Entreat Me (18 page)

Ballard lunged forward.  “No you don’t, you bloodthirsty scold!”  He grabbed the back of her cloak and heaved so hard she cleared the water and slid across the ice, jerking him with her by the bowline attached to her wrist.  He wrapped an arm around her waist as the ice cracked beneath them.

“Pull!” he shouted.

Gavin and Magnus wrenched hard on the rope, and they slid across the pond, racing the fractures that split the ice toward the shore until they plowed into the shallows.  Ballard, as thoroughly drenched as Louvaen, surged out of the water with her in his arms and slogged toward land.  She hung in his embrace limp and pale.

“Lou!  Oh gods, Lou!”  Cinnia slammed into him, nearly knocking him back into the pond in her bid to reach her sister.

Ballard shrugged her off.  “Calm your woman,” he ordered Gavin.  “I need to get Louvaen back to the castle.”

Gavin pulled the hysterical Cinnia away and urged her to be quiet.  He grabbed Ballard’s arm.  “Wait.”  Ballard scowled at him until Gavin untied the bowline encircling Louvaen’s wrist.  “I was afraid you’d both be lost for a moment there.”

Ballard nodded.  “You saved us, son.”

Gavin shrugged.  “You’re my father.  What else would I do?”  He bridled Magnus then held Louvaen until Ballard could mount and take her in his arms once more.  He swatted the horse’s flank.  “Ride hard.”

Ballard kneed Magnus into motion, and they took off through the labyrinth of trees at a gallop, slowing to a canter once they reached the open back gate that led to the bailey.  Magnus had barely slid to a stop in the mud before Ballard dismounted with Louvaen in his arms.  He slammed into the kitchen, startling Magda who was scrubbing a pot at the sink.  “Blankets and a hot drink!”

She jumped to do his bidding, calling for Clarimond and Joan.  In moments she had Clarimond running for Louvaen’s chamber to start the fire in the hearth and Joan at the kitchen fire heating a goblet of ale with the poker.  “What happened?”

Ballard sat Louvaen on the bench so that she leaned against the table.  He kept an arm on her shoulder to steady her and reached for his knife.  His fingers were too stiff with cold to manage the knotted ribbons on her sodden bodice.  Wet as they were, they might as well be forged shut.  He sliced through lacings, dress and shift.  She was welcome to kill him later for destroying her clothing.  He gestured to Magda.  “Strip her while I hold her up.”

Between them they quickly had Louvaen out of her frozen clothes, wrapped in a blanket and seated by the fire.  Magda had covered her with a speed and efficiency that defied Ballard to catch more than a glimpse of white skin and the gentle curve of a breast.  Joan handed him the goblet of warm ale.  Louvaen huddled in the blanket, shivering so violently she almost bounced off the stool.  “Louvaen, I need you to drink this.  It’ll chase some of the cold away.”  She turned her face away and hid deeper in the blanket.  “Louvaen,” he repeated.  “Louvaen!”

A shaking hand emerged from the covering to swat at him.  “Frozen,” she stammered.  “Not deaf.”

Magda grunted.  “She’ll live.”

For the first time since he’d seen her clutching the ice to keep from drowning, the terror threatening to eclipse his reason subsided.  He cupped a hand against the side of Louvaen’s head and held the drink to her mouth so she could sip without spilling.  “If you don’t drink this, I will cast your sister out in the snow with just the clothes on her back and best wishes in finding her way home.”  She capitulated then but glared at him over the rim of the cup the entire time she drank.

Her voice was steadier when she asked “Where’s Cinnia?”

“On her way back with Gavin.  I’ll have Magda let her know you’re fine.”  He turned to the housekeeper.  “Keep her occupied when she gets here.  Even half dead, Louvaen will try to comfort her.”

“Will not,” Louvaen protested from the blanket’s folds.  She continued to shiver, drawing in on herself until she was nothing more than a quaking ball of wool blanket.

Magda patted her on the shoulder.  “Let’s get you upstairs girl and under the covers.”  She gave Ballard a quick once-over.  “You best get out of those dripping clothes yourself.”

He kicked off his boots and peeled off his sodden breeches and shirt.  “Send Joan or Clarimond to see to Magnus.  I left him wet and bridled in the ward.”  Magda shouted for Joan and tossed him another blanket which he threw over his shoulders.  He shooed her away from Louvaen’s chair.  “Come, mistress.  I’ll carry you.”

He thought she might protest, but Louvaen only burrowed into him.  Her eyes were closed, fatigue painting shadows under her lashes.  Magda followed him as he climbed the stairs to Louvaen’s room.  A fire roared in the hearth, and Clarimond had piled the bed with extra blankets.  He stopped Magda at the door.  “See we’re not disturbed.”

Her small framed stiffened, and she frowned at him.  “
Dominus
, you can’t be thinking to—”

Ballard scowled.  “After these many years, you think so poorly of me?”

She flushed but held her ground.  “You’re practically slavering over her, my lord.  What am I to think?”

He shook his head.  “If I take her, Magda, she’ll be awake and willing.  Now go.”  He shut the door on her.  Let her wring her hands and wonder.  His heart still banged against his ribs, and he refused to give Louvaen up to anyone else’s care.  He’d let her go when he could finally assure himself they’d both recover from the scare she’d given him.

The fire sent shadows capering across the walls and slowly chased the chill from the air.  The gray afternoon light filtering through the shutters sank in the gloom.  Ballard lowered Louvaen onto the bed and tucked her, still wrapped in her blanket, under the covers.  He tossed his own blanket aside and slid in beside her.  Before he could curve around her and share body heat, she’d rolled against him, squirming and pushing until she was practically beneath him.  Her calves entwined with his, and if not for the blanket wrapped around her body, they’d be skin to skin from shoulder to ankle.

“So cold,” she murmured before falling asleep in his arms.

Ballard breathed an agonized groan against the top of her head.  He’d brought this on himself and would willingly suffer for it.  It wasn’t how he’d hoped things might unfurl between them, but she lay with him.  Far more literally than figuratively, but for now it would more than suffice.  She was alive and well and in his arms.  He kissed her damp hair and gathered her close.  “Damn shrew, you’ll be the end of me.”

CHAPTER TEN

Louvaen woke with the conviction the dead slept warm in their graves.  How else could she explain the darkness and heat surrounding her when her last clear memory had been of water so cold it froze her bones and sucked the breath out of her?  She blinked several times, her sleep-muddled mind noting the snap of wood burning in a fire and the fact all the heady warmth keeping her snug in her coffin concentrated against her left side.  Someone was either cremating her remains or roasting her for supper.  Her eyes rounded at the second possibility, and she jerked stiff.  By gods, she’d tear her way out of this damn box and bash the first sick bastard who tried to gnaw on her.  Dead she might be, but she refused to suffer the indignity of being someone’s meal after drowning in a frozen pond!

She thrashed against the weight pressing her down, kicking and clawing until a powerful pair of legs clamped hers in a vise, and an equally strong set of hands held her wrists.  “Louvaen!  Hold still!”

She froze.  “Ballard?”  Dear gods!  He’d died saving her, and they’d buried them together!

“Aye.  You were having a nightmare.”

She exhaled hard, wide awake now that the terror of her dream had incinerated the last vestiges of sleep.  She fell back against her pillows.  “Oh, thank the gods.  We’re not dead.”

A muffled snort tickled the side of her face.  “No, we’re not, but I’ll wish I were if you’re not careful with your knee.”

They were on their sides, pressed together without a stitch of clothing between them.  All the lovely warmth Louvaen had first savored and then feared when she woke came from Ballard.  He held her against him with his thighs trapping hers and his hands clasping her wrists.  She wriggled her fingers, and he released her.  He placed one hand on her hip, the other on her pillow, sheltering her in a loose embrace.  He was hard muscle and heat, his scent of smoke and rosemary filling her nose.  Her knee rested against his groin, threatening his bollocks.  She eased her leg straight, enjoying the flex of his thigh muscles as he loosened his grip just enough to allow her movement.  Her freed hands splayed across his shoulders, tracing the cool patches of runes and vines engraved into his skin.

“We’re naked.”

“Very,” he agreed.  “You needed more warmth than the blankets could give.  You can defend your modesty later.”

Modesty be damned, she thought.  It had been a long time since she’d shared a bed with a man, and she’d forgotten how much she liked the sharing.  Thomas was very different from Ballard—easily a head taller and likely outweighed him by nearly a quintel.  Louvaen had loved to snuggle against her husband at night and savor the touch of his large hands as he caressed her in his sleep and snored in her hair.  Ballard, by contrast, fit neatly in this bed with her.  Slighter, tougher and far more lethal, he held her as gently as Thomas.  His slow breaths heated her neck and shoulder, quickening to harsh pants when she nuzzled his cheek and slid her hands into his hair.

Light from the fire cast faint shadows within the enclosed sanctuary of her bed.  Now that her eyes had adjusted, the darkness that first greeted her had paled a little, revealing the sharp angles of Ballard’s jaw and nose along with the muscled slope of a shoulder.  “How long have I been sleeping?” she asked.

“A few hours.”  His fingertips followed the curve of her hip and settled on her waist.  “How do you feel?”

“Tired—as if I’ve run from here to Monteblanco and back again.”  She didn’t exaggerate.  Fatigue had worked into her bones as deeply as the pond’s chill and stayed far longer.  If not for the distraction of Ballard’s naked body fitted against hers so tightly a thread wouldn’t pass between them, she’d fall back asleep.

“You might as well have.  Staying afloat in cold water, especially wearing so much garb, takes work.  What do you remember?”

Images passed in Louvaen’s mind’s eye—she and Cinnia laughing as they skated clumsily across the pond’s glassy surface hand in hand.  Delight had changed to horror the instant she heard the first ominous crack.  Cinnia’s eyes had gone wide when Louvaen shoved her hard across the ice toward the shore.  She had only glimpsed her sister’s stricken expression before the ice gave beneath her feet, and she plunged into the water, sinking like a stone.

“The cold.  I remember the cold; light above me; the heaviness of my skirts.”  She’d kicked her way toward the surface and the shimmering halo of sunlight on the water, her dress and cloak an anchor dragging her down to the pond’s dark heart.  The jagged edges of ice surrounding the hole she’d fallen through shredded her sleeves, but they had given her something to hold onto as her head broke the surface, and she struggled to stay afloat.  She’d breathed so hard and fast from the shock of the cold her lungs threatened to burst.  Black spots crowded her vision, and she might have fainted if not for the terrifying sight of a shrieking Cinnia crawling toward her on her hands and knees.  The rest was a blur—vague memories of yelling at Cinnia to get away from her, of the creeping numbness swallowing her body and the relief of seeing Ballard’s grim, broken features as he commanded her to look at him.

The sense of well-being surrounding her in her warm bed fled with the realization she’d diced with Death and almost lost.  Shivers started at her toes, spreading up her legs and over her torso until she shook so hard in Ballard’s arms, the bed rocked beneath them.  “You saved me.”  She clutched at him as if he still worked to free her from the pond’s icy embrace.  “Thank you, Ballard.  Thank you.”

He hugged her hard enough to crack her ribs as she tried to choke back sobs.  He held her for long moments until the shudders faded, leaving her with sniffles and him with hair and neck soaked by her tears.  He kissed her forehead.  “Shhh, Louvaen,” he whispered.  “No thanks necessary.  I’ve my own hide to protect.  There’s a storeroom still half full of unspun flax.  Magda would have drawn and quartered me if I’d let you drown before you finished your spinning.”

Louvaen gulped.  Her tears turned to laughter, which turned to hiccups.  Ballard low chuckle soothed her as much as the gentle pats he tapped down her back.  She hiccupped a few more times before attempting to speak.  “I’m not usually a weepy woman.”  She tried to wipe away the puddle of tears gathered in the hollow between his neck and collarbone.

“I believe you.”

“Nor am I a careless one.”  She threaded wavy strands of his hair through her fingers.

“I believe that as well.”  Ballard’s comforting pats became slow caresses that traveled the length of her spine.

Louvaen sighed her pleasure at his touch.  “I’m also more pleasant-natured than most people think.”

The hand stroking her back paused, and he snorted.  “Now that just makes you a teller of tall tales, Mistress Duenda.”  He swatted her lightly on one bare buttock.  “I suspect you strop your tongue every morning before you get dressed.”

Delighted by his amusement, Louvaen thwacked him on the shoulder in retaliation.  “Don’t make me break your nose again, de Sauveterre.”  She pulled away from him enough to see his face.  The bed’s semi-darkness cast his features in shadow, revealing only hints of his nose and the ridges of his cheekbones.  The lambent shine she’d noted in his eyes when she first encountered him chained in his cell shimmered in the gloom.  His smile faded beneath the pressure of her thumb as she traced the outline of his lips.  “I’ve never kissed you,” she murmured, beguiled by the softness of his lower lip under her touch.  There’d been an almost-kiss when she’d flicked the honey from the corner of his mouth with her tongue.  Since then she’d dreamed of fully kissing that tempting mouth.

“I understand why,” he said against her fingers.  A flicker of something dark danced in his gaze and vanished.

Louvaen moved her hand from his mouth and tilted her head.  “Why do you say that?”

He shrugged, flashing a parody of a grin.  His teeth gleamed white in his dark face—good teeth, straight and very human except for the curved incisors.

Something inside Louvaen twisted.  He always seemed so unconcerned with his appearance that she had grown accustomed to it as well.  His short reply revealed a bleak acceptance that if one of his disfigurements didn’t repel a person, another would.  Inwardly, she wept for him.  Outwardly, she frowned and tapped the bridge of his nose.  “You are a vain creature, my lord.”

He jerked in her arms.  “What?”

“I didn’t say I never
wanted
to kiss you, only that I hadn’t.”  She nestled against him, echoing his gasp when his arousal pushed between her thighs.  Louvaen had spent sleepless hours wracked with indecision and guilt.  She desired Ballard de Sauveterre, desperately wanted to invite him to fulfill his threat of taking her to his bed.  Only the lingering sense of fealty to Thomas had stopped her.  Thomas was dead, had been so for three years.  If his spirit watched over her, it likely scoffed at her for being a “daft lass longer in legs than sense.”

Louvaen smiled at the thought and cradled Ballard’s face in her hands.  “I’m going to learn this proud face again, my lord.  And if you are in hell once more, you’ll just have to bear this trial for a little while.”

She started with his forehead, her lips brushing the creases and marks made by time and the flux.  He rested pliant in her embrace, hot hands idly stroking her back and bottom as she trailed meandering kisses across his cheeks and nose, the arches of his eyebrows and the delicate skin at his temples.  His thick lashes tickled her mouth where she kissed his eyelids.  “You feel good in my arms,” she said.  The groan vibrating up from his chest thrummed across her breasts.  His jaw flexed under her caress, his body quivering when she dipped her tongue into the hollow of his throat.

He kneaded her bottom before sliding down to grip her thighs and lift one of her legs over his hip.  The position opened her to him, to the soft give of his bollocks and his hard shaft made slippery by her body’s response to him.  “Witch who would bed a beast,” he whispered.  He clutched her and rolled, and suddenly she was on her back looking into his shadowed face.  Firelight outlined his hair and the breadth of his shoulders, sheened in sweat.  His hands traveled up her sides, one stopping to cup her breast while the other burrowed into her hair.  His promise mimicked hers.  “I’m going to learn this lovely body and beautiful face, Louvaen Duenda.”  The rough pads of his fingers rubbed her nipple.  Louvaen clutched his shoulders and bucked against him.  “And if I’m in hell, it’s a torture I’ll gladly suffer.”

He did to her as she did to him, learning the curves and angles of her face with his lips, the taste of her skin with his tongue, the scent of her hair with his nose.  His fingers counted each rib, glided over the expanse of her belly and stroked the heart of her until she twisted so hard on the bed, she nearly unseated him.  She bit his neck in retaliation, savoring the tremors of his body and the low growls escaping his mouth.

Her revenge didn’t slow him down.  Blankets were kicked to the foot of the bed as Ballard used his tongue to paint designs on her skin.  He paused at her breasts, taking his time to suck one pink tip into his mouth while his fingers danced across the other.  Louvaen banged her knee on the bed screen hard enough to bruise.  The pain was nothing more than a distant twinge as she squirmed in her lover’s arms and whispered encouragements to him.  His lips followed where his hands had traveled until he crouched at the end of the bed, his face between her thighs.  Her knees splayed wide under the coaxing pressure of his thumbs.  She almost knocked them both to the floor when he put his mouth on her, her heels digging into his back as he held her down with a heavy arm.  She listened to her own cries—deep, bestial sounds—while Ballard tortured her with slow, sucking kisses and the slide of his tongue inside her.  A last flick of his tongue had her keening her climax, and she squeezed his head so hard with her knees she was sure she crushed his ears.

The fall back to earth left her limp, gasping for breath and with legs as wobbly as an old table.  Ballard slid up her body enough to rest his head on her chest.  Louvaen wondered if he could hear the gallop of her heartbeat as she strove to fill her lungs with air.  She massaged his scalp, his hair damp with perspiration.  “Who exactly is the beast in the bed, de Sauveterre?” she teased.

A rumble against her sensitive nipple made her jump.  He kissed the tip in apology and inched further up until they were face to face.  A thin line of sweat trickled from his temple and down the side of his face as he gave her a smug grin.  “Speak louder, woman.  My ears are still ringing from that bludgeoning you just gave me.”  His grin softened.  He caressed her nose with a fingertip.  “I’d be disappointed to hear only delicate sighs from so bold a woman.”