by Karin Tabke
He sat back in the saddle and eyed her cagily, then looked to Gareth. “I seek a private word with your lady, captain.”
“Nay!” Gareth cried.
Wulfson sheathed his double swords and dismounted, but he kept his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. “I give you my oath no harm will come to her by my hand or by any of my men.” He looked past Gareth to her, and Tarian felt her knees weaken. “A word.” He pointed behind her. “In private.”
Tarian wrestled with the request. He had given his oath he would not harm her, but more than that, her men would be spared, and she knew Wulfson de Trevelyn well enough to know that his oath was as good as done. She placed her hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “I will speak to him. I will shout for you if I need you.”
She backed away into the monastery. Wulfson followed and slammed the heavy door behind him and threw the bolt. When he turned to face her, she could see the furious glitter of his green eyes, and she knew a bone-chilling fear.
She raised her sword. “Do not proceed. Say what you must, then be gone.”
His lips twisted into a deadly smile and he moved toward her with the stealth of a wolf.
She took a defensive position and raised her sword. “I will kill you,” she whispered. And she thought she meant it.
He continued his path to her, not hesitating once in his step. He tossed his helm to the ground and pulled off his gauntlets, throwing them to land beside it. He unbuckled his double scabbards and continued toward her. He dropped them to the floor. Tarian backed up until a bench cut into the back of her legs. “I will not give you another warning. Halt!”
As Wulfson drew his broadsword, Tarian struck. With both hands she grasped the hilt of her sword and slammed it against his hand, almost but not quite enough to knock the sword from his hand. He cursed, and although she had used the flat side of the blade it still cut him. He looked up at her and his eyes narrowed.
Tarian turned and hopped from one bench to another, running across them as Wulfson chased her. She turned to bring her sword down upon his when he swiped at her. She hopped high, the blade narrowly missing her ankle. Fury was in every inch of her. She swung a backwards glance as she hopped to the next bench.
For his size and the mail he carried Wulfson was nimble, but she was more so; her mail lay beside her saddle and she wore only woolen chauses, braies, an undertunic and gambeson. She maneuvered around to gain an angle from which she could thrust at his side. He parried the strike with his sword, the steel slamming against hers, numbing her hands.
“You are skilled, my lady,” Wulfson said, and he moved in on her. “But not skilled enough.” He lunged for a thrust and she turned like a whirlwind, bringing her blade down to catch his before it ran through her leg.
She bolted away from him, putting several benches between them. Her chest heaved with exertion and her hands were numb, and when she looked up at him and saw the amusement in his eyes she realized he only toyed with her this entire time. Had he wanted her dead she would have been spitted like a boar. Fury soared. “Do it now, save me from this torture! Run me through!” As she screamed the words at him she charged him. He brought his sword down on hers with such a force she thought it would break in half. She stumbled past him to the stone floor. She rolled as he came toward her. She grabbed her sword from the floor, and, turning, hopped up, crouched, ready to fight for her life.
She saw only blood in his eyes. Humiliation and anger clouded her judgment. She lunged at him again and once again he parried her. This time he grabbed her by the back of her gambeson and spun her around, grabbing her sword hand.
He yanked her up hard against his chest. Now they both breathed heavily. “You sorely test my patience, Tarian of Dunloc. You will cease this play of yours and return to Draceadon with me!”
Vehemently she shook her head. “Nay! I will not!”
He squeezed her hand until she cried out and dropped the sword. He pulled her hair back so that her back arched and her chest thrust into his. “Aye, you will.” His face was only inches from hers, and she knew that not only was his fury soaring but his passion as well. She could feel him against her. She struggled against him, knowing what was to come, and as determined for it not to happen. For if he bent her to his passion she would lose all to him.
“Finish me, then, for I will not return willingly with you.”
“I will not let you go!”
“You cannot hold me!”
He dropped his sword to the floor. “You will come with me, Tarian. I will not let you die.” And his lips crushed hers in a furious kiss that took everything coherent from her.
Tarian clawed at him. He growled and pushed her up against the wall, his lips never leaving hers. She could not breathe, nor could she stop him. For in her heart and soul she did not want to. At that precise moment in her life she gave up her rigid control, and in so doing laid herself open, exposed, more vulnerable than she had ever allowed herself to be before. She broke and gave into her passion for this man, just as he had broken and demanded from her what they both desired. With the surrender came a sweeping urgency to possess and be possessed that she had never experienced on any plane. It was all or nothing with this man, and she wanted to give all, even if it meant losing all in the end.
He yanked at her woolen chauses and her braies. When they would not give, frustrated, he ripped them from her. Cool air swirled across her hot skin. Her fingers worked at his mail chauses; when those loosened, she worked on his linen ones. She unhooked the ties, then tore at his braies, and felt him hot and thick against her thigh, “Jesu,” he hissed.
He brought her up in his arms and pressed her tighter against the wall. In one swift stroke he entered her and they both cried out in shocked pleasure. She hung there in his arms for what seemed like eternity. His dark eyes bore into hers and she felt the earth move at that moment. He smoothed the hair from her cheek with gentle fingers. His lips hovered above hers. “I leave in three days’ time for Normandy. I will not allow my king to destroy you, Tarian. We will find a way.”
Hot tears welled in her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathed. He took her then. He took her on a wild, wicked ride from which she was not sure she would ever recover.
Their passion was as potent and as violent as the battle at Hastings. Saxon against Norman. Man against woman, warrior against warrior, they came together as one, united as God meant man and woman to be. A wild rush of sensation curled inside her womb; like lightning it struck and unfurled inside her. Tarian cried out as the wild waves crashed through her. Her skin flushed and her limbs quaked. Wide-eyed, she stared at Wulfson. His eyes bore hotly into her, and she watched his face as he too found that sublime release. He jerked against her, thrusting high and forcefully. “Tarian!” he called hoarsely, burying his lips against her throat as the spasms wracked his body. She accepted him, her waves subsiding with his.
For long moments they stayed connected as one, their heavy breaths and sweaty bodies attempting to recover from the violence of the encounter. He pressed his forehead to hers and softly said, “I cannot move.”
She pressed her lips to his, and as softly said against them, “Nor can I.”
He turned with her, still inside her, dropped to his knees, and rolled with her in his arms onto his back. Tarian moaned. He was still inside her and still full. Her body was raw and receptive. He pressed her hips tighter to him. “You are not sated?”
She leaned up on her elbows and smiled and shook her head. “Nay, Wulfson, I will never have my fill of you.”
He cupped the back of her head with his big hand and brought her lips to his. “Nor I of you.”
Eighteen
Loud pounding on the door, followed by Gareth’s shouts, drew them apart. Wulfson rose, bringing her with him.
“We must go,” he said gently.
Quickly, they both dressed and armed themselves to a semblance of propriety. The damage to her clothing was repairable. Tarian, dressing, stopped and looked up at Wulfson. She would have
the truth from him. She desperately wanted to believe what he had told her before he took her. To know he planned no ruse, no sleight of words or hand. For she could not help but wonder. She had been alone all her life and always relied on her own oath to herself for survival.
“Did you speak true about your travel to your king on my behalf?”
He halted as she adjusted his chauses and stared at her, perplexed. He had to see the worry in her eyes. His lips gentled with a smile, and he took her chin in his hand. “Look at me.” He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. “You are most valuable, Tarian. To the Welsh, to the Saxons and to that cur Rangor. I am going to William to explain to him how valuable you are to him. Alive.”
Tarian forced back a shiver at his words. Would he think her so valuable when he got wind of her detainment of his knight Warner? Anger spiked her mood. What would he have her do? Stand by and allow him to trot up with her death warrant in his hand, when she could prevent it? Any person would do as much. She did not wish to die!
“Tarian!” Gareth shouted. “Come out now or I will break down this door!”
“Hold, Gareth!” Wulfson called. “I bring your lady!”
Tarian looked up to Wulfson, unsure whether she walked into the wolf’s mouth or if he did indeed mean to plead for her life. She finished dressing and looked up at him expectantly.
He grinned and extended his arm to her. “Come, chérie, let us see this through.”
As they hurried to the door that looked as if it would come apart at any moment, Tarian asked Wulfson, “What do I tell them?”
He smiled and bent to kiss her. His lips were warm, and she wanted nothing more than to melt into him and allow him to take over. She was so tired of always being on her toes looking behind and ahead, always a step ahead. He smiled against her lips and whispered, “The truth.”
She nodded, but her own guilt assailed her. She would have to tell Wulfson of her treachery, and the thought made her sick to her stomach. Not now. She slowly exhaled. But soon.
Wulfson unbolted the door, and Gareth nearly fell in. Tarian smiled, and felt her cheeks heat.
“I am well, Sir Gareth. We will spend the night here and return to Draceadon in the morn.”
His eyes widened. She hurried to curtail more questions. “I want you to take a handful of men to Briarhurst and inform Alewith of the change in plans. I also entrust the documents there to you. Bring them to me at Draceadon.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she stayed him with her hand. “Nay, things have changed. Come now so that I may tell you where the documents can be found.”
Once the Normans were settled and the camp back to a semblance of order, Tarian took Gareth aside. “The documents can be found in the chapel. There is a false bottom beneath the first pew on the right. Do not give yourself away to anyone, including Alewith. Those documents are worth more than the entire Danegold. I must have them, Gareth; much is at stake.”
He nodded and looked past her to where she knew Wulfson stood. “What did the Norman promise you, should you return to Draceadon?”
She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “My life.”
Gareth scowled, but looked hard at her, then at the Norman. “I will kill him if he lies.”
“He returns to Normandy to plead my case before the king. I could not ask for more.”
“What if William refuses?”
Tarian closed her eyes and felt a wave of nausea crash through her. For a minute she wavered on her feet, and Gareth grabbed her as she tilted to one side. “Milady, what ails you?”
She leaned against him, suddenly feeling dizzy and fatigued. She had not eaten and she had been running for her life, and now it all caught up to her. Pressing her hand to her throat, she shook her head. “Too much, Gareth, too much.” Her knees went out from under her and had he not held her she would have crumpled to the ground.
Wulfson watched the tender exchange between Tarian and her guard, and jealousy ripped through him. It was a new emotion for him, and one he did not care for in the least. As a man who had rigid self-control, he had found that when it came to Tarian Godwinson he was sorely at a loss. Though he knew there was nothing romantic between her and her captain, he wanted to be the man she turned to for succor. He frowned, wondering what that meant in the realm of them, together. There was no future, there was only the here and the now, and once William was convinced to spare her he would move on. A sudden thought occurred to him. And it did not sit well with him. In his gut, he knew that if he could convince William she was worth more alive than dead, his king would insist she come to Normandy and reside there as a hostage. He still held her uncle Wulfnoth, Godwine’s youngest son, these many years past. William had no intention of releasing him. He would die in Normandy. Wulfson knew Tarian would do the same, and it saddened him greatly.
She did not belong in an obscure castle in Normandy where her life force could not thrive. She would wither and die, like a flower without sunshine. He continued to watch her speak with her captain and accepted that sentence, for at least she would be alive.
He bolted toward them when he saw her crumple. Gareth caught her limp body to his, just as Wulfson reached for her. The guard hiked her small form up into his arms and glared at Wulfson. “My lady ails; leave her to my care.” He turned then and stalked with her into the old ruin. Wulfson stared at his retreating back.
“What is this about, Wulf?” Rohan asked from beside him.
Wulfson sucked in a long breath and let it out. He looked directly at his friend and knew that if any man could understand what he felt, it would be Rohan. “When did Lady Isabel become the one thing on this earth you must possess at all cost?”
Rohan threw his head back and laughed. He slapped Wulfson on the back, and while Wulfson did not think the question amusing, Rohan sobered. “I knew the minute I saw her standing alone in that empty hall clutching that dagger to her chest as if she would single-handedly defeat William and his army that she was my destiny. It took my pride and common sense much longer to realize it.”
Wulfson nodded. “I knew it when I saw Tarian in the dungeon. She has haunted me ever since. I cannot make the feeling go away. It is worse then the torture in Jubb, that hell of a prison.”
Rohan nodded, but a heavy frown worried his brow. “What of William?”
Wulfson cursed and punched the air. “I cannot defy my king! But I want her.” He began to pace a small ditch in front of Rohan. “I fear if I can convince him she is worth more alive than dead, he will insist she come to him in Normandy, and there she will remain.”
Rohan nodded and clasped Wulfson’s shoulder. “At least she will be alive.”
“’Tis not a worthy existence for one such as she. I fear what she would do.” Wulfson raked his fingers through his long hair. “I fear there is no solution agreeable to both sides.”
“Mayhap a Norman husband is in order,” Rohan suggested. “If she is with child, she will need a father for the babe.”
The thought of Tarian lying with another man, Norman or not, made Wulfson feel as if he had been kicked in the gut by Turold. He looked hard at his friend. Rohan remained silent, and Wulfson let the truth settle in. So be it. Life over freedom, with or without a Norman husband: so it would be for Tarian Godwinson. For freedom meant a live threat to William. And that was not an option.
Wulfson refused to give thought to her carrying Malcor’s child. The thought of it sickened him. What if the child came out pale-skinned and flame-headed, and grew into one as perverse as his sire? His stomach did a slow nauseous roll at the vision of Tarian under the likes of Malcor, or worse, that eel Rangor. For her sake he prayed she was not with child. If William allowed her to live, so then the child would be a hostage, and if a son, more of a threat than his mother. Children had a way of disappearing, or becoming sickly and dying mysteriously. As much as he did not wish she was with child, for his own selfish reasons, he wished for her own good that she was not pregnant. Despite what had been a te
rrible upbringing for her, Tarian would be a fierce mother, protecting her babe with her life.
A sudden well of emotion rose in him. He had no knowledge of any bastards he’d left behind, but he had always vowed he would never ignore his own blood. He was not father material, but he would make sure the child was seen to, and he would do what he could, as a sire should.
And so he resolved Tarian Godwinson’s fate in his heart. She would live her life out in Normandy, hopefully with a husband whom she could respect, and not alone in a dungeon as a hostage. And though he should rejoice in that small comfort, he did not.
Long after the men had bedded down and snores filled the cool air of the night, Wulfson lay awake, his hands behind his head and stared at the stars. His eyes focused on one star in particular. ’Twas the only one in the sky with an orange glow. His eyes wandered past it across the sky, but they always came back to that one star, and sitting up he realized that it was the beacon of the constellation Draco. He smiled. The dragon force dominated the sky.
He turned and stared at the open door to the monastery, where Gareth had bedded down. He toyed with demanding Gareth stand back, but he shook it off. He’d already stared down more than a few knowing looks from his men—as well as angry glares from Tarian’s. He would not give them more to chew on. He would not disturb her.
Before they embarked on the return journey to Draceadon, Tarian watched Gareth and a handful of her men, along with Ioan and Stefan, mount up and ride for Briarhurst. Sheepishly she’d told Wulfson of her orders to unhorse the men he had sent with her contingent to Briarhurst. He only scowled and informed Rohan, who smiled at her from across camp. He later thanked her for not harming his men.
As the day drew on and the ride became more arduous at the slower pace, Tarian tried on several occasions to explain to Wulfson why she had detained Warner, assuring him he was unharmed, and that she was most surely with child. More than anything, she wanted to tell him the child was his, but she feared not only his wrath but the wrath of William, the wrath of her Welsh kin, and the wrath of her own people. A Norman bastard conceived under the guise of passing him off as the heir to an English earldom would not endear her to anyone. Despite her subterfuge, she could not help but feel a little happy that the child was Wulfson’s. His seed was as virile as he, and the child would be as strong. And, she realized, she had tender feelings for the child’s sire.
