by Betina Krahn
She froze, thinking of her terrifying encounter that afternoon. . . and of Saxxe’s warning moments ago. “S-snake!” she cried. Her head snapped around and she spotted the dagger where she had left it . . . on the boulders downstream. With a frantic glance over her shoulder, she lurched toward her weapon in the knee-deep water.
But the mud made treacherous footing, and she slipped and flailed wildly . . . and fell into the stream with a horrendous splash. The cold and the fall knocked her breathless, and for one terrifying instant she sat with a face full of water, watching the slithering beast closing in on her . . . unable to summon even a scream.
“Don’t move!” Saxxe bellowed, charging into the water with his dagger drawn, then rising up at the last moment and striking mightily. All went deathly still and after a moment he made it to his feet with a strange look on his face. And as she sat clasping her hands over her heart, he turned and lifted something out of the water with a smile that broadened and deepened into booming laughter.
“Here is your snake. Just a branch . . . a bit of driftwood!” He laughed so hard that he had difficulty heaving the deadwood onto the bank. Then he turned to her with his eyes dancing. “You should see your face.” And he went off in another spasm of mirth at her expense.
“It looked like a snake!” she choked out, her face burning. He had no right to laugh at her, the smug, insufferable . . . barbarian! She was sitting shoulder-deep in water, and when her hands doubled into fists, they curled around heaps of mud. There he stood, his big body vibrating with laughter. She looked at that impervious expanse of bronzed chest . . . and hauled back a fist full of mud and flung it at him.
“Wha—” He sobered instantly and looked down at the splat of mud that had landed square in his chest. “Troth—and I suppose you see no cause for laughter in what just happened,” he said, unbuckling his cross braces and giving them a rinse before tossing them onto the bank. He rinsed the rest of the mud from his chest, then lifted his head to challenge her silence. And—splat—a second handful of mud pelted his bare shoulder.
“What in the name of thunder do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
She honestly didn’t know what she intended . . . only that it felt wonderful. Filling her hands with cool, slippery mud and flinging it against his broad chest was the most satisfying thing she’d done in weeks . . . maybe years. And without a thought for the consequences, she loaded both her hands again and delivered two more well-placed blasts.
“It’s nothing to get upset about, Rouen,” she taunted sweetly. “Why, it’s hardly noticeable amongst all the other dirt.” He jerked sideways to dodge her next handful, but got caught by the one after that.
“What the—”
As quickly as she fired, she dredged up more ammunition from the mucky bottom. Her eyes glowed with mischief. “My only regret is that I’m not sitting in the midst of a cow pasture!”
“Why, you little witch!” He crouched and scooped up two handfuls of mud and tossed them at her. One broke up before reaching her, but the other hit her square in the shoulder, muddying her beleaguered white tunic.
“You wretch! This is my only garment!” she said with a groan. But there was an entire armory at her feet, and she retaliated in kind.
The battle was joined.
“Take that, Rouen!” she shouted triumphantly, throwing at him and eluding his missile.
“You’ve asked for it, demoiselle! I warn you”—he heaved another ball of mud—“in battle I show no mercy!”
“Ha! When do you ever show mercy? I certainly haven’t seen any of it! Ohhh! Ugh!” She had to pause to wipe a splat of mud off her jaw and fling it away.
To both their surprise, she displayed a marked talent for slinging mud. She scored hit after hit while managing to dodge many of his throws. She would have thought he wasn’t trying except for his crimson face and mutters of disbelief. Somehow she managed to keep her feet and to scramble into deeper water whenever he got too close.
Her taunts gradually turned to laughter as she loped about in the water, eluding him, teasing him. She loved it—the cool mud, the buoyant water, the sticky ooze down her gown, the way the mud clung to his skin. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. There were no rules or decisions, no preparations or protocols. It was pure abandonment.
But for Saxxe it was pure astonishment. He was losing both battles . . . the one with her and the one with himself. He hungrily absorbed the grace of her nimble movements, the mischief and pleasure shining in her eyes, and the arousing sight of wet silk plastered against her nubile young curves. She was a river sprite . . . a wicked, elusive imp . . . an innocent seductress. Each rise of her knees or jiggle of her breasts sent a shock of excitement through him that interfered with both his reflexes and his aim.
Experience had long since taught him that brute force often succeeded where skill had failed. He simply abandoned slinging mud and launched himself through the water at her in a blinding spray. She squealed and fell back, but he grabbed the tail of her tunic as she scrambled toward the bank. She stumbled and fell in the shallows, and in a trice he was on top of her, pinning her on her back in the mud . . . then rising up, astride her wriggling form.
“No—stop—don’t you dare!” Her eyes widened on a huge handful of mud he was holding, and she tried valiantly to block his aim. But he overcame her flailing hands and brought it down square in the middle of her chest. “Ohhh—you’ll be sorry for that!” She grabbed a handful of mud and smashed it into his ribs, rubbing it around on him as much as possible.
Instead of flinging mud, they now wrestled in it—sliding and grappling for the upper hand in the slippery muck. They tussled wildly and rolled and splashed until she was suddenly on top, her ripely curved form pressed forcefully against his bigger, harder one. Then, to maintain her advantage, she pushed up to sit on his lower belly, holding handfuls of mud over him.
“Beg for mercy, Rouen,” she demanded.
“Never!” he growled, with a deep resonance that sent tantalizing vibrations up the inside of her thighs, where they were pressed against him.
“It’s time someone taught you better manners, barbarian. Say ‘Prithee please, my lady’ and you’ll be spared!” she declared.
“Do your worst, demoiselle. Barbarians have no need of manners,” he ground out, seizing her wrists and holding them. Straining and shoving downward, she managed to squash the mud over his chest. But when she started to pull away she found her hands suddenly trapped, splayed in the cool mud slathered over his hot flesh. She tugged forcefully, then began to writhe against him as she demanded he release her. Her movements brought her hard against a swelling at the base of his belly.
Inexplicably, they both went still.
She sat astride him with her sodden tunic pushed up around her hips and her hands splayed across his chest . . . feeling a hard ridge beneath her sensitive woman’s flesh. His hands slid slowly up her arms, then over her shoulders to cup her breasts, his palms only a layer of wet silk away from her sensitive skin. The heat of his hands seeped through that thin garment and into her cool breasts, and her breath stopped.
The water lapping gently around their bodies was the only evidence of the passing of time. She slid her hands down his chest, the mud an excuse for a touch long desired. Down his breastbone and around a dusky, crinkled nipple she drew one finger . . . leaving a streak of bared skin glowing through the mud.
He began to trace the shape of her breasts through the thin silk, lingering over their tightly budded tips, stroking, rubbing them to hard, aching points. Then his hands quested downward . . . to her waist, her hips, and her strong, shapely thighs, which were spread against him. Her body felt warm and firm beneath his fingers. And he sought her face with his eyes.
The darkness was deepening around them, but her sapphire eyes glistened in the purple twilight. There was no anger or disdain in her expression now . . . only the warmth of rising desire. He shoved up on his arms, face-to-face with her as
she sat astride his lap, and he rinsed his hand to wipe some of the mud from her cheeks.
“Come. The light is gone and the air grows cooler.” He slid her from his lap and stood up, then took her hand and led her deeper into the stream. There, he scooped water and poured it over her, gently washing away the mud. The contrast of the chilled water and his warm hands sent shivers through her. His eyes were soft, lighted from within by desires she recognized and needs she couldn’t begin to know.
Out of the rising mists of feeling inside her came a new and compelling need to give. Never before had she washed or comforted or touched someone in intimate service. She scooped water and began to wash the mud from him with long, wonder-filled strokes. He was so marvelously made; solid muscles stretched over wide shoulders and ridged over lean ribs . . . raw power visible in the cording of his arms . . . determination etched in the underlying angularity of his frame . . . sensuality imbedded in the haunting strength of his beard-cloaked features.
The current curled around them, tugging at their feet, wrapping them in a liquid, elemental awareness of each other. He pulled her close, then bent at the waist and lowered her hair into the rippling water, combing the dirt and mud from it with his fingers. Then, setting her back on her feet, he drew his dagger and cut the stubborn laces of her sleeves and lifted her half-laced tunic and her chemise up and over her head.
She watched, stunned, as he rinsed the mud from her garments, then picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bank. He left her there, holding her clothes, while he waded back out and dunked himself under the water, rinsing his hair thoroughly and giving his breeches a rubbing. Then he retrieved his cross braces and her dagger, and led her back to their camp.
“My fire has gone out,” she said hoarsely, nodding toward her cooking fire, now nothing but ash. He laughed.
“Mine hasn’t.”
He unrolled his sleeping pallet and wrapped her in a blanket, then laid more branches on the fire. Spreading her tunic on a nearby bush, he stripped off his belt and breeches and hung them beside it.
She averted her eyes, but not before she saw the scars on his legs and the startling column of rigid flesh that nestled in a swirl of dark hair at the base of his belly. She stiffened as he approached, but he sank onto his knees beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be there with her, unclothed. Taking the edge of her blanket from her, he began to rub her hair with it. After a long moment she turned to look at him, and he gave her a wry, heart-stopping smile.
“I wish I had a comb for your hair.”
His quiet words stunned her with their genuineness, and she felt a strange, sweet fullness in her chest. What a paradox he was, this barbarian whose hands knew how to ease pain as well as inflict it . . . who spent wishes on a comb for a woman’s hair when he had no possessions of his own. As he ran his fingers through her hair, over and over, untangling it, she felt her last defenses slide.
This intimacy was too precious to resist. When he took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes, she let the blanket fall away and raised her arms around his neck to pull his head closer.
This was what she wanted, what she had ached for . . . the feel of him taking her mouth with his . . . a hundred, a thousand, sensations pouring into her heart, invading her blood and marrow. She wanted his power and his heat against her, around her, within her. For the first time she felt full force the sweet pain of longing that was desire. Its fever set her trembling with an urgency for joining, and in that tumult, logic and reason failed and flesh exerted a wisdom of its own.
The world receded to the edge of consciousness as they sank together onto the blankets, bathed in the fire glow and in the heat of their rising passions. Their mouths blended in hot, languorous kisses, hungry but unhurried.
Then he slid, bearing his weight to one side, and shifted his caresses lower . . . to her throat, down her chest, to her breasts. He ran the rasping softness of his beard across her nipple, again and again, bringing her taut and quivering with each stroke. Her hands fluttered like birds . . . then sank into his hair to urge him on. His kisses became nibbles and sharp tugs that made her shiver with pleasure.
All her perceptions seemed to melt and fuse . . . leaving her only the deep and primal sensation of touch. Her skin came alive with a tactile hunger bred by a lifetime of regal restraint. Every part of her cried out for his touch . . . tiny strokes, bold caresses, gentle kneading, and just the delicious pressure of his weight upon her . . . she wanted it all. And as she greedily sought those sensations, his hands drifted lower on her, down her stomach and between her legs.
Her breath stilled in her throat as his fingers stroked her inner thighs, then slid to the tender cleft at the top of them. Her heart stopped as she waited, not knowing what she waited for. Then his gentle fingers invaded her woman’s folds, exploring and teasing that sleek, tender flesh, and she shuddered and tensed as his fingers brushed the throbbing center of her response.
Slowly, he traced circles around that burning, sensitive point . . . brushing by it but not touching it directly. And with each rounding of his fingers she felt herself drawing curiously tighter inside, growing hotter. A delicious ripeness seeped into her womanflesh; she felt swollen and expectant. Pulsing waves of pleasure mounted like a swelling tide that pushed her steadily higher, toward some unknown peak. Giving herself to it, she gripped his shoulders with frantic hands, arching, tensing, seeking whatever it would bring.
Higher and higher she was carried, borne on hot currents until she went tumbling into breaking, churning waves of release . . . calling his name.
* * *
Lillith picked her way down the dark slope, toward the stream, muttering to herself and scrutinizing every bit of ground before she set her foot on it. The sharp snap of a stick startled her and she wheeled, clutching her throat.
“Where do you go, ma chatte?” Gasquar’s broad smile and glowing eyes appeared out of the darkness, and his wiry beard and thick shoulders materialized next.
“Into the bushes for a bit of privacy,” she said, hurling each word. “You do know the word privacy. . . .”
“Ahhh, but it is night . . . dangereux for a woman alone.” He crept closer on silent feet. “The wolves, the bears, the badgers . . . there are many who hunt by night. Yet you do not listen, ma petite. What will I do with you, eh?”
“You’ll let me go . . . or I won’t be responsible,” she said, gritting her teeth. He sighed and backed up a step, letting her go.
A while later, as she stood staring at the steeply eroded stream bank, wondering how she could get down to wash, she spotted a flicker of light on the far side through a stand of trees. She blinked, then gasped. Thera!
She ran along the top of the steep slope calling out, “Thera! Thera! My lady—is that you?”
Gasquar, who had been covertly keeping watch, charged out of the nearby trees and intercepted her.
“It’s a fire—it’s them!” she insisted, pointing across the water.
“Perhaps,” he uttered with quiet force, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the dim light. “But it may also be someone else . . . travelers . . . or a band of cutthroats and thieves. Hold your tongue until we are certain. Come.”
Together, they slid down the bank to peer across the rushing stream. Through the trees, they indeed saw a campfire. Not far away stood something large and pale . . . a horse. “Sultan!” Gasquar declared with relief.
Together they began to shout and call above the noise of the water.
The sound of Thera’s name fanned through the mists of pleasure swirling through her senses. At first she thought Saxxe had said it, and she smiled and pulled his head up to hers, offering him her mouth. He slid a knee between her thighs, nudging them apart, and slowly transferred his weight onto her soft, resilient frame. She gasped against his mouth and he cradled her head between his hands and drew back, smiling, reassuring her. His eyes were rings of molten gold encompassing black wells of desire, his skin
hot, his body hard and heavy . . . focused fiercely on containing the need straining inside him. He arched and rubbed slowly against her, sliding his swollen shaft against her still-throbbing flesh and—
It came again, louder and recognizable.
“Thera! Thera, is that you?” Then: “Saxxe—mon ami ! Where are you?”
They froze, waiting until it came again . . . slamming into them like a wall. With hearts pounding, they drew back to look at each other, anguished by the intrusive call of reality. But there was no choice; already they were retreating from the edge of Paradise.
“Damn you, Gasquar,” he cursed softly, rolling aside and pushing to his feet.
“Lillith?” Thera sat up, clutching her pounding heart, and caught a glimpse of Saxxe heading for the stream. She scrambled to her feet and hurried after him, going back for a blanket only when the night air raised gooseflesh over her heated body. She found Saxxe standing in the moonlight, scouring the far bank, and when she approached he pointed to two indistinct figures across the way. She could make out what seemed like a face and an arm waving, but Lillith’s voice was unmistakable.
“It is you!” Lillith cried, waving wildly. “Thank the Heavens! I had such a time getting this great horse’s arse to come searching! Are you all right?”
Thera hauled the blanket around her haphazardly and waved back, calling out, “I’m fine! I almost drowned, but Saxxe rescued me and—” She suddenly realized he was naked . . . clearly visible from the other bank . . . as was she. With a gasp she pulled the blanket around her shoulders and pushed Saxxe toward the cover of some nearby trees. “All is well, Lillith . . . truly!”
It was too late. Across the way, Lillith’s eyes were widening with shock. “Naked?” she choked out, grabbing Gasquar’s arm. “Holy Mother—are they both naked?” She dragged him this way and that, craning her neck, frantic to get a better look. “I saw her bare shoulders and bosom. And he is naked—I’m sure of it! Saints! I could see his . . . his . . . from here!”
