Ruthless (16 page)

"Ye will be in my bed. At my side."

She swallowed a gasp and near blurted out an
objection. Instead, she bit her lip and remained quiet. Thinking of
the night to come, satisfaction coursed through him.

"Release her. And Sweyn? Dinna let her out of
yer sight."

She had not much time to think, for Magnus
decided this last game would be enough. With it added to what the
other two hunting squads brought in, they had game apleanty.
Feradoch had led the hawkers, for 'twas his favorite sport. His
female Peregrine was ever ready to hunt, and being larger than
most, brought down the fattest game birds, grouse, duck and an
occasional goose.

Once they were winding their way back through
the forest, she'd ample time to consider her decisions for today.
Why had she interfered in the hunt? If she'd hesitated, even for a
second, the outcome would've been different. If not for Magnus, her
mother would still be alive. She'd been a foolish eejit to act on
instinct. She should've let the boar do its worst. On Magnus' proud
arse. A tusk piercing his ballocks and taking that part he valued
the most would've caused turmoil. She could have outwitted the
warriors and escaped.

Ha! Who did she think she was fooling? Not
herself. The man would've had to die instantly else Sweyn would
have ensured she cared for his master's wounds. If the boar had
gored Magnus between his legs, 'twas possible relieving him of his
great, hairy stones would've been the only way to save him. How
arrogant would he have been then?

After all, they gelded a stallion to make the
horse more pliable. She took glee in imagining Magnus yawning and
refusing to do manly things. Would he decline to wear a sword
because the weight was too heavy? Or even simper and dress in
brightly colored tunics as English courtiers did?

She was so pleased with her imaginings she
ignored all around her.

"What mirthful thoughts spring from yer
brain, lady?" Magnus harsh voice reminded her he rode alongside.
"Ye look as smug as a field cat, a filched boar's ear in its mouth
stalking high atop the kitchen rafters."

"Nay, they didna spring from my brain but
from my sight."

She should have kept her tongue behind her
teeth! Now wasn't the time to goad him.

"Ah. Ye envisioned the shame I would have
suffered had the boar's tusk lodged itself in my hide?"

"Nay. Not yer hide."

Holy Saints! Why did she not keep her mouth
shut?

Magnus shot her a scowl knowing exactly where
she'd pictured it.

"Best ye remember, Lady, a bay dog is clever.
He will keep the cat prisoner atop the rafters. It canna live there
out of reach. It must come down. The dog will have its
revenge."

"Ah. Not if the cat waits until the cur
sleeps."

"Perchance he will learn to sleep with one
eye open."

Muriele glanced sideways and noted Magnus
regarded her with cold speculation. She clamped her teeth together,
determined to keep silent the rest of the ride back. Her foolish
taunts had only served to spur him into being more vigilant in
keeping her prisoner.

Magnus had his temper under control by the
time they rode through the barbican and into the outer bailey.
Stable hands were there to tend to the knights' horses. The hawkers
had arrived before they did and began to compare their hunt's
spoils.

As each cart had lumbered into the castle,
the drivers gave a total of dead animals and who had felled them.
'Twas Chief Olaf's custom to honor the hunter providing the most
game, also the hunters bagging the largest prey. They would sit at
the high table for the night's meal.

"My Peregrine brought down a large grouse,
heavier than any the archers brought in," Feradoch bragged. "'Tis a
fact it is so big the clever bird did its kill low to the
ground."

"Well, now, who killed this huge hart?" Olaf
tugged the deer's head by its antlers, noting the cleanly slit
throat. He thumped Magnus on the shoulder and grinned. "From the
slash, I would wager 'twas your doing?"

"Aye." Magnus nodded.

"Who stopped the giant boar? 'Twas good he
used a boar spear. The cross guard kept the beast from attacking
the bearer. Your kill, also?" Olaf looked expectantly at
Magnus.

Magnus ground his teeth, not wanting to tell
the tale of how a mere woman had bested him in the hunt. No doubt,
Feradoch would piss himself laughing at his expense. Sweyn saved
him having to answer.

"After felling the hart, Sir Magnus turned.
The boar charged out of the woods. The beastie all but leapt to its
death on the spear."

"Which of the knights threw it?" Olaf looked
around at the milling hunters then at Sweyn.

"'Twas not thrown but braced." Sweyn
said.

"Well, then, what hunter braced it?"

"The Lady of Blackbriar," Sweyn replied.

"You were fools to allow the lady a spear."
Olaf's tone was incredulous.

A snarl started deep in Magnus' throat much
like one of the hunter's dogs. 'Twas the first time anyone had
dared call him a fool. He feared no man. Not even Olaf. Not any
more. He fixed his foster father with a black stare fraught with
warning.

"Enough! Do ye think I would cower from a
woman?"

Feradoch rubbed his chin as one eyebrow
climbed slowly. He studied Magnus. Circled him. His blue eyes
seemed drawn to the ragged tear in Magnus' clothing.

"By the saints! 'Twas the woman who was the
fool. She saved your worthless arse."

Magnus fought hard not to backhand his foster
brother and break his blarsted nose. Clamping his teeth together,
he walked away. He didn't want to ruin this last two days with
Feradoch. But if the man prodded him again, he'd break far more
than his elegant nose.

He spotted Muriele and Esa, each as tall as
the other, walking toward Grunda's hut. Golden hair and black, side
by side, as they conversed quietly. No doubt, Muriele would tell
Grunda of today's happenings. Not for one minute did he believe she
had stolen the knife.

In Grunda's hut, while they put away the rest
of the supplies, Muriele described the wounds she had cleaned and
with what she had dosed the men. She stood behind a screen bathing
from a large bucket of heated water while rinsing from another. Not
satisfied she'd washed the stench of blood away, she had Grunda
empty the soapy bucket and hand her another.

The old seer and Esa drank a hot herbal brew,
their back to the door. Suddenly, a draft swept the room. Had Esa
left? Muriele, her hair dripping water, quickly draped the drying
cloth around her. It barely covered her breasts to her thighs as
she stepped around the screen. Too late, she saw Esa still seated
with Grunda. 'Twas Magnus in the open doorway, legs spread wide,
staring at her. With heated eyes and a fierce scowl, he looked mean
and ill tempered.

She had thought herself crudely soiled from
today's hunt, but Magnus had barely a hand's-breath of flesh on his
massive torso unstained. When he'd slit the throats of the biggest
deer to put them out of their misery, their blood had spurted in
wide splatter patterns.

"Ye cleanse yerself when I have need of ye to
wash the filth from my own body? Don yer clothes and come tend to
it."

Magnus' penetrating gaze heated as if he
peered through the linen cloth. She folded her arms across her
chest and opened her mouth to berate him for bursting into the hut.
Before she could speak a word, his arm raised. In a blur, Grunda's
knife hurtled across the room. Its tip thumped into the hard-packed
earth floor—between her feet.

Magnus spoke without taking his gaze from
Muriele. His voice became menacingly quiet, almost near a harsh
whisper.

"Dinna ever give Muriele a knife again, old
woman. Be warned. If ye do, I will see ye turned out of every
village for a hundred leagues around."

"I told ye..." Muriele got no further.

"Ye lied. Ne'er do so again."

Magnus had spaced the words apart making them
more sinister.

Muriele knew he dared her to speak again, to
enter any further excuses. Wisely, she kept silent. He nodded.

"Ye will sit alongside me at the evening
meal. And tomorrow's feast."

He half turned to leave, but Muriele stopped
him.

"Why? Ye've never treated me as a hostage of
rank afore."

The muscle in his jaw twitched as he faced
her again.

"'Tis the custom for yer hunting results. I
will return one of yer dresses. See ye wear it. It will be on my
bed...the bed where ye will sleep from now on."

As his gaze traveled over her, his eyes
heated with lust. Again. Before she could retort, he stalked from
the hut and slammed the door behind him.

o0o

Magnus made his way to the keep. His thoughts
brought a menacing scowl to his face. His expression and angry
strides cleared a pathway all the way through the milling
bailey.

He had no intention of allowing Muriele to
get away unscathed for lying to him. Ever since he had entered the
bailey the first day he'd returned to Kinbrace, she lurked in his
deepest thoughts, distracting him from his duties.

If that wasn't bad enough, of late, sound
sleep was nigh impossible. She entered his dreams unbidden,
seducing him. Each dream had become more worrisome. Where before he
had dreamt of hunting, battling between clans and swiving the
bonnie women who vied for his bed, Muriele intruded.

Blarsted Lucifer's bloated balls! 'Twas
his
dreams. He should have mastery over what she did. Yet,
she always denied him release for his throbbing cock. Her long legs
locked around his back, her hips rose, inviting his swelling member
into her slick center. Just as the head pushed through, her body
shattered around him in bits and pieces like the thinnest crockery
dropped on a stone floor.

Even more frustrating, those pieces turned to
ash and floated out the window, carried on a puff of wind. He awoke
with a raging cockstand. He huffed, for his plight was no surprise.
Because he did not leave his bed and seek out a willing partner,
was.

Before the Lady of Blackbriar entered his
life, the mere thought of the lovely young widow Flori with her red
hair and blue eyes, or Ingirid, equally lovely with blond hair,
readied him to swive. Their bed sport had been more satisfying than
any of his other partners. Since he installed Muriele in his room,
his sex failed to quiver when the lasses' pressed their breasts
against his arm, inviting him to their beds.

For truth, this irritating, fashious lass had
near unmanned him. He clambered up the keeps stairway, his mind
intent on the day.

At the hunt, Muriele had sighted the large
pig about to burst from the woods. He was closest. Why hadn't he
seen and skewered it? Her arrow's aim had been accurate. If its
path had not been so close to his neck, it would have missed the
animal.

Thinking about the boar, he ground his teeth.
Never had he failed to sense danger. He had killed many an enemy
who thought him unaware as they stalked him in the dark. His not
noting the vicious creature had put him nearer to death than at any
time in his life. No one else at the hunt had paid heed,
either.

When Muriele charged at him with her
chilling, high-pitched Banshee warbling, he'd thought she meant to
skewer him. Her screams and his men's shouting had drowned out the
sounds of the boar charging out of the forest. He'd pulled his
sword from the pig and was preparing to thrust it into Muriele's
side when she slammed the spear's shaft into the ground and braced
it with her feet.

His carelessness and the humiliation of a
woman doing what he and his trained warrior's had failed to do
sparked his temper like lightning hitting a field of dried flax. He
redirected his anger toward her.

'Twas fortunate she overstepped today by
carrying the hidden dagger and saying she'd left the room during
the night. He'd known it for a lie. His dreams had kept him from
sleeping.

One good thing came of it. Now, he had reason
to take her to his bed and finally get her out of his blood. As
with all women who'd drawn his lust, one swiving would break her
hold on him.

Gille had seen his bath awaited him when he
reached his bedchamber. He threw off his clothing and climbed into
the tub, motioning the boy to leave. He dunked his head and slung
the hair from his face before he leaned back, resting against the
high tub end. A man could easily sleep immersed in water. It drew
the tiredness from his limbs. Closing his eyes, he calmed his
breathing and let his temper cool.

The faint scent of warm apples and spices
drifted on a breath of wind. Muriele had entered, though he had not
heard the door open. He felt her behind him. As if asleep, he
remained still and breathed slowly. His lids opened a mere slit so
he would see her hand. When she made her move, his grasp near broke
her wrist.

"Ye honor me with yer fear, my lord. Do ye
ken I, a mere woman, am skilled enough to kill Magnus the
Ruthless?" Muriele leaned forward grateful she'd startled him. "Do
ye intend to break my wrist afore I can cleanse the blood splatters
from yer face?"

"Foolish lass! 'Tis the second time ye near
caused me to snap yer neck."

"Ye didn't hear me enter? Hm. And yet, 'twas
much easier to leave yer room and ease myself back in when ye were
snorting and snuffling amidst yer pillows."

"I dinna snort and snuffle!"

"What would ye name such heavy breathing and
grunting? I thought ye'd taken a poor lass to yer bed."

He did not answer. His grip slackened and she
pulled her arm away. As she spread pine-scented soap over the
cloth, she felt the force of his dark eyes watching her every
move.

"Hm. Mayhap I'll sleep more quietly once I am
betwixt yer legs."