The Archer's Daughter (9 page)

She wanted more. Craved it, as if the world would come crashing down around her if he stopped. When he moved into the space above her, her hands found his chest, and she traced the indent of his hips with explorative palms. When his arm curled around her backside, and he lowered his head to kiss her stomach, she wove her fingers in his hair; the simple need to touch him overwhelmed her.

When he slipped a finger inside her, her eyes rolled behind heavy lids, and she tossed her head back. A silent moan left her lips as she went limp in his arms, fully entrusting her body to him. She fought the urge to release a cry, or any sound at all. Her insides told her to scream out his name, to vocalize her ecstasy, but the threat of being discovered was a thrill in itself. To be silent while being held captive by such exhilaration only intensified the sensations. Every touch, every graze of skin upon skin sent her whirling with newfound pleasures.

Her breath came in uneven pants. Not able to withstand the deep urge lingering just under the surface, Cate begged for release. The torture, while sweet, would soon devour her. When Owen released his lips from her nipple, she beckoned him to her mouth. “Take me,” she whispered against the shell of his ear. “All of me, Owen.”

Her words seemed to send Owen reeling. His body shook, and his hands trembled when he smoothed back the hair from her face. Cate relaxed her hips and Owen settled in between them. He paused, his hardness resting on the edge of her womanhood. He found her eyes and Cate lost herself in the depths of green. In an instant, he was inside her. His lips covered hers, stifling her startled cry.

Owen steadied himself, resisting the urge to thrust by staring into her eyes. He tasted her mouth, distracting Cate from the uncomfortable stretching of his presence within her. When her hands began to wander about his body, Owen resumed their lovemaking. His thrusts came in fluid precision, seeing to her pleasure before his own. Angling her thigh upward, Owen thrust deeper, quickening his pace. Cate gripped his buttocks and squeezed, matching his movement.

She dug her fingers into his lower back as the fire within her began to swell. Fine beads of sweat glossed Owen’s skin, slickening her grip on him. Releasing her hold, she gave in to the flames, jumping headlong into the fire. Completely consumed, the spark within her burst to the surface. She shuddered beneath him.

Owen clenched his jaw and buried his head in the crook of her neck, finding his own release. His breath, thick and heavy, warmed her skin. He placed tender kisses along the gentle curve of her collarbone, whispering words Cate couldn’t fully hear. Owen collapsed at her side, rolling to his back. He wiped his brow with a corner of the blanket and stared at the planked roof above.

Cate moved to his side, resting her head on his chest. She entwined her fingers with his as they both sought to catch their breath. A small laugh escaped her. Her palm flew to her mouth and she covered it. Turning toward Owen, she muttered in his ear, “Let’s do that again.”

Cate’s eyes fluttered,
adjusting to morning’s light. She stretched, pointing her toes and reaching out to her sides, testing the soreness of her muscles. She promptly smacked her elbow on the wooden frame of the pallet in the bedchamber. Surprised by the unexpected change in scenery, it took her a moment to recollect where she was and what transpired the night before. Cate tugged down the blanket. In her night robe no less. Interesting. She hadn’t had
that
much wine. Rising, she paused a moment to work out the knot in her side. Her wound ached terribly, and she prayed the stitching hadn’t been pulled loose. Explaining the reason would be most unbearable.

A clean kirtle and shift sat neatly folded on the stand next to the wash basin, along with a pair of worn soft soled shoes. Cate splashed her face with the water then wiped clean with the accompanying rag. The billowy shift she had worn to bed was replaced with the fresh one, followed by the light blue kirtle. She assumed it had belonged to Alice’s daughter as well. Cate was taller, and certainly larger of breast, but with a bit of adjustment to the lacing, she could breath comfortably. The fitted sleeves of the shift itched terribly, and Cate fiddled with the flowing skirt of the kirtle. It caught between her legs at the most inopportune moments, like every time she took a step. She missed her hose and brigandine. She had grown accustomed to the allowance of movement wearing the armor. It would need mending, and Cate vowed she would find someone to fix it that afternoon.

The long house was empty when she exited the bedchamber. A fire crackled in the pit, the smoke trailing up to the ceiling and through the escape hole in the roof. Blackened soot lined the wooden beams in the daylight, and Cate could only imagine the last time the house had received a thorough cleaning. She would have to see to that, as well. There was so much to be done.

Cate cracked open the front door to peek her head out, surveying her surroundings. Voices from the side of the house lingered on a light breeze, and the livestock in the back squeaked and squawked in the endless search for food. Hungry herself, she stepped through the door.

Rounding the corner of the house, Cate came upon Owen and Wallace standing near the large oak, disagreeing over the deer carcass strung from a thick branch. They stood with backs turned, unaware of her presence. Leaning against the daub plastered wall, she was content to listen.

Owen stated they should start with the hind flank and cut down to the neck, but Wallace insisted on butchering the thick slabs first as they needed to hang longer. The two must have been in a stalemate. Neither made an effort to even begin the sectioning of the meat. Instead, the two men faced the carcass with hands clasped behind their backs… staring.

Cate approached behind them, curious as to what could leave such strong-willed men speechless. Walking up between the two, she peered between their shoulders. She brushed her fingers along the exposed portion of Owen’s palm, and he clasped it for a brief moment, acknowledging her presence.

In the distance, trudging along a muddy path through the field was Alice, a chicken under one arm and tugging along a roped squealing pig with the other. Cate gawked at the site as well, her mouth agape, before chuckling. Placing one hand on each of the men’s arms, she said, “Well, it isn’t going to carve itself, is it, gentlemen?”

Cate hurried to help Alice with the fretting pig. The rope around its middle was slipping free with each roll the creature managed. Diving to the grass, Cate caught its hind legs just before it bolted free. “Alice, dare I ask why?”

The woman huffed, adjusting the bird. “Gifts for the earl’s son.”

“Oh, Alice, gifts are not needed. I assure you.”

“They are not from me,” grumbled Alice. “They are from the village folk… for the feast.”

“What feast?”

“’Tis customary to hold a feast in honor of nobles should they stay in the village. In the old days, it was but once a year, during the collection of rents. The people feel we should not upset the balance of things.”

“He has not even been here a full day. How do they know he is here?” Cate rolled her eyes. The village couldn’t afford such luxury. “We could have just eaten the horse,” she muttered, dragging the pig along the trail.

Upon returning to the men, a small crowd had gathered around the deer, helping to divide the meat among the families of Hawkhurst. Owen was covered in blood and elbows deep in the chest cavity of the deer, removing every piece of edible meat from the bones. Wallace looked fearsome with crimson stains slicked across the chest of his white under tunic. As Owen handed him chunks of meat, Wallace would pass it along to those standing in line.

Cate took the chicken from Alice and released it with the others pecking the ground near the coop, and it hopped off, content to be free of her. If only it knew what awaited it come sunset. Alice took the pig to the byre, mentioning to Wallace it would need to be put on a spit, and to find someone who could spare the room, as she already had a dying horse and a dripping stag in the yard. The old man grumbled his disdain and wiped his brow.

It warmed Cate’s heart to see Owen working beside Wallace. At least they weren’t trying to kill each other. How long he would stay, she couldn’t be sure, but for the time being, she wouldn’t complain. His presence kept her entertained. Their interactions were rather amusing. Cate was content to watch the pair work, until her focus lingered along the taut muscles creasing beneath the thick tunic Owen wore. She remembered just how they felt flexing beneath her palms, and sinful thoughts of the previous night flooded her mind. Cate rushed by the small crowd, praying her cheeks were not as flushed as she assumed they were.

A group of women lingered just inside the threshold of the house, bickering with one another. They hushed when Cate entered. Sets of tired eyes focused on her. “Well, get on with it. What ails you all?” Cate drew her arms around her waist defensively.

Alice stepped forward. “The women are uncomfortable with Lord Banebridge here in the village, after… what happened.”

“Owen had no part in the murders. What happened is being settled by the elders, and they should return from London soon. He was out there searching for
me
. It is my head on the block, no one else’s, so there is no cause for panic. If anyone should be afraid, ’tis me.” Cate spun on her heels and exited the house, suddenly unable to breathe.

Cate pressed her back against the outer wall. She sucked in a deep breath and held it before exhaling slowly.

“Are you all right, Cate?” Owen squatted in front of a bucket of water, washing the blood from his arms.

Cate pressed her palms against her chest. “Owen. I did not see you there.”

He splashed a bit of water on his face then stood, rising fully to his intimidating height. With the water still lingering on his hands, he ran them through his hair, smoothing down the strays that had come loose from the leather strip keeping his shoulder length locks secure. “Do you wish to be alone?”

“No, no. To be honest, I don’t know what I wish at the moment.” Cate laughed nervously. In the span of one night, everything had changed. She knew naught of Owen’s intentions, and with the morning’s events, didn’t even know how long she would be remaining in Hawkhurst. She wanted nothing more than to drown her sorrows in the crook of his neck, cradled by the arms she felt safest in.

Owen’s.

In two long strides he was upon her, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against the cool morning chill settling on her skin. His brow furrowed with concern.

“Yesterday I had purpose. And today, well…” She flattened the front of her kirtle. “Today I am just an orphaned girl in a frock.”

Owen’s eyes gravitated south to her bosom. “It suits you.”

Cate growled her disgust. “I feel as though I am in a constant state of undress.” She fidgeted under his warming gaze. “Does that please you?” She arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Seeing you in any state of undress would please me.” His hand curled around her waist, settling at the small of her back. Owen pulled her forward slightly, away from the wall. “Don’t think for a moment I do not recall what transpired between us, Cate.” His voice, low in her ear, was just above a whisper. “I might have been drunk, but I could think of nothing else but the slickness of your womanhood upon my cock. I dreamt of your lips upon mine while I slept.”

“You might place them there again, to see if you still dream?”

Owen leaned casually against the wall, resting his weight on his elbow. Lifting Cate’s chin with a finger, he bent to kiss her. Voices emerged from the door nestled off to the side of the house. Owen shot upright, his arms dropping to his hips. Casually, he tugged his sleeves down over his forearms as if he had just finished washing, his attempt at seduction now a fleeting leaf on the wind.

The women exited the house, briefly glancing at the pair before hoisting their skirts and roaming in all directions from Wallace’s homestead. Cate speculated they would set off to prepare for the evening’s meal. She watched them scurry for a moment, likening them to flocking sheep without a shepherd. They seemed lost, without direction. “Perhaps I should go help. Most of the men left in the village are frail, and in no condition to be spitting a pig.”

Owen nodded curtly. “I must see to Jack, to make sure he hasn’t been eaten in all the commotion, and inventory the contents of my bags.”

A playful jest, yet Cate couldn’t help but hear a bit of truth behind the words. People were hungry, it was evident, and a wounded animal cost more to care for than a healthy one. His bags contained her armor, a fact she hadn’t forgotten. Was he purposefully keeping it from her? The question was thought provoking. She would see her armor returned, whether he liked it or not.

Cate parted ways with Owen, wandering toward the center of the village where shops lined the quaint thoroughfare of Hawkhurst. The feast would take place at the large triangular green known to the villagers as the Moor. Just behind the main road, the Moor was surrounded by cottages, the parish church of St. Laurence, and a small bathhouse that hadn’t seen a drop of water in years. Given the amount of water needed to fill the large tub, and the fact that the roof burned at the hands of a few teenage ruffians, the building had been left to the perils of nature.

Hawkhurst had been forever changed when the King’s army stormed through. Cate had noticed the change when she smiled at passersby. The young women kept to themselves, with heads pointed toward the dirt, rushing to and fro. So many lives lost. Cate wondered if she could have made a difference had she been there at the time of the attacks. Perhaps, but more than likely she would be in the ground among the dead, as well. Dead and gone seemed preferable at times, as the constant ache in her heart was most unbearable.

Cate shuffled to a stop. She found herself standing in front of Archer’s Corner, her father’s bow shop. Her home. The two had shared a small room above the shop, until Cate started spending most of her time in the wood hunting and practicing her bow skills. She would sell the meat at market, the extra coin supplementing her father’s dwindling income. He was a master craftsman — even carving fine bows for notable royals in years past — but with the ever rising taxes, and the sickness throughout the country, work had been sporadic, at best. Cate contemplated entering, but if she was to be honest with herself, she was terrified to do so.

She was afraid it would only fuel her desire to continue the hunt for her father’s killer. Hunt him, she must, but she needed time. Owen was right. She couldn’t just wander around the forest murdering anyone who might have had something to do with his death. She needed to find
the
man. Only then could her father’s death be properly avenged. It was the least she could do to honor him, seeing as the monster who’d killed him hadn’t even had the decency of allowing him a proper burial. Disheartened, Cate continued past the corner building, moving along to the grassy Moor.

The start of a large coal pit was being prepared under the small pig given in offering at Owen’s arrival. It had been dressed, stuffed, and staked when she arrived. Two rugged lads finished the preparations as she approached. It would be several hours before the pig was ready for consumption, but Cate offered her services where needed. Crude tables and benches were brought to the clearing, villagers lending what they could. Small baskets of bread and fruit were placed evenly around the tables, along with cups for the wine and ale brought up from the tavern cellar. Slabs of the deer slaughtered earlier also made an appearance, rubbed with herbs and precious spices and hung to roast.

Ned the bard tuned his lute in a corner near a large oak. The melodic strumming was splintered by wavering gusts, Cate noticed. As sunset fell, villagers meandered to the feast with their families. Cate’s heart shattered at seeing just how many were missing from the little groups. Owen rounded the corner with Wallace, towering over those lingering about him. He wore a clean tunic and had shaved. The hard lines of his pectoral muscles peeked through the thin weave of the fabric, and Cate wasn’t the only one to notice. The miller’s three daughters, all of them curvaceous and topped with long yellow locks, giggled when he walked by. Cate scowled, mocking their incessant girlishness, before taking two cups from a table and filling them with wine from a barrel.

She approached Owen, handing him a cup. “You look as though you could use it.” Cate took a swig. She licked a dribble lingering on her bottom lip.