Ruthless (13 page)

"Ivar has scant rations of fresh meat.
Tomorrow ye may prove yer skills. Ye will join the hunters when
they ride out."

Muriele's back straightened even more and her
eyes sparked with interest.

"Dinna think it a chance to run away. I plan
to judge this marvelous skill ye are said to have."

He rubbed over his bandaged thigh, pulling
her gaze down to his bare flesh. No doubt she worried he would ruin
her handiwork. Her face flamed and her glance jerked back up.

"Be ready afore first light."

Instead of returning to Magnus' chambers,
Muriele headed to Grunda's hut. She ran her right hand down her
brown kirtle, knowing she could not chance ruining what little
clothing he had allowed her. Far better to use her old hunt
clothing, no matter how frayed and mended it was. It would not
matter if thorns tore new gashes in it or if it became mottled with
blood.

Thinking of the small freedom outside the
castle on the morrow, she didn't see a grubby-faced lad skitter
around the corner of the stables. She near ran into his rubbish
cart filled with horse shite. From his pinched in nose and the
slightly green look on his face, the smell did not sit well with
whatever he had eaten for the day.

As she approached the herb garden, she
watched her old friend kneeling in the dirt carefully selecting
clippings from the plants.

"Ye will need to mend yer old garments,"
Grunda said without turning around.

Muriele was a good ten paces away. How had
the woman known who approached?

"How did ye know 'twas me?"

"By yer footsteps, of course."

"Hmm. But how did ye know I would be in need
of my hunting clothes?"

"'Tis simple. In a sennight, the Chief's son
will return to the Morgans for the last time."

"What does his return have to do with my
hunting clothes?"

"A feast. The keep's servants were airing
fine linens for the Great Hall. Listening to their chatter, I
learned 'tis their custom to have a feast lasting for days." She
grunted then huffed in disgust. "'Tis a good reason to overeat and
swill ale until the men fall like oxen hit with the smith's
hammer."

"Huh! No wonder he's willing to risk me with
a weapon in my hands. The kitchen barely has enough meat for the
next few days."

"Aye. I'll need yer help, too. We must
prepare barley for tea to soothe their fat guts after the
feasts."

"And extra pain killers for those who canna
stop drinking." Muriele looked over the nearby rows of plants,
mentally noting the ones they would need.

"Pfft. I'd as soon let them suffer," Grunda
muttered.

"Aye. But if they are like Lord Baldor and
his men...?"

Grunda nodded. "Ye're right. 'Tis best to
have aplenty. They canna do harm in their sleep."

Muriele shuddered. In their drunken rages,
Baldor's men had taken to beating and raping women and young girls.
She, her mother and as many females as they could hide, sheltered
in Muriele's room. They locked her chamber doors and pulled heavy
objects to block anyone from forcing them open.

She and Grunda worked peacefully together.
After gathering the herbs, Muriele startled when Gille appeared at
the hut's open doorway.

He straightened his spindly body and studied
the top of the doorsill as if seeing the words there. He took a
deep breath, puffing out his chest.

"My master says if ye dinna come at the
proper time to dine, ye will go without eating till the next
morrow," he rushed the words out in one breath. His chest went flat
again. As if afeared Grunda would cast a spell on him, his eyes
widened.

The old seer grunted and nodded. "Thank ye
for telling us."

"'Tis not all." He sucked in another deep
breath and began again. "Ye are to help him in his bath first and
tend his...his...," he hesitated again and turned red.

"His?" Muriele tilted her head, working her
mouth.

He blushed even darker. "I didna know the
word. My master only pointed."

"Aye? And where did he point?"

Gille gulped and looked shamed. "Here."

The boy poked his finger at the joining of
his thighs, turned and ran all the way back to the keep.

Muriele's hands fisted until she feared her
nails would cut into her skin.

"Have ye the knives I left here for
safekeeping?"

"Aye. I wrapped them in yer torn
clothing."

Grunda turned from the table where she was
carefully placing herbs in stoppered jars and went over to the far
corner to a small trunk. She lifted the led then reached in for the
bundle of Muriele's clothes and held them out to her.

Muriele patted the bundle. Her face grew hot
when she laid them out on the far end of the table.

"They're gone!" She went over to kneel beside
the trunk and searched through it. "Ye didna mistake the place ye
hid Mother's eating knife and Father's dagger?

"Nay." Grunda touched Muriele's shoulder and
gently moved her back. "Give me time to feel."

Muriele nodded and rose to stand across the
room. She watched as Grunda lowered the lid and latched it then
knelt before it. The seer's head tilted back. As she chanted
ancient words, her eyes closed. Raising her hands in the air, they
hovered over the trunk, still and silent. Finally, she let her
hands fall to stroke over the latch.

Lowering her head, she jerked back and opened
her eyes.

"Sir Magnus took them."

o0o

Magnus watched as servants prepared his bath,
impatient to wash off the hours of grime after training Kinbrace's
warriors. His routine had made them the most efficient warriors
east of Ben Clibrick. Never would he let them be idle for a day,
else their muscles would turn to flab.

"Ye did a fine job of washing Odin today,
Gille." He looked at the boy anxiously waiting beside the door and
glancing over his shoulder.

"Thank ye." His face lit. "He didna try to
bite me today. Not even once!"

"Good. Ye need all yer fingers to become a
squire," Magnus nodded solemnly. "And Gille?"

"Aye, master?"

"Ye told the lady to come right away?"

"I did." Hearing a sound behind him, he
signed as if he'd been holding his breath. "She comes now,
sir."

"Ye may go."

Gille had no sooner scooted away from the
door than Muriele stormed into the room. Mayhap he exaggerated. But
she did burst into the room as if a gale had shoved her through the
doorway. She didn't say a word. There was no need. Her blazing eyes
told what she thought. She carried a small bundle of clothes. He
recognized them.

He turned his back and began shedding his
clothing, ignoring her. Would she dare argue with him over the loss
of the knife and dagger?

Stripping didn't take long. He wore only a
sweaty tunic. Even his feet were bare. He felt her smoldering glare
on the bare skin of his back. No doubt, she'd like to plunge a
blade between his ribs.

Providing her with the opportunity, he took
his own dagger from where he'd placed it on the table. After he cut
the knot holding the bandage about his thigh, he tossed the knife
onto the foot of his bed. He took overlong unwinding the bandage
then studied the wound. No pus oozed from the scar's edges or
through the closing thread holes.

When he stood and strolled over to the tub,
she forced her gaze away from the knife. He felt her fire and anger
and knew she used all the control she could muster.

Water sloshed as he climbed into the bath and
abruptly sat.

"Come. Tend my hair."

'Twas a harshly given order. Tension charged
the air like a sudden burst of thunder on a clear day. What had she
been like when her father still lived at Blackbriar? Attired in the
bright gowns he'd studied in her bedchamber, she must easily have
been the most comely woman in the Highlands.

Had she suitors aplenty? 'Twas surprising she
was not already wed. He frowned. Before he left to spend his visit
at Clibrick, he'd heard some whispered words amongst the women
about Blackbriar. He'd ask the married knights. Their wives always
knew the hidden secrets of nearby holdings.

He shrugged and ducked his head back under
the water. As he straightened up, he opened his eyes in time to see
her hand grab something beside her.

Fast as a raptor's claws, his fingers seized
her wrist in a tight vise.

"Did ye intend to seek yer revenge?"

As he stared up at her, his eyes narrowed to
mere slits.

"Revenge against what? Filth? Stinking
sweat?"

Her tone was laden with scorn. No woman had
ever dared speak to him in such a way. He jerked her arm forward.
She cried out and tumbled over his right shoulder. Her breasts
brushed against his face before she landed pressed to his chest.
Water soaked her clothing.

She fought for balance. Bent over the tub
rim, her hips in the air, her feet sought firmer ground.

His nostrils flared feeling the softness of
her breasts, the whisper of her gasp against his chin. Gazing down,
he studied the soft flesh pressed against him. Her nipples hardened
through her wet clothing. His eager cock responded.

The ribbon confining her hair slipped free.
The silky strands brushed against his nose and lips. He inhaled her
clean sent. If he lifted her and suckled her breast, would they
taste of apples and spices?

Taking his time, his gaze noted every feature
of her face. Her eyes shot sparks. She didn't flinch. Her nostrils,
far from pinched with fear, flared. Her lips didn't quiver but
remained resolute. Not a flicker of fear anywhere. What he did see
was barely held rage. Could he force her to lose control? His heavy
stones urged him to.

He grasped her head and held it steady as he
sought to soften those determined lips until they either screeched
with rage or softened and sighed. He preferred the latter.

His lids narrowed thinking of the heat of her
mouth and all the erotic things those beautiful lips could do. His
eyelids near closed imagining them sliding up around his cock.

His unruly member's eagerness near created a
wave.

She knew his thoughts, for her luscious mouth
clamped together in denial. Holding her firmly, he ran his tongue
over her plump lower lip. She had tried to deny him by sucking its
softness between her teeth. He chuckled. Had she been immune to his
caress, she would have had no need to thwart it.

He traced their outline then nibbled gently
at her upper lip. She quivered slightly. He stepped up his sensuous
assault, plying his hot lips over hers, stopping to clasp the flesh
with his teeth when it softened. He felt her shudder with the
effort to withhold her feelings.

He didn't let her. His hand left her head and
reached between them to cup her breast. When his thumb scraped over
the wet cloth covering her nipple, she gasped and shivered. His
tongue took advantage and plundered her mouth, swirling and dancing
around as he explored her teeth then probed beyond to slide along
her tongue in hot greeting.

When she groaned into his mouth, he lifted
his head. Satisfied. He had forced the reaction he wanted. He kept
her gaze pinned to his as he raised the hand grasping her wrist to
see what she had so hastily picked up.

He stared. Dumbfounded.

Muriele was unable to detach herself from
Magnus. Through her sodden clothing, his heated flesh pressed
against her. To her shame, her breast betrayed her and became
heavy. Her nipples hardened and itched, demanding attention.

Why? She had understood her body when Duncan
of Dalbreak coaxed her into an alcove at Blackbriar. His kisses and
soft touch had soothed any alarm he arose in her as his wet lips
nibbled from her ears down to her vulnerable flesh peeking above
the opening of her kirtle. When his hand had cupped and lifted her
breast, the lightest touch of his thumb had seduced the nipple to
harden and beg.

He had kissed her there, wetting the cloth.
When he blew his hot breath on it, she'd had an almost
uncontrollable urge to press her breast closer. He had groaned as
he nibbled the turgid nipple, soothing the itch there. Unwanted
feelings near made her knees give way.

Was she a slattern? She feared so. Else, why
did Magnus' lightest touch cause her to catch fire like summer heat
lightning in a forest knee-deep in dried leaves? If the caresses
had been by Duncan, someone she loved, aye. But Magnus was her
enemy. A warrior who had fought and defeated anyone who posed a
threat to Kinbrace. He'd forced Blackbriar to its knees like a
castle made of clay.

If not for him, her mother would still be
alive.

At first, she resisted when he forced her
hand down to see what she had picked up. Once level with his eyes,
she quickly squeezed her fist. He stared at her hand then blinked.
Bubbles formed between her thumb and fisted fingers. She tilted her
head and arched her brow when he finally met her gaze.

He cleared his throat. His face looked
flushed with heat. It wasn't from the water.

"Now, if ye are through trying to break my
wrist, I'll need more soap to wash yer hair."

Magnus released her and flushed even deeper.
Her tone, though tinged with sarcasm, was patient as though talking
to a not-too-bright youth.

If she used any more soap on the wretched
man, he'd slip and slide when he tried to get out of the tub.
'Twould serve him right if he fell and banged his head on the
wooden sides! She'd worked most of her anger out on his scalp
before attacking his back. She hadn't the heart to be rough over
the scars there.

When he decided he didn't need her help to
bathe the rest of his body, she picked up her robe and went to the
dark corner beside the door at his back. Before he finished washing
his legs, she was out of her wet kirtle, her robe belted with a
small cord around her waist. She pulled a chair over to the
fireplace and put her wet clothing across the back. Hopefully, it
would dry before she missed another meal in the Great Hall.