hips, clad only in a flaxen shift, swayed seductively at her approach. Was the intruder a spy for the King, perchance? An assassin hired to eliminate him while he slept? Or worse yet, was this visitor another apparition of his beleaguered mind?
Real, he decided. Unquestionably flesh and blood; his nightmare phantoms never undulated. And this lady, though self-serving and given to nocturnal clandestine activities, was no royal cohort.
Coming fully upright from his tensed crouch, he loosed his grip on the hilt of his weapon and called out to the foolish woman who had very nearly drawn her last breath. “Lost your way, Thea?"
“Certainly not. These cold passages hold no great mystery for me,” the lady cooed sweetly, having missed the bite of his sarcasm.
Without so much as a ‘by-your-leave', she ensconced her faltering wick on the stone wall nearest the threshold. This forwardness was quite usual for the lady as she made herself welcome no matter where she went—regardless of the reception she received.
“But will you see here,” she remarked with a shiver, the delicateness of which belied her substantial padding. “I actually have the gooseflesh.” She artfully shelved her arms under a fine bosom, lovingly nesting those two corpulent birds.
Attention caught, he eyed the hardened nipples on those round mounds with guarded detachment. “Chilled, milady? Mayhap a covering might help."
“Humpf. Leave it to a man to complicate simple matters."
Amused despite himself, he placed his warrior's sword aside. “Pray, how does this man complicate your simple matters?"
Thea gave a lusty snort. “Sage, dear, really! Why bother to cover what I would have you lay bare?” She posed a coy finger to a chin too fleshy for some tastes, but not his, and offered him a smug smile. “Is the purpose of my visit now clear?"
“As abundantly clear as are your attributes, milady.” He gave a slight courtier's bow. “You are exceedingly generous with your charms—all the lords from hither and yon do say so—but sorry to say, I must decline your invitation."
“What!” she screeched.
Despite his recoiling ears, Sage replied with a fair approximation of civility: “Kindly make a hasty return to your chamber before your husband reaches for you middle-night and comes away with naught but a fistful of cooling fur."
“My husband never reaches for me at night or at any other time for that matter,” Thea snipped with a sulk, a disdainful sniff, and a mincing step in his direction. “His negligence is why I am here. I find myself almost pitifully in need of male companionship this eve. If I am not attended to soon, I fear I shall wither and dry like an old crone's pouch."
Now within injurious proximity, Thea playfully raked a talon-like fingernail down his bare chest and over the raised welts of his battle-scars. “Come to this damsel's rescue, oh-great-and-powerful knight."
Before a pretend cat-scratch drew very real blood, Sage stepped back. “That which you seek to set afire was doused long ago.” His voice held no sanction as the thwarted arsonist's motivations were misguided, not malicious.
“Surely you are lonely?” she asked, one tactic exchanged for another.
Lonely? Verily, he had never known anything but loneliness. Loneliness was his unrelenting lover, his harsh mistress during those long, dark, sleepless nights.
Thea had no blame in this unhappy state of affairs—hardly her fault either that her offer of companionship left his manhood unstirred. Placing the responsibility directly where it belonged, he grumbled, “I am celibate."
“Nay!” She gasped, hand clutched to her plump pigeons. “Surely you jest?"
Her shocked reaction came as no surprise. Though ears routinely listened at portals here at court, he wagered not one overheard a mention of chastity waft through the keyhole.
Admittedly, upon occasion—the times scarce and far between—he missed the wet heat of penetration, the animal grunts and groans during the rut, the white-hot illumination at climax. But never did he miss the ruling urgency, that mad, uncontrollable rush to mate. Thankfully, he had not suffered that particular torment with his wife.
Thea, her wind finally caught, launched into a scold. “You, my Lord Celibate, should wear a bell! ‘Tis unforgivable to expose the unsuspecting this way."
“The affliction is not contagious. Rest easy, you are in no danger of contracting an incurable case of abstinence from me."
“Oh, how very humorous! Though, I must say, I have heard worrisome rumors about this strange condition of yours. Naturally, I gave the gossip no credence. Now I am left to wonder the truth of the tales. ‘Tis even said you took monk's vows during the Crusades."
At his irreverent smirk, she blessed herself. And then, lashes fanning like a vulture's wing, her glance swooped down atop his loincloth. “Oh, my! You are quite correct to leave Holy Orders to others less endowed. A man of your enormous talents would be wasted in ecclesiasticism."
“You flatter me far too much, milady."
She sent him an arched look. “I shall believe in the existence of fire belching dragons long before believing there is such a thing as too much flattery. Personally, I can attest to receiving far less fawning than I deserve."
Once again showing a remarkable insensitivity to futility, Thea shrugged her sloping shoulders in a move designed to accentuate the give and sway of her voluptuousness; as rehearsed moves went, this one succeeded admirably well.
He sighed, resigned to her seduction. And as she wiggled her way to the furs, his eyes stayed fixed on her hips—difficult to ignore such fulsome persuasion.
“In any case, Sage, I am not here for you to play the toady. I realize you are no sycophant, but neither are you cruel enough to send me away. Only an unconscionable heathen would cast out a lady in my extremity of distress."
Alas, Thea had misjudged him, and on all three counts. Circumstances had made him cruel; a Holy War would make a heathen out of any man; and because the former held true, the latter must also follow: he had every intention of casting her out.
He did, however, smile at the incorrigible lady. He was celibate, not blind, and Thea of Trenwyth was an extraordinarily healthy female: Brunette, buxom, and brazen—she was everything he had once admired in a bed partner. Though that was long ago, in a former life, and he was a changed man.
Desire was a thorn whose hard prick he recalled not at all.
Then again, his own hard prick had also faded from memory.
For that reason and more, he rushed forward and intercepted the lady before she threw herself bodily atop the bedding. Taking her arm, he escorted her to the portal where he placed the taper once again in her hand.
“Leave me to my darkness, Thea."
“Wait!” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. “You depart for the borderlands on the morrow?"
At his nod, she whispered, “Do you still intend to capture Aeschine of Scotland?"
Another nod here.
“I know you seek justice for your wife, but do take care. Make no misstep in your pursuit of your enemy, LaTourne. Should you stumble, should you so much as falter in your quest, you will find the wrath of Rufus visited upon your head."
“How? Tell me how!"
“You know of DuFont?"
“The King's henchman—what of him?"
“When you leave the castle gates, he is assigned to follow you. Watch your back, my dear friend."
Warning given, the lady disappeared down the hall, taking the light with her.
CHAPTER ONE
The fog had done much to conceal her escape. But when the soft drizzle changed quite suddenly to a pelting rain, the moor's spongy surface soon turned treacherously slick under her racing feet. Leather boots skidding, Aeschine of Scotland left the open space behind and dove for the cover of the wooded glen.
Doubled over, she scooted under the low-growing encroachment of bushes and vines. Only when the forest canopy lifted did she regain her full height. Tall for a female, the moist leaves from over-hanging tree branches slapped limply at her face and tore, the jagged green shreds clinging to her skin. Brambles ripped the coif covering her plaited hair, the thorns imbedding in the linen. At ground level, sharp woody thistle spines stuck to the hem of her damp gown. No time to wipe the slimy scurf away, she kept running...
Deeper into the dank forest, where witch moss dripped as thick as dungeon cobwebs from the gnarled branches of century-old oaks. With her hands raised before her face, Aeschine ripped through the spun tangle of silvery threads. Once free of the dangling entrapment, she sucked air into her lungs in great greedy swallows, lowered a hand to clutch the sharp ache in her side and jumped a brackish stream.
For a brief time, she picked up speed. But then a crop of lichen-covered stones got the best of her and she fell, face down. Belly scraping swampy mud, nose pressed to a steaming pile of rotten vegetation, ear flattened to the moldy ground, she listened for the sounds of pursuit.
She knew it! She was being followed. The soggy ground hammered in a steady rhythm, much as a baker pounds his yeasty dough. Steed hooves. A large and heavy beast. Only one rider, she predicted, though he galloped toward her at a fine clip.
Her betrothed! Who else would come after her? The perverted blackguard hunted her down like an animal. May his soul rot in hell!
Pushing aside the feathery fond of a shuttlecock fern, Aeschine stuck her cold nose out into the opening and scoured her surroundings, paying strict attention to the northerly approach.
Seeing that no search party advanced on foot, poking the undergrowth with sticks to ferret out a wayward bride, she pounced to a stand. Fastidiousness long forgotten, her only thoughts on flight, she waded through a pool of fetid brown pulp, the malodorous brew soaking her gray wool hose and splattering her gown. The memory of those hammering horse hooves drove her out of the forest toward the rain-swollen river.
Even at a distance, the currents looked strong. But if she could ford the water undetected, she might yet escape him.
Up ahead, situated along the riverbank, grew a strip of stately reeds. The tall grasses would hide her until her affianced rode past. Then, she would make her break and take the watery plunge.
She scrambled between the upright grass stalks, the late summer display of white plumes rustling like dry parchment, fairly screaming out her location. Scores of contentious bullfrogs, bloated throats croaking in annoyance at having their lazy sleep disturbed, jumped into the stagnant water all around her, their irksome bleeps and muddy splashes betraying her further. She dared not linger here!
Wickedly sharp reeds abrading her hands, bleeping frogs leaping every which way, she lifted her sodden gunna to the waist and struck out for deeper depths. If the good sisters at Saint Mary's could see her exposed hinny they would keel over into a collective nun-heap on the floor.
Too bad about them! In her estimation, modesty paid for with the coin of her freedom was an overpriced virtue. She swam like a fish when not weighed down. And if she sank in her sodden skirts and boots? So be it! Drowning was said to be a peaceful way to die. Death was preferable to submitting to LaTourne...
Though, of course, given the choice, she would much prefer to live and have the rotten bastard take a neck-breaking tumble from his mount.
Grinning evilly to herself at the image, she dove headfirst under the river's murky water.
Her spirit was strong but her flesh was weak. Much too soon she resurfaced to fill her laboring lungs with air. While treading the currents, sputtering and choking, she heard the sound of hooves splash behind her. A steed's hot breath snorted at her ear. Before she could slice below the water again, she was hauled out of the river like a bunch of wet stinking rags and summarily dumped facedown onto a saddle.
In blind fury, she pummeled the muscled arm holding her prone.
The grip on her bare bottom tightened. The hoary degenerate...
Changing strategies, she made herself go limp, as though she had given up the fight. As if she ever would!
“Air,” she gasped pathetically. She pretended to cough. “Can't breathe. Please. I need air."
Proving how little he knew her, he loosed his hold on her exposed backside.
Without sparing the buggering swine a backward glance, she rolled to an upright position, took a good long pull of breath, and after a swiftly prayed Act of Contrition, made ready to leap. She would escape or she would die trying.
“You fling yourself from me, milady, and I swear by all that is holy, my destrier will dance a merry jig on your round arse."
She froze.
What? That muffled voice did not belong to her affianced. And how dare this stranger comment on the roundness of her arse.
She turned to the rider who held her hostage.
A protective helm partially obscured his visage, but what she could discern set her atremble. Ominous, relentless, dark feelings besieged her when she gazed upon his face. Hopelessness. The features of her captor encapsulated all the frightening elements of night, without the redeeming anticipation of dawning light. Despair surely had this man in its grip, and the gray cloud of that despair cast its gloom over her, chilling her to the marrow.
Those were her feelings, which she always went by first. And then there were his actual features. Well, they were not much better. Certainly, they did not improve her initial impression of the warlord.
The curled tip of a formidable scar, starting high on the cheek and extending downwards like a jagged lightening bolt, ruined his sensual lips. A hawkish nose, narrow at the top, jutted arrogantly but irregularly from a high forehead. Eyes that should have shone like black gems were dead in his head...
Suddenly, as those sunken jewel-eyes focused unwaveringly on her, they came to life.
A cloistered novice knows little of men, less of mating, nothing of lust. But want? Aye, that was something she understood. This warrior wanted, all right. And apparently, what he wanted was her. The only escape left to her now was blessed unconsciousness.
Letting go of the light within her, she took i
t.
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In deference to his bait's faint, Sage slowed the brutal pace of his steed. Even so, the cave where they would make camp was straight ahead.
The abduction of Aeschine of Scotland had gone according to plan. Verily, she had made her capture ridiculously easy, having strayed a goodly distance from the protection of her traveling party. No one had seen the abduction and, thus far, no one followed.
Save for the King's henchman. As Thea had warned, DuFont tracked him at a distance.
No help for it. Regardless of the audience, Sage would do what he must do. The King's servant would not intimidate him into giving up Aeschine of Scotland until, and unless, justice was served.
Fortunately, the cave was situated on a rise. The small knoll in the landscape would afford him an excellent view of all comers. When DuFont found him—and the henchman would find him—the advantage of advance notice would give Sage the upper hand in the ensuing confrontation.
The warlord breathed a weary sigh of relief. On the intake of air, his nose twitched. Then wrinkled in distaste.
Hen's teeth! Aeschine of Scotland was an exceedingly foul-smelling bundle!
His armor chafed and the lady stank—time to put both aside for a while. If his captive did not awaken soon, he would let her slide to the ground on a trail of slime, much as a slug departs a cabbage leaf. A man can tolerate the aroma of an open latrine for only so long.
Resembling a peasant in her dung-colored, dung-smelling gown, the wench was not at all what he had expected. This was no high and mighty noblewoman, no bejeweled lady of prestigious rank. Without the cinch of a girdle to display either a waist or jewels, her rough-textured gown fell straight from the shoulders, much as a serf's garb might.
On second thought—though unadorned in the strictest sense—his captive in no way lacked in decoration, for nature had gifted her with something rarer than jewels: Even under the caked mud, her face showed the promise of comeliness. Her bones called her pretty. Cheeks, smooth and rounded, set high under a slanted eye socket, gave her countenance a wild foreign look—a mysterious, exotic look.
