by C. A. Szarek
To wash a certain lass and nonsensical ideas from his head.
And his….heart?
Banishing the last word that had the audacity to pop into his mind, he mock-growled at his familiar lover and swung her up over his shoulder. He pushed her thin skirts away and smacked her bare, delectable bottom.
Betha yelped, but it was delight, not fright or pain. She held on tight and dared him to take her upstairs.
So he did.
Chapter Sixteen
Betha made quick work of her skimpy corset and thin skirts, sashaying toward him completely naked, hands on her rounded hips and come hither in those blue eyes.
Alasdair’s gaze tracked her movements, trailing up and down her bare form. Ebony hair hung to her hips, loose and swaying as she walked. She smelled good, too; like roses.
Betha was a beautiful lass, with ample breasts and curves in all the right places. Normally, just a look at her rosy nipples, already peaking at him, and her trimmed tight triangle of dark curls would have him granite in his breeches.
Nary was a tingle going on below his belt.
She helped herself to the ties on his tunic, then slipped beneath it, dragging her soft hands down his chest.
He sucked in air; her touch was nice. Familiar. But didn’t stir him just yet.
Alarm started to wash over him, but Alasdair banished it. Panic wouldn’t cause arousal, for certain.
She pulled his shirt up. He obliged and lifted his arms, allowing her to continue pushing it up. He helped her get it the rest of the way off. Then watched the dark green fabric fall to the wood floor.
Betha continued her exploration of his chest, adding kisses and nips as she went. Alasdair closed his eyes and tilted his head back, tugging her closer. He rubbed her back in long strokes as she teased him. Normally, his cock would be straining toward her by now, urging him to take her.
The lass rubbed her breasts against his abdominal muscles, moaning as she traced his defined lines with her tongue. “Hmmm, Sir Alas, I missed you.” Betha’s mumble was lost against his skin.
He muttered an appropriate response and caressed her bottom, squeezing and kneading encouragement until she squirmed and started to rock her pelvis against his.
Alasdair didn’t stop her when she opened his belt and loosened the ties on his breeches. Greedy blue eyes devoured his manhood when he was bared.
He’d never been shy. Had always been satisfied to be desired and visually pleasing to the women he’d lain with.
Not tonight.
His stomach quivered; he wanted to cup and cover himself.
She released him long enough for Alasdair to step out of his breeches and boots, but when Betha met his gaze, hers was confused. She’d noticed he wasn’t hard for her like normal. “Sir Alas, is something wrong?”
“Nay, lass. Come here.”
Without hesitation, she obeyed, wrapping her body around his. He lifted and carried her to the soft bed he’d been in dozens of times. Alasdair laid her down, following to nestle into the cradle of her body.
Betha nibbled his chin.
He flashed a grin. “I missed you, too, Betha-lass.”
She smiled and buried her hands in his hair when he drew one of her already-taut nipples into his mouth.
Alasdair laved her, cupping and kneading as he suckled, then continued down to the soft part of her belly, showering kisses and dragging his tongue over her pale skin he continued.
Betha arched and called his name, tugging his hair now. He slid a hand between her legs. She was wet, ready for him. Wanted him.
His cock stirred and jumped, but didn’t make a real effort to harden. Alasdair tried not to gulp, and prayed she hadn’t noticed his manhood’s continued disinterest.
Growling, he buried his hand in her heat, teasing the tight bundle of nerves at the top of her sex until Betha was writhing and rocking her hips. She panted his name over and over, wetting his whole hand with her excitement. The scent of her arousal was sweet, should spurn him on.
It isn’t.
Alasdair’s body wasn’t on board. With one hand, he fisted himself, tugging with too much vigor as he begged his cock for an erection. With the other hand, he continued to pleasure his favorite tavern girl. His manhood teased him as much as he was teasing her.
He would start to stiffen, then soften in stages.
Get hard, dammit.
When had he ever been with a beautiful naked woman and not been able to tup her?
Never.
Not even when he’d over imbibed.
What’s wrong with me?
His mental want of the lass spread out before him wasn’t translating to the physical. Stroking himself wasn’t pleasurable, either. Jolts of something that felt good would hit him, then recede. Nothing was sticking with him, to make him hard and wanting.
Alasdair’s heart pounded and his forehead was damp as he continued ministrations on himself and Betha.
He made her come twice before collapsing to the bed and fighting the urge to cover his face in shame.
Betha shivered against him. She panted as she calmed. He slid his arm around her and hauled her closer, holding her as the last remnants of her orgasm faded. She nestled into him, her large breasts against his side, giving a sated sigh.
Alasdair rubbed her back automatically, but couldn’t look her in the eye.
“That was wonderful, Sir Alas. But…don’t you want to take me?” Betha’s query was steady.
When he finally had the nerve to meet her gaze, her blue eyes had cleared of the hazy desire he’d seen. “I…”
They both looked at his flaccid member at the same time.
“Shall I try?” Betha reached for his cock.
He blocked her hand. The idea of her touch there turned his stomach for some reason, though she’d stroked him dozens of times, not to mention sucked him, but tonight he didn’t want her hands or mouth on him.
Alasdair couldn’t explore that particular why, either.
When their eyes met, hers were wide. “Sir Alas?”
Heat crept up the back of his neck, stinging, and he rubbed the spot. “I’m sorry, lass.” Embarrassment kissed his cheeks, too. They seared, and he broke eye contact again. He hadn’t blushed—ever. Then again, he’d never failed to perform in bed, either.
It wasn’t that his cock was broken. He just…
I don’t want Betha.
Confirmation in his head made him shudder. Alasdair couldn’t have who he wanted.
Small hands on his cheeks tugged his face back to hers. Her thumbs caressed his stubble, making a scratching noise. There was no censure in her sky blue eyes. Betha smiled. It was sweet, held no pity. She genuinely liked him. Which made him feel worse. “No worries, Sir Alas. Will you tell me what’s wrong?”
I’m in the wrong bed. “Nothing, lass.”
“You’ve never—”
He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers. Betha yelped, which gave him the opportunity to invade her mouth. Alasdair had never kissed her before.
It didn’t take the tavern girl long to respond. Betha kissed him back enthusiastically, skillfully. She wrapped her tongue around his and slipped her hand to the back of his neck, tangling fingers in his hair.
His cock didn’t even twitch.
They were naked, her breasts flattened to his chest. Her arms held him tight, her supple flesh hot against his. Her tongue coaxed, danced, teased. She moaned into his mouth.
Didn’t matter. Nothing was happening to his body from her kiss.
Without breaking the seal of their mouths, Betha slid her leg over his middle, straddling him. Her wet sex ground into his as she started to rock in his lap.
Still nothing from below more than a twinge. A tingle of awareness, but no heat. No hardness.
Wrong.
It’s wrong.
This is wrong.
The words roared in his head. His gut clenched and bile rose in his throat. Alasdair yanked his mouth from hers.
Wid
e blue eyes met his gaze. Passion faded quickly and her hands slipped from his hair.
Please don’t be hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked.
Confusion, not pain, darted across her pretty face. Betha looked away, shoved her black locks from her flushed cheeks, but when she looked back at him, she’d composed herself. She wore a smile. Offered a nod and lifted herself off him. She patted his bare chest as she settled beside him. “You never kiss me. This is more than mere distraction. Your mind is with another woman, in a bed other than my own.” Delivered without a missed breath, without hurt. Just fact, as she saw it.
He crushed his eyes shut as she hit the nail on the head. “I cannot have her.”
They both froze with his unwanted candor. Alasdair couldn’t look in her direction for the tenth time of the night.
Silence blanketed them.
Warm, comforting hands rested over his, though Betha’s were too small to cover his completely. “Why not?”
Alasdair’s breath stalled. His pulse pounded in his temples. He didn’t know what to tell her. Reasons—some of them his own, not King Nathal’s—piled against his lips and pushed. He swallowed instead of speaking. If he tried, everything would come out in a jumble that made little sense. Besides, he couldn’t talk to Betha. Not about Lady Elissa.
“You can confide in me, Sir Alas. I shall not tell a soul.”
He’d never really confided in anyone. Perhaps Leargan, but not many times, though they’d known each other for turns. His brothers usually came to him for such things. He was the eldest of the personal guard, and a good listener. Could even be serious when necessary, though they teased him relentlessly for it.
“Sometimes the body is guided by the heart,” Betha whispered.
“What d’you mean?”
She smiled, looking younger. And much more innocent than a lass in her profession should. Betha had a gentle soul. In that, she wasn’t so different than Lady Elissa. “You can’t…you know…because your mind, perhaps your heart, is with her.”
Alasdair frowned. He flipped their hands over and grabbed hers. “Betha, look at me.”
She did.
“I wasn’t thinking of her. Not when I was touching you.” Truth. He’d been distracted, but he wasn’t thinking of—or wishing—the naked lass with him was any other than Betha. Not consciously anyway. A voice whispered he’d just been concentrating on the wrong woman, but he ignored it.
He couldn’t read anything in her serene expression. He didn’t see hurt in her eyes, or sadness. Could she truly be so placid about everything? She was human, after all. Didn’t seem resigned, either. Just normal. Like the Betha he’d always known.
“I have enjoyed our many times together, Sir Alas.”
Alasdair studied her blue eyes. “Why do you say it like that? As if our time has come to an end.”
She laughed and patted his chest. “Tonight does not prove that to you, my fine knight?”
He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut as heat suffused his face again. Embarrassment was not something he would ever get used to.
Betha must’ve read it in his expression. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I don’t refer to what happened tonight. I refer to how you feel here,” she rested her hand over his heart. “For another lass. You never have before, so I’m happy for you.” She winked. “And I don’t believe I’ll be the only tavern girl mourning your loss.”
He blinked. “I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Feel…like that. For her.”
She smiled instead of contradicting him. But her eyes called him a liar.
Alasdair’s heart skipped. “She is to be married,” he blurted.
“To you?”
“Nay.”
Betha was crestfallen. “I’m sorry, Sir Alas.”
He shook his head as unwanted—and unfamiliar—emotion caught in his throat. Alasdair ignored it all, shoving it away and reaching for a smile. “All is well, worry not, Betha-lass. I don’t like you looking so sad.”
Her next smile was kind, and she rested her hand against the side of his face. “Would that all my visitors were like you, Sir Alasdair Kearney.”
By visitors, she meant the men she laid with, but Alasdair had never held her profession against her. Or asked if rutting for coin was a choice she’d made. Part of him didn’t want to know, because he liked her too much. Even if what’d been between them had always been hot, sometimes sweet, and definitely consensual, he paid Betha to give herself to him. As did every man she was with.
He’d no illusions about that. He cringed. What a time to have a touch of conscience.
Is she happy?
Why had he never thought to ask?
Alasdair was the worst kind of rogue.
He forced a laugh and tried to reach for the humor he was known for. “Ah, lass, there is no other like me.”
Betha giggled. “I believe you’re right.”
Chapter Seventeen
Three days had passed since they’d brought the water mage to Drayton from Terraquist Main. The lad was barely a man, but had put up a quite a fight when Bracken had grabbed him from behind and slapped a meaty palm over his mouth. Charis had stunned him with a spell and they’d hied back to Drayton’s cave within a few hours of grabbing him from the market.
They’d left him with the old mage.
Charis and his lads had resumed their search for the powerful female elemental, but they hadn’t gone far from the old mage’s cave. This morning, they’d been magically summoned back.
Drayton had ordered him to dispose of a body.
What’d happened in that cave had obviously led to the water mage’s demise, but what exactly Drayton had done to the lad was the mystery. The body was a shriveled husk that weighed nothing when Charis had retrieved it.
He’d probed for magic as soon as he’d gotten the lad’s remains to the woods where Bracken and Nason awaited him.
And found nothing.
When they’d taken the lad from the market, his aura had burned brightly, blue in color—denoting his water magic—and surrounding his form so brightly Charis had had to avert his gaze until the mage had been unconscious on the back of Bracken’s horse.
Even in death, magic should’ve been there. A slight trail his own magic could’ve sensed.
What had Drayton done to the lad before he’d killed him?
Unease settled over Charis.
Bracken and Nason hadn’t much magic—just a weak ability or two—so they didn’t share his concerns. Probably couldn’t tell something was wrong with the body.
Charis had thought it was his imagination that Drayton had appear younger before his eyes when he’d bowed to the old elemental and then gathered the body up.
What if…
He swallowed and looked at the hole his companions had dug. Stories about old Aramourian blood magic stirred in the back of his head.
Dark things.
Evil things elfin parents warned their children against in the earliest stages of training. Stealing another’s magic, another’s life, did things to a mage he or she couldn’t come back from.
Rumors of that kind of thing had been around for centuries. Secret elfin sects that’d wreaked havoc on their own clans for turns. It’d gotten so bad at one point that all the clan chiefs had come together and appointed a council of their most powerful mages to hunt down the sects and destroy them.
They had…and discovered a natural element that sucked all magic away in the process. No one with powers could be around it, as the tale went. One particular sect had worshipped the rock like a deity, and had stolen numerous human children to sacrifice to it.
Now, hundreds of turns later, Dimithian was a myth in Aramour, and most humans in the Provinces had never heard of it—even humans with powers. The Elves of Aramour were different. They never forgot, so they could prevent the horrors from repeating.
Charis shuddered.
If the old codger had performed blood
magic… No wonder Drayton’s aura had a black ring around it.
It wasn’t his power in and of itself, it was taint. Evidence of stolen magic. Magic that’d been melded with Drayton’s, but didn’t belong there.
“Why are you so quiet?” Bracken asked as he tossed the lad’s body in the hole like a sack of pebbles.
Nason started shoveling dirt on top without hesitation, or paying them any attention.
“I think I know why Drayton wants the lass.”
“Does it matter?”
Charis met the big man’s dark eyes. “It doesn’t.” Or, it shouldn’t. “We’ll find her, give her to him and collect our coin.”
“Like always,” Nason agreed, proving he was more observant than he looked.
“You look as if somethin’ is wrong.” Bracken studied him, and Charis wanted to shift in his boots.
He schooled his expression and squared his shoulders. “Nay. Just strategizing. I don’t think she’s in Terraquist at all.” He tucked a strand of long hair that’d worked its way lose from his tie behind a pointed ear. As always, he’d made sure his ears were bare for his audience with Drayton.
“I don’t disagree.” Bracken cocked his head to one side. The wind caught his short shaggy locks and tossed them as if he’d run his hand through. The brown mass was a mess on top of his hatless head.
“We need to go to Greenwald.”
“Greenwald?” Nason straightened, jabbing his shovel into the dirt and leaning on it. “Sense something?”
“My gut says that’s the right direction.”
Bracken narrowed his eyes. “We’ve been ta Greenwald.”
“Aye, but perhaps we should inspect the holding where this all started.”
“It was a lord’s holding. With a castle. It’ll be guarded. Perhaps occupied,” Bracken said.
“We’ll be careful.”
Bracken grunted.
Nason scanned the horizon. “’Twill be dark soon.”
“We can leave on the morn.” Something nudged his senses and Charis froze, his conversation with his lads falling away.
Bracken—always the keener of the two—shot him a sharp look. “What is it?”