The Barbarian

by Georgia Fox

  "Since we both need something out of this marriage," he was saying, "I think we can set aside our differences to make the ordeal as painless as possible."

  "Painless?"

  "You stick to womanly domain—the cookhouse, the herb garden and the bedchamber. Don't interfere in my matters of the estate. Speak to me with respect before others and—"

  "Pardon me, but I have no desire to interfere in your matters," she shot him a scornful look, "whatever they might be. You are quite safe."

  "And don't interrupt me when I'm speaking, or I'll send you back from whence you came. Like the other men who returned you to your uncle." He paused, waiting as if he expected argument, welcomed it even, so he had the excuse to raise his voice again and put her in her place.

  Ami tapped her fingertips around the bowl of her cup. Her teeth hurt from being ground together. She did not want to go back to her uncle. She couldn't face it. Certainly, she put on a marble countenance when she had to, but the thought of going back again tore at her insides suddenly with vicious claws. She saw her cousins laughing slyly at her and then changing their expressions to pity. She saw her uncle, ready to beat her with his belt, assuming the fault to be all hers again. Not that he needed much excuse. He would beat her on her back, where the marks could be hidden.

  For more than ten years she'd suffered as the scapegoat for every misfortune that befell Giles Du Barry. He took his anger out on her instead of his daughters. In turn, Ami the Unbreakable took her vengeance out on other men who strayed into her path.

  Now came this man. She hadn't quite figured him out yet. At times he seemed cunning, as if he knew exactly what to say to irritate her. To get some reaction from her. At other times he stumbled boyishly and compensated for it by being deliberately crude in speech and manner. Ami had met men of both sorts before, but never known them in one body. One very well-hewn body. Then there was the strange kindness of feeding her while she was imprisoned, and the provision of a woolen horse blanket for her comfort. Those gestures contrasted starkly with his barbarian conduct.

  "You look at me as if I am a riddle, my Lady Amias. What would you like to ask me?" By the manner in which he spoke, anyone might think he granted her a great favor simply by letting her question him.

  "I don't suppose you can read or write?" she demanded of the big dolt sprawled in the chair beside her.

  "Not a word," he assured her proudly. "I have a man to do that for me."

  "So you have no learning and no civilized manners either. Do you have a man to provide those too?"

  He scratched his rough chin. "That's what you're here for, isn't it, woman? Bring a bit of fancy to the manor." A loud snort of dour amusement shot out of him. "Unless, of course, you want to go home. Mayhap you're not strong enough to live here. My counsel and I discussed the matter before you came. We know most women are too weak to manage the rough life we lead out here," his eyes darkened and he lowered his voice to a deep, grave tone of caution, "on the moor. In fact, there's a ten to one wager that you'll leave."

  Unimpressed, she replied, "I've lived in a great many places. I am adaptable." The moor, from what she'd seen of it, was a bleak, cheerless, windswept place.

  It suited her.

  "You don't look ... adaptable." He swept her with a doubtful gaze. With her fine gown and clean skin she must stick out like a sore thumb. But that was on the outside. He had no idea what lurked beneath the cool, calm exterior.

  Rebellion—never long quelled in her belly—rose up again. No, she would not go back. Not this time.

  "I am not afraid of you, or your moor," she replied finally. She too was considered uninhabitable by many. It was a perfect place for her, she thought. "They call me Ami the Unbreakable."

  He nodded, his lips playing with a wry smile. "So from now on you will do as you're told, stay where you're put and every time you open your mouth it will be to agree with me."

  She sucked hard on her tongue. His gaze drifted away across the hall.

  "There is one more thing you must know, Lady Amias."

  "I can scarce wait to hear it."

  His eyes shot her a quick glance, but she was ready for the dagger this time and raised her shield, staring back, unflinching.

  "I can give you pleasure, my lady, but I can never give you love."

  It shocked her that he even thought it necessary to tell her this. Love was something she never expected from their arrangement. "I'm quite sure I shall manage," she replied acidly. When one had never known love it could not be missed.

  He nodded slowly. "As long as you understand that, you will not be disappointed."

  Ami wanted to laugh suddenly at his solemn countenance. Did he expect her to cry and wail and gnash her teeth because he would not give her his heart? Fearing she might choke on her wine, she quickly looked away from him to watch two dogs fighting over a bone in the midst of his great hall. "It is not possible for me to be disappointed. My expectations of you could not be any lower."

  There was a pause while the fool digested this information, probably trying to figure out whether or not he'd just been insulted again.

  Finally he said, "And another of your duties ... you will bathe me when I require it."

  Just as she turned her head to look at him again, he quickly sank his lips into the wine. "Bathe you?" she demanded.

  "That's right."

  She sniffed, chin up. "You bathe?"

  His eyes met hers and held them in a steely grip. "I do tonight, wench."

  ****

  Water had been drawn from the well and heated by the great fire in the cookhouse. It was then poured into a large round tub, around which a screen of wooden panels was set. While this screen made some nod to privacy, too many knotholes in the wood made a mockery of the attempt. Ami removed her mantle for the first time since her arrival and hung it over the screen, covering as many of the holes as she could.

  Stryker Bloodaxe apparently found this an unnecessary precaution. "They've seen it all before, woman. Nothing new here." He stripped off his breeches without a care for caution.

  "Have they indeed?" She was annoyed by his casual manner. Of course, she thought, he'd probably coupled with both the young kitchen maids. She heard them now, whispering and giggling on the other side of the screen, pretending to be at work preparing the next day's meals. "I wonder why you bother with a screen at all."

  "The screen is for your modesty, my lady."

  "Mine?" She had no intention of climbing into that bath while there was anyone present in the cookhouse.

  "My counsel and I discussed the matter. It was decided that a fine, well-bred lady like yourself, would prefer some privacy. I had one of my carpenters make the screen today. For you." He smiled at her, proud of himself again.

  Would everything she did—or might do—become a matter for discussion by him and his counsel from now on? Between them they seemed to possess an oddly patched-up blanket of information about women and how to treat them, but then, as Villette had said, there were only a very small number of females on the manor. This, no doubt, was why he had whores sent in to keep his men happy. It might also explain why he didn't seem to know what to do with her while she was on her feet.

  Although his mistaking Ami for one of the whores that afternoon had shocked and enraged her, he found it extremely amusing. Or perhaps her reaction was the reason why it made him laugh so hard. He raised the subject again, chuckling over it as he removed his clothes. "From the look of you—all clean and sweet-smelling—I thought you must be a costly one," he said to her.

  "I'm flattered," she replied, curt.

  While he laughed louder at his own error and waited for her join in, Ami kept her countenance stern, her lips pursed. There was, she supposed, a funny side to it, but she preferred to laugh later, alone, when he would not see.

  "What's the matter, woman? Did you never make a mistake?" he demanded.

  "Never of that magnitude."

  Tossing a rag at her, he stepped into the wate
r and lowered his buttocks slowly. Although she'd planned to avert her gaze, her eyes had other ideas. She stared. Openly.

  Well, he was clearly not in the least bashful, so why should she be?

  His cock was half erect, his balls two heavy sacks, swinging slightly as he lowered into the water. His pubic hair was dark blond—like the layers beneath the sun-lightened tips of his hair and the smattering of fur across the top planes of his chest. His arse was round, hard, pert. Once seated, he let his knees fall to the sides and leaned back with a blissful sigh, his forearms resting along the edge of the tub.

  She clasped the rag in both hands and took a deep breath. "Where shall I begin?" There was so much of it, she mused. Unexplored territory for her.

  "Wherever you like," he muttered, eyes closed, relaxing in the water.

  The pink knob of his cock was just visible above the surface. It drew her attention, but she could hardly begin there, could she? Best to start as far away as possible. She knelt beside the tub on a sheepskin rug and rolled up her sleeves. Crushed herbs floated in the water, which was already cloudy from his dirt. Fortunately the warm, sweet scent of lavender, sage and rosemary overpowered less agreeable odors. She rinsed out the rag and wiped it over his shoulders. His skin gleamed, his muscles flexed.

  Ami swept the rag slowly from side to side and then down over the lines that divided his chest and stomach. She saw him hold his breath in and flex again. Showing off.

  Men were proud, silly creatures. He did not need to hold his stomach taut for her. Was she not the woman who had no other choice but him? He was a barbarian, but, as he and Villette had pointed out to her, he was very likely the last chance she had. Try as she might to think otherwise, neither the convent nor the madhouse held any appeal.

  It was odd that he bothered to impress her with his muscles.

  She washed his thighs and let her arm venture lower into the water. His eyelids fluttered open and he watched her warily. Did he think she might make a grab for him? Bite again?

  He was being very brave, allowing her to do this for him, especially since he knew all about her reputation as a shrew who despised men. But perhaps—she looked at him thoughtfully—perhaps he tested his own courage too. For how could he bed her as his wife, if he was afraid of what she might do to him the minute he closed his eyes? A man could not always be on the alert. Not when he slept.

  She trailed the rag across his balls and up over his cock. He exhaled a gush of breath, almost a moan.

  "Let down your braids," he muttered.

  Ami had tied them up on her head so they would not become wet or get in her way. "But this is how I wear them when I do chores," she explained.

  He squinted at her. "What chores have you ever done, woman?"

  Clearly he thought her life was all feather pillows and faerie dust, just because she had clean fingernails. "Plenty." She would not elaborate. The years under her uncle's guardianship were hardly pleasant memories to dwell upon.

  "Take the braids down," he repeated firmly, his eyes never leaving her face.

  With a sigh she sat back on her heels, dropped the rag and raised her hands to unpin the braids. They fell heavily over her chest. He grabbed the nearest one and tugged until she slid closer to the bath. A wild look came into his eyes as they heated up again, losing the softer blue grey, returning to steel. White hot steel.

  "Untie the braids. I want to see it loose."

  ****

  Water lapped at the sides of the bath and when he pulled on her braid again, some ripples splashed over the edge, wetting her gown and the ends of her hair. In the firelight her long, thick, wavy locks were a blend of copper and bronze, although in daylight he'd thought it was chestnut, almost the color of a favorite horse he once had. He wanted it undone and over her shoulders. He needed to smell it, feel it against his lips, tangle his fingers in it. Elsinora's hair was like a golden field of wheat in harvest, but this woman's hair was darker, holding mysteries. Whenever he thought he knew what to call the color, it changed again.

  She was a beautiful woman, more so now that she lowered her drawbridge and her pride enough to touch him. For all the rumors about Amias of York, he'd expected a fire-breathing dragon with scales. Perhaps her looks had lulled other men into a comfortable foolishness and thus, when they experienced her wrath, they were caught off guard. Well, he was one up on the other men already. She had not been able to fool him for even a moment, but came out with claws raised, spitting poisoned arrows.

  Before, when she sat in the hall with him, she was very upright, poised, haughty. It would be hard for her to remain so, he'd thought, if he asked her to bathe him. He was right.

  Sometimes, he mused, he did have a good idea.

  The woman may not be entirely certain about their truce, but she was considering it. Stryker would simply have to persuade her of the advantages to be had in a peaceful, convenient marriage. She thought him an uncivil, primitive beast, but this beast could teach her about pleasure. From the way her body responded to his touch, she was ready to learn. They may not have love, but then few married couples were that fortunate. A sensible marriage was forged for land and coin. Sexual attraction was a bonus and an agreeable surprise in this case. He only hoped it was mutual. Hard to tell with a grass-green maiden.

  Now she complied reluctantly with his command to untie her braids, her long, elegant fingers pulling impatiently on the threads of bronze as if they mortally offended her, simply because they pleased him. Once the last knot was separated, Stryker instructed her to continue washing him with the rag, while he reached out and wrapped her loose, silken locks around his fingers.

  His balls tightened and his cock stretched another inch or so, filling with desire. He'd caught her glancing at his manhood a few times. "You may touch it," he said softly. "Unlike you, it does not bite, Lady Amias."

  She threw him a quick frown and then sneezed so heartily he felt the bathtub shake. "Thank you. I'll decline the offer for now."

  Stryker leaned his head back and laughed. He knew that as he stretched languidly, splashing water over the edge of the tub, his shaft arched above the surface. A sly check through half-lowered eyelashes proved that she'd glanced at it again. "'Tis eager for your touch," he assured her throatily.

  "Stop doing that," she murmured.

  "Doing what, my lady?"

  "Making it ... move ... and grow."

  He opened his eyes fully. "I do not make it happen. My cock has a mind of its own. 'Tis curious about your pretty virgin pussy and wishes to make friends, Lady Amias. You and I may be at odds. They need not."

  "You are too coarse," she exclaimed, looking over at the screen that shielded them from other folk in the cookhouse.

  "The kitten and the cockerel want to play," he whispered.

  Despite her verbal protests, she was plainly fascinated by his erection. Her hand continued to move the wash rag around it. Venturing a little closer each time.

  Was that a slightly sinister smile pulling on her reluctant lips? No, she would not give it to him. He'd have to pry it out of her.

  "Tell me something about Amias of York," he said. "Something I do not already know."

  "That is a broad subject. The things you do not know are many."

  Cocky wench! She thought she was clever, had sneered at him for not being able to read or write. In her eyes he was uncivilized. Compared to other men she'd known he probably was. But however rough his manners, Stryker was not stupid. His wisdom was merely of a different kind to the sort she recognized. "I know this, my lady—you are one and twenty and have been rejected four times by other men. Why?"

  She blinked, paled a little. There was a tense movement she made when she tightened her lips. He'd noticed it earlier when she spoke of chores. Stryker knew he must have shocked her with such a direct question.

  Eventually she said, "They found me lacking in tenderness."

  It took her so long to come up with her answer that he doubted the veracity of it. "What else should I
know of you then, Amias?"

  She considered for a while, drawing the washrag back and forth through the water. "There is nothing of import to tell."

  "Tell me unimportant things then."

  "No." She shook her head and sat back on her heels again. Withdrawing to a safer distance. She was skittish and wild as a fox, he mused, and probably just as dangerous when cornered.

  "If it will put you at ease, I can tell you something about myself. Something that will make you laugh."

  Her eyelashes lifted; her wary, quizzical gaze sought his face. "I won't laugh."

  Stryker cradled the back of his head with both hands and propped his knees over the other end of the tub. "I fell out of a hayloft once and cracked my head open."

  She frowned.

  "It mended." He tapped a fist to his temple. "But I saw double for a time." He grinned. "And walked sideways like a crab."

  No response. Just a mystified expression.

  Well, he thought it was funny.

  "And I fell off a horse when I was fourteen, trying to impress a girl by leaping a hedge. I landed face first in a cowpat."

  The woman turned her face away and then fumbled in her rolled up sleeve for a kerchief.

  "When I was sixteen I proposed marriage to a glassblower's pretty daughter in Marazion. But when I sobered up I discovered that slender beauty was six foot tall with shoulders fit to pull a plow and his name was Ned."

  Amias held the kerchief to her face as if suddenly overtaken with another sneeze. One that did not fully materialize and sounded more like a hiccup.

  "Your turn," he prompted.

  She wiped her nose and sniffed. "I can shoot the eye of a target from two hundred paces."