Isolde's Wish (9 page)

Their kiss built. If she was torn from him, she would never forget the way his green eyes burned from beneath his lashes.

Isolde slipped her hands into the waist of his breeches. Peeling the hot leather from his lightly haired thighs gave her a thrill of power. Cupping his bollocks, sending a shiver through him, and feeling his cock grow made her feel like a queen. Had her mother felt this with Sadler’s father?

Cold air touched her bared breasts. She sank her fingers into his hair and forced him to them, emboldened by his groan of joy. His tongue circled each nipple, and he gently yanked them with his teeth before sucking on them hard. If he sucked them till sunset, she’d never get enough of the engorged sensation it gave her pussy. The deep burn that he had taught her meant release took hold of her, and she groped his shaft and rolled the purple head between her hands.

“Please. Please.” She guided it toward her skirt.

“Nay, Isolde. I cannot.”

His knees struck the wooden floor of the hull. His warm breath lifted the hair on her body as his wet tongue probed her thighs. Right. Left. Circling closer to the extreme heat of her. She twitched and bucked against him.

Rough hands parted her legs, forcing her into a wide stance. His callous fingertips worked under her skirt and teased the sensitive skin of her buttocks. He blazed a trail down the seam between them, up, down. Igniting a fire. Juices flooded her pussy.

His mouth worked over her pubic curls, licking and tasting everyplace but the nub of pleasure where she most needed him. He lifted his head and stared up the length of her body into her eyes. Electricity crackled. His mouth and chin were wet with her fluids, and she gave a shudder as he ran a finger below his lip, gathered the moisture, and lapped it off.

The weight of her body suddenly seemed too much to support. Her knees sagged against his chest. Her head tilted on the stem of her neck. Her unbound hair dripped about her face, spilling over her breasts like silk.

He delved into the cleft between her thighs. And then he was stroking her pleasure nub with his hot tongue, sucking it into his mouth. One finger plunged into her soaking cavern while the other hand traversed the curve of her buttocks, down, down, spreading, seeking, and finding the most private part of her.

She started at the unusual, tender touch, but his fingers did not retreat. He suckled her pussy until she melted against him. He circled her nether hole with his finger, raising a commanding need in her. She pressed into his hand, the small sounds in her chest begging him for more.

The flames of sensation were consuming her. She knew there was more release to be had, deeper, stronger pulsations impending. He applied the barest amount of pressure on the secret spot while he sank his other finger into the wet hole he most intimately knew, and his mouth worked her into a frenzy.

She began to climb, the unbelievable burn increasing, promising her a most violent release ever. Her knees quivered. A drop of sweat coursed down her spine and caught in the waist of her skirt. She wished he’d tear away her gown, abandon it on the floor of the ship, lay her upon it, and spear her with his long cock.

Her cries were escalating into screams for release. If he lifted his face, she’d combust. If he didn’t nudge his fingertip into her private hole, she’d die.

As if he understood her potent need, Sadler worked a finger farther inside her. Isolde’s entire body shook, folded, curled, then flipped into a giant swell of release. The heavy pulsations rocked her against him, and he held her tight, forcing her to ride out the wave that threatened to drown her. She screamed out, blinded to anything but Sadler’s amazing touch.

She slowly rotated her hips against him, working his fingers and his tongue until the last tremors left her. She slumped forward.

Sadler caught her behind the knees and swept her off her feet, then lowered her gently to the floor, where she stared up at him through a blur of emotion.

“Who could give ye this, Isolde, if not me? No Sir Lionel or Millvale in the world can make ye come apart the way I can.” His words were a tender brush against her still-shaking form.

“Nay.”

“Tell me ye’ll never let them try.”

“Never,” she whispered, wishing he’d give her his mouth, his tongue.

* * *

The ground rushed up at them, dizzying Isolde. The treetops were a blur of dark green, the ground verdant with new growth. Her fingers ached from gripping the side of the hull so hard. She didn’t want to go back.

Sadler’s voice was in her ear, a low growl washing her earlobe and racing down the column of her throat. “If we had an ounce more water to heat and keep us afloat, Isolde, I swear I’d keep ye up here with me.”

She turned into his arms. “When will I see ye?”

“I know where to find ye. Don’t look for me. It will look suspicious.”

But she knew she could never keep her eyes from scraping the castle corridors in hopes of glimpsing that long blond queue and those broad shoulders. She buried her nose in his chest and delighted in the tickle of crisp hair. His pores released that dark musk exclusive to Sadler. When her mouth had closed about his cock, the scent became more intense and arousing.

The hull of the ship struck the earth with a jarring thump, tumbling them apart. Before she could steady herself, he gripped her waist, lifted her over the edge, and deposited her on the ground. She shoved her skirts over her knees and took off running.

As her boots gobbled the ground, she fought to keep from looking over her shoulder, to keep from watching his eyes as she sprinted away from him. She focused on the castle’s ramparts, sweeping it for guards. They sometimes abandoned their posts at midday, slipped down the stone walls, and fell asleep. She could only hope not to be seen.

She flew around the small grouping of cottages. Spirals of smoke rose from their cook fires. The smells of frying fish and roasting potatoes filled her mouth with hunger. The last few hours spent with Sadler, she only knew the appetites of her flesh. Now her body awakened to other needs. She longed for food, to spear a potato with a stick and withdraw it from the flames, to sink her teeth through the crispy skin, the first bite hot and rich and soft in her mouth.

Her stomach gurgled loudly. She kept her pace, skirting a wagonload of beets, throwing a wave to a chubby child playing in the dirt with a pair of kittens. The sun glinted off the child’s blond head and forced tears into Isolde’s eyes.

Touching Sadler gave her an acute sense of her womanly needs—the needs for a home and a family of her own. She was an old maid in the eyes of the kingdom. A twenty-three-year-old woman would be shipped off to the convent by now. Isolde thanked God she had two brothers willing to fight for her to remain unwed. Without Colin and John, she would have been Millvale’s wife long ago. She still might be.

A voice deep inside her asked,
Is that such a bad thing
? Her family would be happy with the match, her father secure in the knowledge that she’d be well provided for and protected her whole life.

But it unnerved her that he had been the one to send Sadler into hiding. About the castle and kingdom, few would recognize him on sight, even with his wanted poster lining the roads. The servants already considered Sadler a ghost, appearing at will, a wisp of smoke that could come and go without being seen. But Millvale—he had seen Sadler in the flesh. He would recognize that blond queue.

People were gathering in the village yards to watch her sprint past.

“The princess!”

“Such finery.”

“Where’s she running to?”

Her muscles coiled, and she shot through the crowd at top speed. The straps of her boots cut into her knees. Her thighs were wet and sticky from her morning of erotic play. If she concentrated, she could still taste Sadler’s fluids on the back of her tongue. She shuddered with fresh desire at the thought.

Through the castle gates she ran, splattering mud up the backs of her legs. So far, luck was on her side. The grounds were flooded with workers who were busy hammering and sawing lumber, setting up for the midsummer games. Every man, woman, and child in the land would travel here to participate, watch, or help with the games. It was a festival of strengths and skills—arm wrestling, gauntlet, sword fighting, jousting, and flying feats.

The Earl of Millvale was a good competitor and always won several prizes from the King’s vault. Last year he had asked Isolde’s favor, and she had declined.

Not this year.

Accepting meant she would get him alone, if only for a few words while she adjusted his armor or handed him his sword. She was determined to learn about Sadler’s attempt on the king and Millvale’s role in turning him in. Though she’d grown up hearing the tales of Sadler’s assassination attempt on her father, the stories had been twisted by time, and her family sought to protect her from the truth. At the time of Sadler’s attempt, she’d been grieving for her mother and only cared that her father was still in the picture.

She also planned to find out exactly what role Millvale played in this dangerous game.

She slowed her steps when she reached the rose garden. She came upon the old oak with a fluttery feeling in her stomach. Her fingers brushed the message Sadler had carved into the oak trunk.
S is sorry.

She brought her fingers to her nose and breathed the scent of raw wood. The scent of lovemaking. The scent of Sadler.

* * *

Isolde’s restless footsteps rang through the castle corridors. She’d awakened with a dream of Sadler fresh in her mind, the memory of his dream kisses pooling hotly in her core. The tormenting sensation followed her throughout the castle.

He’d told her not to look for him, but how could she stop? Her ache went deeper than her physical needs. A hollow burned in her chest at his absence.

“Princess.”

She snapped her head up, and she looked into Sir Lionel’s sad gaze. “Good morn, Sir Lionel.”

With a rustle of leather, he dropped to one knee and bowed his golden head. One hand covered his heart. “I’ve failed ye, Princess Isolde, and I’m sorry.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes, even if he wasn’t looking. “Whatever do ye mean?”

“I’ve left ye alone, wandering the castle in possible danger.”

She slashed the air with her hand. “There is no danger to me here, Sir Lionel. This is my home.”

“A killer walks these halls. A man who would love to see yer father dead.”

A lump lifted in her throat. She struggled to keep her voice even. “I do not believe Sadler is on the loose in the castle.”

Sir Lionel’s eyes flashed to hers. “Ye’re in like mind to the servants? Ye believe him a spirit?”

The thought of Sadler leaving this world, of crossing into the spirit realm, threatened her sanity. She nodded, trying to keep her chin from trembling. “Aye. I’ve not seen the man myself.”

Sir Lionel slowly rose to his full height of over six feet. With a shivering sound, his sword was drawn from the sheath on his hip. He crossed it over his heart and bowed his head to her. “I vow to keep ye safe, Princess, from this moment on. Yer life is in danger.”

“It is not.”

“Aye, Princess. Have ye not visited the great hall this morn?”

She drew up. “What do ye mean?”

“Sadler’s been there, and he’s left ye a message.”

Before the words were out of his mouth, she whirled and strode for the hall. She cursed the long skirts she’d chosen today. They dragged on the ground and slowed her. She gripped a handful and quickened her steps. Atop her head perched a tall, narrow hat made of leather sporting a peacock feather. She felt it tilt precariously, and cursed her maid, Corliss, for persuading her to wear it. The pins that held it in place slipped, and she felt the first wisps of hair loosen from the knot of braids.

Sir Lionel marched along beside her, taking one loping stride to her two. Isolde became impatient with her short legs.

As they reached the entrance of the great hall, a rustle of commotion met her ears. A group of soldiers stood sentry in the doorway, talking heatedly among themselves. Behind them, Isolde made out the voices of her father and brother.

“Take it out of here immediately,” the king commanded, his voice thunderous.

“Not until Isolde sets eyes on it, Father. She must know her danger.”

“Let me pass,” Isolde said in her haughtiest tone, feeling power swell in her breast when the knot of soldiers broke apart.

She swept into the room, gaze darting to her father. He stood on the raised dais, which elevated his already impressive height. He wore tight-fitting black leather gloves, and his fists were clenched. His long white beard trembled with anger, and his chest beneath the flying uniform heaved.

“Isolde,” he said, “get out of here, girl.”

“Nay.”

She stalked into the room, staring down every man barring her path. Her brother Colin took her arm.

“She deserves to see, Father. Ye soldiers, let her pass,” Colin demanded.

Before the great plank table, five men stood shoulder to shoulder. They jerked into action and peeled away to reveal a great black mound behind them. Six feet long and bristly with fur, a giant boar lay dead with an apple shoved into its mouth. Blood seeped from a wound that could only have been made with a battle-ax.

Isolde began to shake. She shuffled her feet across the stones, her pulse throbbing in her ears. On the dark wood table, dribbled in blood, were the words, “For Isolde.”

A giggle bubbled up her throat, and she quickly squelched it, plastering her hands to her mouth and pressing her lips hard against her teeth. She dared not look up and reveal her mirth.

Sadler had boldly accessed the great hall and somehow carted a three-hundred-pound boar inside without a soul noticing him. To her father and brothers, the boar blood was a threat; to Isolde, it was a message, letting her know Sadler was thinking of her.

She spun from the dead body and the flies that were already settling on its reeking hide. Sir Lionel was at her elbow and Colin on the other as she paced out the door.

“Isolde, ye had to know the danger upon ye.” Colin attempted to peer into her face. She dropped her gaze, wishing her hair was unbound.