Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  “But surely there are things you would want—paintings which carry some significance, or foods you prefer?”

  Pirithous glanced over the walls of the megaron, but he could not think of any one image he would miss on any wall in any room. Dia had repainted much of what he had known as a youth, preferring not to remind their people of Ixion’s madness, and what she had not changed was all more of the same: horses and riders and the great bull hunt.

  “All I require is a warm welcome upon my return and a wide bed in which to take my pleasure. My rooms are as I wish them and the rest you may make your own.” Then he smiled, and took her hand in his, caressing her knuckles with his thumb. Her skin was softer than he could have imagined beneath all that mud, and her fingers strong. It was not such a terrible thing to have a woman who did not fear dirtying her hands as queen. But he could think of better uses for them, ways in which she could bring them both pleasure.

  He pressed a kiss into her palm. “I only hope you are as eager for our marriage bed.”

  She flushed and looked away, and though he wanted more than anything to turn her face back to his and claim the warmth of her mouth, he did not tease her further. Slowly and carefully, he decided, for auspicious or not, he was certain that once he tasted her he would not want to stop.

  Pirithous sank into the tub, careless of the water which spilled over its sides. He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying not to listen to the sounds of Antiope and Hippodamia on the other side of the door. Once Dia had seen Theseus’s private bath in Athens, she had been determined to have one of her own, and Pirithous was glad to benefit. The rest of the palace and its guests used a large, spring-fed pool near the kitchens, and though hauling water up the stairs by amphora or pot was hardly ideal, he would not trade the private luxury for anything.

  He smiled, hearing laughter from the other side of the door. Perhaps, at that moment, he might be induced to trade it for one thing. By all rights, he should have called for Hippodamia to wash him, and just imagining the touch of her hands upon his chest, his shoulders, his back made him tighten with need. He had known she would be beautiful once properly dressed and presented, but he had not realized how badly he would want her—all the more so because she denied him.

  Of course he could persuade her, give her the spark of his own desire and feed it until she bloomed, but if she found him so offensive as to claim she might never love him, his problems would be compounded by morning. And in truth, he did not want to trick her into his bed. Imposing his own need upon the woman who would be his wife was offensive in the extreme. She should want him, and the child he would give her, and until she did…

  Well, he had a week to convince her of his worth as a husband. A week to soften her feelings and tease her with what they might share together. And in the meantime, he had plenty of other women to curb his own appetite.

  Pirithous washed briskly, thinking of the two who waited in his bed. He might have asked them to bathe him, but he had not wanted Hippodamia to hear their laughter as he had listened to hers. However things were done among the centaurs, it was clear to him she did not wish to be one of many in his bed, and to flaunt his habits on the very first night of her arrival would have been worse than cruel.

  The door swung open, and Hippodamia stood framed by firelight. The warm glow behind her burned through the thin linen of her nightdress, revealing the curves of her hips and the dip of her waist.

  Pirithous stiffened, aching to reach for her. She had not seen him yet, her head turned away as she called something to Antiope over her shoulder. He held himself still, drinking in the sweet fullness of her breasts, half-bared, and the tumble of her dark hair upon her shoulders, shot through with red flame. He drew a shuddering breath and rose from the water.

  Hippodamia spun at the slosh of the bath, muffling a shriek of surprise with a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide as full moons.

  “You seem to have found me at a disadvantage, my lady.”

  Her gaze had already fallen from his face to his bare chest, and his body hardened as it dipped lower still. She stared at the evidence of his desire, her hand slipping from her mouth until only her fingers pressed against her lips. He did not dare move with every line of her body tensed as if to flee, like a mouse caught out in the middle of the room with the first light of dawn.

  The silence held, and he would have traded the bathing room a hundred times to know what thought made her cheeks flush with such a charming shade of red.

  “You need not tremble so, little mouse,” he said softly. “But if you wished, you might do more than simply stare.”

  “Hippodamia?” Antiope called from behind her. “What’s the matter?”

  She made a strangled sound and whirled, leaving him behind.

  Pirithous grinned as the door swung shut, and reached for his towel.

  She would come to him soon enough.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hippodamia

  Hippodamia lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to count the golden stars painted upon it, winking in the moonlight. How often had she counted the stars, lying in the meadow grass and looking up into the night sky? Always it had settled her mind, allowing her to drift into sleep. But not tonight. Not when every time she closed her eyes, she saw Pirithous, proud as any stallion, his skin gleaming with drops of water from his bath.

  She should not have stared. She should have turned away at once and barred the door behind her. She should have kept her eyes locked upon his face rather than follow the sprinkling of golden hair upon his muscled chest to the narrow trail below his waist, then lower still.

  How many times had she seen the centaurs rutting, or the mares mounted by their stallions? Not once had the sight of such arousal caused her any confusion, but to see Pirithous standing there, to feel his gaze as hot upon her as the warmth of the hearth at her back, and the low purr of his voice…

  You might do more than simply stare.

  Her stomach had twisted at the words, heat blossoming from her center and tingling through her limbs. Her fingers had itched to touch him, trace the hard planes of his chest and stomach, and smooth the pale, silvery scars that marked his skin. In that moment, she had wanted nothing more than to go to him.

  Until Antiope had called her name.

  She closed her eyes, a flush of embarrassment flooding through her body, even in memory. An Amazon would never have been so caught by a man, even one as naked and beautiful as Pirithous. An Amazon would have smiled at the evidence of her power, turned, and left him wanting, without another thought.

  Except that Antiope had married Theseus, and from the things she had said, Hippodamia was certain of her affection for her husband. Theseus, who did not have the patience to take the pins from her hair before he bedded his wife, and took no other women for his pleasure. If only Antiope had married Pirithous. If only Theseus had been king of the Lapiths. She might have trusted him, loved him without fear.

  But it was not Theseus she ached for now, unable to sleep for the thought of his kiss and the memory of his body, taut with desire. And it was Pirithous, with his light hair and laughing gray eyes, who haunted her dreams when, at last, she slept.

  She rose at dawn, as she was used to, but hesitated outside the bathing room door, listening for any sign of Pirithous beyond. Satisfied by the silence, she opened the door a crack, her stomach knotting. Empty. For the briefest moment, she was not certain if the lurch in her heart was disappointment or relief.

  Better not to dwell upon it, lest she find an answer she did not like at all. Hippodamia collected her tunic from the tiled floor, damp where the water had spilled over the rim of the bathtub, and retreated back to her room. She must be more careful to remember her things, but now that she knew Pirithous bathed after supper, it would not be difficult to avoid him. Perhaps she would not need to see him at all but for mealtimes.

  She dressed quickly, determined to eat her morning meal before Pirithous ros
e from his bed, and went in search of the kitchens. It would be easy enough to busy herself with preparing the midday and evening meals, and no one could fault her for taking on the duty. Antiope would only be pleased she need not concern herself with the task, and the Amazon had already warned her she would not rise early.

  Hippodamia flushed. Watching them at the feast, she could have no doubt as to what might delay Antiope. Theseus loved his wife, honored and desired her above all else. He had stolen her from her people, risking the wrath of the gods and the Amazons themselves to have her, and she had given up even her honor to marry him. And yet, Antiope stood by her husband unashamed, considering the sacrifice itself to be honorable, that she might meet Theseus as an equal in all ways. They had returned to Athens together, unsure of their fate. For such a sin, the people of Athens would have been within their rights to turn away their king, demanding his life to appease the insult to the gods, and Theseus would have been honor-bound to grant their request. According to Antiope, each day since had been a gift, celebrated and shared together.

  But Pirithous had risked nothing, sacrificed nothing even while he took from her. It did not matter now how considerate he was, how attentive, or how beautiful. She had come to him in honor and good faith, and he had dismissed it as though it were nothing. It was a slight she could not overlook.

  Hippodamia took up her anger as a cloak around her heart, and left her rooms to face the day.

  “Theseus warned me you were likely to rise before Apollo,” Pirithous said, smiling up at her from the bottom of the stairs. He wore an undyed kilt of wool, his chest bare, with a wide band of spiraled gold wrapped around his arm above the elbow. He held out his hand, his gray eyes bright, it seemed to her, with challenge. “Come, let me show you the lands you will rule at my side.”

  “We agreed I would see to the food and observe the work in your kitchens,” she said, willing herself not to stare at his chest and shoulders, or the way his arm bulged with muscle beneath the gold armband.

  “The kitchens will wait until we have returned, and the rest as well.” His gaze swept from her hair to her bare feet, and she wished suddenly she had worn one of the long gowns instead of this tunic which stopped mid-thigh. “Did Antiope not give you one of her maids?”

  “I had thought the kitchens might be overwarm,” she murmured, pulling absently at the hem. She had not failed to notice the other women wore layered skirts reaching their ankles. “Antiope assured me I should wear whatever I wished.”

  “I do not doubt that she did.” His lips twitched and his eyes laughed, even if his voice did not. “And I find no fault in your choice of gown. It is only that I would not have you walk barefoot through the filth of the stables, but that is remedied easily enough, and I will have you on a horse soon after.”

  She hesitated still, halted several steps above him. “And if I would prefer the kitchens?”

  He twisted a shoulder carelessly, dropping his hand and stepping back. “It seemed a morning spent riding with the wind against her face would be preferable to a woman raised with all the mountain to roam upon. If I am mistaken, I beg your forgiveness.”

  Easier if he had been mistaken, better if he hadn’t put any thought into the matter. One moment she was certain he cared nothing for her but the purpose she might serve as a brood mare and peacemaker, and the next he seemed almost too attentive, as if he wished to impress her with his consideration. She chewed her lip. It would be foolish of her to refuse, and she did wish to see his horses.

  “You are certain the kitchens can wait? I would not have your people think I neglect my duty.”

  Pirithous smiled slowly, extending his hand again. “Dia avoided the kitchens at every turn with one excuse or another. Our people will not even note your absence.”

  Our people.

  She gave him her hand. “Then I must thank you for the opportunity.”

  His fingers closed gently around hers, the sunlight in his eyes winking with promise. Her stomach knotted ever tighter as she realized the danger too late. He would charm her now, even seduce her, convince her to come willingly to his bed. And once he had won his challenge she would be cast aside in favor of another girl, more practiced in the arts of pleasure. No doubt he only bothered with her now because she had admitted she did not care for him, and once she did…

  Once she gave him what he wanted, he would not care if she spent all her days in the kitchen, longing to go riding with him in the woods.

  “Hippodamia?” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “Are you unwell?”

  “No,” she said. “Only hungry, I think. A bit of bread will make the difference, if you will excuse me—”

  His hand tightened around hers when she moved to pull away. “I have bread, cheese, and fruit enough for both of us. And a skin of water for you, steeped with mint.” He guided her through the central courtyard. “My physician tells me it is quite good for stomach ailments, but I find the mint clears my head if I have not slept well.”

  He had thought of everything, and now he held her hand, it was clear he had no intention of letting her go. Her fingers twitched, but he only threaded her arm through his, smiling down at her as if he did not hold her trapped at his side.

  “I hope you had a pleasant night, my lady.”

  She flushed, her gaze falling to his bare shoulder, and the glint of scattered golden hairs across the expanse of his chest. “I fear I slept poorly.”

  “That has ever been my own experience beneath a strange roof,” he said, leading her between the tall columns and down the wide porch steps. The palace walls loomed over them, but Pirithous turned away from the gates. He frowned slightly. “I much prefer to sleep upon the porch, or a balcony, where I might see the stars. As long as I can see the sky, I know myself free.”

  “Free of what?” she asked, in spite of herself. There was something about his expression that drew her, and a distance in his eyes she did not like. “I cannot imagine any man imprisoning a son of Zeus.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But it is a dream which haunts me all the same. Blackness and unbreakable restraints.” His frown deepened, then he shook his head and laughed, his eyes warming again when they found hers. “It is nothing, I am sure. Just a child’s fear of the dark, poorly remembered. The night has ever been my friend.”

  She thought it best not to respond to the suggestion in his words, and looked away. It did not stop her from feeling the caress of his gaze, heating her blood, but at least he would not see her blush. She would not give him the satisfaction.

  They reached the stables then, an immense stone wing attached to the palace itself. She had noticed fencing on either side of the main gate leading to the porch steps, and now she understood its purpose. It appeared all the land inside the palace walls was left open for the horses to graze.

  And they were fine horses, strong-backed and well-proportioned, in every shade of brown and black and white. A few whickered softly in greeting, trotting toward Pirithous in response to his low-voiced calls. He stroked the neck of a gleaming chestnut mare, silvering around the nose.

  “Fire was the first I saw foaled,” he said, offering the mare a parsnip. She had not realized Pirithous had brought anything at all for the horses, but he seemed to have something to offer to every animal who approached. “And the first horse I claimed for my own. She always bred true and never threw me once.”

  “She’s beautiful.” The mare nuzzled her palm, looking for more parsnips. “Sweet girl,” she murmured, pretending not to notice the kindness he showed, greeting each horse by name, stroking necks and noses and scratching their ears or backsides.

  Centaurus had told her once that it said much about the character of a man, how he treated his animals. A man who kicked his dog or beat his horse would not hesitate to treat his children or his people the same way. He would make war for the love of bloodshed, and attack without cause or reason. But her father had not told her what it meant if a man was gentle with his beasts, if he knew how each
liked to be rubbed and scratched.

  Pirithous smiled at her over the back of one of the horses, and the snug cloak around her heart loosened. If he showed this much attention to his animals, could he truly be so cruel to his wife?

  She dropped her gaze, combing her fingers through Fire’s mane. Not cruel, perhaps, and maybe even kind. But it would not be love. He would never give his own heart back to her. And the kinder he was, the harder it would be to face the truth of it when it came.

  “Come,” Pirithous said suddenly in her ear. She spun, her heart racing. He stood much too near, his bare chest a temptation she did not want. His hands found her waist and he lifted her up, setting her on Fire’s back. “Our horses wait for us in the stable, but Fire is not so old she cannot take you that far. I trust you will have no trouble guiding her?”

  Bad enough his hand lingered upon her thigh though she had not so much as teetered. She narrowed her eyes at the added insult, and pressed her heel to the mare’s ribs. Fire danced away obediently, and with another kick, the horse broke into a canter.

  Hippodamia twined her fingers in Fire’s mane and left Pirithous behind.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Pirithous

  Theseus had warned him that she would not soften easily, but after seeing the desire so clearly written in her eyes the previous night, Pirithous had been certain some progress had been made between them. Until Hippodamia rode off on his favorite horse and left him in a cloud of dust.

  Not that she could go far inside the palace walls. Fire was too old to do more than fall back into a walk after such a burst of speed. Pirithous followed after his horse and his bride-to-be without hurry, giving them both time to tire. Fire was already circling back toward the stable, and Hippodamia leaned forward, stroking the mare’s neck with obvious affection. He grinned at the sight. For all her stubbornness, if she could treat his horses with kindness and affection, she would learn to treat her husband similarly. He was, after all, twice as charming as even the best horses in his stables, and much less likely to kick, though he would not make her any promises in regard to the application of his teeth now and again. In the most pleasurable sense, of course, and wild as she was, he would not be surprised to feel the bite of her own. Nor would he complain in the slightest.