Untamed (17 page)

“Darkened mews,” Meg said bleakly.

Dominic closed the shutters, as though expecting one of the harsh winds of winter to pry at the wood. Meg watched and bit back a cry of protest. In all but the most savage weather, she kept the shutters open a crack. She loved the radiant, silver-blue glory of daylight spilling into her living quarters.

Seeing the room as it was now, with only a small fire in the hearth, made her feel…caged.

When Dominic went to the fire as though to extinguish even that source of light, she couldn't stifle her small sound of protest. He turned, looked at her thoughtfully, and added a bit more wood to the fire. She let out her breath in a long, almost soundless sigh of relief.

Dominic heard it and smiled to himself, knowing he had read his small falcon well. The first battle was won; she had agreed to her captivity. Now they would negotiate the terms of it.

He sat in the big chair and gestured to his lap.

“Sit. I will serve you.”

Uncertainly, Meg stepped forward. Countless tiny bells stirred and sang.

“Oh,” she said, hesitating and then moving again, listening. “'Tis very beautiful.”

“Like flowers singing?” Dominic asked.

“Aye,” she said, smiling despite her unease, “or butterflies laughing.”

“I'm glad my gift pleases you.”

“It does, lord—er, Dominic. It was very kind of you.”

“I'm glad you think me kind,” he said with an enigmatic smile.

Gingerly Meg lowered herself onto Dominic's knees. He picked her up and rearranged her across his lap until she was half reclining against his left arm. Meg wondered at the silver blaze of his eyes. In the dim light they glowed like clear crystals.

With his right hand, Dominic plucked a drumstick from the heaped platter. Meg reached for the food. He held it beyond her reach.

“Nay,” he said. “I will feed you, small falcon.”

She gave him a startled look. He smiled and stripped a bit of meat from the drumstick with teeth that were as white and clean as a young hound's. Then he plucked the morsel from between his teeth and held it out to her with his fingertips. When she reached to take the meat with her hand, the food was withdrawn once more.

“Nay,” Dominic said softly. “Falcons have no fingers.”

Meg's mouth opened in surprise. Deftly he slid the bit of meat between her lips.

“There,” he murmured as though talking to his peregrine in the mews. “That wasn't such a difficult thing, was it?”

Chewing slowly, she shook her head. Bells at the end of her braids rang like a falcon's jesses.

“More?” Dominic asked.

She nodded.

He smiled darkly. “Some falcons—the special, magical ones—speak.”

“About what?” Meg asked as Dominic stripped another bit of meat from the drumstick.

“Food, water, the hunt, the kill, the wildness of flight…”

“Freedom,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he said, holding out the morsel. “I suspect untamed falcons talk about that most of all.”

Meg watched Dominic's eyes as she ate from his hand. There was an odd intimacy in the act. A bond as tenuous as a single silk thread stretched between them with each bit of food she accepted; and like silk thread, when one was laid next to another, and then another, and then another, the resulting strand strengthened until there would be no breaking it.

As the moments slipped by in a hush defined rather than broken by the tender chiming of bells, Meg understood in a way she never had before precisely why the best hunting hounds were fed only by their master and why babes learned closeness with their mother's milk.

And why falcons—the most free of God's creatures—were fed only from their lord's hands, rode only on his wrist, came only to his special call.

“Is the food not to your taste?” Dominic asked.

“It's very good.”

“Then why have you stopped eating?”

“I was thinking of falcons and masters,” Meg said.

“Falcons have no masters.”

“They hunt only at their lord's pleasure.”

“Falcons hunt at their own pleasure,” Dominic countered, popping another bite of food between her lips. “Their lords simply provide an opportunity.”

“Do all men see it thus?”

Dominic shrugged. “It matters not to me how other men see the bond between falcon and man. If foolish men wish to believe they fly the bird rather than vice versa, who am I to disturb their shallow understanding?”

Chewing thoughtfully, Meg considered what Dominic had said. As soon as she swallowed, bread and cheese appeared before her lips. She opened her mouth for the food, received it—and felt the distinct caress of his fingertip on her lower lip as he withdrew.

“But falcons are captive and men are not,” she said.

“Have you ever freed a falcon?”

“Once.”

“Why?” he asked.

“She never accepted her jesses.”

“Aye. But all the other falcons did.”

Meg nodded.

“And in doing so,” Dominic continued, “your fierce sisters learned a different kind of freedom.”

Green eyes asked a silent question.

“They learned the freedom of being cared for when ice covers the land,” Dominic said, “of being fed when there is no game in forest or field, of living in comfort twice or thrice as long as their untamed kin. Who can say which freedom is superior?”

Meg started to speak, only to have a fig slipped between her lips by Dominic's deft fingers.

“It all depends on the falcon's acceptance of her new life,” Dominic continued.

Meg chewed quickly, parted her lips to say something, and found herself with another mouthful of food. When she gave Dominic a sidelong look, she saw that he was smiling.

“Ale?” he asked innocently.

She swallowed and wisely nodded instead of trying to speak.

When Dominic picked up the mug of ale and drank, Meg expected him to hold the mug to her lips as though she were a child learning to drink from a bowl.

But instead of a cold mug, it was Dominic's warm lips that met hers. A stream of cool, potent ale poured over her tongue. Automatically she swallowed. Dominic bit her lips very gently, lifted his head, and drank again from the mug. Then he turned and let Meg drink the ale from him.

The elemental intimacy of the act made her tremble. Bells stirred almost secretly, a music more sensed than heard. He drank from the mug and she sipped from his lips until she felt light-headed.

“Enough,” Meg whispered.

The words were spoken against Dominic's mouth. She was breathing the heady scent of ale on his breath, tasting his warmth, feeling the edges of his teeth as he delicately nibbled on her lower lip.

“Are you certain?” he asked, biting with exquisite care.

“I fear I have no head for ale. I'm quite dizzy.”

Dominic's laugh was like his voice; low, velvet, very male.

“'Tis not the small bit of ale you've drunk,” he murmured against her lips, “'tis the way you drank that is making you light-headed.”

Meg didn't argue. She knew that ale had never gone to her head so quickly before.

“Maybe it's simple hunger,” she said, looking longingly at the platter of food.

Laughing silently, Dominic resumed feeding Meg with his fingertips rather than with his lips. Her heartbeat settled as she became accustomed to the novel way of eating. Meat and figs, cheese and bread—and the crisp greens—vanished with surprising speed.

“You have taken nothing,” Meg protested as Dominic held out another bit of fig for her to eat.

“I'm not a small falcon.”

“Even eagles eat,” she said dryly.

But she was smiling at him, her eyes sparkling as she watched him from beneath long, auburn eyelashes.

Dominic laughed aloud and stole a crumb of bread from the corner of Meg's smile. Then he continued
feeding her one small bite at a time until she could eat no more.

Yet even then Meg was reluctant to stop. The man who was holding her so carefully, teasing her so gently, feeding her so intimately was a revelation to her. Her heart insisted that there must be more to the dark Norman knight than ambition and deadly skill with sword and lance.

The stubborn hope that had kept generations of Glendruid women alive stirred once more within Meg, whispering to her that a man who was capable of such tenderness and laughter might also be capable of love. She could not love a man who was too cold and self-controlled to love her in return, but if he could love her…if that were possible…

Then anything was possible.

Even a Glendruid son
.

When Dominic offered Meg yet another bit of bread, she shook her head in refusal; but at the same time, she brushed a fleeting kiss over his fingertips. His eyes narrowed and his breathing quickened at the caress that had been given freely.

“Something sweet?” Dominic asked, his voice husky.

Meg looked at the tray and saw the selection of Turkish sweets that had been hidden beneath the bread. In the wavering light from the hearth, she couldn't tell which of the sweets would have the flavor she preferred.

“Which is the lemon?” she asked.

“We shall find out.”

With deceptively lazy grace, Dominic picked up one of the sweets. He popped it in his mouth, rolled it around on his tongue, and then bent to Meg.

“Taste me, small falcon.”

A delicate network of fire shivered over Meg's nerves as she looked at Dominic's cleanly defined
lips. They appeared hard, as though cut from stone, yet she knew them to be wonderfully warm and yielding.

Dominic watched his bride, understanding her with the same ruthless clarity he did men, potential battle sites, and fortified towns. Each had its strengths, but it was the weaknesses that mattered to him. In weakness lay defeat.

Meg's weakness was her need to believe in love.

Come to me, Glendruid witch. See in me what you want to see. Betray your living fortress to me. Lie open and undefended for my taking
.

Give me the son I must have
.

Slowly Meg pressed her mouth over Dominic's. When he made no move, she touched the tip of his tongue with her own and quickly retreated to watch him with wide, wary eyes. He raised his eyebrow in silent question.

“Sweet, but not lemony,” Meg said in a low voice.

“Ah. We'll have to try again, won't we?”

Dominic discarded the candy and selected another one. When the taste of the sweet filled his mouth, he looked expectantly at Meg. This time she came to him without hesitation, tasted him less warily, and withdrew with less speed.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes…”

“But not what you sought?”

Slowly Meg shook her head.

“Then we'll just have to keep trying,” he said.

She nodded, smiling slightly.

Dominic's smile was a trifle wolfish, but Meg didn't notice, for he had turned away to make his choice among the remaining sweets. In an increasingly taut silence, he selected another, offered it for her sampling, and felt the warm stirring of her tongue within his mouth.

The suspicion Meg had that Dominic knew quite well which candy was lemon-flavored strengthened with each sweet tried and discarded, but she didn't object. The honeyed kisses were addictive, and the sensual game was more delectable than any Turkish candy.

Finally only one sweet remained. Meg watched with languid eyes as Dominic put the candy between lips that were shining from the heat of their shared kisses. He didn't have to ask her to taste him. She lifted her face to him as eagerly as a falcon lifts her face to the sky.

The piquant taste of lemon spread through Meg, drawing a sound of pleasure from the back of her throat. Dominic moved his head a fraction.

“Is this the one?” Dominic asked against Meg's lips.

“Aye.”

“Share it with me.”

As Dominic spoke, he lowered his head. This time the kiss didn't stop until the last bit of sweet was melted and Meg didn't know whether she was kissing him or he was kissing her, for their mouths were so deeply joined that she couldn't have said where one ended and the other began.

When Dominic finally lifted his head, Meg was breathing quickly, lost to the kiss, her body flushed from the delicate network of fire that had bloomed beneath her skin. She opened eyes that were hungry, languid, sensuous; and she saw herself being watched by eyes as cold as she was warm.

“You have tasted my mercy and found it sweet,” Dominic said distinctly. “But a wise man shows mercy only once to the same person.”

Meg went still.

“Never fight me again, small falcon. That is the favor I ask of you.”

W
ITH EACH PASSING DAY
, M
EG'S
promise not to defy Dominic grew more difficult to honor.

“But my garden,” she protested as Dominic stepped out her door. “I must—”

“Old Gwyn is tending it,” Dominic said across Meg's words. As he spoke, he pulled the door to her room shut behind him. “I'll be back before the noon bells ring.”

“But when will I be freed?” she cried to the sound of his retreating footsteps.

“When there can be no doubt that any babe of yours is also mine. I'll come back soon, small falcon. In the meantime, remember your promise to me.”

Making a sound of frustration, Meg hit the door with her fist, setting her golden bells to jangling in distress.

“‘Remember your promise,'” she mimicked in disgust. “Pah! How can I forget it? I've had little else to think about these past three days!”

Like a new falcon in a mews, Meg had been kept alone in a twilight room. Unlike a falcon, she had a hearth fire to relieve the gloom and warm the
stone walls. She could also pace, a comfort denied the hunting birds.

The lord of Blackthorne Keep was Meg's only contact with the world beyond her quarters. Upon his orders, no one came to her rooms, no one spoke to her through the door, no one brought either food or drink: only Dominic kept her company.

He was with her often throughout the day, coming in without announcement, bringing a flower freshly bloomed or a smooth river pebble to add to her collection. He stayed for a time to talk about his peregrine's rapid progress, the state of the fields, the refurbishing of the armory, the litter of kittens that looked just like Black Tom, and the progress of Meg's gardens.

If one of Dominic's visits occurred when it was time to eat, he held Meg and fed her with a patience that never varied no matter how she chaffed at confinement. When it was time to sleep, they shared her canopied bed in an intimacy that was unsettling to her, but had the unexpected benefit of keeping her warm.

And when it was time to bathe…

Meg shivered, remembering Dominic leaning against the doorway, watching her with glittering silver eyes as she washed herself in a ritual that was as old as her first initiation into Glendruid ways. Yet for all the smoky sensuality of her husband's gaze, for all his obvious potency when they slept in the same bed, his self-discipline never varied. He touched her only to feed her, to give her drink, to warm her in the cold of the night.

For the first time in her life, Meg wished she had a leman's skills. Then she would tempt her husband so greatly that his formidable self-control would burn up like dry straw in the torch of his passion. He would take her before she bled, and in doing so
find out how baseless his distrust had been.

If she had a leman's skills…but she did not. She had only the certainty that each day of her captivity made the people of the keep more resentful of their new Norman lord. When Harry had spoken to her the morning after her wedding, he had spoken for all of Blackthorne's people.

If the lord hurts you we'll nae stand for it…. Many accidents can befall a man while hunting. I promise you
.

Fear coursed through Meg as she remembered Harry's words. Such an act would be a catastrophe for the keep. Simon already distrusted Blackthorne's affection for Duncan of Maxwell. If Dominic were hurt by rebellious peasants, Simon's vengeance would be more swift and savage than any his brother might devise.

Bells chimed as Meg paced her living quarters wearing golden jesses, worrying about the future of her people. Finally sounds from the bailey below distracted her, men's voices raised in exuberant cries. Even through the closed shutters the clash and clang of sword on shield was clear.

Meg went to the window. She had discovered she could open the shutters a bare crack without it being visible from below. The opening wasn't large enough to admit sunlight, but she could put her eye to the slit and watch the bailey below.

Under Dominic's keen supervision, the knights were keeping their battle skills honed. Hauberk and helm, chausses and chain mail gauntlets protected the men while they hacked and chopped with weapons that had more weight than a battle sword and no edge to speak of.

That didn't mean the swords weren't dangerous. In the hands of a strong knight, even a blunt weapon could badly wound a careless, unskilled, or unlucky opponent.

Eadith poured ale and called out encouragement to her favorites. The black-eyed Marie moved among the fighters, serving frothing mugs of ale. Even from the height of Meg's rooms, the swing and sway of the Norman woman's hips was obvious.

With eyes like green ice, Meg watched the leman approach Dominic. She stood so close to him there was no daylight between, and tilted her face up as though to a god.

When Dominic laughed at something the leman said, Meg's hands became fists. All that prevented her from opening the shutters and hurling the contents of the chamber pot at Marie's head was the certainty that Dominic hadn't bedded his leman recently. There had been no opportunity; when he wasn't tending to the keep's affairs, he was with his wife.

If she was captive to Dominic, he was also captive to
her
. The thought gave Meg a certain fierce satisfaction.

Even so, she was glad when Dominic turned away from his leman to answer a question from Simon. A moment later Dominic nodded and signaled to his squire.

Soon both brothers were fully attired for battle. When they stepped into an open space in the bailey, the contests of the other knights slowed and then halted. Even the most battle-toughened knight learned something new when the two brothers tested each other's skill.

At an unseen signal, Dominic and Simon sprang forward, wielding their heavy blades with deceptive ease. Physically the brothers were well-matched. Both were taller than was common, broader of shoulder, stronger, and quicker. It was like watching a man fight himself.

The wicked whistle of steel slicing through air made Meg hold her breath. The blows the brothers
rained upon one another would have quickly felled smaller men. At first it seemed that one of them must surely give way before the onslaught. Gradually it became clear that while Dominic had a slight edge in strength, Simon had a slight edge in quickness. The only question was which man would first put to use his superior gift in a telling way.

Again and again Meg bit back a cry as it seemed certain that Dominic would catch a savage blow to the ribs or head. Each time he lifted his shield at the last instant, absorbing the blow. Then his own sword would glitter savagely as it descended, only to have Simon slip much of the blow with a lithe movement of his body. Both brothers crouched, circled, feinted, and attacked again and again, until Meg thought one of them must surely lose strength or quickness, giving the battle to the other.

“Lady,” called someone softly from the hall. “Are you there? 'Tis Marta.”

“The lord has forbidden anyone to speak with me for a time,” Meg said reluctantly. “Hurry away before you are seen and punished.”

“'Tis Harry's wife, lady. The baby has been trying to come for near two days now, but she is too weak to push it out.”

“Where is Gwyn?”

“Over to the Dale settlement trading medicines with a wise woman from the south. You are sorely needed, my lady.”

Meg began stripping off gold bells from her wrists. The jewelry would only get in the way of what was to come.

“I'm on my way, Marta. Leave before you're discovered.”

“Aye, lady.”

There was a pause, then, “Must you take the straight way out? 'Tis sure the Norman devil's
guard—er, your husband's knight will see you.”

“There is another way. Now go!”

“God love you, gentle lady. I am gone.”

Meg grabbed a special smock from an oddly carved chest, took the bottle from the hidden niche, and opened the door to the hall. As she stepped through the doorway, Dominic's warning echoed in her head:

You have tasted my mercy and found it sweet. But a wise man shows mercy only once to the same person. Do not fight me again, wife
.

Yet she had, and now she must once more.

Without hesitation, Meg closed the door behind her and rushed down the hall. There was no other choice for her to make. Harry's wife would surely die without aid, and the babe with her.

Ignoring the curious stares of the servants, who knew well what their lord's orders had been, Meg pelted down winding stairs in a wild flurry of her remaining golden bells. She ransacked the herbal, shoving packets of herbs and tightly stoppered potions into a basket along with the painkiller, the antidote, and the smock.

Instead of climbing back up the stairs to the forebuilding and the stone doorway guarded by Dominic's blond mercenary, Meg lit a small candle and went into the deepest part of the herbal. Rack upon rack of herbs, bark, stems, seeds, and flowers were drying in a darkness that the single candle flame seemed to make greater rather than to lessen.

Behind the last rack, hidden in the utter darkness and closed off by a heavy wooden wheel, there was an opening barely large enough for a kneeling man to squeeze through. It was the keep's bolthole, the last escape for the lord and his family if the place ever was overrun by enemies.

Meg put her shoulder to the wheel, pushed it
aside, and dropped to her hands and knees. A light so faint it could have been imagined rather than real showed at the farthest reach of the tunnel. She pinched out the candle, put it in the basket, and began crawling forward, pushing the basket in front of her. She had come this way many times before, when her mother was alive and used the bolthole to escape John's fury at having married a woman who would not give him heirs.

The tunnel's floor was covered with woven mats of reeds that creaked and rustled and barely cushioned the rocky stretches. Where the tunnel passed beneath the moat, the walls and floor were dank with seepage. Meg crawled as quickly as she could, for she had never liked the tunnel's clammy embrace, though she no longer feared it as she had when a child.

Despite the need to hurry, Meg waited at the far end as she had been taught to do, breathing the clean outer air and listening for anyone nearby. Nothing came back to her but a silence disturbed only by the sound of wind toying with the emerging leaves of the thicket that guarded the bolthole's exit.

Meg pushed through the tangle of shrubs and looked around the pasture. At the far corner, ewes ate spring's bounty with single-minded intensity. Around them, lambs leaped and scattered like white flowers bobbing on a green sea. Neither shepherd nor dogs were in sight. The ewes barely lifted their heads when Meg emerged from the thicket.

She hurried through the gate. Harry's home lay just over the hill, amid fields whose shining dark earth showed a frosting of green. The lane leading to the cottage wound between waist-high dry-stone walls whose rocky faces were a patchwork of lichen and moss in shades of green, black, and a rich rust. In sunny places beyond the reach of sheep or plow,
gorse bloomed in bright yellow profusion. In grassy areas daffodils burst from the earth like small children set free to play.

Normally Meg would have savored the pearly light and the elegant shapes of the oaks rising naked from steep green hills, the sharp scent of gorse and the silent laughter of flowers; but today she barely noticed the signs of spring's victory over winter. She had eyes only for any obstacle in the lane that might trip her and send her sprawling, scattering the precious medicines in her basket.

Harry's cottage was of stone and timber, for his father had been a favorite knight of John's. At fourteen, Harry had been a squire well on his way to becoming a knight, but he had been crippled in the same battle that had killed his father. Instead of becoming a knight, Harry had become Blackthorne's gatekeeper and a freeholder with a tiny bit of land to call his own.

The local midwife must have been watching from the window, for she rushed out while Meg was still in the lane.

“Thank you, my lady,” she said, grabbing Meg's hand and kissing it in relief. “The poor woman is at the end of her strength.”

“Is there ample water?”

“Aye,” the midwife said.

Her emphatic tone said she well remembered the previous birthings she had attended when Meg had been called to aid. The midwife might not understand Glendruid water rituals, but she no longer questioned them.

Meg could barely walk beneath the lintel without ducking her head. Inside, the cottage showed evidence of Adela's difficult pregnancy—cold porridge spilled and left everywhere, scraps of food even the dogs disdained left on the floor, half-rotted turnips
brought from the cellar and discarded, weeks of refuse piled about waiting to be removed. After the clean air outside, the smell was like a blow.

“She is sleeping lightly,” the midwife said in a low voice.

Adela's pallet was against the far wall. The mattress was the only fresh-smelling thing in the cottage, for Meg had sent herbal sachets home with Harry every fortnight.

Though only three years older than Meg, Adela looked twice her age. She had married at thirteen and produced her first babe before she was fourteen. After nine years of marriage, she had six living children and three dead.

Meg went to the hearth, poured a basin of warm water and took it outside. There she added three herbs and some slivers of the soap she made herself. Chanting softly in the silence of her mind, Meg pulled off her outer tunic with its long, narrow sleeves and thrust her hands into the basin.