Captive Heart

by Phoenix Sullivan

  He howled, a preternatural sound that was his alone. My own, more human, cry joined his as the lady over me caught the fountain of my ecstasy deep within her throat.

  What should have been a moment of supreme joy in the twin sharing of our pleasure turned instead to a moment of deepest regret.

  This was what Nimue had wanted, not us. Why? And Lyn, had she succumbed to similar temptation? What did Nimue hope to gain? Did she think to drive us apart with jealousy? To remove the champions from each other, and the championed from both? If so, she’d underestimated the strengths of our bonds. Anger not jealousy raged in my heart. Neither Marrok nor Lyn could be held responsible for any act they’d been magicked to against their wills. Or—

  Or had it been against Marrok’s will? Did the same stab of regret wound him as it did me?

  The air turned thick with shame as whatever it was that spelled the ladies fled and they collapsed, sobbing, into the sheets.

  With horror, I realized that I’d only been focusing on what Nimue had tried to do—might well have done yet—to Marrok, Lyn and me, and not what she had done to Persant’s daughters. What Marrok had done to one. What I didn’t stop with the other.

  I laid a hand in comfort only on the back of “my” lady. “There’s no fault of yours here,” I started to say. But she flinched away, hands fluttering to cover what she’d been moments before so proud to display. Snatching up a discarded nightshift from the floor, she draped herself and fled, her sister only a step behind.

  I launched myself after them, with no plan but to comfort and absolve. Marrok’s hard grip on my arm stopped me.

  “You’ll only make it worse. Leave them. They have each other for comfort.”

  “I just… They need to know what happened isn’t their fault.”

  “Isn’t it? Much easier to compel when there’s no resistance.”

  “What would you know of it?”

  “I…know.” I should have paid attention to the shadow that passed across his firelit eyes, but I was too indignant to care.

  “And what of our part? Have we no blame?”

  “Could you have stopped yourself?”

  “Could they?”

  Marrok rolled away, his back to me. “I have blame enough to bear. I will not be held accountable for this as well.”

  As well? I studied the plane of his broad back, followed it to where it divided into firm flanks. Considered the pleasure I’d found there, both fore and aft. Was it blame in that—in us—that he held himself accountable for?

  Why was he so exasperating? And why would he not trust me with whatever secret he carried when he could share it so with Lyn? Where was the remorse for stealing a young damosel’s maidenhood even if he had been tricked into it? Being blameless did not mean foregoing pity or concern. Those were the qualities of courtesy, of knighthood.

  The qualities to which I aspired. Duty compelled me to follow our host’s daughters and to find Lyn, to ensure each of them was whole and safe.

  Duty urged me up.

  Yet something stronger than duty held me in its grip yet. A great weariness. An apathy.

  Rolling over, my back to Marrok’s, no longer hungering for him this night but loathing him, me, Lyn, the quest, I fell at once into a dark and dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 26

  Lyn

  “Sir Persant’s late wife slept here,” the tall seneschal said as he left me at the door to the modest chamber. “One of his daughter’s handmaids will be in to attend you.”

  My pack had already found its way in and the handmaid followed soon after. Once I was in my nightshift, though, I dismissed her, preferring to bear my thoughts of Nessie alone.

  The distant peal of abbey bells was a comfort as they chimed the familiar offices. It was just past Vigils when the antechamber door creaked open. I thought it was my handmaid come to stoke the brazier or check the privy pot. But the one who entered was decidedly male. Marrok or Gareth stolen to my bed. Although by fire and shadow, the form seemed…

  “I’m very much sure whoever you thought to find here, sir, I am not she. Be gone or I shall scream.”

  “Lady Lynette, I come in the name of Sir Persant, my father. I bear a message for your ears alone.”

  “Your father? At this hour?” Word of his brother, perhaps? Of Ironside or Nessie? “Speak.”

  He crossed to the bedside where I could better see him. A man a little older than myself. Of an age with Marrok, perhaps. No swordsman’s build, but a comely enough one. And something more. The stench of magic whiffed around him.

  Suddenly I was afraid again. Drawing myself up, I sat to the far side of the bed, just out of reach. “Your message, quickly.”

  He sat on the bed’s edge. “You mistake, my Lady. This is a message best delivered slow. For your mercy this day, my father wishes you a night of joy and forgetfulness. Let me kiss away your fears.” He advanced on me handspan by slow handspan as though approaching some wary bird ready to fly.

  The magic that shrouded him wasn’t his I saw as he drew near, but the mark of compulsion. He acted not by his father’s command, nor even his own.

  The knowing of it did not banish it, though, nor lessen its hold on him. Nor its growing claim on me. Why did I not move or scream? Why did I indulge his hand on my bared knee peeking out from beneath my linen shift? The brush of his lips on mine?

  The play of fire in his eyes mesmerized me. Reminding me of…?

  I broke my gaze away. Of Marrok’s demon eyes.

  The hand on my knee grew bold and his kiss more insistent. My will ebbed as my body betrayed it, responding to the son’s persuasions. His weren’t the rugged lines of Marrok nor the sheer beauty that was Gareth, nor had he the breadth or muscle of either as his divesting of his tunic proved. But his warm skin and the light forest of hair covered an ample enough chest. I ran my hand over it, playing with the nubs that came erect for me.

  Then his hands were filled with my nightshift, encouraging it off. If I let that happen, if I abandoned thought of Marrok and Gareth and gave away that part of myself held for their eyes alone, then Nimue would win. My head lashed back and forth even as the shift slipped over it and Persant’s son abandoned it to the floor—just as I’d abandoned my champions.

  Then his eyes were roaming every reach of my body, and there was no magic in his gasps of appreciation. A reverent hand with long slender fingers claimed a breast while the bold one dared to be bolder yet. In a moment it would breach the space where only Gareth and Marrok had ever been.

  Would ever be, I vowed. Yet could not move to stop it. Not when he dropped his lips from mine and captured the rosed tip of my breast between his teeth and flicked his tongue across it.

  Not when his bold palm covered my thatch of hair and arch of bone and bold fingers stroked over me.

  The hand at my breast stole away as Persant’s son rose to his knees, unbinding the laces that prisoned his staff and setting it free. Long and slender like his hands, it waved between us.

  “My father’s gift to you,” the father’s son murmured at my breast. “Use it as you please.”

  The long strokes between my thighs became a thrum, a slow and rhythmic beat over the sensitive nub that guarded the entrance to my deepest pleasure. The muscles in my stomach clenched as heady desire swept over me, sudden craving for marriage with the gift that was hard with promise now.

  “No. Marrok. Gareth. I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?” the voice at my breast crooned.

  “Can’t betray them.” My head shook even as my hand gripped the long, hard vow between us. My other arm braced around his shoulders and I lifted my hips over him. I guided the probing tip to my entrance and eased myself over the length of him till he would go no further.

  “Don’t move,” I whispered, and began sliding up and down while Persant’s son held breath. Only the stretching of his mouth and the widening of his eyes betrayed his building pleasure.

  Then, with a grin of disobedience, he tipped me b
ack into the sheets. Instantly I wrapped my legs around his hips and crossed my calves behind him. I clung to his shoulders while he drove into me, faster and faster. Visions of Gareth and Marrok at their peaks, in my arms, in each other’s arms, came unbidden to me. The stranger’s face above me twisted with the same pain of ecstasy as he poured himself into me.

  With legs and hands I gripped him, desperate now for my own release, to be done with Persant’s son, eager for the regret that awaited me on the other side. Regret that I deserved.

  I threw my head back and howled that regret with a voice more suited to Marrok’s throat when the waves of passion hit. And when they were done, I pushed the stranger in me out and rolled away.

  “Go,” I told him.

  Already he was lacing himself up, not meeting my eyes as the magic faded. Scrambling for his tunic, he fled when he found it, not once looking back.

  It wasn’t the looking back I dreaded, though. It was the facing forward and how I could possibly survive the coming censure in my champions’ eyes.

  Chapter 27

  Lyn

  My handmaid came not very long after dawn in the gray time between night and day. I was already dressed and my pack waited by the door.

  “Sir Persant waits to farewell you in the dining hall,” she said.

  I licked my lips and nodded. Facing anyone this morning was likely to take far more courage than I currently felt I had in me. Leaving the girl to see to my pack and privy pot, I made my way to the lord’s hall to face my shame.

  Marrok and Gareth met me outside the hall. I wondered if I looked as haggard as they as we mumbled our greetings while avoiding each other’s eyes. A fierce pang of envy washed over me as I imagined in every naked detail why they might look so tired and drawn.

  We entered, my heart lurching when I saw who sat at table with Persant—his son and two quite fair ladies with the same face between them.

  The Blue Knight waved his hand and the servants disappeared. Only then I noticed no one else of the House was there. It was a deliberately arranged private meeting for what had to be one purpose only. Heat blushed my face as I stood in uncomfortable silence between two equally uncomfortable men.

  “Sit.” It wasn’t an invitation but a host’s command. “I would tell you my children and I are very close,” he began.

  Children. Then the ladies were his daughters, his son’s sisters. How many more were to know my shame? I stole a glance at the women, but there was no righteous indignation or even accusatory stares. In fact, they were pointedly studying their hands demurely folded on the table.

  “We share all,” Persant continued. “The good in our lives, the many joys that touch us daily, as well as our hurts and fears, however ugly or unnatural they might be.

  “Can you imagine a father’s pain to hear a child speak of shameful deeds, of possession in the night, of acts that—” he squeezed his eyes shut against the sights. “And can you imagine that pain multiplied by three?”

  “Three?” I mouthed the word in surprise but it was Marrok who gave voice to it.

  If three, “Does that mean—?” I looked to my champions and they to me. Really looked. And in their faces I saw my shame and sorrow reflected.

  Then anger rose up to war with the shame. I thought I had betrayed Marrok and Gareth’s trust, had betrayed our bodies’ pledge. It was pain enough to envision them pleasuring one another when I could not be there with them, but to think of them pleasuring not just another lady but two…

  Marrok half-rose from the bench. “You and this—this—” he stabbed a finger toward Persant’s son.

  Gareth covered his hand and bade him sit. “How is that any different from what we did?”

  “The difference is we were compelled.”

  “Are you sure? They were certainly, but were we? Or did you just embrace the opportunity?”

  “Isn’t that what you did? Or were you just too courteous to tell a lady no?”

  “Enough!” There was more sadness than anger in Persant’s command. “There is blame and betrayal enough for all, but turn your anger and jealousy to the one responsible. Nimue. She means to undermine your strength. To divide you. That she can hurt me and those I love by turning you one against the other is simply gravy on the goose.

  “You could forgive?” Doubt lay thick on Marrok’s tongue.

  “Forgive what? You coming here and forcing Nimue to use my family to attack your hearts and souls? Never. Forgive my blood for any transgressions committed or endured while under the thrall of that fae-witch? With a father’s unconditional love, a thousand times yes. Forgive you for despoiling Igraine before she’s husbanded? What father could ever forgive that?”

  What would my own dear father have done had he known I’d gone so willing to the beds of my champions, neither of them my betrothed? Would I have disappointed him beyond forgiving? Or…dare I wonder now? Had I been spelled? Had Marrok taken advantage of me too—because I was a convenient opportunity? Did his wolf care if I were spelled or not?

  And what of Gareth who had no wolf to blame?

  If they could be so free with me, why not another? Beneath their tear-swollen eyes, Persant’s daughters were lovely, well-formed and desirable. Any man would lust for them even without Nimue’s interference.

  “Would you ask that same forgiveness of your son?” Gareth asked quietly.

  Persant’s eyes on me were hard but fair. “Would I need to?”

  Whether he knew I was no maiden before last night or simply suspected, the truth was clear. I slid my gaze to Persant’s son who stared at me intently now, waiting to know just how much harm he’d done. I looked away and shook my head once.

  “Why are we here?” Gareth asked. “To relive our sins? To make apologies?”

  “All that,” Persant agreed. “And because the vile magic of my brother’s mistress dared enter my house. Because having breached it once what is there to stop them from breaching it again? I would see them undone. I would see them destroyed. I would see you win against them.”

  “When did we intend otherwise?” Marrok grumbled.

  “Ironside is still my brother, my blood,” Persant snapped. “And he is as powerful as any tale you’ve heard told of him. You have one chance of defeating him. One chance to discover his secret at this table here and now. And you can thank my daughters’ shame, my son’s sin, and Nimue treating them and me like puppets in her private play for giving me the courage to betray him.”

  “My sister’s life was not enough?” I asked, grateful for whatever advantage he was about to reveal but resentful he had not seen fit before last night to share.

  “Your sister’s blood is not mine,” Persant said. “We do for kin what we’d not do for others.”

  I bowed my head.

  “Nimue wields great magic, but for all her power, she can do little more than put the thought in a person’s head.”

  “Compulsion,” I said.

  Persant nodded. “But when she first met my brother, she called upon Avalon to help forge her champion and protector. What wiles she used to borrow that power I don’t know. But with it, she was able to cast a potent glamour over Ironside that doubled his strength. More importantly, from sunrise to noon each day, he has the strength of seven.”

  “I had heard his prowess came because he was a berserker,” Gareth said.

  I nodded, having heard that story too. True berserkers were rare, though, and their stories stuff of legend.

  “No berserker he,” Persant said, “but something far more dangerous. Do not be tricked into fighting him in the morning when his strength is at its best. If you must confront him, do it after you hear the bells for Sext.”

  The reason why Persant shared the secret no longer mattered. Only that he had. For that I was beyond grateful. Yet my heart constricted as I considered all that it meant. “When you say strength, does that mean—with Nessie—?” My eyes widened with fright at the thought of Marrok or Gareth’s efforts doubled when they pleasured me
—and they were welcomed. At seven times… Would I even survive? Could Nessie? “Does Nimue—?”

  I had scarcely hoped to find Nessie sane after all this time. Now I scarcely hoped to find her whole. Better perhaps for her if she wasn’t still alive. For me… Whether she was broken and alive or already dead, Ironside had his revenge. My sister for his father. My pain for his.

  A pail of tears pressed painfully behind my eyes. Sorrow so deep I could drown. Yet I did not weep. Revenge was an insidious thing. If I couldn’t rescue Nessie, I would avenge her. This cycle of revenge was far from done.

  I set my jaw and lifted my head—above the tears, above the shame, above the regrets.

  “We ride.”

  Chapter 28

  Marrok

  What Gareth wanted from me I didn’t know. A confession? An apology? A vow to never be compelled by magic again? Given my beast state, that last wasn’t something I’d be able to hold to no matter how sincere my effort.

  As for Persant’s daughter—Igraine, I think someone had named her—consequences could indeed be long-reaching. If any future husband required proof of maidenhead before marriage… But I had not taken anything that I was not compelled to take and she compelled to offer. Did I have regret? For the circumstances, yes. For my part in them, no. I would not blame myself any more than a farmer might blame a rainstorm for ruining newly planted crops. Some things could not be controlled and could not be undone.

  If Gareth could not see the difference…

  Lyn, however…

  Anger welled quick and sharp at thought of another man possessing her. Of her allowing another man to—Had she taken joy in it? Had she reached for him? Touched him? Invited his caresses? Had she wrapped her legs about him and crushed him to her with sighs and moans and cries that should have been for my ears alone? And Gareth’s, I had to amend, though it was with great reluctance my wolf deigned to share her, even with him.

  And now, riding the road to the Red Lands, all I could see in my waking dreams was Gareth’s raptured face as the twinned beauty’s hair fell over his thighs in a bobbing wave while she paid worship to his risen flesh. And Persant’s son in a tangle of white limbs as his naked flanks rose and fell, rose and fell over Lyn.