Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (23 page)

Wulfson stiffened beside her. She looked up into his stony face, and her heart stopped beating for one long moment. “I—I was not sure, but Edie seems to think—” She did not complete her sentence. The storm that mounted on his face was too much for her to stomach. Guilt assailed her, and she felt foolish, and ashamed.

He made a short bow. “I suppose congratulations are in order.” He bowed again and strode past her calling for food.

The thought of any food in her belly made it swell and ebb. “I wish to soak in a hot bath, Edie.”

And so she returned to her room and stripped naked, and waited until the tub was filled, and there she sat until her skin was cold and pruned. Emotions swirled in her heart with the force of a maelstrom. She longed for the knight down the hall; she longed to be lady here; to finally have a place she could call home, a place where she belonged, where no one could question her right to exist; she longed for her babe. And she did not know how to manage it so that she might have it all.

She looked to Edie and said quietly, “My path was so clear a month ago. Now I feel like a ship with no sail in a turbulent sea. I know not what to do.”

Edie rinsed her and patted her dry with a warm linen. “It will all shake out, child. Have trust in yourself and in yonder knight.”

As Tarian curled up in the big bed, her only thought was of Wulfson’s strong arms around her. She wanted his warmth to lull her to sleep and she wanted to awake in his arms as he kissed her and stroked her body to those hot thrilling heights again. As she closed her eyes, her last thought was of his scent, as his lips suckled her tender breasts and his hands boldly stroked her.

Wulfson lay staring at the ceiling, rage, frustration, and longing driving him mad. He longed for Tarian, but the thought of her carrying another man’s child tore him up inside. How could he touch her? How had he? He rolled over and pummeled his pillow. Did it matter?

Since he’d first laid eyes on her that had been a possibility. Why now did it disturb him so greatly? He rolled from the bed, and, as he had done two nights before, he paced the small confines. His gaze fell upon the tapestry each time he passed it, and each step brought him closer to it, and to her.

Why had she not told him? Did she think to spare him? Did she not know how his body ached for her?
That he defied his king for her!

“God’s blood!” he swore. “I cannot bear this agony!” He grabbed up a candle from the table, strode to the tapestry, and pulled it from the wall. There would be no more barriers. He wanted Tarian Godwinson, and he would have her for as long as he could.

He found the latch and sprang the door. He took a deep breath and strode through. He would have his way! He stepped halfway to her chamber. But was she of like mind? He moved on to find out.

When Wulfson pushed the tapestry aside, he heard a fe
male cry. He looked up to see Edith sit up on her pallet. He put his fingers to his lips, and she quieted. “I am not here to hurt her,” he said gruffly. But he would take her from the bed where she slumbered. For he would not lie with her in the same bed where she had once lain with Malcor. The maid did not question him, but sat silent.

For a long moment Wulfson did not approach the bed. When he did, he pushed aside the drapery and stood and stared at the slumbering beauty. Her long black hair lay in a thick mass around her, her pink lips were parted in sleep, and long black lashes swept the creamy smoothness of her face. Her full breasts rose and fell beneath the smooth linen chemise. His eyes traveled lower to her belly. ’Twas flat, and he knew it would be months before she began to show her pregnancy. The thought of Malcor’s child growing inside her displeased him greatly. But, he had to concede, it might be the one trump she had.

He could not, in his wildest dreams, think William would murder a noblewoman with child. In fact, Wulfson knew he would not. Once the hue and cry went out across the land there would be a high price to pay. ’Twould mark William as an evil warlord, and that was the last thing his king wished. Wulfson knelt beside her on the bed and pressed his big hand to her belly, his fingers splayed across it, covering her. When her hands pressed against his and her hips moved, he looked down into soft blue eyes.

She smiled, and he could not help himself. “You have bewitched me,” he said softly, as he slid against her and took her into his arms and kissed her as if he had never kissed her before. She melted into him and he lifted her up into his arms. He moved to the door he had just come through and
down the dark passageway where the light from his chamber guided him.

Brief moments later they lay naked upon his bed, skin to skin, heart to heart, and he could not get enough of her. Like a starved man he ravished her. Her breasts were full, and when he pressed his lips to them she hissed in a breath. He withdrew, thinking he had hurt her, but she pressed her hands to his head and moved her hips beneath him. “Nay,” she whispered. “Take all of me, Wulfson, all of me now.”

“If I take you tonight, Tarian, I take you for as long as we have together.”

“’Twill have to be enough.”

His lips descended to hers and hungrily she accepted him. Her body swelled beneath his. His entire being heated to rival a smith’s forge. His fingers sank deep into her hair and her young body arched beneath his and he could not consume her fast enough. His kiss deepened, her thighs parted. Her hands traveled down his back, pressing him harder against her body. When her fingers dug into his backside, he nearly spilled his seed on her. He groaned, catching his breath when her hand stroked the length of him.

“I cannot wait,
chérie
, I want you now,” he said huskily against her lips.

“Then do not wait,” she breathed.

He swept his hand down the length of her to her thigh, and when he pressed his palm to her mound ’twas her turn to moan in pleasure. She was hot and moist. He slid a finger across the hard nub there and she cried out. He slid his finger back and forth against the silken spot. Her body tensed in passion, her chest filled. “More,” she pleaded.

And more he gave her. He slid a finger into her silky wetness. “Wulfson,” she moaned, his name floating from
her lips in a slow sensual cadence. He touched his lips to a turgid nipple and as his finger moved slowly in and out of her, he suckled her in the same slow tortuous rhythm. He felt her skin warm, followed by a sultry flush. Her hand wrapped tightly around him, and in the same slow sensual glide she pumped him.

It was too much for him. He released her only to grab her hands by the wrists and push her arms over her head where he held them in his, and then he slowly filled her. It was pure unadulterated Paradise. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, savoring the hot, tight moistness of her. Her honey and violet scent swirled around him and was more intoxicating than five skins of wine. He lost a piece of himself to her at that moment, and knew so long as he lived he would never find another woman who moved him as she did.

He sank deeper into her, and she met him, thrust for thrust, stroke for stroke; and, as in the monastery, he felt the same storm build inside her, that hard rush of pleasure he knew would consume her.

“Wulfson,” she cried, her body twisting and undulating wildly beneath his. He still held her hands, but when she sank her teeth into his shoulder he released inside her in a hard, violent burst, and she followed, crying out his name again and again. Each time she cried it, she took another piece of his heart.

Hot, sweaty, and panting, they lay entwined as one, the waves of passion going from crashing to a slow ebb-and-flow tide. Thus they fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

When the lark began his morning serenade, Tarian woke, knowing they would have to face the world. And she desperately did not want to.

She pressed a kiss to her knight’s lips, and he stirred against her. “Wulfson, let us ride north, far from England.”

His strong arms wrapped around her and his hands pressed into her bottom. She reveled in the warmth of his skin against hers. His scars did not bother her; indeed, they made him the manliest of men in her eyes. She’d traced each one of them with her fingertips. Her cheeks flushed when she thought of the carnal knowledge they had had of one another.

Long, thick fingers smoothed a tendril of hair from her cheek, and she felt the heavy surge of him against her. She looked up into two brilliant green eyes. They creased at the edges with his smile. Her heart thumped wildly against her chest and her belly did a slow roll. His smile changed everything about him. Whereas normally he had the look
of a dark, petulant angel, a smile transformed him into the most handsome of men.

“We cannot flee our duty,
chérie
. We will meet it and triumph over it. I give you my oath.”

She rose up on her elbows and kissed him, then looked deeply into his eyes. “You know your king will not change his mind.”

Wulfson rolled over onto her. His eyes searched her face, and he said slowly, “What if you are right? What if, knowing this, we fled to Scotland? What do we do then? I cannot marry you. I have nothing to offer.”

“I do not want a husband. I want to live.”

“And what happens when I fill your belly with brats, and my Blood Swords, the men I have sworn an oath to, come looking now for me as well as you?” He shook his head. “Nay, Tarian, I will not live that life. Nor will you. I give you my promise: we will see this through to our advantage.”

“Promise?”

His arms tightened around her and he bent to kiss her. “My promise is my oath.”

And she knew he believed in his heart that he spoke the truth. And for that, for the first time other than to Gareth and Edith, she gave her trust to another.

She hurried from his bed before Rolf made noises to come in. While she was not ashamed of her union with Wulfson, she did not want there to be any more gossip amongst the servants and villagers than there already was. She had learned from her escapade in Dunloc that she must show a certain propriety to gain the trust of her people, and nightly trysts with the resident Norman lord would not endear her to any of them. So, carefully, she slid from the
bed amidst his calls for her return, and made her way down the dark passageway to her chamber, where Edie anxiously waited.

When she finally descended, Tarian was surprised to see Wulfson and his men lingering in the hall. He hurried to assist her and set her at the table. She noted his men watched them with blank expressions. “We awaited you to break the fast, Tarian.”

She smiled up at him and thought how considerate he was, but when the aromas of the platters wafted her way she was suddenly no longer hungry. And though she had not eaten more than a few bites the previous day, Tarian could not stomach the pottage. Her belly made uncomfortable sounds, and she felt as if it rose up into her throat. She looked up to Wulfson, whose eyes widened. He hurried to assist her to a more private area in the hall. Pressing her hand to her throat, Tarian shook her head. “’Twill pass.”

He frowned and his gaze dropped to her belly, and she knew he was not pleased, thinking it was Malcor’s child. “I—Wulfson, if you would not mind, I would like for Edie to fix me an elixir to settle my stomach.”

He nodded and presented his arm, and escorted her to her chamber.

When he strode back to the hall he found every set of Norman eyes upon him. He scowled heavily and told them what they all suspected. “It appears the lady is with child.”

“Will you send word to William?” Thorin asked, handing Wulfson a flagon of mead.

Wulfson shook his head. “When Gareth returns, I go to William myself to plead the lady’s case.”

His men gathered close, shutting out any others, and,
as they always had when a situation arose, they put their heads together for the best solution. “I will take only Rolf and two of you with me to Normandy,” Wulfson explained. “I fear that leaving this place unguarded will bring out the vultures. Too much has been gained to lose it.” He looked to Thorin. “I leave the lady’s health and the welfare of this fortress in your hands, my brother.”

The Viking nodded. Wulfson looked to his men. “It will not seem right riding so light. I miss Warner’s jests and his able sword.”

Rhys looked to his friends. “Some mayhem must have befallen him.”

For long moments the knights sat silent, and each dealt with his sorrow over the loss of one of their own.

Rorick shook his head, and said, “There is hope yet that the rascal survives. He has a way with the ladies, and that smooth tongue of his has gotten us out of many an unsavory situation. Let us not give up on him yet!”

“And to be sure, his message was not what you would have liked to hear. But your second messenger has not returned, Wulf. Let us hope William sees the error of murdering a noblewoman with child,” Thorin mused aloud.

Rohan nodded and took a full draught of his mead. “I agree. Wulf, once you present all to William he will relent.”

Wulfson drained his flagon. “Aye, he will relent only on the condition she comes to Normandy as his hostage.”

They all looked at each other, knowing full well what that spelled.

“I would take my dagger to her myself before she rots in a Norman dungeon,” Wulfson softly said. And with his words a dark pall settled over the hall.

“Marry her off to a Norman count,” Ioan suggested.

Wulfson shook his head. “She does not want a Norman husband.”

Rohan slapped him on the back and said, “Not even you, Wulf?”

Wulfson’s head jerked back. “Indeed! I am a bachelor for life. I will never marry!”

Rorick tsk-tsked him. “Not even for love?”

“Love? What is the meaning of the word? I have no concept of it. Lust and passion, aye, a fine pair they are, and I can well relate to them, but is it enough to cement a union for life? Nay, I think not. And I do not want to be tied down to a wench I will grow tired of. The misery of the yoke of marriage would drive me mad.”

Rohan thumped him on the back. “You will know love when it hits you.”

“I respect Lady Tarian as a warrior and a survivor, nothing more.”

Rohan slapped him again. “If you say so.”

Wulfson scowled and turned from his men. “Aye, I do. No more talk of love and marriage; it makes my stomach churn.” He stood then and said, “Come, let us spread the word that there is gold for any man or woman who has word of our brother-in-arms!”

Some time later, Wulfson and his men set out to Dunloc. As when they entered the town previously, they were met with surly stares and taunts, but this time no attack. The churls were subdued but wary. Wulfson understood their resentment. But he did not coddle them. He believed with his heart and soul that William was the rightful king, and he would to his last breath defend the throne.

He stopped in the square, and from atop his horse he
called to the townsfolk, “I am Wulfson de Trevelyn, knight of William. I come in search of my knight Warner de Conde. I offer gold for information of his whereabouts.”

He stared down the group that had gathered. “I also offer death to anyone here who has done him wrong.”

The crowd mumbled and grumbled. They would not meet his stare, but stood quietly milling about, not sure how to respond. He continued, “Understand that any attack on any of my men is an attack on William. Neither he nor I will stand back. Come to Draceadon with your information and I guarantee your safety and the gold. I seek only my man.”

He spurred Turold, and his men followed. They spent the day alerting each hamlet to the offer for word on Warner and the reward of gold. Upon their return to Draceadon, Wulfson sent forth messengers to villages and hamlets along what would have been Warner’s return route from Alethorpe. He was confident that, if there was information to be had, gold would change more than a few loyalties.

Tired and disheartened, the men infused the great hall with a dark mood. The sun had long since sunk beyond the western horizon and few people were about. Despite his worry over Warner, Wulfson felt a different tension fill him. His loins were heavy, and the ride had done nothing to quell his hunger for the woman who had come to torment his every waking moment. He took a long draught of wine and demolished a platter of roasted venison, but his hunger was not sated. His gaze swept up toward the stairway and his blood quickened.

“She is like a fever you cannot shake,” Rohan said, coming to sit beside him.

Wulfson nodded, then shook his head. “She is in my blood, Rohan, I cannot shake her.”

Rohan nudged him with his elbow. “Go to her and savor the time you have. I will keep the men occupied and remind them that even our mighty king has his weakness in his Mathilda.”

Wulfson raised his gaze to Rohan’s. “Aye, Tarian is
my
weakness, and I fear she will be my demise.”

Rohan smiled, his lips twisting in sour humor. “Your duty is to your king first. I know you will make the right decision should the time come.”

Wulfson threw back another goblet of wine. “Aye, and it will kill me to do so.” With heavy heart and dragging feet, Wulfson left his men to their dark mood and strode up the stairway as if he were meeting the gallows. His heart and gut and mind twisted in a wild frantic battle over duty and propriety. He no more knew what to do then than he had that morn.

He scowled when he found his bath prepared but no Rolf waiting by. A small movement from the bed caught his eye, and his blood heated.

“Good eve, milord,” Tarian said, sauntering slowly toward him. “I have missed you these last hours. Why have you dallied?”

His body quickened, and he could not wait to shuck his clothes and press her into the sheets. But when he broke toward her she stayed him with a raised hand.

“Nay, you will bathe first, as I know you and your men do not care for the day’s grime to stay with you. Come and let me assist you.”

He tried to catch her to him, but she was nimble and moved away.

As he settled into the hot soapy water, he asked, “How dost thou fare?”

She took up the sponge and lathered it. She smiled softly and caught his intense gaze. “Better. Edie made a soothing balm. It seems to have some effect. She says in time the sickness will pass.”

Wulfson could offer no response: In his heart of hearts it tore him up that she carried Malcor’s child.

She pressed cool fingers to his brow and smoothed away his frown. “What troubles you?” she asked softly.

He grabbed her fingers and brought them to his lips. “I fear for your health. ’Tis all.”

She smiled gently, and the gesture tugged at his heartstrings. He wondered, if things were different, if he could raise another man’s child. When he thought of Malcor and the perverseness of him, his gut twisted that such an insidious seed as his would have struck fertile ground in such an amazing woman. ’Twas not right. And in his gut he knew each time he looked at the child he would see the father, and in so doing not give the child what it needed. And shame filled him. He had thought he was a better man than that.

“Edie says women who have the sickness tend to have stronger babes. If that is true, my son will be conqueror of the world.”

Wulfson scowled, and she caught it. “The child displeases you?” she asked.

He could not tell a lie. “The thought of Malcor’s brat growing inside you displeases me. Yes.”

She sat on the bench next to him and began to lather the scar on his chest. “Would that it was yours, would you be likewise displeased?”

His head shot back and he looked at her with narrowed eyes. “’Twould be bastard, and a bastard would not please me. I have nothing to offer a child, Tarian. I have no land, no place to call home except where I find my pallet each night. I have no parental skills. I have my horse and my swords. ’Tis not enough to rear a child.” He smiled then, and took her hand and brushed his lips across her fingertips. “But should I ever wish for a child, I would have none other than you as his mother.”

He watched tears form and spill down her cheeks. He reached for her, but she shook her head and moved away from him. He rose from the tub and went to her. Taking her into his arms, he pressed his lips to the top of her head. “My pardon if my honesty has offended you.”

She shook her head against his chest and looked up to him. He could barely detect the color of her eyes, her tears were so thick. “Nay, Wulfson, no offense. Your confidence in me as the mother of your child was not expected.”

“How could you not see it?”

She breathed back a sigh and smiled through her tears. “No one has thought me worthy of anything, and yet you stand here and say only I would be worthy enough to bear your child. I am honored.”

He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. When he moved back, he had the urge to take her up on her suggestion they fly to Scotland. There, unharassed, he could keep her belly full of sons. But he knew he could not. He released her and stepped back. “Come see to my bath so that we can”—he grinned—“sport.”

He was not even dry when he swooped her up into his arms and tossed her onto his bed. He ripped her chemise from her body, and the sight of her full rosy breasts sent
him into a sexual spiral. Sliding his hand up to her slender waist, he pulled her to him, her back arching and her breasts spearing the cool evening air. He gorged himself on the supple mounds. Her short gasps and the way her hands clawed at his back told him that he pleasured her well. As always with her, he could not get inside her fast enough. He never wanted to linger and savor her body, not until after that first desperate thrust where he came undone.

In one hot fell swoop he entered her. Their bodies rose and hung suspended as they each savored the feel, the sensation, the exquisite union they would never find in another.

And then the sweet wild undulation as nature intended. The give-and-take of making love.