Captive

by Louisa Trent

  He kneaded and pinched and pulled on her elongated nipples until she thought she might cry out. When he took one in his mouth, she did scream then, the sounds of her intense pleasure echoing in the keep's cavernous corridors.

  The banquet hall went suddenly silent.

  As their guests listened, her new husband rucked her ruined gown up to her waist, and cried for all to hear, “Spread yourself for me, wife."

  When she had, with a loud grunt, he pushed aside his tunic, a hue so dark it might just as well have been black not blue, and rammed himself into her.

  She was wet, but still she gasped at his enormity, at his precipitous entry. She clung to him, legs now about his waist, head thrown back, ecstasy building and cresting as he pounded up into her, screaming as her joy exploded first, then listening to his abandoned shouts as he came next.

  He smiled. “You always scream at the end,” he said and put himself neatly to rights.

  She melted, disheveled, utterly boneless, against his chest.

  He gave her bare posterior an irreverent spank. “As usual, you were an excellent fuck. Now onto the wedding banquet."

  “Meet our guests like this? Never! I must make repairs. Wash, fix my hair ... Otherwise, everyone will guess the reason for our lateness."

  “Exactly,” he said, and pushed her forward.

  Her gown dropped to the floor. She wrestled the bodice up to cover her bare teats and held it there, as to the exultant notes of heralding trumpets, Sage presented his half-naked bride to the people of Cheviot Hills.

  “How could you disrespect me so?” she wept.

  “ ‘Twas necessary for the good folk of Cheviot Hills to know that the once celibate warlord is a complete rutting fool for his new bride. No one will think this marriage is forced."

  She frowned. “Forced?"

  “You are the betrothed of a pervert and a traitor, my dear. By order of the King, ‘twas either wed you or see you dead. Now, no one will question the motive for this travesty of a marriage. Everyone here, all of our guests, esteemed and humble alike, will know that the former celibate was so devoted to his little whore that he would not wait for the wedding night to consummate the union. The good people of Cheviot Hills will not know you are a warlord's bitter choice."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  She came to him in the middle of each day, carrying a buttercup or some other wild-growing springtime thing. Heath or heather, it mattered not to him; her company was what he craved.

  Sage made certain his private chamber was well lit, lest Aeschine trip and fall in the dark, and that a fire burning bright in the hearth warmed the room, lest she grow chilled.

  After the blossom, picked just for him, was installed in a watertight vessel, she would take a seat before his desk and untangle the mess he had made of the ledgers—sums were not his strong suit. That finished, they would converse about everyday matters.

  Then she would disrobe for him. Everything must come off. Stockings, shoes, everything. He was strict about this. After unbraiding her hair, she would stand before him naked while he sat back in a chair, totally absorbed in her glowing beauty. He never touched her, because the temptation was always there to take her, but he would look his full.

  “I love you so,” she whispered that day. “Why do you not let me satisfy you?"

  He shrugged. “You forget—I practiced celibacy when first we met; for years I had gone without intercourse."

  “You will never get the worth of your lost freedom this way! How will I ever recompense you for saving my life if you do not use me?"

  “'Tis not a question of your owing me, or my using you. Do not make me the ogre in this. I am no monster, Aeschine!"

  “I am heartened you have finally realized that!"

  “I have lost my control with you!” he raged. “When I consummated this unholy union, I tried to withdraw and failed. I spilled inside you. Only good fortune saw to it that you did not conceive."

  “I know you do not love me, but I have enough love for both of us, and I wish to be bred. I long to carry your son. Let me?"

  He bowed. “If you will excuse me? I have just recalled something I must do."

  “You may run, husband, but you cannot escape the truth,” she called after him as he raced from the chamber. Her husband was bound to suffer untold agony later as a result of not trusting in their love for one another.

  He loved her. But he would not admit, not even to himself, that he did. When would he understand that there is no impartiality in either love or loyalty?

  * * * *

  Sage needed to talk with Peter.

  He found the shepherd working at a rough-hewn table in his modest cottage, busy completing yet another order of the wolf traps he had invented.

  Sage dropped all subterfuge, all pretense and went to the core of the matter. “Do you love my wife, shepherd?"

  “Aye. I always have. Though ‘tis hopeless as she loves someone else. And you need not drop the rest of your dignity to ask who she loves for the answer is her husband, milord. Aeschine loves you."

  “The lady has loved many men..."

  “Not true. She may have had to submit to LaTourne but that does not make the lady a whore."

  “She is skilled on the bed furs..."

  “When did she have the training? She was but a child, and chaste, when she lived at her stepfather's keep. From the age of ten and two she was cloistered in a convent. The lady was to take religious vows—though she had no vocation, believe me—when her stepfather called her home to say her wedding vows instead."

  “Nun vows? What you tell me ... how is this true?"

  “Why would I lie?” Peter placed the unfinished trap aside and folded his sinewy hands on the table. “Because of her unconventional appearance and independent temperament, her stepfather deemed her unmarriageable. To rid himself of her, he imprisoned her behind the walls of a convent."

  “My wife is beautiful,” Sage contradicted the first point and disregarded the second as true but unimportant, before asking, “Which convent?"

  “Saint Mary's. She left the convent a week or so before her betrothal to LaTourne."

  Then, Aeschine had no involvement in his wife's murder; she was cloistered at the time of the attack! His wife might have vindicated herself to him! Why had she not?

  A convent kept records. He would dispatch someone to speak to the abbess and deliver the proof of her innocence to Rufus. He would see to it that his wife's name was cleared of all wrongdoing!

  * * * *

  When Sage returned to the solar that eve, Aeschine was already there, sewing. A tunic for him. There was no greater proof of Aeschine's love than her voluntary use of needle and thread.

  Sage walked up to her chair. Dropped to his knees before the fire, he took the fine stitching from her hands. “I took your virginity in the cave. You had never lain with LaTourne or any other man before that night."

  “You know?"

  “Somewhere inside me, I think I always knew. Why did you do what you did?"

  “Self-preservation, mostly. ‘Twas either you or death."

  “Such compliments! Are you not afraid to swell my head?"

  She gave a sad shake of her head. “I was escaping LaTourne the day that you abducted me. I would never have wed that killer! Never! You unknowingly aided my escape when you abducted me. Still, I would have chosen death had I not seen that look of lust in your sad eyes. Incredibly, that look was all for me! ‘Twas a gift, that lust. You saved my life then, Sage, and many times since."

  “I stole your innocence."

  “No theft, milord. I gave myself to you. I seduced you. LaTourne plotted to wed a virgin-bride of noble birth. He paid a huge sum for my maidenhead. But I decided to deprive him of the rape and at the same time spare unnecessary killings when my clan came to my rescue. I knew LaTourne would not come after me if I became your whore, and I knew my clan would expect a signal from me before they attacked. I sent no signal, and I let it be known that I was willi
ng to bed you."

  “You might have escaped me at any time..."

  She smiled. “I escaped often enough from my stepfather's keep to become rather an expert at it. And as to defending my virtue against you..."

  She reached into her sleeve, took out the dirk she had pick-pocketed from DuFont, spun it about, and sent it sailing across the chamber. It pierced one of his clean tunics precisely at the level of the heart.

  “Let us just say that my aim is true and leave it go at that."

  She sat up straighter in her chair until she looked like a queen. “I say this only once, and I trust you never to speak of it or ask anything about it ever again:

  “I am leader of my clan, Sage. After my father's death, I was placed in the position of authority. Clan leadership was my inheritance, my right by default. Though I was cloistered at the time, and knew nothing about the invasion that took your wife's life, I alone must accept responsibility for those deaths. That is something I must live with for the rest of my life."

  His lungs filled with air. “Up until today, I was jealous of a dead man. I swear, I wished to take my cousin's head down from the pike on which ‘tis perched and use it as a jousting ball for I feared you enjoyed his touch more than you do mine. I am not a man easily frightened, but I tell you, I am fair petrified of the prospect of happiness."

  He held her hand, then lay his cheek atop their joined fingers. “It will not be easy. These are perilous times and I worry about hurting you. I am not the man I once was. The night terrors still possess me at times. You are not safe with me when they take hold."

  “Your nightmares are lessening, are they not?"

  “Aye, but only because they intrude on my dreams of you."

  “I am glad I intrude,” she said smugly. “I know I shall never replace your wife but...

  “Joan and I had a special relationship, and I loved her as a friend, but no more than a friend."

  “Oh, Sage,” she said, softly. “I am so sorry for your loss. Friends are hard to replace."

  “Why, milady, did you not tell me that you resided in a nunnery at the time of that invasion?"

  “Because melancholy with anger and remorse, you sought revenge and I was desperate to have your need for retaliation ended with me. I am a Scots. I shall always be a Scots. I shall not betray my people either now or in the future. I love you, but you must understand that I am no traitor."

  “You are the most steadfast, the most loyal of women. With your help, we keep the peace here, Aeschine. Help me unite our peoples, at least here, in our own little kingdom. We will make something out of this keep. We will prosper. I promise you..."

  She placed her lips on his fingertips. “You need make me no further promises."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Though wed for some time, Aeschine had decided in her mind that this eve was their official wedding night.

  The warlord waited in the solar.

  His lady entered the chamber, knowing full well that he was there.

  Crossing the rushes lightly, she untied the satin laces that joined the corners of her covering. Not acknowledging his presence, she shrugged her shoulders and let the garment fall where it might.

  Underneath, her silvery gown shimmered like the stars in the night. The gift he had given her months before was totally transparent, but modest in all other respects, covering her slenderness from collarbone to ankles below.

  If the sheerness of her garb was not sufficient to incite the warrior, her next actions were fool proof.

  Daintily, yet sensuously, she raised up the luminous hem to mid thigh and then beyond. When she heard his telling gasp, she climbed up on the high-topped bed where she knelt facing him.

  He moved only to breathe, while she swayed to the music inside her head, an erotic dance for him alone.

  When the silent melody ended, slowly and seductively, she reclined on the wolf pelts, her fair hair drifting across the furs. Only then did she raise both arms in greeting to her husband.

  But the warlord continued to hang back against the wall, unwilling to make that long trip across the floor.

  “Love me,” she invited.

  She smiled and relaxed into the softness under her back.

  “Please,” she pleaded, when he still moved not at all. “We'll make it right this time."

  Was it reluctance or something quite apart from that which made him hesitate, which caused his usually firm step to falter? Because falter it did on that long trip across the floor.

  When finally he stood over her, his survey of her body was given as a challenge.

  She accepted it as such. Not about to be put off, yet aware of the chance she took, she extended her hand, linking her cool fingers with his much warmer ones.

  The darkness of his frown was her only answer and not the one she sought.

  “Come here,” she encouraged like she would with a child. “You are much too far away up there."

  The bed dipped, as almost resentfully, he sat next to her hip.

  Feeling the heat rising from his body, she knew she was winning at last. Soon, the hunger would consume them both.

  In a gruff tone edged with despair, he said, “If there was ever a lady willing to risk a second chance, ‘tis you."

  Their hands were still joined. A good omen, she thought.

  She spoke into his black gem eyes. “There is no chance here, no risk."

  A warning sharpened that raspy voice of his. “You cannot know that."

  She lowered her lashes in acceptance of the truth in his words.

  Except for their fingertips, they had yet to touch. They would though. They would touch. They would be lovers. It was their destiny, a wish made long ago in a cave and fulfilled this their wedding night.

  Suddenly, the warrior's indecision was finished.

  Taking hold of the transparent looseness of her gown, he pushed it down her pale arms to the elbow. He then went back to claim the rest, dragging the silvery cloth to her waist.

  His breathing had gone ragged; his touch was more demanding than gentle now. His strict control was shattering like a dream upon waking...

  She did not pull away.

  Not when desire burned like fire between them. Not when his mouth fed on the flame.

  He was the one who broke free to ask, “Are you afraid?"

  “I trust you,” she answered simply.

  At her words, he lifted her hips and sent the gown to the fragrant rushes. It lay there crumpled, a cloud of silver beside the bed as he stood to get himself undressed.

  “You are lovely. And I have not the strength to resist you."

  At his admittance, she let her limbs fall open; their vulnerability to each other was now complete.

  “You, my witch, have cast a spell,” he whispered, sinking to his knees between the rich softness of her bent legs. “Do you read my mind now?"

  “I have no more magic in this than any other woman. I am a simple shepherdess; mind reading does not fall under my dominion. You must tell me what you think."

  He shook his head. “I tell you what I know, instead. I know I was wrong, Aeschine, and I beg your humble forgiveness for not treating you as the treasure you are. And make no mistake about this: I am begging. I am pleading. On my knees, as you see me, for your forgiveness. And I promise, nay I vow, that I love you with all that I am now and with all that I will ever be."

  “About time you told me too,” she said, and took him to her heart.

  And this time, her lover, her husband, her captor, came into her, breast to breast, belly to belly, breath to breath, sharing the joy.

  THE END

  About the Author:

  Louisa Trent is happiest writing and so she writes all the time, even when the veggies are in need of peeling and the dust bunnies are in need of vacuuming. When she was far too young to contemplate anything as serious as marriage, she snatched up a boy with a sense of humor and led him right to the altar.

  Somewhere along the way, she picked up a c
ouple of academic degrees which she uses each and every day, though certainly not in the way she intended to use them. Blessed with three funny sons and a husband who still makes her giggle, she lives in a quaint New England town in a messy home surrounded by flowers and laughter.

  Visit Louisa's website at: http://www.louisatrent.com

  Email Louisa at: louisatrent@louisatrent.com

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