Pagan swallowed. He rasped, “If I never see her again, I thank her the most, for that. She has some uncanny ability to understand our bond, and whilst I have struggled through this intimacy of marriage, she has also shown me that she can care also for you. I do not know, Randulf, what hand of fate made her mine. But I know that I forget what a scarred creature I am, when she touches me.”
Randulf nodded and met his gaze. “Let us sup at the Lord’s table tonight.”
“Aye. And every night until we are denied it.”
Pagan came forward and they clasped wrists, but Randulf hugged him, as he had not since they were small boys. He said emotionally, “We are Eadwyn’s sons. Let us speak no more of death. From this moment, we fill the role we have earned as champions.”
Pagan agreed and after they parted, he left to return to the courtyard. He counted heads as he walked, noting that none of his men had left. When he found Ivo, Pagan sent him to the markets. Then, had Beroun gather a party to hunt. He took the rest to the field, where they worked until sundown marking it off.
Going inside at days end to bathe and break his fast with his brother, the next morning both were in attendance to work on the field with the men. It required much dragging and leveling, and because of the drizzle, it was muddy work.
In a week’s time, they had clear weather, enough so that the awnings could be erected to protect the ground afterwards. A berfrois, or grandstand, was constructed above the field, over the level of the lists, for housing the ladies and other noble spectators of the gallery. For another week they worked from dawn until dusk, using much from the abandoned city to build what was needed.
It was on a Sunday when Pagan got word via Lylie that Illara would be arriving with a small guard, and that she had been allowed to ride with and attend her.
A day later, those words were echoed from the king—who had returned the book, and had written after the formal greetings and official recitation; Let this business be dealt with. I will have my witnesses in attendance and have answered any who put the charges to me, that they should make their stand at Dunnewicke. I have read your accounts and pray God you may absolve Eadwyn, as he was as close to me as a brother. His accusers I do not call to account, for it is your word against theirs, and this be the better solution for all. You have your overlords in the territory and those over the Baron’s lands, where your wife stands accused. I have received your generous recompense of any fines on her behalf. I ask, for the peace that must be reached, that you keep the pretense that she is under guard, but give you your rights as her husband and lord, to handle her part in the contest as you see fit.
I mean to have peace among my lords and knights, and old wounds, no matter how raw, must be healed. My only presence in this challenge will be the naming of the Marshal, one Simon Elsy, Earl of Langcroft, Baron Halcot. He will writ the decided upon weapons and rules you require, and hold the law of the land in his hands, for victor or craven.
The letter was signed with the Royal seal.
Pagan took it to his brother to read before placing it in a trunk.
He knew of Halcot, and he knew the king chose wise and slyly, for Halcot had been fostered with Eadwyn as a boy. He had been away in Syria during the devastation of the family. The king in essence washed his hands of any responsibility, and let the law of the land stand, allowing those in authority to wield the power. However, perhaps knowing the overwhelming odds against them, had assured a judge would officiate who bore Pagan and his brother no malice.
Pagan went on with the work, as did the men and servants. There was much to be done. On the day his guard spotted Illara’s group, Pagan shaved and bathed, donned his mask and clean clothing and boots, and awaited in the courtyard. His guards were on the wall, and the sound of Randulf training the younger men in the exercise yard echoed with the ring of hammers and the squawk of geese.
As the first entry to the gatehouse opened, with each length of chain released, his heart thundered louder and harder. He had his feet planted, his hands clasped behind his back at ease. Yet every inch of skin and sinew was tense, and every beat of his heart caused blood to rush through his veins.
He heard his captain call out, and the last gate opened. Three armed knights were on either side of the two women. Illara in the front, and Lylie in the back. The horse Illara rode was a palfrey of dappled gray.
The party halted. The first guard on the right handed him a sealed parchment. “By the grace of God, by order of his majesty King Henry III, I place in your custody one Illara of Thresford, who stands accused of the murder of Baron Ryngild. Until such time as her innocence or guilt is officially established, she is to remain within the confines of Dunnewicke castle and its grounds. Swear you, as lord of this demise, to uphold the king’s commands?”
“I swear.” Pagan could scarcely believe it. They were releasing her into his charge!
The guard dismounted and helped Illara down. Lylie was likewise set down. Then the man signaled, and the other guards released her goods and baggage from their mounts. They mounted again and turned in unison, leaving the way they had come.
Pagan stared, until Illara lifted her head and pushed back her hood. He noted her shorn hair, even her leanness, and something else in her gaze. Nevertheless, he felt as if it had been years since he saw those mossy eyes, that handsome face, and her peach lips.
He did not move, nor did she, as Lylie commanded the men to see to the horses and take her bags to the keep. Lylie followed them, leaving husband and wife standing there still.
He watched her wet her lips, her voice gruff as she enquired, “How is your head?”
“Better. Though one more scar has been added to the many.”
She smiled a little and his heart nearly tripped. “At least you are alive to worry over your vanity.” She scanned around.
“Thanks to you, I am.”
“I missed this place.” Illara looked back and their eyes held again. This time her smile faltered. Illara said unsteady, smaller, “Please take me in soon, Pagan, and hold me. I fear my brave front is crumbling and I wish not to weep here in—”
He did not make her finish, but scooped her off her feet into his arms. Pagan did not see his guards and those in the courtyard smiling. He carried her through the doors and up every stair to the solar, and he took her cloak off the moment he set her on her feet and picked her up again.
He carried her to the window seat and held her on his lap, so tight in his arms that he felt every tremor of silent weeping that ripped through her. Those tears wet his shoulder and his neck. They ran sluggish and thick over his scars, while his free hand brushed down over her shorn hair.
Finally, she quieted and Pagan leaned her back, seeing such a ravaged face and haunted eyes, that it required nearly all his fortitude not to show her pity.
“We herd the bans and criers as we passed through the towns. How is Randulf?”
“Well.” He brushed his thumbs over her damp cheeks.
“I need to wash off the traveling dirt.” Her hands came up to touch his lips. “Where will you be in an hour’s time?”
He rasped, “Waiting for you.”
She swallowed and blinked more tears away and eased from his lap, to stand there in her male clothing. “I will be brave and fearless on the morrow. Today I need you—“
“Illara.” Pagan reached out and took her hand, his gaze roaming her face once more before meeting her eyes. Whatever Pagan would have said, he forgot and told her, “I will bring you wine. Are you hungered?”
“No. Just the wine.”
He stood looking down at her bowed head and tipped up her chin. Pagan leaned down and kissed her, gently, too careful, and because he was so much stronger and bigger, Pagan wanted to crush her to him and devour her. Her lips were supple, her kiss hungry, and Pagan lifted from them reluctantly.
He left and when he returned the screen was pulled, candles were lit around the bathing pool. Pagan went around finding her reclined, her head resting on th
e ledge, her short hair slicked back and nude body glowing warm under the steamy water.
Pagan went behind her and sat with the tray, pulling off his boots before he poured the wine, and reached it over her head. She took it, reaching up, and their eyes met before she lowered them to drink. He arose and stepped down into the pool and waded toward her. While she sipped he gently pulled her forward and turned her around, then he kissed her nape, rubbing his hands slowly over her arms. Pagan laved and suckled her wet skin, across each shoulder.
She released a trembling sigh that echoed in the chamber, and set the wine down, her hand reaching back, to rest on his head. Pagan ignored the scrapes and bruises on her for now. He was angered beyond measure—but for now, he had her with him. He let his mouth skim to the front of her throat as she arched it, and he caressed her breasts when her body stretched sensually for his touch.
Having day dreamed on a reunion, Pagan thought to devour her swift and passionate, yet he held his emotions in check and enjoyed the soft moans from her lips, the flutter of her lashes and sighs that hung in the chamber.
His hands covered her in smooth touches and she moved with them, at times rubbing her buttocks against his hard groin. Others, she covered his hand with her free one, when it rested on her stomach or smoothed across her skin.
Pagan felt the heat and the arousal, the thick eroticism of deep hungers flowing through her body. It in turn inflamed his own to a painful need. Still he kissed, and pleasured in the taste of her skin, and the feel of it. Then he went to his knees to kiss down her spine and lave across the top of her buttocks. Hands at her hips, he let his tongue trace them down to her thighs, working his way to the crease, and let his fingers map down it, biting gently at the rounded curve while his fingers eased between her legs.
“Pagan,” she whispered and gasped as his finger found her sex and entered. He touched her slowly and worked kisses back up, his arm going around and under hers, when he reached her nape again.
He murmured against her ear, “Pleasure?”
“Aye, such pleasure.” She arched her neck and moved her hips to his touch.
Pagan growled low and slid his finger free, then lifted and turned her to sit on the toweling she had placed at the edge. Thanks to his height, he could both kiss her, and move down to attend her breasts. Her hands on his shoulders, Pagan laved around each large apricot nipple until they were rigid, and played sensually at them with lips and teeth before suckling her.
Her breathing was faster, deeper, as she fed them to him, holding them in her hands for his suckling. Pagan released them from his lips, saw their quivering, and looked up at her flushed face.
His hands skimmed down her back to recline her, so that he next kissed and laved over her ribs and down her stomach, flicking his tongue in her navel.
When he reached the apex of her thighs, he lifted his head again before he spread them wide, his gaze holding hers while his fingers rubbed between the lips.
Lips parted and damp from her laving them, Illara’s eyes were misted with a fog of intense pleasure. He sank one finger into her and watched her breath catch. Her lids fluttered. She braced her hands beside her hips.
“Rest back on your arms and part for me, Illara.”
She did, leaning back and opening her legs wider. He rubbed her, watched her tremble, and saw her intoxicated expression of pleasure when his thumb too brushed between the lips. “Is this what you desire?” Pagan murmured feeling the famine rushing through him also.
Illara reached out, cupping the back of his head, pulling him down to where they both wanted his mouth. She arched her hips and Pagan laved, suckled, and ate her explicitly while his finger was deep in her.
She was wild, uninhibited, and he caught the same fever, his tongue laving out her flavor, his head full of her sexual musk. The sound of her moans and groans as excited as he felt.
Just at the edge of her peak, Pagan lifted his head and stilled, rising up to lean over and kiss her. It was a lustful kiss, the both of them laving tongues, drinking flavor, and biting at each other’s lips. He went back to merely thrusting his finger in her, feeling her sex become slicker, the muscles grabbing at his touch.
“Soon, Pagan. Please.” She fell back, her hands massaging her breasts so sensually that he felt as if his seed would release just witnessing it.
Pagan leaned down and used the flat of his tongue to rasp across those swollen nerves. He felt the flex of her trembling legs and heard her escalated breathing—until she stilled and shuddered, her body overcome with the climax. He withdrew his finger from her sex and dipped down to lave her glistening entry, to draw out the smooth liquid until she stilled.
Pagan lifted her and sat down in the pool with her on his lap. Heedless of the water soaking his clothing, he reached and collected her wine, drinking it and placing the cup back. Her lashes lifted and he kissed her again.
* * * *
Illara stared into those brass hued eyes, still in a daze of wonder that he pleasured her so well. She had hungered for even the sound of his voice, and upon seeing him again, felt her insides nearly shatter with joy, with the most powerful mingling of love and lust.
His every kiss and lave, his touch was heaven. His expression so famished, so pleased with her responses, that it was difficult to be passive. She wanted him stripped, nude for her hands and kisses. She wanted the taste of his skin in her mouth, the feel of his body under her hands. If they only had a day, a week, she wanted to be his lover, as Pagan was hers.
Illara’s hand lifted and her wet fingers brushed over his sensual mouth. Her gaze flickering up to his she whispered, “I desire you, all of you, and I wish that you would trust me in that. We could go to our bed, without light and I could kiss you and taste you, as you have me, for both our pleasure.”
Pagan glanced away, his exhale unsteady.
She felt him shifting. He let her go yet simply stood there in his dripping clothing.
Illara rose to her feet and rinsed her body. She stepped out, wrapping linen around herself before she looked back at him, standing in the pool, which only reached his knees. “Come to me, Pagan. Thorel. Come, and let me give you bliss, just once.”
She turned and went into the solar.
Illara rubbed her body with lotions and applied the oil; the chamber was illuminated by only a slit in the shutters that allowed a winter’s moon to peek in. She listened and heard the water sloshing and that tink from the wine jug, as he must have poured more.
She finished and combed her damp hair behind her ears, then reclined on the bed, on her stomach, her hands under her cheek and heart pounding—her body, hoping he would allow her to love him as she needed.
Thorough a great many of those cold nights, her gnawing stomach and chilled bones made her weak. She would cry then until she could get her mind on Pagan. When she did, her imagination took flight, warming her blood with memories and enhancing them with fantasy. She would grow hot and hungry imagining her warrior nude and swarthy, seeing his musculature laid before her—for her sensual feasting. She wanted to give him the feelings, the memories, and the pleasure he gave her.
Her nature was able to receive passion, but it also needed to explore on its own, to release her hungers upon the recipient of her desire. When she had thought of death, of his, or her own, Illara’s regret was that they had not the time for him to know how deeply she hungered for him. How much Pagan was, just as he was now, to her.
She sighed and heard another splash before there was silence. Her body was cooling on the backside when she sensed Pagan had entered the chamber. Afraid to stir and scare him away, she lay there, waiting.
He climbed into the bed and reclined beside her.
She could smell his fresh bathed skin and feel the heat of it, as if the sheer power of his strength radiated its own fires. Carefully she rose to her forearms, looking through the darkness and seeing his outline, sensing he was mentally braced and feeling a vibration akin to a tremble from him.
Pag
an rested with his hands behind his head, and she leaned up more, moving so that she could reach down and kiss him. His breath and kiss was tense, so she made hers soft and supple, letting her tongue tease him, and moving her head with the play of it until he relaxed somewhat. She kissed all that she could reach under the mask, going very slow while letting her hand skim down to his nipple.
Breathing warm at the underside of his jaw, she laved there and scored her tongue down his sinewy neck. Illara kissed the impossibly wide expanse of shoulder, up the underside of each bulging arm, using her tongue lightly and her teeth.
She felt the scars, felt changes in texture and ridges. However, she tasted Pagan, tasted the strength under that imperfect skin, the warmth and flowing blood through his veins.
“Nay,” Pagan rasped, when she pushed his chin up so that she could lave his neck.
Illara whispered, “Aye, your scent and skin excite me, Pagan.” Before he could argue, she laved and licked over that strong neck, kissing and hearing the rumble in his throat when she bit just near the nape. Illara used her hands too. Whilst he was preoccupied, she rubbed over his pectorals and up his arms, finding his nipples hard and dipping her mouth down to suckle them.
He groaned something sensual, his hands came down to cup her head. She let her tongue wet his nipples and flick them, feeling the vibration of his heartbeat and the flex of his fingers in her hair. She braced her hand across him, curving her body to kiss lower, tracing the sinew across his ribs, feeling terrible scars that ran like stripes, and not a few crossed over the other.
“Enough,” he breathed low, his body jerking when she laved the space between his ribs and started down his stomach.
She lifted only to enquire, “Does it not feel pleasurable?”
“Aye,” his tone was constricted. “You have proved what you wished to—”
“You are wrong.” She sat up and let her hand rub just under his ribs. “I’m not trying to prove anything to either of us. I am simply pleasuring my husband--and myself.” She took his hand and eased it between her legs so that he could feel her wet sex. “I find this makes me as aroused as I hope it does you.”
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