by Louisa Trent
“Aha! At last! The real woman behind the façade doth speak."
Tricked again!
In abject misery, Aeschine gazed at the open green space surrounding them.
She loved Scotland with all her heart and soul, but she would adapt to a new life, to new ways; handed a different goblet she really would fit the shape. Her needs were few. She required very little for contentment...
“Go on!” her captor commanded. “Tell me more of your thoughts. Enlighten me."
“Tell me what to think and you may consider it thought.” She set aside the warlord's mail-shirt, which left him in the aketon.
The padded tunic molded the overlord's broad shoulders and tapered waist, clearly defining every vigorous muscle. His arms bulged even at rest. His hose, a tight fit around sinewy thighs, accentuated the length of his legs. Her captor was all dominant, virile male, sure of himself and arrogant in that surety. He went beyond large into mountainous. Dear heavens, he could break her like a sapling if he chose.
And she would cut him down like a green twig before he made the wrong choice.
He stretched. “That feels better."
“May I help remove your chausses now?"
How carefully he put aside the buttercups she had given him, before saying, “Boots first."
Without a thought to the contrary, Aeschine bent at the waist, presenting him with her bottom. “Push off against me. ‘Twill make removing the boots easier."
“Do you try to seduce me?” he growled.
“Aye,” she admitted. “Though, not just then."
She stood up straight. “Satisfied?"
“Not for years, if ever then,” he muttered.
Not understanding the meaning behind his comment, she nevertheless pronounced, “I shall satisfy you."
“Impossible."
“Are you not at least intrigued enough to try me?"
“Does a warm shroud intrigue a chilled corpse?"
She brushed an angry tear from her cheek. “You mock me, Captor."
“You mock yourself! You plot your escape even now."
Her captor had lived a hard life, but life had not hardened him. He was not LaTourne, she reminded herself. Her betrothed owned the morals of a coyote. He was a cruel predator, driven to the gutter to seek his pleasures.
This warrior was not cruel. Thus far, his touch had been mostly gentle—there were her rattled teeth to consider. Though celibate, he looked virile enough—though how one knew for sure, she had no idea.
“Have you children?” ‘Twas the only sure way she knew to tell.
“My wife is dead. I have no children."
Little wonder the melancholy plagued him. No wife. No bairns. How sad...
Though, now was not the time to express sympathy for a past loss; now was the time to grab at future opportunity!
“I have good health,” she said racing out the boast. “I would like to be bred. And soon. It would please me greatly to carry your son."
“You would not withstand my seeding you. You would collapse like a parchment castle under the force of an iron battering ram."
Was he telling her he was a rough lover? Demanding? Did he hurt his bedmates the same way LaTourne hurt his? Had she perhaps misjudged him? Given him finer attributes than he, in truth, possessed?
No matter, Aeschine thought pragmatically. The warrior was not only her best hope; he was her only hope. God placed a woman on this earth to beget children, and the Captor would make a fine sire for those children.
Facing him, she said, shrewdly, “There is no need to hold back with me. I shall take everything you have to give and more. I am strong. Do what you choose. I am not easily broken."
“You know not of which you speak. I am not the pervert LaTourne is, but there is every reason for me to keep my control with you."
With a yank, off came his boots. He placed them side-by-side on the ground. Then, released his chausses. “My thanks for your help."
Placing the bed furs in her outstretched arms, he pointed to a small hillock not ten steps away. “Be so kind as to put these by that opening in the rock. And do not race there,” he called after her as she left to do his bidding.
As the small hillock just begged for further exploration, she completely disregarded his silly directive.
She gestured to a narrow wedge cut in the bramble-covered stone. “This is an entrance to a cave, is it not?"
“A magical cave,” he corrected.
“Belief in superstition is a venial sin,” she said primly.
“Feeling as you do, we will, of course, remain outside."
“Sod off!” She chortled. “I would thumb my nose at a ladder to heaven to enter. Tell me how you came upon the magical cave, Captor!"
“Quite by accident. ‘Twas winter and I had ridden for days in a blizzard. I thought I would perish when I stumbled off my steed, feet half-frozen, and crossed the snow to this hillock. Only a lad at the time, and full of myself, I had no sense of my own mortality until I nearly died that day. The cave saved my life. The next morn, the storm ended and I journeyed on, but I have always wished to return, if only to see if the place was as enchanted as I remembered."
“You wish to share your enchantment with me?” she asked, truly, truly, touched.
“Why not? Things shared are twice enjoyed. If you do not find the cave magical, at the very least, you will have a dry roof over your head tonight."
Then her captor smiled at her—magic in and of itself.
Beneath his gruff exterior, the warlord possessed a whimsical sense for the absurd, a dry wit, an unexpected warmth. She had never known such consideration.
“The nights grow chilly as autumn approaches. But inside the cave should feel as toasty as a warmed brick. We eat first, then bed down. I packed black bread and cheese in my saddlebag. Salted beef too, though not overly much, and plenty of ale.” He sighed. “Long ago, I thought a man ruled his own destiny. I thought if I but survived that snowy night, I would decide my own fate thereafter. Alas, a man never completely decides his own destiny. There are too many forces about which will set him off his chosen course."
“A woman learns that in the cradle,” she scoffed. “The best a woman may hope for is to wed a man who will not beat her overly much."
“Is that all you expect from life? I would have thought your dreams wider."
“Oh, I have very expansive dreams. Come night, I count my sheep to fall asleep and dream of them after I do. I dream of having a family someday, as most women are wont to do."
He sent her a sad smile. “Your dreams are sweet."
Unmindful of her stare, Sage placed her wilted bouquet of buttercups in his saddlebag, and then ran both hands through his hair. A raven-winged lock fell low over his forehead. He absently brushed it away. His thick hair had just a hint of a curl over the ear. She would dearly love to run her hands through it.
Sage was not vulgar or coarse in his speech, nor unclean on his person. If he was rough on the furs, she would gentle him, for she knew in her heart ‘twas not in his nature to deliberately cause pain. He was not like LaTourne after all, she decided.
“So difficult to wait,” she said wistfully.
“The cave will still be there after we put something in our bellies."
“May I take a small peek inside while you eat?” she wheedled.
“You may not."
He reached inside his leather satchel for the cloth-wrapped loaf of black bread. Breaking off a hunk to serve as a platter, he placed a slab of cheese on top.
He handed the food to her. “Eat."
Her arms went behind her back. “I dare not. I am covered in smelly mud."
“So you are.” He chuckled. “I have stood downwind of you of late and had forgotten your distinctive aroma."
“If I offend your fine sensibilities, feel free to break your fast without me.” Her nose went up in the air, and not to avoid her own stench either.
The warrior gave his meal one last look of longin
g before returning it to its cloth. “You are upset over a remark which meant nothing. Come, I take you to bathe."
“You postpone your meal for me?"
“Of course. You are not comfortable. The food will keep."
“Stay and eat. Please, do! I shall return to the stream and wash off the mud. ‘Tis not too dark yet to go alone."
Neither was it yet too dark to make a break for freedom. If the opportunity presented itself, she must risk flight, for the captor had not agreed to take her to leman and she would not be returned to LaTourne a virgin! She would not be returned to him at all, not if she could help it.
“Nonsense!” The captor's black eyes gleamed with humor. Was he on to her? “There is no need to bathe in the stream's chilly waters. Not when there is a hot spring inside the cave."
“Hot springs!” she cried, escape temporarily forgotten.
“Indeed,” he said dryly. “I soaked for quite a long time during that past stay, and the rushing waters eased my aches and pains like hot, pulsating fingertips.” He expertly lit a torch whilst she waited, then gathered up an armful of supplies. “If you are agreeable, we will go to the hot springs directly."
“Agreeable?” Unable to contain her enthusiasm, she gave a small hop. Oh, just a tiny one. This showed much restraint on her part as she really wished to jump to the treetops. “Oh, I am most agreeable."
He placed a hand on the small of her back. “Calm yourself. You will get there, little doe. All in good time."
“Your meal is interrupted, yet you are not angry,” she said, her footsteps keeping company with his.
“I have gone without food before. ‘Tis no grave matter. Lately, everything tastes like bitter herbs to me, anyway.” His hand sank to her bottom.
An accident?
One time, mayhap. Hardly an accident since it had happened twice now.
Still, to make absolutely sure, she surveyed his face.
The captor's eyes smoldered.
Her heart leapt. Where there is smoke, fire is never far behind. Where there is lust, there is the possibility of love.
Heedless of the sin involved, Aeschine closed her eyes and wished that the enchanted cave would weave a spell of magical seduction over them that coming night.
* * * *
“I hope no bats make their home in here,” Aeschine whispered, pretending to a fear she did not feel; she would use any means at her disposal to keep her captor close.
“Egad!” Her captor clutched his broad chest. “You mean there is something you actually fear? This becomes interesting. Confess! What else frightens you?"
“Uh ... needlepoint. I fear it greatly. Also, the darkness."
At his nod of understanding, the floodgates opened, and her shameful secrets rushed forth. “I fear losing who I am, Captor. I fear losing what is my worth. I fear imprisonment. I fear not being allowed to do what I do well, which is shepherding. And I know I would be of real value to you if you would only allow me raise a flock of sheep."
“Pleading for your pets again?"
“Sheep are not pets!” Looking sideways, she gave him a cheeky grin. “And you did ask..."
“So, I did. Aeschine of Scotland, you are the most resolute of women. Now, keep walking. No winged creatures will nest in your hair, not when you are with me."
And she believed him. She believed he would protect her from everything and everyone...
Save himself, she fervently prayed.
He held the torch high. “What do you think of our cave so far?"
“Our cave?"
“It seems only fitting that I bequeath half the magic that dwells within these walls to you. So, come now. ‘Fess up. Do you like our cave?"
“I love our cave,” she said shyly, looking around. “How would I not, when ‘tis a gift?” She laughed. “A gift of magic! Has any captor so honored a captive?"
The ceiling arched high at the center, the clearance enough for two tall people to stand without stooping. The earthen floor and stone walls both appeared dry; her nostrils discerned no mustiness. All and all, making love in a cave had romantic allure.
A few steps later, her captor had taken the furs from her arms, dropped them against the wall, and said, “We sleep here. The hot springs are directly ahead. Careful! The passage narrows."
They walked in single file now, she in front, her captor following. Soon, she felt a tug on her stiff linen coif.
The hair covering glided to the ground.
“Your tresses shine like moonbeams!” her captor exclaimed, and combed his fingers through the tightly woven stands. “Who needs a torch when you light the darkness?"
“My mother's hair was much the same color,” Aeschine said in memory. “She was very beautiful."
“You must take after her."
Another compliment! Not exactly a sonnet to her pulchritude, but she cherished the vague words like a bride cherishes her vows.
At the pool, her captor placed the torch between two rocks in the wall.
“I must stay,” he said gruffly. “To ... er ... guard you."
“Do you bathe too?"
“Later. Disrobe."
Difficult to picture this reticent warrior splashing and frolicking in the steamy water, laughing with her as they became acquainted with one another's bodies. Still, she had hoped they might begin their relationship on an equally naked footing...
Aeschine hung her head, unsure of how to proceed. She needed to entice him to her bed, but how would she accomplish the seduction? She told him she would make his nights sing if he took her to leman, but what melody did he enjoy?
Once, as a child, she happened upon a maid and a groom in the stables. While the maid removed her garb, the groom stood there all agawk; the slow fall of each garment seemingly mesmerized him. At the time, she had assumed the maid slightly addled-brained, for it took her forever to accomplish the simple task. However, looking back upon the incident, she now suspected the buxom servant had an entirely different reason for her procrastination.
Taking a lesson from that maid, Aeschine decided she would drag her feet about the whole business of disrobing. She would draw out the moment, delaying her full nudity for as long as she might, as that maid had done with the groom...
She stepped out of her leathers and tssked. “These boots are so muddy. What a shame! I hope they are not ruined. What say you, Captor? Is the leather salvageable?"
“I say, since they are only boots, they are not worth fretting over."
Spoken just like a male! She had seen far too many barefoot peasants with the wretchedly painful bleeding of chilblains to ever undervalue the importance of foot covering. “I shall just have to look after my boots better in the future, I suppose."
Looking up, Aeschine saw a different man. Her captor's face had changed. What had she said?
CHAPTER SIX
In the future...
Sage's discomfort rose like the surrounding steam. The lass kept talking about a future neither of them might have.
He needed to question his captive. To judge her, he must separate his man's lust from her guilt or innocence. But as darkness descended, impartiality became more difficult.
Every night in his dreams he saw bodies writhing in a graceless bludgeon dance. He heard the separate and distinguishable cries of warriors, good men, falling without dignity to the ground. He twisted and bunched the furs, doing battle with the enemy in his sleep, all to no avail. When the night madness came upon him, when the horrors of warfare besieged him, his control ebbed to its weakest point. He might easily hurt a woman then...
And here was his captive, removing her garb.
His gaze dropped to the floor.
His captive's high-arched narrow feet bespoke of royal blood. Aeschine's height, her bones, her manner of speech—all testified to her regal heritage. She was a born warrior-queen.
Unable to help himself, Sage glanced up.
Never had a female taken such meticulous care over such ugly garments! Aeschine's shap
eless gown belonged in a rag pile, not on her lovely back. He thought, as she languidly raised a long leg atop a flat rock. Hiking the mud-encrusted gunna to mid-thigh, slowly, carefully, by the smallest of increments, she rolled her plain wool hose past the knee.
Sage glanced at his corded limb. A coarse mat of springy black curls dotted the tanned, leathery skin whilst her skin looked so silky...
He called up all his self-control. For everything that was male in him told him to spring forward, finish the labor for her, and mount her there on the hard stone.
And he succeeded. He held himself in check. Now. But what of later?
He fought a losing battle with abstinence, and knew it.
“Look at this! I am covered in swamp,” she lamented, wiping at a bit of vegetation that clung to the fair peach fuzz on her upper thigh.
He groaned. He was a celibate, yes. A fool, nay. Naughty Aeschine aimed to seduce him by drawing his glance to her soft, pale femininity, which was in such stark contrast to his own hard, dark, maleness. And how very skilled she was at the game too! For she allowed him only a peek at the treasure hidden deep in the shadows of her under-shift, where pale limbs met sexual promise.
Breathing gone harsh, throat too dry to swallow, eyes raised and staring—burning with his refusal to blink lest he miss what she revealed—thoughts a confused tangle of musts and must-nots and unholy fantasy, Sage waited for Aeschine to end his torment.
She undid the knot at the square neckline of her gown and untied the lacings, string by torturous string, until the muddy rag gaped open over her apple-round breasts. With a push, the garment slid down her arms.
For a moment, her hands were trapped behind her back, as though manacled. And her shoulders were forced back, which in turn made her bosom press outwards, straining for release. Finally, when the filthy garment fell around her ankles, she slipped the under-shift down, revealing shallow cleavage and the uppermost portion of creamy breasts.
But not the nipples. The up-tilted tips had caught in the linen.
It seemed to take forever to free them.
Once released, they poked the rising steam. Huge, reddish-pink, and very, very distended. The shift stayed in place at belly level, slightly below the indentation of her naval but above her woman's fleece. Big blue eyes sought his.