The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Rhiannon turned away, giving the Saxon her back as she drew the veil from her throat and exposed her scars. The dim light helped obscure her disfigurements. Still, she did not wish to draw attention to them and risk quenching the Saxon’s lusts before she had even the chance to stir them.

  Loosening her hair, she shook out its length, then began unlacing her gown.

  Let him first fill his vision with her best assets, she thought. Her body was firm and shapely, pleasing to look on even at the age of five and thirty. The Saxon could not be that much younger — five, maybe six years less than herself.

  Sliding her gown downward, she let it pool at her feet, then stepped naked from its crimson folds. Leisurely she moved to the bed and caught up a silken robe. Slipping into it, she crossed the material low on her hips and cinctured it with a silver belt.

  Turning once more to the Saxon, she found he stubbornly kept his eyes averted. Rhiannon pursed her lips, then smiled, undaunted. She liked a good challenge. And he appeared worthy of the effort for the delights she would take from his this night.

  With a slow, easy gait, she moved to the ornamented chest that lined the side wall. Retrieving an ivory comb from its depths, she smoothed her hair, arranging its wealth over her shoulder so it shrouded the scar on her neck and most of those on her cheek.

  Men were all the same. None of them would ever willingly pass by an opportunity to rut. She thought of the Irish lads she had once favored with her body in Clonmel, then of the Norsemen and tribesmen of the Steppe who enslaved her and ravished her repeatedly. Yes, men were all the same in her experience. All. Save one.

  Rhiannon’s brow twinged at the long-repressed memory. Immediately she shut out the image of the silver-haired warrior. Taking a deep, refreshing breath, she focused her thoughts on her current prey — Garreth of Tamworth, trapped in her web.

  Rhiannon retrieved a small vial of fragrant oil from the chest, then moved to stand before him. Why shouldn’t she take advantage of this man while he was in her power? Had not men done so to her over the past eighteen years and without regret? Now the moment was hers. She ran an eye over the Saxon. Given the right stimulation, he would respond. After all, men’s responses were largely involuntary. He would have little choice.

  Rhiannon stepped closer to the Saxon, her movements drawing his eyes. Yes, he would come around. He was just a man. Like all the rest.

  Rhiannon ran her fingers along the opening of her robe, drawing his eyes. Holding his attention, she parted the cloth, exposing the creamy mounds of her breasts, the fabric barely covering her nipples.

  Drawing the stopper from the vial, she traced its wet end between her breasts, then outlined their curves before returning the stopper to the vial.

  She smiled on the Saxon as she strode toward him, giving a rhythmic tilt to her hips. Stepping in close to him, she rubbed her leg against his inner thigh and brought her breasts level with his mouth and nose. When he refused to look at her directly, Rhiannon lifted his face with her long-nailed fingers.

  “Do you like the scent I wear? ‘Tis a combination meant to stir the senses,” she purred.

  He lifted cold eyes to her, then glanced away.

  “But of course, you do not understand Gaelic. Fortunately there are other, more pleasurable languages we might speak.”

  Opening the vial once more, she placed several droplets of the fragrant rich oil on her fingertips, then slipped her hand into his tunic and spread the oil over his hard chest.

  “Feel how it warms your skin and makes it tingle. Think of it anointing your entire body.” As she withdrew her hand, she lightly raked her nails over his flat nipple.

  Straightening, she withdrew her leg from between his and circled around to stand behind him. Pressing closer, she cradled his head, pillowing him between her breasts. He jerked forward violently.

  Rhiannon ignored his resistance and smoothed her fingers down over his neck, massaging his corded muscles.

  “You are so tense, my Saxon. You need something to relax you.”

  Shifting slightly to one side, she bent to his ear, aware of how her robe gaped from her breasts. She gave a small laugh and caught his lobe between her teeth, rasping it slightly as she let it go and moved away with her languid, practiced strut.

  Galled, Garreth watched the witchlike creature cross to the open chest. Did she actually think to seduce him? To rape him? He, a man? ‘Twas ludicrous beyond imagining.

  As he sat immobilized by Varya’s handiwork with the ropes, he rapidly explored the possibilities for escape. And found none. There was but one door. Little good it would do him, tied as he was. Dare he play along with Rhiannon’s seduction so that she might free him, allowing his escape?

  Tumbling the thought in his mind, he surveyed the few devices displayed on the wall — a flail with metal tips, a length of chain, and leather tethers hanging from pegs, all in sharp contrast to the seductive opulence of the room. Garreth gave a small start as he realized these items were not weapons, but instruments for some kind of dark diversion in which Rhiannon, and likely Varya, indulged.

  Something deep in his gut warned him not to underestimate Rhiannon or her appetites. As Ailénor had put it, naught should surprise him coming from a woman who had survived the Steppe and tamed a barbarian. She could be capable of just about anything — or at least think she was — including seducing a man and stealing his seed against his will.

  Rhiannon removed a pouch of herbs from the chest. Taking a pinch of the blend, she sprinkled the particles into a gem-studded goblet, then filled it with wine.

  “I believe you will enjoy this.” She bore the goblet to the Saxon. “At least you will before the night is through. Of course, you will remember little, and quite probably, you will suffer a generous headache. But then, I have a potion for that, too.”

  Rhiannon held the drugged wine before the Saxon, knowing he had not understood one word. It mattered not. This was one of her best mixtures, designed to make a man lose all resistance. The Saxon would slip into a relaxed, enamored state, and she would then command him.

  ‘Tis my experience it takes little to rouse a man’s lust, most especially those in their prime. They are always ready. And you most definitely are in your prime.”

  Rhiannon tipped the goblet to the Saxon’s lips.

  “Drink,” she encouraged, looking forward to the coming hours.

  But the Saxon resisted, clenching his jaw so that the liquid dribbled over his mouth and chin. Rhiannon gave a laugh at this futile challenge and bent to lick the wine from the corner of his mouth. She then ran her tongue across his lips and seized them with her own. He stiffened beneath her aggression and jerked his head free.

  “So resistant, my Saxon,” Rhiannon teased in a throaty voice, drawing her eyes over his handsome features. “Come now. Drink your fill and let us both be satisfied.”

  Again she held forth the goblet, but he fought her, turning his head from side to side whenever she tried to press the rim to his lips. She persisted, but suddenly his brows drew together, and he whipped his head back, knocking the goblet with his chin and sending it flying into the rushes.

  Rhiannon narrowed her eyes to slits, her breasts rising and falling with her quickened breaths. She drew back then circled the Saxon, deciding what tactic to next employ. Coming to stand in front of him, she sank to her knees, then placed her hand on his. Slowly she slid her palms along his inner thighs, then retracted them, only to slide them forward again, this time a little farther. She repeated the movement, the third time running both hands over his groin and up to his waist.

  Outrage blistered his dark eyes, and he jumped the chair back. Rhiannon smiled, satisfied.

  “Yes, my Saxon. One emotion can excite as well as another — anger as well as lust.”

  She rose and climbed onto his lap, straddling his legs. In doing so, her robe parted, but she cared not at all. Instead, she rubbed her breasts catlike against his chest and pressed her hips against his groin. Moving against him
, she caught his lower lip with the edge of her teeth, then captured his mouth with hers.

  Garreth tried to free himself from Rhiannon’s assault, but she clung fast. Twisting furiously, he finally broke his lips from hers. Undeterred, she spread kisses down his neck and smoothed her hands over his chest. Drawing one hand lower, she reached toward his groin, then covered him and began to stroke him.

  Garreth gave a great roar. Coming forward on the balls of his feet, he tipped forward, dumping Rhiannon onto the floor. He nearly lost his own balance but barely regained it and managed to right the chair.

  Rhiannon toppled into the rushes, hitting her head. Her mood veered, anger flaring in her eyes, turning them from green to gold.

  She started to rise and come at him, but Garreth tilted forward once more and pressed onto his forefeet. Swinging his body and the chair in a single movement, he caught Rhiannon with the legs and sent her reeling back into the rushes. He joined her on the floor a moment later.

  Rhiannon clawed onto her hands and knees, glaring at Garreth. As he lay before her, unable to move, she looked to him like a demon possessed. In the next breath, she pressed to her feet and started for him.

  “Witch,” he bellowed, seeking some way to make her understand he wished nothing to do with her. He spat at her when she continued toward him again, then spat once more so there could be no misunderstanding. Garreth glared at her, filling his look with all the loathing in his heart.

  Rhiannon stopped cold before the Saxon’s contempt. He looked on her with the same depth of contempt she had beheld in only one other man — Lyting Atlison, when she stood naked before him on the banks of the Dnieper and offered herself to him. And he had rejected her.

  Something snapped deep inside of her, an unholy rage surging forth that any man should spurn her. Who did these strutting cocks think they were to turn away from her? As if they were better, superior. How dare they reject her, Rhiannon, princess of the Eóganachts!

  On the Dnieper, she had been able to do naught about the shining Norman lord. But tonight this Saxon’s insults would not go unpunished.

  »«

  Varya saw the plea in the girl’s eyes.

  The bug, Wimund, crawled atop her, wetting her face and throat with his slavering kisses and tugging at the strings of his pants.

  Wimund was less than a bug, Varya decided. He was a slug.

  Again Varya looked to the girl. All his life had he witnessed women raped and brutalized — young, old, beautiful, ugly. It mattered not to the rutting warriors of the Steppe. They violated the slave women over and over, shattering their spirits until they were no more than shells.

  Varya watched Wimund fumble in his excitement. How easily a man could force himself on a woman like an animal and take his pleasure at will.

  He himself had never known a woman carnally before Rhiannon. Even the women slaves reviled him for the blight upon his face. But, in the end, he deemed himself more fortunate than all the rest, free and slave alike. For Rhiannon had opened a world of sensation to him and taught him there was more to be attained than a moment’s fleeting pleasure. With her he had known the fulfillment of joining two willing bodies and exploring each other’s deepest desires.

  Looking to the girl, he thought of her spirit crushed. It set ill with him.

  Since his birth, others had tried to break his own spirit. Except Rhiannon. As a slave, he had been badly abused, but from the first Rhiannon had looked on him not as the devil’s spawn but as a man.

  This one — Ailénor — was beautiful, unblemished. In truth, he had not witnessed the rape of a woman since he had been freed two years past. Memories rushed back, sharp and clear. As his eyes met with the girl’s once more, her silent plea touched something deep inside of him.

  She knew that he, too, was to have her. Yet she appealed to him for help. In so doing, she chose him over Wimund. She feared him, Varya was sure, but not once had she recoiled from him or shown revulsion over his marked face.

  Varya gazed on Wimund as he yanked up the girl’s skirt and plucked himself from his pants.

  Slug, Varya thought again. Not fit for the pretty Ailénor. Rhiannon had ordered Wimund killed. Why not now, instead of later? ‘Twould make no difference. Except to the slug. And the slug didn’t matter.

  A cry escaped the girl as Wimund kneed open her legs. He rammed against her with his puny member but to no avail, for she twisted and bucked. Wimund’s knife flashed as he seized it from his belt and pressed it against the unmarred flesh of her throat.

  The image coupled with another in Varya’s mind — that of Rhiannon, on a day long ago, when others had sought to kill her.

  Varya roared his contempt, seizing Wimund by the back of his tunic and hauling him off Ailénor. Without pause, he dragged him deeper along the passage to where it opened onto the cliff. Wimund thrashed at the end of Varya’s arm, protesting loudly and bellowing a string of vicious names.

  Closed-lipped, Varya freed his sword and with a single swift stroke sliced Wimund’s throat. Hurling him out from the face of the cliff, Varya watched the body fall the distance, plummeting like a sack of grain and spilling over the rocks below.

  Ailénor shook violently as she lay on the cold stone floor, stretched out, bound hand and foot with her skirt bunched up to the top of her thighs.

  She stilled as she heard footsteps. Varya’s, by their heavy clip. She heard none other. As he came into view, she saw the sword in his hand and the blood staining its edge.

  Panic swarmed through her as her heart catapulted to her throat. She had heard Wimund’s clamoring protest from deep in the passage. And then abrupt silence.

  Wimund was dead, and Varya had killed him. What would he do now to her?

  Ailénor trembled in terror as Varya squatted beside her. Several tears slipped uncontrolled down her cheeks, so frightened was she. Still, despite her fears, she forced herself to look on him. To her amazement, he did no more than reach out and wipe a droplet from her face with the pad of his thumb.

  Ailénor knew scarcely what to think. Did Varya mean to ravish her or not? Surely ‘twas in his mind, for even now his black eyes roamed downward, over her bare legs. But having done so, he turned to gaze in the direction of the stairs.

  Seeing his long, pensive look, Ailénor realized his concerns lay more with Rhiannon and Garreth and that which transpired between them than with herself. ‘Twas startling, but Ailénor believed Varya to be jealous. As she considered this, the truth of his and Rhiannon’s relationship became apparent.

  Varya’s eyes drew to Ailénor once more. She held her breath, uncertain of his intent, then watched as he lowered the tip of his blooded sword to a place above her head. She felt the slight tug of the ropes as he severed the bindings and freed her hands. He rose then and started for the stairs, leaving her leg chained.

  Ailénor’s relief quickly turned to dread, and a black anguish swept through her. As she watched Varya mount the stairs, his sword in hand, she knew his mark now was Garreth.

  With brisk, purposeful strides, Varya entered the hall and headed directly toward Rhiannon’s bedchamber.

  Converging on its door, he determined to break it down with his bare hands if he must. Naught would stand between him and the two inside.

  Casting a glance to the battle-ax bracketed on the wall, he thought to hew through the wood with a few determined strokes. But before he could lay hold of the implement, the door flung open, and Rhiannon stood framed in the portal, her green eyes blazing.

  Surprise flickered across her features to find him standing there, but she instantly recovered herself.

  “Varya. Remove this Saxon dog from my presence. Take him out into the Burren, as far away as possible — to one of the caves, mayhap, or, better still, the peat bogs. Dispose of him and leave no trace. Should his royal friends come looking for him, we need be sure they will never find any remains.” Her eyes flashed fire, and her voice rose. “Do you understand? Take him far off and kill him!”

 
Varya looked past Rhiannon’s shoulder, into the room where the Saxon lay on the floor, still trussed to the chair. His lips parted over a full row of teeth.

  “Varya understands.”

  Chapter 15

  Light chased shadow beneath the crackling torch fires, capering over stone and rushes, staining them red-gold.

  Ensconced upon her highseat, Rhiannon slowly sipped from her jeweled goblet, contemplating how best to bait her trap for Ailinn of the Érainn.

  How she loathed to wait even another day, another hour, before exacting her revenge. ‘Twas Wimund’s and Grimbold’ s incompetence that fouled her plans and cost her this delay. The two deserved their fates.

  She lifted the goblet to her lips just as the ragged reed of a girl, Blinne, burst into the hall and rushed across the room.

  “Norsemen! Norsemen come! From the south. Oh, Princess, what shall we do?” she wailed, dropping to her knees at Rhiannon’s feet.

  Rhiannon’s grip tightened upon the goblet. Leaning forward, she seized the girl by her arm and dragged her upward. “Norsemen? Are you sure, Blinne? How many ships did you see?”

  The girl squirmed under the pressure of Rhiannon’s fingers. “O-one ship, Princess. It rides sleek and low to the water like a dragonship. What could they want here, Princess?” Blinne sniveled. “There are no monasteries to plunder. Only a barren land.”

  Rhiannon considered the girl’s words. Truly, Blinne was correct. The Burren offered naught but a desolate landscape with few trees and little water. Mayhap they would sail on. Or mayhap her kinsmen had set the wolves upon her to seize her treasure. And yet the Eóganachts would not traffic with the Norse. Not even to steal her father’s treasure. She was sure of it.

  Rhiannon narrowed her eyes. “I will see for myself. But warn the others not to run. They are safest in the walls of Cahercommaun.”