"No, you do not —”
His leg blocked her and then they were wrestling, spinning so near to the rim of the sleeping platform they were in danger of tumbling off. She snatched at a beam with one hand and dragged at his shirt with the other: there was a tearing of cloth but she had checked his momentum, stopped him falling head-first into the stable.
For thanks he launched himself toward her feet, breaking her hold on him and seizing her ankles, straddling her so that his legs pinned her shoulders. She thrashed violently amidst the straw but could not fling him off.
"Let go!" She was shouting, loudly enough to bring the priest running.
"Hush!" He began to suck her toes and stroke a hand along her thighs and calves.
Instantly her breath stopped and then her struggles. They lay a moment in quiet, he licking the delicate arch of her foot, allowing her to enjoy this new sensation.
"I have you now," he murmured, nuzzling his head in the pillow of her thighs, inhaling her sweet, intimate perfume.
"You have a longer reach, 'tis all," she complained, a drowsy-sounding mumble by his knees.
He turned so that they were facing each other.
Her small smile almost undid him but as he looked at her flawless face and felt her, lain against him in the warm straw, he knew he had to do something.
"Will you promise to stay with me, at least until we reach your home?" he asked, reaching down and rubbing her feet. Her toes were pink and he wanted to suck them again. He wanted to kiss all of her, all over.
He could see the agreement in her eyes, read the relaxation in her face, but her mouth said, "I cannot."
He raised himself on his elbow. "Why not?"
She shook her head. "My people.... You are not English."
"So?" The excuse infuriated him. She would be saying he was a murderer next, and since he did not want to hear that from her lips he tried to kiss her.
She jerked her head away. "I am sorry," she said again, when he drew back.
"But we love each other!" he cried. When she remained silent, he tried another way: anything to breach this wall that he could sense was rising between them. "You want me," he said. "I know you do."
"Yes," she answered steadily, "I do. Now more than ever. But this is the last time I should admit it."
"Why, in the name of God?"
"You have your youngsters. I have my people. They will not accept you."
She was crying again, impaling herself — impaling them — on the dagger of duty.
"They may have to," he replied. He took her by the shoulders. "Think of it, Sunniva! There have been two great battles in this land. How many good men will have perished?"
"Too many, I am sure." She scrubbed at her eyes as if that would stop them weeping. "The priest knew nothing of any battle." Now she was being stubborn, he thought. More honour to her, but he continued his argument.
"What will be left will be the brutal, the ruthless, the slinking and the sly. And they will be out there now, fleeing on the tracks and paths of your English soil. You know this!"
As he spoke he wanted to shake her in his desperate frustration, make her realize somehow that everything was changed; more importantly, make her recognize that they belonged together.
"Allow me to escort you home."
She sighed, as if even agreeing to that was too much for her.
"Please." He put all his love into that one word.
Still she was silent, and as he thought of that, and thought of the creatures she could have encountered on her dangerous journey home, he began to be angry again.
"Do you want to be raped?" he demanded. "Have your own knives used against you by twenty, thirty louts?"
She shuddered. "Do not say such things," she whispered. "It is so difficult now. It would be so wonderful for us to be united, but can you not understand? I have responsibilities. I have no choice."
"No, you have not," he answered bitterly, determined at that moment to teach her a lesson in man-woman relations that she could not ignore. He would not lose her. He could not bear to lose her.
"You have not," he said again, and now, taking her head gently but firmly between his hands he began to kiss her, wildly and passionately.
Chapter 24
His lips captured hers, fully and completely, and from that moment she was lost. Torn as she was, between her own tormented feelings and her perception of her duty, for tonight at least, differences of race and loyalty were suddenly not important. Something more fundamental than country or kindred was stirring within her. This mortal man had kidnapped her, like the elf princess in the stories that her mother used to tell, and now she was his.
He was hers, also, Sunniva thought, closing her eyes and ravishing his mouth in turn, teasing her tongue against his teeth and tongue. She exulted when he growled, almost like a bear or wolf might sound, and threaded one leg between hers, hugging her tightly.
"I have you again," he breathed against her neck, so closely that she could feel the vibration of his speech. "This is my time, a magic time, and here —” He dug a hand into the straw and raised his arm, allowing their "bedding" to slip through his fingers in a shower of gold — "A magic place."
She smiled, delighted that he felt the same as she did, pleased that he understood.
"You shall see," he said, kissing the pulse point in her throat. "Yes."
He had bundled away his tunic and unlaced her gown — when had he done those things? Her question was obliterated in a piercing gush of pleasure as he fondled her breasts, easing her from her clothes in a series of swift, sure strokes.
Then his hand was between her thighs. "Should you not be fighting me, little English?" he asked, as she tried to kiss the whorl of hairs across his belly. "Am I to be an unchallenged Norman conqueror?"
In answer, knowing this would stop him dead, she threw off her head square and unpinned her hair. She heard his breath cut, felt his kneading, slippery fingers pause and, in a dizzying impulse of greater daring, kissed him, in his most intimate place, through his leggings.
He said something garbled in Breton and thrust his hips forward but she was out from beneath him.
The straw pricked at her flanks and stomach as she crawled in the semi-darkness — when had the twilight outside changed to night? She did not know, any more than she knew what to do next. Her English blood demanded that she flee, her heart and even her sense told her quite another.
In the end it did not matter. A lean, wiry arm hooked around her middle. She tussled with the straw, seeking a purchase, but was bumped back across the platform.
"And if I were as evil as you seem to think me, you would be chastised for that." Marc tongued her ear and patted her rump, settling her back against himself. He was naked now — when had he stripped?
"It would be easy for me to have you now, would it not?" He moved against her, so she could feel his arousal. "You are snagged in my arms and bared for my pleasure." He tickled her breasts and stomach. "If I were a Norman knight or an English thegn and had found you on the road, what do you think I would do next?"
"Let me go?" Her voice was scarcely a squeak.
He laughed and stretched out his foot, seeking to drag something back that she could not see in the warm cave of his embrace. He turned her to face him and kissed her and when he raised his head, clearly seeking something else, Sunniva realized that her hands were tied again.
"Oh!" She tugged at the head square bound about her wrists, but the knots merely tightened. "That is unfair!"
"If you were my captive, it would be kind."
She stared at him, mouthing "kind?"
"Kinder to tie a new slave-girl than to have her trying to escape and being spanked for her pains." He ran his hands slowly over her bottom, reminding her of her vulnerability. "A spanking could still be an option."
Sunniva closed her eyes a moment, appalled at her own swirl of thoughts. Part of her wanted this, she realized. It was as if Marc had unlocked a secret within her: this de
sire to be mastered and to submit.
But I must not! She struggled, pulling and writhing her arms. When she raised her wrists and tried to use her teeth on the stubborn cloth, he took her chin in his hand and raised her head.
"I can always tie your wrists behind you." His face glowed with victory. "But then you might bruise yourself with these futile squirmings. Since I will keep you, that would be a pity."
For an instant, Sunniva actually felt grateful that he wanted to "keep" her, before a rush of shame overwhelmed her. Truly, I am my mother's daughter, she thought. It was on the edge of her tongue to admit the same, but then she remembered, with dismal clarity, that Marc already knew.
"Marc." She was too proud to extend her wrists to him a second time to beg for her release and too nervous of his possible reaction to struggle further. "Please."
"Are you hungry? I am." He smiled and playfully licked the tip of her nose. "And I am also hungry for food. We shall eat."
He cradled her in the crook of an arm while he drank from a flask. "Here." He proffered her the flask. "Careful. It is tasty, but hot."
She sipped. The blackberry tisane was indeed warming and pleasantly flavoured, but she took no more than a mouthful. "Can I not feed myself?"
"No," he said simply. Tearing off a small piece of warm raisin bread he dangled it in front of her. She glared at him, clamping her teeth together.
"Not hungry?" He snaffled the piece himself. "Your rumbling stomach tells a different tale."
Now he relented and placed another piece in her bound hands, watching her chew with indulgent amusement. "More tisane?"
She almost knocked the flask away with her head but she really was thirsty. He held it carefully as she drank.
Soon — too soon for Sunniva — the bread was consumed between them.
"Now we should sleep," she announced, leaning back against him.
"You think I am tired because I caught you?" Marc drawled, flicking the knots on her bound wrists. "If I were another man — or a band of men — who had seized you, what do you think would happen next?"
She was glad of the dark that hid her blush and hid her face from the gleam of his eyes. "I would —” She would what?
"Seduce me?" He trailed a line of kisses down her stomach. "Or should I ravish you?"
Without waiting for an answer his lips pressed lower. With her hands tied she could not even attempt to stop him and a moment later, as his tongue encountered her soft golden curls, she was helpless to do so.
"Sweeting," he murmured. "I knew you would be sweet."
Feeling as if she were melting from the inside out and soaring with bliss, Sunniva found herself unable to speak.
She moaned so loudly in her pleasure that Marc was both surprised and pleased. Unable to hold back he entered her immediately after, coming after only a few thrusts. They lay a moment in quiet, Marc aware for the first time, in what seemed like hours, of the horses shifting below them.
Who in the end had ravished whom? he wondered, running his fingers through her spectacular hair. He lifted her hands and placed them on his chest, enjoying the contact. Her wrists were still bound. Idly, he considered untying her. When she next protested, he would do so, he told himself.
Maybe I am no better than a Norman, he thought. He was at least no hypocrite. Seeing her tied thus was arousing: he freely admitted it. He caressed her, relishing her responsiveness, wanting this night to go on and on.
He made love to her again, taking his weight on his arms and plunging deep within her, moving and loving it as she loved with him, faster and faster, harder and harder....
They fused in a blistering climax and fell asleep joined as one. In his final somnolent moment, Marc loosened her bonds, feeling her freed hands fall like a blessing across his body.
They slept well, at peace.
Sunniva stirred, scratching her nose and then her thigh and realizing as she did so that her cloth shackles were gone. For an instant she felt almost alarmed, as if she were bereft, before reason and its attendant shame stampeded into her mind.
How wanton she had been yesterday night! Even if Marc had not bound her she would not have resisted him. The memory of his lingering caresses and her own unabashed response burned in her. How could she have behaved as she did? The drink had not even been ale and yet she had behaved as if she was intoxicated.
Worse, she was greedy for more. Her body ached for his touch.
"Saint Freya, how can I resist my own longings?" she whispered, horrified at what she had done.
She was still in his arms, and comfortable to be there. I should move, she thought, but then, almost as if he had sensed her intent, Marc opened his eyes.
He smiled and she was captured afresh, beguiled by the crease-lines by his mouth and eyes. He kissed her, saying, "I have not seen you since yesterday night. Good morrow."
"Good morrow." It was so easy to be at peace with him, in harmony. We belong together like needle and thread, Sunniva found herself thinking, and then she could not help blushing. Needles pierced and pricked and penetrated.
Quickly, she changed the subject. "I can repair your torn shirt, if you wish."
He shook his head. "That will delay us now. Perhaps later." He rolled onto his back, putting a small space between them, blocking her way to the ladder. "There has been a change of plan," he announced.
She waited, her breath shallow. Her instinct warned that she would not like this: Marc looked determined and at the same time apologetic; his jaw clenched, his eyes wide.
He rubbed at his stomach, frowning, as if his next words had gone sour in his chest.
"We shall go to meet the King," he said. "And swear fealty to him."
Chapter 25
Nine weeks and countless miles later, after he, Sunniva and his nieces had already stayed in London for a month, Marc finally caught up with the new king. Tomorrow, he and Sunniva would travel from London to Westminster Abbey, where William was due to be crowned.
For now they remained in London, within its crumbling walls. It had been a strange period of weeks, Marc admitted to himself. London had, until recently, supported Edgar Atheling, the great-nephew of the old king Edward, and the last male heir of the West Saxon royal house of Cerdic. Such partisan support had meant that Marc needed to be very careful as a foreigner in the city. And he and Sunniva were not always easy together, except for times like this, just before dawn, when the girls were sleeping and Sunniva lay in his arms, the strains and tensions of the day eased out of her through love-making. He knew she was torn between love and what she considered to be her duty. If he were a better man he would lie with her in chastity, but so long as she took pleasure and comfort from him, he would give her both.
I will marry her, he thought. We are betrothed in our hearts. It is no sin. He thought of the children they would have, the life waiting for them, and smiled. He would speak to the king, secure Sunniva's scrap of land for her and swear his allegiance to William. Leaving London, they would go to her homeland as man and wife. In the spring, if she could travel, they would go to his homeland. My mother will love her. And Sunniva will have another woman to turn to.
The thought pleased him, and he slept again.
Sunniva woke from a dream of Cena and Edgar, who were beating her. She stirred with a start, trembling, her limbs stiff, her head aching with tension. Marc grunted in his sleep and cuddled her, his leg heavy over hers.
As ever, his touch soothed her. She lay still while her heart steadied, inhaling Marc's musky scent, running her fingers across his shoulders and chest as if he were a talisman. Again she was glad that he had understood why she had made up Caedmon of Whitby as her betrothed: he had accepted her faltering explanation with a speed and generosity that made her truly relieved. Now, she tried to pray to Saint Cuthbert and Saint Freya, but her mind was languid, her thoughts shot through with memories of these past few weeks.
Marc was good. She was not. Truly I am a daughter of Eve, wicked and teasing, she decided, rol
ling onto her stomach the better to admire Marc's torso. She loved watching him when he was asleep. There were tiny curls all over his forehead. His face was youthful in slumber. She could see the fisher-boy he had described to her on their travels, telling of his boyhood antics, and of course, he still had a way of tickling trout....
Not only trout, her body reminded her, as she yawned and stretched. Remembered joy blotted out her headache and she licked her lips, wondering if she could wake him, and they join together, before the girls jumped off their pallets.
He had not bound her again. By day, he had kept her close with humiliating ease, merely by having one of his nieces ride with her. By night he had told her stories and shown her how to "read" the expressions and movements of their horses, and listened with Alde, Judy and Isabella as she explained how to patch clothing.
Skirting the edges of woodland and avoiding the cobbled roads Marc said were old Roman roads, they took care not to be spotted. Such men and women as they saw in the distance, working in fields, pasturing sheep, driving pigs, paid them little heed. No one, it seemed, was keen to challenge them. Armed men they hid from, melting into the tall grasses or wheat that in some areas remained uncut — it was hard to make hay or gather wheat in this land of war. Marc would have the horses lie down and he, Sunniva and Alde would settle by their mounts' heads to keep them down until the warriors had passed them by. Once a hunting dog came and sniffed at Marc, but he fed it some cooked trout he had been saving for their supper and the beast went away again. That night they went hungry, but they were alive.
The worse was when they saw distant fires burning: towns and hamlets being laid waste by William's forces. Then the smoke seemed to catch in the back of Sunniva's throat and her eyes pooled with tears. That devastation, looting and murder could be happening to her people: she had no way of knowing. Helpless, she would watch and in the night, when Marc took her in his arms, she would feel a double traitor. Each time she and Marc made love, she betrayed her people. Each time she looked at Marc and thought: he is also an alien, a possible killer, she betrayed her heart.
Love and Chivalry: Four Medieval Historical Romances Page 45