Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  That should give him enough time to show his restless wife that though he had been a monk, he was more than capable of fulfilling her shameful needs.

  o0o

  “Why would anyone cut that man’s ears off? ‘Tis barbaric,” Catalin splashed cold water over her face, her own problems forgotten for the moment.

  “No doubt he was sent to gather information by listening beneath window openings.” Elyne held Catalin’s curls back from her face. “Do ye feel better now?”

  “Aye. I hate to admit it, but Ranald was right when he sent me from the room. Just a little while longer, and I truly would have spewed down his back.”

  “Ye are having trouble with sickness at dawn, are ye not?” Elyne leaned forward so she could peer around at Catalin’s flushed face.

  “And at eventide, too,” Catalin confessed. “‘Tis a good thing I have a hearty liking for food, else I would be naught but a shadow.”

  “I thought as much. Father was querying Ada this morn. It has been a month since ye wed, and he wanted to know if yer woman’s time had come.”

  “Nay. Did you know your father has set Ada to spying for him?”

  “Hmpf. It does not surprise me. Why have ye allowed her to be yer chamber maid?” Seeing Catalin felt better, she released the handful of curls and handed Catalin a drying cloth.

  “Hannah and I could tell right from the first that Ada had no liking for what he ordered. We formed a pact to feed him words of what we would have him know. By this next dawn, he will know Ranald’s seed has taken.”

  “Um, Catalin?” Elyne lower lip came up to cover her upper. She hesitated while clearing her throat.

  “What is it?” Catalin patted her face dry, took great care to fold the cloth and place it beside the basin.

  “I never told ye, but I had one of my dreams before Moridac died.” Elyne’s piercing gaze locked with Catalin’s. She sat on the edge of the bed and fiddled with her skirts, having them lay just so.

  “One of your dreams? Moridac told me you oft had dreams you believed were glimpses into the future. Is this one of them?”

  “Aye. It was a sennight before ye arrived at Raptor.”

  “Did it have to do with Moridac?” A horrible thought struck Catalin. “Oh no, pray do not tell me you dreamed of his death!”

  “Nay. I dinna think I could have stood that, for I surely would have misread the dream and not have been able to save him.”

  “Well, then, tell me about your dream. Has it come true?”

  Catalin waited eagerly, for she had heard of women whose dreams came true.

  “It was verra dark in my dream, hazy like an early morn when ye can barely see the barbican? I heard footsteps outside my door, and when I opened it, I saw my brother carrying his shoes. I followed him as he walked to yer bedchamber door. He eased it open and disappeared inside.”

  “You dreamt such?” Catalin swallowed, feeling a flush of shame start from her neck and cover her face.

  “Aye. And I heard him talking with ye, though that wouldna be possible, for the doors and walls are so thick anyone would have to shout to be heard on the other side.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It wasna clear, but he was answering ye. I could hear only his voice. He said, ‘I am going to make pashing net love’. At least it sounded like pashing to me, though I have never heard the word. Then he said something like incense and sennight, and that ye were his, and that ye would have great bed sport together.” Elyne blushed and twisted her rope girdle into knots.

  Catalin stared at her, trying not to let her jaw drop open.

  “Do ye think I am crazed?” Elyne’s voice was hesitant. She ran a finger over her full lips and flashed Catalin a fearful look.

  “Nay, you are far from being brainsick, Elyne.” Catalin sat beside her on the bed, pulled her legs crosswise and settled her skirts around them. “When did you say you had this dream?”

  “A sennight afore ye came to Raptor.” She ran her fingers through her hair and started twisting a hank beside her ear as much as she had her poor tortured girdle.

  “Have you had other dreams that came true?” Catalin voice was wobbly, and she cleared her throat to cover it up.

  “It has always been a joke, for I will dream of events, but they dinna happen as I expect. Like seeing kits being born and running to the cow byre to find there were no new mousers, but the pig had birthed piglets.” Elyne frowned and tugged her hair harder. “Aye, it does happen, but not the way I had envisioned. The event, that is, not the thing in the dream. The best way to explain it is the first dream long ago. ‘Twas the night Father injured Ranald.”

  “Saints above! You were naught but a youngling then.”

  “Aye. In my dream, Ranald and Moridac were behind the cow byre. Ranald laughed and jumped atop a sleek, black cow, but a bull charged out of the dark and chased the cow. Ranald fell off right at the bull’s hooves, and it ripped at him with his horns and stomped him till the ground turned red with blood.”

  Catalin squeezed Elyne’s hand in sympathy. “What a horrid dream.”

  “Aye. I awoke screaming about cows smashing my Ray.” She wrinkled her nose. “I couldna say his name. Strange as it may seem, from that night on, I have held a fear, and a, um, disgust for Father. I was always happiest when he was away on Crusades.” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Years later, Hannah told me he fought in the battle of Azaz and had recently returned. In the fighting, the Turks killed his favorite warhorse. When Father captured a Seljuk Turk riding a magnificent, black mount, he killed the man and took the horse for his own. He named it Goliath and forbade anyone but the stable master or his squire to touch the beast.”

  “Mayhap he feared Goliath would injure another?”

  “Nay. ‘Twas because Father canna stand anyone touching something that is his.”

  Not even a whisper of sound floated to Catalin, but her body tingled with sharp pricks over her skin. A voice taut with menace sounded from the doorway.

  “As I will allow no other to touch that which is mine!”

  CHAPTER 16

  Ranald’s presence filled the room, though he stood but a step inside the bedchamber doorway. He moved with a stiff, angry gait toward Catalin. Like a man about to pounce.

  Chills crept down her spine. She had not expected a man who had been a monk for so many years to say such or to feel the need to say it.

  Her face grew hot, her lips clamped together and her nostrils flared. How could he insult her by even a thought that she would be unfaithful? Forgetting caution and the need to protect herself, her voice rose with bitter resentment.

  “Until we wed, you had naught to call your own. Now you claim all that was mine. My manors, my wealth, my castle! Which of these do you speak of?”

  “Ye forgot one thing else, wife. Though not as valuable as yer castle or yer other honors, yer body belongs to me.”

  Ranald’s lips twitched in that lethal way, reminding Catalin of a hungry predator.

  “Out!” He jerked a finger toward the door.

  Though Catalin knew he did not mean the command for her, she glared at him and jumped up, ready to leave with Elyne. Not because she was affrighted. She was too angry for that. It would be best to leave, for she feared if she struck Ranald with the water pitcher, God would never forgive her.

  “Humph! Did the monks teach ye to be so ill-mannered, brother?” Elyne stuck her tongue out at him on her way out of the room.

  Catalin got as far as a step from the doorway before his grip on her shoulder jolted her to a halt. She waited until Elyne pulled the door to before she spoke again.

  “You do not own me like the cow in the byre or a horse in the pasture. Let go of me.” She turned and jerked her shoulder, trying to dislodge his grip.

  “Aye, but I do.” His fingers tightened for a heartbeat, then released her.

  “It is not the same! I am your wife, not some dumb animal who cannot think and talk. I belong to you because we are wed the same as
you belong to me.

  “It doesna work both ways. A woman’s body belongs to her husband. She must hold herself only for him. A man shares his body with his wife, or with any woman he so chooses.”

  A vision of Muriele naked on a bed with Ranald sprawled at her side, his leg across hers, flashed in Catalin’s mind. It near made her gag.

  “Do you tell me you keep a leman?”

  “I said no such thing. It is ye who were planning to lure a man to yer bed.” Ranald stalked over to rest his sword against the bedside table. He turned slowly to stare at her. “I would sample this bed sport ye planned to entice him with. Take off yer clothes.”

  “I will not. It is not yet dark.”

  “Did ye plot with Elyne so long ye forgot to note the day has passed?” He spread his legs wide in a hostile manner and folded his arms across his chest. “I told ye to take of yer clothes.”

  “And I told ye I would not.”

  Catalin’s chin jutted. Never had she felt as riled as she did now with Ranald. And she did not know why. Nay, she lied to herself. She did know why. ‘Twas because he near accused her of taking a lover, while with her own eyes she had seen more than once that he was enamored of Muriele.

  “Take them off!”

  The words bounced off the walls, as Ranald moved to stand beside the window opening.

  Catalin flinched. Shook her head.

  The muscles in Ranald’s jaw twitched. Blazing anger shot from his eyes. His gaze raked down her body to the hem of the blue kirtle she had donned for the evening meal. A cold gust of wind blew in from the window. It did not ruffle even a hair on his head.

  The cloth about Catalin’s ankles moved and began to flap, cooling them. Faster and faster it moved. The kirtle whipped about her calves, forcing the wind beneath the cloth until it billowed and reached her knees.

  She batted her skirts trying to control them, but it was no use. Suddenly, linen swaddled her head. She fought against it and thrust it off. It landed on the floor in a rumpled, blue pile.

  She gulped and eyed the window. All the wind outside seemed aimed at that one small opening. Ranald did not seem bothered, but ignored it.

  His lips lifted in a thin smile, no doubt sensing her fear as he slowly unbuckled his belt. She released her breath when he let it drop to the floor. The end of his tartan slipped down from his massive shoulder.

  Fascinated, she watched. Freed, the folded length around his waist clung to his flesh as it took its slow time leaving his body to join his belt. The wind did not rustle even the smallest part of his clothing.

  Ranald was bare but for the scant braies worn for battle practice. He had drawn the white linen around his waist, up between his thighs to cover his sex, and joined it at his belly.

  It was the first time Catalin had seen him in this scant garb. Somehow, it drew her gaze far more than his naked flesh would, for it tempted her to envision what was beneath the linen.

  Moving to the foot of the bed, he sat on the edge and drew off his boots. Not once did he shift his regard from her. She felt rooted to the spot where she stood.

  When he rose, his gaze fixed on her shoulders. Catalin clutched her thin smock. Why did he not pull the shutters closed? Wind could not untie the ribbons at her neck, could it?

  Soon, she felt as if warm, strong fingers lingered there. Her lids flew wide when the thin strips of silk began to slide and the bow came untied. She grasped for the ends, but they eluded her. The smock slithered from her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around her waist, trying to anchor it there. She darted a look downward.

  Saints! Her arms clasped around her waist thrusting her breasts upward made it look as if she offered them to him. She dared not move, for what little she had left on would join that on the floor.

  It would expose her body to his heated eyes.

  Every spot Ranald’s gaze touched felt like warm hands caressing her flesh. Her body heated. She swallowed and fidgeted when he studied her stomach beneath the sheer smock.

  “Yer babe has grown much these past fortnights.” He wet his lips and stared at her breasts.

  Her nipples tightened and strained toward him. Shamed, she moved her hands to cover them. Wisk! Her startled gaze followed her smock as it near flew to the ground.

  Saints! His bare toes near met her shoes. When had he moved? She felt even more indecent standing there naked with naught but her shoes and stockings to cover her. The thought made her breasts swell.

  Of a sudden, his arms slid beneath her knees and around her waist. He lifted her against his chest. A frizzle of excitement built when the crisp hair on his chest scraped her nipples. A gasp of pleasure slipped out before she could stifle it.

  His skin felt so warm. Hot, even. The feel of his bunching shoulder muscles, the hard warmth of his chest, all sent anticipation through her. Her hip pressed against the hard slab of his belly, and when he bent to lay her on the bed, she missed the intimate contact with his flesh.

  She near clutched his arm when he slid it from her. Her mouth went dry, for he straddled her, wearing his braies still. His aroused flesh bulged against the clothing. She dragged her gaze upward and saw he chuckled.

  Drats!

  Was he a sorcerer that he could inflame her with one look? She had been furious at his high-handed remarks, and what had she done? She had melted like butter on a hot iron grill the minute his flesh touched hers.

  Devil take it! She needed him. Had Moridac turned her into a lust-crazed slattern? Nay, not Moridac. She had not craved man-flesh after her time with him. ‘Twas only after the first night with Ranald that she could not stop the feelings only he had brought forth from her.

  “Ye stare, wife. Ah. Ye are impatient? If ye would sample what is beneath the braies, ye would do well to tempt it with a display of this bed sport ye were planning.”

  “I planned no bed sport. How oft must I say it?”

  His only response was to bend his knees and lower himself to press against the bare flesh at her legs’ joining. She tried hard not to look at him cuddled there. Her breathing quickened, and when he wiggled his arse, the heat from his groin against the red curls between her legs seared her. Her gaze flew to his braies.

  She could not mistake the hard pulse of his full arousal beneath the scant cloth. His long, slender fingers ever so slowly reached for the knot at his waist. Her breath quickened, her fingers twitched, and her body flushed from the top of her head to her smallest toes.

  What took him so long? Why did he stop? She shivered and raised her eyes to peer at him. His mask did not hide his eyes or the animal lust there. Blazing black eyes flashed at her. Were they green and not black, she would feel it was a hungry wolf who kept her pinned.

  He looked down. Her gaze followed. His blatant, aggressive arousal stood free. She shamed herself with a low moan, and arched her shoulders, thrusting her breasts upward in invitation. He leaned forward and flicked her straining nipples with the tip of his tongue, sending excitement flooding to her moist, needy place.

  He rubbed his face against her breast and began to suckle. Using his knee, he spread her legs so he could burrow his body there. After he aroused both breasts until she found herself digging her fingers into his scarred shoulders, she clamped her legs around his buttocks, urging him toward what she needed.

  “Aye, ye are needy, lass.” Ranald rubbed his tarse against her, teasing her flesh. Catalin cried out and grasped him tighter. He nudged the slick wet heat of her, entered slowly and buried himself until the springy, black curls of his groin mingled with the red at hers. Her sharp gasp of satisfaction heated Ranald’s blood the way no practiced tricks of bed sport could.

  She answered each thrust with her own.

  If he lifted his chest and did not touch her, she arched her body until her breasts brushed the hair on his chest.

  He teased her with subtle, circling movements of his hips. She clamped him all the tighter.

  Each rock of his buttocks she met and matched with an answer, until she wri
thed beneath him and cried out, begging for release. He arched his back up enough to slip his hand between them. He teased her slick flesh around where he plunged, until she thrashed and grabbed his hair. She pulled it, crying out near senseless with passion. Feeling his mask slipping, he stroked upward over her swollen nub.

  Catalin’s scream drowned out his shout as they convulsed together until both were limp.

  Ranald buried his face against her neck, inhaling her violet-scented flesh. His breathing finally slowed, and sanity returned. With it came guilt.

  He pushed away from her and fell over on his back, the cold sheet dampening his ardor even more.

  What manner of man was he? Surely the weakest of kinds. He had resolved not to touch Catalin while she was carrying his brother’s bairn. His will lasted little over a month. He raked his fingers through thick, wavy hair that now covered his head. He bit off a groan and dropped an arm over his eyes.

  Tonight he had near gone crazed with lust. Was this how Moridac, how his father lived? With a constant turmoil of wanting? Of craving female flesh? Of strong drink? He had changed much. How long would it be afore he, too, became battle crazed and drunk with killing?

  He bolted up, grabbed his woolen tartan from the floor and his belt in one hand, his sword in the other. He was still belting the tartan around his waist when he burst out into the front bailey and the cold, wet night. His long strides carried him silently across the ground and into the empty church.

  Would that he could scourge himself as his father had punished him those many years gone by. At Kelso, when his body cried out for the pleasures of the flesh, he had made use of the flagellum to distract himself with pain. Until the night when Prior Godric had fetched the abbot who had talked sense into him. Would that they were with him now.

  He knelt in front of the altar, his arms uplifted, his eyes focused on the cross hanging before the arched window.

  His voice rose softly in plainsong, singing the words of the Psalms, becoming stronger with each verse until his deep baritone filled the small chapel and drifted on the still night.