Ruthless (21 page)

On making the last turn, she glanced over her
shoulder thinking she'd heard someone behind her.

"Umpf!"

Air flew out of Muriele's lungs. She missed
her footing and tumbled down the last two steps to bounce against
Magnus. Her breasts cradled his head between them. To keep from
sliding down his back onto the hard stone steps, she grabbed his
massive shoulders.

"Well, now, my lady. Are ye so desperate for
a caress ye'd resort to fumbling me in the stairwell? When we
return to the room, I will give ye a tumble worth waiting for." His
voice held a hint of a chuckle.

"I tripped. Ye well know I wouldna grab ye
for any other reason."

"Then why have ye not let go? Though I do
relish having my head between yer lovely breasts."

Muriele shoved away from him and untangled
the skirts around her legs. Furiously scrambling back up a step,
she shoved her hair over her shoulders then righted the circlet
near falling off her head.

Magnus waited at the foot of the stairs, his
hand outstretched. She had half a mind to ignore it. After the
expression in his eyes changed from a glint of desire to steely,
black warning, she laid her fingertips lightly on his. He clamped
his other hand atop it, forcing her fingers to curl into his
clasp.

The hall was near overflowing, making it nigh
impossible to follow a conversation. Especially if it was private.
She could spot those who tried, for they were talking lips to ear,
their eyes darting around to see who watched.

Women in brightly colored kirtles, knights in
snowy white shirts and green and black kilts gathered close to the
dais. Lesser soldiers and villeins stood talking around the trestle
tables.

Vivid banners hung from the dark rafters and
tapestries covered the whitewashed walls behind the Chief's table
and the wall opposite the mammoth fireplace.

Chief Olaf, not attempting any form of
modesty with his kilt hiked up baring his arse, warmed his buttocks
at the fireplace. Muriele blinked as the glow from the fire
highlighted the red hair dusting his nether cheeks. He wriggled his
hips and leered at the woman standing beside him. She didn't even
flinch.

Earthenware flagons of cold wine stood on the
snowy linen cloths of the high tables, whilst ale or cider awaited
the retainers and servants. Even the trestle tables had white
cloths upon them, though not of the same quality.

Chief Olaf flung his arm in the air and
beckoned Magnus forward. Feradoch lounged beside him, his shoulders
pressed to the warm slate beside the fire with one leg bent, his
foot braced on the stones.

"The lass has a sparkle in her eyes. Ye must
have given her a good tumble," Olaf said with an lewd grin. As he
studied her from head to toe, Muriele cringed at the glint of
appreciation on his face.

The muscle beneath Feradoch's right eye
twitched as his gaze, too, probed her.

"Aye. Her cheeks have the same rosy hue as
her kirtle," he said in a slow, thoughtful tone.

Her gaze shifted to his face in time to see
his lips tighten and his nostrils flare with displeasure. She noted
Grunda, with her back to the fireplace, walk the length of the high
table then stop for a breath or two. Muriele cocked her head,
puzzled. From what she could see, Grunda seemed to smooth the
tablecloth beneath Magnus' wine goblet.

Olaf reluctantly dropped his clothing to
cover his hairy arse and made his way to his chair. Muriele started
to pull her hand back, but Magnus refused to release his clasp.

When he led her to the high table, her feet
dragged. She hadn't realized she'd dreaded sitting so near the
lecherous older man until Magnus pulled back the second chair from
the Chief's and helped her to sit. When he sat between her and his
foster father, Olaf looked surprised for a moment, then grinned at
Magnus' possessive manner.

Gille and a much younger page stepped
forward. The small page held the basin as Gille poured warm scented
water over Muriele's hands. When the youth's arms quivered with
strain holding the heavy basin, Magnus slipped his hand beneath it
to take some of its weight.

"'Tis a verra large basin, is it not?" He
smiled at the boy and rescued the linen drying cloth as it near
slipped from the youth's arm. When he moved to dry Muriele's hands,
she started to take the cloth from him.

"Allow me to dry my own, Sir Magnus."

"I will decide what ye are allowed."

She near ground her teeth at his gruff
warning. Forcing herself to relax, she let him pat her hands
dry.

While the diners talked and finished their
cleansing, a grizzled old man played such a rousing tune on the
bagpipes her feet began to tap.

After several sips of wine Magnus coaxed to
her lips, Muriele felt at ease with the knights and their ladies.
Several women eyed Magnus, openly lusting over him with their
husbands sitting beside them. Magnus seemed unaware of their
scrutiny.

As he'd done the day before, Magnus took
choice cuts served on silver platters and placed them on the
trencher she shared with him. He took care to cut everything in
small bites she could easily pick up with her fingers and place in
her mouth without having to tear them apart with her teeth.

She thought the courses would never end.
'Twas a wonder they had not eaten everything from the last hunt.
Gille kept their goblet filled with wine. After each sip, 'twas the
custom to use a linen napkin to wipe the droplets of wine from
where her lips had touched, but Magnus put his hand firmly on hers,
turned the goblet and drank from the same spot. His eyes flashed a
promise of something to come. Butterflies danced a frantic pace low
in her belly.

By the time they served the last course of
fruit pasties, sugared grapes, cheese squares, savory tarts and
wafers, she contented herself with grapes and bits of cheese. Did
Magnus never feel full? She watched as he wolfed down an apple tart
in two bites and a multitude of wafers and cheese.

A beautiful young woman with hair as deep
black as Magnus' own, wove her way through the crowded tables to
where the musicians played. She turned and twisted, dipped and
swayed in tune to the music. As she came close to the high table,
'twas apparent her filmy green clothing was better suited for the
bedchamber! It left little to a man's imagination.

Muriele's eyes widened as the woman slithered
to the floor where she writhed and contorted her body. Could she
have extra bones in her body other women did not? When she brought
up her legs and locked them behind her head, Muriele didn't need to
touch Magnus to feel his body heat. With each of the dancer's
sensuous moves, the air surrounding Magnus began to spark and near
crackle as his body tensed, sending wave after wave of simmering
desire. His face tightened, his breathing harshened as his lust
built to a peak. The sensual woman teased him alone, never taking
her gaze from his face. She pursed her lips inviting kisses as she
slowly straightened her legs and rose gracefully to her feet.
Dancing and twirling, looking over her shoulder to keep her heated
gaze on his face, she enticed him to be her invisible partner.

Though Muriele was not wise to the ploys of
passion, she knew a dance of desire when she saw one! The more the
girl slithered closer and thrust her woman's center seductively
toward the dark knight beside her, the more Muriele seethed.

"The lass invites a tumble, Magnus," Olaf
said with a lewd chuckle.

"'Tis not the place for swiving, Chief."
Magnus shifted in his seat, loosening his kilt around his hips.

Muriele glanced sideways at his lap. The
bastard had a raging cockstand! Heat pooled in her belly. She
squeezed her legs together. Surely 'twas from anger. Why should she
care if he swived the girl? Many women here would be very happy to
tend his needs. Why, Sir Erland's wife licked her lips and her eyes
grew heavy-lidded when she stole glances at Magnus! The woman
didn't even try to hide her desire.

Olaf grinned and kept his eyes on the dancer
and Magnus. Muriele was sure the knights sitting toward the end of
the table were taking bets, for money passed hands. They looked
from Magnus to the woman and then to Muriele. The ruttish men were
betting he took them both to his bed this night!

Her temper erupted and got the better of her
good judgment. She pushed against the table and attempted to slide
her heavy chair backwards. She was near on her feet when Magnus'
hand clamped her wrist.

"I dinna wish to leave, lady. Sit!"

"I wish to retire."

"Ye will wait until the Chief or I dismiss
ye."

Never had anyone talked to her in such a way.
She tried to wrench her arm away. He clamped her wrist harder.
Knowing everyone at the table avidly watched them, she forced
herself to lean closer so they would not overhear.

"Dismiss me?" She sucked in breath through
tight jaws and near hissed her words. "Ye think I must bide at yer
pleasure until ye are ready to meet with her?"

"Calm yerself, woman." He brought the goblet
of wine to her lips to force her to drink.

She reared her head backward.

"Ye think wine will make me as dough in yer
hands? It will not!"

When he would not take the wine away, she
took a big gulp then shoved his hand away. Wine dotted the white
cloth like splatters from a killing.

Always before, she had been able to control
her anger. Even with Baldor, she had learned to shut her mouth and
find other ways to thwart him. But tonight she had little control.
Her heart thumped. She had gone too far.

The taut muscles in Magnus' jaw jerked. As he
took long, slow breaths, his eyes shot black sparks. When he fixed
her with a hot glare, she thought it best to escape his
presence.

Slowly, she rose to her feet. He did not
move. Just stared at her. His eyes narrowed to cold slits.
Promising something. What? The room became deadly quiet. No one
moved. The dancer stood still, her eyes studying them.

Gille pulled her chair clear. She turned to
her left, away from Magnus. When he didna move, she took a step,
then two. 'Twas not until she reached the end of the table that she
heard his chair scrape backward. She didn't dare look behind her.
She walked as dignified as possible for a lady in a hurry. When she
reached the doorway, his footsteps matched her own.

Not knowing where to go, she instinctively
headed toward their bedchamber. When she started up the stairwell,
she grabbed her skirts up to her knees and ran up the stone steps
like all the wolves in the forest nipped at her heels. When she
turned a corner, she hesitated. Listened.

Had Sir Magnus returned to the great hall?
Nay!

He slowly climbed.

Each booted step rang an ominous warning.

Muriele burst out onto the landing. She
rushed past the torch flickering in its wall bracket, her eye on
the doorway, her hand outstretched far ahead of time. Her heart
thudded. It seemed she would never reach the latch.

She chanced a quick glance behind her. Oh,
Saints! She wished she had not.

Sir Magnus stepped out of the gloom into the
light as he stalked her, his steps measured, his lips set in a grim
line. His large hands clenched and relaxed as if they longed to
wrap themselves around her neck.

The length and tempo of his stride quickened,
eating up the distance between them. Her heart thudded. She reached
the door. Frantic knowing he was so close, she fumbled with the
latch. With all her might, she shoved the door until it was open
enough for her to squeeze through. Turning, she pushed with both
hands, her feet anchored to the floor. It near closed. With a
sharp, loud noise, his boot slammed against the outside edge. She
was but a finger's width away from latching it.

He thrust it toward her. For all the help it
did Muriele, she may as well have been an ant trying to stop a log
rolling down a hill. Why, the dratted man did not even need to
exert himself.

Relentlessly, the space widened as her feet
skidded backward. Once he gained entrance, he took her by the
shoulders, lifted her as if she was no more than a sack of
feathers, and stood her several paces from the doorway.

He didn't speak. Though his skin was taut,
his face was devoid of any expression. She had never encountered
such cold, quiet anger. It unnerved her more than if he'd ranted
and raved as Baldor had done.

With deliberate movements, he quietly closed
the door and latched it. He stopped. Stared at her through narrowed
lids. He must have read the defiant expression on her face for he
lifted the wooden plank propped in the corner beside the doorway
and placed it in the braces at each side of the doorframe. No one
could enter or leave unless he allowed it.

Her heart pounded against her ribs so hard it
would surely bruise itself. She had the urge to swallow, but how
could she when her mouth was as parched as sun-scorched grass after
a month without rain?

Why was she so hot? Never had the joining of
her thighs felt like heated blood pooled there. And why did her
skin prickle when he folded his arms, widened his stance and stared
at her. He took his time, his gaze slowly covering every inch of
her from her disarrayed hair to the tips of her shoes peeking
beneath her skirts. When his gaze probed her breast beneath the
scarlet kirtle, her nipples responded. The tunic and kirtle were of
the softest cloth, yet their pressure against her nipples felt like
scratchy wool. She had to force herself not to rub her palms across
them.

Her face flamed when his gaze moved to stare
where she felt the hottest. Oh, heavenly Saints! Her body wept for
him. Magnus' nostrils flared. Could a man know when a woman was in
heat, the way a dog could scent a bitch ready to mate? How
loathsome to think in terms of animals. Yet it was appropriate. It
could be naught but animal lust, untouched by the human mind and
heart