Tamer of Horses

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Tamer of Horses Page 7

by Amalia Carosella


  He did not speak to her while they ate, but for offering her some food or another from the pack he had carried, and he spoke even less as they rode back to the palace. Her stomach sank and her heart twisted as the silence stretched. Not a dream, after all, and she could not help but relive her own foolishness with every breath.

  She could not help but relive his kiss, either, or the way he had broken it.

  Not this way…

  Hippodamia closed her eyes, trusting the stallion to keep to the trail. What other way did he wish it to be? How better than upon her back in the meadow grass, with the sun to kiss their skin and the sky to blanket them?

  No, she remembered suddenly. It was the words of the priest. Pirithous could not take his bride to bed until the solstice if he wished for a fruitful marriage, and they must be fruitful. As the promise would be sealed by their wedding, so must the peace itself be sealed by a child of both their peoples. The child she must give to Pirithous, and preferably a son.

  She was still his brood mare, that was all. Not to be risked before her time.

  The trees broke into cleared land and the walls of the palace, beyond which the village sat nestled against the bend of the river. Horses grazed here, too, with goats and cattle, and even the smallest houses had sheltered stalls beside them. But they had no need to ride through the village, and soon the palace filled her vision, hiding all signs of the people who lived on its other side. Later, perhaps, Hippodamia thought. Antiope would surely ride with her if she asked, and Pirithous could not object to her exploration of the village. Whatever else stood between them, she did not doubt his desire to make her queen in deed as well as name.

  They rode through a smaller gate on the near side of the walls and Pirithous called out to the horsemaster when they came into sight of the palace stable.

  “Machaon is the master of my stables,” Pirithous said, his gaze trained on his man as if he could not stand to look at her. “He knows every horse by name and lineage, back to Poseidon’s creation of the beasts. Anything you would know, he will tell you. When you have chosen your horses, you need only name them, and I will have halters and bridles made in silver and gold.”

  She twined her fingers into the stallion’s mane, but the coolness of his tone was a weight against her heart, and her throat thickened. He had meant it, then, all of it. The horses and the halters, the bowls and plates and cups. Would she return to her rooms to find them filled with such prizes? And she had been so sure it must be impossible, so certain he could not be anything but selfish.

  “You need not go to such lengths,” she murmured. “And gold would not be comfortable for the horses, besides.”

  “And give you reason to believe me miserly as well as selfish and proud?” He laughed, but it was harsh and unkind. “No, Princess. You will have your gold. Melt it down again and give it as gifts to your kin, if you wish, but I would not cheat you.”

  “Pirithous—”

  “My lady has lost her sandals,” Pirithous interrupted, for Machaon had reached them. “Lead Podarkes to the porch, that she might slip from his back onto clean tile. Queen Antiope would not forgive me if any harm befell my bride.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Machaon said, taking the reins she had ignored. “Come Podarkes, my lady. This way.”

  Hippodamia swallowed the words she had been about to say, for Pirithous kicked the mare into a trot as she was drawn away. The apology soured her stomach as she watched him ride off, back stiff and sunlight gleaming on his bare shoulders. She had stung his pride again, somehow. And likely it would not be the last time.

  But it was the first time it had pricked her conscience, and she ached to see him go before she might make it right.

  The rest of the day spun by with no further sign of Pirithous, though Hippodamia found herself hoping he might come in search of her. But it was Antiope who found her, and Antiope who took it upon herself to help her settle in. Pirithous did not even join them for the evening meal, and when she asked, the Amazon brushed his absence away.

  “Off with Theseus, hunting a boar that’s made a nuisance of itself, though why it could not wait another day, I do not know. Perhaps he wishes his people to grow used to seeing you alone at their table. He could do worse than begin as he means to go on.”

  But how had he begun? Had it been the insults he had delivered her before Centaurus had placed her hand in his, or did he mean for her to see the true beginning as the meal that followed, and their morning’s ride? He was so different. So frustrating. And to disappear now, the way he had, without so much as a word… What manner of beginning was that?

  Hippodamia forced herself to smile, murmuring agreement and focusing upon her meal. After all, she should not find fault in his absence. Not when it meant her freedom from attentions she did not want. Freedom to spend her evening precisely as she wished, without any interference from the king.

  But in her bed, late in the night, she strained to hear the sounds of his bathing when she woke to the splash of water filling the tub, and found some small part of her hoping he might knock upon her door. Boars were dangerous, after all. And even for a son of Zeus, there was risk in the hunting. It was not even that she cared if he was injured badly for his own sake, she told herself, but rather what would become of the peace they were meant to forge if he died before their marriage.

  But he didn’t knock, and she tossed and turned the night away, growing all the more distressed when morning came and he did not stand at the bottom of the stairs to stop her on her way to the kitchens. Even after Antiope joined her much later in the morning, the sounding of each footstep in the corridor made her lift her head, only for her heart to lurch in disappointment when the man or woman—servants mostly—passed by without pausing.

  “Are you certain you wish to begin this task today?” Antiope asked the second time she caught Hippodamia staring at the door. “None would fault you for waiting until tomorrow, and truly there is no reason the steward could not see it done. Men are useless for anything but passing orders along, and even in that they must be well trained, but Dia has done the work and it would be a shame to let it be wasted.”

  Hippodamia shook her head, tearing her gaze from the door and the hope of Pirithous. He would not chase after her like some lost puppy. His pride would prevent it even if he wished to, and she was not certain he cared for her as much as that, besides. How could he, if he would not even tell her when he went off to risk his life in the hunt?

  “Thank you, my lady, but I would see for myself how it is done, that I might know if the steward fails in his duty later.”

  “Antiope,” the Amazon said firmly. “We are equals, Hippodamia.”

  “And friends?” Until Hylonome arrived, she had no one else. A queen could not comport with slaves and servants, and Pirithous’s people looked on her as though she had run naked and wild through their halls, besides. Perhaps she would be driven to it yet.

  “Our husbands would have it so,” Antiope agreed. “But if it were only Theseus and Pirithous who desired our friendship, I would not stand beside you now.” The Amazon queen smiled, almost shyly. “I have missed the companionship of women sorely, though Theseus has done his best to distract me from it.”

  “He seems a good man.” If distraction had been Pirithous’s intention when he took her riding, he had succeeded. She pressed her lips together against the memory of his kiss, but her face flushed with the warmth of it all the same. Not that the warmth had lasted.

  “Only wait until you have brought Pirithous to your bed, and he will be just as good to you.”

  But he already was. The gold and silver bridles, the horses. She traced a deep line in the olive wood table, remembering the silvered scars upon his chest. He was already good to her, and she had given him no reason to treat her kindly, no pleasure at all, for she could not seem to stand beside him for more than a moment without offering him some new insult. By the time they were married, she would be lucky if he did not seek to avoid her comp
any altogether.

  “He will not have me until the solstice, Antiope.”

  The Amazon smiled, slow and sly, her eyes flashing with mischief. “But that does not mean you cannot have him.”

  The splash of water being poured and the rustle of servants in the bathing room gave Hippodamia warning, now that she knew to listen for it. Antiope had left her only a few moments before, after sharing a private meal together in her room. The Amazon had brought a gown of fine, sheer fabric, lighter than anything Hippodamia had ever seen, and helped her dress. She had piled her hair atop her head, but for a few oiled curls which framed her face, and secured it with one long bone pin, for Antiope had assured her she would not want it all tumbling over her shoulders later.

  Hippodamia fingered one of the oiled strands, coiling it around her finger, and waited. The servants would fill the bath, a task which took more time than Hippodamia had realized until that moment, and then leave after everything had been prepared. From what she had seen the first night, and heard the last, he did not bring his women in to bathe him, and Antiope had reassured her it was so.

  “Pirithous would not be so cruel as that, and his evening bath is nothing but a soak in hot water, besides. He says it calms his mind, and perhaps that is true, but our women say he does not sleep more than a quarter of the night, and not even that much if they are willing to keep him awake longer.” Antiope had snorted then, tying the girdle at Hippodamia’s waist in a simple bow, easily undone. “They say the sons of Zeus never tire of pleasure, and Heracles and Pirithous are the proof. There now. And if he gets you wet with bathwater, so much the better. The fabric will cling nicely to your curves, tempting him even further.”

  Temptation and seduction, and Hippodamia had been instructed well over their meal, with the help of a thick parsnip when it was required. Antiope had not shied at all from demonstration, even going so far as to pinch the points of Hippodamia’s breasts until they tightened and strained eagerly against the light fabric of her gown.

  Just the memory hardened her nipples now, and the sound of Pirithous’s voice as he dismissed his servants caused her to flush with anticipation. She need only reach him, she reminded herself, and once she held his desire in her hand, he would not deny her. She would have his forgiveness, and before they had finished, Antiope promised, he would have hers, as well.

  Hippodamia cracked the door to the bathing room and peeked inside. Pirithous leaned back in the terra-cotta tub with his eyes closed, arms resting on the rim. She took a steadying breath, more ragged than she liked, and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Pirithous

  He could sense her just beyond the door, agitation mixing with hesitation and seeping through the wood, thick in the air until it was all he could breathe. Likely she feared he would impose himself upon her after she had absented herself from the evening meal, and the whole of the rest of the day as well. Antiope ought to have known better than to hide away with her in the queen’s room, but Theseus had refused to speak to his wife, and Pirithous had no interest in fighting with the woman himself. He’d done enough fighting with Hippodamia as it was, and Theseus had only laughed at his misfortune when he had spoken of it on the hunt.

  He had hoped leaving the palace would do something to calm the restlessness in his heart, for it grated upon him more deeply than he liked that she found him so flawed. Proud and selfish and unkind. And perhaps he had been, at the first, but had he not proven himself otherwise with such a generous gift? Could she not see the honor and respect he gave her with it? Instead, while he had bathed late last night, he had been treated to nothing more than her anxiety, itching at the back of his mind. He had not dared even look in on her, not when the mere sound of his return caused her so much unrest. Little mouse, indeed.

  The shadows shifted behind his eyes with the flame of the hearth, but it was not until her hand rested upon his arm that he realized the agitation was no longer coming from outside the door.

  He opened his eyes.

  Hippodamia balanced carefully on the rim of the tub in a gown so sheer he could see the dark thicket nestled between her legs, and the rounded points of her breasts, so hard it made him ache.

  “You said I might do more than stare,” she murmured, her gaze dropping to the water and dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Her hand followed before he knew her intent, and her fingers wrapped around the thickness of his need.

  Pirithous groaned, his body hardening even further in answer to her touch. “Merciful Zeus.”

  She smiled, his brave little mouse, and slid her hand up the length of his manhood with delightful ease, all hesitation forgotten now. “Isn’t this what you had in mind?”

  He caught her wrist before she could complete a second stroke, lest he lose his head completely. Her grip tightened, just so. Just enough that he could not bring himself to pull her hand free. “You tease me unfairly, Princess.”

  “Is it teasing still, if I mean to give you pleasure?”

  A tug was all it took to topple her into the water, and the gown clung like spider webs to her skin, baring every curve, every dimple to his gaze. She laughed, looking up from beneath her eyelashes like a blushing maiden, all innocence in her mischief.

  “This is Antiope’s doing,” he growled. “Her way of punishing me for whatever sins she’s imagined.”

  “If it were Antiope’s doing, would she not be here to bear witness?”

  “Perhaps she is beyond your door. Waiting to see me falter, to give up my heir in exchange for a night of pleasure, taking what I desire from you.”

  He had lost her wrist when she fell into his lap, and she had lost her hold upon his manhood, thank all the gods in Olympus, but her body was its own temptation, and the gauze of her dress did nothing to disguise her warmth. Sweet, soft warmth, and slick with water, besides. He slid his hand from the girdle at her waist to the smoothness of her back, searching for some bare breadth of skin. His fingers curled into fists in the wet fabric, and it took all his self-control to keep from tearing the gossamer threads from her body.

  “You need not take what is freely given,” she said softly. “But if you will not have me yet, you might still allow me the pleasure of having you.”

  He growled again, for her hand had found the ache of his desire and begun to stroke once more. “Damia—”

  She pressed her lips to his throat, her teeth grazing his skin between kisses. “Shh,” she said. “Let me give you this.”

  Aphrodite knew he wanted it, wanted to bury himself deep inside her heat. But there was a part of him that fought his rising need. She was his bride, his promise of peace. “The priest,” he managed to groan.

  She laughed, sealing his protests with a kiss. Her mouth tasted of wine and spices, and she shifted on his lap, pressing her hip against his hardened length. But it was only a taste, for a moment later she had risen, her hand tugging at his, urging him to join her.

  “Come,” she said. “I would repay you fully, but I cannot do so in the bath.”

  He grunted, his gaze falling to her chest. Her breasts were two perfect, ripened apples. His fingers itched to trace the pink bud beneath the gauze, to roll the hard pebbled tip against his thumb until she begged for him to take her into his mouth. And then he would begin again, making her writhe.

  When she tugged at him once more, he followed, careless of the water, careless of everything but the smile upon her lips and the ache of his arousal.

  She moved backwards, both his hands in hers, leading him from the bathing room through the door into her chamber. He kicked the door shut behind him, and she drew him closer, guiding his hands to her waist. Her body fit against his so perfectly, but still he could not reach her skin.

  The knot of her girdle unraveled beneath his searching fingers and he tossed the belt away, impatient now. If this was what she wanted, he would give it to her, and when they were through she would beg him for more. She would beg, and he would answer, until she lay exhausted, sated in b
ody and mind.

  But Hippodamia slid to her knees, kissing her way down his chest, trailing her fingers through the tract of hair leading to his need. And then her mouth found his tip, hot and soft and glorious as she took him inside. He cupped her head in his hands and groaned as she took him deeper, her tongue teasing him as she went.

  Gods above, he had never thought, never imagined for a moment she might have wanted this. The centaurs could never have taught her such a skill, could never have trained her to the art. But by the way she curled her fingers around his length, stroking with her hand where she could not reach with her mouth until his blood burned hot and his eyes blazed white, someone had.

  Antiope. The thought of the Amazon queen tutoring his bride, showing her the breadth of pleasure a woman could give made him tighten, deep inside. Hippodamia’s mouth moving faster, her tongue applying the most exquisite pressure, did not help him to find his control. The weight of his pleasure built quickly, rushing like a mudslide down a mountain slope.

  “Princess—”

  It was all he could manage before the first pulse of release broke through him, spilling his seed into her mouth with a hoarse groan. But Hippodamia, his once-timid mouse of a bride, only met his gaze, her dark eyes betraying nothing but satisfaction as he shuddered with pleasure and she drank him dry.

  He stripped the gown from her body after, laying her bare upon her bed and covering every finger-length of her skin with soft, teasing kisses until she writhed and whimpered beneath him with her own need. Even then he did not stop, exulting in each arch of her back as he suckled at her breasts, each desperate clutch of her hands upon him, nails digging for purchase upon his damp skin. When his body hardened again, her hips rose, searching for his length, and he chuckled softly against her throat.

  “Not tonight, little mouse.” Though his body ached for the heat of her core all the more now that he knew her desire for it, he had control of himself, the worst of his lust slaked. He slipped his hand between them, searching for the juncture of her thighs and the slick heat of her cleft. She moaned, her whole body trembling at his touch. “But you need not fear that I will leave you wanting.”

 

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