by Lisa Hendrix
“Touch me,” she whispered once more when she thought he was ready, and with a harsh sigh, he yielded. His hands glided over her wet skin, gathered her breasts to bring them to his lips. Her breath caught on a moan, and he slipped one hand between their bodies to stroke her. The first spasm swelled within her. She pulled his hand away. “No. I told you. In me. In me.”
He tried one last time to refuse, but she was too far gone to listen. With a moan, she rose up, shifted over him, and slid home. She broke as he entered her, the pleasure he’d started with his hand catching her before she was even full with him. Ivo groaned again, lifting into her and holding himself deep within while she pulsed and shook over him. But even as the shuddering peaked, she knew he still held himself back, that he hadn’t joined her and that there was more for her as well. She began to move, riding him, taking him as he refused to take her. The tension climbed in her again, even sharper. He began to shake beneath her.
“Stop. Alaida. Please.”
She knew that plea. She recognized it from their wedding night, when she hadn’t known better. Now she understood, and it excited her, pushed her closer to that place again. His fingers bit into her hips with a final effort to control her, perhaps to stop her, but she bore down, searching for the pleasure, and finally, he gave in and met her. His hips bucked and lifted as he pulled her down onto him, muscles tightening in rhythm. Almost. Almost. Almost. And then she was there and he was with her, and she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the magic.
NOT YET. NOT yet. Alaida’s heat enveloped Ivo like a wave, and she shattered in his hands, arching back and curling forward, her body pulling in on itself, tightening senselessly around him as she gasped out her pleasure. He held back as long as he could, but his own release surged up to follow hers. With a shout of desperation, he found one last fragment of control and lifted her up and off, setting her away to spend himself into the water.
“No. No. You weren’t to deny me.” She collapsed against him, shaking, as he finished. “You weren’t.”
“Shh, sweet leaf. I find I can deny you very little. Give me this.” He gathered her close and pressed kisses to her hair, her neck, whatever he could reach, as he murmured, “If only you could understand.”
She found herself more quickly than he thought possible and pushed upright to meet his eyes. “I tire of hearing that. I tire of all of it. And I understand more than you think, my lord.” The flush of pleasure on her cheeks deepened into the red of anger. “I understand you wasted your seed for no good reason.”
“It was not a waste, sweet leaf. I took as much pleasure as you.” And protected her in the bargain, he thought, grateful to whatever god had lent him that final bit of strength. “And I have reason enough.”
“Phfft. Your reason is an ass, m’lord, and blind to boot.” She struggled to her feet, wobbly from using him, and stood over him streaming water from her naked body like one of Ægir’s daughters. “Look at me.”
He could hardly do otherwise, considering how she straddled him. By the gods, he could dive into that quaint and not come up for a year.
“You have not enjoyed my body for some months, monseigneur, but is this truly what you remember of it?” She cupped her hands over her breasts. “Do you recall me being so big here?” She ran them down over her waist. “Or here?” Lower, cradling her belly. “Or here? Or do you think I merely grow fat?”
His stomach twisted into a cold knot as he saw what he’d missed in the blindness of his lust. Breasts swelled, waist gone thick, belly just beginning to round. Odin, help us both. “You’re with child.”
“So I am. Here you played monk when you could have used me without further risk.” She stepped out of the tub and found a towel. “As I said, I understand well enough.” Snatching up her robe, she stalked off someplace out of his sight, muttering evilness against him.
Ivo sank down in the water, his hands pressed to his head to keep it from bursting. He’d told Brand she might be breeding, but he’d never truly believed it. When the weeks had passed with no word from her, he’d been sure they’d escaped the threat.
But they hadn’t. There was a child, and somehow he had to help it and Alaida—especially Alaida—survive. Silently, he began to call on every god and goddess he knew who might help her, even the Christian one and his son and their thousand saints. Please. Please.
After a long while, quiet footsteps drew him out of his prayers. He cracked his eyelids to find Alaida standing beside the tub. She unfolded a towel and held it wide for him. “Come out before you catch a chill.”
A chill. She likely carried a monster in her belly and she was worried about his chill. With a sigh, he levered himself up. She wrapped the towel around his shoulders and began patting him dry. “Forgive me, monseigneur. That is not how I intended to tell you.”
“There is nothing to forgive. It was …” He stroked a wisp of hair off her forehead, and she jerked her head away. “You should have told me sooner.”
“I only grew certain in the last fortnight. It had just been the one night, and I didn’t think …” She handed him the towel to dry his hair and went to fetch his fresh linens. “I doubt even Bôte realizes I caught so quickly.” She paused, staring at the bed. “She still believes we have been lying together as man and wife. As do the others, I think.”
Balls. She was trying to reassure him. It should be the other way around; he was the husband here, though a poor one. He twisted the towel around his hips and went to stand behind her. Tentatively, he brushed her hair off the nape of her neck and, when she didn’t draw away this time, kissed her there.
“For what little it is worth, I sought only to protect you.”
“From a babe?” She turned and smiled up to him, innocent of what was to come, and rested a hand on her belly. “A child is a blessing, my lord, not something to fear—though I know you do not want it.” Her smiled faded. “What I am unsure of is whether it is a child you do not want, or only a child from me.”
By the gods, there was too much on this woman’s slim shoulders, and every stone of it his fault. He could at least ease part of her burden, and best of all, he could do it with the truth. “There is no woman I would rather have a child with, Alaida. Not in the whole of England.”
He pressed kisses over her face, tasting salt as tears began to leak from beneath her closed eyelids. “Ah, sweet leaf. Don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry, my lord. I know you don’t like tears,” she sniffled, swiping at her cheeks with her palm. “At least these are glad ones.”
With a rueful laugh, he wrapped his arms around her. “Then cry them, for I would have you glad of something, at least.”
“Glad or sad, I have little choice.” She wiped her cheeks again and heaved a shuddering sigh against his chest. “I have been crying for weeks now. Blame your son, and feel fortunate you have missed most of them.”
His heart leapt despite himself. “A son? You know this?”
“No, but surely it must be, to crawl into my womb so willingly.” She grinned crookedly, still weeping a little. “I am told men like it there.”
“I do,” he assured her, not certain if she was joking but not willing to upset her if she was not. If he could help it, he would never needlessly upset her again. She would have enough to face without him adding to her pain.
“I am also told that a boy child turns a woman more lustful with each passing day.” Now that was mischief in her eye, bright behind the remains of the tears.
“And is that true of you?” he asked carefully.
“Aye, unfortunately,” she said, threading her arms around his waist. “Or perhaps not so unfortunately?”
God’s knees. Perhaps it was a boy. “When did you grow so bold, wife?”
“It was necessity, my lord. I have had a reluctant husband, though I hope that ends now.” She pressed a kiss to his chest. “You no longer need avoid me, my lord. What is done, is done, and we may as well take our pleasure with each other.”
Ivo looked down at her, unsure how to respond. The horror of what might be coming sat heavily on him, but there was naught he could do right now but keep Alaida happy and make the next few months pass easily for her so she might have the strength to deal with what came after. Apparently, it would make her happy to have him in her bed—and truly, there was no more damage to be done. But could he do it?
“Do not deny me.” She leaned back to look up at him and fitted her hips to his groin, as bold as any dockside whore. His body jumped beneath the towel. He could do it.
“A man would have to be a eunuch to deny you. Or mad.”
“Which are you, my lord?”
“Neither.” For her, he told himself. He pulled away the towel and backed her onto the bed, determined to do his best by his lady wife. He owed her that much and more. “And ’tis Ivo.”
IVO SLIPPED OUT of the hall a bit later than usual. He’d barely rounded the corner headed for the stable when something picked him up, slammed him against the adjacent wall, and held him there, his toes a good foot off the ground.
“Are you mad?” Brand’s voice was a savage growl in Ivo’s ear. “By the gods, I ought to cut it off and nail it to her door to remind you.” He bounced Ivo against the wall once more, just to knock the rest of the air out of him, then dropped him in a heap.
“Heh,” said Ivo, lacking wind for more.
“I saw you,” Brand hissed down at him between clenched teeth. “I came up and started to push the door open, and there you were on top of her. It was all I could do not to walk in and pour a bucket of water over you like the dog you are. And you had the balls to warn me off Merewyn.”
“She …” Ivo gulped down another breath and pushed himself up. “She’s with child.”
Brand froze, the same look on his face that Ivo knew had been on his own. “She what?”
“She’s with child. Now come. We will discuss this where there aren’t so many ears.”
They retrieved their horses and rode out in silence, and when they were far enough from the wall, Brand said, “After so long, I didn’t think …”
“Nor did I. Apparently the moon was with her after all.”
“Balls. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Ivo had forced the whole mess out of his mind while he’d lain with Alaida; now it came rushing back. If Ari was right, in a few months they would have to figure out how to care for an infant who could fly. He remembered one day early on when sunset had caught him a hundred feet off the ground. He’d snagged a branch on the way down, but the vision of a child tumbling that far nearly made him vomit from the saddle. “Maybe we can find another witch, a white witch, to remove—”
“I’ve tried other witches. None of them are white,” said Brand curtly. “They all have souls black as this bird. What about one of their priests?”
“Who, Theobald?” Ivo asked, and Brand snorted. “Exactly. Besides, they burn what they see as evil, and I have no desire to see if we can die by fire.” He glared at the bird, “Call another vision. Ask for guidance this time.”
“They don’t always come when he calls them,” reminded Brand. “What will we do while we wait?”
“What choice do we have? We will live our cursed lives as best we can, and I’ll do what I can to keep Alaida safe and happy.”
There was a pause before Brand asked, “Keeping her safe tonight, were you?”
Ivo glanced at him, saw the glint of a smile, and felt a wash of gratitude at his understanding and forgiveness. “No. That was the happy part.”
“Well, it can’t do any harm at this point. You may as well enjoy her while you can.”
They rode on in silence. The forest grew thicker around them, dimming the gray light of the approaching dawn, though the birds chirruped and trilled around them.
“Have you ever heard that a male child makes a woman more … willing?” asked Ivo as they neared the spot where he would leave Brand.
“No.” His friend twisted in his saddle and studied him keenly. “Balls. I think a part of you is happy for this.”
“After three months denying myself? Aye, a part of me is very happy.” Ivo reined Fax to a halt at the edge of the grove where the bear would prowl that day. “But I would gladly let you cut that part off if it would make things right for her.”
Brand slid off Kraken, quickly stripped, and tied his clothes behind the saddle. As Ivo rode away, he called after him, “If it would make things right for her, I’d cut off my own.”
“I know,” said Ivo, grateful that he had such a friend.
CHAPTER 20
“NO MORE.”
Exhausted, Ari plunged his hand into the blood-reddened water and held it there as he looked to the eagle sitting on the dead tree across the pond.
“I cannot do this more. I’m spilling too much blood.” He groaned as the sting of the water worked its way past the numbness brought by his entreaties. “I’m sorry, my friend, they will not speak, and I’m no use to either of you if I cannot stay upright. It ends for now.”
The eagle stared with those golden-brown eyes, so unlike Ivo’s, blinked that strange front-to-back blink, then leapt into the sky and streaked toward Alnwick. Wincing, Ari reached for the clean strip of cloth he’d laid nearby. He had called the visions every day for nearly a month now, and his palm was striped with fresh cuts and fading scars. His constant bandage was raising questions in the hall, and the drain of bleeding so much and so often had turned his limbs to lead. He needed time to rest and regain his strength before he approached the gods again.
He struggled to his feet and went to his horse. The animal seemed to have grown immense while he bled. Swearing, he lifted his leaden foot into the stirrup, took a deep breath, and hoisted himself up, grunting as he had to pull with his bad hand. A nap, that’s what he needed. A long nap, a good meal, and a sennight without laying his veins open. With a sigh, he turned his mount toward Alnwick.
THIS ONE HAD even more magic about him than his friends.
Merewyn stood in the thick shelter of a willow and watched the seneschal ride away. She knew Sir Ari from the village, having seen him from a distance as he oversaw the building of the castle mound. Today, she had come upon him as he’d knelt, bleeding and calling to the gods, and watched silently from the green shadows as his efforts failed. A seer who could not see, and who spoke to an eagle as to a friend. Very strange.
She added these new tidbits to what she knew of Sir Brand and his friends. Their odd comings and goings continued, despite the ever-shorter nights and the child, which was now common knowledge. A few well-placed questions had told her that none in the village or manor had seen Lord Ivo or Brand by day, nor this Sir Ari by night.
Nearly as strange, though, was how few seemed troubled by that. The village was thriving, the folk were happy at the prospect of a strong castle to defend them, and all three men were known as generous and fair-handed. Most believed that Lord Ivo and Brand hunted a great deal—though seldom successfully—and that Sir Ari’s nightly absence could be attributed to some whore in Lesbury. So long as things continued well and Lady Alaida stood by her husband, there would be little reason to question those beliefs.
Yet what Merewyn had seen today spoke of some deep trouble. The seneschal’s efforts had bordered on desperation; he had poured so much blood into the water that she would not want to harvest herbs from the pool’s edge for a good while.
And who was the “she” he was trying to help? Surely some Lesbury whore was not worth the expenditure of all that blood-magic. But who? And why?
Her morning’s picking ruined and her mind awhirl, Merewyn turned back toward home. As she walked, images floated past her inner eye: knife, blood, eagle, Lord Ivo, raven, Brand, the lady, love potion, Sir Ari, pond … They jumbled together, dark and troubling. And over them, the lady’s voice asked, “Can you help me? Will you?”
Here might be the purpose she’d been seeking all this time, the reason the gods had led Sir Brand to her door. The
y had surely set her in Sir Ari’s way today to put her more firmly on that path, as clear a message as they could give without pouring a true vision into her mind. As Merewyn absorbed this possibility, the clouds overhead suddenly parted, shooting a beam of light down through the tall trees to gild a woodland rowan, its branches thick with still-green berries.
“Yes, Mother,” said Merewyn. She dropped to her knees in the patch of gold before the sacred tree and raised her palms into the light, surrendering. “As always, I obey. But first, if you please, show me the rest, that I may understand and better follow your will. So mote it be.”
“… AND THE DUKE married the washerwoman, though she was not of noble blood, and she bore him a son who grew to be even greater than his father. But that is a tale for another day.”
“Well done, Thomas!” Alaida and the others clapped appreciatively as Tom finished. “If I had known you were such a fine storyteller, I would have claimed your services long ago, and my lord would not have a squire.”
“Hey,” protested Ivo from where he sat shirtless on a cushion at her feet.
“Then I’m glad you did not know, my lady,” said Tom, flushing with pleasure. “I fear ’tis not my own tale, though. I got it from Sir Ari.”
“Wherever it comes from, you told it well,” said Alaida.
“You haven’t been hounding the seneschal, have you, boy?” asked Oswald. He moved a stone on the Morris board.
“No, Marshal. I merely listen when he’s about. He is nearly always telling some tale or other.”
“Nearly always talking, you mean.” Ivo countered Oswald’s move and took a piece. “Keep listening to him, Tom. I like a good tale nearly as well as your lady does.”
“’Twas only to please her that I learned that one, my lord,” he confessed. “But I learn other things from listening. And not only to Sir Ari.”