"The rites oppose one another!" he roared helplessly. "Do you not see as much? You would be like others of your rank, married and copulating wantonly. Did you wed Velansare, you knew full well he would still take men into his bed. He would mate with you only until he begot a son, then leave you to your lovers. This is the way of the upper races, but it is not Waniand."
Moreya dropped to the floor and placed her forehead against his knee. Preece was astonished. She'd prostrated herself at his feet. What she would say next could only come like a dagger thrust in his chest, when already he was sick and shaking and bleeding inside.
"Some of my people behave so," Moreya admitted softly. "I think because so often the unions are arranged, as my betrothal was, for reasons of property or title or fortune. But there are men and women who come together because they wish to share their lives. I will not speak falsely. I wished us wed because I did not want to be called your whore."
He reached down and cupped her chin. She gazed up at him, her purple orbs misted with sadness. "And if we are caught, the king cannot now force me to wed anyone else. I am lawfully married to you." She wiped at her eyes. "I was selfish."
The dagger had been thinner, more lethal than he'd expected. She wept in palpable distress. Distress he had caused her.
"I'm so very rueful, Preece. I never suspected you thought I would allow some stranger to cuckold you. You must know such is not true! I was not forced to wed you. I want to be with you. Only you. Please believe that."
He pulled her up into his arms and she clung to him, sobbing. He had hurt her. A grievous wrong for a Waniand warrior to commit. He had to right matters.
"Moreya." He barely managed to croak her name. There was pain in his own throat. "Do not weep, lady. I misjudged your thinking. I know you are not of my blood, so you cannot understand my views. In this matter of joining...in what now lies between us."
"Then make me understand!"
He captured her face between his palms. She was so very beautiful, so trusting. And kind. Generosity flowed from her, as pure as a mountain spring. "Once we perform the lifemate ritual, you will be in my blood and I in yours. A warrior's woman does not deceive him or play him falsely. Waniands regard adultery as grounds for justifiable slaughter. We will both physically be altered as a result of our flesh bond. My seasons will alter. You will grow heavy with my child. Those and other manifestations will occur, which are not to be ignored. So will the bond between us remain unto death. Do you ken now?"
"Yes. It is deadly serious to you. Literally."
He nodded and pulled her close against his heart. "You shall be forever known as my lifemate because my essence and reason to live resides within you. We will become one in flesh and spirit. I have already faltered in my path to harmony with you. You were distressed by my outburst. I am likewise distressed by it. Even in the heat of battle, I do not lose control of my thoughts. But I was affrighted that I'd made a grave error in judgment. A feeling I've not had since I was very young."
"Frightened? How could - Oh, that I would betray you with someone else and you'd be forced to slay me? I don't blame you. 'Tis a horrid thought."
He shook his head and swallowed. It was very hard, this plain speaking. Were it anyone but Moreya, he was not certain he could force the words out. "I cannot bear if you would but think of it. That you would wish to leave me. I would that I had never known you, instead."
"Stubborn Waniand, I married you so I could be with you. Always." Her arms came around his neck and she pressed her damp face against his cheek. A sweetness poured over him and soothed his nerves. He had mishandled matters badly, but there was still a chance to redeem himself and forge his bond with her.
He stroked her hair and sighed, waited until her fierce hold became a gentler embrace. "Preece is my clan name," he told her. "Its meaning is much the same as Warmonger, the name I am known by to Glacians. As my lifemate, you alone have the right to speak my sacred name, the name my mother first intoned upon my birth: Kaelan."
She pulled away slightly and stared into his eyes. "Kaelan Preece. It fits you."
His lips quirked at that. "Kaelan describes one who is long of body and light in coloring. Not rare amongst my kind."
"But she knew you would grow into this handsome, tall man. Surely not all warriors of your race have such pleasing facial features."
The sweetness was fading, to be replaced by something richer, more potent. Need. He must take the first step in their ritual. "Moreya, I would make us one in the flesh."
She trembled slightly. He kissed her lips, her cheek, her throat. "We are man and wife. Even in your ways, the union is not lawful until you surrender to me. Does this frighten you?"
"Nay, unless I think about what Glaryd has told me. That there is pain the first time."
"There is, and blood. You fear me because of this?"
"You are talented at kissing until I can no longer think. Last night I could no more rein in my mind than harness a dragon. Mayhap when your season begins, we could - "
He pressed a rough palm to her breast. The tip hardened beneath his hand.
"We need not wait. I have chosen you for lifemate. A warrior does not make his choice without powerful instincts guiding him. Your desire can, at times, fuel mine. There can be coupling without mindless frenzy."
"So we might - this very eve?"
"We might." He untied her kirtle and peeled it away from her flesh. Her breasts were high and slightly pointed, their globes the same pale pinkish hue as the flesh of her neck and arms. But the nipples, ah, the nipples were like twin little plums.
And tasted every bit as sweet as sloe plums in high summer.
She moaned and ran her fingers into his hair, pulling his head closer. He obliged and sucked one tip deeper into his mouth. Moreya gasped. "Oh, I never dreamt it could feel like this! Will your babe make me feel so wondrous as it suckles?"
There was nothing she could have said that would get a Waniand stiffer or hotter than mention of his get. Preece quickly divested her of her shift and untied the laces of his leggings. In a twinkling, he had them both unclothed and settled onto the inn bed.
Where he felt her eyes studying his form in wonder, and his likewise drank in the amazing sight of her. The tales men traded about Yune females were both falsely inflated, yet oddly true. If Moreya was any example, they were indeed markedly different from other womenfolk. He just never afore now knew how.
Her pubic hair was as lustrous as the hair on her head. The same violet hue, the same silky texture, and unusually long. Her pleasure jewel was more prominent than any he'd encountered. Swollen and glistening, it was nearly the size of a thumb.
Verily, this was the secret to Yunish enchantment. A man could die blissfully ensnared in such a tender trap...particularly as the trap lay open and welcoming.
She did not clasp her knees together, fold her arms over her breasts, or exhibit the extreme shyness he'd been taught to expect from a virgin.
Satan's hoofprints. If she was unpure, they could not be lifemated. Drawing blood was essential to the formation of the bond. "Moreya, truly this will be your first time beneath a man?"
She nodded, hesitancy showing in her eyes this time. "But I have decided again to trust you, Preece. Placing faith in you has not been a misstep thus far. You came after me when Glaryd told you I'd be found in a dragon's lair, even though I suspect you did not fully believe it. You know what I do not. You will teach me. I do not fear learning."
He stroked his hands up her splayed thighs. Moreya sighed, relaxed, smiled with contentment even as her pointy breasts jutted upward. He stroked her pleasure center ever so lightly with a fingertip. She clawed her fingers into the bedcovers and splayed her thighs all the wider.
He did not deserve so fine a prize. His entire lifetime of plying a sword could not have earned him this bounty. But darkly, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, she was not a gift freely given in truth. Cronel would flay him alive, were he to discover what Preece did now
with the Yune promised to a prince.
The realization sickened Preece anew. This beautiful, free-hearted, trusting maiden given to a pederast...in the fervent hopes she'd unwillingly destroy him and topple his throne. To cause such wanton devastation would have destroyed her.
Fury rose in his breast, quickened his breathing. It sprung, he sensed, from a fierce protectiveness - yet another signal that she was, in truth, the soul intended to mesh with his own. Taking her somewhere safe, far distant, claiming her as his wife and mate: not only justifiable actions, but necessary. For her welfare. For his own.
Just behind the soul's need and yearning, fed by his pique, rose a darker thrumming in his blood, heat that incited his loins and spurred him to begin kissing and caressing the willing female who whispered his sacred name.
She sprawled and rolled like some great Baltese cat. She kissed him back and reached to stroke his own flesh like some Dredonian madam.
She smiled like a sweet child even as he thrust deeply into her and tore her maidenhead.
It was nearly midnight. The inn was quiet, but for the constant patter of rain on the rooftop. Preece stood at his open chamber window. He reached out, let the rain soak his palms, then rubbed the cold water on his bare chest.
Moreya lay sleeping.
He glanced over at her with a rueful smile. She still looked vestal as a sylph lass, her startling erotic aspects fully hidden now beneath the covers.
He had never in his wildest imaginings dared to hope for such a lifemate. On some instinctual level, his body must have known and begun to respond from the first. Very odd, since he'd years ago dismissed the boasting of other knights who'd lain with Yune courtesans as swaggering flummery. He'd never believed there was anything truly different about one sort of woman over another, felt no spark of desire for any Yune before Moreya.
And when he'd occasionally reflected upon his life's path and acknowledged that the time drew near for him to select a mate, he'd mulled a variety of possibilities. Most always they'd been pliant, unremarkable sorts who would tolerate his surly ways and extended journeys.
He laughed aloud before he caught himself at the mental picture that had just flashed through his mind. He'd actually envisioned some fishwife sailing at his side to Ataraxia!
Moreya stirred and sat up. Obviously she'd not slumbered as deeply as he'd supposed. "You're smearing rainwater on yourself and laughing like someone moonsick. Dare I hope you are pleased with your new wife?"
He ran the towel across his torso and slid back into bed, drawing her into his arms. "I am more than pleased. I am heartened to discover Yune females truly are most beguiling. And I'm grateful I never wore the bat amulet, for I would have missed what we have shared this eve."
Moreya cocked her head with a quizzical look. "How are we beguiling? I have heard this all my years, yet my mother swore it was only some foolish myth, propagated by randy m - "
Preece clamped his mouth over hers to silence her. Aye, he could well imagine the myth had been propagated by randy men, but he was not about to explain how Yunish women differed. She was clever enough to know such an explanation would prove he had grounds for comparison. She would be angry, then, for likely she now felt as possessive as he did.
She tore her mouth free and pushed against his shoulder. "I asked what you meant."
"I meant this. I would have missed this." He let his hands move freely over her bare flesh again, and she melted beneath his touch. Quivered, trembled, sighed, and moments later quickened.
"I am glad neither of us missed that," she announced with a sleepy murmur as she settled herself against his side, sated and drowsy. Her hand reached out to gently explore his now-flaccid cock. He made a low sound of contentment, and she continued to lightly fondle him until she drifted back into slumber.
Preece let out a long breath. She was maid no longer, woman and wife in fact. She had learned about a male's erection, his conquering explorations of her physical self. She'd tasted of part of the carnal knowledge that would forever alter her. But only a part, for he'd wed her and taken her just the once. To breach her maidenhead and "consummate" their bond, according to the instructions he'd gleaned from her friend the cleric. Preece went through the ceremony and ritual proscribed by her people to unify them in what the monk had called holy matrimony.
He must take her again and perform his own sacred rite. Share his secrets. Make her one with him. Teach her the cabalistic ritual that would forever link them as lifemates.
* * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Moreya slept far later than usual, and awakened alone in Preece's chamber. Neither occurrence seemed to surprise Glaryd, who bustled into the room shortly before noontide. "You'll need a hot bath."
Moreya grimaced and sat up, grabbing the bedclothes in modesty as Tivershem barged in right behind the maid to deliver a bathing tub and hot water. When he left the room, Glaryd went to slip the bolt on the door.
"Are you sore and regretting your foolish ways? 'Tis too late," Glaryd grumbled as Moreya got out of bed and crossed to the waiting tub. "He's blooded you, I see, the tall brute."
"He's not a brute," Moreya huffed.
"He doesn't have the look of one when he goes about bareheaded," Glaryd said with a leering grin. "Well favored is that one. I can see how he got under your skirts. Bah, I'm none to judge whom a woman lets 'twixt her thighs. Look at the ogre I've lain with and what he did to thank me."
Moreya ceased lathering her arm with the crude soap and jerked round to stare at her maid. Glaryd had rarely spoken of such matters. Nay, less than rarely. Once only, when Moreya's menses had begun. That day they spoke of womanly matters, in the simplest terms only. Moreya learned what men did to women, how babes were sprouted, that there was pain and sometimes pleasure to be had in the planting of male seed. She'd interpreted from Glaryd's words then that Glaryd had never given birth herself, but had taken pleasure and known men.
Moreya had simply assumed Glaryd was a widow, who preferred not to speak of her lost husband. But something about the look on Glaryd's face, her tone now, suggested that was not the case.
"Who, Glaryd? You have never spoken of him, but the once. I assumed he's in his grave."
"Nay, he's on his throne."
Moreya dropped the soap. Glaryd was Glacian. Moreya's mind cried out in denial against the image of six fat, beringed fingers clutching a jewel-encrusted wine goblet. 'Twas impossible!
But it fit with Glaryd's bizarre attitude that night in the royal castle, her insistence that the place was wicked - from the very throne down the ranks, even to the servants.
"King Cronel? You were his courtesan?"
"For a time, in my youth," the maid replied gruffly. "Here, let me do your hair." Moreya sat in stunned silence. As Glaryd began rinsing and lathering Moreya's hair, she unwound her tale. She had been presented at court as a tender maid by her uncle. Her first night in the castle, guards came to her chamber and said the monarch wished audience with her.
She was taken to his bedchamber and raped.
Her uncle departed the following day amid rumors his gaming debts were now cleared. Glaryd was transplanted into special chambers, garbed like royalty, fed all the finest foods, taught by older slaves the way to cater to Cronel's unusual tastes in bedsport. For more than a year, Glaryd was his personal favorite.
Then Glacian knights cleaned out a settlement of rebels along the far northern edge of Outer Glacia, where glaciers melted into the very seas. They brought back a number of prisoners, among them a beautiful lass of twelve winters. She cowered before the fat king. She prostrated herself at his feet and began to lick them.
"I shall never forget the depravity etched onto his face then," Glaryd said, handing Moreya a bucket for rinsing the soap scum from her skin. "His prick jutted up from that throne as he watched her tongue lave his boots. He told her to remove them and his stockings, to bathe his bare toes with her tongue. Of course, she did it, quaking in terror all the while. He ejaculated on her
, before every man in her village, before his council. While I and his other concubines watched in morbid fascination."
"I was ordered to see the royal surgeon the next day, and less than a week later, was auctioned to a slaver. Your father was at the Inner City marketplace and purchased me. I have been with the Fas ever since."
Glaryd motioned for Moreya to rise. She toweled Moreya dry as gently as she had when Moreya was very young, and the far-off look in her eyes suggested she'd indeed gone back to those early days in her mind. Moreya was still reeling from the tale, and almost afraid to ask, but she had to know the rest now. The wound could only fester did they not pull the scab completely away.
"Why the surgeon, if you were not ailing?"
"As Cronel's mistress, there is nothing you cannot have, no bauble or velvet too ostentatious, no fare too rich for your palate. Do you want to take a footman's rod in your wetpurse, Cronel will avidly watch whilst you enjoy a good tupping. But when his capricious whim turns his eye away from you and you no longer intrigue him, you can never again know pleasure with any man. He vouchsafes this by having your nub cut away before you are sold to another."
Had she been maid still, ignorant of sensual pleasure and its origins, unschooled in a man's touch, she would likely still have been horrified. Deliberate maiming was not unknown under Glacian law, but always it was a capital punishment for some heinous crime.
Glaryd had done naught but what the king ordered.
And now that Moreya knew exactly what pleasure he'd ordered forever banned, she understood why Glaryd had not married or birthed children. Been content to quietly love Anthaal Fa all the days she had served him, her tender feelings hidden beneath a mask of servility.
Moreya was past horrified. She was hurt and furious and confused...and suddenly frightened. Was this what men did, use women and then abandon them so cruelly? Without human decency, without a care for how they would survive in the world?
Biondine, Shannah Page 9