Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment

by Karin Tabke

  Aye, with the Welsh border not too far off to the west, Draceadon had seen many battles, and had been a worthy protector for the peoples. But Dunloc had not seen to its maintenance. Wulfson suspected the fortress would have been a sight to behold in its glory days. As it was, William would order it torn down and a castle stronghold to replace it. ’Twas his goal to outfit the island with castles to repel all invaders.

  Wulfson scowled. On the morn, they would no doubt see more Saxon soldiers, as in these times Alewith would not travel light, though he doubted they would have much fight in them. William’s hammer of a fist was well known among the westerners and the southerners. Those north of the Umber had yet to be brought to heel, but Wulfson had no doubt they would be, as would these people of the West.

  Slowly he undressed, and was about to put to good use the warmed water left out when a soft knock on the chamber door jerked him from his thoughts. Standing only in his braies, he bade the person enter.

  Instead of his squire, Rolf, an old woman he knew to be the Lady Tarian’s servant, bobbed her head and hurried into the chamber, bearing a tray of food, a skin of wine, and a sturdy silver chalice. She made haste to place them on the small table by the cold hearth. “Sir knight, your evening repast.”

  “Where is my squire?” Wulfson demanded.

  “He lingers with the others in the hall.”

  The plucky lad was no doubt in search of a wench for the night. With so many men lost in the last year, the manor teemed with the fairer sex. The boy would pay for his dalliances. Wulfson’s scowl deepened as a sharp jab of desire struck his loins. It had been months since his last woman. He would do well to find himself some solace for the night. It would soothe the irritated edges of his temper. His rancor rose. ’Twas no simple wench he craved, but the witch who resided down the hall.

  He would wager his horse she was a mass of thorns and thistles in bed. He cursed, and looked up to see the old woman staring at him with wide eyes. He cursed again, so lost in his thoughts had he been that he’d forgotten her presence. This place, this Dragon Hill and its enigma of a lady, was addling his brain.

  “Begone,” Wulfson tiredly said. She scurried out of the room pulling the heavy door shut behind her. His men had ribbed him hard when he left the lord’s table at the late meal, his trencher untouched. He knew they understood his frustration and unwillingness to languish idly by while the Welsh were rattling their swords just across the border. Since the time he had arrived, it seemed his presence and reason for being in Dunloc were known by all. His sour mood carried into the evening, and, in no mood to be further ribbed by his men, he had retired, forgoing the evening repast with them.

  Wulfson poured a hearty draught of wine and nearly drained the cup. The mulled spices were soothing, and soon he found himself finishing off a second cup. The roasted venison and simmered vegetables smelled appetizing, and, as with the wine, he found himself eating the meal with a newfound gusto. Clean and sated, he rubbed his hand across the deep scar along his chest. The uneven scars were as familiar to him now as his hands and feet. Even the ache in his right thigh he had grown accustomed to. He would never live a day without pain. ’Twas well, for it reminded him of how close he had come to glimpsing his maker in hell. When his time came, he would burn, but not a minute before.

  “The bait has been set,” Edith said softly, as she closed the door to her mistress’s chamber.

  “What of his squire?”

  Edith cackled and rubbed her hands. “A-wenching, to be sure.”

  Tarian turned from where she stared at the low fire in the brazier. She let out a long nervous sigh. “How long will the herbs take to prepare him?”

  Edith cackled again, the laugh turning into a fit of coughs from which she quickly recovered. “Not long, not long. The knight I beheld had a fierce restlessness born of hunger.” Edith motioned to the bed. “Come, my dear, let me rub you with the rose musk. It will tempt him beyond mortal control.”

  Tarian swallowed hard, and for the tenth time in the space of minutes she questioned her action. Would it prove disastrous? Would he harm her in his herb-induced ardor? Would he know her when they came face to face? As Edith’s strong hands worked into her tense muscles, Tarian relaxed. The soft intoxicating scent of rose musk soothed, but it also made her aware of the woman she was.

  “The oil will relax you. Just give in to it, allow yourself to go limp for him when he enters you, or ’twill be uncomfortable,” Edith instructed.

  “There is pain?” Tarian asked, pushing up on her hands to look at her nurse.

  Edith pressed her back into the linens and worked the oil into her back and buttocks, then her legs. “Only for a moment. But if you relax it will take the sting out.”

  Tarian contemplated the information. It could not hurt that much, since so many women seemed to enjoy the sport. She settled into the linens and allowed Edith’s hands to massage her into a soft pile of mush. Once she was wrapped into warm linen, Edith helped her from the bed and guided her onto the low stool before a smoky mirror. Picking up a brush, she stroked the long thick tresses. “Your hair shines more brilliantly than the finest onyx, and your skin looks as milky fresh as it did when you were a blushing bride. You have healed remarkably well. The Norman will not recognize you.”

  “Let us hope the herbs are strong enough that he does not remember this eve at all.” For if he did? All would be lost.

  “He will think it all but a dream.”

  “Pray he rises to the occasion.” Another hard shiver rent her, this time spearing her in the loins. She prayed she was fertile, and she prayed the knight would not use her overmuch.

  Edith cackled again, this time louder. “I made sure that would not be your problem this eve.”

  Tarian stood, letting the linen drop to the floor. Edith smiled as she gazed upon her charge. “He is not worthy of you, my love.”

  A warmth sloshed lazily across Tarian’s body, which the oil rub had warmed in a most pleasurable way. Edith helped her into a fine silk and linen chemise, part of her wedding trousseau. In a sudden wave of panic, Tarian grabbed Edith’s arm. “Stay close, Edie, lest I need you.”

  The old nurse patted her lady’s cheek. “There will be naught for me to do, my pet. Nature will guide you, and this night the Norman’s seed will strike fertile ground. Just remember to relax.” She patted Tarian’s cheek again. “You are a warrior princess. ’Tis the Norman who will need aid this night.”

  With those final words of wisdom, Edith pushed aside the tapestry near the bed and pushed open the secret door.

  Six

  As quietly as a breeze, Tarian pushed the heavy tapestry from the doorway and slipped into the knight’s chamber. Her back pressed against the sturdy wood of the wall, she stopped and held her breath. Low moans of agony startled her into a rigid standstill. A curse followed the injured sounds, the noises of a man caught in a trap unable to free himself. Her gaze quickly assured her there were no other persons in the room save the flailing form on the huge bed. She swallowed hard and cautiously stepped into the room.

  In the low glow of the candlelight she could see the Norman knight, Sir Wulfson, spread-eagled and naked on the bed fighting off an imaginary demon. His body glistened with a low sheen of sweat, his words a jumbled mess of French and some other language she did not understand. His anguish, mixed with a feral fury, terrified her. Yet she moved closer. Her eyes raked his large form. While Malcor had been well muscled, this man was even more impressive. The long lines of his arms and legs rippled in perfect symmetry as his body thrashed against an unknown assailant.

  She moved closer and gasped. Seared into his wide chest, the imprint of a broadsword so clear it could be an actual one marked him from the bottom column of his throat well into his groin. She swallowed harder this time as her eyes traveled lower. He was quite—large. Panic began to nibble at her resolve. How could she receive his seed if she could not take him into her? Her thighs clenched in rebellion. She closed her eyes at the i
magined pain of him breaching her.

  His body tensed as his hips rose, his arms outstretched but pressed to the mattress as if some unholy force pinned him to the bed. He let out a loud curse, then screamed in agonizing pain.

  Moved beyond any normal comprehension, Tarian hurried to the bedside. “You are not in harm’s way, sir,” she said softly in Welsh. “There are no enemies here.”

  His skin flinched beneath her fingertips, but his body quieted. She continued to speak softly to him in her mother’s native tongue. Bent over him, her long hair swirling about them in a dark shroud, Tarian felt, more than saw, his eyes open. In a quick movement, his long arm snaked around her waist, and in the next instant she was flat on her back with a raging man looming above her and a dagger pressed to her throat.

  “Please, sir, I mean you no harm,” she croaked in French.

  His wild eyes peered at her but did not see her. His mighty muscles quivered around her, but he made no further movement. ’Twas the potion, no doubt. Carefully she ran her fingers along the long length of his right arm, the one that held the dagger to her throat. “I have come to pleasure you, milord knight.” As if experienced and made solely for the pleasure of a man, she did not hesitate in her seduction. Her life depended on her success. Slowly she undulated beneath him, and was rewarded with the instant swell of him against her hip. She caught her breath, not expecting such a sudden reaction to her. In deliberate exploration, she trailed her fingertips down the hard ridges of his forearm to his hand. Slowly she wrapped her fingers around his fist and moved it away from her throat.

  His eyes, still dazed, lost some of their rage, and though his muscles still quaked with tension she felt the shift of his body. Turning her head, she pressed her lips to the inside of his forearm and worked his fingers loose from the hilt of the dagger. When his fingers relaxed, she slid the weapon from his hand and dropped it to the floor.

  In the low light, she smiled what she hoped was a convincingly seductive smile and arched toward him. A low rumble formed deep in his chest, but still he watched her warily. She rose higher, this time pressing her lips to the scarred skin at the base of his throat. Heat radiated from his body to hers, and a surge of energy jolted her. He cursed and thrust her from him, rolling over to sit on the edge of the bed.

  Time stood still for Tarian at that moment. Shame swamped her, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. Twice in a month’s time she had been rejected by a man she was attempting to seduce. Was she truly cursed? Uncertainty, inexperience, and embarrassment dismantled her resolve. Her eyes rose and held his. Her heart thudded like a hammer against her chest, tightening it. A swarm of angry wasps buzzed wildly in her belly. She could not breathe.

  He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and shook his head before peering back at her over his shoulder. As if an imaginary hand pushed her forward, Tarian rose up on her knees and slowly untied the silk laces of her chemise.

  His dark-green eyes widened, then narrowed. She smiled a tremulous smile, hoping he would see it as a sign she offered nothing but herself. Carefully, like a wary wolf, he watched her as she pulled the chemise from her body. Though she still bore scars from her time in the dungeon, they had faded enough that in the low glow of the candle they would be but smoky shadows. When her breasts were bared, Wulfson hissed in a long sweep of air. And for the first time in her life Tarian’s body responded in kind to a man. Her nipples tightened and a quicksilver stream of warmth flooded her body. A thrill of excitement blazoned through her. Her breaths became shorter, shallower, and though it was not warm in the room, a radiance infused her skin. In that moment she understood the power a woman could wield over a man. But she gave herself no delusions. A man such as the one she was at this moment seducing was only allowing her to do so because she had drugged him. In the clear light of the day, with a clear head, she doubted even the most wily seductress could turn his head if he were set on another course.

  And ’twas a shame, for this was a most striking man. Long dark hair that was not cut in the shaved fashion of the Normans but more the fashion of the northern men framed a face that was like a tortured angel’s. Deep emerald-colored eyes, framed by dark slashed brows that at that moment crowded together in consternation. A fine aquiline nose with nostrils that flared ever so slightly, like those of a wolf who knew his enemy was near but did not want to give himself away. His lips were full and held more promise of destruction then pleasure. Tarian swallowed hard and dropped her gaze lower. The vision of those lips ravaging her body sent a hard hot thrill down her spine. The only blight to his troubled features was a small crescent-shaped scar on his square chin. A shadow of dark stubble marked his face where a beard would grow if he allowed it. But she knew that though he did not shave the nape of his neck, he did shave his face, and she found she liked the look. Many Saxons had been stripped of their glory, their heads and faces shaved. Mostly to humiliate. But it did not matter, for whether they cared for them or not, the Normans were here to stay; and a warrior at heart, Tarian would use every weapon in her armory to see victory at the end of the day.

  Testing her confidence, she subtly thrust her breasts toward him. Immediately he responded. She smiled, her confidence growing. He reached a scarred hand to her and pressed it to her right breast. Her heart leapt toward it. Tarian closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek to quell her sudden modesty. The sensation of his hand upon her was not unpleasant. Indeed, he warmed her body. Malcor’s hands had been cold, soft, and cruel, but this man’s were warm, hard, and, for the moment, gentle.

  She pressed her body full into his hand, and he turned to fully face her.

  “Who are you?” he demanded hoarsely, moving across the bed to her.

  “I am the woman of your dreams come to seek mortal play.” She moved into him and pressed her lips once more to the base of his throat. She stroked his arms and pressed herself more fully against him. While he did not resist, he did not engage, either. But the burgeoning length of his manhood gave testament that while his brain might not want her, his body did.

  Tarian moved closer, so that now the heat of his shaft molded into her belly. Wulfson hissed again, and this time he left no question to his desire. His long arms caught her up to him, and held her with the strength of a steel band. He yanked her hair back so that her chin jutted up and her eyes met the challenge of his. “Then play we shall, my fairy princess.” He pushed her back into the thick coverlet and in a sudden rush of fury his hands and his lips ravaged her.

  Unprepared for his ardor, Tarian cried out in alarm. “Do not play coy now, princess. I will have what you have so wantonly flaunted,” he whispered against her breast.

  His knee pressed between her thighs, spreading them. Sudden panic filled her. He was big and heavy, and he would crush her beneath his body. The thick length of him pressed boldly against her thigh. ’Twas not to be this way! She was to be the seductress, not the ravaged.

  But when his lips captured a nipple, and he suckled her, she gasped in surprised pleasure. Heat flooded her limbs, crashing together at the juncture of her thighs. His right hand ran the length of her waist to her hips, then to her thigh.

  His muffled words of passion were lost in his enthusiasm for her body. In a torrent of heated ardor, he consumed her inch by inch. And try as she might to remain in control, she was at his mercy.

  His hand moved between her thighs. Her instinctive reaction was to close them. Pressing her palms against his warm chest, she whispered, “Gently, my lord, gently.”

  His eyes blazed, his body tightened, and she knew he exercised great control. “Break me gently,” she whispered again, and she watched his features loosen. She slid her fingers into his thick hair and rolled slightly to her side, pushing him over. To her amazement, he allowed her. Now their positions where reversed. Her long hair shrouded them. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her lips to his, and was shocked to find them warm and soft. His arms tightened around her waist, and she pulled back, and slowly shook her head. H
er hair swept across his cheeks and chest, and he hissed in a long breath. When he loosened his hold she bent back to his lips, and this time hers lingered. A wash of desire swept across her body. When he opened his lips and his tongue swept across hers, she moaned. She felt the rise of him press against her, but he did not tighten his hold on her. Slowly she explored his mouth, tasting, then nibbling at him. He tasted of all things male, the sweet vestige of wine on his tongue. She swept her tongue across his bottom lip. He groaned, and this time his hands slid from her lower back to her bottom, his fingers digging into her flesh, and though it hurt, it also sparked a primal desire in her. Her hips pressed hotly against his, and, as a woman was meant to, she undulated into him.

  It was too much for him. He swept her into his arms and reversed their positions. “I haven’t the strength to play the swain,” he said huskily, as his lips dropped to hers in a voracious kiss.

  Tarian was swept away by his passion, and by her own longing to be coveted. His hands swept across her breasts, the thick fingers toying with her hardened nipples. The sensation was new and luxurious. She moaned and arched more fully into him. His lips scorched her there, and she gasped out loud. The moment was taken away from her by his desire and his experience, and she didn’t care. Like a puppetmaster, he pulled the strings to her body, and she allowed it.

  In a slow glide, he slid his right hand lower to her belly and rested it there. His hand was so big that when he splayed it across her he covered her. She looked down at the shocking sight and her entire body shuddered. Lower still his hand went and when his fingers moved lightly across her downy mound she caught her breath and held it. She did not expect to feel so alive, so aware of her body, so raw. Had Edie given her the same potion in her wine? He pressed his palm to her mound; her thighs quivered, and, her body strung as tight as a bowstring, she waited in breathless anticipation for what was to come next.