Through a Dark Mist

by Marsha Canham

“An unfair win,” protested the Wolf.

  “A win nonetheless. And by the same tack you used to best me but a month ago. Declare it, by God, or forfeit the need to shave for a week.”

  The Wolf laughed. “A fair win, you black-robed bastard! Now heave off me, and give a shout for ale, else we both die of thirst before we have a chance to celebrate properly.”

  Coughing with laughter and the effects of their strenuous bout, Friar collapsed beside him on the scuffed earth. The Wolf was grinning with genuine pleasure, for he was not one to grudge a man his due, and Friar had indeed come a long way from being the soft-eyed, soft-voiced acolyte he had rescued from a death cell seven years ago.

  He was still grinning when he stood up and started smacking the dust from his shirt and leggings. A round of good-natured bickering between Mutter and Stutter drew his gaze to the old yew again and, after a brief moment of debate, he walked over, noting the care Servanne took to studiously ignore his approach.

  “I trust you regained the coppers you lost last week,” he said to Mutter, surprising and pleasing the twin into squirming himself into a state of deep crimson. The Wolf was one of the few who could tell the twins apart at a glance, although how he did so was anyone’s guess. This unfathomable ability was what had once saved the brothers from being impaled and burned as demons—which had, in turn, made them loyal to their mentor to their last breath.

  The Wolf looked at Servanne. “And you, my lady: I trust you were not overly bored by our practicing.”

  “I … was … much impressed by Friar’s skill,” she said hesitantly, unable to quite lift her eyes above the heady view of his bared torso.

  The Wolf glanced down and casually thumbed the severed thongs.

  “A hair less skill,” he agreed with a crooked grin, “and I warrant I would be sporting a fine new red stripe.”

  Servanne’s flush darkened to the point of discomfort, for now his scent had surrounded her and threatened to engulf her. The rich, pungent musk of well-spent sweat swamped her senses, prompting every movement, every gesture he made to result in a shower of hot, silvery sparks slithering down her spine.

  “I … fail to understand why either of you would risk life and limb in such a … a meaningless display of male rivalry. Especially if, as you would have me believe, there are far weightier matters to be decided by blood and by sword.”

  The Wolf lowered his hands slowly, ignoring the salty moisture that continued to roll down his temples and cheeks. Her eyes commanded all of his attention … and his interest. He was as conscious of her delicate state of arousal as if he were inside her body sharing it, and its discovery intrigued him.

  “In truth,” he murmured, “Alaric and I have practiced some moves that are deliberately intended to look more dangerous than they are. It … inspires confidence in the men.”

  Her gaze inched a tiny measure higher, stalled again by the broad column of his neck. “Alaric?”

  “Friar … Alaric,” he said by way of an explanation. “He of the horsehair robes and wood-soled sandals.”

  Servanne’s eyes fled downward to where her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, surrounded by a shredded bed of straw. It felt like the fine hairs at the nape of her neck were being similarly shredded; his nearness was playing havoc with her determination not to succumb to any more curiosities about the man—an impossible resolution, as well she knew it. She could look neither right nor left, not up nor down without feeling the seductive pull of his virility.

  “I should think it would be a sacrilege to assume the guise of a priest of the Holy Order.”

  A dark brow arched. “We all of us commit small sacrileges at one time or another. Alaric’s is no lesser and no greater than most.”

  “Why did he not complete his vows?”

  “He lost his love for the church.”

  “It could not have been a very strong love to begin with.”

  “It was a good deal stronger than mine.”

  “You can say that, having nearly lost your life on Crusade?”

  “My reasons for taking up the cross were far from holy. Nor was it God’s wrath that challenged me on the deserts of Palestine.”

  “Still,” she sighed, “I have seen you join your men in prayer each Matin.”

  A small grin betrayed more than his amusement. “It also inspires confidence in the men.”

  The Wolf was finding it difficult to keep his eyes from wandering down to the pouting softness of her lips. Equally alluring was the telltale prominence of the two hard buds of flesh straining against the sea-green velvet of her gown. A corresponding hardness in his own body was giving him some reason for distraction, and for the briefest of moments he allowed himself to recall the taste and feel of her, and the sound of the ragged little gasps that had almost been his undoing the other night in the garden.

  He drew a deep, cleansing breath to fill his lungs, then flexed his arms. “Friar’s skill seems to have taken a heavier toll on my old wounds than I had supposed. I have in my mind a hot soak would ease them.”

  “A hot soak? As with every other basic convenience you have so thoughtfully provided, both tub and hot water are but dim memories.”

  “If I could provide you with both? Would you then play hostess to my aching muscles?”

  Servanne was instantly on guard and this time her gaze climbed as high as the sardonic grin tugging at his lips. Playing hostess by way of assisting a man to bathe was a duty often performed by the chatelaine of a castle, paying honour to a visiting guest of importance. But this was no castle, she was not the chatelaine of the forest, and this pagan renegade was of no importance to anyone but himself! Furthermore, there was no bath anywhere on or near the abbey grounds. Biddy had already conducted a most thorough search and there had been no receptacle large enough to escape her keen nose.

  He was still grinning—a grin that was widening over her perplexed expression.

  “Would you not even condescend to scrub my back?” he murmured. “Tsk tsk. Poor Sir Hubert. Was he made to groan and grovel to you each time he sought to beg a favour?”

  Servanne’s eyes flicked up to his, driven by a reckless sparkle of disdain. “Sir Hubert never had to beg for anything. All I did for him, I did gladly and willingly, and … with the greatest of pleasure.”

  It was the Wolf’s turn to stare, for she had melted her tongue around the words greatest and pleasure, and had done so with enough relish to win snickers of delight from Mutter and Stutter.

  “An obliging wife and hostess, were you?”

  “Obliging … and eager.”

  “I would see some of this saintly domesticity firsthand,” he mused, the silkiness of his voice as deceiving as the stillness of his body. “Come. The thought of a bath grows in appeal.”

  Servanne flinched as if it were a hot coal being extended toward her instead of a hand. “Certainly not!”

  “No? Do I still frighten you, my lady?” he asked with mocking indulgence.

  “Not by half so much as your incredible arrogance would lead you to believe, wolf’s head,” she retorted.

  “My arrogance?” he laughed softly. He turned away, leading Servanne to believe she had emerged from the fray unscathed, but in the next gasped breath, she felt her hand firmly grasped in his, her arm stretched nearly out of its socket, and her wimple flung end over end to blind her as she was lifted like a sack of grain and slung over his shoulder.

  Shrieking with indignation, she was carried across the courtyard, her hands beating against his back, her feet kicking and her limbs wriggling in outraged mortification. Biddy’s screams echoed her own for a moment or two, along with her rushing footsteps, but both were silenced under a round of hearty laughter.

  Upended in this inglorious manner, Servanne was bounced, jostled, and manhandled perfunctorily through the garden and out the breach in the wall. She knew they were walking through the forest by the crunching underfoot and the saplings that snagged the folds of her wimple. She surmised they were sk
irting the bank of the Silent Pool when she rode out the sickening descent along the crumbled embankment.

  He did not stop there as she expected, but kept walking, entering deep thick brush again and lurching down yet another, steeper incline. The bright sunlight they passed through at the pool disappeared, smothered under a dark, damp blanket of shadow. The muscles across his shoulder and back tensed as he used his falchion to hack a path through the underbrush, but by then, so much blood had rushed to fill her head, there was no room for questions, fears, or recriminations. Servanne’s body went limp. Her hands lost their frenzied grip on his shirttails and started to slip down, hanging as forlornly as the folds of the linen wimple.

  The lapse was temporary, ending abruptly with the jolt that set her upright on her feet again. Someone—not her— resettled the flowing ends of her wimple, smoothing it back over her shoulders so that she could see, but since she had no idea where she was, she needed several astonished seconds to realize what she was looking at.

  He had brought her into a grotto of sorts, a low-ceilinged, elongated cavern hewn out of the solid rock. The mist of fright and anger she had supposed was blurring her vision proved to be clouds of steam rising off the surface of a small pool. It was fed from beneath the ground rather than above, and was obviously heated by nature’s grace, from some unknown source far below the surface of the rock. The basin of the pool was no wider than two tall men stretched head to heel, and was as clear as glass, with a bottom of fine white sand. At the very centre, at a depth of perhaps three feet, the sand was molded in the shape of a small volcano with occasional featherings around the rim of the crater to suggest erupting jets of hot water.

  Overhead the rock glistened wetly. Drops of water fell like dew from the short, pointed stalactites hanging from the ceiling. The domed shape of the cavern trapped the heat and the steam, while the open end was curtained by a thick wall of ivy and ropes of fragrant honeysuckle. What hint there was of the dazzling sunlight beyond the wall was muted and filtered by the leaves, only to be refracted in the million tiny fragments of phosphorescent sand embedded in the rock.

  “What is this place?” she asked in a tremulous voice. “Where have you brought me?”

  “You questioned the existence of a hot bath,” the Wolf replied matter-of-factly. “And since you claim to have no apprehensions about myths or superstitions, it should not trouble you to know the druids who were said to inhabit this forest long ago, used the waters of this particular well to purify their sacrificial offerings.”

  Servanne looked at him aghast. She had never said she was not superstitious, and jesting about druids and sacrificial offerings was a sure call for doom.

  She swallowed hard. “Very well, I have seen your bath. I would like to go back to the abbey now.”

  “Without taking advantage of the hot water and obliging hands? You said yourself you craved the pleasure of a scrub —here is your opportunity, and here am I to assist.”

  “Assist! I would sooner trust the assistance of a whore-master!”

  He looked wounded. “Why, you act as if I want more from you than to exchange a simple courtesy. In truth, I ask only for a bath. A request for anything else must needs come from you.”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock.

  “Take me back,” she insisted shrilly. “Take me back at once, do you hear?”

  He ignored her and pulled the sweat-soaked tails of his shirt over his shoulders and flung it aside. Servanne pressed as far back into the shadows as she could go, her feet slipping on the lush carpet of thick green moss, her hands finding nothing to support her on the smooth, wet walls.

  Under her horrified stare, the Wolf casually unfastened the leather points that held his leggings taut about his hips. The deerhide was peeled down the solidly thewed thighs and discarded along with his boots, shirt, and stockings in a crumpled heap beside the pool.

  Naked as a gladiator he stepped into the steaming water and waded to the centre of the basin.

  “Ahh—” he sighed and sank down in a cloud of swirling mist. He stretched his arms out and let his head fall back, submerging himself below the surface of the water. He reappeared a few moments later, his long chestnut mane plastered sleekly to his head and shoulders, his bronzed torso streaming crystalline sheets.

  Almost as an afterthought, the gray eyes returned to the shadows and he grinned.

  “I await your convenience, my lady,” he said, spreading his arms.

  “You may wait until hell freezes, milord! How dare you think … presume you can treat me this way!”

  “What way is that?”

  “Like a … like a common tavern wench, or a … a …”

  “Yes?”

  Servanne saw the arrogant smile and squared her slender shoulders in defiance. “You treat me as though I were someone who should fawn at your knees, or at the very least faint with awe over this … this paltry dividend of flesh you seem to hold in such vaunted esteem!”

  Since she was pointing so disdainfully at his groin, he followed her gaze and noted, with wry alacrity, that he was indeed somewhat lacking in substance. But, having been addressed so personally, not to mention slandered, the object in question began to slowly, steadily rouse itself for a rebuttal.

  Servanne’s eyes widened in horror. Her throat worked to dislodge the lump that was steadfastly threatening to smother her, but to no effect. Disbelief, incredulity … fear … whatever kept her gaze fixed on the naked satyr also drew her hands upward to attempt to confine the wild beating within her breast.

  The Wolf’s smile faded. The jest was suddenly no longer a jest and he could feel the heat in his blood rising to match the heat of the water.

  “Come into the pool, Servanne,” he ordered quietly. “You know you want to.”

  Her eyes flicked up to his, filled with shame and anger. “No,” she gasped. “No … I want no such thing!”

  With a muffled sob of desperation she ran for the wall of ivy, but having been upside down and backwards when she was carried in, as well as dazed by too much blood pounding in her temples, Servanne could not immediately find the break in the vines that led to fresh air and freedom. She pushed and plucked and tore at the tangled greenery, all the while aware of splashing movement behind her.

  The steamy air thickened perceptibly with the scent of his closeness and she knew without turning around that he was standing behind her.

  “What will it take for you to learn that you cannot defy me?” he asked calmly, quietly. “And when will you realize that the source of your defiance is your own desire?”

  “Let me go back,” she gasped. “Please … let me go back.”

  She heard him take a deep breath and release it slowly. “I think not, my lady. I think I would know what it was you did for Sir Hubert so gladly … so willingly … and with such great pleasure. And I think you have some curiosity to know if what he did in return was worth such a valiant defense of his memory.”

  “No,” her voice was barely a whisper. “No, I have no such curiosity.”

  “You have no skill in telling lies either,” he murmured.

  The long, tanned fingers worked without seeking assent of any kind to unfasten the bands of her wimple and uncover the golden skeins of her hair. The fat, gleaming braids were uncoiled and the strands separated, combed into a rich spill of silk-soft curls by hands that worked reverently at their pleasure. Servanne stood motionless, frozen with shock. Her skin flamed outwardly, while inwardly her body pulsated with a sensation not unlike a million shards of icicles melting downward into the ground.

  Once her hair was freed and tumbling below her waist, the Wolf’s hands sought the clasp that bound the wide girdle of intricate gold links around her slender hips. Servanne’s hands fell, out of some last desperate attempt at salvation, and for a moment they did win the attention of the hard, lean fingers, but then they moved again and the girdle slipped to the ground, and Servanne’s fingers were left trembling over empty air.

  The la
ces binding the gown of sea-green velvet were unthreaded with deliberate care; the shoulders and sleeves peeled away and the skirt encouraged to crumple into the swirling eddies of mist. All that remained was the long, shapeless white silk sheath she wore as an undergarment, and the dextrous fingers indulged in a lengthy hesitation before riding lightly down the slippery outline of her hips and thighs.

  Servanne’s hands clutched at the vines of ivy as she felt him take up the hem of her sheath and raise it above her knees. Each stocking was painstakingly rolled from knee to ankle, then removed along with her dainty pointed slippers. By now, the liquid heat that had warmed her in the courtyard was all but paralyzing her. Her body was alive with coiling, shifting sensations. Her thighs trembled, the flesh bridging them grew achingly hot and throbbed with expectations that both mortified and thrilled her.

  “When you are ready, my lady,” he murmured. “Our bath awaits.”

  Servanne squeezed her eyes tightly shut, willing away the waves of sinful pleasure his voice evoked. It was not right. It was not possible. It was unthinkable that she should turn around, turn away from the opening in the ivy she could see so clearly only a pace away …

  The Wolf stretched out his hand. She stared at it, knowing that to touch him of her own accord would be to admit defeat, to be defeated by the heat and flame, the passion of desire that raged through her with such incomprehensible urgency.

  Servanne’s hand shook where it was buried in the ivy. Her fingers released their grip and moved haltingly to where the thicker, stronger ones awaited with such infinite patience. She saw his hand close around hers and she could not stop the small sigh that escaped her lips.

  It was unthinkable to surrender to him, and yet Servanne did so, moving without the strength, the energy to resist any longer the lure of his male potency. She followed him into the clear, steaming water, and it was warm. So warm. And the sand was soft, enveloping her foot like a feather pillow. He drew her another step and the water was only slightly deeper, rising just above her ankle. Another brought the warm caress rippling around her calves, and with the next, the hem of her sheath floated out in a wide white circle midway up her thighs. The incredible wall of boldly sculpted muscle was in front of her, still as a statue, tall and terrifyingly virile in his nudity. The mist and shadow and eerie blue-green glitter of the cavern surrounded them like an unearthly spell.