The Barbarian

by Georgia Fox

  Ami's screams echoed in the forest and a flock of crows rose up out of the bare trees in a great startled flapping.

  Chapter Two

  This noisy cantankerous woman was giving him a headache. Despite the servicing he granted her with his tongue, her temper was vanquished only temporarily. The moment he was in the saddle again and her body slung over his lap, she resumed a steady tirade, threatening his person with a gruesome variety of imaginative torture.

  "I hate you! You will never do that to me again. You're a dumb ox, a common Saxon pig."

  "I am an ox and a pig?"

  "Yes," she screamed, "both."

  "But I am not Saxon. I am of Norse blood."

  "Pagan filth. A Viking! Lawless, ignorant—"

  "And you are Norman, also descended of Viking seed."

  But she would not hear of it. The idea of herself as an elegant, cultured lady misused by a primitive pagan brute apparently suited her better than to recognize a common bond, even one several hundred years in the past.

  Stryker was a firm believer in the importance of history. A man should know from whence he came. He was in the process now of drawing up a document—with the help of a monk who had traveled there from Exeter—that would detail his own lineage and eventually hang in his great hall. Most of what he knew came from stories his father had told and his father's stories had come down to him through past generations in the same way. Now it would be written down, a permanent record. What was forgotten, Stryker embellished with his own vivid imagination, and he felt no guilt about it. Other men, he had no doubt, made up stories too.

  His stories would be better than theirs.

  "You are to be my bride," he reminded the furious woman slung over his lap. "Therefore I am entitled to do as I please with you."

  "Try it again and see what you get."

  "I did not hear many complaints once I proceeded in earnest."

  "You took me by surprise," she yelled. "It won't happen again!"

  Well, he mused, that made two of them. She took him by surprise too.

  He would have thought she was too hoarse after all that screaming and begging for more in the forest, but she had a never ending supply of curses, it seemed, and plenty of breath left with which to fling them at him. He had saved her life that day and she was not grateful. He had brought her to swift orgasm that day and still she was not grateful.

  Stryker was amused by his error in mistaking her for one of the whores from Marazion, but she did not find it so hilarious. The prideful woman failed to recognize his rights. She was to be his bride, therefore his property, and he would do as he wished with her. Now she knew who he was, he expected the wench to thank him for rescuing her from the flood and then fall respectfully silent, but she was not yet done throwing out complaints.

  "Is this how you generally welcome visitors to your manor, oaf? Are you all savages here? I did not hope for too much, but some manners surely are not beyond the realm of expectation. I am a ward of the king, a lady—not a sack of grain."

  Despite the wounds she'd already caused, and every insult she threw over her shoulder in a shower of spittle, his cock still thickened. His pulse kept rhythm with his horse's hooves. Perhaps this high level of excitement was due to the success of the hunt earlier and then the rescue. The expected arrival of those whores from Marazion—part of the celebration before his wedding—had also put him in the mood for sport. When he saw this one peering out of the stranded wagon, Stryker chose her instantly as his exclusive playmate, not realizing that she was, in fact, his bride to be. The whores were late; his bride was early.

  And Stryker's blood was up, as it would be after a good battle. He'd given her release several times over, but allowed himself none. His cock ached, teased by that female form—all tantalizing curves— thrown across it.

  "It would not occur to you that some introduction was required before you grabbed me by the ankles?" the upside down wench demanded.

  "Why should it?" he muttered. That river had broken its banks once before and swept the old road away with it. She was a lucky wench that he had reached her when he did. There had been no time for polite conversation. "The situation was one of urgency."

  "Still, common courtesy would not have gone amiss."

  "Next time your life is in danger, I'll stop and discuss the weather first." The sensations throbbing inside his thigh muscle, where her full breasts pushed into his leg, multiplied as the horse raced toward a ditch.

  "I need my maid," she shouted above the thundering hooves. "She is very young and sheltered. If any harm comes to her you'll be to blame."

  His mount soared into the air, clearing the ditch with ease, despite the extra burden he carried. Stryker gave a grunt of satisfaction as they came down again with a jolt and raced onward, hooves flinging up clods of earth in all directions.

  "Your maid is safe with my men," he assured her, slightly breathless, cold wind sucking the air out of his lungs.

  "She had better be!"

  He wanted to believe he misheard. His wife-to-be had not dared say that. Surely she had not spoken to him as if he were a servant. She must be suffering shock.

  They entered another border of naked, winter-ravaged trees. When Stryker slowed his horse to maneuver through the low arches of knotted limbs, his bride tried sitting upright and the fur-lined hood of her cape fell back, revealing long, thick dark chestnut hair, tied in braids. He quickly pressed her down again over his lap, his hand in the small of her back. Once more he felt the promising lure of that soft curve where it lead to her rounded arse, barely covered by a rumpled woolen gown and shift. The warmth of that restless body teased his palm just enough to shorten his breath and speed the awakened hammer of desire beating in his temple. Fortunately they were now in sight of his manor.

  "I'm dizzy!" she complained.

  "Nearly there. Be still." He could barely get the words out. Perhaps it had been too long for him since his last swiving, in which case he must amend that very soon. Ducking as they passed under a series of low branches, he caught the sweet scent of her hair, which had begun to fall loose from the braids. She was still fighting to sit up as he bent over her, and when her brow briefly contacted with his cheek, a lock of soft hair brushed his lips like a kiss. His pulse stalled. He straightened up so quickly that he hit his head on a branch and was almost knocked out of the saddle.

  "How much further?" she demanded. "Just when I thought things could not get any worse, here I am, battered and bruised, tossed about without a solitary concern for my well being and thrown over a great, sweating, stinking beast."

  "We just came from a successful day's hunt, of course my horse sweats and stinks."

  She twisted her neck to look up at him. "I refer not to your horse."

  Oh, there was no mistaking her tone this time, no excusing it on shock. "Woman," he roared, "cease your rattling or I'll fill that mouth with something!"

  "And I'll bite it off. Arrogant wretch!" To prove her point she sank her teeth into his thigh. Even through hide breeches, he felt the sharp pinch and knew she'd left a mark.

  Stryker was appalled, enraged. Even worse, he heard laughter behind them and knew his friend, Ifyr, was close enough to see and hear it all. If Stryker did not act at once, this woman could severely dent his pride and his reputation. Clearly his wife thought to get the upper hand in their marriage. In which case she needed a lesson.

  He must begin as he meant to go on. Couldn't let his people witness her get away with this bold behavior.

  Cantering through the gates of his manor, Stryker assessed the possibilities hastily and his gaze settled on a small, thatched hut in the center of the yard. This is where any man accused of a crime was kept until his innocence—or guilt—could be ascertained, but the hut's most common use was to hold the drunk and unruly in custody until they came to their senses. Perfect.

  He leapt down and dragged the woman over his shoulder.

  "Now what?" she cried, her long braids slapping him in
the face as she twisted about, trying to see where he took her. "Now where—? Put me down! I insist, you filthy barbarian!"

  "You insist? I am the master here, woman. You do naught but obey."

  Stryker tossed her onto the heap of straw inside the hut, slammed the door and locked it with the large ring of keys he kept on his belt. Speaking through the small barred window in the door, he assured her, quite calmly, that she could remain there until she showed some humility and gratitude. He would not even look at her again until she complied, he assured her.

  "Good," she yelled through the door.

  He rubbed his sore thigh where she'd bitten it. "When you cool your temper, woman, apologize for the wounds you gave me this day and grovel for my forgiveness, I will let you out. Then we can be married and you may enjoy more of what I gave you this afternoon."

  A curt laugh cut through the crisp wintry air. "Be still my heart."

  Why bring hearts into it, he wondered. Theirs had no chance of being a love match so he hoped she wasn't the romantic sort. Stryker had endured his fill of being in love. It left him abandoned before, made him a laughingstock. "You will comply, shrew, or stay there under lock and key."

  "Excellent. I know already my choice."

  Unfortunately, Stryker Bloodaxe, product of a long line of reckless adventurers, was not well known for thinking a plan through. A creature of instinct, he had a tendency to act on a situation the moment an idea entered his mind, even when it was not fully envisioned and assessed for potential problems. Having been criticized for this before, he was sadly aware of it, but that resemblance to a charging bull also made him completely unable to change his ways. Besides, as Stryker took every opportunity to remind his foes, he had strong Norse blood in his veins. A descendant of Danish King Harald Bluetooth and therefore kindred to the proud race of Viking warriors, he had inherited a force of will that seldom failed to triumph. At least in his own stories.

  But as he strode away from the hut and heard her yelling that he could wait until the cows came home, he realized that until he let her out there could be no wedding. Which meant no bride purse—an item that would be sent only when her uncle had proof of the ceremony safely completed. It also meant no wedding night until he let her out. And his cock ached with need to spill inside that sweet cunny he'd tasted.

  His prisoner could very well hold him to ransom.

  ****

  Perhaps it was no surprise that the first things she'd noticed about him were the breadth and solidity of his thigh muscles. After all, she was thrown face down over them before she could see anything else about her captor. Then she was on the ground, on her back, partially blinded by rain, her other senses addled by the cruel tricks he played with his fingers and his devilish tongue. Once she was finally allowed up the right way, there was barely a moment to let her brain settle, before she was tossed into a dark shed and imprisoned. Only as she peered through the bars of a small window in the door, and watched him walk away, did she finally get the complete picture. Stryker Bloodaxe was long and sturdy as a great oak, with a shock of fair hair that gave him the appearance of a tall church candle. So he was not old. Certainly he was full of good health, vitality and had all his limbs in working order. He was also large-boned, empty-headed and possessed all the manners, charm and courtesy of a wild boar.

  Before he left her there, his gaze had briefly pierced her through the bars, like a shower of arrowheads. Ami had never seen a man with eyes that intense, that thorough. In just those few seconds she was searched by his gaze, then dropped, discarded. How dare he treat her this way? At the very least she might have expected a modicum of respect. She was, after all, a lady of the nobility, not a plowman's daughter or some hussy he found in a brothel.

  Did he think he could win her over with a few licks of his wicked tongue? She had not known him ten minutes and he was ready to use her like a strumpet.

  He had treated her brutally. Dead leaves were stuck to the back of her mantle and she was still wet between her thighs. All proof of his manhandling. As for her nipples, they firmly refused to retreat again, but stood to attention like sentinels.

  Now she was locked in what appeared to be an empty store shed. A guard was posted outside the door and she was left to ferment in her own fury. There was some good to it though, she mused. The shed was dry and the straw warm. After the wretched journey she'd just endured, it was luxury.

  So she settled into the straw, determined not to let that beast think he'd won any sort of victory over her. He wouldn't be the first man to try.

  ****

  He came back to look in on her sometime later. By then it had begun to get dark, the winter's night drawing in early, and he carried a rush torch.

  "Well, woman, are you ready to plead forgiveness?" he demanded through the bars.

  Ami sat in the straw, hugging her knees. "Forgiveness for what?"

  "Cursing at me like a scold and using your teeth like a stray bitch."

  "You should be begging my forgiveness, for tossing me about like a dead calf, hauling me out of a wagon by my ankles and exposing my ... nether regions ... to all and sundry." His crimes were far worse, in her eyes, than anything she'd done.

  The fact that the touch of his big rough hands on her body had excited her in what was surely a sinful way only increased her temper. Ami did not like to feel weakness of any sort and what this man did to her had a very strange effect on the intimate parts of her person. It was most disturbing. Her nipples still poked through her shift and rubbed on the wool of her gown, whenever she thought about the way he'd enjoyed her pussy. She'd never known men could do things like that. She'd never thought of men as good for anything much.

  Amber torchlight flickered between the bars of the window. "I suppose you are hungry," he said.

  "No," she lied, ignoring her rumbling belly. The scent of roasting pork had made her mouth water for an hour at least.

  She could just make out a wry twist of his lips in the guttering light of the flame. "I don't care for a bride with no flesh on her bones. A wife is meant to keep a man warm at night." A lump of bread fell through the bars, followed by a slice of fatty meat.

  Ami was puzzled. If he wanted her out of that shed, why did he feed her? Was he so stupid? Earlier the guard had brought her a cup of water from the well. She'd assumed he did so without his master knowing, but perhaps he'd been instructed to let her drink. A woolen horse blanket had also been pushed through the bars for her when the temperature dropped.

  This was no way to lay siege. The man must be an idiot.

  She heard his heavy sigh. "I suggest you think about your position here, woman, and about the thanks you owe me for taking you in. By dawn I shall expect contrition."

  "Expectation is the surest way to disappointment."

  There was a brief silence and then, "I would eat that food before the rats claim it." He walked away, taking the torchlight with him.

  Ami drew her fur-lined mantle tighter around her body and looked anxiously at the straw surrounding her.

  ****

  Stryker sprawled in his chair, boot heels resting on the trestle table, hands cradling the back of his head. "She'll be on her knees to me by morning," he said confidently.

  His best friend Ifyr sat beside him, weary after a long day of hunting and then the rescue. "I hope she is, or else you can say goodbye to her dowry. I hear you're not the first man to fall foul of her shrewish disposition and send her back to her uncle."

  "I'll soon have that temper tantrum flushed out of her," Stryker replied drowsily. The woman made a lot of noise, but he could turn a deaf ear to it once he had that fat bride purse in his hands. His manor needed the coin. "Each time she disobeys me or talks back, she can return to the holding shed."

  Ifyr scratched his head and muttered, "Let's hope she's out of the holding shed by the time her uncle comes in another month."

  That made him sit up, lurching forward in his chair, feet to the floor. "What?"

  Ifyr began pi
cking his teeth with a slender piece of bone. He paused. "End of the month. Baron Burleigh—yon wench's uncle."

  "I know who the bugger is. What's this about him coming here?"

  "Your neighbor is holding a feast for the Yuletide, to bless that castle he's raising on the cliffs. Half the Norman hierarchy is invited to attend." Ifyr sputtered with laughter and shook his head. "How could you not know?"

  But Stryker tried hard not to pay attention to his neighbor. Dominic Coeur-du-Loup had stolen away the great love of his life and married her. For that Stryker would never forgive him. He might put on a civil face occasionally, but deep down inside he was still furious about that thieving Norman bastard who usurped his place in Elsinora's heart—and then usurped her father's estate too. The manor of Lyndower should have been Stryker's. For years he'd planned to enlarge his property with those adjoining acres. He'd courted Elsinora—her father's only surviving offspring—ever since they were children together running over the wild moors and swimming in the sea. Then along came Dominic Coeur-du-Loup, an ugly scarred Norman soldier, and suddenly Elsinora was wrenched away from Stryker and with her too any chance of acquiring her father's farm land. So no, he did not go out of his way to know what his neighbor was doing. Most of the time he would rather not know. He'd promised Elsinora to lay aside his sword and his ill-will toward her husband, but this was easier done if he could pretend the man did not exist.

  Now it seemed the place was about to be invaded by more Normans to celebrate the ugly bastard usurper's grand stone fortress—a building that promised to be as unprepossessing as the man himself.

  How could Elsinora have married that Norman toad, when she might have had her old friend Stryker Bloodaxe instead? He still could not get his mind to make sense of her choice. But she was a woman. He supposed that must be excuse enough for her stupidity.

  "When Baron Burleigh arrives he'll want to see his niece wed and content," Ifyr was saying. "I doubt he'll be best pleased to find her stewing in the drunk shed." He laughed uproariously at the thought.