by Bonnie Dee
“Then you have no doctors? If you cannot help her, there is no one else?”
Again, he shook his head, seeing out of the corner of his eyes that she clawed at her face with despair. “She might die, Svartan.”
The words came out in a whisper, cutting into his heart.
I killed her, he thought numbly. Knowing nothing, I brought her here. This place is not natural for her. She needs fresh air and sunshine to live. I brought her to darkness and death. And if she dies, Gwyneth could do so as well…
“We won’t let her die,” he said between his teeth. Reaching into the cot, he pulled the covers off the baby and threw them on the floor. Then he began to unbutton her clothing.
“What are you doing?” Gwyneth demanded, catching at his hand in fear.
“She’s too hot! The heat is killing her. So we must make her cooler. Agnet, fetch some fresh cold water.”
“But…” Clearly torn between tradition and a need to do something, she stared at him while Agnet hurried away. “You really think it will help?”
“At this stage, I don’t see that it can harm her.”
Gwyneth nodded once and picked the baby up. By the time Agnet returned with a little tub full of water, Brea was undressed. Unquestioning now, Gwyneth knelt by the tub and held her child in the cool, clean water.
Brea cried at the shock, but Gwyneth kept cupping water over her body, sprinkling it gently over her face and head.
I did this, Ragnorak kept thinking. I made her ill. Forcing himself to speak, he said, “When she’s cooler, we’ll take her back.”
“Back?” Gwyneth repeated without comprehension.
“To the surface. To her own world. I never thought of Elohim making her ill.”
There was a pause. Gwyneth glanced at him over her shoulder, a peculiarly clear look, although her expression was unreadable. “Children get ill,” she said. “We try to make them better. Sometimes it works.”
Was that an attempt at absolution? It warmed his heart, but he knew it didn’t absolve him. As she turned back to the child, Agnet touched his shoulder.
“In the old days,” his housekeeper said, “we did get ill. Or so the stories say.”
“They’re just stories.”
“Maybe. But the stories say it was the kings who overcame the illnesses.”
“Self-serving propaganda,” Ragnorak said impatiently. “Put about by my ancestors.”
“Maybe,” Agnet said again.
Gwyneth’s gaze was fixed on her. “Are you saying that Svartan can cure Brea?”
Agnet shrugged. “I’m saying it’s a possibility, and maybe one worth trying.”
Gwyneth said nothing, merely returned her gaze to the baby. Ragnorak moved closer. It might have been his imagination, but the baby seemed to be breathing more easily. Her eyes were closed.
“I think she’s cooler,” Gwyneth said. “More peaceful.”
“We must keep her cool,” Ragnorak said. “The illness won’t disappear with the bathwater. Dress her lightly and we’ll take her back.”
Unexpectedly, Gwyneth’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. Blindly, she took the proffered towel from Agnet and lifted Brea out of the water, wrapping her loosely in the soft fabric.
She paused. “I’ll still need a doctor… As you say, the illness won’t vanish with the bathwater. Perhaps it won’t vanish with Elohim, either.” Taking a deep breath, she held the baby out to Ragnorak. “Please. Heal her.”
Ragnorak opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked from her intense, suddenly trusting eyes to Agnet’s decisive ones.
“There’s nothing to lose,” the servant said.
Slowly, Ragnorak took Brea in his arms. Her eyes fluttered open as if she was aware of the change-over. For an instant her eyes looked trustingly into his, a mirror of her mother’s.
Ragnorak’s throat closed. I would give the world, my own life, to keep you safe… With his emotion, a desire to heal rose up so strongly that it was a need, a necessity. Placing his hand on her little chest, he felt the fluttering beat of her heart, the uneven rising and falling of her lungs. He breathed with her, lost his heartbeat in hers. It was as if he felt her internal organs, his mind wishing with all the considerable strength and emotion of which he was capable to sweep the alien illness from her body, the fever from her blood. He sensed all her heat, her angry, bewildered discomfort, and tried to draw it into himself, to free her.
She stopped breathing.
With a jolt, Ragnorak came back to himself, withdrawing in terror whatever unknown and uncontrolled power he’d exposed her to. With a cry of utter despair and loss, he almost threw her into Gwyneth’s arms, desperate to get the child away from him. Gwyneth’s cry seemed to echo his, and so deep was his grief that it was several moments before he realized her voice conveyed only joy and relief.
As he stared, stunned, at mother and child, Gwyneth’s tear-stained face came back into focus. She was smiling.
“I can feel it,” she whispered. “She is healed. I knew you could. I knew you would…”
“Imagination,” Ragnorak said hoarsely. “I did nothing but wish.”
Agnet touched the baby and smiled. “She’s breathing normally again. And I can see little sign of fever. Even her color is coming back to normal—pretty, golden little thing that she is.”
Quietly, Agnet left the room, leaving Ragnorak and Gwyneth staring in wonder at Brea. Whether it had come from him or not, the child seemed immeasurably better. She was actually asleep in Gwyneth’s arms. Trembling with reaction, Gwyneth laid her in the cradle and with the automatic movements of familiarity, began to put a clean diaper on her. That done, ignoring the clothes, she simply replaced the coverlet.
Ragnorak’s throat worked. He thought he was going to weep. But instead, words spilled out of his mouth in an agonized whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Gwyneth straightened, staring at him in genuine incomprehension. “For what? You healed her. I’m convinced you saved her life. I will never forget that, Svartan, never.”
“Ragnorak.” It came out as a strangled whisper.
“What?”
He couldn’t bear the softness in her eyes, which not only forgave him but glistened with gratitude. He swung away from her, saying harshly, “Ragnorak. My true name is Ragnorak. And surely we both know it was I who endangered her in the first place.”
He didn’t know why he reminded her. She would realize it soon enough when the first rush of relief had passed and she could think straight again. But he needed to be honest now, even though he could hardly bear the emotions tearing him apart. He had to get out of here. Five minutes’ solitude and then he would take them back…
Grief swamped him, fighting with the guilt and the relief and a tenderness so profound it rocked him to his core. When she touched him, he gasped, trying to pull farther away from her, but she followed, peering up into his face with wonder.
Her blue eyes were huge and beautiful. He didn’t know how he could bear to let her go. But he knew he couldn’t keep her. He should never have brought her or the child.
Her hand lifted. Her fingertips brushed his cheek, and he realized it was wet with the tears he hadn’t known he’d shed.
“Svartan,” she whispered. “Ragnorak…” His name on her lips pierced his soul, filled him with delight and desolation. “My demon… You wept once before, the night we made our bargain. How could I have forgotten that?”
“Because I did. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, and yet I did. I never wavered. Forget it, Gwyneth. I’ll make it right.”
She smiled, taking what was left of his breath away. “You’ve already made it right. You gave me Brea’s life.”
Almost angrily, he burst out, “Can you really not see? I was the one who nearly took it from you! From her! You must see—”
“I do see. I see everything now,” she whispered, and stretching up on tip-toe, she kissed his lips, a quick, soft kiss that devastated him.
Her breath touched his lips. “How much?”
“More than my life. More even than my kingdom. So much that it’s unkind to touch me now.”
Tiny kisses peppered his lips, silencing him. When her arms came around his neck, drawing his head down to her, he gasped again in an effort to break free. It was no good. The arms that reached up to push her away seized her close to him instead, clutched her as if he’d never let her go.
She gave a tiny sigh, her tongue slipping between his parted lips, and Ragnorak was lost. He devoured her mouth, and with her every eager response, he took more, sinking into the blissful agony of all the desire and love and loss that Gwyneth now embodied.
“You would do this?” He pulled away and stared into her eyes. “You would give me this third, last night? Before I take you home?”
“I give you it, and gladly.” Her voice trembled. “I want it, my Ragnorak, my demon. I’ve always wanted you…”
He made a last effort to think, to be strong, because he knew emotion and sheer reaction were drowning them both. He knew that the sweet, urgent woman in his arms would probably not love him when she awoke. But her pebbled breasts were rubbing against his chest, her mouth kissed with passion, her tongue teasing and delighting his. She pushed and swayed against his raging erection, arousing him almost to the point of no return.
Groaning, he tore his mouth free. “Brea,” he got out. “We cannot leave Brea.”
“We won’t. Make love to me here. She’s asleep, and I’ll know as soon as she wakes.”
Her parted lips were red and lush from kissing him. Her eyes shone. Her golden hair tumbled in tangles around her face and shoulders. She had never been more beautiful to him.
“You are so lovely,” he whispered. “My golden girl.” He touched her hair, following its tangled progress to her half-naked shoulder. “You’re like the gold we spun all those months ago. Like sunshine. You burn me and draw me at once.”
Her smooth skin was warm, shivering beneath his fingers as he slid his hands under the shoulder of her nightgown and let it fall around her elbows to reveal her wonderful breasts.
He kissed her throat, her clavicle. She threw her head back with such abandon that he couldn’t doubt her arousal or her pleasure. Tenderly, he cupped one heavy breast, loving the feel of her hard, distended nipple under the pad of his thumb. Her tiny moan was like music, driving him to bend his head farther and take the other nipple into his mouth.
Her clutching hands released his hair, dropped from his neck so that her nightgown fell the rest of the way to the floor. He straightened to look at her, completely naked for him. His moisture glistened on the tip of one breast. Her own moisture trickled down her parted inner thigh. He had never seen anything so arousing as this lovely, naked woman, so desperate for his embrace that her pussy wept.
He touched her mound, easing his hand between her thighs, and her breath caught and held. He bathed his hand in her moisture, losing himself in the heady heat of her folds and valleys, discovering the hard, swollen nub of her pleasure and gliding over it until she moaned.
Her hands plucked at his coat, tugging it from his shoulders. Shrugging it off, he could wait no longer, but lifted her in his arms and strode with her to the bed he’d fashioned for her a lifetime ago.
Even as he laid her among the pillows, she was unlacing his shirt, sliding her hot, eager palms under it to find his naked chest. With such encouragement it took only an instant to lose the rest of his clothes, even with the distraction of her busy mouth on his nipples, teasing and biting. As he settled over her, nestling his body and his aching cock between her legs, she writhed under him, her eyes warm and clouded and pleading. Taking her face between his hands, he kissed her long and deeply, savoring her instant, eager response. He made love to her mouth, letting his caressing hands move down her body.
Her fingers ran up and down his back, making his whole body undulate and somehow, before he quite meant it to happen, the head of his cock had entered her pussy. It contracted around him, hot and pulsing. With a moan, she pushed her hips upward, taking him further into her welcoming wetness. He couldn’t help thrusting all the way inside her, right up to his balls. Her gasp of pleasure rang in his ears. She smiled up at him, wicked and joyful, and he paused, savoring for the first time in his life, a moment of pure, unspoiled happiness.
It couldn’t last, of course. The tragedy of parting was too close, but he held on to the memory, because he knew for that instant, she loved him.
She reached up with her mouth and kissed him. He began to move inside her with long, tender strokes. He had never had this before, the freedom to love her without fighting impending orgasm, to explore her with no agenda but to bring her joy. His cock quickly found the place she liked best and from then on he made certain to find it with every thrust and every sweet, circling grind. His reward came not only in her moans and cries of pleasure, but in the increasingly powerful grip of her internal muscles around his cock as she squeezed and caressed him.
Lost in the blissful world that contained only the two of them, he slid constantly up and down her tight, wet pussy, building the rapture. There was no fight for control, only the two of them undulating and writhing together to the same, frantic end. Her nails dug into his buttocks as she pulled him into her, desperate to increase the pace, to find the ultimate pleasure. Ragnorak moved faster, hanging desperately on to the shreds of care and tenderness as he drove into her ever harder and faster.
“Ragnorak,” she whispered. “Oh, Ragnorak, I’m…”
So was he. As she convulsed around him, thrilling him as much by the sound of his name bursting from her ecstatic lips, he let everything go at last. In three wild, desperate strokes he joined her orgasm, releasing his seed into her in an explosion of joy so violent that it shook his whole body. There wasn’t a nerve ending, not so much as a finger tip, that didn’t feel soaked in pleasure. And through it all, her body jerked under him, around him, and her voice cried out in bliss.
There may even have been an instant of unconsciousness. But as he came back to some kind of sense, at least he retained enough care to move his weight off Gwyneth’s body. However, she clung to him, twisting with him so that they lay on their sides face to face with his cock still buried deep inside her.
She smiled at him with such tender mischief that his rapidly beating heart turned over in his breast. “You lost,” she crowed. “At last, you lost!”
And he smiled back and kissed her mouth. “No I didn’t.”
Chapter Sixteen
“The king had to send her away, of course. Just after the child was born. He had to marry, you see, and the disgusting underdweller just wasn’t suitable.”
“Indeed.” Midas nodded to his steward, who pushed the ancient, wizened old woman into a chair, none too gently. The king had thought at first they were really dredging the bottom of the barrel with this old hag. It wasn’t even worth torturing her, and in any case he was fed up listening to lies extracted on the rack from people who’d have said anything just to stop the pain.
But there was something about the old woman. Midas began to wonder if he didn’t recognize her. At any rate, she really did sound like an old palace servant, and when she claimed to remember the demon child and his mother, he felt oddly inclined to believe her.
“Why wasn’t she suitable?” he asked.
The old woman regarded him with scorn. “A whore from the magical realm? She could claim all the royal blood she liked, but we all knew what she was.”
“Hmmm. And did she mind being sent away?”
“She didn’t mind going,” the old woman said with a cackle of laughter. “But you should have heard her trying to persuade the king to go with her. Told him he’d find incredible riches in her realm. Beyond his imagination, she said. Apparently, in her world they trampled underfoot the gold and gems that we so prize. The maids made necklac
es out of stones bigger than the crown jewels. Apparently!”
Midas sat up. He even stopped drumming his fingers. “Indeed?”
The old woman shrugged. “If you were naive enough to believe her.”
“You didn’t?”
“Would you?” scoffed the hag.
“Did the king?” Midas countered.
“Don’t know. The whore and her child were both gone by morning.”
“Interesting…” His mind moved beyond the immediate problem of getting Gwyneth back to the prospect of a brand new kingdom full of new wealth for the taking. If he could wrest it from his half-brother. If he could find his bloody brother.
“I don’t suppose,” Midas sighed, “that you know the name of this woman’s child?”
The old lady’s eyebrows rose. “Svartan,” she said. “She called him Svartan in my presence. Ungodly, un-human name.”
Midas began to smile. “Never discount the old and ugly,” he said to no one in particular. He stood and raised his voice commandingly. “Oh, Svartan! I summon you! Come to me now!”
Gwyneth, her head propped up on her hand so that she could gaze down upon her strange, wonderful lover, played her fingers around his broad, strong chest.
“You think you’ve won?” she teased. “I know we didn’t use the timer, but that was never two hours.”
“Before, I could only lose,” he said. “You would leave me or you would shun me. Tonight I could only win.”
“Because you changed the rules of the game?”
“Because tonight I wasn’t playing.”
Her heart turned over, constricting her throat. “Neither was I,” she whispered. It had just seemed so right. Brea’s sudden, terrifying illness and even more sudden recovery had brought things into proper perspective. She hadn’t taken him into her bed from gratitude, however much of that she owed him. He was a man, a strange, compelling, tortured man, who’d made a mistake and was sorry. A man she could swear loved her, even before he spoke the words. He’d even given her his real name and all the power over him that he imagined it gave her. He’d said he would take them back. And she knew then, as she should always have known, that she loved him, too.
