LordoftheHunt

by Anonymous Author

  Adam pulled her tightly against his body. “I know it is cold, but lie with me. Now. Here.”

  She stepped only as far away as necessary to reach for the laces at his throat. She stripped them open, slowly and then rose on tiptoe to plant a kiss on the beat of his pulse. A soft sound penetrated the haze of his allure.

  “It sounds like one of the dogs.” She broke from Adam’s embrace and clambered cautiously over a tumble of rocks. “Adam. Oh, my God. Adam, come.”

  She reached the dog where he was trapped, his paw wedged in a crevice. He lay in a puddle of water. “Oh, Basil,” she whispered, releasing his foot. He crept into her lap.

  Adam went down on his haunches at her side. “Is his paw broken?”

  With a practiced hand, she ran her fingers along the dog’s legs and paws. “Nay. No bones are broken. Look—” She showed Adam a ragged piece of rope tied to his collar. “He’s chewed through this.”

  “That answers the question of what happened to the dog. He must have run away.”

  “Nay, Adam. We do not use rope to tie our dogs, and they are not collared in the kennel. This was done to him by another.”

  Adam undid the rope and wrapped it about his fingers. “Why not just kill him? Why tie him up somewhere?”

  Joan rubbed Basil’s ears. “To discredit Nat.”

  “Then why not kill him?”

  She shrugged. “To return him later and reap the praise…Oh God, this must be Oswald’s work. He alone would benefit from finding Basil. He reported our trouble to the bishop, you know. It makes Nat look incompetent and him… Oh, I hate Oswald. And to think he wants to wed me.”

  Adam took her hand. “I’m assuming you’ll resist the man’s allure.”

  She smiled and ducked her head. “Just thank God whoever did this has some mercy in him, and thank God for the rain as well, or Basil would be dead, caught here with no food. At least he had water to drink.”

  Joan looked at Adam over the lymer’s ears. “Whether Oswald or another, they did this to blame Nat.”

  Uncomfortable, Adam said, “I’ve already mentioned the dog’s loss to Mathilda. When we spoke of Christopher.”

  “If I take Basil home, there will be a dozen questions to answer. I’ll be endlessly delayed. But Nat must have this dog back.”

  She stroked Basil’s nose. He licked at her fingers and gave a soft woof.

  “I’ll take him back.” Adam combed her hair from her brow. “Let’s get him up to the caves and dry him off.”

  Involving himself with the dog meant risking Nat’s recognition again, but it could not be helped. “When you’re gone,” he said to Joan. “I’ll simply go swimming and find him.”

  Adam carried Basil up the stony way to the caves. Once inside, he lay his mantle out and this time, instead of inviting Joan to lie there with him, he coaxed Basil to the center and scratched his ears until he settled, nose on his front paws.

  Joan saw the moon had set behind the trees. “We have no time,” she said.

  “No point in wasting it with sleep.” Adam drew her close and kissed her.

  His tunic served as a place for her to kneel when she had set aside her gown. Garbed only in her shift, she could feel the rising winds as they crept like fingers across the rocks.

  She moaned in her throat when he pulled off his shirt and knelt before her.

  “What man without wits would think you plain?” he asked, smoothing his fingers across her cheeks.

  “I’ve freckles. I’ve a scar.” She touched her temple.

  “‘Tis a tiny mark. I have my own.” He took her fingertips and kissed them, then drew them to his eyebrow.

  “How did it happen?” she asked, tracing the fine shape of his bones from eyebrow to jaw.

  “I challenged a mercenary for command of his men. He was a mean brute and used them ill. I knew if I treated them with respect, they would follow me to the death.” He smiled. “And I confess, it helped that I paid them better.”

  She covered his hand and drew it to her breast. “Did you carve your mark in a woman’s breast?”

  “Answer that question yourself.” He traced his V on her breast over and over.

  “‘Tis strange, but when you touch me so, I feel it here.” She cupped her hands over her mound.

  “Sweet Joan. It is passion you feel.”

  He took her hands and placed them over the hard line of his manhood. “When you look at me thusly, I feel it here.”

  He shuddered when, without his urging, she caressed him from the warm fullness of his sack to the tip of his cock. When he could bear it no more, he undressed her. Soon, there was naught between them. He felt a throb of blood in his groin and when he put his hand to her breast, her heart beat with equal speed, rapid and hard.

  He thrust his fingers into her hair and kissed her forehead, brows, eyes again and again.

  “I am afraid of what the morrow will bring. It’s hard to leave my father in your care,” she said, turning her face into his palm.

  “I’ll honor my promise to look after Nat. You’ve heard tales of me that are not true.”

  She traced a V on his chest.

  “Once, I lay with a whore. She was not so very young and not so very pretty, but she made me laugh at a time when there was little laughter in my life. When we were finished with each other, and I took my leave, she begged me for a token. I had naught to leave behind, so I took up a stick and with the ashes of the fire, I wrote my V upon a scrap of my shirt.

  “She held it to her breast and said she would treasure it. Some of the ash transferred to her skin. To my great amusement, she flung open the shutters as I rode away and displayed her breasts, calling her adieus. My men saw the mark and have teased me ever since. Thus, through time and gossip, the legend has grown.” He drew a V on her breast with the edge of his finger. “And if I could mark you so all would know you were mine, I would.”

  She wrapped her arms about his neck. She gently bit his lower lip.

  “Kiss me everywhere,” he said.

  She hesitated for one heartbeat, unsure until she touched her lips to his chest. His answering moan emboldened her. In that moment, she felt like the goddess in the Roman chamber, in command of his body, able to bring him to his knees.

  She pleasured him with her tongue, hunting through the crisp hair on his chest for his nipples, and stroking them hard. She kissed his shoulder, throat, and finally his mouth with a hunger she had not known was possible. At the same time, she drew her nails down his hard belly to his manhood.

  He lifted her, parting her legs that they might encircle his waist. She cried aloud at the feel of him sliding into her. Then she could only hold him, his breath panting hot and moist on her shoulder as he moved. Each powerful stroke of his body deep into her sent jolts of sensation through her.

  Then he ended it, pushing into her, holding still, groaning her name. She sagged in his arms. He eased her to the ground.

  His breath was warm on her skin as he spoke. “There is a legend in these parts that the stag is saved from the boar by a huntress and from that moment, she owns his heart.”

  She rubbed her thumb on the scar through his eyebrow, then combed his black, thick hair off his face. “What does a man mean by such noble words?” She held him still by his hair, clasped at his nape.

  Then she pulled him up and kissed him.

  The feel of his hair sliding on her breasts puckered her nipples and she whispered a request. When he complied, his hair slid along her skin, warm and heavy, as much a caress as his lips closing on her nipples. He teased first one, then the other, licking fire across her heart.

  “Diana, magic commander of the hunting hounds, I have found you at last, here at Ravenswood,” Adam said, lifting his head from her breast and gazing into her eyes.

  “Adam, rescuer of maidens in distress,” she countered, attempting to mimic his light tone, but her voice cracked and went breathy, for he had bent his dark head again.

  He dragged his tongue along her
throat with agonizing slowness. She began to shake. His hands journeyed over the lines of her body, along her sides, over her stomach, down her thighs, across her mound. He never lingered, just stroked her and soothed her as she might an ailing hound.

  “Diana—”

  “I do not want to hear legends, Adam Quintin. Be still.”

  He stopped talking, but his body shifted subtly against her. Then he said, “But I know one you’ll want to hear.”

  She could not help smiling.

  “There was this stag who was rescued by a fair maiden named Diana, or was it Joan? I forget. So, the stag was ridden deep into the forest and held captive there for a year until every wish was granted.”

  “I am not a fair maiden. And your tale makes no sense. Whose wishes were granted? The stag’s or the maiden’s?”

  He laughed.

  It did strange things to her body to feel his move so sharply against hers. He was all hard edges, a honed warrior, forged in battle. And she loved him.

  “Joan, a woman should not point out the inconsistencies in a man’s tale. A woman should just listen and marvel at his cleverness. To do otherwise would be to risk punishment.”

  “Punishment?”

  “Aye. Like this.” He rolled her over to lie atop him, cupping her buttocks, and pressing her down on his aroused body. Then he kissed her.

  It was invitation, not conquering.

  It was a gift, not a punishment.

  She accepted the offer, the light feather of his lips on hers, the slow drag of his warm tongue after them. He kneaded her with his palms and she could not stifle the groan of pleasure he evoked with every subtle flex of his fingertips.

  Her arm was still sore, weak, but she forced herself to embrace him as he did her, holding him close. Whatever fear she felt of him and who he was fled before the tide of his ardor. The scent of him, his skin, the taste of his mouth, the strength of his hands, washed all concern away.

  The cave was quiet. Water dripped somewhere. The dog snuffled in his sleep. Adam breathed deeply, then shifted her to her side.

  She stroked her fingers on the line of black hair that ran down his belly. “You are a lovely man,” she said.

  She bent over him and traveled the same path with her tongue. He held her head and arched into her caress. When she sat back, he subsided, letting out a long sigh.

  He opened his eyes and touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Did I tell you the tale of the boar who met a huntress in the king’s forest?”

  “Nay, but I’m sure you will.”

  He pinched her nose. “This huntress kept a respectable tongue in her mouth. And she met this boar. A magic boar.”

  “Of course it must be magic,” she said.

  “Aye. The huntress, cornered by the beast, commanded him to let her pass. He said that if she could answer a riddle he would let her go without harm.”

  “Oh no. A riddle. I am hopeless at riddles.”

  He played with her hair. “The huntress agreed to try the riddle because she was an adventurous woman. The riddle the boar posed was this: What is it men truly want?”

  She burst into laughter. But when Basil woke and woofed, startled from sleep, she lowered her voice to a whisper. The dog edged along the cave floor until he was lying against Adam’s hip. She made to shift the dog, but Adam shook his head, and Basil fell asleep again, stretched out against Adam’s flank.

  “This is a sorry thing,” she whispered.

  “What is? My riddle or this hound, who is a much less appealing blanket than you?”

  “Passing off the oldest of riddles as one of your own.”

  “Then answer it, if ‘tis so simple. What is it men truly want?”

  “Your riddle is an old one posed by an ugly witch to King Arthur. And it was, ‘What do women really want?’”

  He pulled on her hand so she leaned forward over him.

  “Men. Women. ‘Tis all the same.” He wrapped a hand around her neck and held her for a kiss. “Answer it.”

  “What do men truly want? To have their own way.” She whispered the words.

  “Allow me my way,” he said, rolling her over once, twice, her legs splayed open about his hips.

  She lost her thoughts, driven like the beasts of the forest before the hunters, driven some place where sense was dormant and caution lost.

  * * * * *

  Joan watched Adam sleep. His face looked very young in the pale light of the breaking dawn—a noble face. Who was he?

  She woke him. They walked to the edge of the rocky ledge and looked over the river. A faint gray light picked out the tops of trees. She must go to Winchester but did not know why.

  They stood on the precipice, completely naked, hand in hand. The wind tightened her nipples and brought gooseflesh out on her arms and legs.

  “I feel wanton to be standing here like this,” Joan said.

  “No one can see you, save me, and I don’t think you wanton. I think you’re the most desirable woman in the kingdom.”

  She shivered and laughed nervously.

  “Let me warm you.”

  “I’m not cold. I’m afraid.”

  “Do you regret agreeing to help me?”

  She shook her head, laying her hands on her breast. “Nay, never.”

  “Let me hold you. Jesu.” He backed away from Joan. Basil stood before him growling, snapping, inches from his manhood.

  “Basil.” She swept her hand out and the dog sat, tail wagging. “I offer you my humble apologies. I fear I gave the hand signal to guard without realizing it.”

  “Guard?”

  “Aye, watch.”

  She crossed her hands on her breast. The dog rose and stood facing him. Unmoving.

  He took a step toward his braies near her feet. The dog limped on its paws, baring its teeth, growling low in its throat. Adam hesitated, one hand out. “Will he—”

  “Aye. He will attack you if you come any closer to me.”

  “Jesu,” he said softly. “Are all the hounds trained to guard you like this?”

  “Almost all.”

  “Can you call him off?”

  She swept her hand out, parallel to the floor, and the dog lay down, head on its paws.

  “Teach me,” Adam said, cupping her face, kissing her hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Joan buckled the straps of her saddle bags, which lay across the table. The light from the door was blocked and she looked up, expecting to see Nat. Instead, Mathilda stood there in the pink shades of dawn light, in glorious splendor, an ivory mantle set back over her shoulders to show her gown the color of Adam’s eyes. Dozens of small braids and blue ribbons tied her hair up in a coronet about her head.

  “My lady?” Joan curtsied.

  “Where have you been?” Mathilda set her little foot on the stone floor as if she might soil her dainty leather shoe. Then her gaze went to the saddle bags. “Where are you going?”

  “I am going to Winchester.”

  “I thought so. What of your duties?”

  Joan ignored the first question. “I have no duties that prevent my going.” Joan closed the saddle bags.

  “You carry something for Adam Quintin, do you not?”

  Joan silently cursed. It had taken much persuasion to get Nat’s permission to leave. In fact, at first, he had been confused and alarmed. It was the prospect of the pennies she would earn that had finally reassured him.

  Guilt that she left Nat, even for a moment, settled on Joan like a mantle too heavy for her shoulders. Now, Joan regretted that she had not told him ‘twas a secret.

  “What are you carrying?” Mathilda persisted.

  “It is not my place to say.”

  “You don’t trust me.” Mathilda spread her skirts out and sat across from her at the table. She lifted a cloth over the bread and butter Joan had laid out for Nat.

  “It’s not a matter of trust, my lady. It’s a matter of the tale not being mine to share.”

  “At c
hapel, Brian said he would never trust Adam Quintin. You and I know Brian well, you more than I, but we do know Brian’s word is spotless. If he doubts the value of Quintin, how can we then trust the man?”

  “And how will you choose a husband from among these suitors if you rely on one of them to direct you? Brian is jealous.”

  “Is he?” Mathilda tore the heel from the bread and chewed it. “I do not believe him jealous. He is concerned that two women he knew as close friends might be taken in by a handsome face and fine figure. Have you forgotten Quintin’s company is composed of mercenaries? Mercenaries killed your parents. Such men are a necessary evil, I grant you, and might have the strength to hold this place, but their leader may also be a treacherous beast.”

  “Then why did you not dismiss him at your love court?”

  Mathilda smiled and smoothed her skirt. “Dismiss him? I intend to wed him.”

  Joan felt as if a knife had been thrust into her breast. She squeezed her fingers around the saddlebag straps lest she betray herself in some way. Her voice sounded too high when she spoke. “Why? You just said he’s untrustworthy. A mere mercenary.”

  “He is also very, very handsome…and my desires are different from those of other women.” She stood up, sweeping crumbs from her skirt. “In fact, he and I have struck a bargain.”

  “A bargain? When?” Joan’s fingers jerked on the straps.

  “After the hunt.”

  Joan stared at Mathilda, thunderstruck. After the hunt she had gifted Adam with her secrets, her trust, her body, her heart. “I don’t believe it,” she whispered.

  “Then you’re a fool. He’s using you for his own purposes. Have you thought that Adam might be a traitor? That he might have sold his services to Prince Louis?”

  The veil of joy from Joan’s night with Adam was torn away like a scab from a wound. “You speak nonsense. William Marshal defeated Prince Louis.”

  “Did he? When is an ambitious prince ever defeated? Haven’t you heard the gossip that someone here, one of these suitors, works for Louis, and so, against our king?”

  Heat spread from the wound in Joan’s breast, carved wider and deeper with every word Mathilda uttered.