Captive

by Louisa Trent

  “Go on,” he said, pretending to ennui, though his cock jutted against the wrappings of his warrior's loincloth. “Ice will cap the hot springs before you finish."

  She eased her hold on the under-linen, and it dropped, along with her eyes to the floor.

  Nicely done...

  Aeschine had won the first joust of the tournament. His cock now lanced against its imprisonment, the blunt head of the erect shaft trying to break through the bindings.

  His captive glowed in alabaster perfection. He growled her name appreciatively, “Aeschine..."

  She looked up. “Aye?"

  “You are a man's dream."

  She oinked like a piglet.

  “Do not deny it,” he rebuked. “Your body is temptation, itself. Your coloring is a rare tapestry. All golds and creams and roses. The silken threads interlocked to weave an erotic design. Quite lovely, really."

  “I have small teats."

  He held back his laugh at her false stab at humility. How she fascinated him, pretense and all!

  “Your breasts are precocious. And precious. And perfect.” He paused as a distasteful thought occurred to him ... LaTourne preyed on children. Had Aeschine left childhood behind?

  “How many years have you?” he asked quickly.

  “Ten and eight."

  Relief washed over him: Aeschine was more than of age. Many girls were mated the first time at three and ten. “And your flux? Has it begun?"

  “Pardon?"

  “Do you bleed?"

  “Why?” She twisted about, looked behind her. “Am I wounded?"

  “Between your legs,” he said in exasperation. Damn her willful game playing! She knew damn well what he meant!

  “Oh! There!"

  She looked down. Separated her thighs. Shamelessly, showed him her cleft. No blush of modesty from this lady!

  “One time only,” she offered.

  Her late start of menses, due most likely to athleticism, accounted for her boyishly narrow hips, small breasts and ... LaTourne's interest in taking her to wife. Everyone knew of the pervert's unwholesome predilections, which included a particular fondness for children. Lads, for the most part. But he would settle for girls too.

  “Your breasts are buds yet,” he said, smiling at their winsome appeal, despite her outrageous cock teasing. “Exquisite, but tender nubs, and still blossoming. They remind me of new flowers tilting upwards to seek the sun."

  “Flower blossoms? My teats?” She picked one up and rang it like a bell.

  He almost expected to hear the sound of tinkling chimes. He wished he might ring her bells too. And try as he might not to stare, he did, at those tender crests. They enchanted him, as did the wild riot of fair curls that hugged the entrance to her body like guards at the gates of paradise.

  “I dearly wish I had large paps, and that they were not so pointed. They should hang more too. Low to the waist, like great cow udders. What good are small teats?” she asked in a refined, lady-like tone.

  A bashful look stole over her features—Aeschine did bashful much better than she did docile—and her hands went behind her back, which in turn caused her extraordinary reddish-pink nipples to shift. “Please to excuse my inadequacies, Captor. I promise to make up for the lacks with my enthusiasm for mating."

  Inadequacies? Lacks?

  What prattle! How many more ploys would she employ to call attention to her desirability?

  A bead of perspiration trickled down Aeschine's shallow cleavage. As Sage watched, the droplet slid over her belly to her mound, before disappearing into her womanly mysteries. Would that he might follow the course of that salty bead of moisture with his tongue, from breast to paradise. Would that he might lick the steam from her flesh! Surely her essence would taste as sweet as any sun-kissed Turkish delicacy he had sampled in the Crusades. Just the thought of putting his mouth on her, of drawing his tongue over her flesh, had his taste buds watering.

  “You are more than adequate,” he felt compelled to say, for truth is truth.

  “Do you like me, then?” she asked. “Will I do?"

  Not pausing for a reply, she spun in place. Then glided over the floor; she danced naked for him, her feet skipping on the large flat stones.

  “Have a care,” he warned. “The rocks are slippery."

  She held out both hands, palms up, in supplication. “I would make you happy in our magical cave. I would give you a son. A daughter too. Your keep will burst at the seams with bairns, as many as you so wish!"

  Dear Lord! What daydream was this? To what madness did he listen?

  Happiness. A home. Children. A promise of a normal life...

  A howl of agony reached up from his gut.

  While on the Crusades, he had remained unfashionably faithful to his wife. Then, after Joan's murder, his physical needs had gone dormant. He had no inclination to take a lover, though ample opportunities to end his celibacy had presented themselves at Rufus’ court where noble ladies had artfully and endlessly pursued him. A flirtatious gesture here, a limpid look there, a bold hand fondling his upper thigh under the banquet table—he had ignored them all. In hindsight, he realized that disassociating himself from the carnal side of his nature had been a terrible mistake. Had he taken care of his glands at court on any of the widows who sought his attention, he would not feel uncomfortably hard now. In the end, though, he had remained stubborn in his adherence to celibacy, for a brief affair with a bored lady would only hold danger for her and leave him unsatisfied. Of an age when family was uppermost in his thoughts, he yearned for a child. His child. A son of his loins.

  Blackness of thought had forever dashed those hopes. He would never remarry now.

  Unfortunately, unlike most men, he had no by-blows. Before wedding Joan, he had been careful to spill his seed upon the ground, for he would not have bastard children running around owning nothing of his but a face. While he still believed that he had stayed the prudent course, his scrupulousness had cost him an heir.

  He had no child. No son to come after him.

  Jaw clenched, Sage stood unmoving, unblinking, rooted to the floor of the cave like a gnarled tree that awaits the fall of the ax. Arms crossed over his chest, guarding a heart that surprisingly still beat after the mortal blow his captive had inflicted, he barked, “Do you intend to bathe any time soon or do you dance all night?"

  Her spinning came to a stop. “You have not given me leave to bathe."

  “You have it. Now go! And be quick about it."

  “As you wish,” Aeschine said and scooted to the hot springs.

  Plopping her round bottom on the ledge, she dipped her long legs over the side. She splashed her feet for a while, then plunged fearlessly through the steam into the water.

  Once, he had thought to have it all, everything that Aeschine had described. But what the horrors of the Crusades had not taken from him, his rage over his wife's death had. In the name of duty, he had left Joan alone to do battle in a foreign land. And he had returned a monster.

  He should never have left Joan! He knew that now. He also knew that if he had loved her, nothing would have dragged him away from her side. They had not had that kind of marriage. He had not been her everything, nor had she been his. They had led separate lives, apart from, not a part of, one another. Good friends whose lives collided only for the occasional night in bed. He had not loved his wife, though God knows, he had tried.

  He had tried. He had tried. He had tried!

  His wife had always felt the void. Knew of the moat he had tried and failed to cross. Political expediency had thrown them together. But for all that, there existed great respect between them.

  The knowledge of how his wife must have died haunted him. In his mind, Sage saw it all, imagined how it must have been, as females are mistreated the same in every war, here and in the Crusades. He saw Joan stripped naked, tethered to a stake in the ground, raped. Scottish marauders, leaving her to bleed in the dirt. When his wife died, so had his hope of ever having
a family.

  At his wife's gravesite, he had made a promise of peace, a vow of no more senseless invasions. No more indiscriminate killings. No more blood of elders staining the serene green glens. No more babes dead before they had chance to grow. Joan would have wished for something good to come of her death...

  He was honor-bound him to keep the vow, but his outraged manhood called for revenge. The word pulsed in him like an unholy litany. His warrior instincts told him that where there is attack, there must also be sortie. Sally your forces, and then retaliate. That is the only way to win. No mercy given to prisoners, no forgiveness in battle...

  Revenge.

  He needed a just revenge for his wife's murder.

  And as darkness closed in on him, there was only Aeschine. His captive. Looking guilty as sin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Steam rose from the hot springs, obscuring his view of her. Sage called out a swift warning: “No deeper."

  Aeschine's back was turned, her round bottom covered to the alluring crevice. At his directive, she turned to face him, her skin glowing. “You worry for me?"

  “The pool is unsafe,” he prevaricated.

  She nodded. “I worry for you too.” The long spikes of her lashes glittered with moisture.

  Tears? Or pool water?

  “Many people may die because of me. You may die because of me,” she said softly. “I sense that your hatred for LaTourne is personal and that revenge is the reason you abducted me. And I also sense goodness in you. I believe you wish for peace between our peoples. Whatever your ultimate plan, I pray you will not pay a terrible price for this undertaking."

  How could she still think good of him after having seen inside the darkest regions of his heart?

  She had submerged up to her neck in the water, and fearful of losing sight of her in the steam, Sage stalked to the rocky edge of the pool. “Look at the size of me,” he growled. “There is no need to worry over my safety or yours either. As long as you do everything I tell you to do, you will live.” And if he determined she shared LaTourne's guilt in the invasion that took countless lives—what then? Would he still permit her to live then?

  She was so very young, so full of life! How could he put an end to such exuberance? He asked himself, searching the hot mist for her.

  As the steam swirled around them, their eyes met, and suddenly he knew that Aeschine was young only in years.

  “You are a warrior who does not welcome combat,” she said with the grave wisdom of an old soul.

  “I have killed, and will do so again. But not as lightly as when I was young. Killing is neither noble nor glorious. ‘Tis but a necessity. The dead haunt me now, you see,” he said, admitting to his innermost secret thoughts.

  “Avoiding conflict is not always a sign of weakness,” she offered. “At times, walking away from battle foretells a man's true strength.” She shivered, despite the warm water.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked quickly. Had she taken ill?

  “The devil just crossed my path..."

  “Did you fight him, warrior-woman?” he asked, relieved that whimsy was her only complaint.

  “Nay. I gave into him.” She shivered again. “And I ... I liked it."

  “Come out now,” he said, her eerie tone making him suddenly uneasy. “You grow chilled, and I would not stand about all night watching you paddle about like a puppy."

  Aeschine stepped gracefully onto the natural rock ledge, silvery water cascading from her wide shoulders to puddle at her feet. In a completely feminine gesture, she lifted her heavy hair, twisted it into a thick gold rope and squeezed. Once the excess moisture was wrung out, she brushed her fingers down her strong body—her arms, her breasts, her long torso, her belly—flicking the last silvery drops from her skin. Her hand sank to her mons...

  ...and bypassed that golden triangle completely.

  Had she touched herself, Sage would have found some excuse to lift her hand to his mouth, to bring her fingers to his lips, to breathe in her scent, to taste her under the guise of a courtly kiss or some other well-mannered hypocrisy. He would perform any chivalrous feat she requested if in return he might put his fingers, his lips, his open and seeking mouth there.

  There. There. There. There was nowhere else he desired to be but there. Paradise. Passion's portal. Her pretty rose. Her sweet cunny...

  At his stare, she covered her genitals with a hand.

  The action enraged him. She had showed him it before, without hesitation. Why did she try to hide it from him now?

  “Let us not pretend here,” he admonished her. “What you seek to hide is the lock to the oubliette for which I have the key. You say you wish to please me, you try to strike a bargain for your freedom, and then you hide the very part of yourself that pleases me the most!"

  “I am a lady of royal blood!"

  “Your royal line means naught to me. Blood is red for both vassals and kings. And what a lady has between her legs is the same for queens and whores, alike. There is no distinction to be made between the two. Now convince me, Captive, that the prize has merit or we are through haggling."

  “You are not to treat me like a common prostitute, selling her wares behind a stall at a fair! That is not what this situation is about."

  “That is exactly what this situation is about. You are prostituting yourself,” he said quietly. “You have chosen the easy way out, to become my leman rather than accept a prisoner's cell in my dungeon. So please me! Drop your hand, or the sale ends here."

  She dropped her hand. Bashfully.

  Satan's tail, this new shy innocent act of hers was provocative! Aeschine's ladylike modesty worked on him like an aphrodisiac, stirring him to an erection of astounding proportions.

  “Surely LaTourne looked at you,” he said to her pink cheeks.

  “Naturally, my betrothed looked at me! He has eyes, after all. I am only taken aback that you would take such a keen interest in what is down there."

  “You are lovely down there. As lovely as I have ever seen. And I have seen quite a few ladies and from many different angles."

  He expected a bawdy laugh. Instead, he was met with stony silence. “You must realize you are exquisite."

  The overhanging rock shadowed her face. Still, he saw hope, as well as romantic expectation, within the blue depths of her eyes.

  “You make me feel exquisite,” she whispered, and held out her hands to him.

  When he took a step nearer, her arms fell to her sides. The tips of her breasts nearly brushed his chest; her soft belly nearly touched his hard belly; her golden bush nearly tickled his linen-covered loins. Aeschine's eyes had gone slumberous. From the heat? From his closeness? From her own responsiveness?

  He knew not, cared not. His blood pounded, rushed to his cock. The sharp lance of potency pained him. To touch her, just once! This was all he desired. Just to see if her moist flesh was as silky to the fingertips as it looked.

  He dared not. Only a fool would trust himself to take but a single touch of the rose.

  It was wrong to exploit Aeschine's vulnerability to learn her secrets. Wrong to use her to assuage his own emptiness. Wrong to make her pay for her betrothed's treachery. Wrong, wrong, wrong to work out his need for revenge on her body. So, nay, he would not touch Aeschine.

  Making sure their fingers did not collide, he handed her one of his clean tunics. “Don this. After escorting you to the furs, I take my leave of you."

  Her voice was husky. “You would have me carnally."

  “I am celibate."

  “Nay! You are a liar and a coward, for you desire me as much as I desire you. Only you refuse to admit it. I shall not stay with a cold man such as you."

  Her defiance maddened him. The finger he pointed at her nose trembled. “You will do as you are told. You will stay on the furs and you will not move from them."

  Then, he turned his back on her and left, prepared to spend the night elsewhere. Somewhere. Anywhere. So long as the spot was far from the
cave.

  And her.

  * * * *

  The howling wolves brought Sage back to the cave at a run.

  As the distant yelps turned vicious, the vacant bedding told him that once again Aeschine had not obeyed his instructions.

  Weapon drawn, Sage ran back out, foul curses falling from his tight lips. Would he get to her in time?

  His captive's high-arched footprints led up into the hills. He tracked her there, one indentation in the dirt at a time.

  Aeschine's terror must know no bounds, for the wolves, drawing closer to their midnight snack, yapped in excitement. A pack of ten or twelve, he speculated. Not too many. Only enough to bring down a disobedient woman and a negligent man.

  Why had he not stayed with her?

  If he had remained in the cave she would not be endangered now. But the temptation had just been too great, and so he had left her alone.

  No excuses. Aeschine was his responsibility. He had abducted her, made her his prisoner, and while in his custody, the charge to keep her safe fell to him. How many more ghostly voices would haunt him in the night?

  Not hers! He vowed. Aeschine would not die this night.

  At dawn, he finally spied her up ahead, backed against a tree; a stick served as her only weapon against the mangy pack of wild dogs that surrounded her. One lone wolf, the leader, broke free of the circle. While Sage watched in terror, the animal moved in for the kill.

  Refusing to dwell on what those yellow fangs would do to skin as soft as Aeschine's, Sage raised his sword over his head and gave his war cry “Yeeoweeyea!"

  He charged the circle; the front dog was his target. Slit the leader's throat and the rest of the pack would drop back.

  The head wolf, lips drawn back in a feral grimace, sprang.

  Sage was ready. When the animal's front paws landed on his chest, he plunged the sharp tip of his sword up and in, twisting the hilt until the animal ceased to howl.

  But the pack, frenzied with hunger, did not run off as Sage had anticipated. Another beast, a monstrous animal with crazed eyes, declared himself next in line.