"Then I will hunt that spirit down and teach it the price of fooling with me."
Tam glared at Herne, running his tongue nervously over his lower lip. Oh Mother Goddess, Herne craved to sup on that pretty mouth again, to hell with the hateful taste of honey, and then to grip the lad's thighs, and…
He drew a deep, calming breath. "But first we must break this cursed betrothal. And in the name of the Mother Goddess, tell that boy to put his clothes back on."
"It seems a waste of time," said the Elfaene. "After all, you might as well claim his body now. It has to be done before the full moon sets in five days, or the boy is as good as dead."
"Claim my body?" Tam blanched, running over to Calleagh to protest with shouts and wild gesticulations. Herne strove to concentrate chiefly on the Elfaene.
"Explain yourself," said Herne.
"It's the whole purpose of this betrothal ritual," she replied. "If Tam had kissed and bound Calleagh, he would have had until the setting of the full moon to lie with her, binding her with flesh to his human form, side by side forever. Without such a consummation, Calleagh's soul would have been set adrift, neither human nor fair folk, fated prey for foul spirits. Instead, you initiated the kiss and set Tam on this same path. So you must take him thoroughly, plant your seed of life inside him, and make him like you, Herne the Hunter. Whatever kind of being you are."
Her words hit like the slam of a club in his guts. Become like him? If the Elfaene possessed even half a notion how grave the situation became, she ought to fall to her knees and weep, not smile up at him like a smug little cat. Nobody deserved such pain.
Not even the foolish young lad who now shouted to his fairy accomplice, "You told me nothing of the dying part, you witch. And how can I be betrothed to a man? Lord, he's not even a man but half beast with those dreadful horns. He's a devil!"
The Elfaene laid her hand on Herne's arm. "Ah, sweet enchanted love," she said. "You two will look very handsome together, when you are bound as one. Surely the power that has kept you roaming the forests for so long runs deep enough to share with another."
"I'd rather kill the boy now with my bare hands."
She stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"There can be no other like me," he replied, his voice dropped so low no other being could hear.
"Surely you are not so special. I see there may be difficulties, spirit, but couldn't you at least try to claim him? See, we will help you."
Tugging him about by the hem of his surcoat, she reverted his attention to Tam, whose protests had fallen on equally deaf ears. Several fairies grabbed his arms and his clothes, forcing him to shake his limbs to fight free, then hold tight to his breeches. With a loud cackle, a ginger-headed fairy dived to the ground and hugged one of his ankles. He kicked out, sending her sprawling on her back, but she kept laughing. Another fairy tugged and twirled his hair like a fascinated infant, while he cursed with pain, pushing her away.
Taking his chance, he launched into a run, only to trip on a tree root that sent him tumbling forward onto his hands and knees. As he fell, the ginger fairy seized the back of his breeches, ripping a strip away to reveal a flash of rounded buttock. Herne's body pitched with desire and purest agony. Then the fair folk descended on Tam like a pack of hounds, briefly obscuring him from Herne's view.
The Elfaene laughed and clapped. "Was his pretty arse not made for you to sheathe your thick shaft?"
Herne rolled his eyes. He'd grown accustomed to the fairies' salacious speech, and it wearied him, while their attempts to please him irritated. His threats of desertion cut them deeper than they'd ever admit. After all, no sting of wasp or spine of hedgehog would defend them from the foul beasts of the forest as well as he could. But he was not so easily seduced. "This cannot be. You must try to understand—"
"Soon, soon," she interjected. "Let us at least prepare the meal before you decide whether you are hungry. See?"
Herne would have to shout to be heard above the rising shrieks and laughter. Thus he waited, letting his temper form a barrier between him and these silly little creatures, positioning himself as an owl too sleepy to swoop on squabbling shrews.
While Tam shouted and struggled in the grip of a dozen jailers, the remaining fairies licked each other's fingers, giggling as they shared. When they withdrew their hands from their mouths, each trailed a thread of sparkling silk. The whole lot then pushed him to the forest floor, crushing coiled ferns and the buds of sleeping flowers alike.
The fairies trailed the silk all over Tam, winding it between his thighs, tangling it in his hair, and binding his heaving body. He wriggled, then yelped as the fairies each took the end of a thread and hoisted him upright, trapped in a web that also encompassed the lower branches of a nearby tree. Within moments, he hung with his arms and legs spread, his toes dangling a foot above the ground. As the fairies backed away, the lad opened his mouth to renew his protests. A scarlet-clad maiden swung down from the branch above, pinched his jaw and forced it wide, then shoved a rosy apple between his lips.
Tam strained against the threads, trying to kick and thrash in vain. His cheeks flared as bright as the apple into which he had sunk his teeth in his struggle.
Herne hated standing by and watching anybody suffering on his account, but he feared dashing to Tam's aid would excite the fairies into frenzy—or cause him to act on his unacceptable urges. It took gut-wrenching effort to resist ripping down the fairy web and entrapping Tam in his arms.
"Does he not stir your appetite?" said the Elfaene, sweeping her arm toward the trussed-up village boy, as if she were a bard opening a night's masque for the queen. "Surely you cannot resist him now. Or…maybe we have placed the fruit in the wrong orifice. After all, you have already tasted the sweets of his mouth, and they alone will not do. It is plundering that peachy arse that seals him unto you."
Herne drew a deep breath. He had never been a man of easy words, but he must find them now. Still, Tam's spread thighs and the bulge at the front of his tattered breeches, which slipped from his creamy hip on one side, held Herne's gaze. His irritation—he refused to call it jealousy, that this boy seemed as aroused by the fairies' touch as he had been by his—helped him master himself. He smothered any pity that might further cloud his mind.
"We have until the next full moon, you say?" he asked.
"But Herne, you want him now." The Elfaene stared at Herne's erection that no leather could disguise. "It takes no enchanted eye to see all your horns."
"Enough." If he had to listen to these fairies blather on about cocks and arses one more minute, he'd pull his hair out and his horns as well. He turned his back on Tam and glowered down at the Elfaene. "Answer my question."
"Very well. From this time, you have five days and five nights, till the setting of the Goddess's moon. But why not just take him now?"
Herne lowered his voice to a barely audible growl. "That lad does not want me, and I would never take another against their will."
"But you lead the Wild Hunt, my friend, undead scum who outraged nature as they wronged the world of man. They're murderers, defilers, and foul witches each one, even if the Goddess has put them to fair use in her eternal punishment."
Herne clenched his fists at his side but maintained his calm. "I command the Wild Hunt," he said, "but I am not one of them. And even if that boy begged me to claim him and make him as of my flesh, I would refuse. I may look strong, but the price I paid for my strength was high." He cast his mind back fifteen centuries, to the end of his human life. To this day, he could not suppress a shudder at memories left unspoken of Crea that twisted his remembrance of affection with bitter gall that endured through the ages. He would tell only what he must.
"Long ago, I was a man." He told the Elfaene of his transformation by the Goddess's spirits. "Their magic turned the sky black, and storms shook the earth for a day and a night. The end result is what you see, a spirit who walks as man and bears the antlers of a stag. No fairy betrothal possesses the power
to forge spirit from man. I dare not attempt it, for the boy will surely die."
The words he had struggled so hard to find finally hit their target. The Elfaene stretched her dark eyes wide, for once stunned into silence.
"So we must break that spell," he concluded. "I do not wish that lad's blood on my conscience. I already carry the stain of too many lives lost." Besides, he was a hermit. He lived alone; he slept alone. He kept company with his memories, and even they brought him no joy.
"Hmm, you are a dour beast, huntsman. Young lads do enjoy fun and frolics, if you care so much for his happiness."
"I care nothing." Or so he wished.
"I see." The Elfaene curled her tiny finger on her lips, her gaze narrowing. "No spell in my knowledge and power can undo this betrothal. But, I suppose such magic might exist, if you searched for it."
"Then search we will," he said, keeping his back to the pretty boy who'd been bound and prepared for his pleasure.
And find it they must, for Herne could never claim him.
Chapter Three
Finally Tam finished chewing the cursed apple. Juices trickling from his chin and his jaw aching from the effort, he spat the core to the ground and screamed, "Let me down!"
No response. He viewed the world through a thickening veil of tiredness and confusion, as if the silken threads that sliced across his skin had also formed gauze about his mind. His horror at being left hanging at the mercy of this creature—half beast and half man—surely should govern him, yet he had no control over the tightening in his breeches.
Oh sweet heaven, no. The fairies' web bit like wire about his wrists and ankles, his shoulders straining to the point of tearing. Yet the fair folk must have drenched it with an enchanted potion, because the sensation of being bound made his cock semi-hard again, although the touch of the fairies left him numb. He'd dreamed long enough of a mighty warrior dominating him, but for this half-beast to render him helpless and do with him what he pleased? Agh! He wished the notion repulsed him as it ought.
Attempting to twist and bite through the threads near his mouth, he watched the shift and ripple of Herne's muscled thorax beneath the leather, the sheer size of his shoulders making Herne's waist look trim by comparison. Dear Lord, it seemed Herne had nothing on beneath that old-fashioned surcoat that reached halfway down his thighs. Even Herne's bestial antlers set Tam's sinews clenching with desire, and surely no carnal pleasure could be had from those.
His cravings were further aggravated by a fruit—a cherry, he guessed—that a fairy had slipped down his ruined breeches and popped between his buttocks at the same instant the apple had been wedged into his mouth. Taut, smooth skin nuzzled his entrance, and he could think of nothing but Herne's cock. How much larger, harder, and satisfying that would feel.
Failing to snap a single thread with his teeth, Tam groaned with frustration. Despite his ungodly urges, which he must overcome, their betrothal made his blood run cold. Just as he hoped to earn some respect in the world, was he to be reduced to this beast's chattel, and a voiceless one at that? Even now, neither Herne nor the Elfaene chose to bless him with their attention. They consulted each other in hushed tones just beyond his hearing, leaving him staring in irritated awe at Herne's impressive range of weapons—the sheathed sword and dagger hanging from chains at his right flank, and most beautiful of all, a silver-rimmed hunting horn that hung on the left.
Calleagh wandered back, turning the torn betrothal ribbon over and over in her hands.
"What the devil is going on, Calleagh? Let me down."
"Herne the Hunter does not wish to take you," she replied. "Or indeed anyone, so he says. Sorry, Tam, we will have no revels this morning. Your betrothal is off."
"Thank God." His sigh of relief caught in his lungs like rock. "But does that mean…Will I—"
"Will you die? Not necessarily. We hope to find a way to break the betrothal spell first. If we have time. It is butterfly season, and there's much sport to be had in catching and torturing them."
He sharpened his glare, reminded once again why his people feared the fair folk. They might look almost human, but their sympathies for living creatures oft matched those of Bloody Mary for a protestant martyr. Calleagh would cast him straight to the blazing pyre, should it suit her purposes. Oh, what a fool he'd been to fall for her flattery.
"Splendid," he bemoaned, his bitterness concealing the depths of his fright. "Seeing as your merrymaking has been cancelled, you can let me down. I feel as if I've been strung up on the rack."
"Sorry, my love." Tucking away the ribbon in her gown, she stroked his face, her violet eyes shadowed with regret. "I am truly sorry everything went wrong. I had no idea he would come. If all works out well, maybe we can try again in a dozen years, if you've not grown too old and gnarled or marked with pox. Oh, and I cannot abide baldness."
She smoothed his hair. He hitched his lip in a snarl. "I'd rather not."
"At the very least, let me help you." She leaned in and whispered, her tone turning deadly serious. "If I can find a way to help you, I might try and make things right. Yes, I'd like to make things right."
"I've had enough of your help."
She offered him a thin-lipped smile, withdrawing her touch. "Ah, well, it's not like you didn't win anything tonight. Herne the Hunter! What a prize to ensnare, even if it seems he won't be yours for long."
Would she not quit mocking him? He mumbled an oath as she turned her back to him once more, beckoning her fairy sisters to help cut him down. Each presented long, curved fingernails for the task, which tore through the threads in a stuttering fashion, like a hobnail ripping lace. He wished he had more room for movement, if just to avoid wounds from these talons.
"For the sake of your Mother Goddess, please be careful."
Their tingling laughter made him want to spit. Nevertheless, they worked quickly. Before long, a dense part of the web suspending his right arm and shoulder from the branches ripped, sending him lurching sideways and fearing he would fall.
"A plague upon thee!" he yelled. "Hang the lot of you."
His limbs still too encumbered to help him, he hung at a dangerously slanted angle. At last he gained Herne's attention.
"Stop!" commanded Herne. "He could break his ankle."
"Men are dull toys. So fragile," complained the ginger-headed fairy, as she plunged from the branch above. Herne strode over, drawing his short dagger from its scabbard, and the fairy scuttled away to start an argument about whether men were more fun to break or to fix. Herne levelled his piercing gaze on Tam.
"What a choice," muttered Tam. "The devil or the fair folk, and I trust the devil."
As Herne leaned in and set to work with his dagger, Tam strove to lance the smarting humiliation of his carnal response to the cherry that nigh outweighed his fear. The sheer proximity of Herne caused him to bite his tongue instead.
"You may not have deserved my anger earlier," said Herne. "Nothing in this Greenwood is as it seems."
"It appears not," murmured Tam, seeking some scathing retort. His mind turned blank. With his feet still dangling a good few inches above the ground, he dipped his gaze to the flexing tendons of Herne's neck but could not avoid Herne's beautiful eyes for long. His desire shuddered through him, bringing a sense of dejection in its wake. Why doesn't he want me?
That had to be some sort of enchantment speaking. Murmuring, "Hurry up, sir," he willed his anger on. But when Herne grasped beneath his shoulder so he could cut away the web above, Tam scarcely contained a gasp. As the web gave, he slipped slowly downward. Herne seized hold of his inner thigh to support his weight, sliding up so high he skirted fractions of an inch from his loins.
The intimacy of Herne's touch hit him like a lightning strike. He clenched his buttocks so hard he crushed the fruit between them. Juice trickled down his thighs, his insides incinerating with shame.
"W-what are you doing?" he blurted.
"Stopping you falling, boy. Believe me, this gives me no pl
easure."
"I should think not, you devil."
"I am no devil."
Herne's tone was like velvet yet edged with a steeliness that both silenced and flustered Tam. Herne made a final slice with his knife and then eased Tam down, gripping his arm and leg. The instant his toes touched the ground, Tam jolted free.
"I thank you," said Tam, brushing away the remnants of the web. Herne reached out to help, a questioning twinkle in his eyes. Tam scowled back. "I can manage without you."
Without dipping his gaze, Herne sheathed his knife and wiped his fingers on his coat. "You must understand that I would never consider taking you against your will."
Tam scratched cobwebs from his hair. In truth, he felt as relieved as he was terrified of Herne, but he'd be damned if he'd fall to his knees and weep with gratitude. "Earlier you threatened me with grave punishment and then forced your tongue down my throat, sealing me into some betrothal that might just kill me. So forgive me, but I suspected you might take me, whether I liked it or not."
"I believed you were a scourge." Herne inclined his head forward, no doubt intending it as a humble gesture. Tam merely stared at his nodding antlers and forced contempt. Oh yes, he'd heard enough dark tales of Herne the Hunter, and some mad part of him desired this beast?
"How could you suspect the scourge was I?" said Tam. "Have you not led the Wild Hunt across England on the eve of many great disasters? Before the bastard William landed, they say you swept the country with an army of eviscerated corpses, following fire in the sky and bringing sickness to Harold's men in your wake. They say you led a pack of living skeletons toward London two and a half centuries past, before the great plague. You rode a giant black rat, and—"
"Enough," growled Herne, and Tam staggered back, startled by his own boldness. "I rode no black rat. The Hunt harries and scares, and yes, we have razed crops and spilled blood. But war and pestilence are man's banes. You cannot blame nature's messengers for the doom that follows us, and you and I must work together to break this betrothal."
Bound to the Beast Page 4
