by Georgia Fox
"Yes." Now naked, he leapt back onto the bed and stretched out at her side, one arm slung over her belly.
Ami was so appalled that it took several minutes to understand. "You mean to show that to everyone?"
"Of course. 'Tis tradition for the blood to be displayed. If there was none—"
"You will not display that blood-stained fleece. I am mortified."
"Mortified?" He sat up. "I thought you had no feelings, no emotions?"
She faltered. "This is different."
"Different to what?" He was watching her face, his fingers splayed over her stomach where shreds of her torn gown yet remained.
Ami decided not to answer. "Fine," she snapped. "Do as you will. I care not."
After a moment he nodded. "Good. Now take off the rest of this clothing." His voice had deepened suspiciously.
She turned her head against the furs and looked down. Just as she thought from his husky tone, his staff was already half raised again. So soon. "I thought we were done," she muttered.
"Done?" He snorted. "Far from it."
"But I will be sore."
He knelt on the bed and began easing the remnants of her bridal gown and shift down her body. "I told you yesterday, there are other avenues to pleasure. Turn over."
****
His bride froze. "No."
She was nude now, her newly ravished body spread out on his bed, enticing as a siren's song. Stryker thought with some alarm that he might never get enough of her. With one hand he touched his hardening cock and was mystified to find it so alert again already. Why question it though? Tomorrow would be time enough for them both to recover.
"Turn over," he said again.
"I cannot."
"Why? Are you stuck?" He smiled slowly. She did not. Of course.
"I am tired," she muttered, barely moving her lips.
The woman was rigid with fear, but why? "I will not hurt you," he said softly. "It is only play. I promise you will enjoy it." He watched her swallow. Her gaze was fixed on the roof beams. "You are my wife now, Amias. I will always take care of you."
Her eyes were very bright and he thought he saw a little tear struggling out over her dark lashes. Aha, she did feel.
At last.
Stryker raised his hand and stroked a lock of hair from her cheek. "Trust me." Before she could argue or make some smart remark he placed a finger to her lips. Her gaze drifted downward and found his face. "I desire you, Lady Amias," he said, the words slipping out, reckless. "I never want to cause you pain. In this bed you will only know pleasure. It is the one place you will not regret being my wife."
A line of confusion deepened between her brows.
"In here you and I..." he took the plunge, "here we will be equals." It was safe enough to promise her that, he supposed. No one could see what happened in their bed chamber, unless he invited them in. That was the good thing about this "privacy" idea. He could let his wife be a partner in bed, as she could not be in their life together outside that chamber.
Her right eyebrow quirked.
Stryker let his finger leave her lips and slide over the dainty curve of her chin, then down her silky throat.
"Only in bed?" she said. "I suppose 'tis a start."
He cupped her breast, fondled it, rolled the raspberry nipple under his palm. "So let me show you more."
"What will you do to me if I turn over?"
"Wait and see."
Almost a smile. Almost. Her long lashes fluttered rapidly and he was close enough to feel the breeze on his lips. "Tell me," she urged.
He jumped when he felt her hand slip down his stomach and reach for his steadily rising column. "I ... er ... I want to..."
With her hand she stroked him, her thumb running up the thick vein to his bulbous cockhead.
"I want to finger you," he grunted, pushing his hips toward her, his dick jutting out, tapping her thigh. "Finger your arse ... while I lick your pussy and make you come."
She switched the angle of her hand and rolled onto her side, facing him. "To heaven again?" she whispered.
"Yesss." There was a sudden vulnerability in her expression that he'd never seen. He had cracked her mask, it seemed. Whatever he said to her, something had begun to melt her ice.
"Will you put your tongue inside me again? In my quim?"
"Hmmm."
Her hand grew bolder, her fingers circling the ridge of his cockhead. She used her thumb to smear the drop of body fluid that appeared in response to her exploration. "Your finger will not hurt me, in that hole between the cheeks?"
"No, I'll be careful," he ground out, the craving thudding through his body as her hand moved up and down again, her fingers wrapped tighter now around his width.
"I suppose this is too big to fit there," she said.
Her words, combined with the motion of her hand, caused a tingling that rattled up and down his spine, from the root of his ramrod to a point in his brain that summoned the most primitive and base of desires. The things he wanted to do to her filled his mind, the images drawn like cave paintings of savage couplings.
"One day you'll be ready for my cock there," he managed. "But that takes time."
Still pulling on his cock with one hand, she reached with the other to cup and squeezed his balls.
"Damn it, woman, turn over."
The second hand left his bollocks and slipped further between his legs. "I could put my finger in you, could I not?"
He tensed up, but her fingertip sought and found his puckered hole. Stryker could not stop his prick from expanding again in length and breadth as she manipulated his anus and simultaneously stroked his shaft quite vigorously. He knew that if she forced her finger into his arse and found that magic target, he would lose control and spurt all over her. It was seconds away. Her finger was dry, but slender. The pain of entry would be slight and quickly exceeded by the pleasure.
But she, of course—a novice—had no idea how close he was. Or how close she was with her venturing finger. She removed both hands from his body and sighed. "Very well then. I will turn over. I suppose I cannot hide it from you forever."
"Hide what?" What was wrong with her, he wondered. Did she have horns? Wings? A hunched back? Is that why she was left a spinster into her twenty first year?
His wife slowly turned over, facing the far wall of the chamber. With trembling hands she swept her long hair over her shoulder and left her bare back exposed to his gaze.
It was marked in all directions by red scars like lightening strikes.
She'd been whipped. Savagely beaten.
Stryker stared. "Who did this to you?" His throat was dry, his heart's rhythm loud in his ears, causing him to raise his voice.
"It does not matter now," she said quietly.
But it did. Oh yes it did. Someone had touched his wife—his property—in violence. Hurt her. Left her scarred. It was no wonder she could not trust him enough even to smile at him.
Whoever did this would pay. Severely.
Chapter Six
For some foolish reason she had completely put those scars out of her mind until Stryker asked her to turn over in bed. Now she knew he surveyed the marks of her uncle's wrath and Amias could do nothing but lay there, suffering silently.
It certainly changed his mood. She should have warned him.
"You will tell me who did this," he repeated sternly, making the bed creak as he sat up.
She wrapped herself in one of the furs and she too sat up. "Why?"
"Amias—"
"It was my uncle. He was my guardian. I needed correction he said."
"When?"
She shrugged. "Often." It was a surprise to see Stryker so angry about it. Although she'd fully expected repulsion when he saw the scars, she had not been prepared for his anger against her uncle.
"Giles Du Barry," he said slowly, "is a monster who should have his throat cut."
"'Tis not unusual for a man to beat a woman in his care."
"In his care?
Apparently you and I—he and I—have differing opinions on the meaning."
Stunned, she looked at the big man on the bed beside her. Naked he seemed even larger than he did when clothed. His cock was no longer standing to attention she noted with disappointment. "Must we talk of this now? Can we not continue our play?" It was like stopping a galloping horse, she thought.
He ran a hand down over his face, as if attempting to smooth away his frown. "Has no medicine been applied to the scars?"
"Yes, of course."
"Not enough, clearly. My apothecary must be consulted tomorrow. First thing."
She nodded, fearing the lines were too deep to be helped by any medicine.
He looked away from her, his jaw tense. "That villain will pay."
Ami didn't want any trouble when her uncle arrived there with the dowry. She laid one hand on his broad shoulder. It was a hesitant gesture and was not well-practiced at the art of touching to reassure or comfort, but she knew nothing else to do in that moment. "I barely feel it now. 'Tis just scars."
Eventually he turned his head to look at her again. His eyes were warmer than they had ever been in her presence. She wanted to dive into those blue pools and swim. Naked. That would soothe her skin, she mused. That would cure her of all scars.
He put his arms around her waist and drew her closer until she was almost in his lap. Ah, good. More games.
"Lay down with me," he said, taking the fur from her and wrapping it around them both.
Amias packed away her disappointment and snuggled against his hard body. She supposed they would have plenty of time to fuck again later. She'd just have to wait.
Tucked together under the fur it was really very comfortable and when he began to stroke her arm she grew drowsy.
"Whatever your uncle did to you, Lady Amias, you can rest assured it will never happen again. You are safe here with me. No harm will come to you. I will protect you with my life."
Yet he'd said he could not love her—that she could not have his heart. Perhaps she was like a valuable horse and he would care for her in the same way. Amias yawned, for it had been a busy few days and she'd slept little the night before. Very soon her eyelids were falling and she could not keep them open.
****
She woke sometime later, warm and cozy under the furs and in his arms. The candles were all extinguished and only a thin shard of pale moonlight reached in through a crack in the shutters. The air outside that bed must be cold. Lifting her head she exhaled and saw a shimmer of breath, glistening like silver dust, then dying away.
"You're awake?" he whispered behind her.
Amias wriggled around to face him. "Did you sleep?"
"Some."
She curled her leg high around his hip and his hand slid down to hold her bottom, pulling her closer. At once she felt his flagpole twitch and lift against her pussy, but he made no move to enter her. Very gently his lips grazed her forehead and soon his steady, deep breaths told her he slept again. One hand placed to his chest, she felt the rise and fall of the muscle he denied her. Ami had not known how much she wanted it until then.
Suddenly she stilled. What was that sound?
A distant eerie howl, high-pitched and wild. Ami lifted her head again from the furs and listened. There it was. Surely it must be the merciless winter wind that pummeled the walls and whistled through nooks and crannies.
But it was almost the sound of a wild animal's cry.
The Beast of the Moor perhaps, just as he'd told her.
Good thing she was safe inside, with him. She'd never been the sort of female that thought she needed a hero. Tonight, however, since it was dark, no one would see, and he was fast asleep, so she could relent and let herself be grateful for his strength.
Ami lay down again, pressing tighter against his body, burying her face in the firm planes of her barbarian's chest.
****
Clearly she thought he slept. It felt so good to have her nestled in his arms that he did not let her know differently. He had never slept the night with a woman before. She was a still sleeper and quiet. A few times he had to check that she still breathed.
Outside the bitter winds howled over the rooftops and buffered the timbers of his manor. Winter came full force over the moor that night.
As he held the woman in his arms, he was careful not to touch her back more than necessary. When he closed his eyes he could still see those scars ripped into the delicate skin of her back. What monster would do that to a woman? And she'd called him a brute?
Perhaps she had expected similar treatment from him too—from all men. As he had thought before, she had much to learn about Stryker Bloodaxe.
At least, for now, in this moment, she trusted him to hold her and protect her. A strange sensation came over him, a swelling in his heart. He'd felt something similar before, with Elsinora once or twice, but it was never this powerful. It almost stopped his breath. Slowly, so as not to wake her, he raised one hand to the back of her head and eased her closer still. She went willingly, not a murmur of protest, just a sleepy sigh of contentment, her lashes feathering against his skin. He dipped his lips to kiss her dark, sweet-scented hair and thought how lucky he was that she came. It was lucky for them both. Now that she was there with him nothing would part them again. Ever.
****
In the morning when she opened her eyes and stretched he was already gone from the bed. It was not yet light out, and Villette was humming her awful tune as she tidied the chamber by candlelight, picking up the torn shreds of bridal gown and periodically tut-tutting.
Even that tune didn't bother her so much today. It was almost tolerable. Almost.
She sat up. "Where is he?"
"Off hunting, my lady. First thing they went."
"Oh." She'd hoped they might lay abed a while, but apparently not. "I suppose they must hunt to provide food."
"Yes, my lady." Villette held up the massacred gown. "Was it very bad, my lady? Was he big as a stallion, like they say?"
She thought for a moment and then replied solemnly, "He was huge, Villette. I feared he would split me in two."
The maid's eyes grew wide.
"As you see," Ami added with a deep sigh, "he tore the gown off me with his teeth."
"My lady!"
"I must have a bath this morning. Will you see to it?" Her body was aching and sore as she'd suspected and she wanted to be fresh and clean for him tonight. Pressing her nose into the furs she breathed him in—his heated, manly essence. Her hair tumbled over her face as she lay there smelling the fur and the fragrance of their coupling. She felt wanton and very mischievous. Since she knew she was smiling, she pushed her face further into the bed, hiding it.
"Don't weep, my lady," Villette cooed anxiously, clutching the torn gown. "Oh, my poor lady. Was it so very bad?"
She lifted her head far enough to remind the girl about her bath and then she dropped down again into the lovely warm, soft fur.
Bad? Oh, it was bad. Tonight would be even better.
****
Villette stood by to keep guard while she bathed behind the screen in the cookhouse. When she was done and dry, Stryker had left instructions for the application of a salve mixed by his apothecary. It was cooling and soothing, but she still feared it was too late to do much good. Finally Villette helped her into a clean shift and a woolen gown. When the maid began to braid her hair, Ami stopped her.
"I'll wear it loose." She knew how he liked it so—had seen the spit and fire in his eyes when she let it fall over her shoulders. A small voice inside her warned that it did not matter how he liked her hair. 'Twas merely lust. He could have that same lust for any woman in his sights. She was not special.
Nevertheless, she combed her hair until it shone, then dressed it with a simple circlet of amber stones.
As they prepared to leave the cookhouse, she noticed a woman seated nearby, greedily devouring a bowl of stew. Villette followed her gaze and whispered, "That is the whore Morwenna."
So this was the woman he'd used to slake his lusts just before their wedding vows. The wench was unworthy of her attention, but morbid curiosity drew her across the cookhouse to where the she sat. After all, this woman had knowledge that could be useful to a newly wedded woman.
"You are Morwenna of Marazion."
The woman wiped her mouth on her sleeve and stood. "I am, my lady."
Other folk at work nearby looked over in astonishment that Lady Amias should address a common whore, but there had been many odd glances sent her way that morning as she walked from the main hall to the cookhouse. Eyes followed her wherever she went. Did they wonder why she could still walk this morning, she mused darkly.
"I would talk with you. Come." She took a candle from the table, lit it in the cookhouse fire, and led the way to a windowless storage chamber stacked with casks and barrels of all description. Villette, although not invited, came too, following her mistress as if her shoe was caught on her hem. Ami told her to stay outside, but the maid set her jaw, suddenly stubborn. "I can't let you have an audience alone with the whore, mistress. Wouldn't be seemly."
Ami gave her a sideways look. "Seemly?" There wasn't much in that place that could be called "seemly". It was comical, in fact, to suggest anyone would care what she did. "It wouldn't simply be because you are a nosy little gossip, would it?"
The maid flushed and looked at her feet.
"Stand outside the door and wait for me."
Villette answered glumly, "Yes, mistress."
The door was closed and Ami turned to face the whore.
Morwenna was a well-rounded woman, older than Ami, her skin the color of late summer dusk, her eyes and hair almost black. Her gown was drawn in at the waist with a tight girdle, so that her bosom spilled out above it and her hips below. This was more evident when she walked, for the woman had a leisurely, rolling sway that reminded Ami of a spoiled, pampered cat she once owned.