Untamed (29 page)

Dominic felt Meg's response as clearly as she did, for her soft depths caressed him with each flick of ecstasy's silken whip. His eyes narrowed at the sudden, savage rush of his blood. Without sepa
rating their bodies, he lifted her and carried her to the bed.

“Don't leave me yet,” Meg whispered, holding him.

His breath wedged. “Do you like having me within you?”

“Aye.”

She trembled with a backlash of pleasure as Dominic lay full length above her, bracing his weight on his elbows. Even his smallest movement sent hot shards of sensation through her, for he was full and hard once more.

“Did I not please you?” Meg asked.

“You pleased me until I could barely stand.”

She moved tentatively. “Did I? But you still feel quite…ready.”

“Not still. Again.”

Her eyes widened. “It has not been half an hour.”

Dominic laughed and moved again within Meg, savoring every bit of her warmth, drawing forth a scented rain of pleasure. Slowly he retreated. When he returned, he let her feel his weight and power. The intense, gliding friction set her afire.

“Warrior,” Meg breathed.

The heavy pressure within her redoubled, filling her to bursting, seducing her with ecstasy until she could no longer think, only feel. She tried to tell him how good it felt to lie joined with him, moving as he moved, sharing breath and body, but all that came from her lips was a rippling cry of ecstasy.

Dominic laughed with pleasure and the strength coursing through him, a power enhanced and freed by the girl who even now was convulsing sweetly beneath him. He bent and drank her small cries from her lips, gliding and retreating, returning and withdrawing and returning again until her cries became sharp, urgent, almost frightened.

“Dominic?” Meg asked raggedly.

“Hold on to me. This time you will soar very high.”

“What of—you?”

“I will be with you. Fly, small falcon. Fly all the way to the sun.”

S
IMON STOOD AT THE GATEHOUSE
door, watching the swirls and currents of people around the big meadow where the funeral feast and games had been set up in “honor” of John of Carlysle, deceased lord of Blackthorne Keep. The last of the jousts were being prepared. Thus far, Blackthorne Keep had defeated all but two of the Reevers. Not surprisingly, both of the undefeated knights were warriors returning from the holy crusade.

The Scots Hammer had not yet fought. Nor had Dominic le Sabre.

“You look skeptical,” Dominic said in a voice too low to be overheard.

Simon glanced askance at his brother. “You look smug.”

“I was afraid Duncan might sense a trap and not come at all.”

“He brought every Reever who could ride a horse.”

“Aye, but only three of his knights are equal to ours,” Dominic said.

“Duncan is equal to two knights.”

“Aye.”

Simon followed his brother's glance to the rough
arena where four knights stood apart from the general rabble of the Reevers. One of them was Duncan of Maxwell. The others were men who waited and watched the games with the eyes of knights for whom strife and death held no mysteries.

“Interesting that Rufus isn't among the four good knights,” Simon said.

Dominic shrugged. “Duncan, damn his eyes, is shrewd. He knows Rufus envies him. The Scots Hammer trusts only those knights standing with him.”

“Rufus is a fool,” Simon said. “Pity he isn't the Reevers' leader. We could lure him into a pig wallow and leave him floundering.”

“Speaking of pig wallows…have you seen the priest lately?”

“With a joint of mutton in one hand, a mug of ale in the other, and a sweet bun stuffed between his teeth,” Simon said sardonically. “Yes, I've seen him.”

“Where?”

“Near Duncan, where else? The Church has made no pretense of its preferences. You should have sent the priest north with John's bastard.”

Dominic smiled thinly.

“I thought of it,” he admitted. “Then I thought I might have a use for the Church's good offices before Blackthorne Keep was secure in my grasp.”

“Have you need of the priest now?” Simon asked curiously.

“Aye. Are the men-at-arms deployed?”

“As you ordered,
lord
. Now would you kindly tell me what in God's name you have planned?”

“Nothing elaborate. I am going to charge the Scots Hammer with the attempted stealing of my wife.”

“Why? I thought it was your death the Reevers wanted.”

“Quite probably, but that would raise no cries
across the land. However, to steal a man's lawful wife for purposes of unlawful sexual intercourse…”

Simon's eyes narrowed. Then his lips thinned into a smile as feral as Dominic's.

“Even the Reevers couldn't countenance such an act publicly,” Dominic continued. “The Church would have to be even more
publicly
horrified. Do you think an excommunicate could lead good knights into battle?”

“You're going to kill the Scots Hammer, aren't you?” Simon said after a moment.

“If I must.” Dominic shrugged. “And it seems that I must. The Reevers grow too strong.”

The smile on Simon's face faded. “It will mean war.”

“Probably. But without Duncan's leadership, the Reevers will be much easier to defeat.”

Dominic hesitated, choosing his next words carefully.

Uneasiness blew coolly over Simon's skin. There was a darkness in his brother's eyes that had never been there before, not even after the sultan's infamous torture rooms.

“If I die,” Dominic said, “see that Meg—”

“Nay! You'll not die! I'll protect your back myself. Thomas the Strong will—”

“Do nothing,” Dominic interrupted. “Nor will you. I will accuse Duncan of wife stealing. He will deny it. The issue will be settled in a manner no one may question—Ordeal by Combat.”

“God's blood,” Simon said, appalled. “'Tis too chancy. A pebble could turn under your foot or he could get in a lucky blow or one of his men could—”

Dominic lifted his hand, cutting off his brother's words.

“It is the only way war might be avoided,” Dominic said flatly.

For a time there was silence. Then Simon let out a hissing breath.

“Be that as it may,” Simon said, “if the Scots Hammer kills you, I will have his skull for a drinking cup and his blood for wine.”

A smile showed briefly on Dominic's face. “I believe you would, brother. You are hellish quick with that sword.”

“And you are hellish strong.”

“So is the Scots Hammer.”

Simon didn't disagree.

“Go find the priest before he is too drunk to shrive us,” Dominic said.

“He is found,” Simon said.

Dominic followed his brother's black glance.

The priest was indeed found. He was standing next to Duncan, talking earnestly while stripping meat from a large joint. Obviously bored, Duncan listened to the priest without taking his eyes from the crowd.

When Simon and Dominic walked up, Duncan sensed instantly that he was at last going to be given the chance to test the mettle of the king's Sword.

“So, you are finally going to join the games,” Duncan said with deep satisfaction.

“After a fashion,” Dominic said. He turned to the priest. “Are you sober enough to shrive us?”

Duncan became very still. His clear hazel eyes went from Dominic to Simon and back.

“Since when do knights need to be shriven before a simple game?” Duncan asked softly.

“Wife stealing is not a game,” Dominic said. His voice was as flat and cold as his eyes.

“Wife stealing?” Duncan repeated, shocked.

Duncan's knights turned and looked at Dominic and Simon as though they had drawn their swords.

“Aye,” Dominic said grimly. “Wife stealing.”

“When?”

“A few days past, while we rode out to hunt.”

Puzzled, Duncan looked at Simon. Where once the possibility of friendship had gleamed in the other man's eyes, there now was only a bleak promise of Hell.

“I don't understand,” Duncan said quietly.

For several long moments Dominic studied the Scots Hammer. Reluctantly Dominic concluded that Duncan was probably telling the truth. Whatever had happened the day of the hunt hadn't been Duncan's doing.

Unfortunately, that changed nothing. The Scots Hammer was too strong a leader to go unchecked. His very life threatened the stability of Blackthorne Keep.

“When Meg's palfrey tired of the chase,” Dominic said, pitching his voice to carry above the background noise, “I dropped back to ride with her. Soon we heard another hunting horn.”

Duncan began talking, only to be cut off by Dominic.

“Meg recognized the horn,” Dominic said. “It was yours, Duncan of Maxwell. Further, the dog we heard pursuing us was one of yours, full-throated and savage. It had been put on the trail of human game.”

“I did not do this thing,” Duncan said distinctly. “I would not run Meggie to ground like a felon to be hanged.”

Dominic smiled narrowly. “Indeed? I think you would, Duncan. I think you
did
. You know that Meg is the key to the loyalty of the people of Blackthorne Keep. Whoever holds her, holds the land.”

“Aye.” Duncan's voice was grim. “On that we agree.”

“And because there is ‘affection' between you two, you tried to steal the wife God and King Henry had given to me, thinking thereby to steal Blackthorne Keep as well.”

“Nay!”

“You may shout nay until the sheep are safely in their folds, but I won't believe you. Nor will any man,” Dominic said flatly. “You have a choice, Duncan of Maxwell. You may leave this land, never to return—”

“Nay,” Duncan interrupted.

“—or you may face me in single combat here and now.”

A hush spread outward from the group of men across the meadow like ripples in a pond.

Meg, who had been talking with the midwife and Old Gwyn about Adela's recovery, looked up. In the wake of the odd silence came excited words as news of the coming battle spread.

The Sword
.

The Scots Hammer
.

Ordeal by Combat
.

Blood left Meg's face. She swayed in the instants before she gathered her self-control.

“They cannot,” she whispered.

Yet Meg knew even as she spoke that Duncan and Dominic would fight.

And one would die.

She picked up her long emerald skirt and ran to the knot of knights. The people in the meadow made way for her, warned by the sweet golden cries of the bells she wore.

The knights were also warned. As one, men turned and looked at the Glendruid girl who was running toward them, her long hair lifting like flames on the wind.

Meg had eyes for only one of the men. She needed
his closeness as she had never needed anything, even breath itself. Heedless of hauberk and sword and the cold scrape of steel over her skin, she flew to him.

“Small falcon,” Dominic whispered, catching her close.

It was all he could say.

The feeling in Meg's eyes stunned Dominic. Uncaring of the watching people, he closed his arms around his wife and held her, sensing the wild emotions that shook her. When her body was finally still, he slowly released her.

“It will be all right,” Dominic said softly. “No matter who wins, you will be cared for. You are the key to Blackthorne Keep.”

Meg simply looked at her husband with tears of fear and anger shivering on the brink of overflowing.

“One will kill,” she whispered tightly. “One will die. How can that be all right?”

“Blackthorne Keep will survive.”

Meg closed her eyes. Two tears slid like liquid moonlight down her cheeks. She tried to speak but could not. Her eyes opened. With fingers that trembled slightly, she traced the hard lines of Dominic's face as though memorizing him.

“The land always survives,” Meg said in a low voice. “It is only people who live and die. And love.”

Her hands went to her neck. With a quick movement she removed the golden chain holding her mother's ancient cross. Meg kissed the cross and pressed it into Dominic's gauntleted palm.

“God keep you,” she whispered.

Dominic took off his gauntlet and held the cross in his naked hand. The warmth of the metal was that of life itself, for the cross had lain between Meg's breasts. He kissed the cross and slipped the chain around his own neck.

Unhappily Duncan watched the girl who had once been his betrothed and the man fate had made his enemy.

“Meggie, I would not have stolen you and forced adultery upon you,” Duncan said into the silence. “You believe that, don't you?”

“Aye,” she said.

“Well, that is something.”

“Here is something else,” Meg said.

The tone of her voice made the knights turn and look narrowly at her. She looked back at them, taking particular measure of the men who stood close to Duncan. Her face was pale but for the untamed green fire of her eyes.

“If any of you draw sword before the combat is declared finished,” Meg said distinctly, “you will know what it is to face the wrath of a Glendruid healer.”

Duncan smiled sadly. “Ah, Meggie, you cannot kill and well you know it.”

“Aye.” Then she smiled slowly, savagely. “There are things worse than death, Duncan of Maxwell. See that your men don't discover them in their dreams and live them upon waking.”

When Meg turned away from Duncan, the priest dropped his well-gnawed bone and crossed himself hastily. All of the men looked uneasy except Dominic. He had attention only for the girl who burned like spring unleashed, forcing life to grow from dead ground. In his mind her words echoed, words that he was only now beginning to understand.

The wounds of winter are starkly revealed before they are healed by spring, and only the most hardy of living things survive renewal
.

Healing is not for the faint of heart
.

In a silence that was emphasized rather than broken by the priest's stumbling words, Duncan and
Dominic were shriven and final rites administered. When each warrior was prepared to meet his God, the priest's words stopped.

Simon took Dominic's helm from Jameson, fitted it over his brother's head, and removed his mantle. Though not a word was said by either man, Meg's heart ached for the emotion that shimmered unspoken between the brothers.

When she looked at Duncan, she saw not an enemy but the hazel eyes and reckless smile that had lifted her spirits so often in her childhood. Tears overflowed, blurring the features of the man who was in her heart the brother she had never known.

When Meg could see again, Dominic was watching her and Duncan with eyes like hammered silver. She ached to go to her husband, to hold him once more and be held in turn, but it was too late.

The war horn blew, transfixing the people in the meadow. The sliding notes were like a hellhound baying at a bloody moon. In the silence that followed the last echoing note, two war-horses were led to opposite sides of the meadow. Crusader's black bulk was matched by the powerful brown body of Duncan's stallion.

Without a word, the Sword and the Scots Hammer turned and went to their chargers. Both men mounted in the same way, a single tigerish leap, as though chain mail and helm, gauntlets and chausses, sword and shield were made of airy moonlight rather than stout metal. Squires handed over long lances. Each knight couched his weapon, holding it level for the charge to come.

Behind Meg a child cried and a dog growled and a knight's falcon screamed its ire; and throttled within Meg's throat was her own despairing scream.

The two stallions reared and trumpeted a challenge that raised a cheer from the assembled knights.
Instants later the stallions charged across the meadow, sending chunks of dirt and grass flying. Thunder rolled from the big hooves as the knights raced toward each other, shields raised and lances braced.