How to Marry Your Wife

by Stella Marie Alden

  How many times had she seen Thomas’ men start a fire with blade and a black shiny rock? She searched the bank and found a small piece of flint. After a few attempts and a sorry nick in her precious blade, a tiny spark flew away, landed on a small bit of straw, and smoldered. It smoked when she breathed upon it. Finally, a tiny lick of fire burst forth. From there she added twigs, pinecones, and bark until a roaring blaze warmed her.

  While her dinner cooked, she honed a bone to a needle point and made a hole with her knife. The rags around her upper thighs had enough material to create a rough skirt. She cut the rabbit hide in two and tied the skin to the bottom of her bloodied feet.

  Contented that immediate needs were met, she decided to take a short rest before starting out again. Would Thomas still be alive by the time she found him? The sharp hoot-hoot of an owl wakened her and she shivered. The fire burned low, barely embers. The almost full moon had risen high into the sky and beckoned her along the path that led to him. She tied tight her makeshift shoes and trudged forward, too tired to keep the incessant memories from attacking.

  How she missed her mother. What would her life have been if she’d been allowed to stay in her father’s keep? In the next memory, her aunt’s stern voice belied the tears in her eyes. “The Green Meadows needs noble women for their keep. There, you will find another strange girl to keep you company. No one will remember these days if you learn to shut your mouth. Never, ever mention your ability to recall again. Do you understand? Never.”

  Meredith had nodded, but she hadn’t understood. All she knew was her father’s red, red face when the priest put a cross of ash on her forehead. How the people had shouted angry things at the door of their keep. How she was led out through a dark cave, and into the forest, down the long path to the river, to the tavern, to her Aunt’s, and finally to Green Meadows where she’d never laid eyes on her family again.

  She let go of the clinging memories as if stuck in a sticky spider’s web, but more and more came unbidden as she walked through the night. They attacked, forcing her attention into the hundreds of scenes from her past. If she didn’t get control soon, she’d go mad. What would become of her son, Tom? How would she save Thomas? And she was so, so, tired.

  Gaping holes opened in the hillside and she pinched her hand to make sure she was truly awake. Caves.

  Demon nickered.

  Thomas was near.

  Chapter 15

  Dougal MacTavish couldn’t believe that for once the god’s had favored him and chuckled. His ruse near the tavern had worked and the Norman knight hung over the back of his own horse with hands and feet bound like a prize stag. All it had taken was a willing wench, a hungry hound, and some soft ground beside the river. Och, that and a shovel.

  Much like a king, he swung his newly won great cloak back and off his shoulders. It trailed over the rump of his new charger and its former owner. Fingering the fine weave of his new Templar tunic, he remembered the pretty head of the tavern maid as he cleaved it from her body. His last meal revisited and he swallowed the bitter bile. His fist clenched over fabric when he recalled how the hound gnawed on her pretty pock-less flesh.

  As usual, his father listened in on his unmanly thoughts and had to comment. His booming voice hadn’t lost a bit of its edge, not even after death. “Quit yer whinin’. The lass was nothin’ to you.”

  Again. Not one word of praise. Yes, he’d lost the English lady in the boat, but hadn’t he recovered? Did he not carry home the prize? He laughed as he recalled the stunned look on the knight’s face; as if he’d seen the devil himself.

  “I out-witted an army of men, did I not?” For just once, Dougal wished for a modicum of praise from the voice.

  “Like a miserable coward, you left the rest to fight and die.”

  Dougal thrust his fist into the air. “Me brothers are safe. That’s what matters. Och, I know men like that are expendable. Dinna you teach me that? Besides, you’re the one who said ta follow her, to kill the tavern wench, and to steal the knight’s belongings. Why then now, I ask you, am I to blame?”

  “Because I knew you nae had big enough balls to stay and fight, let alone win. Best ta use you for some good.”

  “Why do you insist on hammering me? Be gone.” The forest closed in upon the road, Dougal ducked under two low hanging boughs, and the incessant voice finally paused. Damn his father. Why couldn’t he rot in hell with all the other tortured souls?

  The great horse under his thighs screamed and bucked. Dougal leaned forward, dug in his spurs, and looked about for what had spooked the devil of a beast. The prisoner, groaned out a woman’s name and shifted.

  “Now quiet down, both of you.” He pulled out his strange new curved sword, and took the hilt to the prisoner’s thick head.

  His father shouted so loud that it drowned out every other night noise. “You’ve never had any discipline. If ye kill ’im, ye canna find the treasure. Are ye so daft, mon?”

  “Noooo.” Dougal held his head with one hand and raced toward the cave, hoping the voice would be silent, if only for a moment.

  Chapter 16

  Thomas woke with a pounding headache, lying upon his back. Spiky shadow-men danced upon the ceiling of an enormous cave that glowed red. One of the more human of the ghosts paced around a hot fire, mumbling incessantly to a spirit he called father. Holy Mother, Mary, Mother of God, I’ve landed in hell.

  Memories of the mud-demon arising from the ground were closely followed by the bloody corpse of a beloved woman. Moaning, he struggled to release the twine binding his wrists and ankles and gave up. What’s the hurry? Eternity’s a long, long time.

  Wait. Wasn’t the demon the same clever whoreson who’d attacked him while he put the last stone atop Merry’s grave. But why? What had he hoped to gain? Again and again, the man muttered ionmas. Treasure? Is that why Merry lay cold under the stones? The nagging thought fully woke him and he blinked, forcing his vision to clear.

  He considered taunting the devil, hoping another blow to the head would ease the ache down deep within his soul. His lovely Merry was no more and her fair body lay cold upon the ground. Another vision flashed in his mind’s eye. While across Demon’s rump, half-mad, a river elf had mocked him with her face. He moaned. Hell was full of torments.

  The demon with wild red-rimmed eyes focused upon him. “Where is it, mon?”

  Thomas dug his heels into the floor, shoved up to sit, and leaned back against the sharp edges of the cave wall. “Where is what?”

  Swift knuckles sunk into his jaw, loosening a tooth, and he tasted blood. He spat it out.

  “I’ll nae be patient. Most my kinsmen lie dead, as will you, but I’ll make it quick if ye tell me now.” The demon peered closer, his rancid breath heated Thomas’ nose and mouth.

  What was this all about? He’d his own fortune from trades further than Jerusalem, but no one besides Marcus would have knowledge of that. Even the daftest of men wouldn’t expect a man to carry wealth while traveling. He clenched a fist and the bindings tightened around his wrist. “You killed my only treasure. With that, you’ve sealed your fate. Forever.”

  The lunatic waved away the threat with one hand in the air. “Not the woman, laddie. The gold. Where did yer mother hide it?”

  How long had it been? Thomas ticked off the years since he’d spoken to his family. Little Tom was conceived six years ago, and he’d spent two with Marcus in the wars to the south. His birth family was nay poor, but a treasure? He’d no idea to what the mad knight referred.

  As a youngster, he and his siblings had played in the halls, searching for treasure, but it was all a game. One wall of the old keep had a rhyme, written by his French great-grandfather. The trésor referred to his wife, lost at an early age and buried nearby.

  “Do you refer to the D’Agostine trésor?”

  The man leaned in closer, for surely he was a mere man, not a minion of the devil. Unfocused and mad liquid eyes shimmered in the light of the fire. A tiny spitt
le of drool dripped out of the corner of his mouth. “Aye, mon. You know of what I speak?”

  Thomas leaned back, forced his shoulders down and his legs long. He shrugged, closed his eyes and recited. “Forget not my treasure, buried deep beyond measure. Gold so beautiful, lost for always. With it goes my heart.”

  He sang. The words had more meaning today as he grieved along with his ancestor. The cave gave a soulful counterpoint with its low echo.

  N’oubliez pas mon trésor.

  Enfoui au plus profond sans mesure.

  Or si belle perdue pour toujours.

  Il va avec mon cœur.

  McTavish stood and paced while holding his head as if it might fall off. “Nay, nay, nay. We all know that the treasure was buried. That’s clear. But where did your family hide it next? We’ve searched your keep from top to bottom. It canna be found. Your women remain silent no matter how many times we fuck ’em.”

  Thomas held his temper. He’d revenge the women of his father’s keep, even if they had thrown him out as a child. To do that, however, he first needed to get free. “I’ve been away for eight full turns of the seasons. I know of many hiding places in my family’s keep and I’d be willing to help you look, but I can’t if I’m dead. Surely, you must realize the truth in that? Isn’t that why your father insisted to keep me alive?”

  The crazed Scot’s eyes widened as he pounded a palm to his forehead. “Shut it. We leave at break of day. You best keep your men away if you ever want to see your clanswomen again. For if none of us return, my family has orders to torture them slowly. Do ye understand?”

  Thomas gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached and he nodded. What he understood was that the people that birthed him no doubt were already dead. While he plotted revenge, the mad warrior eventually stopped mumbling and breathed in and out in troubled slumber.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Thomas rubbed the hemp rope against the sharp edge of the cave wall making little progress. Demon’s ears twitched forward, he nickered, and pawed the ground with his right foot. It was about time his men finally found him. He turned toward the cave’s opening, held his breath, and waited for the drawing of swords.

  “Pssst.”

  Merry? Was he, too, turning mad? He closed his eyes, willing away the voice of the dead.

  “Pssst. Thomas, you dolt. It’s me.”

  He almost swooned. She was alive. He’d praise God forever, and—

  But wait. She’d soon be dead if she kept up with that foolish noise.

  Willing his joints not to creak, Thomas swiveled on his arse for a better view of the entrance to the cave. There she was, laying on her belly in a tunic made of bloody rags, her face covered in dirt and mud. He’d never seen a lovelier sight. How the hell had she found him and whose body had he buried down by the river?

  He nodded and she crept forward like a lizard with a small blade between her teeth. With each in and out of the lunatic’s chest, her elbows and knees left bloody spots on the cave floor. When she was halfway to him, he gave her an encouraging grin, meeting the gaze of her gray hazel eyes.

  She made quick work of the hemp that bound his hands and handed him her knife. Keeping one eye on the sleeping Scot, he freed his legs and crept across the cave floor. With one blow of a heel, he knocked his captor senseless. He would’ve slit his throat, but there was too much to learn. With a piece of usable rope from his own binds, Thomas tethered him.

  “Why didn’t you kill him?” Merry shuffled across the floor, stood with hands on her hips, and kicked the man’s ribs.

  Thomas winked. “Blood thirsty, little wench.”

  “Perhaps a mite.” She grinned back.

  “Did he …?” Thomas fought hard for a gentle word and came up empty. “Merry, did he breach your opening?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Surely, you can do better than that. He did not, but threatened much more with a mouthful of filth. That’s why I kicked him. Now that I think upon it, I shall do it again and harder.”

  A foot bound in rabbit fur and skin, kicked out. “Bastard.”

  Thomas laughed and pulled her into his chest. “Come here, Sir Merry, the knight of my dreams.”

  “Oh, no, I won’t. Look at me. I’m filthy.” She giggled and held her arms open so he could take in the full breadth of her costume.

  His cock swelled. She’d recovered that little laugh that tinkled like silver mail. “Merry, Merry, a sweeter mud fairy I’ve never beheld. Please, dearest heart, I’m suffering to hold you. Come here. Anon.”

  He wrapped himself around her and her soft body folded into him until he was reassured that she truly wasn’t one of God’s angels sent to rescue him from the devil. Every inch of her was real. His hands wandered up to the tangles in her long hair, down her back, feeling her firm rear. Her fingers dug into his neck, her eyes went dark, and her mouth opened. Alive. Oh God, I thank you. I’m forever in your debt.

  Like a starving man, once he claimed her mouth he couldn’t stop. Over and over he kissed her and held her firmly against his rock-hard cock. His voice cracked when he gasped for air. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “And I, you.” She held back a little sob, yet grinned through tears, making rivers of mud down her cheeks. She shivered and stood on her toes to kiss him again.

  Her discomfort brought him back to reality, the cave, and the danger they were in. He pulled off his under-tunic, the only thing the mad whoreson had left him, and put it over her head. “What happened to your clothes?”

  “I traded them for the finest of looks. Blood, rabbit skin, and rags. I’ll set the women in Edward’s court into a frenzy, trying to match such finery. The hair, too, is unparalleled in its wonder.” She lifted the muddied, knotted mass to the top of her head. She held one pinky out, as if sipping from a delicate pottery cup.

  He snickered, but the scratches and blood on her forearms reminded him of all she’d endured because of his selfishness. He held her hands, swallowed hard, and forced her beautiful eyes to meet his that stung with remorse. “Forgive me, love.”

  “Nay, Thomas. ’Tis I that should be begging for yours. Had I been a more dutiful wife, then you’d not have felt the need to take me with you.” Her icy palm touched the bristles on his face. She smiled. “You’re prickly.”

  What he wanted to do was lay her upon her back, open her legs, and kiss her pearl until she screamed for him to enter, but it wouldn’t be right. She was chilled, bloodied, and the blackness under her eyes indicated she’d not slept. “Go sit close to the fire and I’ll gather some wood.”

  “I c-can help.”

  “No, my little warrior. I’ve done nothing but sit and rest, waiting for you to save me. It’s time for me to help you. You must be hungry. Unfortunately, that madman ate all my nourishment.”

  She held up some skins tied to her waist like an odd satchel. “If you’ve a pot, I’ve rabbit bones and a few choice bites. Follow the horse’s tracks and a stream lies to the north for water.”

  “Again, I’m in your debt, Sir Knight.”

  From his saddle, he grabbed two water skins, an iron pot, and followed her directions. When he returned, the fire was burning brightly, fueled by little twigs and horse dung. She grinned up at him, dwarfed by his great cloak.

  He placed the pot of water in front of her and scowled. “I told you to wait. What if he’d awoken while you grabbed my cape?”

  She shrugged and emptied the makeshift pouch of rabbit bits into the pot. She also added wild onions and squares of a white root.

  The Scot moaned and she pointed. “I was cold and ’twas not fair he lay in comfort.”

  “Agreed.” Thomas squatted next to the lunatic’s body and took back his tunic and mail. His precious padded vest of silk came next. He placed his belongings in a careful pile, thinking it best to wash them in the river before donning them again. As an afterthought, he removed the louse-ridden tunic that he wore and put it righteously over the owner’s head.

  Merry clea
red her throat, staring wide-eyed at his naked torso. His cock, not one to be shy, stood up straight and tall at her regard.

  Gasping, her face reddened to a dark shade of maroon, but she kept her eyes glued to his appendage. It swelled further at her notice. Thomas moaned. “If he interests you so, I should introduce you.”

  She met his gaze, then stared back down his body. “You refer to um, that, as he?”

  “I don’t think the feminine gender would suffice.” He smirked.

  One step further and her nose all but touched him. Grinning, she wrapped her fingers around him, kissed the tip, and put one side of her face to it in greeting. “Hail, good sir.”

  Thomas moaned. She glanced up and let go. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “Only in the most perfect of ways.” He knelt beside her and placed a palm on each of her cheeks. Her eyes were half closed, deep pools of violet, reflecting both dark cave and the fire.

  Lips, plump as the ripest fruit, opened in waiting. Her unique scent set the smoldering embers of six years bursting into flames. Like a man possessed, he pressed his mouth to hers. With one hand around her wonderful arse, he tugged her tight against his aching bulge. She cried out and gripped short fingernails into his back; a torture worthy of the inquisition. He only let go of the kiss when they both needed air.

  “Our soup?” She pointed to the bubbling, steaming, mixture.

  He pulled the pot off the fire and lay it close to the coals. “It will wait. I cannot.”

  Hands shaking with need, he removed his great cloak from her body and lay it upon the cave floor. He placed her in the middle, facing the ceiling, and straddled her. Resting on his forearms, he covered her body, letting his heat warm her while his lips busied themselves with every bit of uncovered flesh. Nose, lips, neck—down, he went.

  “This has got to go.” He pulled a rag over her head and gasped. Bountiful unbound breasts fell free for him to hold. He knelt, letting his cock rest upon her nest of curls, and caressed her until she squirmed and moaned. He put a tight nipple into his mouth and sucked hard until she gasped.