The Barbarian's Bride (2 page)

“No,” Aisling replied politely. “At least, I have not been told so.”

“Give her something to eat,” the redhead guffawed. He seemed to find her most ridiculous. Aisling was not at all sure why, but she was glad to be fed. Again the food was rich and filling. This time it was accompanied by a rich brew of leaves that soothed and settled her stomach.

As she ate, Aisling was quite content to sit in the sunshine of a fresh day, feel the warmth of the sun on her face and shoulders, and sip the tea. It left the barbarians with little to do in the way of guarding, which they seemed to appreciate.

“You’re a model prisoner,” one commented to her as he refilled her cup.

“Thank you,” Aisling smiled. If one was to be a prisoner, one may as well try to be the best prisoner one could be.

“She won’t be a prisoner for long,” another barbarian commented. Aisling didn’t know what he meant, and he didn’t elaborate. Instead of worrying about it, she watched fish swimming through the crystal clear waters of the river. They looked happy enough, not worrying if they were to be caught or not, just enjoying their fishy time as best they were able. Aisling thought that very wise.

When she was finished eating, she got down from the cart and soaked her bare feet in the stream, like the horses were doing. It tickled with cold, but soon felt very refreshing. She was quite dirty from her recent exploits and would have welcomed a bath. Instead she had to content herself with washing her face, her hands, and her feet.

“Don’t wander too far,” somebody said. “The current is very fast in the deeper spots.”

Aisling didn’t know what they meant, until she stepped into a nice-looking flowing pool and immediately had her feet swept out from under her. She squealed with fright as she hit the water and went under. The water that had been ticklish cold was now an icy bath, sucking the air right out of her lungs and drawing her downstream at an impossibly fast rate.

She broke the surface of the water once, shouted for help and took in a mouthful of water. Then she was under again. Down with the fishes and the rocks. Her lungs burned for air, but there was no air to be had. There was only the blue sky and towering trees that rippled above the surface of the water, which she could not reach for all her trying.

She was done for. The waters had her in their cold grasp and they were not going to let her go. She was saying her prayers when strong arms caught her, wrapped around her waist, and pulled her up to the surface. With one great heaving motion she was birthed into the morning, gasping for air as the redheaded barbarian carried her back into the shallows and thence onto dry land.

“Are you alright?” He turned her about in his arms and looked into her face with a worried expression.

“Yes,” Aisling said wetly.

“Good.”

He propped his leg up on a boulder and for reasons best known to himself, put Aisling across his thigh. She thought he was perhaps going to make sure her lungs were free of water. As it turned out he was, in a way. He placed one hand on her lower back to keep her from going anywhere, and used the other to slap her round wet bottom hard.

Her plaintive cry echoed across the riverbed as the guard spanked her soundly, his broad hand connecting with the sodden material that did not so much cover her bottom as cling to it, revealing every curve she had and her womanhood beyond.

The rough hand landed two dozen times in quick succession, by which time Aisling was exercising her lungs at full capacity in the form of great sobbing cries. She was not at all sure why she was being beaten; all she knew was that it hurt very, very much.

“When you’re told not to do something, don’t immediately do it,” he lectured, standing her on her feet.

Aisling cried plaintively, sobbing apologies while the barbarians stood about becoming increasingly awkward. They did not seem to know what to do with her reaction. Finally, however, the one who had spanked her picked her up again, carried her to the cart, and wrapped the blanket back around her. Thanks to the fineness of her clothing and the heat of the sun she was mostly dry, but it was still comforting to be swaddled and comforted.

“Dry your tears, princess,” the great bearded man said. “It was just a little spanking so you would mind us in future.”

“It didn’t feel little,” Aisling sniffed. Her bottom was very hot and there was a queer tingling sensation running all through her skin and flesh. It wasn’t pain, precisely, but it did lend itself to an uncomfortable tenderness.

“I guess they don’t discipline princesses where you’re from.”

“I never did anything to be disciplined for.”

He snorted. “This is a big wide world, princess. There are a lot of dangers out here, and you don’t seem to know about any of them. So you listen well, or a sore bottom will be the least of your worries, understand?”

Aisling nodded meekly.

“You better hope Rikiar doesn’t have your head for touching his bride, Berner,” one of the other barbarians said.

“I think Rikiar would rather his bride was alive,” Berner replied. “Get on the cart.”

Aisling resumed her position at the bottom of the cart and avoided everybody’s gazes as they resumed their journey. It was deeply embarrassing to be publicly punished, but nobody made any further mention of the incident and soon Aisling was too entranced by the passing landscape to worry about it anymore.

Chapter Two

From mountain ranges and alpine streams, Aisling was glad to eventually see some terrain that was a little more domestic looking. The lands in which she found herself were not flat, but they had been cleared in many places to allow for fields in which sheep grazed. She wondered how long they were going to travel as she was becoming quite exhausted with the constant motion and the strangeness of being outside the tower.

“There,” Berner pointed while Aisling stared at a sheep. She’d had no idea they were so funny-looking up close—and all the wool they had! How did they even walk?

Following Berner’s finger with her eyes, Aisling saw a large village was nestled in the cleft between two great hills that were almost mountains, but did not rise to the jagged heights of those they had traversed. There were many dozens of houses made of wood and stone. As they drew closer she could see less, for three spiked walls of stone topped by tall sharpened posts bounded the village, creating a maze through which the contingent traveled.

Aisling thought the defense quite clever. Any who might think to attack would be at a severe disadvantage, having the low ground and little visibility, not to mention the narrow channel through which they would have to pass. Bushes were growing at the feet of the outer perimeter, a testament to how long it had stood.

“This is Ravenblack,” Berner told her. “Your new home.”

Home. It didn’t feel like home. It felt like a whole other world.

The party soon passed the final gate and found themselves in the village proper. Aside from the main path the streets were mostly dirt and the houses and stalls were simple, but there was a pleasing neatness to everything. The pathways were well swept and stone foundations meant that each of the little buildings stood strong though their construction was simple.

People pointed as they went past slowly, pulled by now tiring horses. She heard only a little of what they were saying, but one phrase was repeated over and over again.

“Rikiar’s bride.”

It seemed that her arrival had been anticipated. It seemed that these people knew who she was. That put her at rather a disadvantage, for she did not know who any of them were. She waved a little, because that seemed like the polite thing to do. A few people laughed and waved back, others just looked at her as though she had lost her mind.

“They were expecting a sobbing maiden in chains,” Berner explained.

“You had chains?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t put them on me,” Aisling said. “Thank you.”

Berner snorted and laughed. “Rikiar is not going to know what to make of you, maiden.”

Aisling did not make a reply, for her attention had been captured. A tall man clad in a great sable coat was standing before the largest house in the village. It was at least three stories tall and made with a craftsmanship that exceeded all others. So was he. His limbs were long and strong, thick with muscularity. His stance was masterful. Not a person in the place made a move without reference and deference to him. Aisling shrank down in her blanket as they drew closer. Surely this must be Rikiar. He had a handsome face, though it bore some scars and his nose was not as straight as it would have been before becoming battle broke. Thick brows sat atop light brown eyes. It was those eyes that locked upon Aisling, refusing her a place to hide.

She stared at him, though it was certainly not proper. A lady averted her gaze when confronted by a broad-chested barbarian. Rikiar wore a fur vest that left very little to the imagination. His arms were bare from the shoulders down and his biceps bulged mercilessly, tight muscle rippling with every movement he made. His dress was that of an uncivilized barbarian, but it suited every lawless inch of him.

“Your bride, Rikiar,” Berner said as the cart drew to a halt.

“Indeed,” Rikiar drawled in a gravelly voice that seemed to come from deep within the earth. His eyes never moved from Aisling, not for a single second. She was pinned there in the floor of the cart, entirely at his mercy. “Have her washed and bought to me.”

Aisling stared at him, wondering if she should say she had already washed in the stream. Before she had a chance to speak, Berner was ushering her off the cart and into a side entrance to the grand house. It was not as large as the castle, of course, but the wood-paneled walls made it feel homey. And it was warm, much warmer than the castle had been most of the time.

Berner pushed the door open to a room with a stone floor and a copper pot boiling in the center. It was warm and steam floated in the air, providing a cheerful mist through which Aisling could make out a few occupants, all female.

“Good luck,” he said before departing. Aisling wasn’t sure if he was being nice, or if she was truly going to need luck to survive Rikiar.

Three older women met her with kind smiles and gentle hands and led her to sit on a stool. Not a word passed between them. What was there to say? She could have asked for help, but she knew the women could be of no help. They would do as they had been told.

The remnants of her nightgown were removed from her body. They began to sponge warm water down her shoulders and back. The traces of heat felt heavenly and a pleasant tremble coursed through her body as their gentle hands moved over her bare, tender skin.

“Stand up, dear.”

The order was given and obeyed. Aisling stood up and allowed the women to turn her with soft hands. There was pressure on the back of her neck, pushing her forward so her hands were on the stool. Aisling let out a delicate squeak as two washcloths were applied, one to her womanhood and the other to her bottom hole. The women washed her with fairly gentle touches, but they were nonetheless very thorough. By the time they were done, Aisling was sure she had never been quite so clean.

Pleased with her acquiescence, the women smiled as they dried her off, making soft cooing sounds to settle her as if she were a frightened animal. They dried her hair off most thoroughly, then dressed it with scented water and combed it out straight. It was not how her maidservants in the palace had done it; they usually twisted her hair all around into fancy styles that looked pretty but pulled at her scalp. Aisling rather liked having her hair loose; it flowed in dark tresses almost to her nipples, which were erect and hard in spite of the warmth in the room. Her ripped gown was not returned, but a new blue silk cloak was provided to cover her body. Then she was led out of the room, up the stairs, and down a hall to a great door. The women helped her into the room beyond, then withdrew.

It was a bedchamber. She knew that, for it contained a bed larger than any she had seen before. Her own bed had been just large enough for her to sleep on, but this one was large enough for half a dozen women. Though strange, the bed did not hold her attention long for she was not alone in that great bedchamber. Rikiar was standing by the fire. She could see his outline as a well-shaped silhouette against the flames, tall and strong and so dark she whispered a little prayer of preservation.

Once the door closed behind her, the tall man moved toward her with a predatory gait. He was like a wolf, pale brown eyes so light they gleamed amber with the candle glow. His hair was long about his shoulders, straight and dark like hers. Up close she saw that he truly was very handsome, black stubble covering the hard planes of his cheeks and chin. There was a scar under his right eye, and his nose was slightly crooked, but still well shaped. His chest was broad and bare, marked with a few small scars that paled insignificantly in comparison to the rippling definition of his musculature. This was a warrior, she was sure of it. The way he carried himself, the look in his eye, this was a man born with a blade in his hand. Afraid of what he might do, she shied away as he moved to within a few inches of her and lifted his hand.

“Shh,” he soothed in a low baritone. “I’m not going to beat you. Berner tells me you’ve been a model prisoner.”

Aisling looked up under her lashes, saw that he was telling the truth, then lowered her eyes again.

“I am Chief Rikiar,” he said. “Do you know of me?”

She shook her head. “I am sorry, m’lord, I do not.” She cringed after the confession, fearing his ire. “I knew very little outside the castle walls.”

“I’m aware the king liked to keep you locked away. The bards sing of you, you know.”

Aisling did not know. She was never permitted to listen to the bards, for the bards were coarse and she was not. When the bards would begin their songs, she would be sent up to the tower to practice her needlework, or say her prayers.

“They did not exaggerate your beauty,” he said, moving his hand back toward her. This time she did not flinch. He ran the back of his fingers across her cheek gently, curled them round under her chin and drew them away. His touch took her breath away for a moment. She lifted her eyes to him and saw that he was looking at her with surprising tenderness.