Untamed

by Elizabeth Lowell

  The horse’s head was lowered and he was lipping lazily at some tender shoots. From time to time Crusader lifted his head and scented the breeze with flared nostrils and pricked ears, sifting the wind for any hints of danger. Apparently no odor of strange men, horses, or dogs—or familiar ones, either—came to the stallion, for he resumed nuzzling at foliage in the manner of a horse that is bored rather than hungry.

  The sun was a warm blessing on the land. Relaxation began to steal over Dominic, drawing away the tension of flight and battle. He looked back into the chamber and saw Meg stretched out in the grass, her hair fanned in silky glory around her head. The temptation to join her was as great as any he had ever known.

  Dominic resisted the siren song of peace and relaxation for some time, but nothing in the calm day rewarded his vigilance. Finally he climbed down off the mound, led Crusader to the passageway, and tied him just outside where no man could get past without alerting the stallion.

  Inside the chamber, Dominic wearily eased off his helm and set it aside. His dark mantle made a fine bed over the grass and flowers. As soon as it was prepared, he lifted Meg onto the mantle and lay down beside her. The weight of sunlight unraveled him as deeply as any ale ever had. He threw off his hauberk and chausses, savoring the freedom from war’s weight. With a long sigh he drew Meg into his arms.

  For the first time since he had traded his own freedom for that of his men in Jerusalem, Dominic le Sabre slept without dreaming.

  WHEN Meg first awoke, she didn’t know where she was. Even so, she felt no fear. The heat of the sun and the sweet trilling of forest birds assured her that she was safe before she opened her eyes. Even more reassuring than birdsong was the heavy warmth of Dominic’s arms around her and the steady, relaxed beating of his heart beneath her cheek.

  Abruptly Meg remembered the frantic flight through the forest. She lifted her head just enough to see through the passageway to the glade and the trees that surrounded the ancient site. Crusader stood at the entrance to the mound with his head down and his weight on three legs, sleeping on his feet after the manner of horses.

  The shadows at the mound entrance had shifted very little, telling Meg that her sleep hadn’t been a long one. Yet she felt curiously refreshed. She always did when she came here. It was as though the peace of a thousand years had pooled here to be drunk by those wise enough to slip between standing stones to the sunlit mound.

  When Meg turned her face back to Dominic, she realized that he had taken off his battle gear to lie in the sun with her. He, too, must have felt the healing touch of the ancient place.

  The realization went through Meg like lightning. Old Gwyn had known of no man for a thousand years who had been able to put aside his unease long enough to enter the inner ring of stones, much less to surrender himself in sleep to the venerable peace of the mound.

  Yet Dominic had done just that.

  The proof of that incredible fact lay before her now, his powerful body relaxed, his eyes closed, sleeping as deeply as any babe. Dominic le Sabre, a warrior so powerful that he made even the king of England uneasy, had a baffling communion with peace.

  Work with me, wife. Help me to bring peace to the land.

  The words were so distinct that at first Meg thought Dominic had spoken aloud to her. With the next breath she realized it was the past she was hearing, when Dominic had emerged from poison’s snare and looked at her with eyes as clear as the sacred spring at the base of the mound.

  Work with me, wife. Help me to bring peace to the land.

  How?

  Blend Saxon and Norman blood. Give me sons.

  In a silence that brimmed with possibilities, Meg looked at the thick, ragged fringes of Dominic’s eyelashes and the loosely curling forelock that was often concealed beneath a battle helm. She remembered how soft and cool his hair felt between her fingers, how warm it was at his scalp, and how well he liked to feel her nails lightly drawn over his skin.

  Gently Meg ran her palm over the supple leather shirt Dominic wore beneath his hauberk. Under the shirt’s laces lay a thatch of dense black hair. Thick, springy, it was unlike the smooth hair on Dominic’s head. She wondered if this hair would feel as intriguing between her fingers as it did to her fingertips. No sooner had the thought come than she found herself picking apart the laces so that she could slide her fingers unhindered beneath.

  With a small sound of pleasure, Meg discovered that the muscular contours of Dominic’s chest were both warm and resilient, and the dark furring of hair teased her palm irresistibly. She caressed him with slow movements of her hand, smiling at the pleasure it gave her to touch him so.

  A subtle change in the tension of Dominic’s body told Meg that he was awakening. Reluctantly she ceased her petting and began to ease her fingers from his shirt.

  A hand hardened by war came down over Meg’s, holding her palm against Dominic’s chest.

  “Don’t stop,” he said huskily, “or I shall be even more jealous of Black Tom than I already am.”

  Meg’s smile widened. She lifted her head until she could look down into eyes that were the clear, uncanny silver of a sacred Glendruid spring.

  “Or do you prefer stroking Black Tom because he has more fur than I?” Dominic asked whimsically.

  “I doubt that. You feel quite wonderfully furry to me.”

  Dominic’s breath came in swiftly when Meg’s hand slipped inside his leather shirt and she began petting him once more. Pleasure rippled through him, for the expression on her face told him that she was enjoying the stroking as much as he.

  “Are you cold?” Meg asked, concerned.

  “Nay.”

  Dominic’s voice was very deep and his eyes were smoky with a lazy, teasing sensuality that Meg had never before seen in her husband.

  “You shivered,” she pointed out.

  “Yes.”

  His hand shifted. The back of his index finger caressed Meg’s cheek, her jawline, the nape of her neck, the hollow of her throat. The caress drew a quivering sigh from her.

  “Are you cold?” Dominic asked.

  His eyes said he knew very well what the answer would be.

  “Nay,” Meg said. “Is that…?”

  He made a questioning, almost purring sound and pressed her hand beneath his once more. He rubbed her palm over his chest, and as he did, he twisted slowly against her touch like a cat.

  “Is that why you shivered?” Meg asked curiously. “My touch?”

  “Yes. Your touch. And you shivered at mine. Touch me some more, small falcon. Make me tremble.”

  “Will you like that?”

  “I don’t know. I have never trembled at a woman’s touch before now.”

  Hesitantly, then with greater confidence, Meg stroked Dominic’s chest beneath his shirt. The warmth of him was delicious, as was the deliberate movement of his body against her hand, redoubling the sensual petting.

  “You are indeed like Black Tom,” Meg said.

  “Furry?”

  “And warm. And supple.” She tested Dominic’s muscular chest with her fingernails. “And strong. And sleek. And…altogether quite wonderful.”

  Laughter and sensual response tangled in Dominic’s throat. The result was a low, rough sound.

  “And you purr, too,” Meg teased. “What a wonderful thing is a catlike man. Do you also catch mice in your teeth?”

  “I fear not.”

  “Ah well, perhaps Black Tom can teach you.”

  Dominic laughed in the moments before his breath caught. Meg’s slender fingers had found the smooth skin around one nipple. The contrast between hair and skin must have pleased her, for she returned to circle the nipple again. When it hardened into a tiny point, she lifted her hand, startled.

  “Again,” he said huskily.

  “You like it?”

  “The only thing I would like more is your warm tongue.”

  The memory of how Dominic had caressed her own nipple went through Meg in a liquid wave of heat.

/>   “Aye,” she whispered, eyes closed. “I remember.”

  Dominic pulled off the leather shirt. Beneath it was nothing but the warm skin, muscle, and springy hair she had been enjoying. Eyes still closed, she explored him with her fingers.

  “You are…beautiful,” Meg whispered.

  “Nay,” Dominic said, running his fingertip around her lips. “You are the beautiful one. I am scarred from head to heels.”

  Meg blinked and opened her eyes. For the first time she saw the scar running across Dominic’s chest and shoulder. Her breath came in with a low sound as she thought of the pain the wound must have caused him.

  Silently cursing himself for his stupidity in undressing beneath full sunlight, Dominic reached for the shirt he had so recently cast aside.

  Meg’s hand darted out, preventing Dominic from pulling the shirt over his head.

  “Give way, wife. I’m better seen in darkness than in light,” he said flatly.

  “Nay,” she said. “You are a pleasure to my eyes.”

  “You can barely bring yourself to look at me. Let me dress.”

  “It was the pain.”

  “What?”

  “Your pain cries out from the scar,” Meg said simply. “I wasn’t expecting that. I won’t be taken by surprise again. Let me see you, my warrior.”

  Let me heal you.

  Slowly Dominic’s fist opened, giving up the shirt. Meg put it aside and looked at her husband. After a taut, silent moment she began tracing the muscular lines of his body with caressing fingertips.

  “I have sensed your male power before,” Meg said after a time. “I have felt it when you lift me. I felt it differently just a few moments ago, when you were as warm and supple as a cat beneath my hands. But I have never seen your naked strength before now.”

  Dominic’s eyes narrowed against the violence of the passion surging through him at each delicate caress from his wife’s hands. Meg was looking at him with an admiration that was more than sensual and less than innocent.

  “You are splendid, my warrior. Quite…magnificent.”

  Delicately Meg stroked the length of the scar with her fingertips. The caress dragged a low sound from Dominic, for there was nothing of horror in his wife’s voice or touch. He knew as clearly as he knew his own heartbeat that he was beautiful in her eyes.

  The realization stunned Dominic, for he also knew that only great emotion could overlook the ugly scarring that war had left upon his body.

  “This is part of your power,” Meg whispered, tracing the scar once more. “I would take the pain from you if I could, but I would not take the mark of honorable battle. Never fear going naked before me, husband. I find you as handsome as you are strong.”

  A shudder ran the length of Dominic’s muscular body, pleasure and something even more powerful, a yearning of the spirit that ravished him as gently as sunlight.

  “You are unraveling me,” Dominic said huskily.

  “Then I will have to knit you up again. But without the pain, my warrior. Without the pain…”

  As Meg bent to kiss Dominic, her hair fell like cool flames over his skin. He threaded his fingers through the silky mass and pulled her close for a deep, lingering kiss. When he finally released her, she was flushed with pleasure and her fingers were hungry on his chest.

  “You are like tasting sunlight and warm rain at once,” Dominic said.

  “And you are like wine,” she whispered. “You make my senses spin.”

  “Then you should lie down.”

  With one hand Dominic gathered up the silk and fire of Meg’s hair. With the other he pulled her close as he turned over, taking her with him, kissing her until she clung to him as though to life itself. When he dragged his mouth from hers long enough to look at her, she was lying half beneath him, her eyes were languid, and her hair was a smoldering fan spread out over the midnight of his mantle.

  “Are you less dizzy now?” Dominic asked, smiling.

  Meg started to speak, was caught by a sensual shiver, and stroked her hands down her husband’s back instead of trying to tell him how she felt. Beneath her fingertips she felt a network of scars, the kind that could come only from being tied up and whipped until skin broke and flesh became a bloody ruin.

  Dominic’s body became still, almost distant, as though he had withdrawn from sunlight to a dark, inner place.

  “Not exactly scars of ‘honorable battle,’ are they?” he asked ironically.

  “You are wrong,” Meg said. “There is no greater honor than trading your own pain for that of your knights.”

  His breath came out in a rush. “Who told you?”

  “Simon.” Meg looked up at Dominic’s shadowed eyes. “He assured me the sultan’s death wasn’t easy.”

  “The sultan died as badly as any man ever has.”

  “Excellent,” Meg said on a long, exhaled breath.

  And she meant it.

  Surprise widened Dominic’s eyes. “You are astonishingly savage for a healer.”

  “Spring heals winter’s wounds, but spring is rarely a gentle time. The wounds of winter are starkly revealed before they are healed by spring, and only the most hardy of living things survive renewal. Healing is not for the faint of heart.”

  For a long moment Dominic looked at the enigmatic, sensual Glendruid girl who kept surprising him.

  “Will I ever know you?” he asked.

  Before Meg could answer, Dominic lowered his head and claimed her mouth once more. Closing her eyes, she gave herself to the kiss and to the warrior whose scarred body called to her senses as nothing ever had, not even the first, delicate tremors of spring stirring through the wintry land.

  Dominic’s embrace was like falling into a magical fire, heat without harm, burning without pain. When his long fingers opened Meg’s clothing and pushed it to her waist, she felt sunlight on her naked breasts for the first time in her life. The caressing warmth made her lift instinctively, trying to come closer to the source of her pleasure.

  Breath came out of Dominic as though at a blow. He groaned and tasted one breast, teasing the coral peak with sensual forays of his tongue. The rippling cries he drew from Meg made his whole body tighten with violent hunger. He slid his powerful arm beneath her and arched her like a drawn bow. Then he held her there, feeding on her breasts until she moaned and twisted from the searing delight of his caresses.

  The taste and scent and feel of Meg sank like sweet talons into Dominic’s body, drawing him into an arousal that would have been agonizing if it weren’t so great a pleasure. He lifted her higher, holding her with one arm while the other swept clothes from her body.

  When he was finished, he stretched her out on his mantle and looked at her with eyes that burned while he stripped away his remaining clothes. He was fully aroused, hot with passion and hard with generations yet unborn.

  Meg’s eyes widened. She made a ragged sound as Dominic knelt beside her.

  “Do I frighten you?” he asked.

  “I was just…surprised.”

  Then she looked at Dominic frankly and smiled in a way that made his blood beat visibly in his erect flesh.

  “But I should have known,” Meg murmured, cupping him in her palm, “that a great knight such as you would have a redoubtable sword.”

  Passion almost ripped apart Dominic’s control. He clung to it by the thinnest margin, ceding only one scalding drop to Meg’s unexpected caress. With a low word that was both reverent and profane, he lay beside her, looking at her with fierce hunger.

  “You are the riches, not I,” he said huskily. “Riches fit for a king. Emerald eyes and skin as fine and smooth as silk.”

  Dominic kissed Meg’s taut nipples until they were flushed and hard from his mouth.

  “Rubies,” Dominic breathed. “But warm, as warm as the breath of life.”

  When Meg’s eyes closed on a wave of pleasure, Dominic’s hands slid down her body, shaping her breasts and waist and thighs, returning to the darker fire that burn
ed at the apex of her legs. Gently he drew her legs apart until he could caress the soft, scented flesh that had haunted him since he first had touched it. Tenderly, relentlessly, he eased his fingers through the tight curls of hair until he found what he sought.

  “The jewel beyond price,” Dominic whispered.

  Meg trembled with the onslaught of pleasure both unexpected and consuming. She tried to speak but her breath broke on a sound of surprise as she convulsed in secret, spilling warmth from her body to Dominic’s hand. The scent of passion swirled around him like a wild caress.

  “Sandalwood and spice,” he whispered, savoring her again. “Most precious of all perfumes.”

  Pleasure swept through Meg. The ragged sound she made was both Dominic’s name and a question. His answer was another circling, tugging caress that made her body weep passionately once more.

  “You are perfect,” Dominic said huskily. “You are fire that burns me without hurt, and your flames are tipped with diamond tears. What is the heart of your fire like, sweet witch? Will it give me pleasure or pain?”

  Dominic watched Meg, enjoying her passionate shivering while he traced the humid, sleek sheath that cried out to hold his sword. When he probed lightly, her helpless response welled up, caressing him in return, luring him unbearably.

  “Coral gates guarding a sacred spring,” Dominic said, sliding deeper into her thrall. “You are truly magic, my Glendruid bride.”

  Meg’s eyes opened slowly. She saw Dominic’s face drawn as though in agony while he watched her with burning silver eyes. Her hands went from his cheeks to the clenched muscles of his torso and from there to his rigid flesh. He shook beneath her tender caresses as though she were flaying him alive.

  “You are in pain,” she said raggedly. “Let me heal you.”

  “Only one thing can heal me.”

  “Then I give it to you.”

  With fiercely controlled power, Dominic settled between Meg’s slender legs. He separated her soft gate with his own blunt flesh, forcing himself to press slowly forward despite the waves of passion that pounded through him, demanding a faster release. She was sultry, welcoming, yet so tight he feared hurting her.