Blood Sword Legacy 02 - Master of Torment (7 page)

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her in some confusion. Dread swirled around her. He would know she was virgin if she continued to act as one, and then all would
be lost. Taking a deep breath, she sank her fingers into his hair and pulled his lips down to hers, and opened herself wider for him. “Come to me, sir knight, fill me with your glory.”

His lips crushed into hers and her cry as he pushed through her maidenhead was lost in his kiss. “
Jesu
,” he moaned against her lips. And once the barrier was broken he thrust deeper into her. Her body stretched to accommodate his width, and despite the pain and her shock, her body moistened more to help his penetration.

She held back the sudden onslaught of tears, not understanding her emotion. She would not allow herself to question what she had just done. Instead, she wrapped her arms around the man who took more than her breath away, and allowed him to carry her off to uncharted territory.

She relaxed as much as she could, closed her eyes, and let her body respond as nature intended it to. And when her body finally moved in time with his, giving what he took and taking it back from him, she could not say it was unpleasant. Indeed, the fire that he had sparked earlier burned hot inside her again.

The power of him, as his hips undulated and swirled against her, took any vestige of resistance away. He was the incarnation of every maid’s dream. And for this night he was hers. She did not want to think of what the morrow might bring.

His lips swept hers, picking her up and setting her to flight. Her body moved to a new level of sensation; a storm built inside her, and try as she might to push it to rain down on her she could not. She felt the quickening in his body: his thrusts became shorter, more intense, more focused. She clamped her inner muscles around him and arched. He
cried out, his voice thick and full of passion as he came in a wild ravenous burst, the force of it so powerful she felt his seed warm inside her. He hung suspended above her, the tight planes of his face taut, his jaw tight, his great body jerking as hers milked every bit of his fluid from him.

The deed done, he collapsed against her, their slick bodies heaving as they each tried to recapture a normal breath.

Tarian lay still as her body cooled, and felt oddly unfulfilled. Wulfson rolled from her and lay on his back, his thigh touching hers. Slow moments dragged by. Time now was her enemy. The longer she stayed, the more time his body had to dilute the potion. She needed to leave him, and take all traces of her person from the room. Yet beneath his great body was her chemise. The warm stickiness of his seed mingled with her blood, dried between her thighs, and still he did not move. Finally, his deep, even breaths gave way to slumber. And for some unknown reason, she wanted to pound his chest and demand to know how he could forget her after such a traumatic experience.

She shook her head. He did not understand, and even if he did she doubted he would care. Men rarely did. ’Twas best this way. No emotional entanglement that they would regret.

As Tarian pulled away from him, she was stopped short by a sharp tug of her hair. She turned to fend him off but saw that ’twas her hair caught beneath his shoulder, not his hand that stayed her. Carefully she pulled the dark tresses from beneath him, but scowled when she saw the bloodstained fabric of her chemise crumpled beneath his thighs. ’Twould not be as easy to extract.

He dreamt again of soft thrusts of flared hips moving against him. The full breasts of a goddess pressed against his lips, demanding his attention. Soft cries of pleasure tickled his ear. His cock filled instantly, the heat and weight of it full against his hip. He smiled and reached for the warm body so close to him. He came up with only air. In an instant, Wulfson sat up in the bed to see the nymph slipping from his side. “Nay,” he softly said, and pulled her back amidst her distressed cries. He wanted his dream to continue.

Spurned on by something more than his ardor, Wulfson swept her up into his arms and tossed her back onto the bed. His eyes searched hers. They were oddly familiar…. He blinked back the sudden cloudiness in his vision.

“Please, sir knight, I beg you, let me go.”

He pressed her back into the pillows, his body by no means sated from one tumble.

His eyes raked her slender form, resting on curves that were meant for a man’s pleasure. His rod filled to hurting. He slid an arm around her waist and brought her to his lips. Her back arched and those sweet creamy globes quivered. The rose-colored tips were wide and round, the nipples puckered in reaction not to the chill in the room but to his assault.

“Nay.”

“Please,” she begged.

He caught the urgency in her husky voice, but the urgency between his thighs took precedence. He pressed her back into the pillows. “One more time, my sweet dream princess.” He sank his teeth into her creamy neck. She arched into him, her soft rose scent sending his senses reeling.

Her arms slid around his neck and Wulfson smiled
against her. He raised his head to look into her odd crystalline-colored eyes. They glittered with tears, making them sparkle like precious gems cast against the white beaches of Dover in the afternoon sunlight. Her breasts heaved in her disheveled state, but he knew there was more to it than that. She did not completely find his rutting distasteful. Nay, she fought some other demon; he was not the culprit.

“Do you fear me?” he softly questioned.

Vigorously she shook her head, no.

He pressed his lips to her bare shoulder and nibbled her soft skin. “Then why do you cry?”

“I—I know not.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his nose to the soft place where her neck met her shoulder, and laved his teeth down the thick vein of her neck. “Stay here with me. I would not hurt you.” His fingers trailed along her arms up to her shoulder, down her throat to the high swell of her breasts. He watched in silent wonder as her skin pebbled and her nipples hardened. He reached down to a nipple and suckled it. She moaned and moved beneath him.

In a slow movement, he rolled her over to her belly, even though she protested. “I will not harm you, princess. You will weep with pleasure.” His hands swept down the delicate curve of her back. He scowled as he traced a fingertip down what appeared to be the scar of a lash. His finger traced it down to the ripe swell of her bottom. Several more faded scars crisscrossed the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to one full cheek.

Her hips pressed into the mattress and her muffled moan of pleasure encouraged him. In long sweeping caresses, his hands smoothed the scars. His lips trailed along her back.
He slid his arm under her belly and brought her up on her knees. He felt her body tremble. “Easy, princess,” he whispered against her bottom. Her musky essence as he parted her thighs wafted up to him and he inhaled her deeply. ’Twas not a scent he would likely forget.

He pressed his lips there and she gasped, pulling away from him, turning over wide-eyed. “’Tis not decent!” she cried.

He smiled and pressed her back into the pillows. “There is nothing indecent about a man loving all of a woman’s body.” He looked down at his burgeoning shaft, then speared her with his gaze. “Touch me as I have touched you.”

She moved back deeper into the pillows until the headboard stopped her. Wulfson chuckled, finding her innocence a breath of sweet fresh air. He took her hand and pressed it to him. He sucked in a harsh breath at the sight of her delicate fingers wrapped around him. His eyes caught her surprised ones.

“You are warm.” She squeezed, and had he not been on his knees her gesture would have brought him to them. “And soft.”

He scoffed. She smiled. “Like velvet.” He closed his eyes and pressed into her hand. Slowly she maneuvered her hand up and down, his hips following her movement. Soon he was on the verge of eruption when she stopped.

He opened his eyes, searching her face, and found only silent awe. “Do you still want me to leave you be?” he asked.

She rose up on her knees facing him. “Nay,” she breathed, her soft breath tickling his lips. His blood quickened, and if it was possible he swelled even more in her hand. At that moment he could not remember ever having to exercise
such rigid self-control. If she did not yield to him soon, he would not be able to keep himself from her. “There is time yet.” She slid her lithe arms around his neck and pressed her body full against his. “I will not deny you what you seek. Take me.”

Sliding his arm around her waist, he slung her around and into the pillows, where he followed, and sank his throbbing cock into her warm moist folds and nearly came that instant. Never had he had such an urge to mate as he did at that moment. She cried out, but he felt the quickening in her blood as he moved inside her. “Come with me this time,” he murmured against her breast. He could not get enough of her sweetness. She was all things carnal. Her skin was as soft as silk, her fragrance that of roses in a spring shower, but her essence drove him mad. And the treasure between her thighs was tight, and hot, and pulled him incessantly down into the deep dark abyss that was pure paradise.

Wulfson woke to the thundering sound of Rolf filling the brazier with coal. “Cease that racket!” Wulfson hissed between clenched teeth. His head felt as if Turold stampeded through it, his mouth was as dry as the deserts in Africa, and his cock was swollen to painful. He grasped the throbbing member and flinched. He was full, but he was also tender.

He squeezed his eyes shut and remembered a vague dream of a princess coming to him in the night, offering herself to him not once but twice. He rubbed his aching head and swung his legs over the side of the bed, thinking the headache was worth the dream.

“Sir Wulfson?” Rolf asked quietly. “How may I attend you?”

Wulfson shook his head and waved the boy away. “Begone from me. I will see to myself as I did last eve.”

The boy, nay, young man, reddened and shuffled his feet. “Milord, I—”

“Silence! Begone.”

Never one to question his master’s command, the squire was gone in a twinkling. Wulfson lay back on the bed and pressed his right hand over his eyes. The soft scent of a
woman filtered beneath his nose. He opened his eyes, and despite the pounding of a thousand hammers in his head, he grinned. While he could not remember the details, he was no fool. The essence of a woman clung to his hand, and he grasped his cock again. Yes, definitely used. His other hand reached across the bed, smoothing across the rumpled linens to the pillow and grabbing it. He pressed it to his nose: a rose scent clung to it. His dream woman wasn’t as immortal as she would lead him to believe.

“Milord?” Rolf called from the doorway. “Lord Alewith and his train have arrived.”

Wulfson scowled and tossed the pillow to the bed. “Did you send a woman here last eve?”

Rolf’s face crinkled in confusion. “Sir?”

“A woman, the opposite of a man,
did you send one to me last eve
?”

“Nay, sir.”

“Did my brothers?”

“Not that I am aware, sir. They saw to their pallets directly after the meal.”

Confusion reigned in his head. This place was casting spells on him. He dismissed the notion. “Fetch me hot water, and send Rorick to entertain them until I descend.”

Rolf bobbed his head and hurried to his chores.

Used to mustering under the direst of conditions, Wulfson took his time. He had given Lady Tarian enough time to recover. He’d waited a fortnight for this day. Now, she could await him, for he would not appear anxious. But as he tried, he continually found himself biting at the bit to go below, and with an anticipation that likened to the thrill of battle he felt the same sensation in his eagerness to come face to face with the enigma that had haunted him
these last fourteen days. Strapping his sword belt around his waist, and his double scabbard across his back, then securing it at his chest, he strode from the room, wanting to get the meeting over and done with. The English were a sullen lot who would just as soon cut him where he stood as wait until he found slumber to stab him and his men in the back. He would welcome the sunny shores of Normandy over this moldy wet blanket of an island any day.

As he strode down the narrow passageway between the few chambers above the hall, Wulfson caught Gareth’s tall form hovering outside the lady’s chamber. Thorin stood stoically across from the guard, and nodded his head, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his great sword. His huge Viking ax rested snugly against his other hip. Wulf snorted in admiration. He’d seen heads fly off shoulders after meeting the great ax Thorin called Beowulf. ’Twas a fitting name.

“Heed my call, Captain. See your lady downstairs with no delay.”

Gareth stared unmoving at Wulfson. “Do I have your word no harm will come to her?”

“Nay,” Wulfson said, continuing down the hall and the circular stairway that led to the great hall. “You do not.”

A great group of people milled about there. His Blood Swords, along with Rangor, the lord’s cronies, several villagers, and the constant ebb and flow of servants. Through it all Wulfson could see not only a tall, noble Saxon who carried on a rather heated conversation with Rangor, but a young noblewoman of no more than ten and six, her long golden hair barely concealed beneath her snood. His blood warmed. For she did not wear her clothing in the bulky unflattering fashion of the women of this place but cut a more
fashionable figure, like the noblewomen in Normandy, with her formfitting kirtle.

A roar from his men went up as he descended the last step, and Wulfson grinned. He had a sudden hunger for sustenance. He grinned wider and rubbed his hand across his chest, feeling the odd sensation from the scar, vestige of so many years ago when that Saracen devil seared his sword into his chest. The burn he would never forget, and the scar was a constant reminder to him to always be prepared. All eyes turned to him as he strode arrogantly into the hall. His men, as he himself, were always dressed for battle. Leisure time in courtly garb was not part of their hard life. He and his brothers, they were always ready to mount and seek out the enemy, and he was not blind to the fact that there was far more treachery afoot within the ancient halls of Draceadon this day than on any battlefield. So be it. He was prepared.

Rangor stepped forward, a snide smile twisting his lips. “Sir Wulfson, I see the accommodations serve you well.”

“Well enough.” He turned to the tall, elegantly dressed Saxon. He nodded to the man, who, while dressed in finery and holding himself in a most regal way, also bore the wary eye of a soldier.

He bowed to Wulfson as Rangor made the introduction. “May I present Lord Alewith of Turnsly, Marlow, and Sharpsbury, and recent guardian of the widowed Lady Tarian, and his daughter the Lady Brighid.”

Wulfson nodded. “My lord, why have you come this day?”

The older man’s face reddened, but he did not stumble on his words. “I have come to take my ward home.”

Wulfson smiled, a gesture not meant to endear. The
golden-haired girl, Brighid, caught her breath and brought her hand to her mouth as their gazes clashed. “The lady will not be leaving Draceadon.”

The girl gasped. “But you
must
allow Tarian to come home!”

“Shush, girl,” Alewith admonished. He raised pleading gray eyes to Wulfson. “My pardon, my daughter forgets herself.”

Wulfson shrugged, and realized the girl was younger than he first suspected. And while some men might have no qualms about sharing a pallet with a child, he was not among them.

Once he set the girl aside, the noble faced him fully. Wulfson watched him muster his nerve. “I am afraid I cannot accept your response. Tarian belongs with her family. I insist you allow her to return with me.”

Wulfson swept past him to sit at the lord’s table. “I have a great hunger this morn, Lord Alewith.” Wulfson swept his hand to encompass his men, who sat with him at the high lord’s table. “Please, sit and sup, so that we can discuss the matter of your former ward.”

Alewith turned a jaundiced eye upon Wulfson, then upon Rangor, who nodded. Brighid was seated alongside Rhys, her father and uncle flanking her other side.

As the meal was laid out with haste, Wulfson nodded, and speared a chunk of coddled egg from a bowl with his table knife. As he was about to take a bite, a loud cough from the table below the lord’s table halted him. He lowered a stare to Father Dudley, a most annoying man who reminded him of a terrier, constantly yapping at his heels. He had made repeated pleas for the release of Lady Tarian; Wulfson turned a deaf ear to the man each time.

Wulfson lowered his knife and his head, though he was still able to watch all that transpired before him in the room. He smiled to himself and saw that the Blood Swords did the same. Once the prayer was said, the men dug in with gusto. As he slowly chewed, Wulfson watched his guests from beneath lowered lids. He washed the egg down with a goblet of milk and asked, “How is it, my lord, that you and Rangor appear to be the epitome of health, when most of England’s nobility fell at Hastings, and its survivors still show the ravaged signs of war?”

Alewith choked on the piece of meat he had just swallowed. He sputtered as his daughter pounded him on the back. He raised a hand to stay her assault while he collected his breath. Wulfson noted once again the richness of his garments and the rings he wore. While he was not overdressed in the way Rangor seemed to enjoy, the noble wore just enough not to be called a popinjay. The man’s dark gray eyes held shrewd experience behind them, and he was, Wulfson decided, more dangerous than Lerwick, who wore his emotions on his tunic sleeve like a woman.

The latter scowled but did not reply, waiting instead for Alewith to take the bait. Which he promptly did. Sitting up straight, the Saxon smiled sourly. “Sir Wulfson, I can assure you that I fought as hard and as long as my fallen countrymen. That I escaped death is a testament not only to my own skill with an ax and sword but to the loyalty of the men surrounding me; but if you must know the absolute truth, the young lady who I have come to take home had my back throughout the day. A more fearsome warrior I could not ask for.”

Wulfson scoffed and was glad he had not taken a bite of the braised meat on his knife tip. His men chortled. “Do
you mean to say, Saxon, that that scrap of a woman we found on her deathbed in the bowels of this hovel held a sword against William at Hastings?” Rorick incredulously asked.

“And before that, Stamford Bridge!” Brighid sparked, coming to her feet. Alewith tossed an indulgent smile at the girl, but quickly pulled her back to her sitting position before shooting her a warning glare.

Wulfson grinned and rubbed his chest. “She no doubt met up with those cowardly Bretons! An old woman with a raised broom could have shooed them off.” The men from Brittany had returned home in disgrace for their cowardice on the battlefield.

Alewith smiled and nodded. He looked like the fox that had just raided the henhouse. “Since I know not if we are to become friend or foe, I will refrain from extolling my ward’s prowess with not only a longbow but her own good sword.”

Wulfson snorted and bit off another hunk of meat and chewed. He glanced across the table to his men, who all sported the same mocking gloat he felt. “’Twould explain why Harold ultimately fell.”

Alewith stiffened and leaned across his daughter to speak directly at Wulfson. “He was a mighty warrior and the favorite of the people. He was a man all of England respected.”

Wulfson stood, drawing one of the swords from his double back scabbard with both hands. He raised it high amongst the screams of the women and the cold stares of the men, then hurled it across the room, where it landed with a sharp thunk in the wood support beam behind the sapphire-and-gold dragon standard hanging above the great
hearth. The velocity of the impact tore the fabric in half. “Harold is dead, and William is king!” Wulfson stormed. “I will hear no more mewling about what a noble man your usurper was. I was there when he swore to my king he would uphold Edward’s oath to William for the throne of England. He broke his oath, and any man, great earl or not, who breaks his oath is no man in my eyes!”

“Wouldst you not make an oath if a sword were pressed firmly to
your
throat as well as those of your brother and nephew?” a husky female voice said from behind him. The hall went tomb silent, and the hair on the back of Wulfson’s neck rose. So did his cock.

“Tarian!” Brighid cried, but her father grabbed her arm before the girl could run to the woman who, Wulfson knew at that moment, was going to test his mettle as it had never been tested before.

Slowly he turned, as did all the Blood Swords. When he faced her, the sharp intake of breath from his men whisked past him, and even that of her guardian, but loudest was the strangled cry that came from Rangor. The sound was a mixture of admiration, dread, and unrequited lust.

Wulfson’s glare caught hers across the room, and for one brief space of time, his heart did not beat.

She was, in a single word—enchanting. Like no other woman he had ever laid eyes upon. And, he noted with a dry smile, not dressed as a young widow should be. Her long ebony hair hung in thick, rippled waves around her shoulders and down to her softly flared hips. Blue, crimson, and yellow ribbons were braided into two long strands that ran down the side of her face. And
Jesu,
what a visage. Finely arched brows framed brilliant sapphire-colored eyes that at the moment snapped with irritation, and, he real
ized, with a passion few men could match. His cock flexed. Her nose was smallish and pert. Her wine-colored lips were full, the top one reminiscent of a cupid’s bow, the bottom, even tight as it was now, pouty.

His eyes dropped. She wore a rich embroidered blue woolen and linen kirtle over a soft sea-green undertunic. The bodice was laced tight, the fabric taut across full round breasts. Around her slender waist hung a thick embroidered leather belt, from which hung a sheathed broadsword. Thick gold and silver bracelets encircled her arms, from her wrists to just below the elbow. While they were ornate, they were also thick, and, he suspected, a worthy shield to the delicate skin beneath. Her left hand fondled the leather-wrapped hilt of her weapon, which he could tell even at the distance between them was a prime piece of weaponry. The Saxons were renowned armorers.

Wulfson smiled leisurely, his blood coursing wildly through his veins. The familiar excitement swirled in his belly, much as it did when he faced the enemy. He longed to see just how expert a swordswoman she was before he spread her on the nearest pallet. But he checked the urge. Not only was she a noblewoman, but she was a marked one.

His eyes moved past her to Gareth and Thorin, who stood behind her, both watching him closely. Wulfson’s smile widened. The fortnight-long wait had been worth this magnificent sight.

He bowed, and said softly, “An oath is an oath, Lady Tarian.”

She smiled and curtsyed. “I will remember that well, my lord knight.” She looked past him; to Rangor, he was sure. “Would you give your oath to see my home rid of the
scourge that would have me rest so soon beside my dearly departed husband?”