by Rose, Renee
“Aye.”
“I thank you,” she said with sincere gratitude. Eager to be properly clothed, she pulled off his tunic and tossed it to him, trying to keep the blush from her face and ignore his observation. She shimmied into the dress, which was too small, binding in the chest, and still showing her ankles.
Crow’s mouth crooked into a grin. “Lovely.”
She snorted.
“I am quite serious,” he said, his grin widening.
She glanced down, realizing the way the fabric was pulled taut over her breasts, revealing their complete shape. Now she could not stop the heat from flaming her cheeks. This garb was possibly worse than his tunic had been! She snatched up her bowl and strode away, treating him to the view of her back.
When she turned and settled on her pallet, Crow had removed his shirt, revealing a giant crow etched across his chest and smaller ones on his bulging arm muscles. She stared, fascinated. “You have been initiated.”
“I have.”
“Where? At Avalon?”
“Yes, lady,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. “I saw you there. One of the boys pointed you out, because you were, I mean, are, the princess.”
“Who are you?”
He shook his head, pulling the fresh shirt over his chest. “I am no one of consequence.”
“From which house did you come?”
He picked up his bowl, eating the porridge without answering.
“Where did you learn to speak the Saxon tongue?”
“My father was Saxon. He carried my mother off from one of the great houses and I am the product of their union.”
She gaped, stunned. “And she returned to her house?”
“No,” he shook his head. “She never returned. I do not know how it happened, but they found a love between them and she did not wish to leave him. When I turned seven years old, she gave me her ring and sent me to her father’s house to train as a knight.” He stared into space as if remembering.
She waited, hoping he would go on.
“I was terrified. She refused to accompany me–I do not know whether it was for shame at what she had become, or fear my grandfather would not let her return to my father, but I had to go alone, with nothing but the ring to prove my identity.”
“I am sorry.”
He gave a wry grin. “You see? I have spanned two worlds, too–just like you.”
“Yes.” She saw him differently knowing his story, their similarities connecting them. “So the settlement I saw–was it yours?”
He looked remote. “No. I have not known a home for many years. But it was my father’s clan, my Saxon family, if you will.”
She empathized with his plight. As a knight, he would be pledged to serve the king, yet when the king waged war against his father’s people, his allegiance would be torn. Considering the destruction she had seen in the vision, something terrible had happened, something bad enough to sway his loyalties completely.
They fell into an easy silence. As the day went on, she noted his condition worsened. His cheeks grew flushed with fever, his eyes glassy. He sweated through the new undershirt he had donned.
If he died, she would be stuck with his two cohorts, who held none of the same reverence for her position as a priestess nor respect for her status as princess. To them, she would be a woman they could use as they pleased.
She shuddered and began to pray. Goddess, forgive me for the ill I caused this man and heal him from infection. Please let him live so I might escape here unharmed.
****
“What word do you have?” Broderick snapped at his knight Jeffrey when he entered the throne room.
“Nothing, my lord. No one has heard of Saxon captives. There has been no battle or skirmish in recent report, nor are there any prisoners in your dungeon who answer to the names given by the messenger. Mayhap it was a hoax.”
He slammed his fist into the table. “That cannot be! They would not send such specific demands if they did not believe I had their prisoners. I need answers, Jeffrey, and I need them now. The meeting date is only two days hence.”
“If we find nothing, we can bring the gold they requested and say we will release the prisoners once the Princess is safely returned. It may start a fresh rebellion, but at least Princess Ariana will be out of danger.”
“It will not start a fresh rebellion because I plan to kill every last one of them once my sister is freed,” Broderick vowed darkly.
Chapter Three
By nightfall, he knew the fever had impaired his reflexes and thoughts. His head thrummed a steady pulse, making it hard to focus his eyes or speak. His mouth felt like he had eaten wool and his lips were cracked and bleeding, despite the watered wine he had been drinking to ease his thirst.
What would he do with his prisoner during the night? While it seemed difficult to believe he could sleep when it felt as though his head would burst, he also did not trust himself to be aware enough to note an attempted escape.
He could ask Denby or Alwin to stay in the room, but he irrationally did not wish to allow anyone else in the room with them.
The best option would be to keep her close. He picked up the rope he had used to tie her wrists before he switched to the strip of linen, and walked to where she sat on the bed.
She gave him a wary look.
“Time to change your wrists again,” he grunted, reaching for the knots behind her back. She turned to give him access. It took longer than usual, his fingers clumsy, his focus unreliable.
“Hold them in front,” he commanded when he had freed them. She rubbed her arms and wrists, shaking them to bring the life back. “Now, highness,” he snapped. “Remember when I warned you of bedding with a wounded dog?”
“Bedding?” She held her wrists out in front of her and he retied the bonds.
“In this case, yes. You must sleep bound to me, so I can be sure you will not try to escape.”
She drew back, creating tension on her wrists where he held them. “I will not attempt it.”
“Forgive me if I do not believe you.” He wound the rope around the linen strips on her wrists, then tied it to his own wrist, leaving only a foot distance between the two.
“You could wait until I use the chamber pot,” she complained.
He made a low growling sound, but unwound the rope from her wrists and helped her to stand. “Go, then,” he barked. She had learned how to lift her own skirts with bound hands after the first time he humiliated her by helping.
When she returned, he bound them together and tugged her to lie down, eager to rest his own pounding head and aching body.
She settled beside him, looking nervous, keeping a tension on the rope between them.
“Closer,” he commanded, tugging her wrists.
She made a sound of protest, but he continued to pull until she scooted close enough for him to wrap his two hands around her small bound ones. If she made any move in the night, he wanted to know it.
He entered a series of dreams almost immediately–the strange sort in which present reality morphs into something slightly different so when he woke from each dream, it took him several long moments to determine whether it had happened.
He dreamed Denby came in and tried to have his way with Princess Ariana. He dreamed she cut her wrists free and tried to strangle him with the rope. He dreamed she discovered the trap door beneath her pallet and instead of leading to a cellar, it led straight back to Stonecroft.
He dreamed she was the maiden from his first initiation, naked and painted like spring, with vines circling around her breasts and a wreath of flowers crowning her hair.
“You were very brave,” she crooned, kissing him full on the mouth and stroking her hands over his shoulders, tracing her finger over the fresh outline of his new crow tattoos.
“It was easy,” he boasted, “but I never thought they would give me the princess of the realm for my initiation.”
“They saved me just for you,” she said, her vo
ice soft and seductive, her lashes lowered.
“What about the king you were supposed to marry?”
“My brother killed him,” she said. “He kills any man who threatens me. He will try to kill you, too.”
“I know,” he said, unconcerned. “I will handle him. But first, I must handle you.” He gave her a wide smile, pulling her against his body and falling to his back. He tugged her thigh up so it rubbed his eager cock, then sought her breast. The painted vines somehow became clothing and got in his way as he tried to grip her bare flesh, squeezing the ripe fruit, tasting it with his tongue. It tasted only of wool, a great disappointment.
He reached down to cup her bottom, silvery white in the moonlight. It, too, became clothed, but he wrestled her skirts up out of the way, successful in finding the bare skin he sought. For a long time, he simply stroked the firm flesh, feeling the softness of her skin, enjoying the slope of her curves. His cock pressed insistently against her thigh, though, urging him to action.
His fingers found her crack, followed it back to her sex, moist and hot. He slid his fingers over it, now no longer an untried boy, but an experienced warrior who had learned how to make a woman moan by touching her in just the right way. He found her sensitive nub, circled it, feeling it lengthen as she grew more wet, her hips beginning to undulate, causing her thigh to rub his cock in the most tantalizing way.
“That is it, love,” he murmured, increasing his tempo, then dipping lower, seeking entry to her hot sheath.
“Crow,” she said.
“Yes, love, they are crows.”
“Crow!”
He stilled, the dream fading, though the sensations had not. The smell of Ariana was all around him, the warmth of her body pressed against his.
Oh Goddess.
His fingers were wet, deep in her delicate folds. He yanked them away, only to hear her gasp, as he pulled the rope connecting their wrists.
He blinked in the darkness, trying to make out her face, to remember just which part was real. He smelled the scent of her arousal, not only on his fingers, but in the small room, an intoxicating ambrosia.
Had she been undulating against him in pleasure? If so, why had she stopped him?
Probably because he had been about to breach her entrance and take her virginity.
“Forgive me,” he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his face with his free hand. In his delirium, he had somehow forgotten about his wound and his swipe sent searing pain through his skull, and a damp trickle of blood or pus down his face. He hissed in pain.
“You are unwell, Crow. Untie my hands that I might heal you.”
“With your magic?”
“Aye, with the loving light of the Goddess, channeled through my heart and into my palms.”
“I cannot untie you,” he said, his tongue thick.
“Then change my wrists so my palm faces out.”
It was reasonable enough, though he did not trust his ability to make a sound decision. He would keep her tied to him, so if she used the changed position to try to work off her binds, he would feel it if she did. He reached for her hands, fumbling a long time before he freed them, rearranging them and retying her. Falling back on the pallet, he lay exhausted at the effort.
****
What would have happened if she had not woken him? He had begun to penetrate her with his fingers, would he have continued until his manhood pierced her veil? Part of her wished he had. The heat of his fever had made his touch scorching, her own temperature stoked in response. And his fingers were so large, so different from female fingers, capable in a different way.
But there was no time for such thoughts–his very life was at stake. She tried to position herself to hold her palm over his wound.
“Roll to face me?”
He complied, but his face was still at the wrong angle.
“Mayhap if I am on your other side,” she suggested.
Before she could even begin to move, his arms wrapped around her, rolling her over his body. She lost her breath, enjoying the brief sensation of lying on him, though the extreme heat of his flesh worried her. Settling on his opposite side, she positioned her hands and called in the light and love of the Goddess, projecting it through both palms at his face.
He sucked his breath in over his teeth. “You are burning me, princess.”
“Can you feel it?” she asked, relieved to hear it worked.
“Are you killing me?”
“No. Not yet, Crow,” she murmured and saw his lips pull up slightly in response.
His torso radiated heat, seeming to grow even hotter and she drifted back to sleep with her palms still projecting light into his wound.
When she woke at dawn, he slept peacefully, his body temperature back to normal, his breathing deep. She let him rest, studying him for the first time without observation. He still wore the mask across his eyes, though it was lifted on the left side where it was crusted with blood from the wound. She wanted to see his face without it, not just for the purpose of recognizing him when she was free. She wanted to see Crow–all of him, body and soul.
During the night she had been thinking. The Goddess would not have sent healing light through her if Crow was not meant to be saved, just as she would not have allowed her to be taken by him if not for some purpose. What then, was the meaning? There was some importance in her knowing him, of that she was sure. He had a role to play in the future Broderick so often asked her to read.
He woke with a start, as if angry to have been asleep, and unwound his wrist from hers with a deft speed he had not possessed the day before.
“Feeling better?”
“Much,” he said, standing. “Thank you, your highness, for your magic.”
She clasped her hands over her heart, in the symbol of worship for the Goddess. He returned the gesture, looking as reverential as she felt.
“Tomorrow you go free, princess,” he said, helping her to her feet, and crossing to the door to request their breakfast.
“I do? Tomorrow is the meeting?”
“Aye.”
“Crow? What if my brother does not have the prisoners you demand?”
He scowled. “He has them.”
“But what if he does not?”
“You mean if they are dead?” His face looked hard and mean.
She felt into his statement with her senses. “They are not dead.”
The hope she saw in the sudden lift of his eyes tore at her heart. Who was the woman he sought to free? His wife? Lover?
“Are you certain?”
She felt the energy again. “I don’t know about all of them, but the majority are alive.”
“Then tomorrow you go free.”
“But Crow–I do not believe Broderick has them.”
“He has them,” he growled.
“Why do you think so?”
“The survivors said they were attacked by Broderick’s men and authority.”
She pursed her lips, not believing, but knowing Crow’s conviction was absolute. The door opened and one of the Saxons entered with porridge. She did not wish to eat, preferring to fast to increase her ability to connect with the Goddess to aid her in the next day’s action, but she did wish her wrists freed. She held her wrists out to be untied and took her bowl, playing with her food.
As usual, nothing escaped Crow’s notice. “Why do you not eat?”
She tried for honesty, or partial honesty, anyway. “I am not hungry, but I still wished to have my wrists unbound.”
He gave a faint smile. “I will indulge you, then.”
They spent the day and night peaceably enough. In the morning, Crow brought her into the anteroom, speaking to the Saxons with what sounded like a long series of instructions as he armed himself with a sword, daggers, and quiver full of arrows with the bow strapped to it.
A boy no more than ten years old arrived at the cottage on foot. He had the blond hair and blue eyes of the Saxons and he greeted the other two in Saxon, but when he turned
to Crow, he said in their tongue, “Good morning, sir.” Genuflecting to her, he said, “Your highness.”
“Elric, my page. He will serve today as our messenger to the king.”
She gaped. “You are sending a mere boy as your messenger?”
Elric scowled, lifting his chest as if to appear larger.
“Aye. My hope is your brother would think twice before killing a ‘mere boy’.”
Elric did not look frightened to hear his life might be in danger.
“Is your brother the sort to kill the messenger?”
“No,” she said, troubled. “But he might take him ransom, as you have done.”
He looked at Elric. “If anyone comes near enough to grab you, you know what to do, right?”
“I run like the wind and never look back.”
“Good. You are very brave.”
The boy looked proud.
Crow went still as if listening, then drew his sword, looking every inch the fearsome warrior.
****
Denby and Alwin drew their swords, following his lead, and Elric crept to the window to peer out. By the sound, more than a dozen horses approached. Had their hideout been discovered? Could he and two untrained soldiers take them all?
He had defeated larger groups, but never while trying to keep possession of a woman who wished to escape him. The tension mounted as they all watched Elric for a sign.
When the boy’s face relaxed, he nearly sagged with relief.
“Your soldiers have come, sir,” Elric said with a grin.
He replaced his sword in its scabbard and took hold of his prisoner, bringing her out the front door to take in the sight. His entire band of soldiers–the men he took on every mercenary mission–gathered outside the small hut. They were of Broderick’s kingdom, so he had not notified them of this mission, not wishing to put them in a position of committing treason.
“My friends,” he greeted them warmly. “Why have you come?”
His best knight, Sir William, smiled. “We heard word from young Elric you faced the king alone today. We came to lend our steel.”
His chest swelled with gratitude, but he shook his head. “’Tis too dangerous. You stand with me, you commit treason and you forfeit your lives. I will not put you in such danger, nor would I open you the possibility of Avalon’s curse,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Princess Ariana.