Surrender

SURRENDER

Book 4 of the Raptor Castle
Series

SOPHIA JOHNSON

"Elyne. I can run all day." Graemme's words
came through a tight jaw, more growled than spoken. "Ye will tire
afore I do," he taunted. "In fact, I will stop for the count of
five to give ye a better start."

Quickly, she glanced back again. On a
boulder, he didn't stand upright but crouched, head slightly
forward. Fists on his knees, his fingers clenching and
unclenching.

The picture of a wolf ready to spring flashed
through her mind.

"By the count of ten, I will have ye in my
hands. Ye had best run like ye never ran afore!"

"One!" His voice was soft, silky.

She gasped and leapt forward.

"Two!"

She kept running. When he came to 'Nine', she
knew he was right behind her.

Was he going to kill her? Pray God, not. Beat
her? She didn't doubt it.

She ran like a rabbit chased by an eagle.

"Ten!"

Elyne flew through the air with such speed
she believed an eagle had taken her ankles in its talons. The
ground quickly receded. Upside down, she rose towards the treetops.
She screamed like she'd never screamed afore.

Several times, she rose and fell, each time
less than the other. Finally, she swung slowly. Her skirts hung
down over her arms.

Cold rain fell on her bare legs and nether
parts as she fought her kirtle and smock.

Graemme grabbed the hems of her clothing and
hauled them away from her face. He bent slightly to look into her
eyes.

His voice turned gentle as a kitten's
purr.

His eyes belied the tone.

Menacing.

"Ye should have listened. I told ye at
ten
ye would be in my hands. I neglected to add
helpless
. But then, ye should have known ye would be."

Copyright 2012 by June J. Ulrich

Smashwords Edition

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consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

The book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
localities, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Electronic books or eBooks are not transferable.
They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement
on the copyright of the work.

Cover design by Delle Jacobs

http://www.dellejacobs.blogspot.com

Visit the author's website at
www.sophiajohnson.net

Raptor Castle, Scottish Border to Northumbria.

Why in Hades was she sitting bare-arsed
on the cold ground when she should still be curled up in her warm,
comfortable bed?

Elyne startled, chasing all remnants of sleep
from her mind. She shivered and rubbed her arms, dew-wet where the
thin, yellow smock had drooped and exposed her flesh. Wondering
what might be in the wet grass beneath her bottom didn't help. For
truth, her fear of spiders caused her shivers to turn to shudders.
She sprang to her feet, quickly brushing her hands over her hips
and legs.

She frowned. Shook her head as she looked
around. Why
was
she beneath an apple tree in the middle
bailey? In the dead of night? Something fell from her lap when she
stood. She retrieved a small handful of greens and held it to her
nose.

Hm. Herbs, but not those she generally
picked.... Had she been dreaming?

An elusive memory teased her as it swirled in
a dark, gray haze. She squeezed her eyes tight and wrinkled her
nose. Her brows met in a fierce frown as she willed her mind to
recall it. Surely, it would come to her why she was outside the
keep at such an odd time of night.

Bright colored streaks shot behind her closed
lids then changed to flashing images as she coaxed them into her
mind's light, piecing them together. As the images formed, she
shuddered and groaned.

A black wolf. Leaping from atop a boulder,
his eyes gleaming, his teeth bared in a throaty snarl. For nigh on
to two years, the beast had haunted her dreams. In the past nine
months, the wolf had slowly evolved into the form of a man.

Had she seen his face this time? Nay. Shadows
still hid him as they had done in all the other visions. For certs,
she wouldn't share them with her father. He'd had cause enough for
mirth over her dafty tales—as he called them—in the past years.

But not last eve! When the gatekeeper
appeared to ask permission before allowing a Highlander and his two
men to enter, his frown had changed to surprise. They had ridden up
to the drawbridge after the guards had lowered the portcullis for
the night. Bleh! Her father sent her to bed without allowing her to
see who came at such a late hour. She had the right to. After all,
a sennight ago it was she who dreamed a Highland warrior would come
in the very same way.

With a father like Chief Broccin, 'twas no
wonder she dreamt such... such what? She scowled and thought. But
not for long. The sound of a man's boots striking the cobblestones
reminded her of her present predicament. She dropped the wilted
herbs, grabbed the nearest branch of the apple tree and scrambled
upward. Afore the man rounded the corner, she was perched mid-tree
facing the well, her left arm hugging the trunk.

Drats. Her heart pounded. Had she some spell
which called the man-beast of her dreams into the world? She took a
shaky breath and peered below.

Ah. No wolf. Only a man carrying a helmet in
the crook of his arm. She tilted her head and studied him. 'Twas a
shame there was not more moonlight. From his height and the breadth
of his shoulders, he was most impressive. He observed the well then
apparently made up his mind. With the sinuous grace of a sleek
animal, he prowled around the small area and studied it. He
hesitated for a heartbeat or two before he placed the helmet on the
huge boulder standing nearby.

From the depth of his hair coloring, it must
be black or a very deep brown. Shaggy, it hung down the back of his
neck past his shoulders. A hank slid over the left side of his
forehead teasing his eye, annoying him, for he shoved it back.
Because of its unruliness, 'twas probable he'd cut it himself.

Elyne pressed her fingers to her lips to
stifle a giggle, for the man disrobed as quickly as a loose
slattern tempted by gleaming coins. Though, truth to tell, he had
on less clothing than any whore. Naught but a woolen kilt
carelessly draped around his body and over his shoulder, held in
place by a leather sword belt strapped around his slender
waist.

The belt and cloth he tossed atop the bolder,
near knocking his helmet to the ground. His sword received gentler
treatment for he carefully balanced it against the well near to his
hands.

But it wasna the sword which drew her
attention. His bare body did. His, um, strong, muscular arms. Wide,
impressive shoulders. His bared back. Oh, my. When he bent to rid
himself of his boots, his fine arse caught her gaze. Muscles played
over taut flesh when he faced the well to lower the bucket and pull
it up again, filling both wooden pails set beside the well for
washing. When he shifted, the movement highlighted strong, sturdy
legs.

For certs, those legs were covered in black
hair? Would it be wiry or perchance soft? She wasn't sure. One
summer when her friend Catalin came to visit, she'd brushed against
her brother and cousin's legs the day they all stole away to the
lake to teach her to swim. Their hair was neither wiry nor soft.
Mayhap coarse? She'd never stroked her hands over a man's legs. Or
anyone else's. Had never felt the urge to.

Until tonight.

Ack! Could a person hear another's thoughts?
The man turned and scowled, studying everything around him. Thank
the good saints he didn't look upward—except at the nearest window
openings.

She barely dared to breathe. She must stay
hidden.

He was nekid. She was close to the same state
of undress.

Her smock was so thin anyone could see
through it. She should have discarded it years ago, but it was soft
from wear and perfect for balmy nights.

She must stop thinking. He'd stilled again.
Did he sense someone watched him? Nay. He shrugged his shoulders,
took the first pail and held it high, letting the water cascade
over his body. She fancied she could see the chill bumps on his
skin. Only a Highlander could stand such cold water of a night. Or
her brother Ranald. Even in winter, monks never had heated water to
bathe.

She stilled her thoughts again. He hooked his
fingers in the soap tub, took out a goodly amount and began rubbing
it briskly over his body. He backed up to give his arms room to
scour his chest. His body was finely honed, the flesh separated by
bunching muscles across his breast. His hair-encircled nipples must
surely be hard from all the friction. She lost interest in trying
to spy them. Her sight had locked onto the dimly lit rippling
muscles leading down to divide the hard slab of his stomach, belly
and narrow hips.

When his hands lathered from his waist, over
his belly and ruffled the hair leading an interesting line to his
maleness, her mouth was so dry she may as well have stuffed it with
wool from a shorn sheep.

Mayhap it was a good thing she could not see
him in the light of day. She would have fallen from the tree by
now.

Graemme, a Morgan of Clibrick Castle, knew
someone watched him with such intensity that he edged closer to his
sword. He continued to cleanse himself as if unaware. Should he see
the slightest advance or shift that gave away the person's
position, they would find his sword at their throat.

He took slow, measured breaths as his eyes
beneath hooded lids probed the shadows. He splashed his right hand
in the second pail of clear water. Soapy fingers couldna grip a
sword steadily without a waver. His best defense was to appear
unwary of danger and take an attacker by surprise. He didna want to
kill needlessly. The chief here was neither a Morgan nor a Gunn
but, by looks and reputation, he was fully as warlike as both
families.

When his left hand lathered his cock, it took
his full concentration not to hesitate on hearing a soft gasp. He
slightly tilted his head to the side and his gaze followed where
his ears picked up the sound. Ha!

No assailant would wear such light-colored
cloth.

No assailant would perch in a tree in the
dead of night.

Had a serving maid come to steal apples when
no one was about? Mayhap he would have someone to warm his pallet.
It had been near a month since he swived a woman. Just the thought
set his cock to swell and stand upright to stare at him.

Eager.

Ready.

Begging.

He stroked the soap over the head, down the
shaft and between his legs, hefting his hardening sacks.

"Dinna worry, lads," he crooned. "Soon ye'll
have a hot, wet sheath and warm buttocks to comfort ye after
pounding against naught but a leather saddle so many days."

His keen ears picked up another gasp. He
grinned.

"Is it my cock ye wished to spy, lass?" His
voice was near a harsh growl with his need.

His flesh was so hard, so eager he didn't
think he could last until he entered the lass. Best to take the
edge off aforehand. He stroked his engorged flesh. Slowly at first.
Then faster. But not too fast. Not until that special feeling that
told him he was about to spend. His head raised and arched backward
as the sky cleared. Moonlight streamed down on the apple tree.

His face tensed, anticipating his release.
His gaze fastened on startled eyes opened wide and gleaming in the
moonlight. They belonged to the most comely face he had ever seen.
If he did not know better, he would deem 'twas the face of an
innocent angel. But no innocent angel hid in a tree to spy on a
man.

"Come down, pretty lass. If 'tis bed sport ye
crave, I'll be happy to swive with ye." He waggled his brows and
grinned.

The girl drew up her legs trying to fold into
a ball and hide herself, but the branch was too small. He laughed
outright.

"Come, lass, ye are well and truly caught
spyin'. And ye were all but droolin' enough to rinse me."

He lifted the bucket and upended the water
over his head.

His cockstand wilted.

Deflated. Like a soap bubble touched with a
warm fingertip.

Cold water ran in rivulets down his body to
disappear between the cobblestones surrounding the well. He shook
himself like a huge dog, causing his sex to sway and bounce against
his thighs then walked over to stand beneath her.