Ruthless (25 page)

Men banged their cups on the table and
chanted for Esa. Their anticipation thrummed like a live presence
in the air.

Five Welshmen danced their way into the great
hall. Three men, their fingers blurring as they set the savage
pace, pounded bone beaters on Bodhrans, the old Celtic war drums of
goatskin stretched over round frames. A fourth man played a wooden
flute, the fifth a stringed instrument. As they leapt and played,
Muriele's heartbeat quickened from the wild rhythm.

Esa shoved back her chair and stood,
transformed. Shaking her combs from her long, tight curls, she
freed her hair to whip about her face. Her deep voice rang out,
dark and husky. When Feradoch made to touch her, she twirled out of
his reach. In long, graceful steps, she worked her way around the
table to leap into the midst of the performers.

The faster the musicians beat, the faster she
danced and sang in the Celtic tongue. She warbled deep in her
throat while she dipped and swayed, twisting her body to the
primitive music. Muriele couldn't take her eyes off Esa—nor could
anyone else in the hall. Magnus leaned forward, his eyes hot, the
vein on his neck visibly throbbing. Every man's expression showed
he wanted to throw Esa on the floor and rut with her.

Feradoch surprised her the most.

His face, normally so quiet and peaceful,
filled with lust. His jaw twitched, his hands couldn't keep still.
They reached forward then snapped back as he forcibly controlled
himself.

Esa ignored everyone and gave herself over to
the music. Where one tune ended, another immediately took over. Her
voice and the music bounced off the rafters. Her heart and mind
belonged to the musicians. Finally exhausted, she crumpled to the
floor while the players leapt into the air, pounding out their last
notes.

Muriele jumped up, thinking to run to her.
Magnus grabbed her forearm, urging her back into her chair. She
spluttered, wanting to argue that Esa needed her. He shook his
head, slowly, warning her to stay still. She saw why.

Feradoch vaulted over the table and stalked
over to the crumpled figure on the floor. His stance dared anyone
to draw near him. Like a giant spider, he swooped down and plucked
her off the floor. Her head dangled over his left arm and her legs
rested over his right. He juggled her slightly until her head
rested against his shoulder. Purposeful steps led him quickly out
of sight.

Muriele thought he only sought to remove her
from the great hall, but a chill passed over her when she spied
Grunda watching. Her face was taut. Uneasy.

"Her dancing is as powerful as the strongest
potion. There will be many bairns birthed nine months from this
night." Olaf held up his wine goblet in a silent toast then laughed
and threw a cloth bag of coins to the Welshmen.

If the behavior of the men at the lower
tables was any indication of how potent the dance had been, Magnus
believed Olaf called it rightly. In the darker reaches of the hall,
men pulled servant girls onto their laps, and by their jerking
motions, they had not waited to find privacy for a quick
swiving.

His body had responded with eagerness.
Thankfully, he had the freedom of his tunic. His cock was
unfettered. He leaned over to Olaf and spoke for his ear only.

"At dawn, I ride with Feradoch as far as the
foot of Loch Rimsdale. I wish to learn if the distant villages have
had any problems with raiders since we killed the last group"

"How many of your knights will patrol with
you?"

"Feradoch has six of his own retainers. I
will take a like number."

Once Olaf nodded, Magnus turned to Muriele.
"We go above. Now."

As if she dreaded being alone with him, a
shadow passed over her face. She couldn't have used a more
insulting name than a hulking
oaf
. Hulking he could
forgive. His body
was
massive but well honed. But she'd
meant it as an insult.

For certs, he wouldn't tolerate her calling
him an oaf.

She would learn he was neither clumsy nor
stupid.

Muriele's kirtle left her arms near bare but
for the thin leaf-green sleeves of the smock beneath. Ascending the
stairwell, Magnus enjoyed the warm feel of her flesh while he
guided her ahead of him. The closer they came to the top, the
slower she moved. He didn't slacken his pace but required her to
increase hers. By the time they reached their bedchamber, she was
breathing heavily.

Seeming reluctant to enter the room, he
lightly edged her shoulders. The room was warm, and Grunda had
turned down the covers. A tray with cold pork, cheese, bread and a
chalice of wine sat beside it. Again. He halfway expected to find
the seer had slipped another potion into the wine. He'd check. If
so, he would see Muriele did the drinking.

He didn't need any enhancement for his sexual
appetite.

As he closed the door, he watched Muriele
halt beside the bed. In the flickering firelight, she seemed to
glow. He always thought of warm breezes and sunlit days when he
spied her.

"Bare yer body to me," he ordered.

She didn't move.

"Ah, I am pleased ye wish me to undress ye.
It will give me an opportunity to show ye how this oaf can easily
strip a woman with nary a tear in her most delicate clothing."

When her hands lifted, he brushed her fingers
aside with a sweep of his on and a stern look.

"Nay! Stand still. Dinna move."

He walked around her once. Then twice.
Finally stopping behind her, he untied the silk ribbons holding the
hair at her nape, being so gentle she could not feel him there.
Once the ribbons fell free, he whispered his lips across the fine
hairs of her nape.

Chill bumps covered her flesh.

He dropped the ribbons to the floor and began
to slip her braids free, one slow row at a time.

Once her hair fell free, he ran his fingers
through it, loosening and spreading it down her back. He nuzzled
the wispy curls at her temple, touched his wet tongue inside her
ear then blew just a hint of hot air over it.

She trembled.

He touched her shoulders then bent his knees
as he drew his hands down the outline of her body, following it
down to the floor. He eased the hem of her kirtle up, ever so
slowly, until he brought it to her shoulders.

"Lift yer arms," he whispered at her left
ear.

Slowly, she did and groaned softly. The
garment came off and over her arms without disturbing her hair,
better than any lady's servant could have done. He felt her tighten
and knew she wondered how he'd acquired his skill.

He would tell her.

"Many women seek this clumsy oaf's
hands."

'Twas like he had lit fire to her hair! She
leapt forward out of reach and turned on him.

"This woman does not seek yer hands, clumsy
or otherwise!"

"Ye may not seek them, but they will be there
nonetheless."

He advanced toward her, watching her face.
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened as her temper rose. She
was even more beautiful when the flush of anger warmed her golden
face. When he was within a hand's reach of her, before he could
even touch her, she turned and rolled, head over heels, across the
bed and leapt to her feet on the opposite side.

So. She wanted to play? He vaulted over the
bed. By the time his feet landed, she was gone again. This time,
the table stood between them. If he feinted left, she was canny and
responded in the same direction. He threw the table to its side and
she sprinted behind the heavy armchair.

"Muriele! Come to me," he ordered.

"Nay!"

He grasped the chair's arms and tossed it
aside. Instead of intimidating her, she lifted her smock, twisted
sideways as if winding herself up, then twirled back again, her
foot aimed at his middle.

"Uff!" The air burst out of him.

"The next time, 'twill be yer randy tarse,"
she hissed between near closed teeth. "Ye will need all yer
lust-crazed women to soothe a battered shaft!"

"I'm warning ye, Muriele. Leave off; else ye
will pay for it."

"Pay for it?" She sounded disbelieving. "Ye
have already used me for yer pleasure. I have done naught but pay
for being Blackbriar's heir. Ye can do nothing else to me."

He pretended to be unaware of her intent for
her next move. Having watched her fight off the knaves in the
bailey, when she kicked out again, he was ready for her. He caught
her foot in his big hand and, careful not to cause her an injury,
twisted it until she fell face forward onto the fur rug in front of
the hearth.

She landed with a thud. He followed on his
hands and toes atop her, allowing only the touch of his body
against her, but effectively pinning her beneath him.

She caught her breath and tried to heave him
from above her. He didn't budge.

"Get off me," she yelled.

"Why? I like the feel of ye." He grasped her
smock and pulled it up to her waist then lowered himself and
brushed up and down against her, letting his raging cock rub the
seam of her buttocks. He stilled her struggles, pinning her legs
between his and balancing his weight on his elbows.

She let forth a muffled string of words he
couldn't make out. Nonetheless, he knew she cursed him.

"Enough! No woman should use such foul
words."

When she drew breath to yell again, he lifted
up, flipped her over and swiftly removed the smock. He stifled her
words with his tongue in her mouth. He held her still, forcing her
to accept his kiss. What started out as a savage way to halt her
tirade, turned to soothing caresses instead. As he explored her
teeth and inner cheeks, her rigid muscles softened. When he teased
her tongue and tenderly drew it into his mouth, her breath
hitched.

Much as he gentled old Bolt, he brushed his
hands over her sides while murmuring soft, comforting sounds deep
in his throat. Her legs relaxed. He reached between them and lifted
his black tunic out of the way while nudging her legs apart.

Settling himself between them, he grasped his
eager cock and rubbed its hot length against the petal-soft folds
of her pleasure cave. And left it there. He held still. Relaxed his
body and waited.

He felt her arousal begin for hot dampness
teased his turgid flesh. Still, he didn't move between her
quivering limbs. She became more sensitive to his touch. Trailing
his hand from her collarbone down over her stomach to her belly, he
felt tension and heat there. She jerked when his fingers delved
through the curls guarding her cleft.

He burrowed a hand behind her buttocks and
lifted her. Her legs lifted and locked around his back. When he
entered her with a driving thrust, she was slick and wet.

"Hold on to me. The rug is too small," he
whispered and guided her arm up around his neck. Her arms tightened
with surprise when he stood up with her.

Now upright, he groaned when her weight took
her down over him, not stopping until she surrounded him, flesh to
flesh. She whimpered and writhed, for 'twas the first time his
entire length filled her. His hands on her bare buttocks lifted her
up and down until, with passionate cries, she pleaded for him to
increase the rhythm.

He kicked the table out of the way and
dropped her onto the edge of the bed. Standing with her torso
resting on the soft bedding, he could watch her face as he thrust
into her. Her head thrashed back and forth. Non-words spilled from
her throat. With an iron will, he held his own pleasure under
control as he fondled her breasts and feathered his fingers over
her belly.

She locked her legs so tightly around him he
could hardly move. Rubbing his fingers lightly over her tense
belly, he felt the hard tremors of the muscles there and reached
between them to stroke her swollen flesh. Triumph filled him on
hearing her passionate cries.

He withdrew until naught but the tip of him
stayed inside her steaming body. He refused to move though she
strained to arch her hips up to him. Never had he made love to a
woman as receptive as Muriele. Passion roughened his voice when he
next spoke.

"Am I still a loathsome lout, my lady?"

Her muscles jerked as she tried to heave
upward with her legs. He clamped his hands on her hips holding her
firmly, refusing to allow more than his tip to penetrate.

"Answer me, Muriele. Am I still a loathsome
lout?"

"Nay."

"Just nay?" He chuckled and circled a
calloused palm over the tip of a straining nipple. "Nay, 'my lord'
or 'nay, I am sorry'?"

She opened glazed eyes to glare at him.
Passion battled her stubborn refusal to submit to him. With his
gaze locked on hers, he trailed his fingertips from her breasts to
the soft curls below. Everywhere his fingertips touched her
glorious skin, chill bumps followed. Very lightly, he crept his
finger near her nub again until she squirmed and strained.

"Nay, my lord," she gasped out.

"Was it so hard to admit ye misspoke?"

Magnus slowly entered and retreated, then
increased the tempo until she was again on the verge of climaxing.
Once more, he stopped after burying his arousal in her straining
heat up to his groin. An evil twinkle flashed in his dark eyes.

"Enjoy the feel of me claiming ye whilst I
rid myself of my clothing."

Muriele near screamed in frustration. His
powerful cock filled her. Her muscles grasped him tighter. She
could think of naught but wanting his manhood to bring her to
completion. As he leisurely removed his clothing, she felt his hot
gaze caress her body. Heat flushed everywhere he looked as if he
touched her.

Once his clothing dropped to the floor, she
wanted to feel the steely strength of his body beneath her hands,
the bunched muscles at his shoulders, his broad, muscled chest and
the hard slab of his belly. She wanted it all.