by Louisa Trent
He smiled. “Do you like animals, Aeschine?"
“I like my sheep."
“Ah, pet lambs..."
“Balls! I shepherded my own flock. Sheep are not pets to me. They are my occupation."
“A lady who raises sheep? Your stepfather gave you permission?"
“Not gave; I took permission. More than happy to have me gone for days at a time, he never looked too closely at how I occupied myself."
“I see.” And he did too. Like many children, Aeschine had suffered the dereliction of parental duty. “How did you learn to shepherd?"
“The village boys,” she said so quietly his ears strained to hear.
“Peasant lads?"
“Aye. I ran with them. They taught me everything I know."
Dear Lord! What an enterprising puss! The ladies of his acquaintance only lifted their hands to their needlepoint or to call for a serf. The closest they came to sheep was a mutton chop served on their trestle tops.
He wagered those peasant lads taught her more than skill with sheep. He wagered they taught her some interesting bed skills too. Everyone knew shepherds filled their spare time with lewd practices...
“Your stepfather never found you out?"
“He found me out all right, and whipped me soundly too. For a fortnight I slept face down on the furs, unable to lie on my back."
He cringed. “Poor you."
“Not really. Many activities may be performed on one's belly.” One lid lowered.
He coughed, thoughts of lewd activities racing through his head. “After the whipping—this is when you gave up sheep tending?"
“Who said I gave it up? I would no more give up my flock than you would give up your sword. My stepfather simply tired of lashing me,” she said without a trace of self-pity. “Though, tending sheep is not all that I am able to do."
Oh, he believed her!
Fearless, resourceful, passionate, stubborn, unashamedly independent ... admittedly promiscuous ... he had never known a female like Aeschine of Scotland.
“I am capable of managing a holding, Captor. I have done so since the death of my dear mother. I know how to keep financial books too.” She nodded wisely. “Separate expense accounts, of course: gifts for the poor, household needs, patronage, revenue, and personal."
“You took responsibility for all that?"
“Aye. I also heard crop reports from my stepfather's head fieldman. I supervised the purchase of foodstuffs, kept a herbal garden, visited the poor, treated the ill..."
“You must fall right off to sleep, exhausted at day's end. Tell me, is there anything you do not do?"
Straight-faced she replied, “Needlework.” She placed her hands on her slender hips. “If confession is good for the soul, then there it is. I have owned up to my sin. I detest sewing of any kind."
“No needlework! Now, that is a grievous lack in a female.” He wagged his head. “And you show absolutely no remorse for the deficiency."
“Please do not make light of me! I plead only for my worth."
“Your worth is not at issue here."
“Then, what is at issue? Please tell me! I am fighting for no less than my life!"
“You bargain well. But to truly fight for your life—and to return to your people—you must tell me all you know of past and future clan invasions."
“If I do that, you will return me a traitor to my people! That is worse than a death sentence.” She rushed the words past her full lips. “I need very little cosseting. I have always managed on my own. If you would but consider allowing me tend a flock of sheep..."
She took a fast breath. “You see, with sh-sh-sheep, I would achieve self-sufficiency. I would never need ask you for anything again. I would never need bother you. Never get underfoot. You would never even know I was about."
“If it were only so simple..."
“I would warm your bed! I would make you happy."
Sage closed his eyes. Her pitiful little speech tore at his heart. Here she was making her little plans, pleading for crumbs, when most females demanded the whole loaf. And her loyalty! Laudable. But, in this instance, ill advised.
Though he knew intimidation would only dig her muddy boots in deeper, his patience with the stubborn lass was at an end. Raising his voice and vesting it with the full force of his authority, he commanded her to speak. “Does LaTourne or your stepfather intend future raids? Tell me now!"
“Will you use your whip or a leather strap?” Her fingers moved to her laces.
“I beg your pardon?"
“If ‘tis all the same with you, I much prefer the strap.” Her fingers stilled. “Unless you put off my punishment for this evening ... until after we mate?"
Sweet Jesu! Punishment after mating! Whatever happened to basking in the warm afterglow?
Sage washed both hands over his face. He shuddered, appalled.
A man had the right, as well as the moral responsibility, to discipline the members of his household. He took such obligations seriously; neglecting them amounted to abandoning those who depended upon him. But strapping a female had never made sense to him. Not when other, more effective methods would ensure obedience.
“Come here!” he ordered.
She tiptoed over. “Aye?"
Upon seeing her bluish lips, pale cheeks, the rapid throb of her pulse, a dull ache lodged in his temple. “There will be no mating. I am celibate,” he said succinctly. “Nor will I whip you. Not now. Not ever. And certainly not because you are loyal in your beliefs.” Though ... he would most decidedly judge her, based on those beliefs.
He would kill LaTourne—he had already decided nothing less would do—but what of Aeschine? How would he punish her should he decide she shared in his guilt?
“Hasten to return to camp,” he said, coming up empty-handed.
Some part of her was always in motion. This time, her mobile mouth puckered into a female moue. “What of the sheep?"
Did she realize what she did to him? Did she know how her air of subdued sensuality aroused him? And what was that again about his insusceptibility? He knew what she was up to, and still her female wiles lured him.
Good Lord! That pouty mouth! What he would do with those pursed lips. To avoid the dungeon, she would let him too...
He took a restorative breath to get his lust under control. “Ah, the sheep. You will not let me forget them, will you?"
A soft look fell over her muddy features. “Sheep are all I have.” She tilted her head, pensive again.
Something definitely preyed on Aeschine's mind. Did she plot a new way for her clan to overthrow William Rufus? Or mayhap, scheme a raiding strategy on another unsuspecting English keep? Or, perchance, did she daydream of green meadows where baby lambs grazed in peace?
He hoped for the latter. He hoped in her daydreams she scampered freely in fields of wildflowers amongst baby animals. Bad enough, his own thoughts were blood-plagued.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aeschine plucked apprehensively at the grimy hem of her gunna. Her captor had not spoken in an eternity. What had happened? Was it something she had said, done, thought? Was this the lull before the storm?
To her recollection, her most severe punishments at the hands of her stepfather had occurred after a period of unusual calm. In fact, she had learned to recognize her stepfather's absence of conversation as a precursor of pain. Unexplained quiet in the warlord frightened her. “Your insufferable silence is gnawing on my innards like a long-toothed rat!"
As soon as the words left her throat, she regretted the outburst. Would she never learn meekness?
Her captor looked up from sharpening his sword. “I thought my questions annoyed you so I decided not to ask any more, sensitive fellow that I am."
She gaped at him. Forgetting herself once more, she sputtered, “You? Sensitive?"
The Captor was as far away from sensitive as his skull was from his feet. Despite her fear, she chuckled.
“Well ... hmm. I am crushed. Laugh all
you wish, but I will have you know that sentimentality is the bane of my existence. And as to my silence, I have much on my mind."
Laughter awilt, her gaze dropped to the ground. Much preyed on her mind as well.
“Is there a snake in the grass?” he asked.
Her eyes remained downcast. “A snake? There is no viper."
“I must apologize. I had no idea you were a hunchback."
“I am no more a hunchback than are you. I have no such deformity!"
“You are tall. Do you slump to appear dainty?"
“I have no wish to look less than what I am."
“Sensible attitude. Take pride in your height. I too am tall, and ‘tis an immense relief not to have to bend double to hear you speak. Please to cease talking to the ground; ‘tis a great waste of a fine, long backbone."
Her captor had bestowed upon her another compliment—of sorts. And compliments, like all rare delicacies, took a while to digest. Even before her stepfather had sold her, she possessed scant good opinion of herself; her mother's second husband had seen to that admirably well. Her self-respect was already battered and bruised before her betrothed picked away more pieces of her diminished pride, stolen vanity she could ill-afford to lose. And now here was this huge warrior, giving her rare compliments like they were insignificant.
They were not insignificant! His words were as tempting as sweetmeats to an empty belly.
Delicacy savored, then digested, she hinted for more. “So—you like my height?"
“I do. I tower o'er most men, but with females, the difference is ludicrous. With tiny females, ‘tis preposterous.” His dark eyes rolled. “And the questions about the clime up here do grow wearisome."
“You are droll."
“I am a troll? Here I have opened a vein and bled, and all the thanks I get for my sincerity are insults heaped upon my head?"
He let out a sigh. “I suppose if you think me a troll, I must accept the description, but I refuse to live under a bridge..."
“Troll! Who said troll? I said d-r-o-l-l, as in witty."
“See there! I misheard, as you spoke to your feet. Chin up! Please to look at me when we converse and we will never again have this lack of understanding."
This, she doubted. But, she raised her chin anyway.
The sheer brilliance of her captor's white even smile took her aback; the crinkling of his black-gem eyes fair unhinged her. Scars marred the warrior's face, but he was far from ugly, she decided. Few warriors had a smile such as his.
“That is better,” he said. “Now shoulders back. You will develop the stoop of a crone if you persist in slouching. Keep your backbone straight and you will have fine, soldierly posture for life.” He cocked his head in an arrogant manner. “Just look at me!"
Her chin jutted. “As you like."
“ ‘Tis very much as I like,” he said amicably. “Carry yourself with pride now and one day you will be a lady of reckoning."
“Will I have a one day?"
His slightly lopsided smile straightened to a stern line. “You will, if you do as I say."
Do as he said?
Be that the requirement, she would die before morn...
“Are you hungry?” he inquired.
“Ravenous."
“It does my heart good to see a female with a hearty appetite."
He favored a bit of meat on the bone, did he?
While he turned away to gather foodstuffs, Aeschine looked down at her diminutive chest. Then, she scooted a glance around to her backside.
She was narrow all over. Muscled too from hard labor. How would she ever seduce her captor with such paltry female attributes?
Narrow or not, she must seduce him if she hoped to save lives. But how?
Her mother had spoken of her first marriage to Aeschine's natural father as a wondrous period of poetic bliss. A time spent making love on a bed of wildflowers. Lavender and daisies and heather. Soft petals that covered a mattress of sweet-smelling clover. A fortnight ago, when her stepfather had summoned her to wed LaTourne, she had left the cloistered wall of her convent naively expecting to find that same kind of love. Instead, what she had found was a suitor whose desires were so perverse, whose wants were so loathsome, whose mind and whose thoughts were so sick, she quaked in anticipation of his touch. Even contemplating his hand upon her flesh made her retch.
In the seven days of their engagement, her intended had reveled in her humiliation, serving it up to her on a platter of betrothal rights. When she had refused to beg, to plead for mercy, he had come at her as snarling as a rabid dog. The threat that he would hurt her was always there. The only question in her mind was when he would vent his spleen. And, God help her, how he would choose to inflict the hurt...
And so she had escaped.
If LaTourne incited her clan, they would do violence. The unruly fringe groups would put their infighting aside and attack her captor's keep en masse in an attempt to recapture her. They had not forgotten her during the years of her enforced cloister, and they had their Scottish pride—no English warlord stole the daughter of a Scottish chieftain and lived to tell the tale.
Her people were a loyal group. Good at heart. Unfortunately, they were also easily duped, easily led ... easily led astray. Her clan had needed her guidance and she had not been there for them. If she had been available to them—or if she had been born a lad instead of a lass—the atrocities during her virtual imprisonment in the nunnery would not have happened.
As the chieftain's only heir, she held herself culpable for those atrocities, the extent of which she had no way of knowing. Now free of the convent walls, she would not tolerate further bloodshed. Particularly, bloodshed done in her name.
The loss of countless lives would be avoided if she sent word back to her village that she had freely given herself to the warlord as his leman. Also—this action would save her from LaTourne; the pervert would not want damaged goods. Her intended had paid a fortune to her stepfather for her maidenhead—his fiendish notoriety ruling out obtaining a highborn virgin in his own country. Without that thin membrane, he would just as soon despoil a lad...
As a prisoner, she would lose her maidenhead fast enough. But why should she put up with rape night after night when she might avail upon the celibate to do the same job?
After going through all the bother of allowing him to take her captive, it was the very least he could do for her in return.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Before we eat, would you squire for me?” the Captor asked her. “I would have this hauberk removed."
Squire!
The Captor thought she resembled a lad?
LaTourne had thought so too. He had been quite pleased with her boyishly narrow hips and flat chest. Did the Captor carry within him the seeds of the same unwholesome taint?
Nay! Her flesh would crawl at his nearness if he were so predisposed. That was not the case. If anything he made her flesh tingle, her breasts swell, the tips harden ... her woman's core grow moist and gnawing.
The leather belt at the Captor's waist dropped to the ground. Next, he drew the red outer tunic over his head. She watched him strip though half-lowered lids.
“This chain mail shirt itches after a time,” he volunteered. “Even such shoulders as mine need a rest every few days or so."
Her mouth went to full gape. The bones of most warriors would rattle inside their armor after carrying the unwieldy weight of mail for a full day, never mind a few days. What tremendous strength the warlord must have!
She rushed forward to help. “Are you sure ‘tis safe to go without protection?"
By now, LaTourne would realize she had run off. By now, a search party would certainly be combing the region for her. The Captor was but one warrior alone. He had great strength, but when all was said and done, he was as mortal as the next man. Dead, he would be of little use to her. Dead, he could not save her from her fate. Nay, she needed to keep the warlord alive.
Otherwise, she might ju
st as well have lifted his blade and slit his throat. Goodness knows, she's had plenty of opportunities.
“I shall stand watch tonight if you are fatigued,” she quickly proposed.
“I never sleep."
Mayhap the Captor was not mortal after all, for all men grew weary.
Upon reflection, she understood the distinction. The Captor said he never slept. That was not to say he was not fatigued.
The dark shadows under his eyes, the pinched, tight look about his ruined mouth, the sunken and gray pallor of his cheeks ... all bespoke a man past weary; this strong warrior was naught but a corpse with his boots still on.
The sad do not sleep. The sick at heart will wander at night unable to close their eyes. The Captor suffered from the melancholy illness. Why had she not seen it immediately?
A tea made of chamomile aided sleep. St. John's Wort elevated sadness. But sometimes, simple conversation helped melancholy disperse.
“We will pass the night talking,” she offered. “I wish to know more about you."
His head dipped. “As I, you."
She shrugged. “Fine, though there is naught to know. I am as water, adaptable to whatever the shape of the goblet."
“You are not as uncomplicated as you pretend. I think you hide much below the surface. No shallow stream, are you. Bottomless as the ocean, I would say. If you are water, you are too untamed to fit inside a goblet, and too full of salt to drink."
“And I would say as a simple female, your allegory is too profound for my grasp."
He pointed a finger at her nose. “You are a lady of mystery, but solve you I will and soon."
“That is not t-t-true!” she stuttered. “I hide nothing. Once again, I am as transparent as water."
“Murky,” he said. “You are murky. When I first spied you running, you soared free as a falcon. Strong. Uncatchable. Who has clipped your wings? Where has that wild bird gone? Are you satisfied to perch on the arm of your keeper when you rightly belong flying high in the sky?"
“Nay! I am not satisfied,” she blurted at his taunt. “I wish for freedom! Once my stepfather was my keeper. Then LaTourne. Now, ‘tis you. I rest upon your arm. If I do not fly high, ‘tis because you prevent the spread of my wings..."