Arto's Enchantress

by Morgan Henry

  Arto looked the mare. She was sturdy but still had some grace. Her coat was healthy and she leaned over to nuzzle him with quiet curiosity. Her hooves were solid and properly trimmed. Those hooves and her strong legs would stand up to a long journey. She was on the small end for an adult’s mount, but had the musculature for stamina. Her shoulder slope would guarantee a smooth ride for a small woman or child.

  “She is a solid mount. Why do I need her?” Arto was curious as to what scheme Ascar had in mind.

  “Lady Vallant does not ride well, if at all.”

  There was that quicksand pit and Arto had apparently been tossed into the centre of it. Head first.

  For a moment, Arto had been encouraged that his little sola was not a pampered, entitled, spoiled child, but instead a quiet, thoughtful woman who would travel well and perhaps even warm his bed for a time. Now he wondered what he had done to deserve the wrath of the God and Goddess. This was not going to be an easy trip for an inexperienced rider.

  “How is this possible? She is a noble, she should have been on a horse since childhood.” Arto was hoping that Ascar was playing a joke, or exaggerating at least.

  Ascar sighed, an unhappy look on his face. “I don’t know the details, but there was an accident. Something about her brother killed, she was there, a horse was involved. Anyway, she is frightened of them and begged to ride in the wagons. I didn’t have a suitable horse for a novice, so I let her. I found this beauty at a Viceroy’s home where we spent the night and bought her. Sette has been riding her for the past few days and swears she is a good mount for a beginner.”

  Arto tilted his head back and looked at the sky. “You have done me a favour. I will pay whatever you did. More if you wish. And you have my thanks. I will have to teach Lady Cella to ride.”

  Chapter 3

  Cella followed the ladies down the small path to the bathing pool. They had assured her the water was warm, but she didn’t believe them. They were up in the mountains, surely the stream would be icy. It didn’t matter. It had been days since she had a proper bath and she wanted to be completely clean again.

  The path opened to a pool against a rocky backdrop. The area at the edge was covered in flat stone and the surrounding brush was cleared away. The water was a little cloudy, but stopped short of murky. It smelled a little funny as she got closer.

  Cella frowned and dipped her hand in the water. It was warm! The surprise must have shown on her face, because Sette laughed.

  “You didn’t believe. The smell is the same as always. It is from the hot springs that feed this pool.” The older woman took off her gown and chemise and waded into the water naked with her soap.

  Cella followed quickly. The water was much better than the icy stream she was expecting. She happily dunked herself and began to wash her hair with the cleansing liquid that Sette had provided.

  She stood in the pool, the water slightly deeper than her waist, and washed her hair. Her breasts were out of the water and her nipples puckered in the cooler air. At the sensation, her thoughts went to Duke Arto. She had not been expecting such a handsome man as her escort.

  She thought King Graydon would send a grandfather, a slightly grumpy older man that she could perhaps become friends with. Not a strong, sinewy, dark-haired, very attractive warrior. Thinking of his dark eyes and strong, callused hands made her pussy clench.

  This was not good.

  She should be very careful about sexual relations on this trip. The viper from last year had endless conquests and Cella would not be compared to her. Besides, sex was overrated, and a Duke like Arto would have many women begging for his favours.

  She rinsed her hair and scrubbed the rest of her body. She ignored how sensitive her body seemed and how the touch of her own hands made her skin pebble.

  Though the water was warm, it wasn’t warm enough for the ladies to laze in it for long. They exited and dried themselves, haphazardly lacing into dresses again. It was growing late and dresses would shortly be discarded for nightgowns.

  Cella enjoyed the feeling of clean underthings. It made her feel stronger, somehow, like she could handle whatever the God was going to dish out to her.

  Her anxieties about the next stage of her journey lifted a little as they walked back to the clearing and she slipped into her tent. She slept deeply, thinking all would be well in the morning.

  Cella awoke later than usual. She hurried out of her tent to find Cook had breakfast already done without Cella’s help. Brushing aside her apologies, Cook served her up a large plate of food and shooed her over to the fire.

  It was cool in the mountains in the morning and Cella leaned into the warmth of the fire. She had forgotten her cloak in the wagon. Walking back from the pool, she had missed it last night, too. By the time she had remembered it, she was tucked in her blankets. Promising herself she would get it before breakfast, she had forgotten again.

  She jumped as a heavy weight settled over her shoulders, dropping her mug of tea.

  Cella was at the same time grateful for the warmth of the cloak someone had gifted her with, and embarrassed she had spilled her tea.

  She looked up.

  “It’s cold this morning, Lady Cella. Where is your cloak?” Sinfully handsome Duke Arto bent and retrieved her mug.

  “I for–forgot it in the wagon,” she stuttered. She cursed herself. Clumsy, foolish, and stammering, she was a picture of royal blood.

  “Which wagon?”

  “I can get it.” Cella started to rise, but Arto’s hand on her shoulder kept her seated.

  “Which wagon, sola?” he asked again, exaggerated patience in his voice.

  Cella dropped her eyes and pointed. Arto strolled over to it, retrieved her cloak, filled her cup, and got one for himself. She noted that he added a pinch of sugar to his.

  He returned to the fire with the leggy, graceful stride that she associated with skilled riders.

  “There now.” Arto handed her the mug of tea and settled Cella’s cloak around her shoulder. He sat beside her, slinging his own cloak around him.

  Cella mourned a tiny bit for the loss of Arto’s garment. It was heavy, warm, and smelled of him—of man and horse and leather. She sipped her tea, breakfast forgotten for a moment.

  “You need to eat, my Lady. I have plans for you today.”

  Startled, Cella looked directly at Arto. He had a slight smile on his face that looked kind, not mocking. He watched her closely and she wasn’t sure whether she did or didn’t like his scrutiny.

  She ate a few bites.

  “What plans do you have, your Grace?” A greasy lump that had nothing to do with breakfast settled in her belly.

  “We have a journey ahead of us and no wagons for you. You need to hone your riding skills and I will help you.” Arto’s voice was matter-of-fact. The voice of a man who was accustomed to having his wishes obeyed. Who got what he wanted.

  Cella swallowed.

  The lump in her belly was too big now for her to eat any more, and its greasiness threatened to expel what she had consumed.

  No wagon.

  She would have to ride all the way to Kerfaen. On one of the great hairy beasts that had trampled her poor brother to a bloody pulp.

  Her hand clutched at her cloak, pulling the edges together as if the soft material could protect her from the ills of the world.

  “Cella,” murmured Arto, settling his large hand between her shoulders and rubbing gently. “I will help you, little sola. You will be fine.”

  Cella swallowed again, forcing the dread and fear down, and willing herself to calm.

  Most people on this earth rode horses, she could, too. She could survive this year and then go back to her comfortable home in the Enchanter’s Guild.

  Where it was safe and quiet.

  And where handsome Dukes didn’t caress her and make her wonder how that hand would feel on her bare skin.

  Cella sat up straighter and looked at Duke Arto. “As you wish, your Grace.”

&nbs
p; * * * *

  Arto wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Cella.

  She seemed like such a timid and shy thing, which would normally not attract him in the least. Yet he was stirred by her and couldn’t help but think there was more buried inside.

  She was clearly frightened of the horses and riding. He wondered what had happened that terrified her so. Yet, she had the inner strength to simply agree with him and obviously meant to get on with the lessons. There was no tantrum, no whining, no coaxing, wheedling little conversation trying to manipulate him into conjuring up a carriage for her. Just an acknowledgement of the situation and blue eyes filled with determination.

  He gave her his most rewarding smile. “Brave sola. Do you have some riding skirts?”

  He devoutly hoped she did. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she didn’t.

  “Yes, your Grace. I will go change.” She stood and, giving him a brief bob, went to the wagon to retrieve her clothing.

  Ascar plunked himself down beside Arto. “I think we’ll stay a day as well. It will be good to rest the horses. We can even try to do a little hunting. Join us?”

  “Afraid I have my hands full with riding lessons.”

  “She won’t last all day. Join us later.”

  “What I have planned will take most of the day. You’ve seen her fear. Would you just plunk her in the saddle and say ‘get on with it’?” Arto was a little surprised at his friend’s attitude.

  Ascar grimaced, the lines around his mouth prominent. “You’re right. I forgot how deep her fears seem to go. What do you have planned?”

  Arto outlined his idea.

  Ascar nodded and gave some suggestions that improved his plan.

  By the time Cella returned to the fire, Arto was feeling quite positive that he could turn her into a horsewoman.

  Eventually.

  He looked her over. She had on split skirts for riding in the blue she seemed to favor. They were very practical, lined with some leather to make them durable. They were also thick enough to keep her warm, thank the God. She had on her cloak this time and proper riding boots that looked barely used, but…“Gloves?”

  She opened the pouch at her waist, revealing leather gloves with reinforced palms. Also looking as if recently made.

  “Excellent, my Lady.” Arto gave her what was hopefully a reassuring smile. “Let us start.”

  He held out his hand and after a small hesitation, Cella placed her small appendage in his.

  He gave a fleeting thought to kissing it, but managed to refrain.

  Instead he enjoyed the feel of her soft skin and gave the back of her hand a little circular caress with his thumb. That made her inhale sharply. Perhaps the lady wasn’t as immune to him as he thought.

  Arto led her to his readied warhorse, tethered to one of the posts in the camp. As they approached he could feel the cringe in her hand, so Arto pulled her to his side and wrapped his arm around her.

  “This is Merlo,” he began calmly, attempting to transmit feelings of reassurance and safety to his little sola. “He is my horse and very well trained, with good manners. We will greet him together.”

  He stopped a few feet in front of his mount and a little to the side.

  “He’s very large, your Grace.” Cella’s voice was almost a whisper, as if she was fearful the horse would hear.

  “Yes. He would need to be, to carry me and my armour into battle. And since we will be travelling together for some time, I think you should call me Arto in less formal situations, don’t you?”

  “That is not proper Kerban custom, your Grace?”

  “It is for friends in a casual setting. Ascar and I don’t use titles all the time. Try it. Arrr-toe.” He deliberately exaggerated the length of his name.

  “Very well, Arto.” She hesitated a little on his name and still spoke quietly.

  “Good. Let us greet Merlo. Look how he stands. He is alert and watching us because he knows I will likely take him for a ride. Horses know when they are saddled it means work time.”

  He looked down at Cella. She was watching the horse closely. She was very still and he didn’t know if this meant she was still terrified or just careful.

  “Look at his muscles. They aren’t rigid, just ready. He doesn’t feel threatened by us. Do you see that?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Cella’s body didn’t feel quite so stiff against his now.

  “His ears are pointed to us, but they flick around at other noises in the camp. This means he is paying attention to his surroundings, not completely focused on us as if we were a threat.”

  At her nod, he continued.

  “Now, look at his eyes. They are watching us, but the lids are relaxed, not wide open. We can’t see the white part. That’s good. If the white shows, then the horse is frightened or very excited.”

  “I see.”

  Arto took a piece of carrot from his belt pouch. He held it out to Cella.

  “This is a treat for Merlo. Open your hand wide and hold it in your palm. He will take it from you, but he won’t hurt you, I promise.”

  Cella took the carrot, her hand trembling a little. She clutched it as they approached the warhorse.

  Merlo’s ears pointed toward them as the two approached. He snorted and Cella started. Arto tightened his arm around her middle.

  “Easy, little sola. He smells his treat and is impatient for it, that’s all. Open your hand for him.”

  Now trembling harder, Cella obeyed. Merlo lowered his head and lapped up the carrot with his thick lips. He crunched his treat loudly.

  “His lips are soft.”

  “That they are. A horse’s nose and lips are sensitive. Some horses like their noses touched, others do not. Merlo likes to have his head scratched between his eyes. Are you brave enough to try that?” Arto still had his arm around her waist and he didn’t detect any further tension in her.

  “Yes. All right.” She started to raise her hand.

  “He will want to smell your hand first, to make sure you don’t have another carrot hidden somewhere.”

  She glanced up, a tiny hint of alarm in her widened eyes.

  Arto smiled down at her. “Just hold out your hand, that’s right.” Merlo’s nostrils tickled her palm. “Now slowly move your hand to his forehead. Yes, like that.”

  Cella scratched gently and Merlo let out a nicker. She gasped but didn’t move.

  “That’s a happy horse sound, Cella.” She scratched again and Arto kept up his praise of both her and the horse for a few moments.

  “Now, how much do you know of horse anatomy?” Arto asked as Cella broke contact with Merlo.

  “Probably not enough,” Cella admitted, a trace of wry humour in her voice.

  Arto laughed. He was delighted to find she could as well.

  “Then let us go over some horse parts.”

  He spent the next while going over each part of the horse and making her touch most parts and repeat them to him. After a little bit, he was able to remove his arm from her waist, but he still kept his hand at the small of her back. Mostly because he wanted to.

  He found himself enjoying the feel of this little woman beside him. She had lush curves, breasts that would fill his hands and hips to hang on to when loving her. Her lovely blonde curls would look beautiful spread over the dark bedding in his suite at Bridgend. He would like to see sleepy satiation in her blue eyes as he held her close after making love to her for hours.

  He noted that she didn’t leave his side. She also seemed more comfortable with his hand on her. He had to admit, that appealed to his nature.

  He liked smart women, ones that had some sort of duty, or job, or passion in life. He liked women he could converse with, but he liked to be in control in the bedroom. He liked to be in charge of her pleasure, and his.

  Watching little Cella blossom a little under his “lesson” had some interesting feelings stirring inside him. He had some pride in helping her quash some of her fear, yes. But there was
more.

  She brought forth some protectiveness that he didn’t recall feeling with any other woman.

  Yes, he would go quite far in protecting his little sola.

  He had seen some of the looks the men were giving her and it aroused jealousy in him. They would not be touching her.

  Not that they would take any woman against her will, but in some fashion, somehow, Cella had become his, and his alone.

  Chapter 4

  Cella was grateful that the large beast in front of her was so well mannered. The horse was a rich brown with lighter mane and tail and a white blaze up his forehead. His feet were huge.

  She thought that if he stepped on her, she would squish like a bug. There would be that snapping sound and her insides would spurt out in a liquid mess.

  Her heart started to speed up, like a horse that was about to run amok.

  Best not to think of that.

  Arto was being very kind to her. Cella felt a little ashamed. It must be a tedious task to have to teach remedial horse classes to a visitor he was neither prepared for nor wanted.

  Yet, he was nothing but patient, calm, and gentle with her. When he had his arm around her waist, she felt safe. If the horse suddenly reared or bolted, she felt like he would whisk her out of harm’s way.

  As she felt a little more comfortable, he moved his hand to her back. It was as if he knew that she needed the reassurance he was still there.

  Protecting her.

  She touched and repeated all the names back to him. Withers, haunch, fetlock, stifle, and more. He made her touch the horse firmly, not like a feather. His hand put pressure on hers to show her.

  It felt intimate.

  It felt wonderful. And she should not be enjoying it so much. She also should not be enjoying his nearness, his scent, and his general maleness.

  Cella was not a stranger to sex. Sexual relations were common outside of formal unions in both Jorval and Kerban. Lero, enchanted jewellery, prevented unwanted pregnancies and disease transmission.

  She just didn’t know what all the fuss was about. She found sex to be messy and unrewarding. Yes, she had heard about how wonderful it was from others in the Guild and at Court, but that was not her experience. She hadn’t been interested in garnering more of that experience.