Patricia Bates

by Patricia Bates

  “The boy will learn. I have no doubt of that.” Without another word, Mykyl turned and strode off toward the clatter of swords and the shouts of his men.

  Amoda frowned, her gaze following him. She startled at the sudden appearance to her right and met Byrne’s gaze. “Why did he not punish the boy?”

  Byrne smirked at her, understanding in his gaze. “Because, Amoda, he is not his brother—or his father’s priest.”

  Her frown still in place, Amoda watched the old man shuffle off, more confused than ever. The faint tickle at the bottom of her heart drew fear to the surface as she realized that Mykyl’s kindness went further to breaking her will than the beatings of those who’d come before him.

  With a muttered exclamation, she turned and headed back to her spot, aware of the stares of the women and men around her and uncaring what they thought.

  ~ * ~

  Wood smoke hung over the bustling courtyard as Amoda scurried amongst the city’s residents. She watched men light the torches as dusk gave way to darkness and, unwilling to be out after dark, she hurried her steps. She paused at the foot of the stairs leading into the manor house to steady her nerves. With any luck, her lord would be busy with the affairs of state as he had been for the past few weeks.

  A ghost of a smile crossed her face. Haunted by a plague of affairs of his people and his position, Mykyl’s exhaustion had given her a reprieve. Early to rise and late to bed had proven to be her blessing. Each night he disturbed her by opening the chamber door, and she watched him shed his attire before crawling into their bed. Too tired to do more than blow out the light, he often fell asleep before his head landed upon his pillow.

  “Good evening, Miss Amoda.”

  She glanced up to the distrustful gaze of Byrne who watched her from the open door. Sighing, she started up the steps with her skirt in hand. The older man had not yet warmed to her presence. While there had been no disrespect, there had been no trust either. More than once, she’d caught him watching her do menial cleaning tasks.

  “Byrne, good evening. How is your wife?”

  “Well.”

  She smiled softly. His eyes reflected his shock at the question. It had become a sport to throw the man off his guard. Showing kindness to others would do her no harm, and if it garnered her some peace, it was well worth the effort on her part.

  “The lord asked after you.” Byrne moved aside, allowing her to enter. “It seems he wishes you to join him for a drink.”

  “I am not permitted to indulge.”

  “If your lord says drink, you drink. Any good servant knows this.”

  Amoda glared at him. “Are you always so pleasant?”

  “He is in his chambers.”

  “Then join us,” Amoda invited quickly. “I rather think he would enjoy a man’s talk more than a woman’s.”

  Byrne smirked at her. “I do not believe his lordship wishes a man’s talk this night. Remember your station, Miss Amoda. I am better acquainted with it than you are. Perhaps, you should remember that.” “Aye, ‘tis something I can not forget. I bid you good evening, Byrne.” She stomped through the corridor toward the chamber she shared with Mykyl and with each step Amoda fumed. How dare he be so contrary to her? His little barb about her position, while unnecessary, held no spite. When next she saw him, she’d not ask after his wife at all! That would show him.

  Cursing softly as a soldier passed her; she refused to acknowledge his heated stare. More than once, she’d been on the receiving end of such looks, and she refused to allow it to bother her. She was more than just a pretty face, more than just an object used to satisfy carnal hunger. She sighed, grateful that her master was one that no other man would insult by dallying with her.

  She paused before the chamber door to gather her courage before opening it. Amoda stepped inside and met Mykyl’s gaze as he stood in front of a roaring fire. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

  “Indeed. I thought perhaps we could have a drink.”

  “I do not wish to keep you from the affairs of state,” Amoda said softly.

  She watched closely as he walked toward her. Something about him seemed different tonight. Dressed in a simple leather tunic that revealed his muscular, scarred chest, pants, and boots, Mykyl cut a fine figure of a man. The firelight danced over his tanned body, turning it a burnt gold.

  “I believe in paying attention to all of my affairs.” Mykyl’s breath whispered over the skin of her neck, drawing a shudder from her.

  “I am not—”

  “I have neglected you, Amoda. I have been working so hard that I have neglected my most important affair.”

  Amoda swallowed hard, her skin tingled, and her breath came in short, quick pants. His voice dropped, becoming as smooth as the ale he drank. Licking at her suddenly dry lips, she turned toward him. “I haven’t felt neglected, my lord.”

  Mykyl’s smile tied her stomach in knots. It told of lust and secrets. “You would not admit it if you did. Here, sip from my goblet. I have spent many hours dealing with the petty complaints of my people. I’ve dealt with threats of war and uprisings. Tonight, I plan to spend a good deal of time paying attention to what I have neglected with you.”

  Amoda sipped the sweetly intoxicating ale. It warmed her gently. As soft as the wind, she felt Mykyl’s fingers trail across the bare skin of her shoulder and shivered. The rough calluses on his fingertips scratched over her soft skin, awakening a foreign feeling.

  She caught the small smile that tilted his lips as he took the glass from her cold fingers. What could he possibly be smiling about? She’d rejected his every advance, however small it may have been. Rejection remained rejection. She waited, every muscle tensed for the blow she knew would follow.

  She remembered all too well that Rognvaldr had not been so lax in her punishment when she’d refused him. Indeed, he’d been brutal and speedy with his retribution.

  “How dare you, a pathetic excuse for a woman, refuse me?”

  She screamed with each blow to her back and legs. The heavy leather of his belt ripped her flesh as if it had no more substance than a leaf.

  “I’ll teach you to be so disobedient. I may not be able to take you, but you have no right to refuse me! You worthless, selfish, little whore! I’ll teach you your place.”

  “Amoda?”

  His whisper of her name drew Amoda from the painful memories. She jumped, her eyes darting up to meet Mykyl’s. Her hand tightened around his wrists, biting into his flesh. Her eyes widened in shock and horror as she realized she’d acted foolishly. What was she doing? Forcing herself to let go of him, she stepped back and ducked her head to hide the wave of heat in her cheeks.

  She had disobeyed Rognvaldr on a regular basis, because she knew the King’s orders limited his punishment. Mykyl had no such limitations.

  She had left the dubious safety of the King’s protection now. Here she was his property, his bed slave, to do with as he chose.

  “Another drink?” Mykyl offered calmly, his gaze steady.

  Amoda took the goblet with a hand that shook. What would he do? How much longer could she avoid the truth? Keeping Mykyl in sight, she gripped the goblet to still the trembling within her hands.

  She watched as Mykyl cut several pieces of meat from the roast on the table. Wordlessly, he offered her one at the end of the blade. Amoda shook her head in short quick motions. She feared her legs would give out on her if she moved.

  “More ale?”

  “What do you mean to do this night?” Amoda whispered as he poured more of the golden liquid for her.

  “Do?” Mykyl shook his head. “Amoda, I mean to correct my error. Tonight, I am here to pay attention to you.”

  She did not want his attention. She did not want to feel so exposed, so out of control. Her body seemed to bend to his will despite her protests. His touch ignited a fire within her, one that frightened her more than any other man.

  A warm, relaxed feeling stole over her as she finished yet another serving
of ale. Handing the chalice back to Mykyl, she watched him pour more of the drink. She gulped it down. She did not want to know what he did to her, did not want to remember her own traitorous body as he took it.

  After several more drinks, she watched as though through another’s eyes as her attire fell from her body. With each addition to the pile, she relished the lack of awareness. When warm, callused hands trailed over her bare arms, she shivered. As the light caress moved along her shoulders, her head fell back, her eyes drifting shut, baring her throat to the warmth of his breath as he nuzzled her.

  Unbidden, a soft moan worked itself free of her control as his lips moved along her throat to her jaw and up. The scrape of his beard against her skin added to the fiery sensation that spread throughout her body. She clutched at his shoulders when her legs buckled. She stared into the warmth of his gaze for a moment. Her world lay within his blue eyes. Every sense, every breath had narrowed to focus on the penetrating stare of her lord and master.

  Pressed against him from shoulder to hips, her breath came out in startled gasps. With each gulp of air, her breasts brushed against the warm curls across his chest, drawing a strangled sound from her throat.

  “My lord, I do not know what you—” A warm finger on her lips silenced her.

  “Shhh. Just let me.”

  She gasped when he bent to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the waiting furs of their bed.

  As he laid her down, he pressed his lips to hers. The firm, yet gentle touch of his mouth to hers drew a startled moan. He did not seem to hurry as he moved, teasing and coercing her surrender to him. His teeth nipped at her bottom lip, drawing it into his mouth to suckle. Slowly, his tongue teased along her lips until she granted him access.

  The moment his tongue swept into her mouth, she fell into the maelstrom of a storm. Her befuddled mind protested weakly, the drink slowing her thoughts, making her mind a sluggish tangle of desire and need. Her body fell into the swirling abyss of her own lust. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her steady while he plundered her mouth.

  Each sensation seemed crisper, clearer than anything she’d ever experienced. Even the feeling of the soft furs against her bare skin only added to the fire he so expertly stoked between her thighs.

  She whimpered a soft protest when he pulled back. Slowly, she met his stare, seeing the desire and regret mixed within his blue eyes. A small, sad smile crossed his face before he reached up to trail his fingers through her hair.

  “Nay, my lady. Not this way.”

  Like a blow, the soft whisper struck her and she frowned. “What? You can take me.”

  “But it is not you,” Mykyl whispered and pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “I will not take a drunken woman, no matter how much I desire her.” His lips moved against the soft flesh, tickling the sensitive area gently.

  Amoda stared at him as he backed away. The drink had muddled her mind and she couldn’t focus her thoughts. “I am your property. Why do you hesitate?” Confused, she slipped from the bed and stepped toward him, her body on the precipice of surrender.

  “Yes, you are. I told you before, Amoda, I want you willing. I thought I could seduce you into my bed with drink, but I cannot. I need to see you give yourself freely, not because you are so drunk you cannot bring yourself to refuse me.”

  “But why then did you?” she sputtered.

  “Because I was a fool,” Mykyl muttered. “I am not–-” He shook his head a frown drawing his brows together.

  She watched him straighten his clothes before bending to pick up her chemise. With careful, caring movements, he pulled it over her head and stroked a finger down her cheek, regret and something else within his eyes.

  “Goodnight, Amoda.”

  Stunned, she watched him walk out of the room, the door closing with a soft thud. What had happened? Why had he walked away from what he so obviously wanted? She feared she would not like the answer one little bit.

  ~ * ~

  A chill hung in the air as Amoda jolted from her sleep. She sat up, clutching the furs to her as she glanced around. A tortured moan beside her drew her attention, and she stared down at Mykyl.

  Bathed in pale moonlight, he thrashed about, his hands seeking something or someone across the linens. His moans increased as he thrashed and rolled over, his hands sliding across the warmth of her flesh. The friction of his touch awoke warmth within her as he sleepily pulled her back into his arms.

  “Darina, where did you go?” Low, guttural, and filled with lust, his whisper slid over her throat, as he pressed heated kisses along her shoulder.

  She swallowed harshly as his hand crept in the neck of her nightdress to cup her full breast. He teased the tip into a hardened peak, his body shifted, pinned her beneath him as she pushed against him.

  “Nay!” Amoda gasped as he trailed kisses along her jaw. “Let me go!”

  “Darina, my beloved Darina! Why? I should not have rode off to war, I should have stayed—”

  Amoda pushed against his shoulder angrily. When he rolled over, she scrambled from the bed, tossing a cloak around her shoulders, and sinking to the floor to stare in the flames. She cast a glance at him as he rolled over, the furs falling away to reveal the tanned and defined musculature of his naked body.

  If only it had been me, he wanted.

  The thought raced through her mind, unbidden and unwanted.

  ~ * ~

  Desperate to escape the unsettled feelings of the night before, Amoda resolved to collect herbs needed for medicines and potions. Hurrying through the shadows to the rocky field, a lengthy walk from the manor house, she set her basket down.

  The sun at half-mast in the morning sky, Amoda searched for the familiar yellow bloom she’d plucked for Rognvaldr within the grass and rocks beneath her. The old man had unwittingly taught her more about healing, plants, and potions then he had meant to.

  She glanced up at the faint thud of oncoming riders. Two of Mykyl’s young soldiers came toward her. Both had made comments to her before about her place within the manor. They pulled up and dismounted. She rose to her feet, her basket clutched to her.

  “It would appear that our lord’s mistress has strayed.” Swallowing nervously at the laughter from the two men, she inched backwards, even as she heard another rider steadily approaching.

  She refused to look away from them. Every instinct told her to keep the pair before her rather than to allow them to get behind her.

  “Such a pretty thing. He’s been spending so much time with the captains she probably feels a bit neglected.”

  “Perhaps we could help with that.”

  “So, slave, who shall be first? Anrai or I?”

  Amoda refused to rise to the bait. She knew she could not beat them, but mayhap she could delay them long enough to get away. “You are interrupting.”

  “Interrupting?” The one called Anrai snickered. “What is it that we are disturbing you from?”

  “I am awaiting my lord’s arrival.” Amoda prayed they would not see the fear or the falsehood in her eyes. “He is to be here soon.”

  “You lie.” Anrai walked toward her. “You may warm his bed very well, but your skills at spinning a fabrication are very poor.” He grabbed her arm in a crushing grip.

  “Do I?” Amoda hid her wince. “Then perhaps you’d like to speak to him yourself.”

  “Anrai, if you hold her for me, I’ll hold her for you. Who’s to know?”

  Amoda swallowed and pulled on her arm. “Fools. No better than the dogs Mykyl keeps, and you think—”

  “I think you had best find a better use for that mouth,” Anrai snarled. “Before we grow impatient with it.”

  Amoda dropped the basket, and she reached for the dagger in the young soldier’s belt. He shoved her aside.

  From the ground, Amoda watched them begin to remove their belts and tried to stem the rolling in her stomach. She clambered to her feet. The two men advanced toward her. She wondered if she could make it over the rocky gro
und without breaking a leg.

  “Come, my lady. It is not all that unpleasant.” Anrai chuckled.

  “Indeed. You might enjoy us more than our lord, Mykyl.”

  Gathering her skirt in her hand, Amoda decided that retreat was the better part of valor. Stepping back from them, she stumbled on the rocky ground but managed to regain her balance. “I rather think not.”

  Amoda turned and darted across the smooth rocks toward the creek. Hopping across the rocks, she heard her assailants running close behind her.

  “Amoda!” The angry roar drew her attention for a moment.

  Amoda gasped for breath as they forced her to the ground. Pinned under the heavy weight of one of her molesters, she refused to surrender. Squirming, she scratched at the ground, hoping for a rock or anything she could use as a weapon.

  ~ * ~

  “What goes on here?” Mykyl galloped up to the meadow. He leaped from his mount and stalked toward the young man currently laid out atop a struggling Amoda.

  “We happened upon her trying to escape,” Anrai declared, clamoring to his feet, his eyes downcast. He chanced a glance upwards at his lord and flinched at the stare upon him.

  “Leave us,” Mykyl ground out, his face twisted with fury.

  Amoda slowly scrambled to her feet, a myriad of bruises already forming upon her exposed flesh.

  “We have much to discuss.”

  She flinched at the cold tone but remained silent as the two men rode off. Fear coiled within her stomach, making it ache. The longer they stood in silence, the more the uncertainty and anger boiled within her. He’d tried to seduce her the night before and now he all but accused her of giving—

  “What task brings you out here?”

  No matter how calm the tone, she heard the cold undertones and shivered. “Gathering herbs. I noticed the other day that Cahal’s youngest seems to be ill.”

  “And why would that affect you, Amoda? Your position here is clear.”