Immortal Warrior

by Lisa Hendrix

  “My lord,” she panted, tugging at his hair, trying to bring him back to her breast.

  “Ivo,” he said into the soft mound of her belly. He dipped his tongue into the almond shape of her navel and felt her shiver. “Say my name.”

  He turned his head to watch her face while he slid his hand down and filled it with all that copper. She stilled. Her eyes got very wide, and her mouth opened in a round Oh. She clamped her thighs together.

  As if that would stop him.

  Grinning at her innocence, he curled his fingers down to find the tender bud he knew was the source of pleasure in womankind, took possession, and began to toy with it as he had her breasts. It swelled to his touch, and as it did, her legs began to churn restlessly, gradually easing apart. The scent of her curled up and grabbed him. Musky. Woman-y.

  With a groan of surrender, he pressed her thighs apart and put his mouth to her. She arched and cried out in shock, pushing at his head. “What are you doing?”

  Chuckling, he caught her hips and held her as she tried to scoot away. “It is the sweetest part of love-play, Alaida. The sweetest part of the hunt for pleasure. Let me show you.” He let his breath warm the place he’d kissed. “Give yourself over to it. You will see.”

  He lowered his mouth to her again. She held herself rigid at first, but before long, she relaxed and slowly opened to him, and he settled in to enjoy himself as he helped in her hunt. She began to stir, to shift and squirm under his tonguing and the gentle exploration of his fingers. He looked to her face again to see if it was pleasure or unwillingness that made her move. She had squeezed her eyes shut, as women oft did in their passion, and was biting down on her lip. It was pleasure, for certs, and if he had any doubts, they burned away as she suddenly lifted to take his fingers into her. Her dew flooded over his hand, warm as summer honey.

  By the gods, for all her supposed reluctance, she was as wet and heated as ever he’d known a woman to be. And yes, she was virgin. With a smile, he swirled his tongue down into the folds to taste her more deeply.

  That’s when he heard it, a distant keening that faded as quickly as it rose. He stilled, not sure it was truly there or that it came from her. Testing, he rasped his tongue across the same spot. The sound rose again, faint and low, but real. With mounting excitement, he closed his lips over the spot and drew her into his mouth.

  And then the most amazing thing happened.

  She moaned.

  The sound was guttural, almost vicious with need, and as it broke from her lips, the need to make her truly his thudded through his veins like life itself, shattering what little remained of his patience. He wanted that heat she held within her. He needed it. It suddenly became impossible to wait. To breathe. To think.

  In one motion, he stripped away his braies and was over her, pressing her down as he positioned himself and slid into her, just a little.

  She froze, then squirmed, trying to escape him.

  “Be still, Alaida. I can’t …” He slipped in a bit more. He was hurting her, he knew he was, but with her moving like that, he couldn’t help himself. He tried to pull back.

  “No.” Her nails dug into his shoulders, and she squirmed again.

  “Shh, sweet leaf. Shh,” he soothed. He fought to move slowly, to do it the way he’d planned, but she was so warm, so alive, so young and sweet. She moved like flame beneath him, bucking and writhing, drawing him deeper even as she tried to throw him off. He pinned her hands down, kissing her, ready to demand again that she lie still so he could do this properly, but she lifted again and in a heartbeat he was buried in her, too fast. She cried out, but still she wouldn’t stop moving and the lust was on him and there was nothing he could do.

  He came suddenly and hard, shoving into her, taking her, claiming her.

  His. His wife.

  For as long as the gods would let him keep her.

  His.

  SAINT PETER’S KNEES, what had just happened?

  Alaida stared up into the draperies, a single tear dampening the corner of each eye. For all her high words, she wasn’t able to stop those two tears.

  Just like she hadn’t been able to stop herself from moving against him, showing him she was a whore, after all, and for naught. She hadn’t found it, whatever it was he had set her seeking. It had been there, almost, and then gone as he came into her, dissolved in the stretching fullness, her cry of disappointment following it away.

  And now she had to lie here beneath him as his passion ebbed and his breathing slowed. He would roll off her soon and fall asleep, if what little she’d heard of these things was true, and she would be able to ease away from him and find some way to take herself back. She closed her eyes and waited.

  He stirred atop her, and she felt a rush of warmth where their bodies still joined. “Alaida?”

  Unwillingly, she opened her eyes again, this time to find him peering down at her. The dim flicker of the lamp made his face a dance of shadows. He touched a finger to the corner of one eye and held it up so the drop glinted. “Tears?”

  “You have my apologies, monseigneur.”

  “Have we gone back so far?” he asked with a sigh. “It is I who should apologize. I said I wouldn’t hurt you, and I did.”

  She said nothing.

  “It had been a long time since I had a woman. Things went too quickly. And you, my sweet leaf.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then her mouth. “You did not help your cause.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes a man needs a woman to lie still while he … collects himself. You would not.”

  “I could not,” she confessed, suddenly wanting him to understand.

  “Because I hurt you,” he said.

  “No, my lord.”

  He rose up on his elbows and looked down at her. “But you cried out.”

  “Not with pain.”

  He pondered this. “Then why?”

  “It was … I was … Are there no words for these things?”

  A smile ghosted across his face. “Many, and I will teach you all of them. But just now, use the ones you know.”

  The need to explain suddenly faded. She wanted to crawl under the covers and forget the entire matter, but he hung there, over her, in her, waiting.

  “It felt good,” she finally managed, and once she’d started, she thought she might as well finish. “But then you”—she searched for a word—“mounted me and the good went away, and that’s why I cried out, not because you hurt me, and it seemed I could get it back but …”

  “But I came too quickly.”

  “Came? Is that the word for spilling your seed?”

  He grinned down at her. “Aye. And for what you were hunting for as well.”

  “Women spill seed?” She raised an eyebrow at that one.

  “No, but they come, if their man does things properly. You will see. I promise, I will do it properly the next time.”

  “And I will try not to move,” she promised, vaguely disappointed.

  Chuckling, he shook his head. “That is not what I want either.”

  “But you said my moving is what made you too quick.”

  “Only in that moment. If you had let me calm myself a little, you could have moved as much as you wanted. In fact, your moving makes it better for me, too.”

  “Does it?” A great sense of relief washed over her, followed by a curiosity that made her bold again. “Are you calm now?”

  He made an odd choking noise, and she felt a surge within her. “Not as calm as I thought I’d be,” he answered cryptically. He shifted again, settling more firmly between her legs, then kissed her gently, almost chastely she would say, except for how their bodies fit together.

  Gaze locked with hers, he began to rock slowly, side to side. At first she wasn’t sure what he was doing, but after a while she began to drift back toward where she had been before. She felt fuller, too—he was hardening again, without ever leaving her. She hadn’t known such a thing was possible, bu
t it felt wonderful. His kisses deepened, drifted from her mouth to her throat to her ear and back. She began to move. She needed to move.

  “Tell me what you want,” he commanded in a ragged voice. “Tell me, Alaida. Use the word.”

  “I want …” She gasped as he pressed into her. “I want to come.”

  With a groan, he wrapped his arms around her and tumbled, a quick roll that put her on top, still joined to him.

  “Move,” he urged. “Find what pleases you.”

  He showed her how, his broad palms cupping her bottom to guide her over him, then shifting her a little so it felt even better. Understanding now, she moved on her own, tested different ways, different rhythms, slowly learning how to use his body to find the pleasure in her own. His hands wandered over her skin, helping her, touching her, stoking the slow fire that rose inside her. She closed her eyes and swirled her hips, seeking that perfect motion. Her whole world shrank to the bed, then to the two of them, then down to the fevered place where her body joined his. She trembled on the edge of that thing she wanted, smoldering, still not knowing what it was.

  “You’re there, sweet leaf. Come.” His thumbs rolled over her nipples and pure raw heat burst through her. She writhed over him, twisting and arcing like the flames that seared her. “Come for me,” he urged again, watching her burn with keen eyes. A final blaze of pleasure made her cry out, and she collapsed onto his chest, whimpering and boneless, shaking as he murmured for her to come, to come, to give herself, to say his name.

  He gathered her close and began to move, first gently, letting her finish, then harder, more insistently as he sought his own release. Slowly the world enlarged again to include him. She found the rhythm with him, and as she answered his urgency with the same words he’d used to her, he suddenly lifted up, pulled her down hard, and poured himself into her with a shout.

  Later, when it was long over and she lay beside him, hiding behind closed lids, she couldn’t figure out where that wanton heat had been born, whether it came from Bôte’s spices or had been in her all along, waiting for him to find it. All she knew was that it had taken her, consumed her, and left her as fragile as a leaf burned to ash. If he touched her, she was sure, she would fall into a thousand pieces.

  “Alaida?” he whispered against her hair.

  “What, my lord?”

  “Aargh.” He pushed her to her back and shifted over her, so they were nose to nose. “Look at me.”

  Face hot, she opened her eyes.

  “Ivo. Say it.”

  She clung to that single piece of herself she could keep from him. “It.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are stubborn.”

  “I have often heard that, my lord.”

  He considered her a long moment, then slowly, deliberately, slid down her body so his mouth hovered over her breast. “We will work on that.”

  She didn’t fall apart after all. Not until he wanted her to.

  CHAPTER 6

  A ROOF OVER your head. A real bed. Your woman’s steady breathing in the night.

  Simple things, thought Ivo as he lay beside Alaida in the hour before dawn. Things the meanest peasant enjoyed. Things Cwen had stolen, so long ago.

  He couldn’t count the years since the last time he’d held a woman while she slept. Alaida had granted him even that prize, drifting off in his arms in perhaps the sweetest surrender of all. The fine gold brooch he’d had Ari buy for a morning gift as they’d passed near Durham now seemed as worthless as pot metal next to what she’d given him, in just this one night. She shifted sleepily, curling into his body so that her bottom tucked against his loins, warm and soft, and he closed his eyes and reveled in the rewards of life as a man.

  He was lying there trying to convince himself to get up when claws skittered across the roof. A moment later the harsh kaugh of a raven echoing down the chimney told him he’d tarried too long already. He eased his arm from beneath Alaida’s head and slid out of bed. She mumbled a little and rolled onto her stomach, her hips a tempting swell beneath the furs.

  Ivo closed his eyes to the sight. There would be time enough for that when he rode back out of the woods tonight. Time to take his leisure over her, time to teach her about pleasuring him. Time every night, at least for a while, to enjoy being lord over Alnwick and its lady—but only if he left her now.

  He dressed quickly and was reaching for his boots when the raven screeched again, louder. Ivo whistled back this time, the high-low call of the cuckoo, a signal they’d used in the raiding days. There was more scraping and the sound of wingbeats fading. He pulled on his boots, then leaned over the bed to press a kiss to the back of Alaida’s tousled head. She smelled of her moth-herbs and of sex, and he breathed it in deeply so he could carry it with him.

  “I would stay if I could, sweet leaf. Dream of me.”

  She sighed and burrowed down into the furs. With a sigh of his own, Ivo drew the bed curtains closed to shelter her as best he could. He retrieved his sword from the corner where Brand had put it, then took a moment to quaff down some ale and break off a fistful of bread before he left his sleeping wife.

  The hall below was nearly dark, the torches and most of the candles having long since burned out. Two men huddled over their cups at the low table, insensible and barely upright. The rest lay sprawled like corpses, some on tables, some on the floor, with the smell of stale ale and sweat rising as thick as the smoke and the snores. The women must have taken refuge in the pantry for the night, for there was no sign of them in the hall as Ivo picked his way through the bodies and out into the night.

  Brand stood in the yard with the horses, their breath curling around their noses in moonlit streamers. “You’re late.”

  “I was distracted.”

  Brand tossed Ivo his cloak as the raven glided down out of the night sky and settled onto his shoulder with a rustle of feathers. “I thought you might be. That’s why I sent this one.”

  “Good idea. He can wake me every morning.” Holding the bread between his teeth, Ivo pinned on his cloak and quickly checked Fax’s girth. “Come. We need to be away. Gate!”

  “My lord?” The guard stepped out of the shadows, another man at his heels. “We didn’t expect you up and about this early.”

  There was a question under his words, a question Ivo expected would be asked many times that day as word spread that he’d left his bride before dawn. Thank the gods the sheets bore clear evidence of both consummation and Alaida’s virginity, for he had no desire for either his manhood or her reputation to be challenged. Still, there would be questions. Witness this oaf.

  “I have spent too many years riding out at this hour for a woman to change the habit,” said Ivo, even as he wished one could. He swung up on Fax. “Least of all a wife.”

  The men chuckled knowingly, of one mind on the proper place of wives. Confident his words would be repeated and turn away at least some of the curiosity, Ivo motioned for the men to open the gate. Moments later, he and Brand were headed toward an untracked area the eagle had spotted as he flew yesterday.

  They were nearing the edge of demesne land before Brand finally cracked.

  “Balls, man. Did you or didn’t you?”

  “Did I or didn’t I what?” asked Ivo over his shoulder, enjoying this more than he should have.

  “Make her moan. Or laugh.” He reined Kraken to a stop. “Or anything.”

  Grinning, Ivo turned Fax in a tight circle and pulled up facing Brand. He put out his hand. “I should have wagered on each instance. I could give her one, too, and have an extra for trade.”

  “Balls,” repeated Brand. Laughing, he pushed up his sleeve, took off his arm ring, and handed it to Ivo. “Imagine if the woman actually liked you.”

  “I think,” said Ivo as he slipped the ring onto his arm, “that if she liked me, I might be dead of it.”

  Brand grunted. “If it were that easy for us to die, I would get me a wife tonight and set about killing myself.”

  On his shoul
der, the raven chortled his agreement.

  “THERE’S NO USE pretending, my lady. I know you are awake.”

  Alaida had been lying there behind the drawn curtains of the bed for a good while, coming to terms with a body that felt strange and tender and with the fact that she had woken alone. As she’d lain, she’d listened to the scuffle of Bôte and the others moving about the room. She’d heard the clatter of wood being fetched in, the slosh of water poured from ewer to bowl, the thump of the shutters being thrown open, the sounds of all the things that her servants did every morning, as though this morning were no different than any other. Except that it was different, for she’d also heard the titters over the torn chainse that lay on the floor and the whispers that Lord Ivo had ridden out early.

  That was how she learned he was truly gone, not simply down in the hall breaking his fast, and that was when the anger started to rise, anger that grew sharper as she heard the pity in her servants’ voices.

  She understood the pity—she felt it for herself, and it stung far more than the ache between her legs—but she had no desire to see it on their faces. So she’d feigned sleep, nursing her growing fury in the shadows of the bed, and eventually the others had completed their chores and left the solar.

  Bôte, however, had not. “Come, my lady, it is a fine day, and well past time for you to be up and about.”

  Alaida cracked one eyelid to see her nurse’s creased, round face peeping through the draperies. “Leave me. I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  Bôte only laughed and pushed the curtains back. Sunlight and chill morning air flooded into the recess. “The whole manor knows he’s ridden out, my lady. The question is, did he do his husband’s duty before he left?” With no warning, she swept the covers off. Her glance raked over the sheets and Alaida’s naked body. “Aye, I’d say he did, and right well, by the look of it.”