Untamed

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Don’t you hate the Normans as many of the keep’s folk do?” Dominic asked curiously.

  “Some of them are brutal, bloodthirsty, and cruel,” Meg said bluntly as she chose a length of oak.

  “You could say that of men from Scotland, Normandy, or the Holy Land,” Dominic pointed out.

  “Aye,” Meg agreed, watching broodingly as tiny flames sank their teeth into the wood she had just laid in the hearth. “Cruelty knows no clan boundaries.”

  Dominic went to the bed and picked up the long golden chains with their sweetly chiming bells. Meg turned toward him, charmed by the musical sounds.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “A wedding gift for my bride.”

  Meg stood and came to him, called by the golden voices of the bells.

  “Truly?” she asked, surprised.

  “Will you wear them, or must I require it of you as one of my boons?”

  “Whatever do you mean? They’re beautiful. Of course I’ll wear them.”

  “But you didn’t wear the brooch I gave you,” he pointed out.

  “Glendruid maids wear only silver before they are married.”

  Pointedly, Dominic looked at Meg’s long tunic. It was barren of any decoration.

  “You are married now.”

  Meg unlaced enough of the outer tunic to show that the brooch was fastened to her inner tunic, below the hollow of her throat.

  “Ah,” Dominic said. “I see.”

  And he did. What he saw was the proud rise of Meg’s breasts and the delicate hollow of her throat.

  “I envy my gift,” he said.

  Puzzled, Meg looked at the stranger who was also her husband. “Envy, lord—er, Dominic. How so?”

  “It is free to lie between your breasts.”

  Red bloomed along Meg’s cheekbones. Rather clumsily she fastened her tunic again.

  Dominic was watching, smiling in a way that made her breath catch. She cleared her throat and pointed to the long chains he held.

  “How shall I wear those?” Meg asked.

  “I’ll show you.”

  With a muscular grace that pleased Meg, Dominic sat on his heels in front of her.

  “Put your foot on my thigh,” he said.

  Hesitantly, Meg obeyed. Beneath her tunic, warm, strong fingers closed gently around her ankle. She made a startled sound. Before she could withdraw her foot, Dominic’s hand closed firmly. The grip both steadied and restrained her.

  “Be easy,” he said. “There is nothing to fear.”

  “’Tis rather unsettling,” she said.

  “Being touched?”

  “No. Realizing that a man I’ve known only a few days has the right to touch me however and whenever he wishes.”

  “Unsettling,” Dominic repeated thoughtfully. “Do you fear me? Is that why you ran into the wood?”

  “I expect to feel pain when I lie beneath you, but that isn’t why I went to the wood.”

  “The tiny leaves for your potion?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  Bells rang discreetly as Dominic wrapped one chain around Meg’s ankle and fastened the clasp. He tested the security of the clasp and then stroked his palm up Meg’s calf. Her breath came in audibly. The subtle jerk of her body set the bells to whispering musically.

  “Why do you expect to feel pain when you lie with me?” Dominic asked, stroking Meg slowly. “Is it that difficult for you to accept a man?”

  “Accept? How so?”

  “Into your body.”

  Meg’s breath came in swiftly. “I don’t know. Eadith has told me ’tis no pleasure.”

  Dominic’s hand paused, then resumed its slow, gentle strokes.

  “Yet she flirts so intently,” he pointed out.

  “That is work, not pleasure. She is casting for a husband. Just as you are casting for an heir.”

  Dominic was too much a tactician to deny the truth. He simply feinted in another direction, distracting his opponent, keeping her off balance.

  “Do you like it when I touch you?” he asked, squeezing Meg’s calf with sensual care.

  “I…” Her breath caught as he stoked her calf again. “I think so. ’Tis strange.”

  “What is?”

  “Your hand is very large and strong. You make me feel rather fragile by comparison. Yet I don’t think of myself as delicate at all.”

  “Does that frighten you?” he asked.

  “It should.”

  “Why? Do you think me brutal after all?” Dominic asked.

  “I think I’m quite glad that you don’t beat falcons.”

  He laughed, but he didn’t cease the slow caress of his palm up Meg’s calf to the back of her knee. Tender frissons of fire raced through her body.

  “You were very angry when you came into the herbal,” she said, trying not to be distracted.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re quite strong.”

  “Yes,” Dominic said, hiding his smile against Meg’s tunic. “But you fought me anyway, small falcon.”

  Slowly he traced the sensitive crease at the back of her knee and felt the subtle, almost unwilling shiver of her body in response. Carefully he shifted her foot from his thigh to the floor.

  “Now the other foot,” Dominic said.

  When Meg moved, bells chimed beneath her tunic. She waited in taut anticipation of more of the disturbing caresses while Dominic wrapped a second chain around her ankle and fastened the clasp. As unsettling as his touch was, she found she liked the shimmering sensations that came in the wake of his caress. It made her want to forget what she knew all too well—beneath her husband’s careful seduction burned a warrior’s cold ambition rather than a lover’s hot passion for his mate.

  Dominic straightened with a grace that reminded Meg of Black Tom. He stood so close to her that her breasts almost brushed against him with each breath she took.

  “Now your wrists,” he said.

  His low voice ruffled Meg’s nerve endings almost as much as his touch. She moved skittishly, making bells cry beneath her skirts. Tentatively she held out both hands.

  In a silence that was somehow intensified by the muted stirring of golden bells, Dominic wrapped bracelets around each of Meg’s slender wrists. When he was finished, he lifted first one of Meg’s hands and then the other. Slowly, he kissed the center of each palm, then tasted her with a single touch of his tongue.

  The sound Meg made was a combination of surprise and sensual discovery. It went to Dominic’s head like winter wine. He wanted very much to pull her into his arms for a thorough kissing, but his body had hardened in a rush that boded ill for the careful, and unfinished, seduction he must conduct if he were to win the first skirmish in his war to seduce a Glendruid witch.

  A man too impatient to train his falcon will lose her the first time he takes off the leash, Dominic reminded himself. I have barely succeeded in putting my leash in place, much less in training her to fly at my command and for my pleasure.

  To take her now would be to lose the war for the sake of winning one sweet battle. Only a fool is ruled by his passion.

  Cold determination banked the sensual fires burning within Dominic, leaving him in command of himself and of the seductive battle.

  Releasing Meg’s hands, Dominic turned her so that her back was to him. He removed the circlet and head cloth that she had hastily replaced after their battle. In the muted light of the room, her hair glowed richly. The temptation to sink his hands into its silky luxury was so great he almost succumbed. Instead, he smoothed her hair quickly into braids, wrapped a chain around each one, and left bells trailing down.

  When Dominic finished, he had just one long chain remaining in his hands. He wrapped it around Meg’s narrow waist, brought the gold around the fullness of her hips and tied the chain as she would have a girdle, allowing the long ends to trail almost to the floor.

  Meg stood wrapped in delicate riches and muted music. With every breath she took, with each movement she
made, bells chimed softly.

  “You are like a falcon made of fire,” Dominic said, looking at the play of candlelight through Meg’s hair. “And you wear golden jesses as such a magical falcon should.”

  Deliberately he turned Meg until she was facing him. He looked down at her with eyes as clear and cold as springwater while he caught her face between his hands.

  “Are you hungry, wife?”

  “Aye,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve eaten only a piece of bread and cheese since dawn.”

  With an odd smile, Dominic turned away and went to the door. He opened it and saw the cold supper he had requested that Simon bring.

  “Breads, cheeses, fowl, mustard, ale…” Dominic said.

  He picked up the tray and walked into the room, closing the door behind him with a casual movement of his foot.

  “…figs, raisins, nutmeats, honeyed almonds,” he continued, “and a pile of raw greens whose purpose eludes me. Was Simon expecting a rabbit to join us for supper?”

  Meg smiled. “’Tis Marta, the cook. She knows I have a fondness for fresh greens in the springtime.”

  “Indeed?”

  A single black eyebrow lifted as Dominic looked skeptically at the small heap of greenery.

  “Is it a Glendruid ritual?” he asked.

  “Nay,” Meg said, laughing and reaching for a piece of crisp green. “Even Gwyn teases me about grazing in my garden like a sheep.”

  Dominic turned aside, blocking Meg’s hand with his body before she could take any food.

  “Patience, small falcon. There are a few things that must be done before you eat.”

  Perplexed, Meg watched as Dominic set the tray on the table near her big chair and then calmly went about extinguishing every candle and oil lamp in the room. There were many to be put out, for she craved light with the same instinctive yearning she had for clean water and growing plants.

  “What…?” she asked, alarmed.

  “The mews are kept in darkness. Or would you rather go hooded?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I can. I am. Darkened mews or a silken hood for my small falcon. I leave the choice to you.”

  The cold steel beneath Dominic’s matter-of-fact tone told Meg that she had pushed her husband too far. The words he had spoken in the church rang ominously in her ears: A wise man will understand that his lord is merciful rather than weak. A foolish man will try my patience. And die. She had already defied him in front of vassals and keep. To do so again would not be wise.

  “Darkened mews,” Meg said bleakly.

  Dominic closed the shutters, as though expecting one of the harsh winds of winter to pry at the wood. Meg watched and bit back a cry of protest. In all but the most savage weather, she kept the shutters open a crack. She loved the radiant, silver-blue glory of daylight spilling into her living quarters.

  Seeing the room as it was now, with only a small fire in the hearth, made her feel…caged.

  When Dominic went to the fire as though to extinguish even that source of light, she couldn’t stifle her small sound of protest. He turned, looked at her thoughtfully, and added a bit more wood to the fire. She let out her breath in a long, almost soundless sigh of relief.

  Dominic heard it and smiled to himself, knowing he had read his small falcon well. The first battle was won; she had agreed to her captivity. Now they would negotiate the terms of it.

  He sat in the big chair and gestured to his lap.

  “Sit. I will serve you.”

  Uncertainly, Meg stepped forward. Countless tiny bells stirred and sang.

  “Oh,” she said, hesitating and then moving again, listening. “’Tis very beautiful.”

  “Like flowers singing?” Dominic asked.

  “Aye,” she said, smiling despite her unease, “or butterflies laughing.”

  “I’m glad my gift pleases you.”

  “It does, lord—er, Dominic. It was very kind of you.”

  “I’m glad you think me kind,” he said with an enigmatic smile.

  Gingerly Meg lowered herself onto Dominic’s knees. He picked her up and rearranged her across his lap until she was half reclining against his left arm. Meg wondered at the silver blaze of his eyes. In the dim light they glowed like clear crystals.

  With his right hand, Dominic plucked a drumstick from the heaped platter. Meg reached for the food. He held it beyond her reach.

  “Nay,” he said. “I will feed you, small falcon.”

  She gave him a startled look. He smiled and stripped a bit of meat from the drumstick with teeth that were as white and clean as a young hound’s. Then he plucked the morsel from between his teeth and held it out to her with his fingertips. When she reached to take the meat with her hand, the food was withdrawn once more.

  “Nay,” Dominic said softly. “Falcons have no fingers.”

  Meg’s mouth opened in surprise. Deftly he slid the bit of meat between her lips.

  “There,” he murmured as though talking to his peregrine in the mews. “That wasn’t such a difficult thing, was it?”

  Chewing slowly, she shook her head. Bells at the end of her braids rang like a falcon’s jesses.

  “More?” Dominic asked.

  She nodded.

  He smiled darkly. “Some falcons—the special, magical ones—speak.”

  “About what?” Meg asked as Dominic stripped another bit of meat from the drumstick.

  “Food, water, the hunt, the kill, the wildness of flight…”

  “Freedom,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he said, holding out the morsel. “I suspect untamed falcons talk about that most of all.”

  Meg watched Dominic’s eyes as she ate from his hand. There was an odd intimacy in the act. A bond as tenuous as a single silk thread stretched between them with each bit of food she accepted; and like silk thread, when one was laid next to another, and then another, and then another, the resulting strand strengthened until there would be no breaking it.

  As the moments slipped by in a hush defined rather than broken by the tender chiming of bells, Meg understood in a way she never had before precisely why the best hunting hounds were fed only by their master and why babes learned closeness with their mother’s milk.

  And why falcons—the most free of God’s creatures—were fed only from their lord’s hands, rode only on his wrist, came only to his special call.

  “Is the food not to your taste?” Dominic asked.

  “It’s very good.”

  “Then why have you stopped eating?”

  “I was thinking of falcons and masters,” Meg said.

  “Falcons have no masters.”

  “They hunt only at their lord’s pleasure.”

  “Falcons hunt at their own pleasure,” Dominic countered, popping another bite of food between her lips. “Their lords simply provide an opportunity.”

  “Do all men see it thus?”

  Dominic shrugged. “It matters not to me how other men see the bond between falcon and man. If foolish men wish to believe they fly the bird rather than vice versa, who am I to disturb their shallow understanding?”

  Chewing thoughtfully, Meg considered what Dominic had said. As soon as she swallowed, bread and cheese appeared before her lips. She opened her mouth for the food, received it—and felt the distinct caress of his fingertip on her lower lip as he withdrew.

  “But falcons are captive and men are not,” she said.

  “Have you ever freed a falcon?”

  “Once.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “She never accepted her jesses.”

  “Aye. But all the other falcons did.”

  Meg nodded.

  “And in doing so,” Dominic continued, “your fierce sisters learned a different kind of freedom.”

  Green eyes asked a silent question.

  “They learned the freedom of being cared for when ice covers the land,” Dominic said, “of being fed when there is no game in forest or field, of living in
comfort twice or thrice as long as their untamed kin. Who can say which freedom is superior?”

  Meg started to speak, only to have a fig slipped between her lips by Dominic’s deft fingers.

  “It all depends on the falcon’s acceptance of her new life,” Dominic continued.

  Meg chewed quickly, parted her lips to say something, and found herself with another mouthful of food. When she gave Dominic a sidelong look, she saw that he was smiling.

  “Ale?” he asked innocently.

  She swallowed and wisely nodded instead of trying to speak.

  When Dominic picked up the mug of ale and drank, Meg expected him to hold the mug to her lips as though she were a child learning to drink from a bowl.

  But instead of a cold mug, it was Dominic’s warm lips that met hers. A stream of cool, potent ale poured over her tongue. Automatically she swallowed. Dominic bit her lips very gently, lifted his head, and drank again from the mug. Then he turned and let Meg drink the ale from him.

  The elemental intimacy of the act made her tremble. Bells stirred almost secretly, a music more sensed than heard. He drank from the mug and she sipped from his lips until she felt light-headed.

  “Enough,” Meg whispered.

  The words were spoken against Dominic’s mouth. She was breathing the heady scent of ale on his breath, tasting his warmth, feeling the edges of his teeth as he delicately nibbled on her lower lip.

  “Are you certain?” he asked, biting with exquisite care.

  “I fear I have no head for ale. I’m quite dizzy.”

  Dominic’s laugh was like his voice; low, velvet, very male.

  “’Tis not the small bit of ale you’ve drunk,” he murmured against her lips, “’tis the way you drank that is making you light-headed.”

  Meg didn’t argue. She knew that ale had never gone to her head so quickly before.

  “Maybe it’s simple hunger,” she said, looking longingly at the platter of food.

  Laughing silently, Dominic resumed feeding Meg with his fingertips rather than with his lips. Her heartbeat settled as she became accustomed to the novel way of eating. Meat and figs, cheese and bread—and the crisp greens—vanished with surprising speed.