Bound for the Forest

by Kay Berrisford

  Then the real pain hit—not in his arse, but in his pelvis, and simultaneously a cold bolt of fear struck through his heart. Lifting his chin, Scarlet tugged at his bonds, clenching his arse around the dildo, but nobody seemed to heed him. It was starting to feel as if a scorching dagger twisted in his guts, right beneath the mark of the hazel.

  Scarlet gasped again as the thin wooden dildo in his arse was withdrawn. He braced himself. He knew what was coming, although the women’s words chimed increasingly meaningless: “Goddess, please claim Scarlet as your own!”

  Scarlet’s cry pierced across the dell as a larger wooden phallus slipped its beautifully curved length deep inside of him. Then more words of enchantment sliced through the air, and everything changed. The image became irresistible: that man of oak tearing himself from his bonds with brute force, and then fucking his underling hard into that altar, hot, hungry, and filling him so sublimely.

  Light flashed in front of Scarlet’s eyes, and suddenly Brien was there, the rock-hard length of his captain pummeling into him, slamming him toward paradise. The exquisite agony of being so stretched, so filled, sent pleasure streaming from his plundered orifice and throughout his trembling frame. Scarlet’s desires reared and soared; his prick ached. He was fighting the ceremony, rejecting the Goddess.

  With a monumental effort, he muttered a final prayer into the wood: “I entreat you, Mother Goddess, keep my blood and soul from Niogaerst…”

  The stabbing pain in his guts flared up instantaneously—but what hurt even more was that Brien was gone, and the living being within him vanished. Smooth wood brushed his prostate as the priestesses eased the dildo in and out.

  The pain faded fast. His soul might be empty, but Scarlet was still filled. He was going to come. It was going to be…fine, yes. That insatiable itch was building, and the stretch in his arse coupled with the scrub of the wood sent his prick into spasm. Yet through every wrench of pale pleasure, even with his teeth and soul gritted against them, Scarlet still could not blot out those visions: Brien on top of him, and Brien inside of him, riding him to oblivion.

  Scarlet’s hot seed jetted over his belly and onto the altar. The women stepped away, and there was no warm afterglow. Scarlet lay there, rigid. The ceremony had failed.

  * * *

  “We made a mistake.”

  “Yes, you bloody well did!”

  Freed from his bondage, Brien rounded on Arya, about as angry as he had ever been in his life. During the ceremony, it had felt like he’d been dragged through the nine circles of hell—by his testicles. It had been far worse than the previous ritual, more agonizing even than being forced to watch Scarlet fucked senseless by the Green Man. Not only had there been the anguish of his caged cock, but his insatiable need to go to Scarlet, to protect him and to claim him, had built to the level of physical pain.

  His only respite had been the moment when madness had overcome him. Swept away in a whirlwind of longing, he’d truly believed that his bonds had disintegrated, and that he’d been there, on the altar, his cock buried deep in Scarlet’s arse. That tight channel of molten fire had clenched around him, bringing with it a rush of heaven. One thrust of his hips, and he’d been a racing heartbeat from orgasm.

  Naturally his bliss had then shattered. He’d been back in his misery, tied to the tree. What was more, everyone had been so preoccupied with Scarlet that he’d not been released until after the woodsman had. Scarlet had taken the first opportunity to sprint off into the forest in that irritating fashion that he always bloody did, given half a chance. And now Arya was telling him she’d made a mistake?

  “I’m sorry.” The priestess sounded calm, although she fiddled incessantly with a bronze amulet. “I was only trying to do what was best for Scarlet. I thought your being involved in such a way would help, but the flow of power—by the Goddess, it was all over the place! It seems neither of you are truly willing to sever your bonds.”

  Brien was a soldier, and he prided himself on his control. Right then he felt like hitting somebody, although it would not be Arya or even Urhelda, whom he’d just called a witch and several things a thousand times more offensive. He had to get away, calm down, straighten his thoughts out—hell, and get his frustrated sexual requirements under control. He drew a deep, calming breath and squeezed the ridge of his nose.

  “Do you still think that you can reunite me with my sister?”

  “Yes. I told you, I will do my best for you. I sent some of my girls to seek her out this morning.”

  “Very well. I will be back later.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Brien spun back toward her, his temper still scarcely in check. “Why do you need to know?”

  “Because I care about Scarlet. If we can’t find him, maybe you could try?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you care too. Because you’re still in this forest, hanging on my word, whereas if things were any different, I think you’d be miles away already. And because I believe you are in love with him, and he with you.”

  “Love?” Brien brayed derisively and stalked off into the trees.

  So Arya thought he was the sort of man capable of love, did she? He forced out another laugh. To her, love was probably just another game of the spirits to which, in this forest realm of dreams and twilight, even the sanest man might surrender in the end. Well, the woman had been shown to make a multitude of mistakes. And Melmoth Brien still had his hopes and dreams rested on the harsher, brighter world beyond the Greenwood.

  Yet as his anger faded a little, he found himself admitting to a couple of disquieting facts. He did not want to be alone right now. He needed to find Scarlet.

  * * *

  It was dark in Old Brigit’s cottage. Scarlet rummaged for tinder and a candle stub in an old tin box beside the window and then struck them, bringing into view the single room in which he had spent much of his childhood.

  Everything was in the grip of decay. The low beams were riddled with rot and crowned in one corner with a half-built robin’s nest. The occupant fled as Scarlet entered, its wings fluttering so close that they stirred the hairs on the nape of his neck. Dirty straw littered the floor, and while the dresser was still upright, cluttered with its vials and jars, mildew and dust had rendered half of their labels unreadable.

  It smelled bad too, of damp and mold, with an undertone of stale herbs. There was nothing new about the chill in the air. Scarlet had struggled through many childhood winters, his fingers and toes blue with cold and scarcely able to feel the stab of a pin from autumn to early spring.

  He felt no real onslaught of emotion on coming back to this place. Brigit would have been angry to have seen everything go to wrack and ruin, but Scarlet had always lacked the dedication to study herbs and potions, and to become a healer like his erstwhile mother. While he had wit enough to grasp anything if he was in the right temper, he’d been too flighty to concentrate on things like the exactitudes of ingredients, preferring the more immediate results of making clothes or wooden toys—or of simply daydreaming. Nevertheless, right then Scarlet was as focused as he had ever been in his life.

  His light fell onto a large book propped at the end of one of the shelves. Placing the candle down on the filthy dresser, he settled into a wicker rocking chair that groaned and rolled backward even at his slight weight, and pulled the heavy Aeboda down onto his lap. The cover was plain, the leather dyed a deep, rich purple, although the corners had turned a moldy brown.

  He still hated this book of lore. As soon as a village boy had taught him how to swear, Scarlet had cursed it with all his heart. Holding it, his nerves began to jangle. The images and stories that Brigit had revealed to him from within had given him nothing but horrific nightmares: pictures of impalements, of men skinned alive with their hides hooked over the jagged branches of trees. Once, when he’d been misbehaving, Brigit had told him that the colour of the blood was so lifelike in the pictures because it was the real blood of traitors—
and of bad little boys who refused to finish their rabbit pie. And as he’d lain on his bunk in the dark, unable to sleep, Scarlet had always been aware of the Aeboda’s glowering presence. He’d felt like it was mocking him, whispering his fate:

  “Changeling…wraith…marked for sacrifice… Oh, he will know the torment three times over!”

  Scarlet swallowed back any resurgence of that fear. He was a man now. He could face this.

  “Holgaerst,” he murmured, “I know I am a wayward son, but reveal to me that which I need to know. What or who has doomed me? And why can I not…give him up?”

  * * *

  Three hours of trudging later and hopelessly lost, Brien was beyond wishing he could just stumble his way out of the forest, deeds or no deeds, and never set foot in a tangled mess of undergrowth again. He’d had too much time to ponder, and the more he pondered, the more perplexed he became.

  The nagging in his soul persisted: Holgaerst was real. Yes, it explained everything so neatly…apart from it didn’t, because it was madness. Or was it?

  Maybe he was thinking about things both too much and too little. Scarlet was a beautiful boy, and yes, Brien had wanted to fuck him from the moment he’d laid eyes on him. But he now quietly admitted there was plenty to like about the lad. Brien conceded a begrudging respect for his feistiness, his determination. It was Scarlet’s strength that made him so damned alluring when he did roll over and submit.

  The revelation hit him as he swiped a persistent brown moth from his coat sleeve. Yes, the idea of getting to know Scarlet better was extremely appealing. He wanted to share wine as well as his body with the woodsman, and to really spend time with him. Above all Brien decided he wanted to see the woodsman laugh, and to watch him dance, golden and carefree.

  Dance? Where the devil did that idea come from? But Scarlet must be able to dance; with his grace of movement, Scarlet was born to dance. Brien slackened his pace, imagining what it would feel like to hold Scarlet close as they moved in step, to feel laughter vibrating through that slender frame. Then their hips would sway sensually as one, bodies pressing and grinding, limbs entangling…

  The moth landed back on his shoulder and rubbed its little feelers together. Brien stared at it until he went cross-eyed, his mind churning onward. For any of this pretty fantasy to become real, he would have to stay in the forest—unless he could convince the woodsman to leave with him. And Holgaerst, real or imaginary, apparently precluded that.

  He slammed down his fist on his sleeve; the moth fluttered away. Brien’s shouted obscenity was still reverberating through the air when he discerned the faintest tang of wood smoke.

  Sniffing like a bloodhound, he clung to the scent as if it were his last chance at life. He traced a thin coil of smoke to its origin, and then, like a mist clearing, the scene in front of him crept into focus. That was not a mound of earth he was staring at. It was a cottage. The hole from which the smoke escaped was a crude chimney, framed with broken red tiles and supported by a moss roof and low, mud walls.

  Brien moved fast, circumnavigating the mound until he found a small door beside a window from which light glowed dimly. This had to be Old Brigit’s cottage, and Scarlet was in there. Brien could sense it.

  His intention slid into focus as clearly as the cottage had. He was still letting himself think about everything too hard. Dancing? What the devil? Some power within him, earthly or otherwise, would not rest until he’d fucked Scarlet. So why not get it over and done with, to hell with the rest?

  And this was his chance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At the brisk rap on the door, Scarlet froze. He had assumed the book alone was responsible for that churning sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. But it was worse than that. Melmoth Brien had found him.

  “Scarlet?” The voice set the cottage humming with its deep resonance. “I know you’re in there.”

  What was the man playing at now? Scarlet lifted the book from his knees. But despite his nerves, he realized he had no sense of mortal fear. He threw the door wide.

  “What do you want?” He avoided Brien’s eyes, hiding beneath his drooping fringe. But still Scarlet could not help but absorb the way the man’s broad chest heaved with heavy, fast breaths. He discerned the pungent aura of the forest about him, the smudges of dirt on his clothing and skin. Damn it, there were even fragments of purple leaf in his hair. He was more a Greenwood man than ever, and his nearness sent Scarlet into a fluster.

  “To be asked inside would be pleasant,” said the captain.

  “Oh. Because if you want me to suck your cock again, I’ve decided I’m going to charge you.” Scarlet swallowed his panic fast, but his cheeks coloured. Had his ill-timed jest made him sound like a whore? “I’m not going to do that, by the way. I was…was…”

  “Don’t worry. We don’t have to talk about that.” Brien grinned down at him. “So may I come in?”

  “I…I’m in the middle of something.”

  Brien’s grunt sounded jovial enough. “I’ve spent hours looking for you. And now I’m tired, and I’d rather stab myself in my own foot than turn on my heels and trudge straight back again. Show some pity?”

  Scarlet hesitated a moment longer before stepping wordlessly aside. It felt better not to explicitly invite the man in. He observed, affectedly casual, as Brien stooped to fit his lofty height through the low portal. The former soldier could not even start to straighten his spine without risking braining himself on the beams, but that did not prevent his attention latching on to the opened book. Scarlet’s heart hammered against his ribs.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t read?” asked Brien.

  “I can’t read any English. I can’t read much Old English either, but Old Brigit taught me a little, and I can understand the pictures well enough.”

  “So that’s what you came here for. To study a book?” Brien’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “What were you trying to find out? Is it about me?”

  It vexed Scarlet to pander to the man’s conceit, although what he had surmised was at least partially the truth. More alarmingly, Brien now blocked his only escape route. Even hunched forward, his shoulders seemed wonderfully broad, and his scent overwhelmed even the moldering air of the cabin. By the Goddess, was that a hint of primrose oil about the man? Surely not. But either way the combination was potent enough to set Scarlet salivating.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Brien arched a brow.

  Scarlet mentally slapped himself. “Please…you better sit down. I’ve not much to offer you. There might be something left in the cupboards. I’ve not been back here much, not since she passed over, but…”

  Lifting the book out of his way with ease, Brien sank into the wicker chair, tipping it so far back that it teetered against the wall. Scarlet located a dusty green bottle and then grabbed two pottery goblets from the dresser, only one of which was chipped. “This stuff’s made from dewberries and gillyflower,” he explained as he poured. “Old Brigit used to swear by it. She said it kept her alive for at least an extra ten years. I think it tastes like shit, but…”

  “…but it’s got a kick like a donkey?”

  “Yes, I believe it has.” Scarlet’s laugh sounded inappropriately deep and dirty, so he cut it off short. He handed one of the goblets to Brien, who took it without ripping his gaze from Scarlet’s. His long, dexterous fingers wrapped right about the vessel.

  “Cheers.” Brien took a sip and then hissed between his teeth. “Blimey! That doesn’t kick like a donkey—more like a mule in labour!”

  Scarlet giggled but then bit hard into his bottom lip. He had just knelt down at Brien’s knee and already regretted it. The stance felt too natural, and Brien started tipping himself back and forth on the chair to a steady rhythm, making Scarlet acutely aware of the very manly bulge in his tight breeches. He’d been here before. “Hope I don’t poison you,” he muttered, shifting back onto his haunches.

  “If I fall dead where I stand, I doubt this book is g
oing to be pointing the finger solely at you,” said Brien. “I’m supposing that everything that crawls or slithers in this forest is intent on my destruction.”

  “I bloody well wish that it was! It might make my life a bit simpler.”

  Brien’s noncommittal grunt made Scarlet wish he would just come straight out and mock him like before. What the hell was Brien’s agenda now? Scarlet knew he was hovering on the precipice, his breath bated, just waiting for the man to make his move. But he’d resolved to fight, hadn’t he?

  Yes, came that whisper, niggling in the back of his mind. You want to fight him, Scarlet. You want him to be rough because you know you can never beat him. You want to bite and kick as he overpowers you, and then…

  Scarlet gulped down his liquor—and abruptly choked, spitting half of it back out again. “Agh!”

  It kicked, all right. He’d forgotten just how much. Brien patted his back as he coughed, and Scarlet’s muscles tightened at the impact. He stilled himself with another, more cautious sip.

  They were silent for a moment. Brien gently rubbed across Scarlet’s shoulders, melting a little of the tension away. They both breathed heavily. Then Brien asked, “Will you show me what has been written about the bloodline?”

  “I haven’t got that far myself yet. I…I…”

  Well, it was a way of playing for time, if nothing else. Steeling himself, Scarlet slipped up onto the arm of the chair and leaned over to flick through the book on Brien’s lap, seeking the place where he’d left it before the man arrived.

  Brien’s arm slipped across the small of his back, steadying him. Heat rippled from the much larger body into his own, and Scarlet’s fingers became as clumsy as four thumbs. The pages flew over uncontrollably before falling to rest upon an image of what Scarlet took at first to be the Green Man. His beard was a blaze of autumn colours, and his branchlike arms were raised toward the heavens, lightning shooting out of his twiggy fingertips. It was such an effort to concentrate on anything; Scarlet struggled to read the word written beneath.