by Louisa Trent
To think she had tried to outrun him! On horseback, no less!
She had almost succeeded.
The lass possessed the light-footed nimbleness of a woodland doe. Still, the uneven ground had tripped her up and she had stumbled, fallen to hands and knees, her bottom sticking inelegantly up in the air.
It was at that exact moment that his ... attention ... had first stirred. When, undaunted, his quarry had risen, he had risen too, his loins unexpectedly hardening.
He thought he would never catch up with her! When she raced like a fey creature for the stream, literally heaving herself into the water, he thought she would drown for sure.
Strength. Bold determination. Reckless valor. The will to survive. The lass possessed the essential attributes of a warrior...
...and none of the qualities he admired in a woman.
Yet shamefully, waves of heat suffused his body. And for the first time in his life, fever won out over self-discipline, lust triumphed over principles, control gave way to desire, and seemingly of their own volition, his fingers caressed her cheek, his thumb moving over her full, pink, warm, moist mouth.
“Mmm,” his captive murmured in her sleep. The tip of her tongue delicately met his finger pad. “Oh, aye."
He raised a brow. “You like that, do you?"
Eyes closed, she smiled.
What else does she like? He wondered.
Sage blinked in consternation. His long-held celibacy suddenly felt like a caul wound tight around his loins. His body's response was unsolicited. Unwelcome. Completely unwarranted, especially when considering the shape of the baggage causing the ache. For after measuring his captive, from hair-rail to mud-encrusted boots, he pronounced the journey a long and uninspired trip. The terrain was extraordinarily flat. Why, Her Muddiness looked as narrow as a lad!
His captive was flat and she stank. Yet here was he, the avowed celibate, thumbing the lush pink mouth of forbidden fruit.
Holding his breath, lest he inhale too much of her low-tide perfume, Sage settled his captive away from his caged urgency.
“Wake up,” he commanded.
The lady moaned. The lady groaned. The lady did not awaken.
Sage shifted in the saddle. Not exactly a squirm, but close. Gritting his teeth against the fiery surge of male need, he gave her a firm, no-nonsense shake. “Awaken, I say!"
“Do you rape me now or later?"
Her voice! The timbre was soft and throaty. Sensual. A carnal voice suited to the bedchamber. Easy to imagine her calling out to a lover from a tussled bed of silver wolf pelts, fair skin bared save for a rosy blush of pleasure.
And her hair! He was quite sure that the wealth of it, when loosened, would fall past her narrow hips to fan her bottom. A round fetching bottom to be sure, as he had already enjoyed quite an eyeful when she raised her gunna waist-high for her river swim.
In his mind's eye, he saw his captive glide downward onto the furs, sink to her knees, then to her belly, before hiking herself up onto all fours like a tame deer, her hips raising for him. High. Nay, higher! All the way up, good little doe, until soft buttocks met the hard lance of his cock.
She would whisper to him, then. The intimate phrases of lovers would float like a soft melody from her lush lips. Honeyed coupling words. Provocative mating words. Ribald and passionate poetry used to persuade, used to entice, used not for the benefit of seducing that corrupt boil LaTourne but ... but ... him. Geoffrey de Sage!
Why her?
Why now?
Rape played no part in his plan. He believed in an eye for an eye, but had he descended to such ruthlessness that he would revenge himself on a helpless female?
He had no answer, save that he would have the truth—had Aeschine of Scotland acted as an accomplice in his wife's death or was she no more than a powerless female unwittingly linked to the degenerate butcher, LaTourne?
Disquieted, he placed his hand under his captive's wide but slender shoulders. Her elegant throat arched pale and unprotected. In that position, her rapid pulse looked woefully vulnerable. How little strength it would take to still that rapidly beating pulse, to sever that elegant throat.
When his knuckles grazed her coif, the linen went askew and a lock of hair escaped. The strand was not the yellow of buttercups. Not quite the whiteness of lilies, either. The strand was a nameless hue someplace in between.
Moonlight! That was it! He breathed in, and the scent of lavender drifted to his face...
Lavender?
What in God's name ailed his nose? Filth covered the lady! How was it possible to distinguish the sweet scent of flowers from the odious mud she wore?
He could and did. And with that desperate certainty was born the realization that he must break free of her spell.
He pushed her away.
The motion must have disturbed her slumber for she finally granted him the favor of opening her closed lids, a slow flutter followed by a disdainful stare.
Her eyes! Christ Jesus, her eyes! They were a compelling blue, the color of a deep Scottish loch but without any of the remote coolness. Their blue heat held his gaze intently, challenging him with defiance.
Merely pushing her away was not enough; this time, he jumped from the saddle. Only his captive's scrutiny prevented him from pacing the ground before his steed.
He must maintain his distance, he thought, eyes on his feet. Remain impersonal. Uninvolved. Detached. Just. A judge must never fall victim to a prisoner's appeal.
After a while—that is, when she was good and ready—she said—and not at all like the docile doe of his fantasy—"Well, answer me! Do you rape me now or do you wait ‘till later?"
How was it she knew his thoughts? Was she a witch?
Keeping his expression carefully wooden, he met the steady regard of his captive. He tried to keep his tone cool, but for all of his trying the declaration still came out sounding like a bag of wind bluster. “I do not violate females!"
“Making you the first warlord in history,” she said, and very coolly indeed.
Rejecting his proffered assistance, she performed a lithe dismount.
It would appear he had erred; the lady was not so flat, after all. Small breasts, round as apples, bounced upon her one-footed landing.
In response to the bounce, his cock jutted. Hot carnality rushed to his loins.
Odd, that Aeschine's little apple-breasts interested him. Generally, he liked yielding plumpness. Luscious large breasts. Bountiful big bellies. Tremendous bums made to warm a man on a cold night—mounds of jiggling, quivering womanly flesh that called to mind a sumptuous feast.
He coughed as his stones tightened, and not at the buxom image in his mind. The delicate reality of Aeschine of Scotland had caused the cock squeeze.
“No harm will befall you,” he assured her. “I have you."
And he did have her. He owned her. She was his possession. The pleasure that gave him was a cross almost too great to be borne.
CHAPTER TWO
Sage's pleasure lasted until his captive tapped her fingers and smirked.
“No harm will befall me? I see. Well, glad tidings! And here I thought only God possessed omnipotence. In light of your all-knowing righteousness, I must know your name."
She delayed less time than a swallow took before she snapped, “Well, speak up, man! What is it? Who has taken me prisoner?"
“I am your captor. For now, you need not know more."
“You would keep me in the dark?"
He disregarded her question.
Her lush mouth pursed. “I dislike the dark almost as much as I dislike cryptic responses. Answer me this: How long will I remain your prisoner, Captor? A day? A year? Indefinitely?"
Knowing that the volatility of the situation would hardly inspire confidence in her small pointed bosom, he settled on an answer that fell halfway between the honor of truth and the pragmatism of compromise. “You are my prisoner for as long as it takes."
“As long as it takes?” She
clucked her tongue. “Are you not the clever one with your word puzzles? You will have to forgive me if I overstate the precariousness of my dilemma. You see, this is the first time a dark knight has absconded with me. One must make up the etiquette of capture as one goes along.” She tapped her fingers on her lips. “If rape is not the intent of this abduction, I wonder what is your purpose in keeping me?"
She held up a hand to stop him from speaking, though he had given no outward indication of saying a word.
“Nay, Captor, do not tell me. That would spoil our sport. Let me guess."
Blue eyes glinted in speculation. “As you did not ask my name, you must already know who I am."
A smooth brow furrowed. “But then, you must also know that I am betrothed to one of your own, to the nobleman, LaTourne. So why...?"
Across lush lips an impish smile played, giving evidence of a frolicsome nature. “Aha! I have it! This is personal. My betrothed is your enemy! You keep me for revenge!"
Her smugness would have struck him as comical in the extreme ... if not that her mind reading caused him more concern than mirth.
“I never discuss my motives with captives.” Cautious steps around broody hens make for unbroken eggs.
“And why would you? When the bloodlust in your eyes speaks for itself.” She tapped her slim fingers once more. “Your revenge might take some time. Where will I be lodged during the interim?"
“My dungeon is your new abode."
He heard her swallow. “You say you do not violate females, but you and I both know that if kept in the dungeon my guards, your men, will rape me repeatedly. They will assault my person at every turn."
“They will not."
She rolled her eyes. “Are you wed?"
“Nay."
“Then you have need of a leman. Provide me with the protection of your bedchamber, Captor, and I shall make your nights sing."
Her forthrightness shocked a terse response from him. “I do not bargain."
“You do not discuss. You do not bargain. But I daresay you fornicate,” she said, her tone imperial, before immediately changing to a placating wheedle. “Please, Captor, do not imprison me in your dungeon! ‘Tis dark in the tunnels below a keep! If you do not install me in your bedchamber, every man under your command will try me on for size."
Ah, but she is a changeable one! He mused. One moment the sultry vixen, offering him her body, the next instant a child afeared of the dark.
Back to the coquette. “Do not misunderstand. I am not asking you for charity, Captor. I am merely suggesting a transaction of equal exchange for both of us.” Her hand went to his arm.
He refused to acknowledge its placement ... until her fingers slid to where armor gave way to the underside of unprotected wrist. There, the light pressure of her touch, stroking his leathery flesh, sent a scorching wildfire through him.
“I am a practical woman,” she whispered, sounding anything but. “Placed in the dungeon as a political prisoner, your men will set upon me as a pack of wild dogs set upon a bone. Pray, where is the dignity in that?"
So, she prized her dignity, did she?
He stored this crucial weakness away for future reference. “If, Captive, you offer yourself for my exclusive use to receive preferential treatment, disabuse yourself of that notion. I treat all my prisoners with the same fairness."
“I shall die in your dungeon,” she said with sorrow, but no self-pity. “To be without the sun is akin to torture for me. Is that your same fairness?"
“No one will torture you! Not in any way! Speak no more of torture to me!"
Jaw tilted, she read his thoughts and spoke hers: “You had a bad time of it in the Crusades. I am sorry..."
“I have no need for a prisoner's sympathy."
“Too bad. You shall have it anyway.” Removing her fingers from his wrist, she stroked his scarred cheek.
It took all he had, every last sliver of fortitude, not to withdraw. She caressed his face but he felt the stroke much lower on his anatomy. “Flirtation will not weaken my resolve!"
“I shall not survive in the dark.” Cool fingers fell away.
But the tactile memory remained. “You will survive because you have no choice but to survive. Now, no more talk. We will water my animal at the stream and then make camp. If you will be so kind as to take the lead,” he prompted with a dip of his head.
When her feet began to move, as was proper when acting as escort, his hand found its way to the small of his captive's back. They walked in tandem, his five fingers resting on the delicious area where flat gives way to curve.
He had always had a penchant for the female back. The derriere. The back of the limbs. The crease behind the knees. That deep and inviting crevice between the buttocks ... Aeschine was a female he would enjoy watching both going and coming.
Particularly coming.
Did she scream upon climax? He wondered.
He cleared the roughness from his throat. Hoping that if he spoke the words aloud his loins would hear the message, he told her grudgingly: “I am celibate."
She stared straight ahead. “Were you made a eunuch in the Holy Wars? Was that your torture?"
“Nay."
“Are you celibate for religious reasons?"
“I am not devout."
“Do you prefer men?” she asked, turning about.
“Nay!” He shook his head. “Just know you are safe with me."
She fluttered her lashes. “Celibate or no, you desire me."
“Eyes forward,” he ordered. Then, speaking to the back of her head, “Continue to bargain with me and you will regret it.” With this admonishment duly pronounced, his hand lowered and roamed, finally sinking to a level close to misplaced courtesy.
She stopped in her tracks. Her jaw turned to three-quarters, her full mouth coming closer, as though to tell him a secret. “I have learned to live with my regrets, Captor. Have you?"
Cherry lips moved to within a breath's taste. What would it be like to sample those lips? He wondered.
Her mouth was the inviting kind. The sultry sort a man would wish to savor, to devour...
...to entrust with the care and thrust of his cock.
The lower lip appeared slightly fuller than the top. But both lips tilted upwards, though only slightly. Only enough to make it seem as though she found life itself amusing.
“Pardon?” he replied to a kiss too close for comfort. How quickly he lost what remained of his mind ... and the gist of their conversation. What had they been discussing?
He had no idea.
Rather than play catch-up, he let the subject drop even as his hand dropped lower. His palm now rested on where curve gave way to fullness.
She bucked like a nervous mare.
“Easy,” he crooned. Through the years, he had mastered many a skittish female animal; Aeschine was no exception. “Easy,” he repeated. His fingertips took in the top of a round buttock, knuckles flexing to a possessive cup.
A cautious glance over a pair of wide shoulders told Sage his captive's nipples now protruded under the front of the gunna; the two points had elongated to the sharpness of spears.
Damnation! Aeschine of Scotland was a succulent piece.
“Easy.” He had said the word thrice.
“Will you take me easy or hard?” she asked breathlessly.
“I told you, I am celibate!"
His tone yielded nothing, but his cock had long since conceded everything. If he took her now, without question he would not go easy on her. When he rutted, his strokes brutalized. His captive had no way of knowing this. She had no understanding that in offering him her body in exchange for freedom, she had placed herself in certain danger. The dungeon offered more safety than close proximity to him, especially at night.
Before his nightmares, before the Crusades, he had prided himself on his civility, on his honor with females. He liked to believe he still had both. Meticulously so, while acknowledging that the reason for his restraint had ch
anged. Now, a lady covered in mud threatened his self-imposed discipline. His palm cupped a captive's posterior; he struggled to keep from deepening the caress, from ingratiating his fingers where ladies do not customarily care to be so graced.
She did not forestall him.
To stay clear of the dungeon Aeschine of Scotland would allow him unrestrained liberties. She would let him do whatever he wished to do. All he wished to do. All whores did the same.
Her expression was now unreadable, her eyes having lidded at his retort, their downcast gaze subservient. She had, with a fringe of lashes, effectively, albeit passively, shut him out.
Her passive resistance made his blood boil. She had shown no timidity running in the bogs. No hesitancy when she had tried to escape him. Then, she had been free. Untamed. Wild. Uninhibited. He had understood her then. Understanding failed him now.
“Silence does not become you. What think you?” he coaxed, trying to comprehend the change that had come over her.
“That I hate this constant warfare. That I would do anything in my power to stop the killing.” Her long, pale neck rounded like a swan in mourning; her stoop-shoulder demeanor was inalterably sad.
Under the weight of her grief, his reserve cracked like old pottery. “Come you here to me."
A tentative step, and she fell full against him, a lady adrift in a storm of useless emotion.
Sage gathered her close. Pulling her filthy, reeking, wet body into his arms, he let Aeschine of Scotland cry it out.
So long, he thought with a sigh, since he had held a female thus. So long since a lady was unwise enough to seek comfort against his chest.
“I vow the deaths will end someday,” he said, peering up over her coifed head to the sky.
The rain had finally stopped. The sun had put in a cursory reappearance. Lather steamed on his animal's haunches. The humid warmth of this late summer's day would soon ease into the premature coolness of an autumn night. Already the course of the sun's shadows had altered. A morning bled to night, one season departed for another, the subtle nuance of change had absorbed an entire year, and he had yet to avenge himself on his wife's killer. The passage of days sped by as swift and unstoppable as the leaves falling brown and withered under the restless hooves of his steed ... and his enemy, LaTourne, still breathed.
