Barbarian Slave

by Jayne Castel

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Mo Chridhe

  The firepit burned low in the hearth, casting a lambent glow over the interior of the small hut that Eithni and Lucrezia shared. It was a still night outdoors, with no wind whistling against the walls; even so, the evenings were cold at the moment.

  Lucrezia lay in her furs, staring up at the low ceiling beams. After the day that had just passed, she could not sleep. Her mind was too active, her body too sensitized.

  “Luci.” Eithni’s voice reached her across the space. She had taken to calling her the familiar name that Lucrezia’s family and Marcus had once used with her. “Are you awake?”

  Lucrezia huffed a breath. “Yes … unfortunately.”

  A pause. “I heard what happened today between you and Tarl … in the armory.”

  Lucrezia flushed, glad the darkness hid her embarrassment, before she muttered a curse. “Is there anyone in this fort who doesn’t know by now?”

  Eithni let out a soft sympathetic laugh. “Perhaps the shepherd who tends goats outside the walls has not yet heard, but I can check tomorrow.”

  Lucrezia sighed and made a mental note to give Alpia a tongue-lashing the following day. “Why are the people of this fort such gossips?”

  “We live in isolation. Gossip is our greatest source of entertainment.”

  “Well, I wish folk would tend to their own gardens instead of trampling all over mine.”

  Silence stretched between the two women for a few moments before Eithni broke it. “What’s it like … to want a man?”

  Taken aback by the question, Lucrezia did not answer immediately. She was not used to speaking of such things, given the sort of marriage she and Marcus had shared. “It’s many things,” she murmured finally. “Exciting, consuming … frightening.”

  “I’ve never felt that way,” Eithni replied. “I once looked forward to the day a man would catch my eye, but that future is dead to me.”

  Lucrezia propped herself up on an elbow, peering through the gloom at the pale face framed in walnut-colored hair that looked back at her. “What happened to you?”

  Eithni grimaced. “Is it that obvious I am damaged?”

  Lucrezia smiled. “Not immediately, no. But living with you, I sense a reserve, a fear … today, I saw it when you argued with Donnel.”

  Eithni drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t talk of it these days; I prefer to let the past lie.” She paused here, as if deciding whether to continue. When she did, her voice was flat, hollow. “After Tea wed Galan and the folk of The Wolf returned to our broch, life changed for us all. A warrior named Forcus, a man who had once been Tea’s lover, killed my brother Loc, and took control of our tribe.” Her voice faltered, and Lucrezia realized she was forcing the words out. “As chief, Forcus took me as his woman … used me … hurt me. He had always wanted my mother you see, and I look like her. I found out later that he raped and murdered her … but he’d loved her too in his own twisted way. When he realized I was not her, and never could be, he did such vile cruel things to me that I fear I can never let a man near me again … even if I know they’re not all like him.”

  Lucrezia listened, her throat tightening as Eithni finished speaking. Horror swamped her. “Eithni,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

  She could not tell her that she would overcome the wounds of the past, or that she would find a man who would love her and treat her gently. Lucrezia had been through enough to know that there were some scars that took a long time to fade, while others lasted a lifetime.

  “I watched you and Tarl at supper this eve,” Eithni said after a few moments, her voice husky now. “I saw how he looked at you. It’s the same way Galan gazes upon Tea—he’s in love with you.”

  Lucrezia’s vision blurred and a hot tear escaped, trickling down her face. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she replied, forcing a lightness she did not feel. “He’s certainly in love with himself—I’m not sure there’s room for anyone else.”

  Eithni laughed, a carefree sound that was at odds with the grim tale she had just told. “He’s certainly sure of himself.”

  Lucrezia huffed. “That’s one way of describing it.”

  “And yet you love him back … don’t you?”

  Inhaling deeply, Lucrezia leaned back against the furs. The tears continued to flow; she felt them run down into her ears and soak into her hair.

  “I think I do,” she whispered.

  Lucrezia lay there for a long while after she and Eithni had finished speaking.

  Sleep would not come. After a spell she heard Eithni’s breathing slow and deepen, signaling that the young woman had fallen asleep. It had been a revealing conversation between them, and an emotional one. If her mind had been wheeling beforehand, it was spinning now.

  Had she spoken true? Was she really in love with Tarl mac Muin? It had crept upon her, like the first winter frost. And now that she risked losing him forever, she finally admitted it to herself.

  What am I doing here?

  They only had a short time left. She could not waste a moment of it.

  Lucrezia slid out of the furs, pulled a plaid mantle around her shoulders, and padded across to the door, letting herself out as quietly as she could manage. Outdoors a full moon rode high in a clear dark sky. Silver light bathed the scattering of cone-roofed huts and the bulk of the round-tower at the settlement’s center. There was not a soul about as Lucrezia made her way up the track to the fort. She climbed the steps to the entrance, her bare feet whispering on the rough stone.

  Indoors there was only the red glow of the embers in the firepit to illuminate her path. Lucrezia edged around the circular space, stepping over the prone bodies of the men, women, and children who slept within. She passed curtained alcoves, some so small they could only fit one person, others big enough for a couple to sleep comfortably. Eventually she stopped before Tarl’s alcove.

  Doubt assailed her for a moment. What if he no longer slept here? What if Donnel had reclaimed his alcove? Tarl’s brother was so foul tempered of late, she did not wish to accidently stumble upon him. She would shrivel with embarrassment if she mistakenly chose the wrong chamber.

  Inhaling deeply and gathering the shreds of her courage, Lucrezia pushed the heavy fur aside and slid inside the alcove.

  A single oil cresset burned low on the wall, illuminating a welcoming, stone-lined space dominated by a pile of furs in the center. And there, sprawled upon them asleep, was Tarl.

  Lucrezia watched him a moment, drinking him in.

  He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his face, the edge of one of the furs covering his loins. Her gaze slid over his long muscular limbs, the faint battle scars on his torso, and the large eagle tattoo upon his right bicep. He was a breathtaking sight.

  For a moment her courage failed her. She was tempted to look upon him for a while longer before slipping back to bed. Now that she was standing here, just feet away from him, the situation felt too real, too raw. What if he rejected her? Or mocked her?

  Don’t be a coward.

  Lucrezia straightened her back and forced herself to steady her breathing. Her heart was thundering as if she had just sprinted four circuits around the outer walls. She needed to calm herself.

  “Tarl,” she whispered finally.

  He stirred, stretching with feline sinuousness as his eyelids flickered open. And then those grey eyes settled upon her. She watched surprise ripple across his face. “Lucrezia,” he murmured, his voice husky with sleep. “What are you doing here?”

  She did not answer; talking would not serve her. Of late, words just seemed to drive a wedge between them.

  Instead she shrugged off her mantle and let it fall to the rushes. Underneath she wore a thin linen tunic, the material so gauzy that it was almost transparent. She reached down, grabbed hold of the hem and pulled the tunic over her head so that she stood naked before him.

  He stared at her, his breathing stilling. “Gods,” he whispere
d. “You are so lovely it hurts to look upon you.”

  Lucrezia wet her lips, nervousness fluttering within her. “Let me see you too,” she murmured.

  Tarl’s mouth quirked before he reached down and pulled the fur aside. His shaft, thick and swollen, sprang up like a banner before him. Lucrezia stared at it, fascinated.

  Tarl smiled. “Are you going to stand there all night?” He reached out a hand. “Come here.”

  She obeyed, padding across the rushes to where he lay. Tarl propped himself up against the furs, his gaze never leaving hers. She put her hand in his, and climbed upon his lap, straddling him. Then she lowered herself to him for a kiss.

  It was questing, tender, sensual—an exploration. The taste of his mouth, the heat of his tongue, the feel of his hands sliding over her skin, unraveled the last of Lucrezia’s restraint. She let out a low groan and melted against him, marveling at how good he felt pressed against her. His shaft was the hottest part of him, it burned against the sensitive skin of her belly when she shifted against him.

  They kissed for a while, while Tarl’s hands lazily explored the length of her back, the curve and cleft of her buttocks, the softness of her thighs. He seemed to have all the time in the world, his hands cupping her full breasts, his fingertips teasing her nipples into hard swollen buds till she gasped.

  Eventually Lucrezia reared back, out of breath from their kisses. There would be time to explore each other further later, but for now the deep throbbing ache within her could not be ignored. She had to have this man inside her.

  Lucrezia slid back off his lap, reached down, and traced the proud length of him with her fingertips, smiling at his gasp as she touched him. Then, acting on instinct, she leaned down and took him in her mouth, tasting him.

  Tarl’s groan echoed through the alcove. It was loud, but Lucrezia did not care; she did not care if they woke up the entire hall. She was enjoying herself too much to stop. She licked, sucked, and stroked Tarl until he gently took hold of her head and prevented her from continuing.

  “Stop,” he said, his voice hoarse with need. “I want to be inside you.”

  Her breathing ragged, Lucrezia straddled him once more, this time guiding his shaft into her. She arched her back as she slid down the length of him, impaling herself to the root. The sensation was glorious; it filled, caressed, and tickled her all at the same time. She let out a low groan of her own, giving herself up to the sensation.

  Tarl took control then. He gripped her hips and guided her so that she shifted against him in a lazy sinuous circle. Lucrezia gasped as pleasure arrowed up from her lower belly into her womb.

  “Tarl … I …”

  His slow answering smile made her breathing hitch. “What is it, mo chridhe?”

  My heart.

  He moved her in the same sensuous rotation once more, and Lucrezia choked back a cry. No one had ever told her it could feel like this. The one coupling she had shared with Marcus had been painful, awkward, and embarrassing. There had been no pleasure, no sense of unshackling herself from the world and letting herself fly.

  He continued to move her, grinding her against him as their hips moved in unison. Tremors of heat radiated up from where their bodies joined. She shuddered as the pleasure crested.

  “Tarl,” she moaned his name in a plea. “Please … I can’t … I want …”

  He rolled over, taking her with him, and pinned her against the furs. Then he spread her legs wide, and thrust deep into her.

  Lucrezia stared up at him, their eyes locked as he took her. The tenderness and passion she saw there merely inflamed her further. She wanted to consume him, to be consumed in return. Lifting her hips to meet him, Lucrezia matched each thrust. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him deeper still into her.

  Throbbing rippled out from her loins, turning her limbs weak and molten, setting her core alight. The last shreds of restraint fell away.

  Lucrezia lifted out of herself. She felt scattered by the wind, tossed high upon the crest of a great wave.

  She cried out, arching back off the furs, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of Tarl’s broad shoulders. A heartbeat later Tarl’s deep cry joined hers, and she felt the heat of him spill inside her.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  With the Dawn

  tarl gazed down at Lucrezia.

  She was dozing in the aftermath of their lovemaking, her hair fanned out across the furs in a dark curtain. Her dusky skin was flushed, her full lips parted. The scar upon her forehead had faded to a pale line. Tarl’s throat constricted, and his vision misted. He was not a man who wept easily, but he almost did now.

  She was beyond beautiful.

  Reaching out, Tarl stroked her cheek. He wanted to make this moment last—to draw it out—but it seemed as if time was speeding up. Dawn was not far off, and he wished to be gone from Dun Ringill before the first rays of sun broke over the edge of the world.

  Lucrezia’s eyes fluttered open, and she gave a soft sigh. She looked up at him, a smile stretching those sensual lips that were swollen from his kisses. “Did you not sleep?” she asked huskily.

  Tarl nodded. “For a bit—but then I thought I’d prefer to watch you. You’re a glorious sight.”

  Her dark eyes grew soft, and she reached out a slender hand and placed it over his chest, over his heart. “Don’t leave,” she whispered. “Don’t go to Wurgest.”

  Tarl sighed, placing his hand over hers and squeezing gently. “I must.”

  Those words cost him, each one ripping from his chest. Suddenly he wished he had not been so eager to fight Wurgest again, to show Galan that he really did have this tribe’s best interests at heart. Both his brothers had tried to dissuade him one final time just before he went to bed the night before—Ruith had gone to them about her divination, which had caused alarm. However, Tarl had been stubborn.

  He had his faults, but he was a man of his word. He never broke a promise made.

  “He will not fight fair,” she said, her eyes glistening. “You know that.”

  “Aye—and I will be ready for any treachery. Worry not, I won’t ride into that valley without making sure Wurgest doesn’t have an ambush waiting.”

  He sat up and pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes. Every fiber of his being wished to remain here with Lucrezia. He felt as if he had only just tasted her; there was so much more to discover about this passionate proud woman from a faraway land. For the first time in his life he felt at peace. He no longer wanted to be somewhere else, he no longer chafed at the confines of his life. It was a bitter irony to make this discovery today, of all days.

  Lucrezia sat up too and wound her arms around his neck, giving him a soft kiss. Tarl’s body reacted instantly to her touch. Desire arrowed through him, and his groin hardened. He deepened the kiss, tangling his hands in her thick dark hair.

  A short time later he broke away, a groan of frustration rumbling in his chest. “Gods, woman.”

  She smiled, although he glimpsed the disappointment in her eyes. “I wish you’d stay.”

  Tarl cupped her face with his hands and looked down at her. “I will come back,” he murmured. “I promise you.”

  Her smile trembled, and the sight was a dart through his heart. “You can’t make such a promise.”

  “I can,” he replied firmly, before he grinned. “You under-estimate my stubbornness. When I say I’ll do something, I will.”

  She gazed up at him. “I want to believe you.”

  It was suddenly hard to breathe. The Warrior strike him down, he did not want to leave her. The gods had handed him a gift—he could not bear the thought of losing her. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me,” he whispered, wiping away a tear that now trickled down her cheek, with the pad of his thumb. “You’re the only one who’s ever really seen me. To most folk here I’m merely Tarl ‘the hothead’, Galan’s rash younger brother. You see beyond all that.”

  Her eyes gleamed, the tears streaming freely now. The pressure in
Tarl’s chest increased. He had to leave now, or he never would.

  Gently, he extracted himself from her embrace and climbed to his feet. Then he met her gaze once more. “I will not let you go, Lucrezia. Once this is done, I’m coming home, and you and I will not leave this alcove for days.”

  Through her tears, she smiled. “Then I will hold you to that promise.”

  The first rays of dawn were lightening the eastern sky when Lucrezia climbed the wall of the outer perimeter to watch Tarl leave.

  He did not know she was there. They had said their goodbyes in the alcove earlier, before he had slipped out into the sleeping hall. She had waited till he had gone—and then she returned to her hut to dress. She now wore a leather vest and leggings, with a knee-length plaid skirt split at the sides. On her back she carried a square oaken shield, and a light iron sword hung at her side. She was ready for battle.

  Tarl rode upon a bay pony with heavy feathered hooves. Dressed in dark leather, his brown hair flying in the wind, he cut a proud figure. He did not look back as he rode south-east, for he would not expect her to be out here on the walls, watching him go.

  It hurt to see him leave like this. After the night they had shared, the words that had passed between them, Lucrezia felt as if she was having a limb removed.

  She could not believe that she had ever hated him, that she had wanted to be free of him. At that moment she would gladly go back to being Tarl mac Muin’s war prize if it meant he would turn around and ride back into Dun Ringill.

  Yet he did not.

  Lucrezia inhaled deeply, her breath ragged. She wanted to believe his promise, and knew he had made it in good faith. But she would not let him ride off to meet that fiend, Wurgest, alone.

  Tarl seemed to think he was invincible, as if an iron blade would merely bounce off him. Yet she had seen the hate on Wurgest’s face the last time the two men had locked gazes. She knew The Boar was out for blood. Nothing else would do.