Lord of Sherwood

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Lord of Sherwood Page 7

by Laura Strickland


  To her surprise, he released her. His bulk still had her trapped against the wall, but she was free of his hated touch.

  “Aye, go home, lass, and think about the fact that you have met a man a far sight smarter than you. I give you but one warning: do not come to our bridal bed ruined. Do not even attempt to lie about it. I told your father I want none of another man’s leavings.”

  “Let me go.”

  He stepped aside. Her heart beating like that of a dying hind, dizzy with repugnance, Anwyn ran.

  “You will not have me,” she vowed half beneath her breath. “Not now, not ever.” If he refused to take her ruined, then ruined she would be. “I will give myself rather to the first man I meet.” Her spirit lifted unaccountably. She turned her feet not for home but for Sherwood, and freedom.

  Chapter Twelve

  “She comes!”

  Curlew’s eyes flew open onto dark so deep it left him blind. Who had spoken? The voice of memory, repeating the same words he had heard when he reached for his mother’s spirit?

  He heard nothing now but the movement of wind through the trees above him, the eternal breath of Sherwood, as comforting to him as a well-loved whisper. Quite possibly he had fallen into sleep and dreamed the words, but his heart told him not.

  Who came? The holy Lady for whom he waited? He had brought himself here as Heron bade, alone under the trees like a sacrifice. He had bathed himself in Sherwood’s waters—no treat on an autumn day moving toward evening. He had spoken his prayers, the same he had learned at his mother’s knee, and then had tried to quiet himself and wait as Heron said he must.

  Only, his thoughts refused to still. Rather, they ranged wide with doubt and wonder. Would the Lady come to him? Why should she? He was clearly no Heron, and she answered not to his bidding. What would it be like to couple with a spirit? He had little talent for these otherworldly things. He did not doubt the existence of magic, but rather than congress with a spirit he would prefer answers to when the missing part of their triad would arrive.

  She comes.

  This time the words sounded only in his mind. He sat up from the moss bed he had chosen for himself and stretched all his senses.

  Sight served him little now. But Heron had said he saw not the Lady when she came to him. He had felt her, oh, aye, and tasted her—bonded with her on some mystical level. Could Curlew expect as much?

  A whisper of sound from his left caught his attention and spun his head. Could he hear breathing? Did the Lady breathe? A frisson of awareness chased down his spine and anchored him in the soil of the forest. He ceased moving and waited.

  Definitely breathing he heard. The Lady must be real enough to breathe, else how could she be real enough to couple with a man, give him strong favor, as Heron had said?

  Madness, he said in his own mind.

  Nay, not madness—belief, Sherwood answered. He felt the magic, the power, gather around him. He lived with Sherwood’s magic, aye—in part it always accompanied him. But not like this, for now he could actually sense it move and gather in the darkness.

  Suddenly the branches overhead tossed in a strong wind. The clatter of dying leaves assailed his ears; they rained down around him and covered any sound of footsteps.

  And all at once she was there—a presence in the darkness—standing above him. He could feel every part of her even though they touched not—her skin, her hair, the heat of her mouth. He knew the taste of her already, remembered and desperately needed.

  He gasped.

  She moved and came very softly down into his arms.

  Did he reach for her, or she for him? He never knew. She was just there, held fast, an answer to every unknown desire. And by all that was holy, she felt real, substantial, warm. His heart struggled and paused in his chest. When it started up again, it shook his whole body, and hers as well.

  “Lady?” He whispered it hoarsely in a voice that did not sound like his own.

  She began to touch him, her fingers on his face, exploring, then down across his jaw to his throat, his chest, which shuddered with the blows of his heart, and on downward.

  Curlew had doubted, when Heron told his wondrous tale, he would be able to respond to a spirit woman. But he was up instantly, high and hard, before ever her soft hands descended that far.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  Surely she knew who he was, else why had she come? Had she not bidden Heron send him? And had she not answers for him, as well as loving?

  But he answered her as he must, “Curlew Champion.”

  She gasped in turn. He felt her breath gust across his cheek, sweet and warm. He raised hesitant hands to touch her in turn.

  Her hair—ah, it made a glorious curtain all around her, like water flowing. Her back, narrow and slender, revealed she wore clothing like a mortal woman. Her shoulders held a delicate strength, as so they should. Her breast—

  His fingers fumbled there, and froze. She spoke, wild and desperate. “It is well. Touch me.”

  Her fingers brushed past his to unfasten her bodice. Oh, if only he could see! But his hands possessed their own sight as they slid gently over the smooth softness of her skin to cup the delectable weight of her.

  The moment his palm found her breast, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.

  Light exploded in the darkness, or perhaps only in Curlew’s head. It raced through him and brought with it a thousand images so bright they seared his mind: the promise of love in tawny eyes, laughter curving pink lips, a flash of auburn hair with the glint of sunlight on it, the flow of magic from narrow, white hands as they moved over his body, and tears, tears, tears.

  He broke the kiss even though he needed it more than breath, terrified at what he held in his arms.

  “Lady,” he whispered brokenly, “what do you bring to me?” Why would she bring him memories of what he knew not, that both hurt and fostered unbearable gladness?

  “Only myself,” she returned.

  “And why have you come?”

  “Only to love you. Will you take me, Curlew Champion?”

  Could he do otherwise? With this powerful combination of magic and desire flowing through him, he could not pause to contemplate the fear that accompanied the upsurge of passion. Ah, and he had thought he might not be able to serve the Green Man’s Lady.

  “You feel so real. You taste so real.”

  “Then by all that is holy, taste me once more.”

  Delight joined the other emotions crowding his mind. Their mouths found one another in the dark; she parted her lips beneath his and he dove into her the way a man might partake of Sherwood’s sacred waters. A new sensation hummed in his blood, like nothing he had ever experienced. Strong and unstoppable, it moved with him as, never taking his mouth from hers, he began to remove her clothing and then his own. It tingled through his hands as he ran them over every part of her and drew her closer to lie full atop him beneath the restless trees.

  She clove to him. Her flesh molded itself and fused to his before he ever thought to enter her. Almost, that contact was enough. Almost, the slide of her hair across his hands and the scent of her surrounding him. Should one be able to catch the scent of a spirit? Yet she brought to him all things and asked from him all things, each of them to the other a willing sacrifice.

  When at last he rolled her beneath him, when she parted her thighs for him in sweet invitation, he managed to lift his lips from her breast and ask, “You are certain of this, Lady? You will have me?”

  “I will have you, Curlew Champion.” She ran her hands down the muscles of his chest and still lower. Unseen fingers wooed him, and with glorious, breathless abandon he slid into her—home—where he had never, and always, been.

  And how could it be that she came to him a virgin, this Lady who had lain ageless with her Lord and with Heron and countless other true believers? Yet so it was, for he felt her pain, as she tensed in his arms, but for an instant before she quickened into passion so powerful it lifted and conv
ulsed them both.

  After—but there was no after. Curlew lay with his cheek against her breast and wanted to rejoice and holler and make impossible demands. He wanted her to stay with him always. He knew a part of her would, just as part of him would be ever and undeniably inside her. He understood then the beauty of this mystical joining. For he had bonded with Sherwood in the most fundamental way.

  And she? What did the Green Man’s Lady, once the gift was given? She lay quietly, her arms wrapped about him so tightly it felt she would never let go. She breathed shallow breaths and her heart pounded against his cheek. Strange wonder that he could feel even her heart.

  “I have questions for you, Lady,” he said into the softness of her breast, his breath coaxing her nipple to tighten once again.

  “Ask. Ask of me anything.”

  “How can I save my mother?”

  She went very still. Even her breath ceased for an instant.

  He continued, as if bidden, “I cannot bear to lose her. My father cannot.”

  “All loss is unbearable.” Memory sounded in her voice, and her arms tightened impossibly about him.

  “Aye, so how might I call her back to us?”

  “I do not know that you can.”

  His heart sank like a stone. He had hoped for another answer. But aye, Sherwood gave—and took—much. And when Sherwood decided the wheel must turn and the next three guardians take their places, there could be no argument.

  “Then, Lady, where is the other of our number? Where the third guardian?”

  Again, she remained silent.

  He rushed on. “Heron and I cannot move forward without her. All is lost without her—the very magic that holds you safe lies in peril.”

  She sighed. “Will you make me a promise?”

  “Anything, Lady.”

  “Promise you will keep me, always. That you will never send me away from you.”

  Ah, how could he ever send her away? Raw need burned inside him, and even the idea of turning from her caused pain. But Heron had not spoken of this. He had said nothing of demands.

  “I will keep you always,” he vowed. “Can it be otherwise?”

  “Nay, this is forever. I have not the answers you seek, Curlew Champion, but I do know if you hold to your promise, ’twill be as meant.”

  Aye, it was as he had feared—the wheel turned, inexorable.

  “If you have faith in me, then I have faith in you also,” he whispered.

  “Then, my Lord, make good on your promise: hold me and love me once more.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Do not leave me.”

  The words curled into Curlew’s ear even as the morning light teased his eyelids. He had slept long and deeply, and he had dreamed the most miraculous, wondrous dreams of darkness and loving. The Lady.

  His eyes flew open to discover the sun well up, light filtering through a roof made of leaves, russet brown and gold, that turned the whole world amber.

  Had he spoken the words or merely heard them in his mind, an echo of those the Lady had said to him last night? He could not tell, for tendrils of her spirit wrapped around him yet.

  Ah, and Heron had not lied about the magnificence of it. How many times had they coupled before he fell asleep in her arms? Almost he could still feel her presence. Indeed, and swore he could.

  Startled, he turned his head and looked at the woman who lay beside him. Awareness and disbelief hit him at once, a blow to the gut that stole all his breath. He sat up slowly, eyes wide and thoughts rushing.

  She lay naked, curled on her side with her back touching him. Her hair, a glorious and tangled curtain, covered most of her from his gaze, but he had touched every part of her last night, of that he had no doubt. This, and no spirit Lady, was the woman he had loved so long and vigorously. By all that was holy, what had he done?

  Aye, but the sight of her stole his wits and his sense, even now. Her hair, ashen in color, picked up the amber radiance of the forest. Her skin, milk white, bore a scattering of pale freckles. Curlew’s gaze traced the sweet curve of her buttocks, the even sweeter swell of one breast that peeked from the bend of her arm. She slept yet.

  And who might she be? How had she come to the depths of Sherwood even as he lay waiting for Heron’s Lady to appear?

  As if she felt his attention even in her sleep, she sighed and turned toward him. Curlew gasped again, for he saw none other than the lass who had run into him at Nottingham market, the one who had ridden past him on the forest road when he chased down the hart—Montfort’s daughter.

  Oh, by the holy Green Man himself, he had deflowered the daughter of Asslicker’s head forester—for he remembered that part of it perfectly well. By his blood, he remembered every part of it.

  She opened her eyes and he lost all his regret. His spirit rose and surged, and his flesh with it, so he became caught and helpless all over again.

  She smiled.

  Mischief lay in that smile and, somehow, innocence, and a woman’s knowing. Everything Sherwood had to give lay there, and everything it could take.

  Curlew’s heart trembled and bounded, and ached in his chest.

  “Lady,” he whispered.

  “My Lord.” And hers was the voice from the dark that had curled through him as he plunged into her in rampant delight.

  Her smile deepened into a lovely thing. She had dimples, and eyes the exact color of new leaves in the spring, speckled with flecks of gold and fringed with long, brown lashes. They captured Curlew and held him while she examined his very soul.

  And what was he to say to her now? I thought you were someone else? Not a thing any woman wanted to hear following the intimacies they had shared. Indeed, her lips were still swollen from his kisses, and the tips of her lovely breasts, as well.

  Ah, he would send her back to her father unharmed, yet he could never undo what he had done.

  Before he could speak, she reached out with one hand and touched his face hesitantly, almost reverently. Her fingers slid across a cheek now rough with new beard, and her gentle touch slammed through him, setting every part of him alight.

  He realized then that she could not have seen him either, last night. Why, then, had she come into his arms? He had been waiting for the Lady, but what could have brought her from Nottingham to the forest and led her to give herself to a stranger?

  And why did her touch affect him so profoundly? Why, even now, did he ache to close his eyes and lean into her hand, lose himself to her presence?

  By the Green Man’s horns, he needed to keep his wits about him. He needed to send her safe home.

  He reached up and caught her hand. Her wrist felt fragile, and she let her fingers rest quietly in his. “How do you come here?” he asked. “What are you doing in Sherwood?”

  Emotions chased their way across her face like light on water. He knew she considered many answers before she said, “I came to find you.”

  “Why? What do you know of me?”

  She shook her head. A tendril of wheaten hair slid across one breast and made him ache to touch. Her fingers twitched in his. “You are Curlew Champion.”

  “Aye, so?” True, she had asked his name last night—he had supposed, then, that the Lady asked. That explained nothing.

  Her gaze rested on his face, studied him intently, and moved slowly down his naked body, lingering on his chest before coming to rest upon the undeniable evidence of his arousal. Aye, well, nothing he could do about that—after last night she must know how her presence affected him.

  He jostled her hand gently and her eyes returned to his. “How came you so far into the forest alone and in the dark? And why would you give yourself, so, to a stranger, met by chance?”

  “Not to a stranger. To you.”

  “Lass, you make no sense.” And he found it difficult to think clearly when he wanted so badly to take her again, to run his palms over those luscious breasts and those smooth buttocks, to taste every part of her. “Does your father know where you are?


  Her eyes clouded. They reflected her emotions the way a forest pool mirrored the sky. “Nay.”

  “He will be fretful and searching for you, will he not? With you gone all the night—”

  “You do not understand. I could not stay in Nottingham.”

  “He has never used you ill,” Curlew declared. “He seems a decent man.”

  “He is a very good man, and I have tried him much.” White teeth caught at her lush, lower lip. “Indeed, I think I have run him out of patience with me.”

  “A father’s patience is right near limitless.” At least, that had been Curlew’s experience. His own father had rarely, if ever, lost his temper with his family.

  “Aye,” she agreed, “yet I have exhausted even that.” Again, her eyes caught at Curlew’s. “I am not so good a daughter as he deserves.”

  Curlew’s heart wanted to protest it, but had he not seen her running unfettered in Nottingham? And was she not here, so, with him now?

  Awkwardly, he said, “I am sorry, lass, for what passed between us last night.”

  “Are you!”

  “Had I known who you are—”

  “You never asked.”

  “I know that, and I regret—”

  “Why did you take me, then?”

  “How could I refuse?” he returned helplessly. Surely she saw his condition now, just from being near her. How to tell the lass he had come looking for magic and found her instead? How to explain the way she affected him when even he did not understand?

  She said defiantly, “I regret nothing. You ask how I came here last night—I tell you, I was led. Oh, aye, it began in flight. I ran away, not toward. But once within the forest, once the dark came down, I followed—but I do not even know what it was. A flicker of light, like memory, or like a wisp of song. I know that makes no sense, but ’twas as if a presence went before me and beckoned me on. It led me straight to you.”

  The breath caught in Curlew’s chest. Deep magic, indeed. But why? It could not have been meant merely for his pleasure, for only look at the tangle in which it had landed him. Was he to send Montfort’s daughter back to him plucked?

 

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