The Barbarian's Bride

by Loki Renard

  Chapter Two

  From mountain ranges and alpine streams, Aisling was glad to eventually see some terrain that was a little more domestic looking. The lands in which she found herself were not flat, but they had been cleared in many places to allow for fields in which sheep grazed. She wondered how long they were going to travel as she was becoming quite exhausted with the constant motion and the strangeness of being outside the tower.

  “There,” Berner pointed while Aisling stared at a sheep. She’d had no idea they were so funny-looking up close—and all the wool they had! How did they even walk?

  Following Berner’s finger with her eyes, Aisling saw a large village was nestled in the cleft between two great hills that were almost mountains, but did not rise to the jagged heights of those they had traversed. There were many dozens of houses made of wood and stone. As they drew closer she could see less, for three spiked walls of stone topped by tall sharpened posts bounded the village, creating a maze through which the contingent traveled.

  Aisling thought the defense quite clever. Any who might think to attack would be at a severe disadvantage, having the low ground and little visibility, not to mention the narrow channel through which they would have to pass. Bushes were growing at the feet of the outer perimeter, a testament to how long it had stood.

  “This is Ravenblack,” Berner told her. “Your new home.”

  Home. It didn’t feel like home. It felt like a whole other world.

  The party soon passed the final gate and found themselves in the village proper. Aside from the main path the streets were mostly dirt and the houses and stalls were simple, but there was a pleasing neatness to everything. The pathways were well swept and stone foundations meant that each of the little buildings stood strong though their construction was simple.

  People pointed as they went past slowly, pulled by now tiring horses. She heard only a little of what they were saying, but one phrase was repeated over and over again.

  “Rikiar’s bride.”

  It seemed that her arrival had been anticipated. It seemed that these people knew who she was. That put her at rather a disadvantage, for she did not know who any of them were. She waved a little, because that seemed like the polite thing to do. A few people laughed and waved back, others just looked at her as though she had lost her mind.

  “They were expecting a sobbing maiden in chains,” Berner explained.

  “You had chains?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t put them on me,” Aisling said. “Thank you.”

  Berner snorted and laughed. “Rikiar is not going to know what to make of you, maiden.”

  Aisling did not make a reply, for her attention had been captured. A tall man clad in a great sable coat was standing before the largest house in the village. It was at least three stories tall and made with a craftsmanship that exceeded all others. So was he. His limbs were long and strong, thick with muscularity. His stance was masterful. Not a person in the place made a move without reference and deference to him. Aisling shrank down in her blanket as they drew closer. Surely this must be Rikiar. He had a handsome face, though it bore some scars and his nose was not as straight as it would have been before becoming battle broke. Thick brows sat atop light brown eyes. It was those eyes that locked upon Aisling, refusing her a place to hide.

  She stared at him, though it was certainly not proper. A lady averted her gaze when confronted by a broad-chested barbarian. Rikiar wore a fur vest that left very little to the imagination. His arms were bare from the shoulders down and his biceps bulged mercilessly, tight muscle rippling with every movement he made. His dress was that of an uncivilized barbarian, but it suited every lawless inch of him.

  “Your bride, Rikiar,” Berner said as the cart drew to a halt.

  “Indeed,” Rikiar drawled in a gravelly voice that seemed to come from deep within the earth. His eyes never moved from Aisling, not for a single second. She was pinned there in the floor of the cart, entirely at his mercy. “Have her washed and bought to me.”

  Aisling stared at him, wondering if she should say she had already washed in the stream. Before she had a chance to speak, Berner was ushering her off the cart and into a side entrance to the grand house. It was not as large as the castle, of course, but the wood-paneled walls made it feel homey. And it was warm, much warmer than the castle had been most of the time.

  Berner pushed the door open to a room with a stone floor and a copper pot boiling in the center. It was warm and steam floated in the air, providing a cheerful mist through which Aisling could make out a few occupants, all female.

  “Good luck,” he said before departing. Aisling wasn’t sure if he was being nice, or if she was truly going to need luck to survive Rikiar.

  Three older women met her with kind smiles and gentle hands and led her to sit on a stool. Not a word passed between them. What was there to say? She could have asked for help, but she knew the women could be of no help. They would do as they had been told.

  The remnants of her nightgown were removed from her body. They began to sponge warm water down her shoulders and back. The traces of heat felt heavenly and a pleasant tremble coursed through her body as their gentle hands moved over her bare, tender skin.

  “Stand up, dear.”

  The order was given and obeyed. Aisling stood up and allowed the women to turn her with soft hands. There was pressure on the back of her neck, pushing her forward so her hands were on the stool. Aisling let out a delicate squeak as two washcloths were applied, one to her womanhood and the other to her bottom hole. The women washed her with fairly gentle touches, but they were nonetheless very thorough. By the time they were done, Aisling was sure she had never been quite so clean.

  Pleased with her acquiescence, the women smiled as they dried her off, making soft cooing sounds to settle her as if she were a frightened animal. They dried her hair off most thoroughly, then dressed it with scented water and combed it out straight. It was not how her maidservants in the palace had done it; they usually twisted her hair all around into fancy styles that looked pretty but pulled at her scalp. Aisling rather liked having her hair loose; it flowed in dark tresses almost to her nipples, which were erect and hard in spite of the warmth in the room. Her ripped gown was not returned, but a new blue silk cloak was provided to cover her body. Then she was led out of the room, up the stairs, and down a hall to a great door. The women helped her into the room beyond, then withdrew.

  It was a bedchamber. She knew that, for it contained a bed larger than any she had seen before. Her own bed had been just large enough for her to sleep on, but this one was large enough for half a dozen women. Though strange, the bed did not hold her attention long for she was not alone in that great bedchamber. Rikiar was standing by the fire. She could see his outline as a well-shaped silhouette against the flames, tall and strong and so dark she whispered a little prayer of preservation.

  Once the door closed behind her, the tall man moved toward her with a predatory gait. He was like a wolf, pale brown eyes so light they gleamed amber with the candle glow. His hair was long about his shoulders, straight and dark like hers. Up close she saw that he truly was very handsome, black stubble covering the hard planes of his cheeks and chin. There was a scar under his right eye, and his nose was slightly crooked, but still well shaped. His chest was broad and bare, marked with a few small scars that paled insignificantly in comparison to the rippling definition of his musculature. This was a warrior, she was sure of it. The way he carried himself, the look in his eye, this was a man born with a blade in his hand. Afraid of what he might do, she shied away as he moved to within a few inches of her and lifted his hand.

  “Shh,” he soothed in a low baritone. “I’m not going to beat you. Berner tells me you’ve been a model prisoner.”

  Aisling looked up under her lashes, saw that he was telling the truth, then lowered her eyes again.

  “I am Chief Rikiar,” he said. “Do you know of me?”


  She shook her head. “I am sorry, m’lord, I do not.” She cringed after the confession, fearing his ire. “I knew very little outside the castle walls.”

  “I’m aware the king liked to keep you locked away. The bards sing of you, you know.”

  Aisling did not know. She was never permitted to listen to the bards, for the bards were coarse and she was not. When the bards would begin their songs, she would be sent up to the tower to practice her needlework, or say her prayers.

  “They did not exaggerate your beauty,” he said, moving his hand back toward her. This time she did not flinch. He ran the back of his fingers across her cheek gently, curled them round under her chin and drew them away. His touch took her breath away for a moment. She lifted her eyes to him and saw that he was looking at her with surprising tenderness.

  “I am sorry for what I will have to do to you.”

  “What… what do you have to do?”

  He cupped her cheek and chin and lowered his head as she stared at him with wide eyes. His lips closed on hers in what was her first kiss. She did not know what to do with her mouth or with her mind for that matter, but Rikiar made it easy, sliding his hand behind her head and holding her in place as his warm lips pressed against hers, slowly massaging her mouth with an insistent motion that soon saw her lips parting. Rikiar’s tongue teased hers as his hands wound about her waist and stroked her back, pulling her close against the hard line of his body. She sighed against his mouth, little noises drawn from her by his expert touch.

  “So soft,” he said. “So innocent.” He looked into her eyes and for a moment, seemed sad. “You have no idea the trouble you’re in, do you?”

  Aisling shook her head slowly. “No, m’lord.”

  “You should hate me,” he said. “You should be screaming and cursing and fighting me for all you’re worth.”

  “Why?”

  “Because men stormed your home and carried you off to be sold. Then you were purchased and taken halfway across the country.” He raised a brow. “You’re not simple, are you, Aisling?”

  “It is the lot of a princess to be carried off by rough men,” Aisling said. “Either I would have been married to a man of my father’s choosing, or I would have been chosen. It seems the latter has happened.”

  Rikiar frowned slightly. “So you have resigned yourself to your fate before so much as knowing what it is?”

  “Would it make a difference if I did not? If I screamed and pleaded to be let go, would you let me go?”

  “Well,” Rikiar said. “No.”

  “Precisely. Whatever you mean to do is whatever will happen.”

  He frowned. “It is difficult to conquer someone who does not care if she is conquered.”

  Aisling smiled slightly. He was not wrong. For many years she had been confined to her tower. Her life had never been her own. At an early age she had learned it was best to accept that her life would always be at the mercy of another. Her mind was all she had control of, and at that moment her mind was quite pleased to be seeing something and someone outside the closely guarded confines of Claddaugh Keep.

  Rikiar gave her a keen, piercing look. “You have surprised me, Aisling. Perhaps even shamed me.”

  “Shamed you?”

  “I was once captured myself,” he said. “I wish I had possessed even a little of your composure.”

  “It is easier to be captured when you are a woman,” Aisling said. “Women are used to being controlled.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. He gave her a look of vague amusement. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose they are.”

  Already it was one of the longest conversations Aisling had been permitted to have with a man. She was quite surprised to discover that she enjoyed it almost as much as she had enjoyed Rikiar’s kiss.

  “Would you like some wine?” He took her by the hand and led her across the room to a small table containing a vessel of wine and two goblets. He poured her some wine and gave it to her, but she did not drink it at first. She sat, nursing the goblet in her lap while Rikiar looked at her with a half-curious, half-concerned demeanor. “You do not miss your family?”

  “Family? I had a nurse,” Aisling said. “I never knew my mother and my father was busy being the king. We were not so much family as casual acquaintances.” She looked about herself. “This is the most interesting thing that has happened in a very long time.”

  Rikiar snorted into his wine. “Are you enjoying being kidnapped, princess?”

  Aisling supposed she was. She had not enjoyed it at first, not at all, but now she was warm, well clothed and being entertained by a handsome man who was taking an interest in her. This was preferable to being bolted away in the tower for yet another tedious evening alone.

  She sipped her wine and nodded slightly, earning one of those deep chuckles. “This is certainly not going as I had planned,” Rikiar admitted.

  “What had you planned?”

  His brows lifted slightly, his eyes gleaming. “To ravish and impregnate you.”

  “Oh.” She blushed and cast her gaze down demurely. She knew what men did with women, of course. Her servants had seemed to speak of little else.

  “I would have been rough with you,” he said, the gravel of his voice sending little thrills racing down her spine. “I would have plundered your body and left your belly full of my seed.”

  “But…”

  “But you kissed me back. You kissed me as though I were your long-lost lover. And you looked at me as the lamb looks at the lion and I knew I could not tear that sweet veil of innocence from you.”

  “Ah,” Aisling said, taking in the information as best she could. “Why did you plan to be so cruel?”

  “I said before that I had once been captured. The man who captured me was your father.” Rikiar took a long swig of his wine. “It was not a pleasant experience,” he said in the silence following the swallow.

  “Oh!” Aisling exclaimed, putting her hands to her mouth. “I am so sorry.”

  “I intended to make you sorry,” he confessed. “I intended to wreak my vengeance upon the one thing I knew for sure he held dear. I was ready to throw the lives of dozens of men away for the chance to get to you. Now I have you and my plans are ruined. You are too tender for this world, Aisling.”

  Aisling sipped her wine nervously. “Maybe you are too good a man for the revenge you seek?”

  “I am many things, Aisling, but I am not a good man.” Rikiar’s smirk was dangerous.

  Aisling believed him. There was nothing about Rikiar that spoke to him being good. Except for his kiss. The kiss that had changed the course of both their fates.

  He finished his drink and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “What to do with you now,” he drawled, half to himself.

  His golden eyes swept toward the bed, then back toward Aisling. She clamped her legs together beneath the blue silk and bit her lower lip. Maybe he was thinking about ravaging her again.

  “Nothing, when you look so much like a startled fawn,” he sighed. “You take the fun out of it.”

  “I’m sorry, m’lord.”

  “Your apologies are sincere, that’s the strangest thing,” Rikiar snorted, toying with the ring on his right middle finger, a great thick band of gold and garnet. “You are sorry your sweetness has deprived me of my revenge. Even as your lids droop with exhaustion, you are willing to sacrifice yourself on the altar of duty.” He stood up and extended his hand to her. “Come. Let me taste you again.”

  Aisling rose and took his hand. He drew her close and pressed another kiss to her lips, another kiss that soon deepened, taking her heart with her lips. His hands on her body were firm, pulling her close with a masterful strength that she would not have been able to resist even if she’d wanted to. Again, the little pleasure sounds rose in Aisling. Her lips began moving against his in little needful motions.

  A deep growl rose against her mouth. “I cannot do this,” Rikiar said, frustration plain on his face as she looked up
at him. “By the gods, I cannot.”

  “Have I displeased you?”

  “No, Aisling. You have not.”

  He drew her toward the bed, pulled back the coverlet and bade her get in.

  Aisling obeyed. She found the mattress soft and the sheets cool.

  “The day will soon be dawning, but you must sleep,” Rikiar said. He leaned over and placed a chaste kiss upon her forehead, then drew the covers up to her chin.

  “You will not sleep with me?”

  “Not this day, Aisling. This day, you will rest.”

  Aisling did as she was told.

  * * *

  As Rikair left his chambers, still very much enchanted by the princess who had claimed his heart with little more than the sweetness of her aspect and a trusting nature which he could not bring himself to tear asunder, he spied a mop of gold, hiding not very surreptitiously behind a statue. Now there was a wench who knew neither sweetness nor trust, who apparently thought nothing of violating the privacy of her chief either.

  “Mara!” He barked the young woman’s name. “Come here!”

  There was no response. Perhaps she thought she was hidden. Or perhaps she was simply being difficult. Mara very rarely acted in a sensible manner when she found herself in trouble.

  “I can see you, little witch,” he growled. “Front and center. Now!”

  A slim, comely woman came out from her hiding place and wandered toward him without the slightest sense of urgency. Her demeanor seemed to say ‘yes, and what of it.’ No question had yet been asked of her, but defiance was in every line of her attractive frame.

  “What were you doing?” Rikiar asked the question, then held his hand up to stay the inevitable response. “Spying, I’ll warrant.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Mara confessed without any guilt. “I wanted to see you take her.”