by Karin Tabke
If she were to die at his hands, she would not make it easy for him. She was not so foolish not to fear the man, but the outrage over what Dag had attempted to do, and now what she was sure this man would do, forced her to straighten her back. Her long hair hung in heavy damp curls down her chest, giving her some modesty, but not much. With that small comfort, tilting her chin up, Arian glared at him. His lips curled back from his teeth. She shivered hard, her bravado taking flight. Cold, wet, and terrified, she was more fearful of this man than of any other soul on earth. He was dark and violent. He had no compulsion in killing, and she was as vulnerable as a downy foal was to a pack of wolves. Her body trembled violently, and her belly roiled again.
He threw the ax to the ground next to Dag’s corpse, and stepped with a noticeable limp through the glade to the linen that lay damp on the ground. He reached down to pick it up. When he slowly stood, barely able to bear his weight, her eyes lifted to his, and instead of violence, she saw raw pain. He quickly masked it. He hid it behind a slow, crooked smile. His shockingly blue eyes glittered. “Are you lost, milady?” he asked in English.
He did not attempt to hide his nakedness from her, and she was all too aware that he was all male. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she felt a flush spatter across her chest.
“I—we—I—” She abruptly stopped and realized she was looking directly at him, and that he was moving! She dropped her eyes to the ground and Dag’s head. She cried out and turned farther around, now facing the forest. Her skin heated, her modesty sorely tested, for she knew he looked upon her with open want. She flinched when he placed the damp linen upon her shoulders, then wrapped it around her, turning her to face him.
She opened her mouth to protest his touching of her, but it seemed ridiculous. He had seen every inch of her and he had saved her from certain rape. As far as the flesh went, there were no secrets between her and this stranger.
She looked up to him. He was as tall as Dag and as muscled. He was as violent, but she cocked her head to one side and looked hard into his intense gaze. There were dark stormy shadows in his eyes. A man with painful secrets? “I am Arianrhod, daughter of Prince Hylcon of Dinefwr. I demand you return me to my train immediately.”
He turned away from her, ignoring her demand, and grabbing his braies and chauses from the shrub he began to dress. She could not help a glance at his muscular back and tight buttocks. He was long of leg and muscled there as well. Rough scars crisscrossed his back from the top of his shoulders to the back of his thighs. Arian cringed, and imagined his suffering. When he turned to face her, she felt the heat rise higher in her cheeks.
“Are you Saxon?” she demanded.
He smiled a crooked, knowing smile, but the gesture froze when loud voices called from the path. She gasped and darted past him. He grabbed her arm, pulling her hard against his chest, his lips inches from hers. “Not a word.”
Wide-eyed, she shook her head, struggling against him, and opened her mouth to scream. As Dag had, he slapped a hand across her mouth. She bit him and he cursed, but he did not flinch. He pushed harder, forcing her down to the ground; he splayed upon her and grabbed for his sword.
Breathing heavily, their breaths mingling hotly, he hissed, “One word and I will slice your tongue from your mouth.”
She tried to bite him again, and he forced her head back into the soft ground. “Do not be a fool! After they slay me for the Viking’s death they will look upon you for sport.”
At his last words, Arian stopped her struggling. His eyes narrowed but he kept his attention focused just ahead to the pool where Vikings and Welshmen alike scoured the area, calling for her and Dag.
When they moved to the east side of the pond, their backs to where she lay, he hauled her up from the ground, still keeping his hand firmly across her mouth and his sword to her throat, dragging her naked back to the huge black. As his intention became clear, Arian twisted and screamed against his hand. She would take her chances with Dag’s men, knowing her own men would champion her. If this ruffian absconded with her, she would be lost forever!
As he moved to hoist her up upon the horse’s back, he had to let go of her mouth and she did scream. He cursed and shoved her up and vaulted behind her. Arian flailed against him, shoving her elbows into his ribs, but he held fast. When she dug her nails into the wound on his thigh, he groaned in pain. He smacked her hand away, and when she went for him again he brought the sword tightly to her chest. The long blade rested across the top swell of her breast. “Touch me again there and I will slice you open.”
“Lady Arian!” called Cadoc, her captain.
“Lord Dag!” Ivar, Dag’s man, shouted.
“I am here!” she shrieked, pushing away from her captor. Her outburst cost her. The hot sting of the blade sliced into her tender skin. She gasped, not believing he would do such a thing.
Cadoc and Ivar burst into the clearing, stumbling over Dag’s body and looked up at her and her captor in horrified shock.
The Saxon called out in French to the horse. It rose up on its hind legs, then pirouetted around, and in a burst of muscle and sinew, it lunged into the thick forest.
Arian could hear her men calling for her in the swiftly receding distance, but what had her attention more was the warm, sticky flow of blood as it worked its way to her belly. She gasped as she looked down. On the swell of her left breast, a thin neat slice. Outrage infiltrated every inch of her body, and yet she feared if she lashed out again he would do more damage.
As they thundered through the forest, she naked as the day she was born and he clad only in damp braies and chauses, white-hot terror and a sudden hopelessness consumed her, as the fear she would forever be at this man’s disposal engulfed her.
FIVE
They rode for hours. Up through the rolling hills, down into wide green valleys along streams and across a river. Instinctively Arian knew her captor was covering his tracks, and though she was no expert, she suspected he knew well how to do it. As the final ray of sun dipped beneath the western horizon, he turned off the path they had been on and into the thick wood. Branches grabbed and snagged at her hair, her arms, and her legs, leaving bloody scratches and bruises in their wake. She was beyond feeling pain, her mind and body gone numb from the day’s events.
A small clearing opened up, and he reined in the great horse. With no gentleness, he dragged her from the saddle. She stumbled, and he grabbed her by the arm, steadying her. She yanked it from his grasp and hissed. “You are a brute!”
His brilliant eyes speared her where she stood. “Aye, and do not forget it.”
He turned his back on her, and she noticed he favored his right leg to the point he could barely put the weight of his body upon it. A woman of action, and one terrified of spending one more moment with the devil, she darted for the wood, knowing he did not possess, the strength to give chase. Blindly she ran, naked and terrified, deeper into the dark wood, as far away from him as her legs would carry her.
Stefan’s instinct was to give chase. But he did not. Even had his leg been steady and secure he would have let her fly. He knew what the darkening wood held in store for the naked princess. Had he the strength he would have scoffed at her desperate flight. But he did not. Instead, he pulled the change of clothing from the saddlebag and dressed, then slowly set about tending the black. After he built a small fire, he stood unmoving and listened to the silence of the wood. After several long moments, he nodded. There, to the west, the soft babble of a stream. Leading the horse, he followed the sound to a small brook. Apollo drank, as did Stefan. Once satisfied, he filled one of the skins before returning to the fire. He pulled the sack of venison and healing pouches from the saddlebags and lowered himself to the ground. With a long sigh, he rested against the saddle and closed his eyes. His thigh throbbed like the devil and his face burned. He grit his teeth and cursed the little hellion for further damaging him.
But ’twas worth it. He’d take it again and again, for the princess was the key to
his brothers’ cell in Powys. Aye, she would serve very nicely for what he had in store for her.
He cast his gaze to where she had disappeared into the wood. And as he stared the thud of footsteps rapidly approached from that direction. He grinned despite his great pain. He laughed when the errant princess burst naked into the camp, her eyes wide, her long hair flying about her like a golden shroud.
“Did you not like the forest?” he mocked.
Hands fisted, she strode up to him with blood in her eye and kicked at his thigh. He grabbed her foot before it could do more damage and yanked her toward him. With a hard thud, her naked bottom landed on his belly, her breasts bobbing directly beneath his nose. He instantly responded. He yanked her hard by the hair and drew her face down inches from his. She squirmed back from his chest, only to sit upon him in a most provocative way. His cock swelled behind her, and she gasped, her silvery eyes widening. Stefan groaned, his blood quickening at an alarming rate. If she so much as moved back another half a hand he could not be held accountable for what would follow. Even he had his limits. Sensing his mood, she stilled. “Please,” she gasped. “Do not assault me.”
“Then return the favor,” he gritted between clenched teeth.
She nodded vigorously. Slowly, he smiled again, diffusing some of the heat in his loins, and not minding the pain the gesture caused him. His fingers loosened on her hair and though he meant her no harm, he could not help his hands as they slid down her arms. Though her bracelets had protected her somewhat, small cuts and scrapes marred her smooth skin. She sat perfectly still, her nostrils flaring, her body tense. He brushed a heavy lock of hair from her breast, and she gasped, biting her lip but not moving. The wound from the sword oozed crimson. He pressed a callused fingertip to it and she flinched but made no other move. The palm of his hand rested upon the swell of her breast, and because of the cold or from fear her nipple pebbled beneath him. He clenched his jaw, and his cock grew longer and heavier. Jesu! He was not made of stone!
Stefan cleared his throat, and hoarsely said, “You are bleeding.”
“No thanks to you!” She pushed off him and hopped to her feet, moving to the opposite side of the fire. “Do not touch me again!”
Stefan swallowed hard. She stood in naked fury, glaring at him with full-blown hatred. Her high breasts heaved up and down upon her chest, her smooth thighs quivered, and she made no move to shield from him what made her so different from a man. His gaze fixed there on the soft downy covering the color of candlelight. His eyes rose to hers, and in the soft light of the fire hers burned hot.
“Had you any honor, you would take the tunic from your back and give it to me,” she said.
Stefan slowly shook his head. “I have no honor when it comes to women.”
She gasped, crossing herself several times. “You are the devil’s spawn!”
“I am.”
For a long moment, she stood staring at him as if gauging for herself if he truly was. He would not convince her otherwise. “God will see you burn in hell!”
He nodded. “I have already been to hell, my lady and did not find it to my liking.”
When she lowered her body to the ground and curled up into a ball she gave him one last warning. “Be sure, Saxon, to sleep with one eye open, lest you find your sword in your other eye!” She rolled over, and, wrapping her arms tightly about herself, presented her back to him.
Stefan fought back the laughter that rumbled deep in his chest. Never had he come across a woman with such pluck. His mood soured when he thought of the last woman he admired. His mood soured more as he watched her shiver naked in the dirt. He sighed and pulled the woolen tunic over his shoulders.
Arian awoke to cool water and gentle pressure at her breast. She started, her eyes flashing open to find the scarred Saxon beside her, a wet linen in his hand. She slapped it from him and backed up into the dirt.
“Do not touch me!” she cried, fisting her hands. He scowled, and she noticed his hair was wet, his eyes sharp, and his tunic gone. Her eyes hurried down his muscular chest to his clad bottom. Squeezing her eyes shut, she thanked the saints for that one small favor.
“Your wound needs tending,” he said huskily.
Arian looked down to her breast and gasped, remembering what he had done to her. The cut, the length of her forefinger, gaped open and ugly just above the swell of her left breast. “You have scarred me for life!”
“Hardly. Only your lover will see it and if he is worthy ’twill not matter to him.”
Her head shot back and she eyed him coolly. “I have no lover! But my betrothed will not find it so comely!”
“Then he is a knave.”
She shut her mouth and looked harder at this man, this marauder. “Who are you? Why have you taken me? What do you want?”
He pointed at her trembling breasts. “I am the knave who wishes to tend a lady’s wound. It needs to be sewn so that it can knit properly and not be such a blight on such a—” He smiled and his gaze swept her breasts that had the nerve to pebble beneath his hot regard, then lower to her belly, and then lower still to—
“Cast your eyes away!” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and bringing her knees up. His smile widened, and she realized she had given him a perfect look at her nether parts. She shoved her legs down.
“Milady, I have seen more of you than your nurse. You are beautiful, do not be ashamed.”
“I am not ashamed!” She was embarrassed to her core!
He reached out a hand to her knee and moved toward her. She backed up farther in the dirt until the rough hardness of a tree stump halted her retreat. He inched up closer to her. “I have no intention of ravishing you, unless you wish it.”
She slapped his hand away. “Never!”
“ ’Tis unfortunate.”
“For you, sir, never for me.”
He nodded and pointed again to her breast. “It will fester. Allow me to sew it.”
“ ’Twill hurt! And how do I know you are skilled?”
“I sewed my own thigh, and if you had noticed, despite your attack on it, ’tis a perfect line with small, tight stitches.”
Her gaze rose to his mangled cheek. He scowled heavily. “Your handiwork leaves much room for improvement.”
“Does it offend you?”
“The wound or the man to whom it belongs?”
“The wound.”
“Aye, ’tis most unsightly.”
“Then do not look upon it,” he bit off.
Arian gulped in a deep breath. As much as she did not want this man to touch her in any capacity, she knew she needed to be tended and she knew that as brave as she was, she could not do it herself. She shook her head, dreading the prick of the needle. She had never been one to endure pain of any kind. She was miserable each month when her courses came, taking to her bed even with Jane’s elixirs, and the few times she managed a cut or a bruise, one would have thought her legs had been chopped off.
He moved closer, and though she did not want his touch, she knew if she allowed the wound to stay open, if it did not fester, it would heal ugly. Vanity trumped her pride.
“Tell me your name,” she softly demanded.
“Stefan.”
“You are Norman?” she asked tensely, now more afraid than before. Would he take her to Normandy? “Nay, only a Norman name.”
She eyed him suspiciously. His English was good and his Welsh passable. “Do you speak French?”
He nodded, and pulled her toward him, closer to the fire. “Enough questions. Come closer to the flame so that I can see.”
Arian resisted, but with his relentless pull, she gave in. Dragging the saddle close, he set her against it. Once she was settled, his brilliant eyes caught hers. “ ’Twill hurt.”
Swallowing hard, Arian whispered, “I survived Dag, your brutish attack, and a day riding naked in a saddle with a demon behind me. The needle is child’s play.”
When he smiled, she caught her breath. Despite his ravaged f
ace, the gesture, not one of mocking this time but of admiration, transformed his features from demon to … something else.
When he pressed his left hand to her hip and bent slightly over her to minister to the wound, Arian bit her lip. His hand was hot, and rough against the smoothness of her skin. As she watched him gently wash the area around the cut, to her horror her nipples puckered. She closed her eyes rather than see his taunting gaze. She bit her lip harder and pushed her head back; in so doing, her back arched and her chest thrust toward him. She heard a slight groan, and her eyes flew open, she caught her breath. Heat flushed her cheeks at his hot regard of her. His eyes lifted to hers and at that moment, something deep inside her warmed. “I cannot do this,” she breathed.
“Aye, you can, and you will.”
Vehemently she shook her head. “ ’Tis not decent that you touch me that way or look at me with such—such want.”
His fingers caressed the flare of her hip. Nervousness she had never experienced shook her resolve. “I cannot help that I crave you. I am a man, and you a beautiful woman. ’Tis natural.”
She looked down at his large hand and long thick fingers. They were the hands of a man who was used to wielding weapons and killing. Yet they were capable of gentleness. He moved back from her. “I give you my oath, and my oath is my word; I am not like Dag.” He pulled a needle and thread from a leather pouch beside the fire. His eyes caught hers. “Sit back, princess, and do not move. I will work as quickly as I can.”
Stefan had sewn many a wound in his time, not only on his men but as horse master to the destriers. And never once did his hand tremble as it did now. He looked up into her terrified silver-colored eyes that glittered with tears, and found he did not want to inflict pain on her for any reason. He swallowed down a curse and pressed the needle to her skin. “Close your eyes.”