Master of Craving (8 page)

Arian could hear her men calling for her in the swiftly receding distance, but what had her attention more was the warm, sticky flow of blood as it worked its way to her belly. She gasped as she looked down. On the swell of her left breast, a thin neat slice. Outrage infiltrated every inch of her body, and yet she feared if she lashed out again he would do more damage.

As they thundered through the forest, she naked as the day she was born and he clad only in damp braies and chauses, white-hot terror and a sudden hopelessness consumed her, as the fear she would forever be at this man’s disposal engulfed her.

FIVE

They rode for hours. Up through the rolling hills, down into wide green valleys along streams and across a river. Instinctively Arian knew her captor was covering his tracks, and though she was no expert, she suspected he knew well how to do it. As the final ray of sun dipped beneath the western horizon, he turned off the path they had been on and into the thick wood. Branches grabbed and snagged at her hair, her arms, and her legs, leaving bloody scratches and bruises in their wake. She was beyond feeling pain, her mind and body gone numb from the day’s events.

A small clearing opened up, and he reined in the great horse. With no gentleness, he dragged her from the saddle. She stumbled, and he grabbed her by the arm, steadying her. She yanked it from his grasp and hissed. “You are a brute!”

His brilliant eyes speared her where she stood. “Aye, and do not forget it.”

He turned his back on her, and she noticed he favored his right leg to the point he could barely put the weight of his body upon it. A woman of action, and one terrified of spending one more moment with the devil, she darted for the wood, knowing he did not possess, the strength to give chase. Blindly she ran, naked and terrified, deeper into the dark wood, as far away from him as her legs would carry her.

Stefan’s instinct was to give chase. But he did not. Even had his leg been steady and secure he would have let her fly. He knew what the darkening wood held in store for the naked princess. Had he the strength he would have scoffed at her desperate flight. But he did not. Instead, he pulled the change of clothing from the saddlebag and dressed, then slowly set about tending the black. After he built a small fire, he stood unmoving and listened to the silence of the wood. After several long moments, he nodded. There, to the west, the soft babble of a stream. Leading the horse, he followed the sound to a small brook. Apollo drank, as did Stefan. Once satisfied, he filled one of the skins before returning to the fire. He pulled the sack of venison and healing pouches from the saddlebags and lowered himself to the ground. With a long sigh, he rested against the saddle and closed his eyes. His thigh throbbed like the devil and his face burned. He grit his teeth and cursed the little hellion for further damaging him.

But ’twas worth it. He’d take it again and again, for the princess was the key to his brothers’ cell in Powys. Aye, she would serve very nicely for what he had in store for her.

He cast his gaze to where she had disappeared into the wood. And as he stared the thud of footsteps rapidly approached from that direction. He grinned despite his great pain. He laughed when the errant princess burst naked into the camp, her eyes wide, her long hair flying about her like a golden shroud.

“Did you not like the forest?” he mocked.

Hands fisted, she strode up to him with blood in her eye and kicked at his thigh. He grabbed her foot before it could do more damage and yanked her toward him. With a hard thud, her naked bottom landed on his belly, her breasts bobbing directly beneath his nose. He instantly responded. He yanked her hard by the hair and drew her face down inches from his. She squirmed back from his chest, only to sit upon him in a most provocative way. His cock swelled behind her, and she gasped, her silvery eyes widening. Stefan groaned, his blood quickening at an alarming rate. If she so much as moved back another half a hand he could not be held accountable for what would follow. Even he had his limits. Sensing his mood, she stilled. “Please,” she gasped. “Do not assault me.”

“Then return the favor,” he gritted between clenched teeth.

She nodded vigorously. Slowly, he smiled again, diffusing some of the heat in his loins, and not minding the pain the gesture caused him. His fingers loosened on her hair and though he meant her no harm, he could not help his hands as they slid down her arms. Though her bracelets had protected her somewhat, small cuts and scrapes marred her smooth skin. She sat perfectly still, her nostrils flaring, her body tense. He brushed a heavy lock of hair from her breast, and she gasped, biting her lip but not moving. The wound from the sword oozed crimson. He pressed a callused fingertip to it and she flinched but made no other move. The palm of his hand rested upon the swell of her breast, and because of the cold or from fear her nipple pebbled beneath him. He clenched his jaw, and his cock grew longer and heavier.
Jesu!
He was not made of stone!

Stefan cleared his throat, and hoarsely said, “You are bleeding.”

 

“No thanks to you!” She pushed off him and hopped to her feet, moving to the opposite side of the fire. “Do not touch me again!”

Stefan swallowed hard. She stood in naked fury, glaring at him with full-blown hatred. Her high breasts heaved up and down upon her chest, her smooth thighs quivered, and she made no move to shield from him what made her so different from a man. His gaze fixed there on the soft downy covering the color of candlelight. His eyes rose to hers, and in the soft light of the fire hers burned hot.

“Had you any honor, you would take the tunic from your back and give it to me,” she said.

 

Stefan slowly shook his head. “I have no honor when it comes to women.”

 

She gasped, crossing herself several times. “You are the devil’s spawn!”

 

“I am.”

 

For a long moment, she stood staring at him as if gauging for herself if he truly was. He would not convince her otherwise. “God will see you burn in hell!”

 

He nodded. “I have already been to hell, my lady and did not find it to my liking.”

When she lowered her body to the ground and curled up into a ball she gave him one last warning. “Be sure, Saxon, to sleep with one eye open, lest you find your sword in your other eye!” She rolled over, and, wrapping her arms tightly about herself, presented her back to him.

Stefan fought back the laughter that rumbled deep in his chest. Never had he come across a woman with such pluck. His mood soured when he thought of the last woman he admired. His mood soured more as he watched her shiver naked in the dirt. He sighed and pulled the woolen tunic over his shoulders.

Arian awoke to cool water and gentle pressure at her breast. She started, her eyes flashing open to find the scarred Saxon beside her, a wet linen in his hand. She slapped it from him and backed up into the dirt.

“Do not touch me!” she cried, fisting her hands. He scowled, and she noticed his hair was wet, his eyes sharp, and his tunic gone. Her eyes hurried down his muscular chest to his clad bottom. Squeezing her eyes shut, she thanked the saints for that one small favor.

“Your wound needs tending,” he said huskily.

Arian looked down to her breast and gasped, remembering what he had done to her. The cut, the length of her forefinger, gaped open and ugly just above the swell of her left breast. “You have scarred me for life!”

“Hardly. Only your lover will see it and if he is worthy ’twill not matter to him.”

 

Her head shot back and she eyed him coolly. “I have no lover! But my betrothed will not find it so comely!”

 

“Then he is a knave.”

 

She shut her mouth and looked harder at this man, this marauder. “Who are you? Why have you taken me? What do you want?”

He pointed at her trembling breasts. “I am the knave who wishes to tend a lady’s wound. It needs to be sewn so that it can knit properly and not be such a blight on such a—” He smiled and his gaze swept her breasts that had the nerve to pebble beneath his hot regard, then lower to her belly, and then lower still to—

“Cast your eyes away!” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and bringing her knees up. His smile widened, and she realized she had given him a perfect look at her nether parts. She shoved her legs down.

“Milady, I have seen more of you than your nurse. You are beautiful, do not be ashamed.”

 

“I am not ashamed!” She was embarrassed to her core!

He reached out a hand to her knee and moved toward her. She backed up farther in the dirt until the rough hardness of a tree stump halted her retreat. He inched up closer to her. “I have no intention of ravishing you, unless you wish it.”

She slapped his hand away. “Never!”

 

“ ’Tis unfortunate.”

 

“For you, sir, never for me.”

 

He nodded and pointed again to her breast. “It will fester. Allow me to sew it.”

 

“ ’Twill hurt! And how do I know you are skilled?”

 

“I sewed my own thigh, and if you had noticed, despite your attack on it, ’tis a perfect line with small, tight stitches.”

 

Her gaze rose to his mangled cheek. He scowled heavily. “Your handiwork leaves much room for improvement.”

 

“Does it offend you?”

 

“The wound or the man to whom it belongs?”

 

“The wound.”

 

“Aye, ’tis most unsightly.”

 

“Then do not look upon it,” he bit off.

Arian gulped in a deep breath. As much as she did not want this man to touch her in any capacity, she knew she needed to be tended and she knew that as brave as she was, she could not do it herself. She shook her head, dreading the prick of the needle. She had never been one to endure pain of any kind. She was miserable each month when her courses came, taking to her bed even with Jane’s elixirs, and the few times she managed a cut or a bruise, one would have thought her legs had been chopped off.

He moved closer, and though she did not want his touch, she knew if she allowed the wound to stay open, if it did not fester, it would heal ugly. Vanity trumped her pride.

 

“Tell me your name,” she softly demanded.

 

“Stefan.”

 

“You are Norman?” she asked tensely, now more afraid than before. Would he take her to Normandy? “Nay, only a Norman name.”

 

She eyed him suspiciously. His English was good and his Welsh passable. “Do you speak French?”

 

He nodded, and pulled her toward him, closer to the fire. “Enough questions. Come closer to the flame so that I can see.”

 

Arian resisted, but with his relentless pull, she gave in. Dragging the saddle close, he set her against it. Once she was settled, his brilliant eyes caught hers. “ ’Twill hurt.”

 

Swallowing hard, Arian whispered, “I survived Dag, your brutish attack, and a day riding naked in a saddle with a demon behind me. The needle is child’s play.”

When he smiled, she caught her breath. Despite his ravaged face, the gesture, not one of mocking this time but of admiration, transformed his features from demon to … something else.

When he pressed his left hand to her hip and bent slightly over her to minister to the wound, Arian bit her lip. His hand was hot, and rough against the smoothness of her skin. As she watched him gently wash the area around the cut, to her horror her nipples puckered. She closed her eyes rather than see his taunting gaze. She bit her lip harder and pushed her head back; in so doing, her back arched and her chest thrust toward him. She heard a slight groan, and her eyes flew open, she caught her breath. Heat flushed her cheeks at his hot regard of her. His eyes lifted to hers and at that moment, something deep inside her warmed. “I cannot do this,” she breathed.

“Aye, you can, and you will.”

 

Vehemently she shook her head. “ ’Tis not decent that you touch me that way or look at me with such—such want.”

His fingers caressed the flare of her hip. Nervousness she had never experienced shook her resolve. “I cannot help that I crave you. I am a man, and you a beautiful woman. ’Tis natural.”

She looked down at his large hand and long thick fingers. They were the hands of a man who was used to wielding weapons and killing. Yet they were capable of gentleness. He moved back from her. “I give you my oath, and my oath is my word; I am not like Dag.” He pulled a needle and thread from a leather pouch beside the fire. His eyes caught hers. “Sit back, princess, and do not move. I will work as quickly as I can.”

Stefan had sewn many a wound in his time, not only on his men but as horse master to the destriers. And never once did his hand tremble as it did now. He looked up into her terrified silver-colored eyes that glittered with tears, and found he did not want to inflict pain on her for any reason. He swallowed down a curse and pressed the needle to her skin. “Close your eyes.”

As trusting as a child, she did as he told her and when he pierced her skin, she cried out. The needle jabbed deeper into her flesh and she cried out again. “Be still, my lady, be still or ’twill hurt more.”

She choked back a sob. He pressed his left hand to her breast, to steady her and to push the two sliced pieces of her skin together, and felt her heart leap against his palm. Her nipple followed, and he swallowed hard. “Steady,” he said softly. As he pushed the needle through her skin, then pulled up the thread, she bit her lip, but she did not flinch. The next stitch earned a hard flinch, the third and fourth a low moan of pain and the fifth and sixth a teardrop. The entire time her eyes were squeezed shut and her body taut. He caught the teardrop with his fingertip, and softly said, “I am done and yet you live.”

She expelled a long breath and opened her eyes, catching his gaze. At that moment, he wanted to lose his fingers in her thick hair and bring her full lips to his and offer some comfort, but he did not. What he had in store for her would garner no affection, and he was not a man to play with a woman’s emotions. He moved back from her and handed her his tunic. “Here.”

He stood staring down at her as she tried several times to raise both her arms over her head and don the garment. But the wound was sore and she could not raise her left arm. He refused to assist her. He did not want to touch her, he did not want her to need him for anything large or small. He wanted her to be ugly and waspish, not looking lost and helpless. He let out a long breath when she tossed the garment to the dirt in frustration. He bent to retrieve it, and when he did, his cheek flared in pain. He stood with the garment in his left hand and extended his right to the naked princess.