by K. E. Saxon
* * *
“ ‘Tis unlikely you’ll conceive this first time but, if you do, there is a woman I’ve heard spoken of that knows what can be done about it,” Robert said into the silence, startling his mute companion enough to make her jolt. Ignoring the reaction, he dropped the cloth into the water and swirled it around, ridding it of the blood and making the water turn an even rosier hue in the process.
He shrugged. “Otherwise: Bastards are whelped everyday; one more will make no difference.” He gave her a piercing look. “But you’ll get no wedding vows from me, so do not think a babe in your belly will sway me to do so.”
Morgana nodded slowly. She had no worries, for the court ladies had said ‘twas not so easy to get a babe started if you’d just finished your flowering—which Morgana had only recently done. Two days ago, in fact.
Robert relaxed his shoulders. Good. The lass understood how things would be between them. He knew his words had been harsh, but he’d give her no quarter—he could not afford such a luxury. ‘Twas best that the lass kenned from the beginning that theirs would not be a prelude to marriage; this was no carnal affair leading to a love match.
He took in a deep breath and released it, then turned back to the job at hand. After wringing out the excess moisture, he returned it to his silent companion’s gorgeous, lush tail. Aye, but he’d fuck her often—and well—once he could get his hands on the means to prevent childing. That promise he could give to her—and to himself as well.
“All right. ‘Tis done,” Robert said as he plopped the rag back into the bucket and stood up. He walked over to the door and, after opening it, tossed the contents of the bucket out onto the snow-covered ground. He turned and placed the container back where he’d found it, and then started building a fire in the hearth.
He had to admit, he liked how silent the lass was. ‘Twas rather pleasant for a change not to have a lady bleating in his ear after giving her a good fucking. Lord, how they could go on about this thing or that. Mostly to do with fashions, which he thoroughly abhorred. Or worse, some bit of chatter they’d been privy to that they simply could not wait to share with him. And if he e’er wanted to get between their thighs again, he had to pretend interest in those dull-as-dirt tidings.
He heard strange scraping and creaking noises coming from the direction of the bed and looked up. Morgana motioned that she needed a bit of help getting her legs back o’er the posts. He nodded and quickly accomplished what she’d evidently been struggling to do these past moments as he went about his business. He felt a small twinge of conscience that he hadn’t thought of helping her before, but quickly let it go. ‘Twas not his fault the lass was in this position. ‘Twas her own—and Vika’s.
And he was out an heiress now, which his clan desperately needed if they were to keep their land. He refused to feel sorry for her, or feel bad for what he’d done with her—to her—nor for how...how rough...he’d been with her.
Nay! He must stop that line of thought, else he would begin to feel compunction. And that was the last thing—the very last thing—he needed to be feeling at this moment.
* * *
Morgana straightened her torn gown and chemise as best she could before wrapping the cloak around her. The hood of the thing had fallen back during those first minutes in the lodge when Robert had settled her on the bed.
“Are you hungry? I’ve a bit of mutton and cheese in yon satchel,” he said, tipping his head and nodding in that direction as he spoke, tho’ he didn’t look up from his endeavor at the hearth. “There are a few bannocks there as well, I believe. Serve yourself, if you desire something.”
Where have you brought me? she wanted to ask. She’d been thinking about the possibilities these past minutes and had decided that she was more than likely at a hunter’s cot—she knew not whose—up in the hills.
She stood and walked with a bit of a slow gate over to the satchel. Her canal was desperately sore. Her thighs were aching and wobbly as well. But, she was more hungry than pained, so she crouched down and rummaged inside the satchel until she found the rough-woven bag with the food inside it.
She needed a knife. Lifting her gaze, she scanned the wall. Ah-ha! There, not too far up for her to reach, was a small dirk. She took it down and wiped it off on her ruined gown before placing the food on the table and cutting a portion of mutton and cheese for herself. She cut some for Robert as well, before taking a couple of bannocks from the sack.
She rapped her knuckles on the wooden surface to get his attention. He was finished with the fire and now stood staring at the flames. He looked up and, it seemed to her, it took him a moment to focus on her, so deep in thought had he been. She pointed to his portion of the food and picked up a bannock, holding it out to him, her brows arched in question.
“In a moment. No need to wait for me. Eat.” He turned his gaze back on the flickering, crackling orange and yellow flames.
Morgana ate, but there was little joy in the endeavor. Robert was troubled, that much was clear. And it had something to do with her being here instead of her cousin, but no matter how hard she tried to puzzle it out, she could not ken the importance of such a thing. Oh, she heartily understood why any man would be vexed to find that his lover had sent another in her place, but this was not anger she saw; nay, this was worry, deep and anguish-filled.
Had her night of forbidden adventure cost the man for whom she’d been pining these past sennights some terrible price? Had it something to do with the reason he participated in so many tournaments?
* * *
Robert stared, unblinking, at the smoke rising up from the licking hearthfire he’d just kindled. What the hell was he going to do? King William had refused his petition for more time to repay his father’s debts, so he now had only three moons more to earn the coin. And that sum was much too great to earn, even were he to win every tourney given in that time. He’d even offered his knight services to the Macleans for coin, but that, along with the tourney winnings, was not enough. Not by far.
He’d failed. Failed his clan, and failed himself.
Robert’s eyes grew dry and started to sting. He clamped them shut and pressed his forefinger and thumb against their lids a moment. As he did so, and for what must have been the thousandth time since he’d first learned of the extent of his late father’s debt, he wondered why? Why had his father been so set against the Norman earl, Roger de Burgh, whose land abutted the south portion of their holding, that he had spent all his coin, and borrowed against future earnings as well, to fight the man? Had it something to do with Isobail, Robert’s sister, and the affair she had with the earl’s son, Guy, so many years ago now? Or had it more to do with the humiliation Guy caused her afterward? He’d asked Isobail that very question as she lay dying o’er a year ago, but she’d had no more an answer than he.
The rapping noise began again and he turned toward it. It took him a moment to understand the lass’s hand movements, but when he did, he answered, “ ‘Tis nearing dawn now. My clansmen will return for us later today.” He shrugged. “Or the morrow, at the latest, I’m sure. For, once they realize we got the wrong lady, they’ll not continue with the original plan.” He noticed the weariness in her eyes then. “Go to bed and get some rest. I’ll join you there later—worry not, I’ll not fuck you again without some means of preventing a babe.”
He turned back to the flame then, back to his gloomful thoughts of the previous moment, back to his ruminating. There must be some way to save his clan! He had three moons, three moons to find that means, and he’d not give up until the King came with his army—or sent his new tenant with his—to claim his property.
* * *
Morgana was a bit stunned by Robert’s blunt declaration, but she’d already realized he was a man of few words and, she supposed, if she were to continue an affair with him—and it certainly sounded as if he wasn’t averse to that idea—she’d simply have to accustom herself to such.
Her eye wandered o’er to the narrow bed, tu
cked against the far wall in the corner. ‘Twas barely wide enough—or long enough—for his tall, muscular frame. She’d no doubt need to lie on top of him for them both to fit upon it. That lewd thought gave her both a thrill of excitement and a twinge of guilt. She ignored the latter and basked in the former. After all—hadn’t she only several hours past given herself permission to begin enjoying her life a bit? ‘Twas not so evil, what she craved, was it? ‘Twas not murder she committed, after all. She caused no harm to another, instead giving only pleasure. A tingle of remembered delight traveled down her center at the recollection of just how much pleasure was given and received. Aye, ‘twas not evil, she’d not believe it.
She rose from her stool and walked with great purpose over to the bed and, now that the chamber was filled with warmth from the hearthfire, she did as she always did: Took every last stitch of clothing from her frame and got under the blankets. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, ne’er looking back at Robert. But she felt the heat of his gaze upon her, even still.
With a contented smile and a weary sigh, she closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
Robert was so painfully erect now, he knew he couldn’t last the night without relief. The image of her naked body was now burned into his mind for e’er more. God, but the lady was lush, more lush even than Vika—and that lady had one of the best figures he’d seen. Morgana’s, however, was on a higher plane. Like some warrior goddess of old, her pale-pink nipples sat upon the peaks of her round, high breasts, begging to give succor to her man. Her silvery hair glistened against milky-smooth skin, and tickled the dimples at the base of her spine, just above her lovely, curved bottom. Rounded in a way that a man with big hands, like himself, could get a good grip on. Her waist was long and sweetly curved inward between her ribs and her narrow hips. And her limbs. Tho’ she was only of medium height, her legs were long and straight, her arms the same.
He’d noticed her of course, in court these past sennights. For she had a beauty that few could ignore. She and her cousin shared similar features. But with Morgana, the contrast of her pale hair and cerulean blue eyes was much more striking. Add to that, her perfectly sculpted cheeks and chin, her feminine straight nose and a set of full lips that would give any man carnal thoughts, and ‘twas no wonder that he’d felt stirred by her.
But he’d not dared to follow through on his lust. For she was a virgin just from the nunnery, a poor relation of Vika’s that could not aid his cause. Because he needed a wife—an heiress—to save his clan. Besides which, until this eve, he’d been sure that Vika felt threatened by her cousin. Would have, in fact, discontinued her affair with him if he’d attempted a seduction of Morgana—even tho’ Vika otherwise encouraged him to take other lovers, as she did herself.
His eyes traveled o’er the hills and dales of Morgana’s curving form. ‘Twould be the ultimate test of his will not to fuck her again until they were back at the abbey. Ah, but then, when he finally did have her again, he’d spend some time enjoying all those feminine treasures she’d been hiding beneath her modest lady’s attire all this time.
He turned away from her and, after quickly giving himself manual relief and cleansing himself once more, he went over to the food Morgana had laid out for him on the table and choked it all down. He hadn’t had an appetite since first hearing the sum his father owed. That was nearing three years ago now. But he’d begun forcing himself to eat more since speaking with his sister as she lay dying all those moons ago, after she had told him he looked as if he were the one nearing his last hour. It had made him finally admit to himself that if he wanted to continue winning tourneys he would need to not only keep up his strength, but build it. And that meant eating, whether there was an appetite to do so or not.
After washing the last bite down with a bit of the uisge beatha he dug out of his satchel, he stripped off his shirt, doused the flames on the torch and the taper, and got in bed. It took a minute, since Morgana was now well-cradled in the realm of Hypnos, but he finally got her positioned on top of him so that he could stretch out a bit more and rest. Surprisingly, he was asleep himself in a matter of minutes.
CHAPTER 2
“PATER NOSTER, QUI es in caelis
Sanctificetur nomen tuum—”
Robert was jerked from one of the deepest, most untroubled sleeps he’d had in three years by the sound of an angel singing. He opened his eyes and realized that ‘twas Morgana who sang so sweetly. She was sitting up, with her back against the wall. The light from the hearthfire allowed him to see that, tho’ her eyes were open, she was not awake. There was something unearthly in the far-off look in her blue eyes, in the moon-glow silver of her hair streaming o’er her shoulders and down her torso, giving him only a teasing glimpse of the succulent fullness of the breasts beneath.
Stunned by the sight, stunned by the sound, he didn’t try to awaken her, instead allowing the lovely image and ethereal lyric resonance to build a tide of exaltation inside him. For hers was the purest, most enchanting voice he’d e’er heard.
“Et ne nos inducas in tentationem;
Sed libera nos a malo.”
And then, as he watched, Morgana heaved a contented sigh and, closing her eyes, settled back on top of him with her head on his chest and her left hand curved o’er his opposite shoulder. She was silent once more, and clearly sleeping soundly now. Almost as if it were habit, he wrapped his arms around her and brushed a light kiss on her brow.
So, her voice was not ruined, as the rumors attested. Did this happen often? And if so, did she know of it?
His body was stirring, his blood beginning to heat, as he held her to him. He wouldn’t be able to remain much longer like this without exploring the curves she so freely offered up to him. Why had she offered herself up to him? Given him her maidenhead so willingly? ‘Twas a puzzle he’d only just now begun to study.
He’d already worked out in his mind how he had continued to be duped, even after stripping her down and having a good taste of her. It had been pitch black in the chamber, and her figure was similar enough to Vika’s to not cause him to question. They’d not kissed, as was Vika’s requirement, so there had been no way of telling from that type of encounter. That left only the tasting. But the lass—or Vika, as he’d thought her to be—had put a good amount of herbal tincture on her curls there, masking the natural scent as well as the taste of her.
His fingers traveled down and o’er her rounded derriere cheek and lightly caressed the soft, silken, hair-covered lips of her scut. He’d taste her again later and learn just what flavor hers would be.
Morgana moaned in her sleep and lifted her bottom to his exploring fingers.
He snatched them back. None of that now. But later, after she’d rested a bit more. ‘Twas the least he could do for her, to allow her some sleep, after the night he’d given her—she’d given him.
He turned his mind back to puzzling her out. Nay, she’d not resisted, not seemed afraid when he’d gone through the steps of the abduction and seduction that Vika had demanded. Well, there had been his moment of entry, when she’d tried to pull herself back with the ties around her wrists, but he’d thought ‘twas part of Vika’s performance, and had redoubled his part as the seducer, ramming himself even harder into her then.
‘Twas truly a wonder to him that all that time it had been a novice, an innocent, taking what only a lady more proficient, more practiced, would have found pleasure in. ‘Twas no wonder the virgin’s blood had flowed and smeared to such a degree. But, in the end, she had found pleasure in it. And remembering his own second climax from it, made his blood fire, his tarse grow achingly hard.
He rolled her off of him and leapt to his feet. He looked down at her sleeping form, his lungs blowing, his fists clenched at his sides, and his brow and upper lip damp with sweat. Desperation driving him, he turned and strode toward the door, flinging it wide and walking out into the bitter cold late morn air.
As he stood on the porch, he cro
ssed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands under his arms. It didn’t take long for the frigid air to soften the raging erection.
When Robert’s eyes finally focused on the scene in front of him, he bit back a roar. Then, unable to keep completely silent, he ground out, “Blood of Christ!”
While they’d been inside, fucking, eating and sleeping, a storm of a great magnitude had blown in and covered everything, including the only path up to the cot, with several feet of snow.
And…. Was it growing colder, even as he stood there? He shivered and turned, walking back through the doorway of the dwelling and just barely managing to not slam the door behind him.
‘Twould clearly be days, mayhap even a sennight, until his clansmen could get to them. And he needed those days to work on another plan for obtaining the monies needed to rescue his holding, save his clan. How many tourneys would he miss in that time? How much more coin? His eye was drawn to the lovely lady resting in the corner. And how e’er was he to keep his cock out of that delectable, tight tail in the meantime?
* * *
“Do you know that you sing in your sleep?” Robert asked a couple of hours later. They were seated at the trestle table, eating another portion of the mutton and cheese. He offered her a bit of bread and she took it. Thankfully, he’d planned for himself and Vika to be here for much longer a time, so there was food aplenty in the storeroom, and wine and ale as well.
Morgana’s brows drew together in confusion. She placed the fingers of her hand against her throat and adamantly shook her head, as if saying, ‘’tis impossible.’
Robert nodded. “Aye, you do. The Pater Noster, in fact.” Her eyes grew round at his declaration.
Just the name of that prayer was enough to send a chill through Morgana. She’d had a dread of it since she was a bairn, but she had no idea why. And he said she sang it? In her sleep? Her heart began to thud. Her breath caught in her throat.
An image flashed e’er so briefly in her mind. Horrifying and awful. ‘Twas Ankou, the death god of old. And he held a limp and lifeless lady in his arms. “Say naught. Else you shall be next.” The image, the voice, faded just as quickly as it came, as it always did, before she could learn its meaning. Conjure whom he held.