Master of Craving (9 page)

Her wide silvery eyes glittered with unshed tears. He scowled when she placed her slender hand into his much larger one. Carefully he hoisted her up, then spun her around. He groaned as his gaze traveled the long length of her creamy back. The dimples just above her rounded bottom teased him, daring him to touch. He slammed the tunic over her head and grasped her left arm, gingerly working it through the arm slit; he was not so gentle with her right arm. Stepping to the other side of the fire, he said angrily, “There is venison in the pouch there by the saddle, and water in the skin.”

He settled against the log she had vacated and crossed his arms over his chest with his legs extended before him, watching her daintily pick at the dried meat. As she drank from the skin, he watched the smooth column of her neck move in slow waves as she swallowed. He groaned and moved in the dirt. His entire body was on fire and it was not from his wounds. Nay, his groin burned with an intensity he could scarce remember.

“Does another wound bother you?” she quietly asked, watching him from across the low glow of the flames.

 

“Nay.”

 

“Then why do you look as if you are in so much pain you will come undone?”

“What pains me is of no concern to you.” “You are quite right.” She turned from him, pulling her knees to her chest, and settled against the saddle. A small squeak of pain escaped her lips, and he steeled at the sound. The pain of others had never bothered him before, why did he want to ease this woman’s

discomfort?

Bah! He had only one purpose for her, and in a few days’ time she would hate him more than she did now, when she learned of his plan to exchange her freedom for his brothers. Let her be in pain. ’Twould be good practice for her.

Arian could not get warm. She moved closer to the fire, and still the chill of the night air infiltrated her skin. When she ran her hands up and down her arms, the pain from her wound intensified. Her teeth chattered and she felt the beginnings of heat in her breast. She drew closer to the fire and looked across it to find two brilliant eyes staring at her. She caught her breath but extended her hands over the glowing embers.

“Sir? More wood?”

Slowly he shook his head. “The flames will cause more smoke, and if there are any marauders in these woods they would find us. We risk much with just that small pile of embers.”

Her teeth chattered, but she nodded understanding. Though she was captive of a demon Saxon, she was not so silly to think others would be less brutal than he. As the embers died, her chill increased. Her body shook as it would in the snow. She settled back against the saddle and fought to stop the quaking of her limbs.

She dreamt of demon knights and demon horses and Dag with fangs chasing her through dark castle halls. She dreamt of Magnus falling upon his sword, his pale eyes staring past her. In her dream, when she turned to see his killer, she screamed. ’Twas the Saxon, Stefan, but he was different. Darker, stronger, more powerful.

The pain in her limbs woke her. Her body spasmed in the cold and her head felt heavy and warm. Strong arms gathered her trembling body to a hard warm chest. “You shiver with fever,” a deep voice softly said in her ear. She nodded, and drifted back into a troubled sleep.

When Arian woke, her skin was warm but not from the fever. Nay, ’twas from the body that surrounded her. She stiffened, and so too did the long arms and hard chest around her. “You were shaking so violently I feared the trees would fall upon us,” Stefan’s husky voice whispered against her ear. Her body warmed hotter.

The strong arms loosened, and she instantly felt the chill of the early morning air swirl about her. She stared up at his retreating back, wondering what he had in store for her. “Come,” he called. “There is a stream nearby to wash in. Then we fly.”

She hurried to her feet and followed him. Arian was used to the saddle, but her body protested when he hauled her into it again. She noticed at the stream that his face had swollen, his wounded flesh pulling at the stitches he had sewn. When she questioned him about it, he waved her off and made no effort at

further conversation.

They had been astride not more than a candle notch or two when loud voices erupted from the road ahead of them. Arian stiffened, her heart beating wildly against her chest. Could it be Cadoc? Or perhaps a noble’s train?

Deftly Stefan steered the horse into the thick forest. His right arm clamped around her waist, tightened. “Not a word,” he hissed in her ear.

 

As the voices approached, the French words became clear, and she felt the hard thud of Stefan’s heart slam against her back.
SIX

Normans! His elation was quickly squashed with caution. Stefan curbed the impulse to greet them on the road. He could not. Yet. As the voices became clearer, he strained his ear to recognize even one of them. Tucked deep enough into the wood so as not to be seen from the road, Stefan watched anxiously for the first sight of them. The woman in his arms trembled, and he read her thoughts. He moved his arm up from her waist to her mouth, noticing how warm her skin was, and clamped it tightly there. “Do you think those Norman pigs care that you are a princess? A
Welsh
princess, a royal of the same blood whom they just fought and fell to at Hereford castle?”

Vigorously she shook her head. But he did not trust her. She was too impetuous, and though they were his countrymen, he did not think for one moment they would not have sport with her.

Cautiously he waited, and when they first came into view, he scowled when the mocking voices he had not heard in nearly a decade came back with as much bile as rancid meat in his gut. ’Twas Ralph du Forney, his cousin, his cousin who could not bear the sight of his bastard kin. Stefan’s lip curled. And beside him, Philip d’Argent, the lovely Lisette’s devoted brother. The devoted brother who shouted to any who cared to listen that the bastard de Valrey was still an unacknowledged bastard and would remain so. Stefan gently pulled the reins, and Apollo stepped back deeper into the forest. Silently they watched as more than twoscore Norman knights approached.

Perplexed, Stefan wondered what the patrol was doing so far from Hereford. Why were they not with fitz Osbern? Had he sent them out to quell further uprisings? The reason for them being here didn’t matter. ’Twas their mere presence that disturbed Stefan so greatly. A lone knight on the road with a disheveled princess was an easy target, and he was not so churlish to believe that his own countrymen, his own kin even, would not see her value for themselves.

He scowled. Now their travel would be even slower, for he would have to keep to the wood and avoid the roads except when absolutely necessary.

After long-drawn-out minutes when there was no longer a trace of voices, Stefan moved his hand from the princess’s mouth. She let out a long hot breath. He frowned and pressed his palm to her brow. It burned. Without asking, he slid his hand between the tunic and her skin to her left breast. She gasped, but it was not with conviction.

“Jesu,
your skin burns.”

She turned slightly to look up at him, and he caught his breath this time. Her silver eyes looked hollow and sunken deep into her skull; they burned bright with fever, her cheeks flushed crimson. He wrestled with pushing ahead to Draceadon, the home of Wulfson and his lady, who would aide him in his cause, or find refuge for the ailing princess. In the end, her health trumped his urgency to see to his brothers’ release; after all, were she to die he would have nothing to bargain with for their lives. Stefan lowered his head to her and softly said, “Turn around so that I may find a safe place for you this night.”

Slowly she did, and losing all decorum, her body went limp against his chest. He gathered her close with his right arm and cued Apollo to the road, and instead of a brisk walk, he urged him to a faster pace. Not only did he want to put as much distance between the two of them and his cousin as he could, he also wanted to find a secluded spot with a swift stream. As the day wore on, the body he held up with one arm became increasingly warmer and heavy against him.

As the sun made its trek far west, Stefan spied a suitable spot near a clear, swift stream. The body in his arms burned as hot as an ember. He knew of only one way to cool her. Dismounting, he carefully pulled the princess from the saddle, leaving the black to find his own meal. Stefan ignored the pain in his leg from the added weight and moved to the edge of the gurgling stream. Deftly he stripped down to his underclothing, then pulled the rough tunic from her body.

She cried out and swung at him. “Nay, Arian, be still.”

With her naked in his arms, he waded out into the chilly water. It came only to his knees. With her still in his arms, he sat down, and submerged all of her that he could, then slowly scooped water upon her chest and shoulders.

She gasped and clawed at his neck to be out of the cold water, but he held her to his chest, and had to admit the chill felt good on his leg. It too had warmed, and he knew his face must look hideous. However, there was nothing to do for it. Not this night. Mayhap tomorrow.

Arian’s body went rigid as the shock of the cold water assailed her hot skin. She thrashed and flailed, but he held her firm. “Let the water cool the fire, Arian, do not fight it.”

After several long moments, she stilled. He held her close with one arm and smoothed her hair from her face with his free hand. Her breathing was rapid, her skin still too flushed, her flesh too warm. In a slow loose wave, she went completely limp in his arms. Gently he shook her, “Arian?”

Her eyelids fluttered open and he saw great pain in their silvery depths. “Allow me to die,” she whispered.

 

“You disappoint me, princess. I gave you more fight.”

 

“I am scarred and my reputation destroyed, no man will want me for wife. Let me go and I shall float away.”

“Nay.” She closed her eyes, and for a long time Stefan sat on the pebbly stream floor, a naked, feverish princess clutched in his arms. Several times, he splashed the cool water on his own

face. It took some of the sting from it, if only for a moment.

When Stefan hauled Arian from the water, he set her upon her tunic and allowed the cool night air to dry her. Once sure she slept, he changed into dry clothes, then set several snares along the forest edge, with hopes of meat for supper. He was not disappointed. When he checked later, one held a fat hare. Quickly he skinned and gutted the animal, skewered it with an ash branch, then set it to roast over the small fire.

He was surprised to see Arian’s eyes following him about the small camp some time later. In the low light of the fire, he could not see her color, but when he approached he could see that the flush in her cheeks had lessened. But he could also see that the last two days had taken their toll. Instead of healthy and robust, she looked ill and exhausted. And as hardy as he was, he too was beginning to feel the effects of his wounds and hours in the saddle. Because of the slow pace, they had to keep to stay close to the wood; Draceadon was at least another two days’ hard ride from where he thought he was. But he knew of a hunting lodge a day’s ride in the direction of Draceadon from where they now were. There, they could rest before heading southwest to Draceadon.

His mind set, Stefan turned his attention back to the princess. “How farest thou?”

 

“Hungry.”

 

He nodded, and tore a hind quarter from the hare and handed it to her.

Arian ate slowly, just picking at the meat. Her belly told her she hungered but her spirit did not. She had never been so exhausted or felt so lifeless. So destitute. So unsure of her future. She had never considered that the life she was expected to live would disappear like a puff of smoke in the wind. All because of one man’s uncontrollable lust. She nearly choked on the piece of meat she swallowed.

How dare Dag! And how dare this one keep her captive? From beneath lowered lids, she looked across the fire to her captor. She fought back a cringe at the man’s face. If left untended, the skin would blacken and he would lose half of it. A cold hand of apprehension gripped her like a fist and shook her. Where was she bound? What would become of her? And what of dear Jane, her man Cadoc, and the rest of her train? Did they search for her or return to Dinefwr? Did Ivar and Magnus’s steward Sir Sar ride east to give Magnus the news of her abduction? Would he still want her should she escape? Despair filled her with each question she had no answer to. What little appetite she had disappeared. Extending her hand, she offered what was left of her meal to her captor.

His eyes widened in question. “I have had enough, take the rest.”

 

Slowly he took it and munched thoughtfully, his eyes on her the entire time.

Arian did not back down from his intense gaze. Instead, she studied him. The sword scar upon his chest was most gruesome, as was the mess on his face and thigh. The other scars on his back, though faded, were noticeable. He must have been most handsome at one time, but the scars ruined him. She had never beheld such a man, and was glad that Magnus was most handsome of face and spirit. Nothing like this dark angry man who refused to release her.

“How came you by the sword scar on your chest?” she softly queried.

 

“A reminder.”

 

“Of what?”

 

He eyed her caustically and tossed a bone into the fire. “Of the savagery of men.”

 

Shocked by such a barbaric response, she demanded, “Who would do such a thing to you?”

 

“A Saracen jailer in an Iberian prison.”

 

She gasped, thoroughly horrified. She had heard tales of the savagery of the Saracens. “And you survived?”

 

“Aye, and my brothers as well. ’Tis our bond, it cannot be broken.”

 

“Do they all still live?”

 

“I do not know, but understand I will do anything in my power to save them should they live.”

 

The hard conviction in his eyes, but also his voice, set her back. She nodded, “I would do the same for my brother.”

 

He moved toward the fire and stoked it with the skewer.

As it had with the sword scar, her gaze now kept returning to the ravaged side of the Saxon’s face. She sighed heavily and ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of her tunic and slowly stood then moved to the stream and dipped it in the water and withdrew it. She lightly wrung it and made her way over to the surly Saxon. She pressed it to his cheek. He flinched, grabbing her hand.