Ronan's Bride (7 page)

She drew in a breath, “More oft than not, he simply threw me on the bed and sat astride. But aye—t’was there I got the scars. The weapon was made from reeds or rushes. I know not.”

Ronan dared another step, and grasp her chin, lifting her head, forcing her to meet his eyes. “What else?”

She closed her lips tight a moment. Then seem to find her inner strength again, “And will you tell me of every suffering on the road to the tower—every blow and abuse then and after?”

“Nay.”

“Neither do I wish… to live it again.” She was harder in her stare. “He beat me. It matters not if it was bare handed or else. It matters not what other means he used to do harm—it was done.”

Ronan understood that. Though he wanted to know simply because he was aware that having Pagan with him then meant he had someone who knew, someone who needed no telling, but who was witness and shared it. It made some difference. Yet the woman before him, her eyes holding the memories—defiant, somehow determined, to give it nothing more of herself to it—touched something in him too.

Unthinking his thumb brushed over her cheek. He husked, “He is dead and rotting. He cannot harm you anymore.”

Sefare wet her lips. “This, I know.”

Ronan fought the urge to enfold her in his arms, to embrace her with his strength. He was aware that she flinched. But not, from his touch, as he was remembering what she had said, about his eyes—and the mask. Such dangerous thoughts, combined with the emotional moment, and his attraction to her, set off a war inside him.

They were locked in that moment for some time— until a noise from the yard seem to shatter it. He dropped his hand and looked in that direction, seeing the watch changing that marked the evening hour.

“I think I will soak and take supper in my chamber,” she murmured and brushed past him to leave.

Ronan stared, letting her gain several steps ahead, before he caught up, and emerged with her. The day seemed too bright, the space too wide, too populated for some reason. Ronan was conscious it was more his internal state than reality—that intensity that lingered.

She turned and entered the keep. He went on, to gather his things from the exercise yard, too perceptive that they had both exposed something to each other that could not be erased.

He sat on the wall past sundown, wrestling with images, her beauty—the scars, the image of that torture room, and of a man twice her size pinning her down. He no more understood that compulsion to abuse women, one’s wife, than he could reconcile his own harsh fate.

It hung with him, a miasma, during his return and bathing, dressing in the black breeches and boots, a tunic of light gray flannel. He heard the lads filling a tub for her. One of the female servants was speaking, after bringing up a tray. He smelled the Khava brew she enjoyed. Which he too liked.

Ronan sat on the newly finished bed, staring at the stone floor. His skin felt alive, his blood too warm, his mind going where it would. When he arose finally, realizing the great hall was likely full and food served, his steps led him first to the door between their chambers. Eyes closing, his mask covered forehead leaned on the wood. He recognized the sound of weeping when he heard it.

Reaching up, his palm flattened on the surface. For once, in manhood, he felt impotent and at a loss. He had set the wall between them, and fate had scarred him far more than she was marred. He knew the betrayal went beyond beatings, to an intimacy that he had only witnessed—and never partook of. Thoughts went through his head, a knowledge that he could gain her trust, even play the role of friend and protector—but he was her husband by law, and he was a normal man under the flaws of flesh.

Why torment himself…

The weeping stopped. He detected the splash of water, the sound of bathing. Ronan pushed away and went below, eating little, distracted and ignoring Ualtar’s curious looks, before he finally left the hall to spend most of the night with the guards on the wall.

* * * *

The next noon, Sefare showed up on the wall of the exercise yard, with Isola. The briefest glance passed between herself and Ronan, who was leaning against the wall a ways up, observing. A pact, she surmised, to pretend nothing more than the training had passed between them yester eve.

Isola watched the men with interest, saying, “That Welshman there, he is famous in his own right. I heard that an injury took him from the Tourney lists, but you’d never know it, seeing his skill and agility now.”

While observing the man, Sefare listened to Isola describe weapons, shields, talk with depth and knowledge of where the weapons were forged and how, and the different uses of some. A cart just at the gates held a mound of them, from cross bow, bow and axe, to spiked mace and scythes. They were both awed when Ualtar took up his axes and began flipping and throwing them, hitting the target head on, time after time.

Isola looked at her and they exchanged a smile when he was through, a slight shake of head.

When the Celt did much the same with daggers, Sefare intoned, “I think the performance is for us.”

“Aye.” Isola laughed. “He’s brash, but with good reason.”

When most of the seasoned men were done, a few of the younger lads entered the lower gate. Sefare observed Ronan’s manner with them. A few had apparently never handled more than plow or hoe, and he worked with them patiently, his big-gloved hand resting on their shoulder or a very short lad, his hand atop that boyish head.

“‘Tis a wonder any tenderness was left in him, after what he suffered.”

Sefare did not have to ask whom. “Aye. I cannot imagine surviving it.”

The woman looked at her. “You have separate beds?”

Sefare stared at Ronan still. “You must have heard why he wed me.”

“Aye, but I didn’t think you the sort to shun him as other’s do.”

“It’s not that.” Sefare finally looked from Ronan to meet those tawny eyes. “It is my own past, and asides, we are strangers.”

“He’s just a man. Under it all.”

Sefare swallowed. “I know.”

The woman touched her shoulder, but before they could talk further, Ronan drew their attention and summoned them below. They were directed to stand with the younger lads, and then went through the center of the arena—an area with the implements for strength and dexterity training.

Dressed in soft-soled boots, a tunic and trousers, for the next hour Sefare put all out of her mind to suffer with the others, to heft stones, run a gauntlet, and jump objects.

She was put with a lad, and the Smith with another, and with sticks, they fought; suffering blows when they missed that were mere taps.

Through it all Ronan’s voice called out direction, scolding, praise, and a few times, he laughed. When the sound captured her attention and she looked at him, Sefare got a whack from the lad in front of her, and swiftly went back to the seriousness.

Isola had to leave them. She was busy repairing everything from saddles to shields, and making progress on an iron cover for the great hall hearth that apparently smoked up the hall when lit.

The evening drew, and eventually the lads were gone. Sefare stood, catching her breath, watching Ualtar reload the wagon and pick up items, clearing the yard.

She knew, heard his tread, and sensed him, when Ronan stood by her shoulder. He nudged it, and she looked up.

He was holding a deep gourd of water. Sefare took it, drinking all of it before handing it back. He tossed it in the nearby pail and as Ualtar took the cart out said, “You’ll feel sore on the morrow, but ‘tis better to keep at it, work through it.”

“Aye.” Sefare turned and followed him. He strode back toward the far wall, where her forgotten pouch waited. She had brought food and forgotten it.

Half way, they both stopped, noting a sudden darkness. She looked toward the sky as he did, seconds before it opened up, and a deluge hit them. The rain had her hunching her shoulders, the downpour so thick that it felt as pelting stones on her head.

“Sblood.” He took her arm and they hurried forward. Nevertheless, the packed soil in the yard made for rivers and slickness, mud that had her sliding a time or two.

His chuckle sounded loudly when she went down hard, her boots just flying out. Because she grabbed his arm, he was pulled to his knees over her. Sefare laughed at the comedy of it, because it was bloody cold rain and muddy.

She had a difficult time getting to her feet, even with his help.

Thunder boomed, lightening sizzled, and he called, “I’m less apt to fall.” Just moments before he stood and picked her up. She screamed with hilarity, because he carried her not in his arms, but thrown over his shoulder.

Ronan ran with her, across the yard, leaping up and using one hand to pull them up the wall.

Having let her fall away, onto the soaked ground, she was still laughing, trying not to drown in the rain when he stood up again.

There was amusement in his voice as he shouted, reaching his hand down, “Hurry. We should make it to the kitchens...”

She reached up grabbing his hand, her clothing soaked and legs only half-able to keep up as he ran in that direction. Sefare was slid, half pulled around him when they reached the overhang, just back of the old structure, her back against the wall, his to the open gray curtain of rain.

They had to nearly stand facing, thigh to thigh, to share the dry space.

Dragging her hair back, skimming the rain from her face, Sefare looked up and met his downward gaze. “From whence came that? I know ‘tis spring but—”

“Ualtar swore he smelled a storm this morn. But I scoffed at it.” He braced a hand above her head, using his other to swipe water that ran over the brow of the mask into the eyeholes.

Face upturned, Sefare was both aware of the chilly cold, of being wet, and that though he was also, his long sleeved leather shirt wet, there was a heat from him that reached her.

“It will be good for crops, the wells and ponds…”

“Aye but we’ll be wading mud for days.”

She wet her lips and saw his hand pause in the middle of lowering, his eyes on her mouth. Tension seemed to explode on the next rumble of thunder, the sound of rain was deafening, and the shell roof drains pouring thick around them.

She lowered her eyes a second, seeing the space between his shirt ties and the mask, a space he normally covered that though thick scarred was brown and sinewy. When she thought to drop it further, it was only with the knowledge that he was broad and muscled, and with a sense of breathing his scents, warmed and keeping her warm. Sefare flickered her gaze up, seeing he’d watched her, absently aware his sensual mouth was a bit darker as if he’d scraped his teeth over his lip.

She jumped slightly at the next boom. Gaze unbroken, his eyes were a smoke gray, rimmed with raven lashes that were thick. She breathed shallow, too rapid, and unable to help it.

There was no mistaking the source of the tension, the sensual rawness of it. His nostrils flared slightly, reminding her of her own damp scents. He seemed both tense and inwardly vibrating with what his eyes could not hide.

Evening hour, instead of simply the storm, was closing the darkness down upon them. Before the pitch of a cloud-filled night sky enveloped them, she witnessed his head slowly descending. Closing her eyes, her breath rushing through her nostrils, she felt the warm stir of his, moments before velvet lips brushed her own. Her hands pressed to the stone beside her hips.Thick black around them, the roar of hard rains, the smell and mix of cold and warm scents converged.

Sefare trembled, but with lashes tightly closed felt the tip of his tongue run sluggish just at the edge of her slightly parted lips. He next brought it in a smooth, tracing manner, to the underside of the top one. A kind of whisper soft lave, that she knew was a tasting, an action to lave the flavor of her mouth.

Breathing ardently, more quick and shallow, She felt his legs shift so that he bent his knees. His goal was revealed when he kissed her straight on, still gentle and almost tentative, still supple. His breath stirred warm against her cheek. She could hear its tense pattern when he kissed along her jaw, then back to her mouth once more.

It came to her then, that were it not pitch dark he would likely not be kissing her. That for him, there was some security and anonymity in the fact that they could not see each other. Moreover, it came to her that she too would likely not be as responsive and feeling what she was feeling stirring her, if they were not driven here by the storm and plunged in darkness.

After his mouth brushed her ear, it felt as if all of her turned inside out, every nerve, and inch of her, alive, and sensitive. It worked over her skin, tingling at her nipples and between her legs, drawing something from deep inside, so that when he covered her lips with his mouth again, her tongue touched his.

Sblood. The next movements were raw with sexual energy. Ronan’s tongue met hers, touched. They laved at the tip, getting inches bolder, until mouth to mouth, in a warm, moist pocket, their tongues slid sensually around, slowly under and over. Taste and flavor was exchanged. Heat and silken hunger, restrained—and yet still intense, because they engaged in the deepest intimacy—touching inside the other, feeling texture of mouths and stroking tender, balmy, flesh inside.