Master of Craving (7 page)

He did not attempt to reason with her. Instead, he trained all of his focus on the livid Viking wielding an ax, stampeding directly at him. Stefan pushed the screaming princess away from him as hard as he could, and as she hit the ground with a loud thump, the Viking cleared the thick foliage that hid him, skidding to a stop in the small clearing when he saw the naked man holding a very naked sword.

“Is she worth your life, Viking?” Stefan menacingly asked, in English.

 

“No woman is worth my life,” the Viking answered in stilted English.

Stefan laughed, the sound rough and caustic. “I would have to agree with you there, Viking, but truth be told, I abhor a rapist. Come, raise that ax higher so that I can be done with you and clothe myself.”

The Viking narrowed his eyes, and though he had a sword barely an arm’s length from his gut, the craven lout could not help but take another look at the naked woman behind him. Stefan could feel the lady gather herself at his back. She hissed in a deep breath, but made no move. She was as wise as she was beautiful. He could not run with his leg in the condition it was in, and if she bolted and the Viking went after her, then she would indeed lose more than her modesty this day.

Despite his great discomfort, he smiled. ’Twas a most unusual situation to be found in. A naked Norman knight defending a naked Welsh princess against a fully clothed Viking.

Dag smiled, his wet lips twisting in perverse glee. He nodded in the direction of Stefan’s ravaged leg, then looked up to his equally torn face. “For one so unencumbered, Saxon, and ’twould appear gravely wounded, I doubt you will find yourself clothed any time soon.” The ax rose just an inch. “Move aside and hand over the lady, and I will spare you. If you do not, her betrothed will turn over every rock on this miserable island for the man who would keep her from him.”

“Mayhap you should have thought of that yourself before you attempted to force yourself upon the lady,” Stefan said clearly, growing weary of the talk. He was a man of action.

Arian pressed her naked body up against Stefan’s back, placing her hands upon his shoulders as she rose on her toes to peer at her attacker from behind him. And despite the tenuous position they were in, he could not help but respond to the breasts pressing into his back and the soft thrust of her hips against his buttocks. From behind him, the princess menacingly said, “Magnus will cut your black heart from your chest when I tell him of your actions this day, Dag! Leave me now! Go back to the train and await me!”

“Nay, I will have you, Arian, just as soon as I remove this petulance!” Dag roared, and in a swift, practiced move, he dipped the ax, then with both hands swung it up. Stefan thrust Arian from him, turned and parried the strike with his sword, his arms high in the air. The Viking brought down his brawny arms with such force that Stefan’s sword rattled in his hands. Planting himself firmly in the soft forest floor, he swung his sword back up, and caught the ax just below the steel head. The blade dug into the wooden handle. Stefan kicked the Viking in the gut with his good leg, but the weight on his bad one took most of the force from the kick. The Viking stumbled back only a half step, and Stefan nearly toppled.

Arian gasped, not knowing what she should do. Who was this naked man? Would he force her as Dag had tried to? Would he—

“You are weak, Saxon!” Dag bellowed, and raised his arm. The Saxon half-turned toward her and thrust her further away from him where she hovered near his back. She slammed into the hard trunk of a nearby oak, her head snapping back with a loud thunk.

Instant pain speared behind her eyes, radiating forward. Indignation at being handled in such a brutish manner quickly dissolved: Dag’s handling was far worse.

The Saxon dropped to his knees beneath Dag’s deadly ax, barely able to withstand the attack. Arian looked wildly about for some weapon. A rock, a stick, anything! She spied the black destrier, and the Saxon’s sword belt hanging from the high pommel of the saddle. She cried out in relief. The hilt of a dagger protruded from a short scabbard secured there. She grabbed it and hurried back to him.

In a great sweeping motion from his ankles up to his shoulders, Dag swung at the naked man. The wound on her champion’s thigh bled bright crimson, sweat glistened on his tan skin, and he labored greatly. He could only parry each swipe of the ax, but with each swing, the ax came closer and closer to splitting open her protector’s gut.

Arian panicked, never having been remotely exposed to such brutal men and unsure how to aid her champion. Dag raised his long arms high over his head, and with a resounding force, he brought the great ax down on the man. Arian screamed and watched in horror as he rolled away just in the nick of time; as he did he looked up at her, and grabbed the dagger from her hand, and in a turn so fast it blurred her eyes he crouched, then lunged, jamming the dagger deep into Dag’s throat. The Saxon twisted it, the sound of crunching bone and tearing tendon sickening. He yanked it out, then hopped backwards, bloody dagger in hand, crouched and waiting.

The sharp hiss of escaping air combined with Dag’s guttural scream sent the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. Then he stood as still as the surrounding oaks, shock clearly written across his face. All at once, blood spurted in a high arc over them, warm droplets spraying across her chest and arms. Dag dropped his ax and grabbed madly for his neck.

The Viking sank to his knees and looked up at them, his eyes wide and incredulous. With each beat of his heart, blood flowed in thick waves from between his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak, and gurgling blood bubbled from his lips. He coughed and seemed to be trying to say something. Arian stepped closer but the Saxon flung his hand back and stayed her.

Dag spit blood from his mouth. “The stag,” he gasped, spitting more blood from his mouth. Dag closed his eyes and drew a deep, wheezing breath. Arian cringed at the sharp hiss of air as it rasped in and out from the hole in his neck.

The Saxon reached down and picked up the great ax. “What of the stag?” he demanded.

 

“He runs north.” Dag coughed more blood.

 

“Who do you speak of?” the Saxon demanded.

 

Dag grinned a macabre leer and looked at Arian. Even in the twilight of his death he was lecherous. He coughed up more blood, but managed to say, “Betray Norway.”

 

“What do you speak of, Dag?
Who
betrays Norway?” Arian demanded.

 

Dag sneered.
“I
will
not
betray Norway.”

 

“You betray your uncle!”

 

He spat a wad of blood at her feet.

 

“There is no more reason for your stay here on earth!” the Saxon ground out, and in one mighty heave, he separated the Viking’s head from his shoulders.

Arian screamed as the head toppled to the ground and in a bloody rush rolled toward her resting upon her bare feet. Dag’s ice-colored eyes and twisted sneer gaped up at her in deadly accusation.

“You slew him!” she gasped, turning to the deadly Saxon. And as her eyes clashed with his brilliant blue ones, she shivered hard, and realized they both stood no more than an arm’s length from the other and neither wore a stitch of clothing. But more than that, with the removal of Dag’s head, so too had he removed any hopes of her reaching her betrothed a happy bride. The recriminations for what just took place would be far-reaching. That she had been nearly raped by the dead man mattered not: he was cousin to King Olaf of Norway, and her betrothed’s trusted nephew.

Her shock at what had just occurred turned to horror when she looked harder upon the Saxon’s ravaged face. From the crease of his right eye down along his hairline to the outer edge of his cheek was a long fresh gash, sewn in a most terrible way. Even with a most skilled hand he would be horribly scarred from the wound. ’Twas a wonder he had not lost his eye, the cut came so close to it. And just as ghastly was the horrific red imprint of a broadsword burned in his chest. His eyes narrowed dangerously. His full lips thinned into a sneer and she knew a deep-seated fear she had never experienced in her entire life. Not even when Dag attempted to rape her.

Her belly roiled when ugly visions of what this man would do to her burst into her thoughts. So terrified was she, Arian gagged back the bile that rose in her throat, then doubled over and coughed as one heave chased another. Her noon meal spilled upon the ground, yet even then she could not stop the relentless twisting of her belly. Finally, with nothing left to spew, she spat to the ground. Humiliated and sure she was done, Arian slowly tried to right herself, but when their gazes clashed, another heave roiled up from her belly. She retched again and again, the pain of the spasms overriding her fear. Finally, with nothing left, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and slowly stood. Through bleary eyes she watched him. He had not moved a hand to assist her. He stood rooted to the ground as if he were a statue, his ravaged face twisted in fury.

If she were to die at his hands, she would not make it easy for him. She was not so foolish not to fear the man, but the outrage over what Dag had attempted to do, and now what she was sure this man would do, forced her to straighten her back. Her long hair hung in heavy damp curls down her chest, giving her some modesty, but not much. With that small comfort, tilting her chin up, Arian glared at him. His lips curled back from his teeth. She shivered hard, her bravado taking flight. Cold, wet, and terrified, she was more fearful of this man than of any other soul on earth. He was dark and violent. He had no compulsion in killing, and she was as vulnerable as a downy foal was to a pack of wolves. Her body trembled violently, and her belly roiled again.

He threw the ax to the ground next to Dag’s corpse, and stepped with a noticeable limp through the glade to the linen that lay damp on the ground. He reached down to pick it up. When he slowly stood, barely able to bear his weight, her eyes lifted to his, and instead of violence, she saw raw pain. He quickly masked it. He hid it behind a slow, crooked smile. His shockingly blue eyes glittered. “Are you lost, milady?” he asked in English.

He did not attempt to hide his nakedness from her, and she was all too aware that he was all male. Heat rose in her cheeks, and she felt a flush spatter across her chest.

“I—we—I—” She abruptly stopped and realized she was looking directly at him, and that he was moving! She dropped her eyes to the ground and Dag’s head. She cried out and turned farther around, now facing the forest. Her skin heated, her modesty sorely tested, for she knew he looked upon her with open want. She flinched when he placed the damp linen upon her shoulders, then wrapped it around her, turning her to face him.

She opened her mouth to protest his touching of her, but it seemed ridiculous. He had seen every inch of her and he had saved her from certain rape. As far as the flesh went, there were no secrets between her and this stranger.

She looked up to him. He was as tall as Dag and as muscled. He was as violent, but she cocked her head to one side and looked hard into his intense gaze. There were dark stormy shadows in his eyes. A man with painful secrets? “I am Arianrhod, daughter of Prince Hylcon of Dinefwr. I demand you return me to my train immediately.”

He turned away from her, ignoring her demand, and grabbing his braies and chauses from the shrub he began to dress. She could not help a glance at his muscular back and tight buttocks. He was long of leg and muscled there as well. Rough scars crisscrossed his back from the top of his shoulders to the back of his thighs. Arian cringed, and imagined his suffering. When he turned to face her, she felt the heat rise higher in her cheeks.

“Are you Saxon?” she demanded.

He smiled a crooked, knowing smile, but the gesture froze when loud voices called from the path. She gasped and darted past him. He grabbed her arm, pulling her hard against his chest, his lips inches from hers. “Not a word.”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head, struggling against him, and opened her mouth to scream. As Dag had, he slapped a hand across her mouth. She bit him and he cursed, but he did not flinch. He pushed harder, forcing her down to the ground; he splayed upon her and grabbed for his sword.

Breathing heavily, their breaths mingling hotly, he hissed, “One word and I will slice your tongue from your mouth.”

 

She tried to bite him again, and he forced her head back into the soft ground. “Do not be a fool! After they slay me for the Viking’s death they will look upon you for sport.”

At his last words, Arian stopped her struggling. His eyes narrowed but he kept his attention focused just ahead to the pool where Vikings and Welshmen alike scoured the area, calling for her and Dag.

When they moved to the east side of the pond, their backs to where she lay, he hauled her up from the ground, still keeping his hand firmly across her mouth and his sword to her throat, dragging her naked back to the huge black. As his intention became clear, Arian twisted and screamed against his hand. She would take her chances with Dag’s men, knowing her own men would champion her. If this ruffian absconded with her, she would be lost forever!

As he moved to hoist her up upon the horse’s back, he had to let go of her mouth and she did scream. He cursed and shoved her up and vaulted behind her. Arian flailed against him, shoving her elbows into his ribs, but he held fast. When she dug her nails into the wound on his thigh, he groaned in pain. He smacked her hand away, and when she went for him again he brought the sword tightly to her chest. The long blade rested across the top swell of her breast. “Touch me again there and I will slice you open.”

“Lady Arian!” called Cadoc, her captain.

 

“Lord Dag!” Ivar, Dag’s man, shouted.

“I am here!” she shrieked, pushing away from her captor. Her outburst cost her. The hot sting of the blade sliced into her tender skin. She gasped, not believing he would do such a thing.

Cadoc and Ivar burst into the clearing, stumbling over Dag’s body and looked up at her and her captor in horrified shock.

 

The Saxon called out in French to the horse. It rose up on its hind legs, then pirouetted around, and in a burst of muscle and sinew, it lunged into the thick forest.