Captive

by Louisa Trent

  “My leman is missing. My floor is soaking wet. It would appear you do neither!"

  “Ask those two clean-crazed females if I do neither."

  “And which two clean-crazed females are those?"

  “Why Aeschine and Ellen. Who else?"

  “Aeschine is scrubbing too?"

  “Like she was born to it."

  “Where is my captive?” Sage seethed.

  “Now that is something I am none too clear on. Not her exact location anyway, milord."

  “What do you mean, you do not know her exact location?” Sage shouted. “I expect you to know her exact location to within a hair's breadth, for that is the task I assigned you."

  “I mean to say, I do not know her specific location."

  “Very well,” Sage said, regulating the terror in his voice to a manageable concern. “What is her general location?"

  Will scratched his beard. “Now, you see, that remains a mystery..."

  Sage removed his gauntlets and slapped them against his thigh. “What has gone on here during my absence?"

  “Naught has gone on,” Will protested. “Just cleaning and more cleaning. These females are soap and water fanatical. Your lady has never stopped washing. I only just escorted the maid, Ellen, to her quarters. When I did return, ‘twas to find she had up and left."

  “When was this?"

  “ Before mid-day."

  The sun had already gone down. “I am gone not two moons, and when I return, what do I find?"

  “A clean hearth?” Will suggested.

  “Nay. Chaos! Utter pandemonium. Tell me quick, which mare did she take?"

  Will blinked in rapid succession. Had his steady vassal suddenly developed a squinty tick? “Uh ... my liege, she ... that is, well ... to my knowledge, she is on foot."

  Sage pulled his gauntlets back on. “While you are on your knees, Will, best pray that I find my lady and that she is found safe."

  * * * *

  Sage rode hard, and mumbled frantically. Not curses. Prayers.

  When a crazed heretic sends up half-remembered words of entreaty to a God he no longer believes in, it is either a sign of his returning faith or his deteriorating mind. And so, when he finally spied Aeschine off in the distance he was unclear whether it was miracle or encroaching madness.

  Her occupation did not make his determination any easier.

  Aeschine was eating grass. Not a dainty nibble, either. His leman's mouth was filled to capacity with great clumps of the green stuff. And in the thoughtful, head-cocked pose he so fondly recalled, she chewed the turf with relish, as though she supped on the choicest of venison.

  Had supplies at his borderland fortress dwindled? Were foodstuffs rationed? Did hunger prompt his lady to dine on vegetation?

  He was about to call out to her—a warning or a greeting, he knew not which—when she looked up from her chewing and sent him a dazzling, if slightly grass-stained smile. Impetuous as always and running as usual, she picked up her skirts and raced to him, to Geoffrey de Sage, a scarred warrior with a battered soul and a dark past. And it came to him, as her feet skimmed the ground, swallowing up the distance that separated them, just how much she mattered to him, how much he had missed her.

  Aeschine was a part of his life. An essential part. An integral part. The best part. He yearned for her like he yearned for the dawn at midnight. Both assuaged his torment.

  After mating, some animals will stay with their partner for a lifetime; other animals will not. He fell into the first category. It was Aeschine, and Aeschine alone, he wished to take to the furs. This night and every night, and for the rest of his life.

  But damnation! He was not fit! At times, he scared even himself. Whilst in the cave, he had come close to hurting Aeschine. That same danger still existed. When darkness fell upon him, when revenge soured his heart, he knew not what he might do.

  His expression set in the usual dour lines, Sage threw his leg over his destrier and dismounted.

  Heedless of his prohibitive scowl, Aeschine threw herself at him, the sweet catapult of her lunge through the air hitting him in the chest. Not yet recovered from the assault, she proceeded to hug the air from his lungs.

  “I missed you so!” she cried.

  Unwilling to show his own happiness, his arms remained knotted at his sides whilst he willed himself to breathe. Which went to explain his lowered guard when she doubled her fist and landed him a tremendous blow to the jaw.

  Stupefied, he stumbled back, causing her to slide off him; she landed with a plop onto her round arse, her wide spread of red skirts bringing to mind a poppy.

  His fingers felt for a crack in the bone. “Damnation! What was that blow for?"

  The virago jumped to her feet. “For fuckin’ not telling me you had planned to leave me."

  That said, she struck him yet another blow, this time in the gut. “That one is for not telling me when you would come back."

  He let her have the third punch, just so that he might hear her motivation.

  He lifted a dark brow. “Well?"

  “For leaving me here to wonder and worry about you, you arrogant pig prick."

  He would grant her the arrogant, but pig prick?

  Aeschine swore like a foul-mouthed lad, but she had her comparison's a bit confused. In no way could his cock be likened to a pig's prick. Save for his amusement, he might have been insulted.

  He imprisoned her fist before she threw her next punch. “You will hurt your knuckles if you persist."

  “I care naught for my knuckles ... you ... you ... domineering donkey dong!” She kicked him in the shins. Then her knee came up—her mark this time a much higher piece of geography—which he managed to avoid with a poorly executed twist.

  He would walk with a limp for a day or so, but at least he still had his balls. For now.

  Picking her up in his arms, he held her close. “Cease,” he grumbled.

  By no means might this embrace be construed as a hug. The action was purely self-defense.

  As he wrapped her up in his arms and held her fiercely to him—necessary for his own protection—her blue eyes spilled over with tears.

  “What is this, lass?” he asked fingering a droplet.

  “You left me! Why did you leave me?"

  “Shh. I am back now,” he said gruffly. He touched her green lips with a gentle fingertip. “Why did you never tell me you graze like a cow?"

  “I do not graze like a fuckin’ cow.” She sobbed.

  “I see. Well, grass and green apples will each give a wee bonnie lass like you the belly ache,” he said with a burr, ducking a fist as it swung past his ear.

  “I am not a wee or bonnie, you cock's cock. Hold still so that I might land my blows."

  Females! Where was their logic?

  But she was crying, and so he held still and took the punches, making sure, for the sake of her knuckles, that her blows landed on areas of his anatomy the armor left uncovered.

  When her ire—and phallic insults—had been depleted she crumbled against him, exhausted.

  “Feeling better?” he asked, dryly.

  “Oh, much. My thanks.” She went back to hugging him.

  “Any time. Now tell me. Why do you eat grass?"

  “What tastes good to me will surely taste good to my sheep,” she murmured into his neck, her lips placing little wet sloppy noisy—wholly erotic—kisses there. “If ever I get sheep, that is."

  He turned his jaw so that her mouth might more easily reach his mouth. In truth, he would give her a whole flock of wooly beasties just for a taste of those berry-red lips, for a touch of that full, pouty mouth.

  One kiss, he thought, in desperation. She need not even give him tongue. Not much tongue, anyway. Not clear to his throat, tongue. He would gladly sell what remained of his soul for just one carnal taste of those lips, which matched her gown so precisely. “Not your bloody sheep again!” he growled, trying to sound much put upon.

  “Aye, my bloody sheep,” s
he said, and smothered his lips.

  She tasted of grass. And eagerness. And wild abandonment. The long, uninterrupted hours spent in the saddle, the frantic pace he had set—even the complaints of that wretched brother and sister pair—all of it had been worth it for Aeschine's rib-breaking hugs and hot, wet, sloppy, grass-tasting kisses.

  And with that thought, he immediately put her away from him. “Every time my back is turned you are up to more mischief."

  “I do not necessarily need your back turned, milord. I sometimes do my mischief directly in front of you. ‘Tis much more fun that way."

  “I am serious, Aeschine. This latest disobedience of yours merits a punishment.” He looked at her sternly.

  A mistake. He should have avoided looking at her altogether.

  “That gown suits you,” spilled out of his mouth as though he were a lovesick bull.

  “You think so?” she asked, obviously looking for more compliments, a manipulation a wise man never gives into.

  “I do,” he replied, far from wise “The color compliments your eyes."

  She held up the skirts, swished them back and forth. “The gowns are to the last one wicked and decadent.” She blushed prettily. “My thanks for the gifts.” Another hug, another kiss. “And for the kind words too."

  He chuckled. “You have had your compliments, so stop squeezing me. I fear my delicate complexion is turning blue."

  “And I fear I cannot let you go. I missed, missed, missed you so..."

  Sage felt himself weaken. The urge to reciprocate, to tell her how much he had missed her too, to confess to his wretched loneliness without her, nearly overwhelmed him. But what purpose would telling her serve?

  None.

  Resolutely, he set her away from him. “No need to thank me for the gowns. I understand that young females like to primp. And I had to put you in something. What you wore the last I saw you nearly gave me a fit."

  “I was naked the last you saw me."

  “Er ... well ... I liked you just fine in that. I meant the time before that occasion."

  “I was naked then as well."

  He removed his gloves, and slapped them hard on his thigh. “Ahem ... let us dispense with the amenities of homecoming. Who gave you permission to leave the keep?"

  “I am a woman grown; I gave myself permission."

  “You are a child, and you had no right to give yourself permission! I issued you an order to stay within the confines of the solar."

  “Do not worry so! I was perfectly safe the whole time you were away..."

  “Only because I took Will away from his regular duties and assigned him to your protection. Now, my vassal must catch up with work not done while he played nursemaid to you. Your inconsiderateness has made his days longer and harder."

  “You cannot mean that you actually expected me to stay put, inside the keep, during your entire absence?"

  “I did."

  “For almost two full moons?"

  “For as long as I was gone, for that is what I told you to do."

  “But I am the restless sort. I cannot stay cooped up inside for days at a time."

  “You will soon learn how. Your punishment is one week's confinement in the solar."

  “Sit idle in the solar for a week! Not likely!"

  His smile flashed. “You will not sit idle. I have some sewing for you. Many of my tunics are ripped or frayed or generally need some all ‘round repairing."

  “I detest sewing."

  “Exactly! If I gave you something you enjoyed doing it would hardly constitute a punishment, now would it?” Lord, how he had missed their arguments!

  “I shall botch the mending!"

  “You do, and you will rip out the seams and start over, again and again, until you do it right."

  “Torture!"

  “Such dramatics. ‘Tis only a basket."

  “A basket! A plague on you, sir! The mending might just as well rise as high as yonder hillock. ‘Twill take me forever to finish."

  “ ‘Twill take you one week."

  “Have someone else do your mending. I have a household to put in order, a stable I must make fit for sheep..."

  “You should have thought of that before you wandered off."

  “Milord, I only walked to the far side of this hill, and only to see if grass grew there for my sheep.” She smiled seductively. “Is there naught I might do to change your mind about my punishment?"

  The coltish imp tried to bribe him, and blatantly too. After missing her for so many weeks, falling prey to her winsome enticement would not be too difficult. He had suffered the chill of their lengthy separation with as much fortitude as he could muster, and now she offered him paradise. What sane man would resist?

  Fortunately, he was crazed.

  “Stop your flirting,” he told her, resisting. “Nothing you do or say or offer will persuade me from my decision. You will be punished, for I would turn into a raving lunatic, altogether, if something ever happened to you."

  “Oh, Captor,” she said softly. “You do care..."

  “Naturally. As I care for all my property."

  “Property. Is that all I am to you?” She took a tremulous breath.

  The ties on her gown laced low, low enough to reveal the beginning swell of cleavage. It would take very little—a deeply drawn breath would do it—for her nipples to pop out.

  A sensuous creature like Aeschine would draw any man's attention. And wearing that red dress, she would attract men to her honey pot like bees to a hive. Had she allowed men to do more than buzz around her while he was away?

  The sharp dirk of jealousy twisted in his gut.

  “Touch me. Touch your property,” she whispered. “'Tis your touch alone that brings me pleasure."

  If only he might believe her! Knowing she had remained faithful would make him past happy.

  “I need you. It has been so long since we were last together. Far too long to do without my joy."

  Hating his suspicious tone, hating the jealousy that inspired it, he grilled her with, “Have you really gone so long without your joy?"

  “If you intimate that I have lain with another man in your absence, the answer is nay! There was no one else! Why do you persist in tarnishing what we have? ‘Tis you I long for! No other man."

  “I have eyes in my head. I see how seductive you look in that red gown."

  “I wear the gown you, yourself, gave me,” she protested.

  “While I was gone,” he began, ignoring the merits of her argument, “how many men enjoyed the wanton paradise between your legs? Four? Five? More? Shall we say an even dozen and leave it go at that?"

  “How might I have been unfaithful when you had your man spying on me, night and day?” She threw her hands up in the air. “At least be honest in your anger! Say it for what it is. You are furious over naught I have done, but because of a length of red cloth made into frivolous garb that you, milord, gifted me with. This scandalous gown, this whore's attire, is what you think of me, is how you see me.” She took a deep breath and he had his heart's desire—her nipples popped out.

  She failed to notice the display. “All the time, I need you, and I ... I was anxious to look pretty. I waited for you everyday at the gates. Always for you! Accuse me not of vanity, or infidelity either; accuse me only of seeking to please you."

  She would please him tremendously if that red gown would fall down about her waist and those thrusting nipples found their way into his mouth, between his teeth. She would make him ecstatic if she removed the damnable gown altogether and he was rammed between her legs.

  “There is no need for jealousy over a foolish gown. You are more precious to me than red silk."

  “As you yourself said, puss, you need your joy. You will seek out other men if you do not get it."

  “I seek only you. ‘Tis you, alone, who gives me joy. And I wish to give you the same. Let me? Please, let me?"

  In answer, Sage pushed her towards his steed. “You will come alo
ng with me."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Aeschine dug her feet into the ragged turf. “Where are you taking me?"

  “Back to the keep. For punishment.” The warlord gave her a foot up into the saddle.

  “About that. Might you not make an exception? Imprisonment in that chamber for seven long days is torture. Besides,” she said, brightly, “You have only just arrived home. There is much I would show you. Much I would tell you. Are you so ready to forsake the pleasure of my company?” She batted her eyes. “Please? Let your silly anger go. Just this one time. For me?"

  “I do not give preferential treatment. To do so, would weaken my authority and set an unwise precedent. You disobeyed me and now you must be punished. Do not take this personally. ‘Twould be the same for anyone under my jurisdiction."

  “Someday you will bend, Captor."

  “Bending is your particular area of expertise, milady, not mine,” he said, and kneed his mount to a smooth gallop.

  The canter threw her backwards. “All the time you ask for the truth!” she cried in frustration. “The truth would bite you on your righteous arse and still you would fail to recognize it for what it is!” She covered her mouth with both hands. Then, promptly tore them away. “Hear what you are making me say! I have been cursing like a shepherd boy since your arrival, and cursing is, at the very least, a venial sin! And I have tried so hard to be docile..."

  Sage laughed. “I like it very much when you are not docile."

  “Oh, Captor...” she said softly.

  “...except when your life is endangered.” He looked down.

  She did too. Broken free of the confining laces of her bodice, her bared teats bounced in time to the steed's hooves. And if that were not bad enough, the red dress had blown back, exposing her bare legs and feet.

  The day had resisted the encroachment of cooler temperatures and so she had gone for her walk without a shawl. Then, to get mind off missing the warlord, she had removed her boots and hose to go wading in the river. No wonder he accused her of taking lovers during his absence; she looked like a slut!

  “I caught you on your way back from an assignation,” he accused.

  The wind sent her coif flying. Her hair loosened from its neat plait and whipped across her face “This is not how it looks. I spent the day alone, milord! I met no man!"