Captive

by Louisa Trent

  And they would have no family. Henceforth, Sage vowed, he would spill his cum upon the ground to prevent his seed from taking root in her womb. No babe of his would be born a bastard!

  “A lady may have sheep and not neglect the running of a keep,” his captive wheedled. “A lady may do both, you know, and produce fine strapping sons too. As many as you so desire. Contented women breed more easily, or so I am told."

  He thumbed the dark smudge his mouth had just left on her nipple. Aeschine's skin bruised easily. “Do you think to barter the use of your body for ... for sheep?"

  She looked straight ahead. “Why would I, when my body is already yours?"

  “No need to protest, my dear. You seek payment. I understand."

  “If mating is commerce to you, then pray tell me, what is the rate of exchange for my favors? The way you are going, I really should start keeping a running tally."

  “Complaints so soon?” He walked his hand lower, down over her concave belly, until his palm rested above her silky pelt.

  Lord, she felt hot to the touch! Her hot flesh fair burned him.

  She panted, “No complaints, only practicality. I seek only to determine how soon I will own a full flock. There are stables to consider for the colder months and such. If you plan on keeping me busy, I shall have my flock sooner, rather than later. I must make ready. I ask for the exchange rate only to gauge my shepherding requirements."

  He told her what his loins told him. “Thrice a day should do me. And not to worry,” he said swiftly. “Each occasion is a separate count. And before you ask, I will pay more sheep for certain services rendered."

  “You are a cold man."

  Nay, he was a frozen man, but she was thawing him. “Would you rather have a jewel as a token of my gratitude?” He stroked between her legs until she fully opened her thighs.

  “Sheep are fine.” Her voice filled with tears.

  Why? Why was she crying? Arousal dampened her slit. Still, the passage was swollen ... Did he pain her? Is that why she cried?

  “Are my attentions too much?"

  “Nay. I like your attentions,” she said on a shuddering sob. “I like everything you do."

  If not pained, why the tear-drenched vocal cords? Had he made some other blunder? Spoken out of turn?

  Female tears made him feel out of sorts. He needed to set this misunderstanding to rights! “I wish not to insult you with gifts, but to express my gratitude for the solace I find between your thighs."

  She sniffed. “I see. You seek to pay homage to my thighs. This certainly leaves no doubt as to my worth in your estimation."

  “Why are you upset? You mentioned I should pay in sheep, not I."

  “Payment! Is everything payment to you?"

  “If it wounds you, consider the pets a gift."

  “Sheep are not my pets! They are my occupation.” She sniffed again. “And your inference that I need payment for showing affection is hurtful. I give myself to you freely. No man buys my favors!"

  “I understand ... I think."

  She nodded. “I take the sheep you offer and say thanks. You will not be sorry for the expenditure on my behalf."

  “Then, are the terms settled?"

  “Aye."

  He was most relieved. A wise man never intentionally provokes female agitation. “Every time you please me on the furs, you will receive sheep,” he reiterated, just to make sure those were indeed the terms. He was a bit confused. “You will have your flock in no time."

  “I am amazed a man of your virility and generosity has no children. You must have had many lovers."

  “Scores,” he said, dryly, thinking of the past five years of celibacy—four years battling in the Holy Wars and a year of abstinence since his return—and his highly unsatisfactory love life before that. Even in green youth, before he wed, before despair imprisoned him, fear of injuring his partner had quelled his rampant physicality.

  “And these ladies ... you loved them all?"

  “With my body, I did. But I spilled my seed upon the ground so as not to give them my child."

  She pondered her flat little belly. “You will not waste your seed that way with me. I shall conceive easily!"

  What, by Satin's tail, did they discuss?

  She was his enemy's betrothed, his possession by abduction, his leman by a mercenary bargain. Lunacy to give her his seed!

  And yet the urge to spill himself inside her had him crazed. Withdrawing from that hot, wet, tight, clasp would not be easy.

  “It does not always work like that,” he grumbled. “Some women are not so easily seeded, though they are regularly plowed and with deep furrows made. Repeat sowings are oft times needed."

  “Hardly a joyless labor."

  He fought mirth and lost. Aeschine did amuse him greatly. “A man does not suffer overly much.” He exploded in chuckles.

  “I hope to quicken soon.” She slanted him a typically female glance. “I only wish..."

  “Go on! Continue. What?"

  “Oh, never mind,” she wistfully.

  Now, he was not only amused; he was intrigued. “Come now, tell me. What do you wish?"

  “That you cared for me."

  He needed to learn all her secret wishes. However, this was one confidence he would gladly have done without hearing. “Useless to ask for the impossible,” he mumbled.

  “But you do lust after me and I suppose that is a start. After all, without lust there are no love poems. Still, I dream of more. Companionship. Laughter. Friendship. A warm day and a bed of wildflowers to lie upon in the arms of my beloved..."

  “Stop your silliness. I need to test your readiness."

  “Test my readiness!” she lambasted him. “Am I game on the spit to be poked for doneness?"

  He chuckled again. “I do wish to poke you, though not for doneness."

  He buzzed around her petals for a while—her pubic curls were so pretty and he did so love to comb his fingers through the soft and silky pelt. Lifting the pouty nether lips, he gazed within at the erotic pink flesh before dipping another finger to her nectar.

  “Mmm.” Her lids went heavy, half-closed. “Why do you call me silly? Is it because I crave love sonnets and pledges of devotion?"

  “Exactly!"

  She licked her lips. “Oh, aye. There. Touch me there. ‘Tis lovely."

  God's bones! She was eager. “Those cravings you speak of ... sonnets ... pledges ... I have none of those to give. But sheep, now those I can give you."

  “They are not enough,” she said, dreamily. “I desire more."

  He answered her desire with another finger. His third digit in. That was the only more he was prepared to give. Handling her as he would a mare for studding, he coolly turned her. Expertly positioned her. Readied her without emotion for mounting. She was his little animal.

  Bending her over for a rear entry approach, he drew back his fingers; they were coated with honey, the moisture dripping to his knuckles. “You are nicely wet. Are you normally this receptive to a man?"

  “Only to you, Captor."

  “No need to pretend. I know I am not your first and only suitor. No need to stroke my vanity, no need to say I am the best of the lot. Bad enough you keep secrets—must you lie too?"

  “My passion for you is honest!"

  He sighed at her vehemence. Would that he believed her!

  He was more than a little wary, and still Aeschine made him forget everything. Responsibilities. Duties. Obligations. Right and wrong. Forget it all.

  Except LaTourne. Impossible to forget that his enemy had consorted with her.

  “Roll your hips,” he instructed. “Dance for me, as you danced for me by the hot springs."

  Pinned to his hand, she obediently rolled her hips while his fingers stayed lodged inside her passage.

  She spoke low. “I love what you do to me. I love the feel of you inside me. You fill me with joy."

  Her pretence of having feelings for him, her talk of children and romanc
e and joy, and everything else this relationship was not and would never be, prompted him to remind her, “You are my leman, not my espoused! There are things I would ask of you that I would never ask of a wife."

  “No need to ask. I give you full reign.” She looked away. “Only do not give me away to another. Do not share me."

  Give this beauty to another man? Sacrilege!

  But he said naught to reassure her. His captor had bargained with him once; he would not allow her to extort any further promises from him.

  Tears rolling down her lovely face, Aeschine came on a lusty scream.

  Afterwards, he put the sleepy puss to bed. Arranging her carefully on her side, legs bent up to her belly, he tucked the fur around her front, keeping her bottom bared to his hungry eyes. He left the harness between her legs undone. Little point buckling the chastity shield in place, as he was already edgy and knew he would have to take her again.

  Aeschine gave a huge, post-coital yawn of fulfillment and wiggled deeper into the bedding. “My mother once told me a woman feels joy when she mates with the man she loves. And I do feel joy when we come together. A bonfire of joy. It burns me. ‘Tis rapture unlike any I have ever experienced. I might easily grow to love you. Do not kill the seed of my love before it has chance to grow,” she said drowsily.

  Again, he said nothing in reply.

  When his captive's eyes drifted shut, he stayed and watched over her while she slumbered. Keeping all those night terrors away. He thought, and gave a tired chuckle. Verily, her even breathing calmed him. Inexplicably at peace in her presence, he must have fallen off too. Though, as usual, his sleep was restless, tormented ... blood plagued. Awakening with a start, he reached for Aeschine, his only thought to drown himself in her again.

  “I must have you,” he rasped.

  She answered, still half-slumbering: “You do have me. Now and forever,"

  “Nothing is forever,” he castigated, the madness inside him growing. “The world is an impermanent place. Everything shifts and changes. Loyalty. Passion. Love."

  “We will make our own world! A world where important things like love never change.” Full awake, she rose to her knees on the furs. “And I shall be yours in that world anyway you will have me."

  “Ah, what you do to me! ‘Tis a pity your words are empty.” He hastened to his feet before she seduced him into believing her oaths were sincere.

  She forestalled him. “I beg you, do not hurt me like this,” she cried, hanging onto his arm. “You will only hurt yourself in the end if you do. You say you must have me. Fine! I give myself to you gladly; give yourself to me too. Pray do! Do not stand apart from me as an observer. If I must lose myself, so must you! Show me you feel something too!"

  He shook his arm free from her grasp. “There is a black pall hanging over me this night. ‘Tis dangerous for you when I am like this."

  “I see no danger; I see only you."

  “The danger is here.” He slapped his chest. “Inside me."

  He had left her openings available for intercourse, but she was still tethered about the waist to the stake pounded in the floor. She scrambled to her feet, but she could not follow him.

  “I accept the danger. I fear it not! Do you hear me? I fear it not! Stay with me, and mayhap my presence will keep the danger at bay. And if danger comes anyway, then together we will slay the beast. ‘Tis what you did for me this night."

  “So be it,” he rasped, and blew out the torch. “Consider yourself warned."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was unremittingly dark in the cave, and Aeschine felt rather than saw her captor move.

  At first, he circled her. Slowly. Like the lead wolf from the pack had done. Then, he came up behind her, flanking her. His warmth scorched her from shoulder to thigh. His hardness branded her buttocks. She knew the captor's power, his strength, his torment. She knew too that he was dangerous. That he might very well hurt her. Yet knowing all this, she leaned back against him, pinned to him as the moth is pinned to the flame. No leather tether was needed to keep her in place; she stayed because she had no wish to leave.

  Oh, she knew what he was doing! Her captor was forcing her to go outside herself, to a wild, dark, wicked place where there are no rules to govern civilized behavior, where a man and a woman might come together for the sake of physical pleasure alone. He offered only the carnal, spoke not a word of love, promised her no future, and yet she would allow him to use her as a faceless vessel, to violate her, to penetrate her, to dominate her in any fashion he so desired. No romance. No flowery speeches. Her captor extended only a forbidden passion, a passion Church canon prohibited.

  She took it.

  Passion was so much more than she had ever hoped to have.

  His large hands moved over her naked body; the rough texture of his tunic abraded her soft flesh. “I own you. Do you doubt it?"

  “Doubt it! How would I doubt it when my body answers less to me than to you?” She swallowed convulsively. “Only please, do not take me in anger."

  “I am not angry."

  She made a cracked sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “You refuse to kiss me. You take me without warmth. The joy you give me is a punishment of sorts because you refuse to share it with me. If you must beat me, pray beat me! Only do not use my feelings for you against me this way."

  He ran a slow and practiced hand down her spine to her bottom. He massaged her buttocks, squeezed them, stroked them. He petted her as he did his destrier.

  She sighed her pleasure. No pride. No dignity. No shame. She longed for his touch, no matter what form it took. She who had once feared losing herself, her worth, now accepted her captor's complete domination, his total authority over her. Powerless to deny him, she put aside religiosity and morality and her own best interests, and went with him into the darkness. She loved him. So much, she dared to face her terror ... and his.

  He pressed between her shoulder blades, and she toppled like a willow tree. Her hair fell forward and her hips came up to meet his roaming hand. She moved her bottom lasciviously against that warm palm, her teeth gritted in pleasure.

  In agony too. For he kept his face from her. How was it possible for lovemaking to feel so distant, yet so intimate too and all at the same time?

  She had never dreamed in her innocent dreams that she would give herself over so irrevocably to a man that she would not know where she ended and he began. Surrounding her like the ocean surrounds the sands, he encompassed her, he mastered her; there was no room in her mind for anything else but him. Would she lose her identity so completely to him that she would never find herself again? Would he destroy her this night? Would she never be the same again?

  “Please do not hurt me,” she pleaded, cowardly tears stinging her eyes.

  “I rub my horse's flank. I stroke my falcon's wing. I pat my dog's head. I never hurt my animals, but I do train them, and I do expect absolute obedience from them. Do you obey me? Will you be my animal-mate tonight?"

  “Aye,” she sobbed. “Aye."

  But where was the companionship her mother spoke of? Where was the warm laughter of two lovers meeting and joining in happiness? Where was the scent of wildflowers?

  “I am no different than LaTourne in my wants,” he murmured, his ruined lips hot against the back of her neck.

  “You are nothing like LaTourne! He finds pleasure in causing pain. You do not."

  He laughed. “My dear, very little gives me pleasure anymore."

  She couldn't help herself; she began to cry. His despair. Her fear. They were too much.

  At her tears, he whispered reassurances in her ear. Coaxing things. Things that lightened the burdens of her heart.

  “Be my true mate,” he said. “Forget vows and obligations and romantic notions about love. Forget about right and wrong. Let there be no strictures between us."

  He strummed her like a minstrel until her body sang and her desire dripped. So easy to forget about the morrow when she was soggy wet b
etween the legs for him.

  He was not ... tentative. He nudged her woman's opening. Then sawed. Back to front. Stud to mare. Seeking, then withdrawing. Advance. Then retreat. A calculated assault on her defenses.

  In a furor to join with him, she dropped lower still, bringing her bottom up for him. Her fingers touched her toes.

  At her submission, powerful hands bracketed her hips. He steadied her, and then positioned her to his liking. She did not protest what he did or how he touched her. She was clay in his hands. But when he came into her in one hard push, back to front, entering her swollen woman's passage like a battering ram at an already embattled gate, despite her determination to hold steady, the impact jolted her. Her knees locked. Her heels dug into the dirt. Trembling, she waited for the raw shock of the possession to subside.

  The shock didn't subside. There was no recovering from the pain of this breech. His length was unexpected, and much too much. The width fair ripped her apart. He had held back before, but now he held back naught. He pushed. Pushed again. Up into her he went, driving hard. It hurt. His cock hurt her.

  One of her hands left the ground and went to her woman's place. To relieve the horrible pressure, she cupped her front, her fingers soothing the notch she had never dared touch before. This left only one hand on the floor, and with each painful thrust her captor made, she lost more and more of her balance, until she lost it altogether. She crumbled in the dirt at his feet, both hands now cradling her mons.

  He stood over her, legs spread, breathing hard. “Had enough, milady?"

  Pushing the wildness of her knotted hair away from her face, she looked up at him.

  Tortured eyes met hers.

  And she knew ... she knew then what drove him.

  Her captor wanted her to give up on him. To quit. To leave him to his demons. He sought not a companion for his trip into darkness; he sought to journey into hell alone.

  She tossed her head and her filthy hair whipped about her shoulders. “I shall never give up on you! I do not know what ails you but I shall not leave you alone this night."

  But could she heal him with her body and not lose her soul?