Loveweaver (15 page)

The couple’s exchange did not go unnoticed by Haesten, who roared with mad laughter until he could barely speak. “Get you skilled with the Ravenwing, Broder! And your talents with
your
sword with also improve!”

More timely advice well heeded.

Chapter IX

Your touch is warm; your strength runs deep. My desire is in your keep.

Now find in me the hidden cave ... the refuge your longings crave.
 

With an apprehensive glance over her shoulder, Llyrica slipped ahead of Slayde and quietly passed through the door. He caught the scent of ginger in the air.

He had returned to his round house of stone, not with his new bride Athelswith, but with Llyrica, Byrnstan, and a band of flesh peddlers. They had snagged Father Ordheah, still lingering on the streets of SouthWark, as Xanthus’ choice of priests. The rain reduced to mist.

Slayde tarried outside of this house for a minute or two, asking the strange lot to stay put while he dealt with Llyrica within. The men might sit on the stone bench or stand in shin-high grass under the dismal sky, but he hoped their presence would be ignored by troops in the garrison yards. No doubt, rumors of odd activities abounded already, spread by the sentries at the gate. A litany of explanations from StoneHeart would be due this day.

His control also came to bear as Llyrica and her predicament induced a sharp pain in his chest and an unabated hunger in his loins. A lesser man would succumb to weakness and fail the following test.

He entered his house, slammed and latched his door, leaving outside a flustered Xanthus and bemused Byrnstan. Llyrica stood across the room opposite of the fire pit. She must be out of breath due to the quick donning of her linen cloak and the removal of her muddied scohs. Her hood was pulled low, her face in shadow. Labored from contained outrage and desire too long denied, Slayde’s own breath dragged heavily through his lungs. They filled with the intoxicant of ginger and almond.

His voice would be strident and deep. “Show me your proof, vixen.” With a thrust of his chin, he indicated her stack of fabrics. They yet lay next to her pallet by the fire, close to his feet. “I think it lies there hidden among your things. Perhaps a document ... a note from a priest ...or a testimony from a witness who upholds your claim. Pray I find it or I am done with you and will send you packing with Xanthus.”

His hollow threat and her lack of reply agitated him, and he bent to his knee to tear through her bundles. He untied rolls of bold silks and rich woolens, unfurled and tossed fabrics in heated frustration. Wisps of iridescent colors floated and fell in a rising frenzy. Braids unrolled in bright patterns. Crisp linens snapped in anger, joined the disarray on the marble floor. An excuse and he knew it, as the pile of variegated materials grew, to keep his distance from Llyrica, to stay the inevitable. Would that he could rip off her clothes with the same abandon that he had littered his floor with fabrics.

Slayde heard Llyrica’s sharp intake of air. “The proof is not there,” she whispered. “It is
here.
”

In his furor, he had not noted it before, Llyrica’s ivory and lavender silk garments in a pile on her pallet, along with her gyrdel, shuttle and tablets. The gossamer gown was missing from the bench. The trail of water droplets led from the water ewer to Llyrica across the room. He stood and turned. Control poised on the precipice of desire.

Llyrica had doused herself from neck to toe. Uncloaked, the peach linen now puddled at her feet, she pressed back against the stone wall dressed in naught but shimmering transparent white. Vertical slivers of pale skin showed where the gown did not meet at the sides. Gold braid graced the ankle length hem ... and dripped water. The fabric was soaked, molded to every curve, clung to every hill and vale. Damp on the ends, ribbons of light hair hung in a tease around her breasts.

Never had a woman been so unclothed as Llyrica in wet silk.

“I-I am the proof,” she said. Her expectant look, though laced with fear, was an undeniable invitation. An offer he would seize. 

Three swift strides took Slayde to her. One breath and she was a soft cushion pressed between the stone wall and the StoneHeart. He caught her chin in an upward tilt to raise aqua eyes to his, splayed the other hand on the small of her back. Cool, wet succulence met black wool and need, an erotic contrast of textures. A warning, a presage of his readiness, he pinned Llyrica’s hips with his, the ache of his sex forced hard against her. Restraint frayed further and he bent to kiss her. Llyrica’s lips parted with a swift inhalation, drew him deeper into the soft interior of her mouth. With arms frozen to her sides, her body was unexpectedly rigid, when he had anticipated pliancy. It impelled him to jerk her closer, to kiss her into a buttery collapse. In devouring Llyrica, his pent up frustrations were released as imaginings of her in wet silk came to fruition. He needed her softness, to lose himself in lush flesh and sweetness, to use the comfort of her body to allay for a time, the trap of his life. But Ceolmund’s voice rumbled in Slayde’s head, reminding his son of the price he would pay. Take her, yea. Succumb, nay.

At last, Slayde felt Llyrica sway, her knees weaken as she sagged in his arms.

He lifted his head, encountered Llyrica wide-eyed and breathless, her mouth swollen. “What proof is this?” Slayde whispered. “That you are a talented seductress? Well, so you are.”

After two deep swallows, she answered. “I had merely thought to repeat our joining of last night, that you will remember and testify to the priests that we are one.”

“It seems I will need reminding.” Swinging her into his arms, he carried her to the pile of unfurled materials, laid her among a bed of exotic colors and myriad of fabrics. Llyrica was woven of alabaster and twilight, creamy skin and allure, her hair spun of summer sun. StoneHeart fell on her, covered her with his length and weight, kissed her fiercely, fisting handfuls of her hair. His erect member rubbed at her inner thigh, fabrics chafing, sliding, rasping.  Llyrica shifted beneath him with urgent little noises, ran her gifted hands inside his tunica and gripped at strained muscles.

Hazy familiarity, a dream half remembered. “I have done this before,” Slayde said against her mouth. He took a nibble of her lower lip. “It is clear how you enticed me to come to you of a night. Even a sleeping man could not resist this.” He caressed a path down her ribs, waist and hips, wet silk slipping under his hand.

“I-I did not ask for you to-to come to me,” Llyrica whispered between gasps. “The sleepwalker began this.”

Jealousy surged through Slayde at the man he was at night, a man with the freedom to be reckless with a woman. The StoneHeart was his own rival, challenged to better the sleepwalker. “If he has had you, so will I.”

With a flicker of confusion and expectant silence, Llyrica stared at him, the pastels of her face framed by garish hues of exotic fabrics. He took her lips again in new fervency, thrust his tongue inside, determined to summon her to breathless ardor. Gone were concerns of failing tests and of men waiting outside. Forgotten were warnings of falling under the power of Llyrica’s soft influence. Slayde left that to the sleepwalker. The StoneHeart would finally have her and she would be in no doubt as to who was who.

A spirited mix of resistance and beckoning, Llyrica clutched at him, moaned her passion beneath his plundering mouth. She inhaled deeply, found air, as he moved his heated kiss across her cheek and jaw.

“I am wont to hear your voice,” she murmured.

“What would you hear?” He swirled his tongue in her ear. “That you are a soft creature, made to console even the devil?” A divine encounter, the outer swells of her breasts molded in his palms.

She quivered and sighed. “Aye ... the sleepwalker would say so ....”

“Forget the sleepwalker, vixen,” he said in a low growl. “He may use words to excite you, but I have a more direct means.”

His hot nips at her throat induced a gasp that spoke of gentle pain. “I pray thee prove it, then, StoneHeart.” 

Her dare intensified his lust, made his member throb mercilessly against her supple thigh. Control need remain lest she judge the sleepwalker a better lover. The StoneHeart would not hurry his enjoyment of Llyrica’s offerings.

Rising up on an elbow to look down at her breasts, Slayde used his fingers to stretch smooth and taut, the wet silk over her nipples. He bent to take one hard pearl into his mouth. Ah, the spicy taste of flesh and silk as he sucked firmly, drinking droplets of water wrung from wet fabric. Llyrica cried wild little whimpers as she twisted beneath him, might seek escape when he would keep her trapped.

StoneHeart bordered the edge of danger, losing control as he urged her passion ahead of his, moved down her body to further quench his thirst on the dew of Llyrica’s skin and slippery gown. At the well of her desire he stopped, drew nectar from silk and soft intimate folds.

Llyrica stroked his hair as he stroked her flesh, parted her thighs, then moved silk out of the way of his seeking lips and tongue. Exposed, soft, she would climax before he took her, prove the man by day surpassed the man of night. He had not though, anticipated the effect of Llyrica’s quiet melody, now hummed as a seductive undercurrent.

“Husband, your touch is warm.” She exhaled in a soft song. “Your strength runs deep.”

A wave of comfort rolled over him, invited him to pause and lay his head on her belly. His body throbbed, flexed with need, yet he must luxuriate a moment on this pillow, catch his breath.

Her desperate lilt continued. “My desire is in your keep.”

He must come to her now, rose to his knees and ripped apart the ties at the sides of her gown. Llyrica gasped at the hiss of rending fabric. Slayde gathered the garment, slipped it over her head and flung it, resigning it to a drape across a bench. Pale against so much color, Llyrica was left gloriously bare. Easing his way up her body, his black tunica and red braccas skimmed over the white shimmer of her skin. Reaching under his braided hem, he loosened the ties at his waist, freed himself at last. She was spread beneath him as colors swirled and passion demanded satisfaction. 

With trembling urgency, Llyrica put her arms around StoneHeart’s neck. “Now find ... in me ... the hidden cave.” 

He did, widened her thighs with his knee, lifted her hips, fingers on supple flesh, and fit his erection at her entrance. To touch his tip to her velvet heat brought forth the first droplets of male passion ... an anointing. Holy Christ, he was nearly undone at the threshold of Llyrica’s soft center. The world fell away.

She held her breath, let it out in an uncertain sob. “The refuge ... your longings ... crave.”

Control evaporated the instant he sheathed himself. A swift, blissful, almost painful thrust into an impossibly tight channel. He pierced Llyrica’s plush warmth, felt it encompass him, draw him into the depths of solace. She lay quivering in that timeless stillness, her sharp, broken gasp stretching into a shuddering breath.  Arching beneath him and grasping at his arms, she pulled on him.

With sweet mindlessness and a consuming force, StoneHeart withdrew to thrust again, deeper this time, breaching a barrier within, bringing an explosive release and pain defying completion. And then ...  an untimely awareness.

He moaned, still pulsing inside Llyrica, and collapsed on her, his lips at her ear. Ah, she was breathless, a soft pallet on which to spend passion. But he could not enjoy it, as he was a melange of emotions. Roughly, he kissed her and pulled her close.

“Goddamn your proof,” he said.  Ire fused with unwanted tenderness, his embrace both of dismay and anger.

Llyrica was limp, shivering. “My proof, indeed.” She whispered past his ear. “You now see how Xanthus did not bed me, since you are the first.”

If time made sound, it would be the rhythm of water dripping from Llyrica’s gown, draped over the bench. A small pool grew on Slayde’s marble floor. Another moment before fleeting comfort faded, StoneHeart held Llyrica, a woman transformed from perceived whore to maid to bedded wife in the instant it took to impale her. She shifted in his arms, a warm nestling, a soothing balm and a confirmation she was his. He glimpsed a life where a man could choose that which he desires, whether woman or profession. Could cease to give import to the opinions of others. Could dress as he wished, smile openly, find joy in creative avocation.

I would not have been a man of war. I would have been a man of science, an inventor, a builder. A lover.

Would that he could fall, at will, into Llyrica’s embrace, submit again to the unequaled pleasure he found in her softness. Ah, the relief to know she had never been used by another man.
Forgive me if I hurt you. That as I deflowered you, I did not do so in tenderness. Perhaps one day ...

StoneHeart forced an end to these musings. Llyrica was to blame for his stone heart chipping away about the outer edges. He ground these frail longings to dust and rolled off of her, averting his gaze from the sight of her passion-flushed body, anxious eyes and fan of gold hair. With a hasty tying of braccas and the tossing of a blue cloth to cover her, Slayde arose from the scene of his downfall. He marshaled desire, anger and confusion into cool, familiar self-command.

“Never mind telling me why you have done this.” From his wide-legged stance, he now dared a glimpse down at her. A mistake. Her eyes were aqua pools of uncertainty. “You have won me as your protector against yon flesh peddler. I now demand, as your unwitting husband, to know who you are and from whence you have come.”

Her delay in replying bespoke a careful choosing of words. “I am of Hedeby and made my living with my aunt Solvieg as a loomstress, and Broder was my trouble-making brother. The money purse held years of our savings. These fabrics, which have been our marriage bed, are woven by Solvieg’s hand from yarns acquired from all lands, as are my garments. The braids are mine. I will tell you now, though you may not believe it, but the braids on your old tunica and those of your men, were also woven on my tablet loom.”