Master of Craving

by Karin Tabke

  Magnus nodded. “That may be, but Olaf is strong in his own right. He does not require Norman assistance, nor does he desire it.”

  “One cannot have too many allies in these unpredictable times,” Stefan cautioned.

  “If you have not noticed, Sir Stefan, anyone of Norman descent is unwelcome in the east. I fear that if William does not tread with care, he may very well find the area afire with revolt.”

  Stefan leaned across Arian, his chest brushing against her back, toward Magnus. “If one finger is raised against me or my men, there will be hell to pay.”

  Magnus laughed easily. “You misunderstand. I offer no threat. But do not think I would not raise more than a finger to protect what is mine.”

  “All that is England belongs to William.”

  Magnus’s eyes narrowed, very softly he said, “Nay, all that you see for fifty leagues in any direction is mine. No man will take it from me.”

  “By right of conquest he can do it with a simple charter.”

  “I will kill the man he sends to take it from me.”

  Arian pushed both men away from her, and said sternly, “My lords, enough of politics. Let us sup in peace!”

  Magnus smiled and backed down. “My pardon.”

  Arian settled down with his apology. She could not blame him, though; she would react the same. She could not damn herself enough for not doing a better job of hiding her feelings for Stefan. ’Twas because of her weakness Magnus acted as he did. She would do better, for peace here at Moorwood as well as peace in her marriage. She would hide what burned so fervently in her heart.

  But as the meal continued on a much lighter note, Arian could not relax. She sat between the man she loved and the man who would be her husband. Once the table was cleared and the musicians began to play and the village girls to dance, her mood still did not soften. Stefan remained beside her, his warmth encompassing her like a cloak. She dared not cast a glance at him. He sat as rigid as a lance beside her.

  When one of the girls twirled and gyrated before Lord Wulfson, who scowled and turned to his goblet, then to Rorick, who grinned and grabbed her swaying hips to him, the girl pretended to be afraid. He pressed his face to her bosom and kissed her there. The wench broke from his grasp and twirled to Sir Ioan, who had turned to face her, his legs stretched out before him. Agilely she stepped between them in a quick staccato. He closed his legs, catching her between his muscular thighs.

  “You are not quick enough to escape me,” he laughed, and brought her down into his lap. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the lips, then freed herself. Arian watched the wench’s dark eyes twinkle in mischief as she swayed and twirled toward Stefan. The music picked up in tempo and volume, her hips moved back and forth at a frantic pace; her loose kirtle slid off one shoulder, her breasts the only support for the flimsy fabric. As she moved in toward Stefan, Warner reached out and caught the front ribbons of her garment. She twisted, and when she did her ample breasts sprang free. Roars of male appreciation hit the ceiling beams. In a wild thrust of hips and breasts, she flung herself across Stefan’s lap, her back to his thighs, just as the music ended on a high note.

  Arian could not look away. The woman’s breasts glowed from perspiration as they heaved up and down from her heavy breaths. She smiled up at Stefan and grabbed his hand, pressing it to her voluptuous mounds. “Do I please you, milord?” she gasped.

  “Aye,” Stefan growled. He stood and hoisted her over his shoulder, and amidst loud cheers, he strode from the hall with the half-naked woman slung over his shoulders.

  Arian felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. But she dared not show it. She turned a smile to Magnus, to find him gazing upon her. “Tell me, milord, of Norway.”

  His face broke into a wide grin. “ ’Tis beautiful, most especially in spring when the lilies bloom across the land.”

  “It sounds much like Wales when the entire region is purple with bluebells.”

  “Norway is a most welcoming land. I look forward to our life there.”

  And she would try to look forward to it too.

  A short time later, exhaustion claimed Arian. The walls and eyes of the smoky hall pressed down upon her, and try as she might, visions of Stefan in the arms of the lusty wench would not go away.

  “Milord, the day has been long, and I tire. Please see me to my chamber.”

  He nodded and stood, extending his hand to her. Slowly she rose, as did everyone in the hall. With chin high and shoulders proud, Magnus escorted her from the hall to the wide stairway, followed close behind by two Norman, two Welsh, and two Norse guards.

  Before the door closed behind her, Magnus halted her. “Arian, one word before you retire.”

  Slowly she turned to face him, seeing the pain in his eyes. Her farce was not lost upon him. Guilt assailed her once again, and she truly did not know what to do. He cleared his throat and slowly said, “Come what may in the days to follow, know always that I had your best interest at heart.”

  Confused by his words, she asked, “What are you saying, Magnus?”

  “Only that my heart is true.” He pressed a kiss upon her forehead, then left her.

  When Arian entered her chamber, even more confused by his words, she was surprised to see a chambermaid straightening the linens on her bed. “What are you doing?”

  The maid bobbed her head and bowed. “Freshening your bed, milady.”

  Arian looked about the room for Jane. Save for herself and the maid, the chamber was empty. “Leave the bed and send for my maid Jane,” Arian commanded, walking over to the small table near the low-burning brazier. The nights had cooled considerably since her arrival; soon the leaves would be in full change, and winter would find her in the cold fjords of Norway.

  Arian gave the departing maid no heed as the door closed behind her. Her eyes trailed across the room to where her wedding gown hung from a high stand. ’Twas beautiful, made of fine blue and white silk, with intricate silver embroidery around the low bodice, bell sleeves, and hem. The silver undertunic, embroidered with fine blue and white silk threads, she had stitched herself. ’Twas a garment fit for a queen.

  She sank to the floor, fighting the despair that threatened to engulf her. Why could she not trade places with the lowly wench and take her beloved to bed this night? But she knew the answers. She was a princess, she must marry a prince or a most powerful magnate, and Magnus was that. But Stefan was a magnate in his own right. Noble blood flowed through his veins as well. Neither his sire nor his dam was a churl, but a great count and the sister to the woman who would be Queen of England. But it mattered not. Even should Magnus refuse her, Stefan had not declared love for her. And if he did not love her, then what was there? A marriage like her father’s to Morwena? Where one always held out hope for the other who would always chase a ghost? She sighed. Was it not what Magnus would endure? Would she ever wake and not think of Stefan before she opened her eyes?

  Her fate was sealed. On the morrow she would be Lady Arian of Trygg. ’Twas her lot in this life, and she would be grateful for it. She stood and brushed the wrinkles from her gown, and it occurred to her she had not seen Jane since before the late meal. Arian opened the heavy door of her chamber to find six pairs of eyes upon her.

  She looked to Sir Rorick, the one closest to her. “Sir, I seem to have misplaced my woman, Jane. See to her whereabouts and instruct her to come to me at once.”

  Sir Rorick looked stunned that she would request such a thing from him. “My lady, I am a knight of William, not a squire. Ask your man.” He stepped back and looked to Pal, a young man from Dinefwr.

  Pal bobbed his head. “I will locate her.” He turned and hurried down the hall.

  Arian made a sarcastic smile and gave both Sir Rorick and Sir Ioan a short bow. “My pardon for making such a heinous request of a Norman knight!”

  TWENTY

  Stefan pressed his lips to a taut dark nipple. It came to life beneath his lips. Thick arms wrap
ped around his head, pressing him harder into the sultry cleavage. The wench tasted of wine and sweat, but she was willing and she would make him forget, at least for a time. He hiked up her kirtle, catching a whiff of her musky scent. Stefan thrust her onto the bed of hay in the stall next to Arian’s mare. The horse whinnied, as if disgusted with his choice for the night. Images of the woman who rode the steed prickled at his mind. His body tightened and his blood lit up. But not for the willing body writhing beneath him.

  “Jesu!” he cursed.

  “Who comes?” the wench cried, trying to sit up.

  His hands squeezed her plump breasts, pushing her back into the hay. “No one, be silent,” he commanded.

  Her skin wasn’t nearly as soft or fragrant as the woman’s who haunted his dreams at night and every waking moment of the day. Stefan cursed again and pushed the wench’s thighs apart. She arched into him, groping between his thighs, nearly ripping his braies from him. She freed him and he hissed in a sharp breath. Her callused hands stroked him to hardness.

  “My lord,” she moaned, “I have never had a man so large as you.”

  Closing his eyes, Stefan imagined that the rough hands fondling him were the soft slender ones of a princess. Wet lips pressed to his. Stefan twisted away from her, his eyes flying open.

  In one swift move, he flipped her over and pulled her up by the hips, throwing her skirt over her back. He did not want to see a face when he entered her. He wanted to imagine it was another. “My lord!”

  “Silence!” he hissed, grabbing her backside and spreading her full buttocks. He pulled her toward his stiff cock. He looked down at that moment and halted all movement. The sight of her body sickened him. She pressed into him, the tip of his cock sliding up between her buttocks. In a fit of anger, Stefan shoved her away from him and stood gathering his braies, tying them in short jerky movements.

  She turned over, panic-stricken. “My lord, do I not please you?”

  Fury tore through him. Arian had ruined him! She had made it impossible for him to touch another and not make a comparison! She had made it impossible for him to lose himself in another’s body no matter how willing or comely that body was!

  “ ’Tis not you,” he growled, then strode from the stall to the hall.

  He approached his men and the Welsh and Norse guard outside the door of the woman who had ruined him. While his men moved from the door, the Welshman and Norse did not. “I will hack you down where you stand if you do not move from the doorway,” he threatened.

  “Sir, no one—” the largest of the Norse began to say.

  Ioan and Rorick drew their swords. The guards stepped aside, and the solitary Welshman stood aside as well. Stefan pounded on the door.

  “Who goes there?” Arian called from the other side.

  “Stefan,” he ground out.

  After a long moment, the door slowly opened. He pushed her away as he entered, then flung the door closed behind him. He did not know why he was there or what he was to say, he only knew a seething rage he could not control, and all of it directed at one person. The proud and beautiful Arianrhod of Dinefwr.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded.

  Gone was the innocent maid he had rescued, gone was the hostage. In her place stood a woman who knew her mind and her destiny, and who refused to allow him to be a part of it.

  He strode past her and began to pace the room. “You smell of your whore,” Arian spat when he passed close to her.

  He whirled around and faced her. “You reek of Viking!”

  Arian strode past him toward the door. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Nay, Arian, you will not cast me out like a soiled cloth.” In a wild fit of passion he could not control, Stefan tore her kirtle down the front, exposing creamy white breasts. Hungrily he caught one in his mouth. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her harder against him. Her scent, her silky smooth skin, her voice tantalized him beyond mortal control.

  “Nay, Stefan.” She twisted away from his grasp to the far side of the chamber. “Why are you here?” she demanded.

  “Jesu, Ari,” he groaned hoarsely. How could he tell her he ached for her? That every part of his body screamed for her and only her?

  “Why are you here?”

  Arian held her breath. His eyes blazed furiously, his hands opening and closing into fists at his side. He opened his mouth to speak, but words failed him. “Tell me,” she whispered, hoping yet dreading, that he came to claim her.

  “I—” He bowed, and when his eyes lifted to hers she knew any hope of them together was gone. “My pardon.” He whirled around and left the room as abruptly as he entered. As the door slammed shut, her body jerked and her heart broke. For had Stefan pledged his oath of love to her, she would have set Magnus aside, forfeiting her dowry and all that was hers for the nameless Norman.

  Just as the door closed behind him, it opened again. Arian’s heart leapt in her chest, then plummeted; ’twas only the maid whom she had encountered earlier.

  She bobbed and stopped in her steps, her eyes widened and Arian realized her disheveled appearance was most shocking. Drawing her kirtle over her bare chest, she demanded, “Where is my woman?”

  “She—she midwifes in the village.”

  “There are no others to see to a birth?”

  “There are complications, she left with the woman’s husband a short time ago. She bade me to offer her regrets but promised to return in the morn to ready you for your marriage.”

  Arian let out a long breath. Of all people, she wanted Jane with her this night, but she understood there were few as skilled as Jane in seeing a new babe into the world.

  “Very well.” Arian let out a long, tired breath and asked, “What is your name?”

  “Miriam, my lady.”

  “Miriam, I am weary and seek my bed. Fetch me a chemise from the wardrobe, then see yourself to the pallet.”

  Miriam bobbed her head and saw to the task.

  For more candle notches than not, Arian tossed and turned upon the large bed. Sleep eluded her. Stefan’s scent clung to her. He was all she could think of. He was all she wanted. Each time she inhaled his scent she felt his presence as if he were there, lying beside her. A deep ache clawed at her heart, so intense it pained her to breathe.

  Had he just said he loved her, had he just asked her to be his, she would have given all to him. Angrily she threw a pillow across the room and sat up. But he had not. Because he did not return her love. And after what she had said to him at Worthington, she could not blame him.

  She flopped back into the sheets and closed her eyes, praying for sleep. But when it came, nightmares assailed her. Visions of blood and war and fire—and death.

  Arian woke with a start as the gray fingers of dawn inched through the cracked shutters. Fatigue pressed upon her as she stifled one yawn after another. The reality of what the day would bring prodded her wide awake. ’Twas her wedding day. Calmly she accepted her fate. Stefan had his chance and did not take it. And though profound sadness and an unexplainable sense of loss engulfed her, she would not cry. She would not wish, she would never beg. What was done was done. Slowly she arose from the bed.

  The morning was a whirlwind of activity; as Arian sank into a hot, soapy bath, Jane hurried into the chamber. “A thousand pardons, my lady, but—”

  “Do not apologize, Jane, all is well now that you are here.”

  As Miriam stripped the linens, replacing them with fresh sheets, she crumbled sweet-smelling herbs and flowers amongst them. Instead of settling her nerves, the overwhelming scent clogged Arian’s nostrils. Her stomach fluttered when she thought of Magnus laying her upon them later that eve, touching her as Stefan had, and more.

  “Leave us, Miriam,” Jane commanded.

  The maid bobbed her head, scooped up the basket of soiled linens, and hurried from the chamber.

  “That girl irritates me with her nervous head-bobbing. She seems to be afraid of her own shadow!” Jane complain
ed.

  “I doubt she has served a lady before,” Arian said.

  “Then she should not be practicing on you!”

  Jane set about bathing Arian, washing her thick golden-red hair and rinsing it with scented water. Once she was dried and seated before the murky mirror, the chamber suddenly bustled with females. One maid to create an ornate braided crown, another to smooth the fine lines from the silken wedding gown, one to manicure her nails and feet, and yet another to rub down her limbs with fragrant oils. Even Lady Lisette came to help, and for the first time the woman did not bait her with a snide look or sour words. Indeed, she seemed most content.

  When Arian was finally dressed and bejeweled, there was a knock on the door. ’Twas Magnus’s manservant. He carried a gold-inlaid willow box before him. Making a quick bow to Arian and Lady Lisette, he set the box down on the table beside Arian. “My lady, my lord Magnus asked that you honor him this day by wearing the crown of Trygg.”

  Arian watched as he withdrew a magnificent crown of entwined gold, silver, and shining copper, encrusted with glittering precious jewels. A leaping stag of burnished gold centered the crown. She bowed, and he set it upon her head. ’Twas heavy and uncomfortable, but she would wear it with pride.

  Taking a deep breath, she caught Jane’s gaze and smiled. “I am ready,” Arian said. She stood, and all the ladies in the room gasped in praise.

  “You are a vision, my lady,” the manservant gushed. “My lord will be pleased.”

  Another knock at the door saw Rhodri, followed by Cadoc. Her brother stopped in mid-stride, the smile on his face nearly splitting it. “My God, Arian, you are beautiful!”

  She could only smile, too afraid that the emotion tightening in her chest would be misconstrued. She had longed for her wedding day, to marry her one true love who would place her on a pedestal and treasure her over all men and women. But the one she cherished would not claim her, and the one she did not love was only too happy to.

  With a will of tempered steel, Arian forced all thoughts of Stefan from her heart. On this, her wedding day, she would show Magnus the respect he deserved, and not wish for another as she vowed to be a dutiful wife.