Captive

Atlantic Bridge/Liquid Silver Books www.liquidsilverbooks.com Copyright ©2003 Louisa Trent First Published by Liquid Silver Books, July, 2003 NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment. Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2003, Louisa Trent. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. PROLOGUE The year 1100—at the court of King William Rufus...

The telltale squeak of the closing portal roused Geoffrey de Sage from his night terrors. Weapon at the ready, he kicked free of the silvery wolf pelts and leapt from bed. Spinning in a precise arc, the two-sided blade of his broadsword silently slashing the air, he searched all corners, prepared to end the life of whoever dared enter his private bedchamber unannounced, uninvited, in the dead of night. A taper floated in the room's dark recesses, its feeble yellow flame revealing the soft shape of a female form. Ample hips, clad only in a flaxen shift, swayed seductively at her approach. Was the intruder a spy for the King, perchance? An assassin hired to eliminate him while he slept? Or worse yet, was this visitor another apparition of his beleaguered mind? Real, he decided. Unquestionably flesh and blood; his nightmare phantoms never undulated. And this lady, though self-serving and given to nocturnal clandestine activities, was no royal cohort. Coming fully upright from his tensed crouch, he loosed his grip on the hilt of his weapon and called out to the foolish woman who had very nearly drawn her last breath. “Lost your way, Thea?" “Certainly not. These cold passages hold no great mystery for me,” the lady cooed sweetly, having missed the bite of his sarcasm. Without so much as a ‘by-your-leave', she ensconced her faltering wick on the stone wall nearest the threshold. This forwardness was quite usual for the lady as she made herself welcome no matter where she went—regardless of the reception she received. “But will you see here,” she remarked with a shiver, the delicateness of which belied her substantial

padding. “I actually have the gooseflesh.” She artfully shelved her arms under a fine bosom, lovingly nesting those two corpulent birds. Attention caught, he eyed the hardened nipples on those round mounds with guarded detachment. “Chilled, milady? Mayhap a covering might help." “Humpf. Leave it to a man to complicate simple matters." Amused despite himself, he placed his warrior's sword aside. “Pray, how does this man complicate your simple matters?" Thea gave a lusty snort. “Sage, dear, really! Why bother to cover what I would have you lay bare?” She posed a coy finger to a chin too fleshy for some tastes, but not his, and offered him a smug smile. “Is the purpose of my visit now clear?" “As abundantly clear as are your attributes, milady.” He gave a slight courtier's bow. “You are exceedingly generous with your charms—all the lords from hither and yon do say so—but sorry to say, I must decline your invitation." “What!” she screeched. Despite his recoiling ears, Sage replied with a fair approximation of civility: “Kindly make a hasty return to your chamber before your husband reaches for you middle-night and comes away with naught but a fistful of cooling fur." “My husband never reaches for me at night or at any other time for that matter,” Thea snipped with a sulk, a disdainful sniff, and a mincing step in his direction. “His negligence is why I am here. I find myself almost pitifully in need of male companionship this eve. If I am not attended to soon, I fear I shall wither and dry like an old crone's pouch." Now within injurious proximity, Thea playfully raked a talon-like fingernail down his bare chest and over the raised welts of his battle-scars. “Come to this damsel's rescue, oh-great-and-powerful knight." Before a pretend cat-scratch drew very real blood, Sage stepped back. “That which you seek to set afire was doused long ago.” His voice held no sanction as the thwarted arsonist's motivations were misguided, not malicious. “Surely you are lonely?” she asked, one tactic exchanged for another. Lonely? Verily, he had never known anything but loneliness. Loneliness was his unrelenting lover, his harsh mistress during those long, dark, sleepless nights. Thea had no blame in this unhappy state of affairs—hardly her fault either that her offer of companionship left his manhood unstirred. Placing the responsibility directly where it belonged, he grumbled, “I am celibate." “Nay!” She gasped, hand clutched to her plump pigeons. “Surely you jest?" Her shocked reaction came as no surprise. Though ears routinely listened at portals here at court, he wagered not one overheard a mention of chastity waft through the keyhole.

Admittedly, upon occasion—the times scarce and far between—he missed the wet heat of penetration, the animal grunts and groans during the rut, the white-hot illumination at climax. But never did he miss the ruling urgency, that mad, uncontrollable rush to mate. Thankfully, he had not suffered that particular torment with his wife. Thea, her wind finally caught, launched into a scold. “You, my Lord Celibate, should wear a bell! ‘Tis unforgivable to expose the unsuspecting this way." “The affliction is not contagious. Rest easy, you are in no danger of contracting an incurable case of abstinence from me." “Oh, how very humorous! Though, I must say, I have heard worrisome rumors about this strange condition of yours. Naturally, I gave the gossip no credence. Now I am left to wonder the truth of the tales. ‘Tis even said you took monk's vows during the Crusades." At his irreverent smirk, she blessed herself. And then, lashes fanning like a vulture's wing, her glance swooped down atop his loincloth. “Oh, my! You are quite correct to leave Holy Orders to others less endowed. A man of your enormous talents would be wasted in ecclesiasticism." “You flatter me far too much, milady." She sent him an arched look. “I shall believe in the existence of fire belching dragons long before believing there is such a thing as too much flattery. Personally, I can attest to receiving far less fawning than I deserve." Once again showing a remarkable insensitivity to futility, Thea shrugged her sloping shoulders in a move designed to accentuate the give and sway of her voluptuousness; as rehearsed moves went, this one succeeded admirably well. He sighed, resigned to her seduction. And as she wiggled her way to the furs, his eyes stayed fixed on her hips—difficult to ignore such fulsome persuasion. “In any case, Sage, I am not here for you to play the toady. I realize you are no sycophant, but neither are you cruel enough to send me away. Only an unconscionable heathen would cast out a lady in my extremity of distress." Alas, Thea had misjudged him, and on all three counts. Circumstances had made him cruel; a Holy War would make a heathen out of any man; and because the former held true, the latter must also follow: he had every intention of casting her out. He did, however, smile at the incorrigible lady. He was celibate, not blind, and Thea of Trenwyth was an extraordinarily healthy female: Brunette, buxom, and brazen—she was everything he had once admired in a bed partner. Though that was long ago, in a former life, and he was a changed man. Desire was a thorn whose hard prick he recalled not at all. Then again, his own hard prick had also faded from memory. For that reason and more, he rushed forward and intercepted the lady before she threw herself bodily atop the bedding. Taking her arm, he escorted her to the portal where he placed the taper once again in her hand.

“Leave me to my darkness, Thea." “Wait!” Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. “You depart for the borderlands on the morrow?" At his nod, she whispered, “Do you still intend to capture Aeschine of Scotland?" Another nod here. “I know you seek justice for your wife, but do take care. Make no misstep in your pursuit of your enemy, LaTourne. Should you stumble, should you so much as falter in your quest, you will find the wrath of Rufus visited upon your head." “How? Tell me how!" “You know of DuFont?" “The King's henchman—what of him?" “When you leave the castle gates, he is assigned to follow you. Watch your back, my dear friend." Warning given, the lady disappeared down the hall, taking the light with her. CHAPTER ONE

The fog had done much to conceal her escape. But when the soft drizzle changed quite suddenly to a pelting rain, the moor's spongy surface soon turned treacherously slick under her racing feet. Leather boots skidding, Aeschine of Scotland left the open space behind and dove for the cover of the wooded glen. Doubled over, she scooted under the low-growing encroachment of bushes and vines. Only when the forest canopy lifted did she regain her full height. Tall for a female, the moist leaves from over-hanging tree branches slapped limply at her face and tore, the jagged green shreds clinging to her skin. Brambles ripped the coif covering her plaited hair, the thorns imbedding in the linen. At ground level, sharp woody thistle spines stuck to the hem of her damp gown. No time to wipe the slimy scurf away, she kept running... Deeper into the dank forest, where witch moss dripped as thick as dungeon cobwebs from the gnarled branches of century-old oaks. With her hands raised before her face, Aeschine ripped through the spun tangle of silvery threads. Once free of the dangling entrapment, she sucked air into her lungs in great greedy swallows, lowered a hand to clutch the sharp ache in her side and jumped a brackish stream. For a brief time, she picked up speed. But then a crop of lichen-covered stones got the best of her and she fell, face down. Belly scraping swampy mud, nose pressed to a steaming pile of rotten vegetation, ear flattened to the moldy ground, she listened for the sounds of pursuit. She knew it! She was being followed. The soggy ground hammered in a steady rhythm, much as a baker pounds his yeasty dough. Steed hooves. A large and heavy beast. Only one rider, she predicted, though he galloped toward her at a fine clip.

Her betrothed! Who else would come after her? The perverted blackguard hunted her down like an animal. May his soul rot in hell! Pushing aside the feathery fond of a shuttlecock fern, Aeschine stuck her cold nose out into the opening and scoured her surroundings, paying strict attention to the northerly approach. Seeing that no search party advanced on foot, poking the undergrowth with sticks to ferret out a wayward bride, she pounced to a stand. Fastidiousness long forgotten, her only thoughts on flight, she waded through a pool of fetid brown pulp, the malodorous brew soaking her gray wool hose and splattering her gown. The memory of those hammering horse hooves drove her out of the forest toward the rain-swollen river. Even at a distance, the currents looked strong. But if she could ford the water undetected, she might yet escape him. Up ahead, situated along the riverbank, grew a strip of stately reeds. The tall grasses would hide her until her affianced rode past. Then, she would make her break and take the watery plunge. She scrambled between the upright grass stalks, the late summer display of white plumes rustling like dry parchment, fairly screaming out her location. Scores of contentious bullfrogs, bloated throats croaking in annoyance at having their lazy sleep disturbed, jumped into the stagnant water all around her, their irksome bleeps and muddy splashes betraying her further. She dared not linger here! Wickedly sharp reeds abrading her hands, bleeping frogs leaping every which way, she lifted her sodden gunna to the waist and struck out for deeper depths. If the good sisters at Saint Mary's could see her exposed hinny they would keel over into a collective nun-heap on the floor. Too bad about them! In her estimation, modesty paid for with the coin of her freedom was an overpriced virtue. She swam like a fish when not weighed down. And if she sank in her sodden skirts and boots? So be it! Drowning was said to be a peaceful way to die. Death was preferable to submitting to LaTourne... Though, of course, given the choice, she would much prefer to live and have the rotten bastard take a neck-breaking tumble from his mount. Grinning evilly to herself at the image, she dove headfirst under the river's murky water. Her spirit was strong but her flesh was weak. Much too soon she resurfaced to fill her laboring lungs with air. While treading the currents, sputtering and choking, she heard the sound of hooves splash behind her. A steed's hot breath snorted at her ear. Before she could slice below the water again, she was hauled out of the river like a bunch of wet stinking rags and summarily dumped facedown onto a saddle. In blind fury, she pummeled the muscled arm holding her prone. The grip on her bare bottom tightened. The hoary degenerate... Changing strategies, she made herself go limp, as though she had given up the fight. As if she ever would! “Air,” she gasped pathetically. She pretended to cough. “Can't breathe. Please. I need air." Proving how little he knew her, he loosed his hold on her exposed backside.

Without sparing the buggering swine a backward glance, she rolled to an upright position, took a good long pull of breath, and after a swiftly prayed Act of Contrition, made ready to leap. She would escape or she would die trying. “You fling yourself from me, milady, and I swear by all that is holy, my destrier will dance a merry jig on your round arse." She froze. What? That muffled voice did not belong to her affianced. And how dare this stranger comment on the roundness of her arse. She turned to the rider who held her hostage. A protective helm partially obscured his visage, but what she could discern set her atremble. Ominous, relentless, dark feelings besieged her when she gazed upon his face. Hopelessness. The features of her captor encapsulated all the frightening elements of night, without the redeeming anticipation of dawning light. Despair surely had this man in its grip, and the gray cloud of that despair cast its gloom over her, chilling her to the marrow. Those were her feelings, which she always went by first. And then there were his actual features. Well, they were not much better. Certainly, they did not improve her initial impression of the warlord. The curled tip of a formidable scar, starting high on the cheek and extending downwards like a jagged lightening bolt, ruined his sensual lips. A hawkish nose, narrow at the top, jutted arrogantly but irregularly from a high forehead. Eyes that should have shone like black gems were dead in his head... Suddenly, as those sunken jewel-eyes focused unwaveringly on her, they came to life. A cloistered novice knows little of men, less of mating, nothing of lust. But want? Aye, that was something she understood. This warrior wanted, all right. And apparently, what he wanted was her. The only escape left to her now was blessed unconsciousness. Letting go of the light within her, she took it. ****

In deference to his bait's faint, Sage slowed the brutal pace of his steed. Even so, the cave where they would make camp was straight ahead. The abduction of Aeschine of Scotland had gone according to plan. Verily, she had made her capture ridiculously easy, having strayed a goodly distance from the protection of her traveling party. No one had seen the abduction and, thus far, no one followed. Save for the King's henchman. As Thea had warned, DuFont tracked him at a distance. No help for it. Regardless of the audience, Sage would do what he must do. The King's servant would not intimidate him into giving up Aeschine of Scotland until, and unless, justice was served. Fortunately, the cave was situated on a rise. The small knoll in the landscape would afford him an

excellent view of all comers. When DuFont found him—and the henchman would find him—the advantage of advance notice would give Sage the upper hand in the ensuing confrontation. The warlord breathed a weary sigh of relief. On the intake of air, his nose twitched. Then wrinkled in distaste. Hen's teeth! Aeschine of Scotland was an exceedingly foul-smelling bundle! His armor chafed and the lady stank—time to put both aside for a while. If his captive did not awaken soon, he would let her slide to the ground on a trail of slime, much as a slug departs a cabbage leaf. A man can tolerate the aroma of an open latrine for only so long. Resembling a peasant in her dung-colored, dung-smelling gown, the wench was not at all what he had expected. This was no high and mighty noblewoman, no bejeweled lady of prestigious rank. Without the cinch of a girdle to display either a waist or jewels, her rough-textured gown fell straight from the shoulders, much as a serf's garb might. On second thought—though unadorned in the strictest sense—his captive in no way lacked in decoration, for nature had gifted her with something rarer than jewels: Even under the caked mud, her face showed the promise of comeliness. Her bones called her pretty. Cheeks, smooth and rounded, set high under a slanted eye socket, gave her countenance a wild foreign look—a mysterious, exotic look. To think she had tried to outrun him! On horseback, no less! She had almost succeeded. The lass possessed the light-footed nimbleness of a woodland doe. Still, the uneven ground had tripped her up and she had stumbled, fallen to hands and knees, her bottom sticking inelegantly up in the air. It was at that exact moment that his ... attention ... had first stirred. When, undaunted, his quarry had risen, he had risen too, his loins unexpectedly hardening. He thought he would never catch up with her! When she raced like a fey creature for the stream, literally heaving herself into the water, he thought she would drown for sure. Strength. Bold determination. Reckless valor. The will to survive. The lass possessed the essential attributes of a warrior... ...and none of the qualities he admired in a woman. Yet shamefully, waves of heat suffused his body. And for the first time in his life, fever won out over self-discipline, lust triumphed over principles, control gave way to desire, and seemingly of their own volition, his fingers caressed her cheek, his thumb moving over her full, pink, warm, moist mouth. “Mmm,” his captive murmured in her sleep. The tip of her tongue delicately met his finger pad. “Oh, aye." He raised a brow. “You like that, do you?" Eyes closed, she smiled. What else does she like? He wondered.

Sage blinked in consternation. His long-held celibacy suddenly felt like a caul wound tight around his loins. His body's response was unsolicited. Unwelcome. Completely unwarranted, especially when considering the shape of the baggage causing the ache. For after measuring his captive, from hair-rail to mud-encrusted boots, he pronounced the journey a long and uninspired trip. The terrain was extraordinarily flat. Why, Her Muddiness looked as narrow as a lad! His captive was flat and she stank. Yet here was he, the avowed celibate, thumbing the lush pink mouth of forbidden fruit. Holding his breath, lest he inhale too much of her low-tide perfume, Sage settled his captive away from his caged urgency. “Wake up,” he commanded. The lady moaned. The lady groaned. The lady did not awaken. Sage shifted in the saddle. Not exactly a squirm, but close. Gritting his teeth against the fiery surge of male need, he gave her a firm, no-nonsense shake. “Awaken, I say!" “Do you rape me now or later?" Her voice! The timbre was soft and throaty. Sensual. A carnal voice suited to the bedchamber. Easy to imagine her calling out to a lover from a tussled bed of silver wolf pelts, fair skin bared save for a rosy blush of pleasure. And her hair! He was quite sure that the wealth of it, when loosened, would fall past her narrow hips to fan her bottom. A round fetching bottom to be sure, as he had already enjoyed quite an eyeful when she raised her gunna waist-high for her river swim. In his mind's eye, he saw his captive glide downward onto the furs, sink to her knees, then to her belly, before hiking herself up onto all fours like a tame deer, her hips raising for him. High. Nay, higher! All the way up, good little doe, until soft buttocks met the hard lance of his cock. She would whisper to him, then. The intimate phrases of lovers would float like a soft melody from her lush lips. Honeyed coupling words. Provocative mating words. Ribald and passionate poetry used to persuade, used to entice, used not for the benefit of seducing that corrupt boil LaTourne but ... but ... him. Geoffrey de Sage! Why her? Why now? Rape played no part in his plan. He believed in an eye for an eye, but had he descended to such ruthlessness that he would revenge himself on a helpless female? He had no answer, save that he would have the truth—had Aeschine of Scotland acted as an accomplice in his wife's death or was she no more than a powerless female unwittingly linked to the degenerate butcher, LaTourne? Disquieted, he placed his hand under his captive's wide but slender shoulders. Her elegant throat arched

pale and unprotected. In that position, her rapid pulse looked woefully vulnerable. How little strength it would take to still that rapidly beating pulse, to sever that elegant throat. When his knuckles grazed her coif, the linen went askew and a lock of hair escaped. The strand was not the yellow of buttercups. Not quite the whiteness of lilies, either. The strand was a nameless hue someplace in between. Moonlight! That was it! He breathed in, and the scent of lavender drifted to his face... Lavender? What in God's name ailed his nose? Filth covered the lady! How was it possible to distinguish the sweet scent of flowers from the odious mud she wore? He could and did. And with that desperate certainty was born the realization that he must break free of her spell. He pushed her away. The motion must have disturbed her slumber for she finally granted him the favor of opening her closed lids, a slow flutter followed by a disdainful stare. Her eyes! Christ Jesus, her eyes! They were a compelling blue, the color of a deep Scottish loch but without any of the remote coolness. Their blue heat held his gaze intently, challenging him with defiance. Merely pushing her away was not enough; this time, he jumped from the saddle. Only his captive's scrutiny prevented him from pacing the ground before his steed. He must maintain his distance, he thought, eyes on his feet. Remain impersonal. Uninvolved. Detached. Just. A judge must never fall victim to a prisoner's appeal. After a while—that is, when she was good and ready—she said—and not at all like the docile doe of his fantasy—"Well, answer me! Do you rape me now or do you wait ‘till later?" How was it she knew his thoughts? Was she a witch? Keeping his expression carefully wooden, he met the steady regard of his captive. He tried to keep his tone cool, but for all of his trying the declaration still came out sounding like a bag of wind bluster. “I do not violate females!" “Making you the first warlord in history,” she said, and very coolly indeed. Rejecting his proffered assistance, she performed a lithe dismount. It would appear he had erred; the lady was not so flat, after all. Small breasts, round as apples, bounced upon her one-footed landing. In response to the bounce, his cock jutted. Hot carnality rushed to his loins. Odd, that Aeschine's little apple-breasts interested him. Generally, he liked yielding plumpness. Luscious large breasts. Bountiful big bellies. Tremendous bums made to warm a man on a cold night—mounds of

jiggling, quivering womanly flesh that called to mind a sumptuous feast. He coughed as his stones tightened, and not at the buxom image in his mind. The delicate reality of Aeschine of Scotland had caused the cock squeeze. “No harm will befall you,” he assured her. “I have you." And he did have her. He owned her. She was his possession. The pleasure that gave him was a cross almost too great to be borne. CHAPTER TWO

Sage's pleasure lasted until his captive tapped her fingers and smirked. “No harm will befall me? I see. Well, glad tidings! And here I thought only God possessed omnipotence. In light of your all-knowing righteousness, I must know your name." She delayed less time than a swallow took before she snapped, “Well, speak up, man! What is it? Who has taken me prisoner?" “I am your captor. For now, you need not know more." “You would keep me in the dark?" He disregarded her question. Her lush mouth pursed. “I dislike the dark almost as much as I dislike cryptic responses. Answer me this: How long will I remain your prisoner, Captor? A day? A year? Indefinitely?" Knowing that the volatility of the situation would hardly inspire confidence in her small pointed bosom, he settled on an answer that fell halfway between the honor of truth and the pragmatism of compromise. “You are my prisoner for as long as it takes." “As long as it takes?” She clucked her tongue. “Are you not the clever one with your word puzzles? You will have to forgive me if I overstate the precariousness of my dilemma. You see, this is the first time a dark knight has absconded with me. One must make up the etiquette of capture as one goes along.” She tapped her fingers on her lips. “If rape is not the intent of this abduction, I wonder what is your purpose in keeping me?" She held up a hand to stop him from speaking, though he had given no outward indication of saying a word. “Nay, Captor, do not tell me. That would spoil our sport. Let me guess." Blue eyes glinted in speculation. “As you did not ask my name, you must already know who I am." A smooth brow furrowed. “But then, you must also know that I am betrothed to one of your own, to the nobleman, LaTourne. So why...?" Across lush lips an impish smile played, giving evidence of a frolicsome nature. “Aha! I have it! This is

personal. My betrothed is your enemy! You keep me for revenge!" Her smugness would have struck him as comical in the extreme ... if not that her mind reading caused him more concern than mirth. “I never discuss my motives with captives.” Cautious steps around broody hens make for unbroken eggs. “And why would you? When the bloodlust in your eyes speaks for itself.” She tapped her slim fingers once more. “Your revenge might take some time. Where will I be lodged during the interim?" “My dungeon is your new abode." He heard her swallow. “You say you do not violate females, but you and I both know that if kept in the dungeon my guards, your men, will rape me repeatedly. They will assault my person at every turn." “They will not." She rolled her eyes. “Are you wed?" “Nay." “Then you have need of a leman. Provide me with the protection of your bedchamber, Captor, and I shall make your nights sing." Her forthrightness shocked a terse response from him. “I do not bargain." “You do not discuss. You do not bargain. But I daresay you fornicate,” she said, her tone imperial, before immediately changing to a placating wheedle. “Please, Captor, do not imprison me in your dungeon! ‘Tis dark in the tunnels below a keep! If you do not install me in your bedchamber, every man under your command will try me on for size." Ah, but she is a changeable one! He mused. One moment the sultry vixen, offering him her body, the next instant a child afeared of the dark. Back to the coquette. “Do not misunderstand. I am not asking you for charity, Captor. I am merely suggesting a transaction of equal exchange for both of us.” Her hand went to his arm. He refused to acknowledge its placement ... until her fingers slid to where armor gave way to the underside of unprotected wrist. There, the light pressure of her touch, stroking his leathery flesh, sent a scorching wildfire through him. “I am a practical woman,” she whispered, sounding anything but. “Placed in the dungeon as a political prisoner, your men will set upon me as a pack of wild dogs set upon a bone. Pray, where is the dignity in that?" So, she prized her dignity, did she? He stored this crucial weakness away for future reference. “If, Captive, you offer yourself for my exclusive use to receive preferential treatment, disabuse yourself of that notion. I treat all my prisoners with the same fairness."

“I shall die in your dungeon,” she said with sorrow, but no self-pity. “To be without the sun is akin to torture for me. Is that your same fairness?" “No one will torture you! Not in any way! Speak no more of torture to me!" Jaw tilted, she read his thoughts and spoke hers: “You had a bad time of it in the Crusades. I am sorry..." “I have no need for a prisoner's sympathy." “Too bad. You shall have it anyway.” Removing her fingers from his wrist, she stroked his scarred cheek. It took all he had, every last sliver of fortitude, not to withdraw. She caressed his face but he felt the stroke much lower on his anatomy. “Flirtation will not weaken my resolve!" “I shall not survive in the dark.” Cool fingers fell away. But the tactile memory remained. “You will survive because you have no choice but to survive. Now, no more talk. We will water my animal at the stream and then make camp. If you will be so kind as to take the lead,” he prompted with a dip of his head. When her feet began to move, as was proper when acting as escort, his hand found its way to the small of his captive's back. They walked in tandem, his five fingers resting on the delicious area where flat gives way to curve. He had always had a penchant for the female back. The derriere. The back of the limbs. The crease behind the knees. That deep and inviting crevice between the buttocks ... Aeschine was a female he would enjoy watching both going and coming. Particularly coming. Did she scream upon climax? He wondered. He cleared the roughness from his throat. Hoping that if he spoke the words aloud his loins would hear the message, he told her grudgingly: “I am celibate." She stared straight ahead. “Were you made a eunuch in the Holy Wars? Was that your torture?" “Nay." “Are you celibate for religious reasons?" “I am not devout." “Do you prefer men?” she asked, turning about. “Nay!” He shook his head. “Just know you are safe with me." She fluttered her lashes. “Celibate or no, you desire me."

“Eyes forward,” he ordered. Then, speaking to the back of her head, “Continue to bargain with me and you will regret it.” With this admonishment duly pronounced, his hand lowered and roamed, finally sinking to a level close to misplaced courtesy. She stopped in her tracks. Her jaw turned to three-quarters, her full mouth coming closer, as though to tell him a secret. “I have learned to live with my regrets, Captor. Have you?" Cherry lips moved to within a breath's taste. What would it be like to sample those lips? He wondered. Her mouth was the inviting kind. The sultry sort a man would wish to savor, to devour... ...to entrust with the care and thrust of his cock. The lower lip appeared slightly fuller than the top. But both lips tilted upwards, though only slightly. Only enough to make it seem as though she found life itself amusing. “Pardon?” he replied to a kiss too close for comfort. How quickly he lost what remained of his mind ... and the gist of their conversation. What had they been discussing? He had no idea. Rather than play catch-up, he let the subject drop even as his hand dropped lower. His palm now rested on where curve gave way to fullness. She bucked like a nervous mare. “Easy,” he crooned. Through the years, he had mastered many a skittish female animal; Aeschine was no exception. “Easy,” he repeated. His fingertips took in the top of a round buttock, knuckles flexing to a possessive cup. A cautious glance over a pair of wide shoulders told Sage his captive's nipples now protruded under the front of the gunna; the two points had elongated to the sharpness of spears. Damnation! Aeschine of Scotland was a succulent piece. “Easy.” He had said the word thrice. “Will you take me easy or hard?” she asked breathlessly. “I told you, I am celibate!" His tone yielded nothing, but his cock had long since conceded everything. If he took her now, without question he would not go easy on her. When he rutted, his strokes brutalized. His captive had no way of knowing this. She had no understanding that in offering him her body in exchange for freedom, she had placed herself in certain danger. The dungeon offered more safety than close proximity to him, especially at night. Before his nightmares, before the Crusades, he had prided himself on his civility, on his honor with females. He liked to believe he still had both. Meticulously so, while acknowledging that the reason for his restraint had changed. Now, a lady covered in mud threatened his self-imposed discipline. His palm

cupped a captive's posterior; he struggled to keep from deepening the caress, from ingratiating his fingers where ladies do not customarily care to be so graced. She did not forestall him. To stay clear of the dungeon Aeschine of Scotland would allow him unrestrained liberties. She would let him do whatever he wished to do. All he wished to do. All whores did the same. Her expression was now unreadable, her eyes having lidded at his retort, their downcast gaze subservient. She had, with a fringe of lashes, effectively, albeit passively, shut him out. Her passive resistance made his blood boil. She had shown no timidity running in the bogs. No hesitancy when she had tried to escape him. Then, she had been free. Untamed. Wild. Uninhibited. He had understood her then. Understanding failed him now. “Silence does not become you. What think you?” he coaxed, trying to comprehend the change that had come over her. “That I hate this constant warfare. That I would do anything in my power to stop the killing.” Her long, pale neck rounded like a swan in mourning; her stoop-shoulder demeanor was inalterably sad. Under the weight of her grief, his reserve cracked like old pottery. “Come you here to me." A tentative step, and she fell full against him, a lady adrift in a storm of useless emotion. Sage gathered her close. Pulling her filthy, reeking, wet body into his arms, he let Aeschine of Scotland cry it out. So long, he thought with a sigh, since he had held a female thus. So long since a lady was unwise enough to seek comfort against his chest. “I vow the deaths will end someday,” he said, peering up over her coifed head to the sky. The rain had finally stopped. The sun had put in a cursory reappearance. Lather steamed on his animal's haunches. The humid warmth of this late summer's day would soon ease into the premature coolness of an autumn night. Already the course of the sun's shadows had altered. A morning bled to night, one season departed for another, the subtle nuance of change had absorbed an entire year, and he had yet to avenge himself on his wife's killer. The passage of days sped by as swift and unstoppable as the leaves falling brown and withered under the restless hooves of his steed ... and his enemy, LaTourne, still breathed. In battle, he had the reputation of a much-feared opponent—many a dying warrior had told him so. Skilled with dirk and sword alike, he meted out mercifully swift and deadly justice. Not this time. Sage intended to end LaTourne's life using no skill. Without mercy. A slow and clumsy execution... “Please, Captor!” His captive broke into his thoughts to plead. “Release me. Otherwise, warfare will result. ‘Tis unbearable to have lives lost on my account.” She looked up at him, beseechingly. His gaze lowered to meet hers. “I cannot let you go. I need you."

“You ... you need me?" “Aye. As bait,” was his bald reply. He would not have her think this was something it was not. “To bring LaTourne out of hiding. When he comes for you, I intend to kill him—after questioning him, of course." His captive never blinked. “Of course." “Not a love match, eh?” he said, dryly. “I had little choice in whom I wed. The whim of my stepfather decided my betrothal, as your whim now decides my fate." “You say that so coolly. Are you aware, lass, that LaTourne is the most notorious pervert in all the realm. That he would take great pleasure in turning your insides out?" “Are you aware, Captor, that brides do not lie in beds of their own making?” She rubbed a hand over her wet face. He hungered for revenge, but had no appetite for hurting this delicate lass. How would he reconcile the two disparate emotions converging in his mind? “Your fingers are scratched.” He took them from her wet cheeks and returned them to his metal breastplate from whence they had lifted. “The tears will add salt to the wounds and sting,” he explained to her questioning look. She stammered, “But ... but ... my tears will corrode your armor, Captor." “What of it? ‘Tis only rust." She sniffed. “Please forgive my weakness." “There is no weakness in tears." “Do you ever cry?" “Once, I did. As a lad. Now, no tears are left in me. I am as dried up as desert sands. You are yet young and you still feel things strongly. Never apologize for your youth or for your tears." “You are too kind." “Nay, I am not. But I would listen to anything you have to tell me." “I am but a female. What would I have to tell you?" “Do not undervalue your sex to me. I have a great respect for your gender. Ladies step in and take charge of the running of their keeps while their lords are away, or are dead and lying in their graves. They stand at the command when their castles are under siege. They oft times know more than they let on. Ladies have served as confidantes to their lords down through the ages, and through those confidences gain power."

“I have no power. I am no man's confidante!" “Your stepfather discussed your impending union to LaTourne with you, did he not?" “He did." “Then—you are your stepfather's confidante." “Do not think to twist my words, Captor. The maneuver is beneath your skill and mine. Let us defer to games and trickery, shall we?" “I prefer candor." “Alas, candor is a luxury I can ill afford." For her sake as well as his, he would not relent. He would have the truth from her, through fair means or foul, one way or the other. For now, fair suited his purposes. “I believe you know every deal, every scheme, every devious plot your stepfather and betrothed designed. Does either plan future invasions on English-held keeps along the border?” he asked, straight-out. “My stepfather, as you must know, is too weak for political intrigue. As to my betrothed...” She shrugged. “A twelve-month ago, a Scottish invasion on a borderlands keep took the lives of many innocent women and children and elders. This was no military fortress. No warriors patrolled the gates. The attack was unprovoked. Tell me what you know of it!" “I know naught,” she said coolly. Wholly frustrated, he clasped her ‘round the shoulders and shook her. Shook her hard, shook her to loose the truth from her, shook her until her chin jerked and snapped. “At the imperilment of your neck, you must speak and speak now!" CHAPTER THREE

When her captor had held her close, she responded to him on a primitive level. Without words. Like a wounded animal might. Humans, with all their hidden purposes and jumbled emotions, oft times made no sense to her. Animals, on the other hand, were uncomplicated; their needs were easily fulfilled. When they loved, they showed it. When they hated, they showed that too. When frightened, they ran, as she had run from LaTourne. Where had the warlord's soothing animal comfort gone? He shook her now. From the force of habit that comes with long experience, she drew back into herself before the blows fell. “I have n-n-no idea what more you expect me to s-s-say,” she said with as much dignity as possible whilst her teeth knocked together. Over his hawk nose, her captor's brows drew together, a foreboding black slash hanging low over ruined

features. “Tell the truth! Say what is on your mind!" “Please cease. Do,” she said, rattled. “Wishing the shaking to end is all that is on my mind. And even that truth is difficult to tell. My head does spin so!" The shaking stopped. But as is often the way with unsettled weather, the raging winds continued unabated. “You know of that invasion!” he stormed. “I command you to speak." Up until one short week ago, she had lived as a cloistered novice, knowing naught of the outside world, knowing naught of her clan's activities. As for taking commands—she had a small problem in that area. Had she known how to obey, her stepfather would have married her off years before, rather than sending her off to a convent for remedial help in deference. Sad to say, nature had not made her dutiful. Neither had she come into this life meek, humble or quiet; her stepfather had beaten those virtues into her. And she hated her stepfather for it. But she hated LaTourne more. And in the grand scheme of things, her hatred was neither here nor there. She would not speak against her stepfather, nor discuss any clan doings in which LaTourne might have played a part. Hating one man or hating both, she was Scots and Scots do not tell. “Obey me,” the Captor raged. “Obedience is a trait most prized in a lady,” she quoted, she forgot whom. It didn't matter. Ignoring the command, she told him naught. “I would have said honor is a lady's most prized trait." “Honor?” she scoffed. “When have lords ever given ladies credit for noble sentiments?" His brow lifted. She had fallen right into the snare! Knowing that struggling would only further entrap her, she tried wiggling and squirming, instead of direct confrontation, to make her way back out. Bowing her head contritely, she said, “I ask your forgiveness in expressing an opinion. I believed you engaged me in a philosophical discussion. I see now I was very much mistaken." Her captor's hands removed themselves from her shoulders. Looking at her askance, he folded his arms across his broad chest. “You made no mistake. Tell me more of your life's philosophy." “A lady,” she began, trying to recall the catechism of obedience, “must place her lord's needs first in all things, especially on the bed furs. That is the extent of my philosophy, poorly thought out and inarticulately expressed as it is."

He laughed uproariously. “How fortunate I am to find myself in the presence of such a paragon of acquiescence!" “I shall consider your remark a compliment.” Her answer remained on an even keel. But inside, she grew more and more agitated under her captor's probing stare and relentless questioning. She was cunning. Clever. Wily too. When her father died and her mother had been forced to remarry, she had relied on all those skills to keep herself safe. But was she dexterous enough at deception to outwit this astute man? Praying she used the proper amount of lady-like humility, she changed the subject. “How far is it to your keep?" “Not far." “Where is not far?” she insisted. “Cheviot Hills." “Hmm. I see. Well, tell me more about this Cheviot Hills. I am curious about the conditions there." “Have you never before left Scotland?" “Nay!” she exclaimed, answering the intent look on his face. Would he ever probe her for information she would not give? “But ‘tis sure I am that the same green grass grows in Cheviot Hills as elsewhere. Apart from differences in language, people are similar wherever one travels." Sage nodded. “I have oft thought so myself." “You have?” Her eyes widened in interest. “Certainly. People are people. Some are good, some are bad, some a little of both. Now, take Scotland..." “Let us not talk politics,” she said, quickly intercepting the course of the conversation. He tried to waylay her; she tried to circumvent the ambush without causing him undo vexation. She did not wish her teeth rattled again! Putting on her best simpering manner—men did so enjoy silly ladies—she offered him up her best coy smile. “The subject of politics is a tedious one, I fear. One, I little comprehend. ‘Tis a man's topic and I would not bother you to explain every teeny-tiny detail.” She gave a gay laugh. “The telling and the listening would result in the megrims for both of us. Tell me of your keep instead.” Men did so enjoy talking about themselves. “Cheviot Hills is a rough and cheerless place, in need of much work." Much like the dour warlord who ruled it, she thought with an inward smirk; on the outside, she kept her expression carefully composed. Intrigue was hardly new to her. At her father's knee, she had learned to parry a sword as well as a word; she could thrust the point of a knife as well as a pointed remark down a man's throat. However, because

she valued life, she always chose first to deflect rather than to attack. And so, though she could easily steal the Captor's blade and cut his throat, it seemed rather mean-spirited to repay a good deed with death. After all, she owed him her gratitude for saving her from LaTourne ... and she had plans for him yet. She assumed a tone meant to placate. “I am used to hard work." “Outside work,” he stressed. “The holding shows signs of neglect. The farms, the animals, the stables, all need improving." “I vastly enjoy working outside. I am good with animals and crops. I am strong..." “At Cheviot Hills you will not have the kind of freedom you seek." At that stern pronouncement, fear shouldered out all pretense of composure. “But ... but ... surely even prisoners are allowed to work outside?” she asked, seeking some hint of concession. But no. Her captor only said, “I have upset you, and that is not my intent. We will talk no more of this matter." With that capricious order, Aeschine felt the portal slam in her face. In that instant she had a premonition of her future existence, the days stretched out before her in an endless gray sea of monotony. Idling in an underground stone dungeon where she would live, without purpose, like a trapped animal. Perchance, sewing to pass the time... Sweet Virgin Mary! Not that! She would play sweet, she would play obedient, but she drew the line at playing with needle and thread! **** “Have a care,” Sage cautioned his captive, nodding at a ceiling of thorns overhead. Heedless of his warning, the lass charged recklessly ahead, stopping along the route only to pluck a buttercup. This said much about her character. “I too am soft on wildflowers,” he told her, watching as she made a bouquet. She looked up from her task. “A man who appreciates buttercups?" “Why not? Males have the same eyes and noses as females." Her eyes sparkled. “As a child, I oft made bouquets for my mother. My stepfather always threw them out if he found them in the keep. I had to pass them to her in secret." Crafty puss, he thought, in admiration. He said aloud, “I would never discard your bouquets." “Then you must have this one." It was a formal presentation, complete with a curtsey. The wobbliness of that curtsey telling him that this

was a maid unaccustomed to bowing. She would bow to him. She would have to. “Your keep's chambers will overflow with bouquets,” she enthused, wisdom and naiveté coloring her voice. “I shall see to it. Flowers dispel the gloom." Sage brought the yellow bunch to his nose. “There are not enough flowers in all the borderlands to accomplish that feat." “One buttercup at a time makes all the difference,” she called over her shoulder as she ran ahead. Did she not see the thorn branch in her path? Evidently not. For she neither ducked nor stooped to avoid it. On a collision course with a nasty injury, she raced pell-mell into danger. Picking up his big feet, Sage dashed after her. With a lift and a swing, he took her out of harm's way, taking the thorn's scratch himself. For his troubles, she touched his cheek. “You bleed." “Look away,” he said, when her eyes filled with tears. “Why may I not look at you?" “You are never to question my dictates." He wiped the blood away, lest she swoon once more; one female faint a day was enough for any man. “Now, off to the stream with you. And this time, walk." She did. Though, she brooded again; the slight tilt of her head gave her mood away. Aeschine did a great deal of deep contemplation. Silent introspection. Some men might view a quiet female as a gift. Not he. She must share her thoughts with him, no matter how small, no matter how insignificant. Only in that way, would he learn the inner workings of her mind. Aeschine's air of fragility fooled him not at all. Men wield swords to conquer; women wield feminine wiles. Though he had a strong suspicion Aeschine of Scotland would rather arm than disarm, she was female. And, like all females, she knew how to use her sensuality to the best advantage This lass, in particular, was well versed in carnal sorcery. All female animals give off a scent that acts as a powerful aphrodisiac on the unsuspecting male of the species. Add to that a smile, a promise of kisses, the enticement of a turned-down bed—and a powerful lord is brought to his knees. One taste of passion, and black and white decisions change to shades of gray. Soon, the line between guilt and innocence shifts. That line shifted now. He must prevent it from slipping further. “Stop here,” he said sternly. Aeschine's sensuality would not work as an aphrodisiac on him! He was no

unsuspecting male... Yet, when the lass dimpled and hopped from one foot to another, his resolve to maintain a forceful mien collapsed in the face of her boundless enthusiasm. In comparison to Aeschine, he felt old and jaded. As though he had seen and done everything already, and no surprises remained. Constant warfare did that to a man. Sand-choked, skin burnt the texture of leather, numb from endless death and suffering—in recent years there had been little soft sentiment in his life. While this lass brimmed over with life and mischief and softness. So much softness! She would take some getting used to. “Did you not hear what I said, Captive? Cease your hopping at once.” Her bouncing apple-breasts maddened him! “As you will,” she sang out. Finally—that is to say, when she felt like it—she held steady. This new sweetness of hers gave him the toothache. No question, the lass had quite a talent for pretending. He entertained no false illusions about Aeschine of Scotland. The lady was far from the tractable lady she would have him believe. Her compliance was an act, a fairly obvious pretense of surrendering her will to his. Fine. Though he detested her transparency—and allowing her to think him duped offended his conceit—he let the act go unchallenged. Let her feign obedience. Let her pretend docility. Her deceit served them both. Sage suspected Aeschine had the honest and forthright opinions of a man. She was far from biddable. No meek bone inhabited that spirited body! His captive was a naturally passionate creature who hid her wild beauty under the plain garb of conformity and her willfulness under a cloak of passivity. How might he change the act to a semblance of reality? How might he temper her obstinacy without destroying her spirit? Was it even possible? He had to try. Aeschine must be brought to heel! Though, only to him. That is all he would request of her. The thought of her kowtowing to anyone else offended him for some reason. “Whilst I water my animal, you may go off alone. See yonder boulder?” he asked. When she looked, he said, “No further than there." “You are too kind,” she said—like a pointy-nosed shrew. Not so sweet, after all, Sage thought, and barely restrained a laugh. “These are dangerous times. As much as I enjoy your spirit, my first charge is to keep you safe." “You enjoy my spirit?" “Do you hint for a compliment?" She dimpled. “Aye." “Then, all right. I do enjoy your liveliness. But enjoying your exuberance will not prevent me from doing

what I must when it comes to you. Make sure that is something you understand. Your prettiness will not dissuade me from a course of action I feel is necessary." “Prettiness, did you say?" “You heard me. Hear this too: I shall tether you to me if I feel I must." “As you will,” she demurely replied. Then winked, quite ruining the sweet facade with suggestiveness. “We might both enjoy it." Ignoring the fire that heated his belly, ignoring the cause of the heat too, he led his steed to the stream for a much-needed drink. After a time, a slight movement behind him had him turning. “You take good care of your steed,” she offered, her blue eyes somber. He smiled. “Do you like animals, Aeschine?" “I like my sheep." “Ah, pet lambs..." “Balls! I shepherded my own flock. Sheep are not pets to me. They are my occupation." “A lady who raises sheep? Your stepfather gave you permission?" “Not gave; I took permission. More than happy to have me gone for days at a time, he never looked too closely at how I occupied myself." “I see.” And he did too. Like many children, Aeschine had suffered the dereliction of parental duty. “How did you learn to shepherd?" “The village boys,” she said so quietly his ears strained to hear. “Peasant lads?" “Aye. I ran with them. They taught me everything I know." Dear Lord! What an enterprising puss! The ladies of his acquaintance only lifted their hands to their needlepoint or to call for a serf. The closest they came to sheep was a mutton chop served on their trestle tops. He wagered those peasant lads taught her more than skill with sheep. He wagered they taught her some interesting bed skills too. Everyone knew shepherds filled their spare time with lewd practices... “Your stepfather never found you out?" “He found me out all right, and whipped me soundly too. For a fortnight I slept face down on the furs, unable to lie on my back."

He cringed. “Poor you." “Not really. Many activities may be performed on one's belly.” One lid lowered. He coughed, thoughts of lewd activities racing through his head. “After the whipping—this is when you gave up sheep tending?" “Who said I gave it up? I would no more give up my flock than you would give up your sword. My stepfather simply tired of lashing me,” she said without a trace of self-pity. “Though, tending sheep is not all that I am able to do." Oh, he believed her! Fearless, resourceful, passionate, stubborn, unashamedly independent ... admittedly promiscuous ... he had never known a female like Aeschine of Scotland. “I am capable of managing a holding, Captor. I have done so since the death of my dear mother. I know how to keep financial books too.” She nodded wisely. “Separate expense accounts, of course: gifts for the poor, household needs, patronage, revenue, and personal." “You took responsibility for all that?" “Aye. I also heard crop reports from my stepfather's head fieldman. I supervised the purchase of foodstuffs, kept a herbal garden, visited the poor, treated the ill..." “You must fall right off to sleep, exhausted at day's end. Tell me, is there anything you do not do?" Straight-faced she replied, “Needlework.” She placed her hands on her slender hips. “If confession is good for the soul, then there it is. I have owned up to my sin. I detest sewing of any kind." “No needlework! Now, that is a grievous lack in a female.” He wagged his head. “And you show absolutely no remorse for the deficiency." “Please do not make light of me! I plead only for my worth." “Your worth is not at issue here." “Then, what is at issue? Please tell me! I am fighting for no less than my life!" “You bargain well. But to truly fight for your life—and to return to your people—you must tell me all you know of past and future clan invasions." “If I do that, you will return me a traitor to my people! That is worse than a death sentence.” She rushed the words past her full lips. “I need very little cosseting. I have always managed on my own. If you would but consider allowing me tend a flock of sheep..." She took a fast breath. “You see, with sh-sh-sheep, I would achieve self-sufficiency. I would never need ask you for anything again. I would never need bother you. Never get underfoot. You would never even know I was about." “If it were only so simple..."

“I would warm your bed! I would make you happy." Sage closed his eyes. Her pitiful little speech tore at his heart. Here she was making her little plans, pleading for crumbs, when most females demanded the whole loaf. And her loyalty! Laudable. But, in this instance, ill advised. Though he knew intimidation would only dig her muddy boots in deeper, his patience with the stubborn lass was at an end. Raising his voice and vesting it with the full force of his authority, he commanded her to speak. “Does LaTourne or your stepfather intend future raids? Tell me now!" “Will you use your whip or a leather strap?” Her fingers moved to her laces. “I beg your pardon?" “If ‘tis all the same with you, I much prefer the strap.” Her fingers stilled. “Unless you put off my punishment for this evening ... until after we mate?" Sweet Jesu! Punishment after mating! Whatever happened to basking in the warm afterglow? Sage washed both hands over his face. He shuddered, appalled. A man had the right, as well as the moral responsibility, to discipline the members of his household. He took such obligations seriously; neglecting them amounted to abandoning those who depended upon him. But strapping a female had never made sense to him. Not when other, more effective methods would ensure obedience. “Come here!” he ordered. She tiptoed over. “Aye?" Upon seeing her bluish lips, pale cheeks, the rapid throb of her pulse, a dull ache lodged in his temple. “There will be no mating. I am celibate,” he said succinctly. “Nor will I whip you. Not now. Not ever. And certainly not because you are loyal in your beliefs.” Though ... he would most decidedly judge her, based on those beliefs. He would kill LaTourne—he had already decided nothing less would do—but what of Aeschine? How would he punish her should he decide she shared in his guilt? “Hasten to return to camp,” he said, coming up empty-handed. Some part of her was always in motion. This time, her mobile mouth puckered into a female moue. “What of the sheep?" Did she realize what she did to him? Did she know how her air of subdued sensuality aroused him? And what was that again about his insusceptibility? He knew what she was up to, and still her female wiles lured him. Good Lord! That pouty mouth! What he would do with those pursed lips. To avoid the dungeon, she would let him too...

He took a restorative breath to get his lust under control. “Ah, the sheep. You will not let me forget them, will you?" A soft look fell over her muddy features. “Sheep are all I have.” She tilted her head, pensive again. Something definitely preyed on Aeschine's mind. Did she plot a new way for her clan to overthrow William Rufus? Or mayhap, scheme a raiding strategy on another unsuspecting English keep? Or, perchance, did she daydream of green meadows where baby lambs grazed in peace? He hoped for the latter. He hoped in her daydreams she scampered freely in fields of wildflowers amongst baby animals. Bad enough, his own thoughts were blood-plagued. CHAPTER FOUR

Aeschine plucked apprehensively at the grimy hem of her gunna. Her captor had not spoken in an eternity. What had happened? Was it something she had said, done, thought? Was this the lull before the storm? To her recollection, her most severe punishments at the hands of her stepfather had occurred after a period of unusual calm. In fact, she had learned to recognize her stepfather's absence of conversation as a precursor of pain. Unexplained quiet in the warlord frightened her. “Your insufferable silence is gnawing on my innards like a long-toothed rat!" As soon as the words left her throat, she regretted the outburst. Would she never learn meekness? Her captor looked up from sharpening his sword. “I thought my questions annoyed you so I decided not to ask any more, sensitive fellow that I am." She gaped at him. Forgetting herself once more, she sputtered, “You? Sensitive?" The Captor was as far away from sensitive as his skull was from his feet. Despite her fear, she chuckled. “Well ... hmm. I am crushed. Laugh all you wish, but I will have you know that sentimentality is the bane of my existence. And as to my silence, I have much on my mind." Laughter awilt, her gaze dropped to the ground. Much preyed on her mind as well. “Is there a snake in the grass?” he asked. Her eyes remained downcast. “A snake? There is no viper." “I must apologize. I had no idea you were a hunchback." “I am no more a hunchback than are you. I have no such deformity!" “You are tall. Do you slump to appear dainty?" “I have no wish to look less than what I am."

“Sensible attitude. Take pride in your height. I too am tall, and ‘tis an immense relief not to have to bend double to hear you speak. Please to cease talking to the ground; ‘tis a great waste of a fine, long backbone." Her captor had bestowed upon her another compliment—of sorts. And compliments, like all rare delicacies, took a while to digest. Even before her stepfather had sold her, she possessed scant good opinion of herself; her mother's second husband had seen to that admirably well. Her self-respect was already battered and bruised before her betrothed picked away more pieces of her diminished pride, stolen vanity she could ill-afford to lose. And now here was this huge warrior, giving her rare compliments like they were insignificant. They were not insignificant! His words were as tempting as sweetmeats to an empty belly. Delicacy savored, then digested, she hinted for more. “So—you like my height?" “I do. I tower o'er most men, but with females, the difference is ludicrous. With tiny females, ‘tis preposterous.” His dark eyes rolled. “And the questions about the clime up here do grow wearisome." “You are droll." “I am a troll? Here I have opened a vein and bled, and all the thanks I get for my sincerity are insults heaped upon my head?" He let out a sigh. “I suppose if you think me a troll, I must accept the description, but I refuse to live under a bridge..." “Troll! Who said troll? I said d-r-o-l-l, as in witty." “See there! I misheard, as you spoke to your feet. Chin up! Please to look at me when we converse and we will never again have this lack of understanding." This, she doubted. But, she raised her chin anyway. The sheer brilliance of her captor's white even smile took her aback; the crinkling of his black-gem eyes fair unhinged her. Scars marred the warrior's face, but he was far from ugly, she decided. Few warriors had a smile such as his. “That is better,” he said. “Now shoulders back. You will develop the stoop of a crone if you persist in slouching. Keep your backbone straight and you will have fine, soldierly posture for life.” He cocked his head in an arrogant manner. “Just look at me!" Her chin jutted. “As you like." “ ‘Tis very much as I like,” he said amicably. “Carry yourself with pride now and one day you will be a lady of reckoning." “Will I have a one day?" His slightly lopsided smile straightened to a stern line. “You will, if you do as I say." Do as he said?

Be that the requirement, she would die before morn... “Are you hungry?” he inquired. “Ravenous." “It does my heart good to see a female with a hearty appetite." He favored a bit of meat on the bone, did he? While he turned away to gather foodstuffs, Aeschine looked down at her diminutive chest. Then, she scooted a glance around to her backside. She was narrow all over. Muscled too from hard labor. How would she ever seduce her captor with such paltry female attributes? Narrow or not, she must seduce him if she hoped to save lives. But how? Her mother had spoken of her first marriage to Aeschine's natural father as a wondrous period of poetic bliss. A time spent making love on a bed of wildflowers. Lavender and daisies and heather. Soft petals that covered a mattress of sweet-smelling clover. A fortnight ago, when her stepfather had summoned her to wed LaTourne, she had left the cloistered wall of her convent naively expecting to find that same kind of love. Instead, what she had found was a suitor whose desires were so perverse, whose wants were so loathsome, whose mind and whose thoughts were so sick, she quaked in anticipation of his touch. Even contemplating his hand upon her flesh made her retch. In the seven days of their engagement, her intended had reveled in her humiliation, serving it up to her on a platter of betrothal rights. When she had refused to beg, to plead for mercy, he had come at her as snarling as a rabid dog. The threat that he would hurt her was always there. The only question in her mind was when he would vent his spleen. And, God help her, how he would choose to inflict the hurt... And so she had escaped. If LaTourne incited her clan, they would do violence. The unruly fringe groups would put their infighting aside and attack her captor's keep en masse in an attempt to recapture her. They had not forgotten her during the years of her enforced cloister, and they had their Scottish pride—no English warlord stole the daughter of a Scottish chieftain and lived to tell the tale. Her people were a loyal group. Good at heart. Unfortunately, they were also easily duped, easily led ... easily led astray. Her clan had needed her guidance and she had not been there for them. If she had been available to them—or if she had been born a lad instead of a lass—the atrocities during her virtual imprisonment in the nunnery would not have happened. As the chieftain's only heir, she held herself culpable for those atrocities, the extent of which she had no way of knowing. Now free of the convent walls, she would not tolerate further bloodshed. Particularly, bloodshed done in her name. The loss of countless lives would be avoided if she sent word back to her village that she had freely given herself to the warlord as his leman. Also—this action would save her from LaTourne; the pervert would not want damaged goods. Her intended had paid a fortune to her stepfather for her maidenhead—his

fiendish notoriety ruling out obtaining a highborn virgin in his own country. Without that thin membrane, he would just as soon despoil a lad... As a prisoner, she would lose her maidenhead fast enough. But why should she put up with rape night after night when she might avail upon the celibate to do the same job? After going through all the bother of allowing him to take her captive, it was the very least he could do for her in return. CHAPTER FIVE

“Before we eat, would you squire for me?” the Captor asked her. “I would have this hauberk removed." Squire! The Captor thought she resembled a lad? LaTourne had thought so too. He had been quite pleased with her boyishly narrow hips and flat chest. Did the Captor carry within him the seeds of the same unwholesome taint? Nay! Her flesh would crawl at his nearness if he were so predisposed. That was not the case. If anything he made her flesh tingle, her breasts swell, the tips harden ... her woman's core grow moist and gnawing. The leather belt at the Captor's waist dropped to the ground. Next, he drew the red outer tunic over his head. She watched him strip though half-lowered lids. “This chain mail shirt itches after a time,” he volunteered. “Even such shoulders as mine need a rest every few days or so." Her mouth went to full gape. The bones of most warriors would rattle inside their armor after carrying the unwieldy weight of mail for a full day, never mind a few days. What tremendous strength the warlord must have! She rushed forward to help. “Are you sure ‘tis safe to go without protection?" By now, LaTourne would realize she had run off. By now, a search party would certainly be combing the region for her. The Captor was but one warrior alone. He had great strength, but when all was said and done, he was as mortal as the next man. Dead, he would be of little use to her. Dead, he could not save her from her fate. Nay, she needed to keep the warlord alive. Otherwise, she might just as well have lifted his blade and slit his throat. Goodness knows, she's had plenty of opportunities. “I shall stand watch tonight if you are fatigued,” she quickly proposed. “I never sleep." Mayhap the Captor was not mortal after all, for all men grew weary. Upon reflection, she understood the distinction. The Captor said he never slept. That was not to say he

was not fatigued. The dark shadows under his eyes, the pinched, tight look about his ruined mouth, the sunken and gray pallor of his cheeks ... all bespoke a man past weary; this strong warrior was naught but a corpse with his boots still on. The sad do not sleep. The sick at heart will wander at night unable to close their eyes. The Captor suffered from the melancholy illness. Why had she not seen it immediately? A tea made of chamomile aided sleep. St. John's Wort elevated sadness. But sometimes, simple conversation helped melancholy disperse. “We will pass the night talking,” she offered. “I wish to know more about you." His head dipped. “As I, you." She shrugged. “Fine, though there is naught to know. I am as water, adaptable to whatever the shape of the goblet." “You are not as uncomplicated as you pretend. I think you hide much below the surface. No shallow stream, are you. Bottomless as the ocean, I would say. If you are water, you are too untamed to fit inside a goblet, and too full of salt to drink." “And I would say as a simple female, your allegory is too profound for my grasp." He pointed a finger at her nose. “You are a lady of mystery, but solve you I will and soon." “That is not t-t-true!” she stuttered. “I hide nothing. Once again, I am as transparent as water." “Murky,” he said. “You are murky. When I first spied you running, you soared free as a falcon. Strong. Uncatchable. Who has clipped your wings? Where has that wild bird gone? Are you satisfied to perch on the arm of your keeper when you rightly belong flying high in the sky?" “Nay! I am not satisfied,” she blurted at his taunt. “I wish for freedom! Once my stepfather was my keeper. Then LaTourne. Now, ‘tis you. I rest upon your arm. If I do not fly high, ‘tis because you prevent the spread of my wings..." “Aha! At last! The real woman behind the façade doth speak." Tricked again! In abject misery, Aeschine gazed at the open green space surrounding them. She loved Scotland with all her heart and soul, but she would adapt to a new life, to new ways; handed a different goblet she really would fit the shape. Her needs were few. She required very little for contentment... “Go on!” her captor commanded. “Tell me more of your thoughts. Enlighten me." “Tell me what to think and you may consider it thought.” She set aside the warlord's mail-shirt, which left him in the aketon.

The padded tunic molded the overlord's broad shoulders and tapered waist, clearly defining every vigorous muscle. His arms bulged even at rest. His hose, a tight fit around sinewy thighs, accentuated the length of his legs. Her captor was all dominant, virile male, sure of himself and arrogant in that surety. He went beyond large into mountainous. Dear heavens, he could break her like a sapling if he chose. And she would cut him down like a green twig before he made the wrong choice. He stretched. “That feels better." “May I help remove your chausses now?" How carefully he put aside the buttercups she had given him, before saying, “Boots first." Without a thought to the contrary, Aeschine bent at the waist, presenting him with her bottom. “Push off against me. ‘Twill make removing the boots easier." “Do you try to seduce me?” he growled. “Aye,” she admitted. “Though, not just then." She stood up straight. “Satisfied?" “Not for years, if ever then,” he muttered. Not understanding the meaning behind his comment, she nevertheless pronounced, “I shall satisfy you." “Impossible." “Are you not at least intrigued enough to try me?" “Does a warm shroud intrigue a chilled corpse?" She brushed an angry tear from her cheek. “You mock me, Captor." “You mock yourself! You plot your escape even now." Her captor had lived a hard life, but life had not hardened him. He was not LaTourne, she reminded herself. Her betrothed owned the morals of a coyote. He was a cruel predator, driven to the gutter to seek his pleasures. This warrior was not cruel. Thus far, his touch had been mostly gentle—there were her rattled teeth to consider. Though celibate, he looked virile enough—though how one knew for sure, she had no idea. “Have you children?” ‘Twas the only sure way she knew to tell. “My wife is dead. I have no children." Little wonder the melancholy plagued him. No wife. No bairns. How sad... Though, now was not the time to express sympathy for a past loss; now was the time to grab at future

opportunity! “I have good health,” she said racing out the boast. “I would like to be bred. And soon. It would please me greatly to carry your son." “You would not withstand my seeding you. You would collapse like a parchment castle under the force of an iron battering ram." Was he telling her he was a rough lover? Demanding? Did he hurt his bedmates the same way LaTourne hurt his? Had she perhaps misjudged him? Given him finer attributes than he, in truth, possessed? No matter, Aeschine thought pragmatically. The warrior was not only her best hope; he was her only hope. God placed a woman on this earth to beget children, and the Captor would make a fine sire for those children. Facing him, she said, shrewdly, “There is no need to hold back with me. I shall take everything you have to give and more. I am strong. Do what you choose. I am not easily broken." “You know not of which you speak. I am not the pervert LaTourne is, but there is every reason for me to keep my control with you." With a yank, off came his boots. He placed them side-by-side on the ground. Then, released his chausses. “My thanks for your help." Placing the bed furs in her outstretched arms, he pointed to a small hillock not ten steps away. “Be so kind as to put these by that opening in the rock. And do not race there,” he called after her as she left to do his bidding. As the small hillock just begged for further exploration, she completely disregarded his silly directive. She gestured to a narrow wedge cut in the bramble-covered stone. “This is an entrance to a cave, is it not?" “A magical cave,” he corrected. “Belief in superstition is a venial sin,” she said primly. “Feeling as you do, we will, of course, remain outside." “Sod off!” She chortled. “I would thumb my nose at a ladder to heaven to enter. Tell me how you came upon the magical cave, Captor!" “Quite by accident. ‘Twas winter and I had ridden for days in a blizzard. I thought I would perish when I stumbled off my steed, feet half-frozen, and crossed the snow to this hillock. Only a lad at the time, and full of myself, I had no sense of my own mortality until I nearly died that day. The cave saved my life. The next morn, the storm ended and I journeyed on, but I have always wished to return, if only to see if the place was as enchanted as I remembered." “You wish to share your enchantment with me?” she asked, truly, truly, touched. “Why not? Things shared are twice enjoyed. If you do not find the cave magical, at the very least, you

will have a dry roof over your head tonight." Then her captor smiled at her—magic in and of itself. Beneath his gruff exterior, the warlord possessed a whimsical sense for the absurd, a dry wit, an unexpected warmth. She had never known such consideration. “The nights grow chilly as autumn approaches. But inside the cave should feel as toasty as a warmed brick. We eat first, then bed down. I packed black bread and cheese in my saddlebag. Salted beef too, though not overly much, and plenty of ale.” He sighed. “Long ago, I thought a man ruled his own destiny. I thought if I but survived that snowy night, I would decide my own fate thereafter. Alas, a man never completely decides his own destiny. There are too many forces about which will set him off his chosen course." “A woman learns that in the cradle,” she scoffed. “The best a woman may hope for is to wed a man who will not beat her overly much." “Is that all you expect from life? I would have thought your dreams wider." “Oh, I have very expansive dreams. Come night, I count my sheep to fall asleep and dream of them after I do. I dream of having a family someday, as most women are wont to do." He sent her a sad smile. “Your dreams are sweet." Unmindful of her stare, Sage placed her wilted bouquet of buttercups in his saddlebag, and then ran both hands through his hair. A raven-winged lock fell low over his forehead. He absently brushed it away. His thick hair had just a hint of a curl over the ear. She would dearly love to run her hands through it. Sage was not vulgar or coarse in his speech, nor unclean on his person. If he was rough on the furs, she would gentle him, for she knew in her heart ‘twas not in his nature to deliberately cause pain. He was not like LaTourne after all, she decided. “So difficult to wait,” she said wistfully. “The cave will still be there after we put something in our bellies." “May I take a small peek inside while you eat?” she wheedled. “You may not." He reached inside his leather satchel for the cloth-wrapped loaf of black bread. Breaking off a hunk to serve as a platter, he placed a slab of cheese on top. He handed the food to her. “Eat." Her arms went behind her back. “I dare not. I am covered in smelly mud." “So you are.” He chuckled. “I have stood downwind of you of late and had forgotten your distinctive aroma." “If I offend your fine sensibilities, feel free to break your fast without me.” Her nose went up in the air,

and not to avoid her own stench either. The warrior gave his meal one last look of longing before returning it to its cloth. “You are upset over a remark which meant nothing. Come, I take you to bathe." “You postpone your meal for me?" “Of course. You are not comfortable. The food will keep." “Stay and eat. Please, do! I shall return to the stream and wash off the mud. ‘Tis not too dark yet to go alone." Neither was it yet too dark to make a break for freedom. If the opportunity presented itself, she must risk flight, for the captor had not agreed to take her to leman and she would not be returned to LaTourne a virgin! She would not be returned to him at all, not if she could help it. “Nonsense!” The captor's black eyes gleamed with humor. Was he on to her? “There is no need to bathe in the stream's chilly waters. Not when there is a hot spring inside the cave." “Hot springs!” she cried, escape temporarily forgotten. “Indeed,” he said dryly. “I soaked for quite a long time during that past stay, and the rushing waters eased my aches and pains like hot, pulsating fingertips.” He expertly lit a torch whilst she waited, then gathered up an armful of supplies. “If you are agreeable, we will go to the hot springs directly." “Agreeable?” Unable to contain her enthusiasm, she gave a small hop. Oh, just a tiny one. This showed much restraint on her part as she really wished to jump to the treetops. “Oh, I am most agreeable." He placed a hand on the small of her back. “Calm yourself. You will get there, little doe. All in good time." “Your meal is interrupted, yet you are not angry,” she said, her footsteps keeping company with his. “I have gone without food before. ‘Tis no grave matter. Lately, everything tastes like bitter herbs to me, anyway.” His hand sank to her bottom. An accident? One time, mayhap. Hardly an accident since it had happened twice now. Still, to make absolutely sure, she surveyed his face. The captor's eyes smoldered. Her heart leapt. Where there is smoke, fire is never far behind. Where there is lust, there is the possibility of love. Heedless of the sin involved, Aeschine closed her eyes and wished that the enchanted cave would weave a spell of magical seduction over them that coming night. ****

“I hope no bats make their home in here,” Aeschine whispered, pretending to a fear she did not feel; she would use any means at her disposal to keep her captor close. “Egad!” Her captor clutched his broad chest. “You mean there is something you actually fear? This becomes interesting. Confess! What else frightens you?" “Uh ... needlepoint. I fear it greatly. Also, the darkness." At his nod of understanding, the floodgates opened, and her shameful secrets rushed forth. “I fear losing who I am, Captor. I fear losing what is my worth. I fear imprisonment. I fear not being allowed to do what I do well, which is shepherding. And I know I would be of real value to you if you would only allow me raise a flock of sheep." “Pleading for your pets again?" “Sheep are not pets!” Looking sideways, she gave him a cheeky grin. “And you did ask..." “So, I did. Aeschine of Scotland, you are the most resolute of women. Now, keep walking. No winged creatures will nest in your hair, not when you are with me." And she believed him. She believed he would protect her from everything and everyone... Save himself, she fervently prayed. He held the torch high. “What do you think of our cave so far?" “Our cave?" “It seems only fitting that I bequeath half the magic that dwells within these walls to you. So, come now. ‘Fess up. Do you like our cave?" “I love our cave,” she said shyly, looking around. “How would I not, when ‘tis a gift?” She laughed. “A gift of magic! Has any captor so honored a captive?" The ceiling arched high at the center, the clearance enough for two tall people to stand without stooping. The earthen floor and stone walls both appeared dry; her nostrils discerned no mustiness. All and all, making love in a cave had romantic allure. A few steps later, her captor had taken the furs from her arms, dropped them against the wall, and said, “We sleep here. The hot springs are directly ahead. Careful! The passage narrows." They walked in single file now, she in front, her captor following. Soon, she felt a tug on her stiff linen coif. The hair covering glided to the ground. “Your tresses shine like moonbeams!” her captor exclaimed, and combed his fingers through the tightly woven stands. “Who needs a torch when you light the darkness?" “My mother's hair was much the same color,” Aeschine said in memory. “She was very beautiful."

“You must take after her." Another compliment! Not exactly a sonnet to her pulchritude, but she cherished the vague words like a bride cherishes her vows. At the pool, her captor placed the torch between two rocks in the wall. “I must stay,” he said gruffly. “To ... er ... guard you." “Do you bathe too?" “Later. Disrobe." Difficult to picture this reticent warrior splashing and frolicking in the steamy water, laughing with her as they became acquainted with one another's bodies. Still, she had hoped they might begin their relationship on an equally naked footing... Aeschine hung her head, unsure of how to proceed. She needed to entice him to her bed, but how would she accomplish the seduction? She told him she would make his nights sing if he took her to leman, but what melody did he enjoy? Once, as a child, she happened upon a maid and a groom in the stables. While the maid removed her garb, the groom stood there all agawk; the slow fall of each garment seemingly mesmerized him. At the time, she had assumed the maid slightly addled-brained, for it took her forever to accomplish the simple task. However, looking back upon the incident, she now suspected the buxom servant had an entirely different reason for her procrastination. Taking a lesson from that maid, Aeschine decided she would drag her feet about the whole business of disrobing. She would draw out the moment, delaying her full nudity for as long as she might, as that maid had done with the groom... She stepped out of her leathers and tssked. “These boots are so muddy. What a shame! I hope they are not ruined. What say you, Captor? Is the leather salvageable?" “I say, since they are only boots, they are not worth fretting over." Spoken just like a male! She had seen far too many barefoot peasants with the wretchedly painful bleeding of chilblains to ever undervalue the importance of foot covering. “I shall just have to look after my boots better in the future, I suppose." Looking up, Aeschine saw a different man. Her captor's face had changed. What had she said? CHAPTER SIX

In the future... Sage's discomfort rose like the surrounding steam. The lass kept talking about a future neither of them might have. He needed to question his captive. To judge her, he must separate his man's lust from her guilt or

innocence. But as darkness descended, impartiality became more difficult. Every night in his dreams he saw bodies writhing in a graceless bludgeon dance. He heard the separate and distinguishable cries of warriors, good men, falling without dignity to the ground. He twisted and bunched the furs, doing battle with the enemy in his sleep, all to no avail. When the night madness came upon him, when the horrors of warfare besieged him, his control ebbed to its weakest point. He might easily hurt a woman then... And here was his captive, removing her garb. His gaze dropped to the floor. His captive's high-arched narrow feet bespoke of royal blood. Aeschine's height, her bones, her manner of speech—all testified to her regal heritage. She was a born warrior-queen. Unable to help himself, Sage glanced up. Never had a female taken such meticulous care over such ugly garments! Aeschine's shapeless gown belonged in a rag pile, not on her lovely back. He thought, as she languidly raised a long leg atop a flat rock. Hiking the mud-encrusted gunna to mid-thigh, slowly, carefully, by the smallest of increments, she rolled her plain wool hose past the knee. Sage glanced at his corded limb. A coarse mat of springy black curls dotted the tanned, leathery skin whilst her skin looked so silky... He called up all his self-control. For everything that was male in him told him to spring forward, finish the labor for her, and mount her there on the hard stone. And he succeeded. He held himself in check. Now. But what of later? He fought a losing battle with abstinence, and knew it. “Look at this! I am covered in swamp,” she lamented, wiping at a bit of vegetation that clung to the fair peach fuzz on her upper thigh. He groaned. He was a celibate, yes. A fool, nay. Naughty Aeschine aimed to seduce him by drawing his glance to her soft, pale femininity, which was in such stark contrast to his own hard, dark, maleness. And how very skilled she was at the game too! For she allowed him only a peek at the treasure hidden deep in the shadows of her under-shift, where pale limbs met sexual promise. Breathing gone harsh, throat too dry to swallow, eyes raised and staring—burning with his refusal to blink lest he miss what she revealed—thoughts a confused tangle of musts and must-nots and unholy fantasy, Sage waited for Aeschine to end his torment. She undid the knot at the square neckline of her gown and untied the lacings, string by torturous string, until the muddy rag gaped open over her apple-round breasts. With a push, the garment slid down her arms. For a moment, her hands were trapped behind her back, as though manacled. And her shoulders were forced back, which in turn made her bosom press outwards, straining for release. Finally, when the filthy garment fell around her ankles, she slipped the under-shift down, revealing shallow cleavage and the

uppermost portion of creamy breasts. But not the nipples. The up-tilted tips had caught in the linen. It seemed to take forever to free them. Once released, they poked the rising steam. Huge, reddish-pink, and very, very distended. The shift stayed in place at belly level, slightly below the indentation of her naval but above her woman's fleece. Big blue eyes sought his. “Go on,” he said, pretending to ennui, though his cock jutted against the wrappings of his warrior's loincloth. “Ice will cap the hot springs before you finish." She eased her hold on the under-linen, and it dropped, along with her eyes to the floor. Nicely done... Aeschine had won the first joust of the tournament. His cock now lanced against its imprisonment, the blunt head of the erect shaft trying to break through the bindings. His captive glowed in alabaster perfection. He growled her name appreciatively, “Aeschine..." She looked up. “Aye?" “You are a man's dream." She oinked like a piglet. “Do not deny it,” he rebuked. “Your body is temptation, itself. Your coloring is a rare tapestry. All golds and creams and roses. The silken threads interlocked to weave an erotic design. Quite lovely, really." “I have small teats." He held back his laugh at her false stab at humility. How she fascinated him, pretense and all! “Your breasts are precocious. And precious. And perfect.” He paused as a distasteful thought occurred to him ... LaTourne preyed on children. Had Aeschine left childhood behind? “How many years have you?” he asked quickly. “Ten and eight." Relief washed over him: Aeschine was more than of age. Many girls were mated the first time at three and ten. “And your flux? Has it begun?" “Pardon?" “Do you bleed?" “Why?” She twisted about, looked behind her. “Am I wounded?"

“Between your legs,” he said in exasperation. Damn her willful game playing! She knew damn well what he meant! “Oh! There!" She looked down. Separated her thighs. Shamelessly, showed him her cleft. No blush of modesty from this lady! “One time only,” she offered. Her late start of menses, due most likely to athleticism, accounted for her boyishly narrow hips, small breasts and ... LaTourne's interest in taking her to wife. Everyone knew of the pervert's unwholesome predilections, which included a particular fondness for children. Lads, for the most part. But he would settle for girls too. “Your breasts are buds yet,” he said, smiling at their winsome appeal, despite her outrageous cock teasing. “Exquisite, but tender nubs, and still blossoming. They remind me of new flowers tilting upwards to seek the sun." “Flower blossoms? My teats?” She picked one up and rang it like a bell. He almost expected to hear the sound of tinkling chimes. He wished he might ring her bells too. And try as he might not to stare, he did, at those tender crests. They enchanted him, as did the wild riot of fair curls that hugged the entrance to her body like guards at the gates of paradise. “I dearly wish I had large paps, and that they were not so pointed. They should hang more too. Low to the waist, like great cow udders. What good are small teats?” she asked in a refined, lady-like tone. A bashful look stole over her features—Aeschine did bashful much better than she did docile—and her hands went behind her back, which in turn caused her extraordinary reddish-pink nipples to shift. “Please to excuse my inadequacies, Captor. I promise to make up for the lacks with my enthusiasm for mating." Inadequacies? Lacks? What prattle! How many more ploys would she employ to call attention to her desirability? A bead of perspiration trickled down Aeschine's shallow cleavage. As Sage watched, the droplet slid over her belly to her mound, before disappearing into her womanly mysteries. Would that he might follow the course of that salty bead of moisture with his tongue, from breast to paradise. Would that he might lick the steam from her flesh! Surely her essence would taste as sweet as any sun-kissed Turkish delicacy he had sampled in the Crusades. Just the thought of putting his mouth on her, of drawing his tongue over her flesh, had his taste buds watering. “You are more than adequate,” he felt compelled to say, for truth is truth. “Do you like me, then?” she asked. “Will I do?" Not pausing for a reply, she spun in place. Then glided over the floor; she danced naked for him, her feet skipping on the large flat stones. “Have a care,” he warned. “The rocks are slippery."

She held out both hands, palms up, in supplication. “I would make you happy in our magical cave. I would give you a son. A daughter too. Your keep will burst at the seams with bairns, as many as you so wish!" Dear Lord! What daydream was this? To what madness did he listen? Happiness. A home. Children. A promise of a normal life... A howl of agony reached up from his gut. While on the Crusades, he had remained unfashionably faithful to his wife. Then, after Joan's murder, his physical needs had gone dormant. He had no inclination to take a lover, though ample opportunities to end his celibacy had presented themselves at Rufus’ court where noble ladies had artfully and endlessly pursued him. A flirtatious gesture here, a limpid look there, a bold hand fondling his upper thigh under the banquet table—he had ignored them all. In hindsight, he realized that disassociating himself from the carnal side of his nature had been a terrible mistake. Had he taken care of his glands at court on any of the widows who sought his attention, he would not feel uncomfortably hard now. In the end, though, he had remained stubborn in his adherence to celibacy, for a brief affair with a bored lady would only hold danger for her and leave him unsatisfied. Of an age when family was uppermost in his thoughts, he yearned for a child. His child. A son of his loins. Blackness of thought had forever dashed those hopes. He would never remarry now. Unfortunately, unlike most men, he had no by-blows. Before wedding Joan, he had been careful to spill his seed upon the ground, for he would not have bastard children running around owning nothing of his but a face. While he still believed that he had stayed the prudent course, his scrupulousness had cost him an heir. He had no child. No son to come after him. Jaw clenched, Sage stood unmoving, unblinking, rooted to the floor of the cave like a gnarled tree that awaits the fall of the ax. Arms crossed over his chest, guarding a heart that surprisingly still beat after the mortal blow his captive had inflicted, he barked, “Do you intend to bathe any time soon or do you dance all night?" Her spinning came to a stop. “You have not given me leave to bathe." “You have it. Now go! And be quick about it." “As you wish,” Aeschine said and scooted to the hot springs. Plopping her round bottom on the ledge, she dipped her long legs over the side. She splashed her feet for a while, then plunged fearlessly through the steam into the water. Once, he had thought to have it all, everything that Aeschine had described. But what the horrors of the Crusades had not taken from him, his rage over his wife's death had. In the name of duty, he had left Joan alone to do battle in a foreign land. And he had returned a monster. He should never have left Joan! He knew that now. He also knew that if he had loved her, nothing would have dragged him away from her side. They had not had that kind of marriage. He had not been her

everything, nor had she been his. They had led separate lives, apart from, not a part of, one another. Good friends whose lives collided only for the occasional night in bed. He had not loved his wife, though God knows, he had tried. He had tried. He had tried. He had tried! His wife had always felt the void. Knew of the moat he had tried and failed to cross. Political expediency had thrown them together. But for all that, there existed great respect between them. The knowledge of how his wife must have died haunted him. In his mind, Sage saw it all, imagined how it must have been, as females are mistreated the same in every war, here and in the Crusades. He saw Joan stripped naked, tethered to a stake in the ground, raped. Scottish marauders, leaving her to bleed in the dirt. When his wife died, so had his hope of ever having a family. At his wife's gravesite, he had made a promise of peace, a vow of no more senseless invasions. No more indiscriminate killings. No more blood of elders staining the serene green glens. No more babes dead before they had chance to grow. Joan would have wished for something good to come of her death... He was honor-bound him to keep the vow, but his outraged manhood called for revenge. The word pulsed in him like an unholy litany. His warrior instincts told him that where there is attack, there must also be sortie. Sally your forces, and then retaliate. That is the only way to win. No mercy given to prisoners, no forgiveness in battle... Revenge. He needed a just revenge for his wife's murder. And as darkness closed in on him, there was only Aeschine. His captive. Looking guilty as sin. CHAPTER SEVEN

Steam rose from the hot springs, obscuring his view of her. Sage called out a swift warning: “No deeper." Aeschine's back was turned, her round bottom covered to the alluring crevice. At his directive, she turned to face him, her skin glowing. “You worry for me?" “The pool is unsafe,” he prevaricated. She nodded. “I worry for you too.” The long spikes of her lashes glittered with moisture. Tears? Or pool water? “Many people may die because of me. You may die because of me,” she said softly. “I sense that your hatred for LaTourne is personal and that revenge is the reason you abducted me. And I also sense goodness in you. I believe you wish for peace between our peoples. Whatever your ultimate plan, I pray you will not pay a terrible price for this undertaking." How could she still think good of him after having seen inside the darkest regions of his heart?

She had submerged up to her neck in the water, and fearful of losing sight of her in the steam, Sage stalked to the rocky edge of the pool. “Look at the size of me,” he growled. “There is no need to worry over my safety or yours either. As long as you do everything I tell you to do, you will live.” And if he determined she shared LaTourne's guilt in the invasion that took countless lives—what then? Would he still permit her to live then? She was so very young, so full of life! How could he put an end to such exuberance? He asked himself, searching the hot mist for her. As the steam swirled around them, their eyes met, and suddenly he knew that Aeschine was young only in years. “You are a warrior who does not welcome combat,” she said with the grave wisdom of an old soul. “I have killed, and will do so again. But not as lightly as when I was young. Killing is neither noble nor glorious. ‘Tis but a necessity. The dead haunt me now, you see,” he said, admitting to his innermost secret thoughts. “Avoiding conflict is not always a sign of weakness,” she offered. “At times, walking away from battle foretells a man's true strength.” She shivered, despite the warm water. “Is something amiss?” he asked quickly. Had she taken ill? “The devil just crossed my path..." “Did you fight him, warrior-woman?” he asked, relieved that whimsy was her only complaint. “Nay. I gave into him.” She shivered again. “And I ... I liked it." “Come out now,” he said, her eerie tone making him suddenly uneasy. “You grow chilled, and I would not stand about all night watching you paddle about like a puppy." Aeschine stepped gracefully onto the natural rock ledge, silvery water cascading from her wide shoulders to puddle at her feet. In a completely feminine gesture, she lifted her heavy hair, twisted it into a thick gold rope and squeezed. Once the excess moisture was wrung out, she brushed her fingers down her strong body—her arms, her breasts, her long torso, her belly—flicking the last silvery drops from her skin. Her hand sank to her mons... ...and bypassed that golden triangle completely. Had she touched herself, Sage would have found some excuse to lift her hand to his mouth, to bring her fingers to his lips, to breathe in her scent, to taste her under the guise of a courtly kiss or some other well-mannered hypocrisy. He would perform any chivalrous feat she requested if in return he might put his fingers, his lips, his open and seeking mouth there. There. There. There. There was nowhere else he desired to be but there. Paradise. Passion's portal. Her pretty rose. Her sweet cunny... At his stare, she covered her genitals with a hand. The action enraged him. She had showed him it before, without hesitation. Why did she try to hide it from

him now? “Let us not pretend here,” he admonished her. “What you seek to hide is the lock to the oubliette for which I have the key. You say you wish to please me, you try to strike a bargain for your freedom, and then you hide the very part of yourself that pleases me the most!" “I am a lady of royal blood!" “Your royal line means naught to me. Blood is red for both vassals and kings. And what a lady has between her legs is the same for queens and whores, alike. There is no distinction to be made between the two. Now convince me, Captive, that the prize has merit or we are through haggling." “You are not to treat me like a common prostitute, selling her wares behind a stall at a fair! That is not what this situation is about." “That is exactly what this situation is about. You are prostituting yourself,” he said quietly. “You have chosen the easy way out, to become my leman rather than accept a prisoner's cell in my dungeon. So please me! Drop your hand, or the sale ends here." She dropped her hand. Bashfully. Satan's tail, this new shy innocent act of hers was provocative! Aeschine's ladylike modesty worked on him like an aphrodisiac, stirring him to an erection of astounding proportions. “Surely LaTourne looked at you,” he said to her pink cheeks. “Naturally, my betrothed looked at me! He has eyes, after all. I am only taken aback that you would take such a keen interest in what is down there." “You are lovely down there. As lovely as I have ever seen. And I have seen quite a few ladies and from many different angles." He expected a bawdy laugh. Instead, he was met with stony silence. “You must realize you are exquisite." The overhanging rock shadowed her face. Still, he saw hope, as well as romantic expectation, within the blue depths of her eyes. “You make me feel exquisite,” she whispered, and held out her hands to him. When he took a step nearer, her arms fell to her sides. The tips of her breasts nearly brushed his chest; her soft belly nearly touched his hard belly; her golden bush nearly tickled his linen-covered loins. Aeschine's eyes had gone slumberous. From the heat? From his closeness? From her own responsiveness? He knew not, cared not. His blood pounded, rushed to his cock. The sharp lance of potency pained him. To touch her, just once! This was all he desired. Just to see if her moist flesh was as silky to the fingertips as it looked. He dared not. Only a fool would trust himself to take but a single touch of the rose.

It was wrong to exploit Aeschine's vulnerability to learn her secrets. Wrong to use her to assuage his own emptiness. Wrong to make her pay for her betrothed's treachery. Wrong, wrong, wrong to work out his need for revenge on her body. So, nay, he would not touch Aeschine. Making sure their fingers did not collide, he handed her one of his clean tunics. “Don this. After escorting you to the furs, I take my leave of you." Her voice was husky. “You would have me carnally." “I am celibate." “Nay! You are a liar and a coward, for you desire me as much as I desire you. Only you refuse to admit it. I shall not stay with a cold man such as you." Her defiance maddened him. The finger he pointed at her nose trembled. “You will do as you are told. You will stay on the furs and you will not move from them." Then, he turned his back on her and left, prepared to spend the night elsewhere. Somewhere. Anywhere. So long as the spot was far from the cave. And her. ****

The howling wolves brought Sage back to the cave at a run. As the distant yelps turned vicious, the vacant bedding told him that once again Aeschine had not obeyed his instructions. Weapon drawn, Sage ran back out, foul curses falling from his tight lips. Would he get to her in time? His captive's high-arched footprints led up into the hills. He tracked her there, one indentation in the dirt at a time. Aeschine's terror must know no bounds, for the wolves, drawing closer to their midnight snack, yapped in excitement. A pack of ten or twelve, he speculated. Not too many. Only enough to bring down a disobedient woman and a negligent man. Why had he not stayed with her? If he had remained in the cave she would not be endangered now. But the temptation had just been too great, and so he had left her alone. No excuses. Aeschine was his responsibility. He had abducted her, made her his prisoner, and while in his custody, the charge to keep her safe fell to him. How many more ghostly voices would haunt him in the night? Not hers! He vowed. Aeschine would not die this night. At dawn, he finally spied her up ahead, backed against a tree; a stick served as her only weapon against the mangy pack of wild dogs that surrounded her. One lone wolf, the leader, broke free of the circle.

While Sage watched in terror, the animal moved in for the kill. Refusing to dwell on what those yellow fangs would do to skin as soft as Aeschine's, Sage raised his sword over his head and gave his war cry “Yeeoweeyea!" He charged the circle; the front dog was his target. Slit the leader's throat and the rest of the pack would drop back. The head wolf, lips drawn back in a feral grimace, sprang. Sage was ready. When the animal's front paws landed on his chest, he plunged the sharp tip of his sword up and in, twisting the hilt until the animal ceased to howl. But the pack, frenzied with hunger, did not run off as Sage had anticipated. Another beast, a monstrous animal with crazed eyes, declared himself next in line. Not ready! His sword was buried deep in the leader's throat; in his haste to find Aeschine, he had left his dirk behind in the cave. No time to yank the sword free, he met the vaulting wolf barehanded. After wrestling him to the ground, he squeezed the massive throat, finishing him off with a firm twist that broke the animal's windpipe. A hard kill, depleting much of Sage's strength, and more wolves bided their turn. Pulling his bloodied sword from the first animal's carcass, Sage raised it high, a wild man meeting and matching the wildness of the beasts. “Which of you dogs is next?” he yelled. The wolves, recognizing a madman when they spotted one, ran off yelping into the trees, leaving him alone with Aeschine. “Are you hurt?” he rasped, hands clenched at his sides, chest heaving, keeping his distance, not trusting himself to go near. “Nay,” Aeschine whispered. “But if not for you ... the wolves ... the wolves would have torn me apart." “Wolves do what is in their nature to do.” He took a step toward her. “As do angered warriors.” Another step and he was well within sword striking range of her. Aeschine did not retreat. “You told me to stay in the cave and I did not obey you. You might very well have left me to die, but you did not. I deserve your anger, Captor." “If you run off, someone must follow. I am that someone.” He took a deep breath. He must get himself back in control! “Did you leave the cave thinking to escape me?" “Nay! I grew restless. I wished only to take a walk.” She hung her head. “I dislike confinement." He believed her. Of all people, he understood. He too walked the woods, thinking to outdistance The Black Bile; he too disliked confinement. “I am sorry for causing you trouble,” she said in a hushed voice, staring at the puddle of blood beside

her. Before he knew what she was about, she dropped to her knees and dipped a hand in the crimson wetness. “Aeschine?” he questioned. If she heard him, she gave no indication. Staring straight ahead, seemingly dazed, she took a bloodied finger and drew it diagonally across a pale cheek, leaving behind a red slash. Lads often blooded themselves after a first kill. Never did he think to see a lass do the same. Helplessly, horrified and mesmerized, repulsed and aroused, he watched her push the too-large tunic over her shoulders and down her arms. The undergarment fell around her bent knees. She smeared her body with wolf blood: face, arms, the up-tilted tips of her breasts. The hand too shy to touch herself earlier in the cave, now boldly went between her legs. She opened herself and coated the entry to her passage a bright crimson until the outer lips took on the appearance of an animal in heat. Only when she was tattooed front and back did she stop her blooding. Her words held misery. “These wild animals are dead because of me.” A strangled sob escaped her trembling lips. “I am to blame." Blame. He understood that concept only too well. And for that reason told her, “You killed to live. To protect yourself." “Necessary due to my own thoughtless actions." He sighed. What to say? He had no comfort to offer the headstrong lass. Hers was a painful lesson to learn, but learn it she must. “How do you bring yourself to look at me?” she asked, emotion turning her voice to a hoarse croak. “I am beneath contempt." On her knees, she turned from him. “Whip me,” she said, speaking without inflection. “Do it. I accept my need to be punished." How many times, to how many different men, had Aeschine uttered those sacrilegious words, assumed this same bent pose? For a stepfather, who had not given her the gift of positive discipline? For LaTourne, who only ejaculated to a woman's pain? For other lovers, who substituted the kiss of the strap for foreplay? Had she come to love her punishment? His captive's back was lovely, the flesh unmarked. Care had been taken not to mar delicate skin. Sage was sexually circumspect, not unsophisticated. He knew a little pain heightened sexual pleasure; too much killed passion. There were whips designed to inflict hurt, but leave little evidence, other than bruising, behind. Did Aeschine have knowledge of these devices? Is that why her back remained unmarked, though she was obviously well acquainted with punishment? Might Aeschine only receive sexual gratification through pain? Clearly, she needed release. Tears. Orgasm. She needed something to let go of the knot of tension inside

her woman's body. Once again, he understood: A tight knot in his gut needed release too. Removing his belt, he slapped it across his palm. Once. Twice. Thrice across the line of calluses below his warrior-hard fingers. The flaying leather strap stung even his toughened hand. What would it do to her? “Disrobe,” he said, gesturing to the coarse linen tunic still wrapped around her knees, his man's tension almost strangling him. The male garment offended his eyes and he would have it gone. With a nod, she pushed the tunic off over her ankles and feet. Nude, she crossed her arms over her huge, blood-coated nipples. To protect them against a misplaced stroke? He never erred with the whip; his aim was true. She looked over at him again, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I am ready." Cry, darling. You need to... Earlier she had cried for others, but she refused to cry for herself. She turned back, lifted her hips, elevating her buttocks to him, for him. She was beautiful in her submission. A golden, fantasy woman made for a man's unspeakable pleasure. He stepped behind her. As warlord, he had lashed many a man's back. Never had he taken a whip to a female. It would require a great deal of control to cause pain without inflicting permanent injury on such a narrow back as hers. That left him her round bottom. He could whip her there, lay his leather belt over the round buttocks, and perhaps not leave permanent scars. He raised his arm. Experimentally, he let the belt unfurl and fly. Small particles of dirt flew up in the air as the whip lashed the ground beside where she knelt, steady and calm, with no hint of fear. He had the control to administer the punishment. A few flicks of his wrist, and she would have her release. The tears would come with climax, and the terror of this night would dissolve. Merciful to give her what she needed... He had the control, but lacked the mercy. “ ‘Tis not my way to whip a female,” he said softly, apologetically. He went to where she knelt, brought her to her feet. “But your running has left me no choice but to tether you." She gasped. “Oh, please, Captor! Anything but that! I must have my freedom." Her pleas would not persuade him from this course of action. Tethering suited the transgression. The discipline was necessary. The punishment was just. Her safety must come first!

“This is for your own good,” he told her. From the gear he always kept on his belt loop, he extracted an additional leather strap, used for the training of animals. He swiftly attached it to pliable length already held in his hand. Sage stepped forward. “Raise your arms out to your sides." Chin dipped, she did. Carefully avoiding Aeschine's small pointed breasts, and touching her skin as little as possible—for this was not about his pleasure, but about his prisoner's safety—he drew the leather around her narrow waist. He buckled her in back, tethering her as he would any young bitch in need of training. Kinder by far for her to learn to follow her master's directions this way than it was to whip her. Also, the goodly length would give her slack to roam when the strap was staked to the ground. Here on out, he intended to keep her staked at all times. To avoid undesirable mating, he kept all his female dogs staked. So too would he keep Aeschine. She had admitted to promiscuity, after all. Giving this high-spirited lass free run was not advisable. He ferreted into the tool sac around his waist and came out with another devise, a chastity belt of sorts. Designed to go between a bitch's legs, connecting front to back, the thick leather covered the female pudendum. The installation would mean touching Aeschine intimately as he made the adjustments. He paused, questioned whether or not he should attach it. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. He had no choice! He said he would do this if she disobeyed him, and he always kept his word. That he regretted tethering Aeschine was irrelevant; consistency was the key to success when training a dog or a woman! “Open your legs,” he said gruffly. When she did, he knelt in the dirt before her, at eye level with her pelvis. “Wider,” he ordered; the installation of the harness required ample space between the female's thighs. She widened, and his eyes focused on the narrow slit. On the pretty pink folds. Never before had he scrutinized the female passage at such close proximity; even whores balked at attentive regard of their private regions. Not Aeschine. She offered him no demur. As this was not about pleasure, but duty, he limited the time spent looking, and attached the chastity belt, his knuckles skimming her silky belly as he drew it down, down, down to cover her mons. His fingers brushed her soft pubic curls as he reached between her spread legs. His palm cupped her opening, while his fingers, all of them, glazed her pudendum, while his thumb stroked, by necessity, the bloodied folds. Not deep. His was a shallow stroke. “Does this chafe?” he asked solicitously.

“Nay,” she said in a small, shivery voice. “Here?” He touched her a bit more. Slowly. Carefully. Even so, his fingers slipped and he would have to begin all again from the very beginning, at the top of the notch. This was delicate female flesh, after all; pink silky flesh that might easily bruise. He had no choice but to ensure the best possible fit. The proper adjustment of an animal to the harness was of critical importance. He was no negligent bitch master! The site of her womanly pleasure was unusually large. And sensitive. Aeschine trembled from head to foot when the pad of his index finger slid across the plump nub. He swallowed. “Shall I ... perhaps ... loosen it ... here?” he asked, moving his finger in a circular motion over her pleasure bud until the hood opened. Her breathing quickened; her small, red-tipped breasts rose and fell rapidly. “'Tis as you wish, Captor." “This is not as I wish,” he reprimanded her. “A correct fit is essential. I would be remiss not to see to your care." “Of course,” she purred, and not at all contritely. He adjusted the belt several times more, until he was certain the leather would not bruise tender folds. “Turn now,” he said. When she did, he drew the narrow strap from front to back. “Captor?” she questioned, when he opened her buttocks. “The leather goes between. Like so.” Permitting her no ladylike squeamishness, he ran a finger over the back portal, a fetching dimple the tether would traverse. The seductive hole drew him. He came to within a fool's range of drawing his tongue down the crevice and spearing that forbidden entrance. Refusing to give into the urge, he dutifully attached the end of the leather strap to the buckle at the small of her back. Done, he came to a reluctant stand. But then, trapped in a web of his own making, he made the mistake of bringing a lock of her unbound hair to his nose. Undone by the fragrance of lavender, his jaw went rigid. The sweet-smelling strand felt so warm! Aeschine's hair seemed to collect the new daylight in its strands. “Does my hair please you, Captor?” she asked, keeping her eyes forward. “Does keeping me on a leash please you?" His hand shot back as if burned. Was he pleased? Had she recognized a weakness in him before he had recognized it in himself? Did he enjoy keeping a female in bondage? Mayhap, in his own predilections, he differed not so greatly from LaTourne, after all.

Aeschine now stood before him, head down, silently shaking. Her stoicism broke him. “Come you here to me,” he said, and held open his arms. “So sorry,” she whispered against his chest. “I know I disobeyed, Captor. I know I deserve to be punished. I was so afraid of the wolves. So frightened I would die this day." “Cry,” he soothed. “Let go of the fear,” he crooned and wrapped himself around her bloodied body. “You are safe with me." Headstrong. Passionate. Full of life. Adventuresome. Even tethered, she would make for a handful. A delicious handful, he conceded. How might he temper her without breaking her? He started with a compliment: Aeschine was a lass much in need of kind words. “You are a brave female..." “Nay, I..." “Hush. You are brave. Strong too.” He cupped her stubborn jaw, his thumb wiping at a smudge of blood on her high cheekbone. At his boots, the carcasses of two dead animals lay crumbled, testimony that he had killed to keep Aeschine safe. Be she endangered again, he would kill again. Animals. Men. To his mind, there was no difference. Killing was killing. And safe was safe, regardless of how the outcome was arranged. He arranged Aeschine's tall strong female body to fit his tall strong male body, her softness aligned to his hardness, her hollows aligned to where he bulged—his tightly wrapped loincloth did naught to dissuade the swell of his erection. To keep his arousal a secret, he put her away from him. “We return to the cave now." She looked at the tunic on the ground; one hand covered her breasts, the other hand hid her genitals. “May I have the return of your garment, Captor? I am not accustomed to going about ungarbed outside. This is not a question of punishment, as I agree my punishment is warranted, but of modesty." He said sternly, unequivocally, “You will stay as you are." “But if I promise not to escape..." “I need no useless promise. The tether will prevent any escape attempt,” he reminded her curtly. Then, his voice softened. “You will soon grow used to the absence of a covering. Female animals wear no covering, and they suffer the lack of modesty not at all. I consider you much the same. And please to remember, there is nothing personal here. Now go,” he said, giving her leash a little shake as one would with a pretty but prankish pet. As Aeschine walked ahead of him on the tether, her hands fell to her sides, modesty forgotten. She held her back proud and straight. Unclothed, he thought her bearing more regal than a queen garbed in the richest of satins and silks. He thought the leather tether encircling her waist more alluring than the finest bejeweled girdle... He would not think of her small, red-tipped breasts or her red-painted slit or her red-smeared muscled

buttocks. Nay, he would not! She was his prisoner. And he was her celibate judge. A tether leashed them together, but their fates were irrevocably linked, inseparable, one from the other, even without the leather. CHAPTER EIGHT

Aeschine wiped at the moisture trickling down her face. Useless tears. Useless, useless, tears. What good did they do? And how is it that once again willfulness had overtaken commonsense? Her disobedience had almost ended her life today, and her captor's life, as well. An apology was little compensation for the damage done. Nor would words—any words, no matter how finely put—adequately express her contrition. But what else might she do or say to make amends? She had not meant for any of this to happen! Regardless of how it looked, she had not run off, had not tried to escape. Restless as usual, she had gone for a walk. Just a walk! Upon realizing the length of her absence, she had started back to the cave through the grove of alders that grew on the riverbank. That's where the wolves had first sighted her and given chase. Lunging at her, their yellow fangs had tried to rip and tear at her flesh. A shudder overtook her as she paced the floor, as far as the tether staked to the floor of the cave permitted. “Cold?” a voice asked from the shadows. Startled, she jumped. Turning in a wobbly fashion, she faced the echo. “A little." Her shaky weakness put her to shame, and she bowed her head. “You walk like a ghost. I listened for your footsteps but heard nothing. When did you return?" “Not long ago,” he said, revealing naught as he crossed the cave's dirt-packed floor. “I feared someone else had discovered the cave." He lifted her face, smoothed his knuckles gently along her jaw. “No man or animal will get to you whilst you are in my care. And that includes LaTourne." His stroking fingers fell away. “I know the pervert must have had you before the vows were spoke...” A slight pause, then, “And I also know you liked not the man. But I do sense you enjoyed the things he did to you." She looked away. “ ‘Tis nothing to feel shame over.” He shrugged. “You tasted passion's dark side, and you came to crave it." She kept her silence, but tilted her jaw back to him.

“No need to speak,” whispered the man who had saved her twice now: unknowingly, from her betrothed, knowingly from the wolves. “Your eyes say it all." “Would you like to know what your eyes tell me?" “Nay,” her rescuer shouted. She raised a brow; her captor rarely raised his voice. “Well, well, well. This becomes interesting. You may not wish to hear what I have to say but I shall tell you anyway. Your eyes tell me you wish to end your celibacy and take me. Perhaps in the very fashion of LaTourne. So, have me, Captor. Take me. And in any manner you so desire." “I feel no desire. I feel only duty toward you." “Duty,” she scoffed. “You want me. And I want you. There is a bond between us, a bond of the spirit..." “Romantic lass! In the dark, all women are the same between the legs. If there is a bond between us, ‘tis a bond of lust.” He plucked at the leather rein that fell from her waist in back. “And this tether. Do you think love sonnets will fall from my lips if I breach you?" Summoning all of her courage, she faced the enigmatic man who had captured her, who denied the connection between them, who spoke only of lust when there existed something more. “I-I need you. Will you pass the remainder of the night with me? Will you sleep with me on the furs? I am so cold. Will you warm me?" “You would have me use you? For use is all it would be. I make no bargains with prisoners. I make no promises about the future..." Before her uncompromising captor stipulated himself out of taking her, thereby ruining her carefully laid plans, she said, “Please accept my body as a small token of my appreciation. You saved my life today. No bargains, no strings, were attached to your rescue, and none are now attached to my thanks.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “To refuse my small gift would show discourtesy." “And I am nothing if not courteous.” He gave a knightly bow. “As to the size of the gift...” He cupped her bare teat. “...what matters is quality, and these are choice gifts indeed." Aeschine licked her lips and pressed closer. A gnawing started in her belly. Where it would lead or what exactly it meant, she knew not. But she would have more of the same! More of what he did to her, more of what he gave to her, especially the compliments. “Harder,” she demanded. “Do that harder!" He raised a brow. “You dislike subtlety?" “I-need-it-hard," she ground out. Anything but subtle, her bare legs vulgarly rubbed together, a cricket but without the chirps. A pressure was building inside her, in her secret place, and she knew instinctively that only he could take the ache away.

She desired him. Would that she knew what to expect from the culmination of that desire! Her mother had died when she was but a child, the good sisters never discussed such things, and so she was ignorant of what took place on the furs. No matter. She learned fast. She only wished her captor loved her... Naturally, he did not. She was not his dream. Captivity was not her dream either. But mayhap, together, they could make a different dream. They both yearned for peace. They would both see an end to needless killings. She needed love; she sensed he needed love too. He quoted duty and responsibility at her, but they were hollow platitudes. What counted were actions. Her captor had risked his life for her. He had saved her. And though he held no love in his heart for her, lust hardened his loins. Love must have a beginning somewhere. Why not in desire? “You take my breath away,” he rasped hoarsely, and delicately pinched her jutting teats. Was there a finer compliment than to deprive a man of his wind? She smiled dreamily, hardly noticing when he unbuckled the leather strap and the tether fell loose. That she had inherited her mother's pretty hair gladdened her. For the first time, her athletic body caused her no shame. She had deceived him, aye, but she would make him happy! As soon as she figured out how. She knew what would make her happy. A kiss! Mayhap it was the same for both males and females. Her captor appreciated buttercups; he might appreciate kisses too... The thought of his lips touching her lips had her wiggling in anticipation. Her first kiss! With his lips attached to it. Closing her eyes, she puckered. A moment passed. She waited. Another moment flew by. When her lips still went unattended, she cracked her lids. The torch had gone out. Darkness claimed the cave. Her lips unpuckered. Oh, how she feared the dark! “Captor! Where are you?" “Here,” her captor answered from somewhere directly in front of her.

Two hands landed on her shoulders and pressed her to her knees. She heard him fall to his knees too. Did he intend for them to pray first? Did he think to take her in the middle of the Hail Mary's? Mayhap not, she decided. For a heartbeat later, he tipped her onto her back, spread her limbs, and placed a knee between. Linen tickled the inside of her bare thighs. She was naked. Why had he not disrobed too? But lost in the wonder of his hands, which now stroked her belly, she forgot her pique. With a sigh of pleasure, she stretched full out like a lazy cat. “Never leave me all night,” she commanded. “I do not anticipate a problem there." He played his fingers lower, combing his fingers through her woman's pelt. “Silky,” he murmured. She sighed some more. Brazenly opened her legs some more. Hoping he might play with her some more. When he had stroked between her legs while tethering her, she had gone all tingly. She had liked that sensation very much. He crouched between her wide-open legs now. It was very nice that he was so close. Very pleasant that his breath was warm and not at all malodorous on her face. Very agreeable that he liked to... In the dark, her eyes went wide. This sensation surpassed tingly! This was intense ... this was... What was happening? She had never felt anything like this before. How to describe it? Who cared about petty descriptions? No mere words would ever explain the sensation, anyway. Writhing, she gave herself over to whatever it was, wound her hands around his neck and fingered the curls that scraped his shoulders. His stroking stopped. “You are not to touch me,” he reprimanded. “But you touch me,” she responded, trying not to sound argumentative, but unwilling to accept an unwarranted rebuke. He removed her hands from his shoulders, placed them above her head, and gripped them there, around the wrists. “I touch you only because you asked for this use. You gifted me with your body. I did not, and will not, reciprocate in kind." And then something, something certainly not his free hand, touched her. Not exactly stroking her, more akin to poking her. Down below. Probing between her legs, down below. A monstrous thick thing—an appendage of some sort—pressed against her, pushed into her, down below. It stretched her. Pain! Burning, hot pain. What did he put inside her? Blessed Virgin! This was not enjoyable. And where was her kiss? She would have her kiss! Was kissing

not part of mating? Searing, ripping, burning pain. She was rived, split apart! Torn asunder. Down below, between her legs. Why would her formerly kind captor hurt her this way? Her head thrashed back and forth on the furs. Stop! A moan. Not hers. His! “Sweet Jesu! You are tight. Like a virgin, you are clenched around my cock." Cock? He thought to put his cock inside her? Of course! She should have known how mating was done! She was a shepherdess, after all. She had seen rams with the ewes often enough! But animals were different than people; at least, that is what she had always thought. Mayhap, that was an incorrect assumption. Mayhap, the only differences were superficial—like wool and bahs and horns and tails and such. Mayhap, when the wool and bahs and horns and tails and such were put aside, animals and people mated the same way. Why had she not put the two together before now! He was putting his cock inside her! The village boys bragged endlessly about the size of their cocks. They often had pissing contests and she would watch in fascination, unable to join in on the festivities. She had often been envious of those lads and their cocks. Not so envious that she would ever wish to have a cock inside of her, however. But wait! Cocks were funny little things. Small, soft and harmless, like fat pink worms a bird would feast upon. The one knifing its way up inside her felt ungodly big and hard. Nothing harmless about this cock! This cock was about to split her in two. His moan changed to a groan. Mating must hurt her captor, too. Their bond again! They shared so much. Even pain... “So good,” he crooned. Well, she supposed, no couple shared all things. “I will hold back,” he whispered against her ear. “Do not!” She must satisfy him! She must share his bedchamber or LaTourne would come for her. “Give me your all!” She panted and wiggled her hips, pushing up against him. He was her bulwark in the storm that wracked her body. Something broke. Tore. Something was cut away. Her maidenhead? Aye! Her maidenhead. The barrier eliminated, he pushed inside her.

“I belong to you now,” she cried in triumph, for all that she was hurting. The pain diminished slowly. Not gone entirely, but tolerable. Something else was happening too. Akin to pleasure, but not quite pleasure. Something she thought she might come to like eventually. Not now. For now, her satisfaction was in the knowing that he seemed to like doing it. He seemed to like doing it very much. But ... did she have no part to play in this? Was she expected to lie back and let him do everything? Unfair! When did she get her turn to thrust? Experimentally, every time he moved up, she bore down, meeting his shallow thrusts, clenching her inner muscles. “Ah, like that. Just, just, like that,” he groaned. She had botched many female past-times in her life, but she thought that perhaps she did mating well enough. Some might call that an accomplishment... Pride filled her. As did he. Almost. He held back. Instincts once again told her so. And she was about to call him on it too, but a few ins and outs later, and he was done. Finished. A long, slow, pull and he left her empty ... and wanting. Sloppy wet too, from what he had left behind. The sticky stuff poured out of her in copious amounts, dribbling between her splayed legs. She was mortified. Happy too, because he seemed satisfied. “Everything is fine now,” she said with a complacent nod. CHAPTER NINE

Fine? Had she really said everything was fine? In the dark, Sage stroked the high slant of Aeschine's cheekbone. In the dark, he brushed away her tears. In the dark, he pretended he felt nothing. That everything was fine, when nothing was fine. “I agree to take you to leman,” he said, grudgingly. “Your body, in exchange for my bedchamber. For services rendered, you will not have to go to the dungeon. Before we leave this cave, I will have breached you in every way the pervert, LaTourne, breached you. It pleases me to know you will let me."

But would she be wet for him? Or, was she only wet for LaTourne? She had not been wet for him the first time. Amenable, aye. But wet? Nay. Aeschine had been tight and dry, and she had not climaxed. By God, she would be wet for him! She would open for him! She would desire him! She would come for him! Before marriage, before taking on the yoke of celibacy, many a prospective lover, upon accessing his size, had run the other way. Even Joan, who had two husbands before him, had never taken all of him. His length and breadth were cruel jokes of nature; he required far less than what he was given. Halfway in was as far as he had ever dared to go. No lady had ever asked for more. Until Aeschine. Greedy puss! She had asked for his all. He was mad, but he was not quite that mad. Yet. He had withheld his all. But if he stayed, he would have to have her again. The urgency was primal. Powerful. Even now, so soon after his orgasm, white-hot fever pumped violently through his veins and heated his blood to the boiling point. He pulled away from her. “You go?” she cried, hauling him back before he made either an escape or a response. “Please do not! Stay with me on the furs. I need you." Need. She needed him? He needed her too. Her body. Her softness. Her playfulness. Just to forget the agony of being alive. Just to see if he still remembered what normalcy felt like. Just to see if he were still capable of a human emotion, other than rage and revenge and remorse. It was so long for him. So long since he'd had the comfort of a woman. He had never been a libertine. Had always placed only moderate demands on his bedmates. Not tonight. Tonight, he would have it all. Everything. All manner of excess. Dark congress. Earthy cries. Unholy bliss. All that Church and man forbade. Shelving his captive's round bottom in his hard swordsman's palms, Sage leaned forward on his knees and began all over again. Seed streamed out between Aeschine's legs, a slick reminder that he had not withdrawn. The viscous fluid would make the second entry somewhat easier. Nerve endings tingling, blood pounding, head thrown back and teeth clenched, he drove up and in. Aeschine's breath caught on a sob. Though he had stopped at a shallow breech, soft mewing sounds ushered forth from her throat and perspiration ran in rivulets down her sides. She panted much as a woman does in childbirth.

When she bucked, he held her down. When his fingers slid on her sweat-slippery skin, he tightened his grip. All ten digits bit into her sides. She would have bruises from this siege. She had asked for this, he told himself, when her whimpers accused him. Her body for her freedom, that was the agreement She had no right to complain about a bargain already struck. He was under no obligation to make it better for her. Why should he? By her own admission she was promiscuous—there were those shepherd lads. And the pervert LaTourne. Who knew what he had done to her. So, she was not precisely a whore but close. At the very least, she should have known what she was getting into by letting him get into her. Her body should not revolt this way; her body should be well broken in. Still, he was built large. And though he was a warrior, he had never been brutish. He took his leave of her. “Do not go,” she cried. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he found her passion bud, and courted it. Perhaps, he could make it better for her... Soon, she purred. “Mmm..." “You like that, do you?" “Oh, aye." At her enthusiastic assent, he pressed his advantage and entered her once again. She liked the courtship well enough, but she cried out—and not in ecstasy—when he regrouped, moving the strategy of the campaign from courting to a shallow thrusting. He was hurting her. He owned her hurt, accepted responsibility for it. Pain was pain, for both males and females. The question was in the degree, and in the lasting consequence of the act. He would just have to make sure she suffered no lasting repercussions, beyond natural female soreness, from this night. “If the pain becomes too much, you must tell me,” he apprised her. “We need not fulfill our bargain all in one eve." “Your magnanimousness overwhelms,” she squeaked. The corners of his mouth lifted at her sarcasm; even now she sought to best him in this game. If she had told him nay, he might have stopped. He might have; he couldn't be certain. Aeschine needed taming. Rutting on her was part of her discipline. A well-mated female is a placid female, and a placid female obeys. In a similar fashion as the leather tether, rutting would tie her to him. In short order, he had choked back the shout of another climax.

Choked back, because he refused to give into the wayward tendencies of his body. He must remain in control as he discharged his duty toward her. This was not about pleasure, after all. And though he had forfeited celibacy, he must never lose sight of the reason he practiced abstinence in the first place—with his size and his state of mind, he could seriously harm a woman. Withdrawing, Sage re-lit the torch, and gazed down at his captive. Aeschine looked ... broken. Her slick body had listed to one side like the bent stem of the buttercups she so loved. Perspiration plastered her glorious mane of hair to her shoulders. Bruises showed where his hands had sought purchase on her narrow hips. She had bitten through her bottom lip. His seed, mixed with blood, ran in a thin red line down the inside of her splayed legs. Horrified, his gaze dropped. Blood covered his cock too. Had he damaged her internally? But no. He remembered how Aeschine had blooded herself after the wolf kill. It was the beast's blood, not hers. Taking up a leather skin, Sage left Aeschine curled up into herself and went to the hot springs. After washing, he filled the pouch with warm water and returned to her. Kneeling between his captive's legs, he moistened a cloth and proceeded to bathe her. He took care. Even so, she grimaced when the cloth touched the swollen folds. Dispensing with the linen, he used his bare hand instead. When he had finished, he introduced a finger to the inner sanctum.. “Lie still,” he reproved her when she squirmed. “'Tis my responsibility to see to your condition.” Heedless of her foolish modesty, he moved his digit deep and thoroughly. “No rips,” he pronounced when he was absolutely sure. “No tears, either. You are a healthy, salubrious female." He smothered the torch once more. “Captor!” she cried. “Where are you?" He eased up over her, prowling her body like a predator. Like one of the wolves he had just killed for her. “I am here. Do you not feel me?" The sight of blood on her skin had excited him. His semen between her thighs had aroused him. He had marked her, claimed her; his life's fluids inside her womb proclaimed her his mate. Nostrils flaring, he inhaled her musky scent. Was there a more potent perfume than the fragrance of mating? Soon, sniffing her skin no longer appeased him. He had to taste her. Would she allow it? In persuasion, he mouthed the inside of her limbs—still lax and well open. Next, he gave her his tongue, a slow rasp along the silky flesh from knee to where thigh met pubic curls. He licked her. Voraciously. Expecting her to put a halt to the plunder, his tongue strokes grew frenzied. He lapped at her core. Paradise!

He went down on her. Nuzzled the outer pink lips. When she said naught to deny him, he became more adventurous. Hiking her legs over his shoulders, he mouthed her swollen opening. Then rubbed his face back and forth. Nose. Mouth. Cheeks. All went into the opening, delving the moist folds. Glorious! His tongue darted inside. A quick foray, lest she gainsay him. No demure. If anything, Aeschine's body hummed. She opened to him like a flower, her legs going wider, fully acquiescent. His tongue plunged in and out. Delicious! Fervently, feverishly, his palms roaming her belly, squeezing breasts and belly and buttocks, he ate between her legs. Impossible to get enough! Never had he dared to do such things before. Never had he dreamed of such delight. His face was scarred. He was big. Intimidating. He was no romantic knight ladies swooned over—save in fear. No woman had ever allowed him this kind of freedom on the furs. Nor had he ever asked. Aeschine not only let him, she urged him on to greater liberties with her needful cries. Their bargain. That reason alone explained why she let him. She certainly had no wish for him to do this, as a woman in love might wish her lover to orally mate her. No love bond held them. Her thighs quivered. “Oh, aye,” she chanted, her head thrashing on the furs. “Oh, aye, aye, aye." Quickly now, before it happened, before she came under his mouth, he undid his loincloth and positioned himself, his cock pointed at her hot, wet opening. He pushed into the slit. She moaned. Deep in her throat. Pleasure? Or pain? A little of both, he decided, moving in and out, but with incomplete, shallow, strokes. And then she was sobbing. Crying. Screaming. Coming, as she writhed and called out to him. “Captor!" In the heat of copulation, the appellation sounded cold to his ears. Absurd to feel that way. Absurd to long to hear her utter his name in passion. For verily, what else would she call him? He had deliberately withheld his name from her. He acquitted himself of guilt over this intentional oversight; whores seldom learn the names of the customers they service. Aeschine was undoubtedly promiscuous, undoubtedly a whore. His whore now, as she had been LaTourne's whore before him. He would give her his name when knowing it became essential, not any sooner. Sage followed Aeschine into climax, silently and oddly disappointed.

CHAPTER TEN

In her dream, crimson puddles seeped into the ground. Her blood. A pack of wild animals had ripped her apart. “Nay!” she screamed, mindless of everything save that disjointed death scene. “Help me, Captor! Do not let them have me! I beg of you." A hand reached for her. She shook off those hard fingers, fighting the comfort they offered. Her rejection did not drive the hand away; the comforting fingers continued to stroke her face. “Hush. ‘Tis a dream. Only a bad dream." The captor! That was his quiet voice, reassuring her. Strange, that he should be her source of comfort. “How would you know?” she asked him sullenly. “I know." She believed him. She believed he did understand about night torments. And rather than fight those fingers any longer, she turned towards them, towards the reassuring caress in the middle of horror. Her eyes flickered open. “When will I be loved?” she asked, groggy with sleep, aswamp with panic. “All my life I have tried to be worthy of affection and I have always failed. What am I doing wrong? Why do you withdraw from me? Am I so hideous, so very ugly, that staying close to me, that sleeping with me, is distasteful?" She tossed her head against the furs. “Well, fine! I do not need you!" “You called out to me in your sleep. You screamed, ‘Captor!’ It sounded like need to me." “And you came,” she said in wonder at the realization. “Several times as I recall,” he said dryly. “What man would not answer the call of such a temptress?" When she said nothing, he rose from the furs, and walked away. Holding the fur to her chest, she scrambled to a sit. “Where do you go?" “Not far. Only to light the far torch. There is no reason to fear the dark..." She grinned. “I think you have cured me of my childhood terror. I no longer believe dragons and witches lurk in the night shadows." Torch lit, he returned to her. Squatting beside her, he began to play with a strand of her hair. “Good, because evil is done more often in sunlight than in moonlight."

She nodded at the wisdom of his words. “And evil may be slain, just as night dragons may be slain." “I once thought so,” he countered. “I know so! Love will slay the most ferocious beast." “Believe what you will; I believe in naught." “You are a warlord! Surely you believe in vows of allegiance?" Her captor's ruined lips went tight. “Vows are the least of what ties two people together." “Vows are holy!” she exclaimed, aghast. “Inviolate. Wedding vows, in particular, are sacred." “Mating accomplishes ownership more efficiently than any words mumbled in haste before a cleric.” He pulled her from her seated position to her knees. His hand now rested on her back. So warm there. So shockingly warm above the beginning swell of her buttocks, which the furs had left partially bare. “Captor,” she began earnestly, for she really did wish to know, “is there not more to mating than the ins and outs?" He chuckled. “I think we accomplished the ‘ins and outs’ very nicely." “Poetry and kisses.” She sighed. “Caresses and oaths of undying devotion. Are those not also a part of lovemaking?" He laughed. “You are young." She said petulantly, “I should like a kiss, Captor!" His gaze sank to the juncture of her legs, to the region the fur left uncovered. “I kissed you." “Not there!” Her face burned. “Did you not kiss ladies before you took up celibacy? On the mouth,” she added as a qualifier. “That is a most personal question." Apart from the fur she held to her front, she was naked. Had been naked since the wolf attack. She had never before gone this long without garb. Even bathing had always been a brief, hurried affair. Tonight after mating, the warlord had parted her legs as though privacy was a concept he knew naught about. He had explored her insides like an adventurer looking for new lands to conquer. He had done the most intimate things to her with infuriating nonchalance and he dared to call her question personal! “I see,” she said forlornly. “You have kissed other ladies on the mouth. You simply do not care to give those types of kisses to me." “Why so glum? I gave you my cock, did I not?" She glared at him. He hooted at her vexation. “Please to remember that accusatory looks bounce off me like goose feathers

off chain mail." He covered her bare bottom with a warm palm. “You raised no objections to what we did on the furs." That was not what she meant! She had wished to lose her virginity to her captor. Even with the pain—and a very definite sting did come with the ecstasy—she was hungry to mate with him again. It was only that she would have his kisses too. Was that too much to ask? Aeschine sighed once more. Evidently it was too much to ask. At least it was in the here and now. Sage felt no love for her. But mayhap if she satisfied his lust, he might come to feel the start of affection. With that affection, the kisses would certainly follow. The road to love is long, she thought philosophically. And ‘twas not without its share of obstacles. The Captor's woeful reticence was the highest. But jump that hurdle she must... With the future in mind, she pushed her bare bottom out for him as she had oft seen receptive animals do as a preliminary to mating. “I would make you happy, Captor." “Again? So soon?” His voice was cool and dry, she noticed, but the hand kneading her slightly raised buttocks was hot and sweaty. Say what he would, the Captor was not unaffected. He desired her. Again. She smiled. This was all going rather nicely. Though, she did have a pesky question that needed an answer. “What you did ... what you put inside me ... is that how a bairn is conceived?" “Surely, you know how a woman gets with child." A blunder! Obviously, an experienced leman would have this sort of information at her disposal! To cover her mistake, she said, “One may write a missive without ever fully understanding how parchment is made. My mother is long dead, Captor. Who would tell me?" Her captor's dark eyes lifted to the cave's ceiling. “This is not how I thought to pass the eve." “So sorry to inconvenience you.” As a stab at meekness, she thought it a huge success. “You have no idea how inconvenient you are to me!” He laughed without mirth. “Aye, I seeded you all right. What I put inside you, my cum, will make a babe if the time of the moon is right. Now hold still. Let me see what I am about here.” He drew a finger along the crevice between her buttocks. Not deep, just obviously there. She started to straighten. This approach differed than the previous ones... “Stay,” he said, sternly, using the same inflection on her as he used on his steed. She held herself steady as a hard finger slid up and down the demarcation between her bottom cheeks. “A female may avoid conception if she is breached between the buttocks or if a man makes use of her mouth..."

“That is sodomy, and ‘tis forbidden by the Church,” she said primly. “Interference with conception, such as unnatural intercourse, is a heinous sin.” That much she did know! “Surely, puss, you have done what is forbidden?" Caught again. “I have never sought to purposefully impede the creation of new life,” she said, trying to worm her way around the trap. “But sometimes, in the heat of the moment, one becomes carried away and one forgets specific Church doctrine. There is no sin in forgetfulness; there is only sin if ... if certain things are planned in advance." “How very convenient is your faith." “I am a God-fearing Christian! I cannot be blamed for an erratic memory." “Let us hope you have many such memory lapses in the future." Aeschine had a sneaky suspicion this portended to be one of them, because when the captor said, “You will need to drop your hold on that fur,” her memory flew away. Her memory returned when he added the word, “Now!" The insufferable lout! He would need to drop his arrogance first! His high-handedness was one of those obstacles in the road to love. “I would have a kiss first,” she said, setting him straight. “Do you still think to bargain?" Bargain? When she had so little to trade? Only herself, and that was a worthless commodity. If she had worth, the captor would give her kisses without her having to ask. “Nay,” she answered, insecurity returning. How had she ever thought that she might have any real value to him? “I do not bargain." He rose to his feet. “Oh, but you are bargaining, even now, and it must stop." Turning on his heel, he walked away from her. Aeschine called after him. “Captor! Do not go. Please?" “The fur,” he said sternly. She longed for her captor's touch; she did not want him to leave! Defeated by her feelings, she lowered the covering to the ground. CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sage swiveled, his gaze riveted to his captive's dainty breasts. They bobbed as though an unseen lover's hand plucked at them.

His sights drifted lower, to her pelvis. Her mons tilted as though meeting that same unseen lover's thrust. This was no erotic pantomime his captive was performing; she was trying to gain her feet. While he watched from a small distance, Aeschine strained against the leather tether, the long tendons in her thighs tightening with the exertion. She fought the shortened restraint like a magnificent wild animal, her glorious hair whipping about her wide shoulders in her frenzy to be free. He walked back to her. Stood before her. Looked down upon her head, which she had bent in a sorrowful pose, her eyes cast to the ground. He would have liked to keen her lack of freedom. To mourn it, as he had witnessed proud warriors mourn their losses at the wailing wall of Jerusalem, but the ability to cry for himself or for anyone else had long since left him. “Shh. Quit your struggling.” He laid a hand on her wide shoulder, one soldier to another. “The tether has wrapped itself around the stake. This is the reason you are unable to rise." To restore her mobility, he loosened the tangle of leather from around the stake. “There,” he said. “Now you may stand and walk inside the cave as far as the tether allows." He picked up her pointed chin. “The restraint is for your own good, Aeschine. You must learn to obey me." She looked up at him from under her thick lashes. “Please do not leave me. I vow to do everything you say as long as you do not leave me. See? I have placed the fur aside." He thumbed a silvery teardrop as it rolled down her lovely cheek. Brushed his knuckles over her stubborn jaw. Smoothed her wild mane back over her shoulders so that he might better see her bared body. She immediately crossed her arms in the classic pose of Eve in the Garden, covering her breasts and genitals. Solemnly, he took her arms down and arranged them carefully behind her back, above the beginning swell of her buttocks. “I will tether your wrists too if you try to hide your body. You may not keep secrets from me." “How would I ever scratch my nose with my hands behind my back?" “I shall scratch it for you.” He did just that. “I shall see to all your needs." Her shoulders rounded. “I have a need now. Please sleep with me on the furs. The nightmares frighten me so..." “Talk to me of your pets, about your sheep. Conversation will keep your night terrors away." “I have already told you, sheep are not my pets.” Her nose went up in the air, out of joint. “Sheep are my occupation. I plan to breed a superior animal someday."

“Tell me more." He dropped to his knees behind her and began to massage the kinks out of her muscles. As she spoke of a subject near and dear to her heart, her voice grew animated. “I have heard tell that in Cheviot Hills there is a smallish sort of sheep which graze on the grassy hillsides. They have clean legs and no fleece upon their faces. Also, their ears are upright." In her excitement, her breaths came faster, and her small breasts rapidly lifted and fell. “These miniature sheep have longer wool with an excellent crimp, the kind spinners prefer. And they have extraordinary flocking instincts. In fact, acquiring them in pairs is preferred." He kneaded the tautness from her arms in long, smooth strokes. “They are lonely, eh? Like people?" “Aye, but unlike most people, these sheep have sweet dispositions. Active and alert, yet mild-mannered. The ewes have excellent mothering abilities. They not only rarely abandon their offspring, they actually keep track of their lambs, which would make shepherding easier. Also, the rams are not aggressive. And here is the best part: the lambs are hardy. They romp around right after birth. And because they are small and have smaller appetites, they will not overgraze the hillsides. Less area is needed for them both in the barn and in the pastureland!" Sage listened to Aeschine with an interest that surprised him. The lass did greatly entertain him. During those cold winter nights at his keep, she would make him a stimulating companion as well as an enthusiastic bedmate. Her tone sparkled. “I have done nothing but think about owning a flock of these tiny sheep since learning you would take me to your keep. They give me a measure of hope for the future. Oh,” she whispered demurely, looking over her shoulder at him. “Please forgive me. That did not sound very gracious, did it?" He shrugged. “I prefer honesty to manners. You are a woman of many passions. Never apologize for them." “Listen to me rambling on! My chattering must fair put you to sleep." “I wish." “Pardon?" “On the contrary, my dear. Your excitement is contagious. Now I too would see those little white beasties dotting the green hills outside my motte-and-bailey.” Reaching around to her front, he drew circles around her jutting breasts, confining his attentions to the periphery of the areole. She shivered. “Oh..." Her nipples elongated. The tips distended to points. He pinched one, a gentle squeeze between thumb and forefinger. “Are these tender?" “They feel ... heavy. Achy too."

“Suckling them will lessen the ache. Do you enjoy having a man suck your breasts?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned her to face him. Slanting his jaw, he tugged the small treasure between his lips. “Oh-oh-oh-” She bounced on her knees. “I ... If you would only see your way to letting me try my hand at raising a few of those sheep, I would never ask anything of you again." Still bargaining... As she pleaded her cause, a molten wave of longing hit him. He was drowning in Aeschine: her scent, her hair, her sparkling eyes, her spirited ways. He was going under for the third time and he had no wish to kick his way to the surface. Duty propelled him upwards. Reluctantly, he let go of her nipple. The tip popped from his mouth, wet and glistening and very, very red... He took a bracing breath. He had almost given her his teeth. Had almost scraped her silky skin. Had almost bitten into her soft flesh. His need to mark her as his, to brand her in some way, took on a life of its own. This intemperance must stop! Was it too late to stop? Nay, it was not. He was still in control. Still in charge of the situation. He was not seduced. He was not obsessed. He was not drowning. Like hell. He was sinking fast. The sheep. The sons. The rolling green hills. Her dreams for the future. She made it all seem so real. But Aeschine was not his wife; she was his possession, a prisoner he was forced to judge. There would be no sheep. There would be no cold winter nights spent drinking ale in front of a roaring fire. His keep was a mud and timber hovel, fit only for animals. And they would have no family. Henceforth, Sage vowed, he would spill his cum upon the ground to prevent his seed from taking root in her womb. No babe of his would be born a bastard! “A lady may have sheep and not neglect the running of a keep,” his captive wheedled. “A lady may do both, you know, and produce fine strapping sons too. As many as you so desire. Contented women breed more easily, or so I am told." He thumbed the dark smudge his mouth had just left on her nipple. Aeschine's skin bruised easily. “Do you think to barter the use of your body for ... for sheep?" She looked straight ahead. “Why would I, when my body is already yours?" “No need to protest, my dear. You seek payment. I understand."

“If mating is commerce to you, then pray tell me, what is the rate of exchange for my favors? The way you are going, I really should start keeping a running tally." “Complaints so soon?” He walked his hand lower, down over her concave belly, until his palm rested above her silky pelt. Lord, she felt hot to the touch! Her hot flesh fair burned him. She panted, “No complaints, only practicality. I seek only to determine how soon I will own a full flock. There are stables to consider for the colder months and such. If you plan on keeping me busy, I shall have my flock sooner, rather than later. I must make ready. I ask for the exchange rate only to gauge my shepherding requirements." He told her what his loins told him. “Thrice a day should do me. And not to worry,” he said swiftly. “Each occasion is a separate count. And before you ask, I will pay more sheep for certain services rendered." “You are a cold man." Nay, he was a frozen man, but she was thawing him. “Would you rather have a jewel as a token of my gratitude?” He stroked between her legs until she fully opened her thighs. “Sheep are fine.” Her voice filled with tears. Why? Why was she crying? Arousal dampened her slit. Still, the passage was swollen ... Did he pain her? Is that why she cried? “Are my attentions too much?" “Nay. I like your attentions,” she said on a shuddering sob. “I like everything you do." If not pained, why the tear-drenched vocal cords? Had he made some other blunder? Spoken out of turn? Female tears made him feel out of sorts. He needed to set this misunderstanding to rights! “I wish not to insult you with gifts, but to express my gratitude for the solace I find between your thighs." She sniffed. “I see. You seek to pay homage to my thighs. This certainly leaves no doubt as to my worth in your estimation." “Why are you upset? You mentioned I should pay in sheep, not I." “Payment! Is everything payment to you?" “If it wounds you, consider the pets a gift." “Sheep are not my pets! They are my occupation.” She sniffed again. “And your inference that I need payment for showing affection is hurtful. I give myself to you freely. No man buys my favors!" “I understand ... I think."

She nodded. “I take the sheep you offer and say thanks. You will not be sorry for the expenditure on my behalf." “Then, are the terms settled?" “Aye." He was most relieved. A wise man never intentionally provokes female agitation. “Every time you please me on the furs, you will receive sheep,” he reiterated, just to make sure those were indeed the terms. He was a bit confused. “You will have your flock in no time." “I am amazed a man of your virility and generosity has no children. You must have had many lovers." “Scores,” he said, dryly, thinking of the past five years of celibacy—four years battling in the Holy Wars and a year of abstinence since his return—and his highly unsatisfactory love life before that. Even in green youth, before he wed, before despair imprisoned him, fear of injuring his partner had quelled his rampant physicality. “And these ladies ... you loved them all?" “With my body, I did. But I spilled my seed upon the ground so as not to give them my child." She pondered her flat little belly. “You will not waste your seed that way with me. I shall conceive easily!" What, by Satin's tail, did they discuss? She was his enemy's betrothed, his possession by abduction, his leman by a mercenary bargain. Lunacy to give her his seed! And yet the urge to spill himself inside her had him crazed. Withdrawing from that hot, wet, tight, clasp would not be easy. “It does not always work like that,” he grumbled. “Some women are not so easily seeded, though they are regularly plowed and with deep furrows made. Repeat sowings are oft times needed." “Hardly a joyless labor." He fought mirth and lost. Aeschine did amuse him greatly. “A man does not suffer overly much.” He exploded in chuckles. “I hope to quicken soon.” She slanted him a typically female glance. “I only wish..." “Go on! Continue. What?" “Oh, never mind,” she wistfully. Now, he was not only amused; he was intrigued. “Come now, tell me. What do you wish?" “That you cared for me."

He needed to learn all her secret wishes. However, this was one confidence he would gladly have done without hearing. “Useless to ask for the impossible,” he mumbled. “But you do lust after me and I suppose that is a start. After all, without lust there are no love poems. Still, I dream of more. Companionship. Laughter. Friendship. A warm day and a bed of wildflowers to lie upon in the arms of my beloved..." “Stop your silliness. I need to test your readiness." “Test my readiness!” she lambasted him. “Am I game on the spit to be poked for doneness?" He chuckled again. “I do wish to poke you, though not for doneness." He buzzed around her petals for a while—her pubic curls were so pretty and he did so love to comb his fingers through the soft and silky pelt. Lifting the pouty nether lips, he gazed within at the erotic pink flesh before dipping another finger to her nectar. “Mmm.” Her lids went heavy, half-closed. “Why do you call me silly? Is it because I crave love sonnets and pledges of devotion?" “Exactly!" She licked her lips. “Oh, aye. There. Touch me there. ‘Tis lovely." God's bones! She was eager. “Those cravings you speak of ... sonnets ... pledges ... I have none of those to give. But sheep, now those I can give you." “They are not enough,” she said, dreamily. “I desire more." He answered her desire with another finger. His third digit in. That was the only more he was prepared to give. Handling her as he would a mare for studding, he coolly turned her. Expertly positioned her. Readied her without emotion for mounting. She was his little animal. Bending her over for a rear entry approach, he drew back his fingers; they were coated with honey, the moisture dripping to his knuckles. “You are nicely wet. Are you normally this receptive to a man?" “Only to you, Captor." “No need to pretend. I know I am not your first and only suitor. No need to stroke my vanity, no need to say I am the best of the lot. Bad enough you keep secrets—must you lie too?" “My passion for you is honest!" He sighed at her vehemence. Would that he believed her! He was more than a little wary, and still Aeschine made him forget everything. Responsibilities. Duties. Obligations. Right and wrong. Forget it all. Except LaTourne. Impossible to forget that his enemy had consorted with her. “Roll your hips,” he instructed. “Dance for me, as you danced for me by the hot springs."

Pinned to his hand, she obediently rolled her hips while his fingers stayed lodged inside her passage. She spoke low. “I love what you do to me. I love the feel of you inside me. You fill me with joy." Her pretence of having feelings for him, her talk of children and romance and joy, and everything else this relationship was not and would never be, prompted him to remind her, “You are my leman, not my espoused! There are things I would ask of you that I would never ask of a wife." “No need to ask. I give you full reign.” She looked away. “Only do not give me away to another. Do not share me." Give this beauty to another man? Sacrilege! But he said naught to reassure her. His captor had bargained with him once; he would not allow her to extort any further promises from him. Tears rolling down her lovely face, Aeschine came on a lusty scream. Afterwards, he put the sleepy puss to bed. Arranging her carefully on her side, legs bent up to her belly, he tucked the fur around her front, keeping her bottom bared to his hungry eyes. He left the harness between her legs undone. Little point buckling the chastity shield in place, as he was already edgy and knew he would have to take her again. Aeschine gave a huge, post-coital yawn of fulfillment and wiggled deeper into the bedding. “My mother once told me a woman feels joy when she mates with the man she loves. And I do feel joy when we come together. A bonfire of joy. It burns me. ‘Tis rapture unlike any I have ever experienced. I might easily grow to love you. Do not kill the seed of my love before it has chance to grow,” she said drowsily. Again, he said nothing in reply. When his captive's eyes drifted shut, he stayed and watched over her while she slumbered. Keeping all those night terrors away. He thought, and gave a tired chuckle. Verily, her even breathing calmed him. Inexplicably at peace in her presence, he must have fallen off too. Though, as usual, his sleep was restless, tormented ... blood plagued. Awakening with a start, he reached for Aeschine, his only thought to drown himself in her again. “I must have you,” he rasped. She answered, still half-slumbering: “You do have me. Now and forever," “Nothing is forever,” he castigated, the madness inside him growing. “The world is an impermanent place. Everything shifts and changes. Loyalty. Passion. Love." “We will make our own world! A world where important things like love never change.” Full awake, she rose to her knees on the furs. “And I shall be yours in that world anyway you will have me." “Ah, what you do to me! ‘Tis a pity your words are empty.” He hastened to his feet before she seduced him into believing her oaths were sincere. She forestalled him. “I beg you, do not hurt me like this,” she cried, hanging onto his arm. “You will only

hurt yourself in the end if you do. You say you must have me. Fine! I give myself to you gladly; give yourself to me too. Pray do! Do not stand apart from me as an observer. If I must lose myself, so must you! Show me you feel something too!" He shook his arm free from her grasp. “There is a black pall hanging over me this night. ‘Tis dangerous for you when I am like this." “I see no danger; I see only you." “The danger is here.” He slapped his chest. “Inside me." He had left her openings available for intercourse, but she was still tethered about the waist to the stake pounded in the floor. She scrambled to her feet, but she could not follow him. “I accept the danger. I fear it not! Do you hear me? I fear it not! Stay with me, and mayhap my presence will keep the danger at bay. And if danger comes anyway, then together we will slay the beast. ‘Tis what you did for me this night." “So be it,” he rasped, and blew out the torch. “Consider yourself warned." CHAPTER TWELVE

It was unremittingly dark in the cave, and Aeschine felt rather than saw her captor move. At first, he circled her. Slowly. Like the lead wolf from the pack had done. Then, he came up behind her, flanking her. His warmth scorched her from shoulder to thigh. His hardness branded her buttocks. She knew the captor's power, his strength, his torment. She knew too that he was dangerous. That he might very well hurt her. Yet knowing all this, she leaned back against him, pinned to him as the moth is pinned to the flame. No leather tether was needed to keep her in place; she stayed because she had no wish to leave. Oh, she knew what he was doing! Her captor was forcing her to go outside herself, to a wild, dark, wicked place where there are no rules to govern civilized behavior, where a man and a woman might come together for the sake of physical pleasure alone. He offered only the carnal, spoke not a word of love, promised her no future, and yet she would allow him to use her as a faceless vessel, to violate her, to penetrate her, to dominate her in any fashion he so desired. No romance. No flowery speeches. Her captor extended only a forbidden passion, a passion Church canon prohibited. She took it. Passion was so much more than she had ever hoped to have. His large hands moved over her naked body; the rough texture of his tunic abraded her soft flesh. “I own you. Do you doubt it?" “Doubt it! How would I doubt it when my body answers less to me than to you?” She swallowed convulsively. “Only please, do not take me in anger." “I am not angry."

She made a cracked sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “You refuse to kiss me. You take me without warmth. The joy you give me is a punishment of sorts because you refuse to share it with me. If you must beat me, pray beat me! Only do not use my feelings for you against me this way." He ran a slow and practiced hand down her spine to her bottom. He massaged her buttocks, squeezed them, stroked them. He petted her as he did his destrier. She sighed her pleasure. No pride. No dignity. No shame. She longed for his touch, no matter what form it took. She who had once feared losing herself, her worth, now accepted her captor's complete domination, his total authority over her. Powerless to deny him, she put aside religiosity and morality and her own best interests, and went with him into the darkness. She loved him. So much, she dared to face her terror ... and his. He pressed between her shoulder blades, and she toppled like a willow tree. Her hair fell forward and her hips came up to meet his roaming hand. She moved her bottom lasciviously against that warm palm, her teeth gritted in pleasure. In agony too. For he kept his face from her. How was it possible for lovemaking to feel so distant, yet so intimate too and all at the same time? She had never dreamed in her innocent dreams that she would give herself over so irrevocably to a man that she would not know where she ended and he began. Surrounding her like the ocean surrounds the sands, he encompassed her, he mastered her; there was no room in her mind for anything else but him. Would she lose her identity so completely to him that she would never find herself again? Would he destroy her this night? Would she never be the same again? “Please do not hurt me,” she pleaded, cowardly tears stinging her eyes. “I rub my horse's flank. I stroke my falcon's wing. I pat my dog's head. I never hurt my animals, but I do train them, and I do expect absolute obedience from them. Do you obey me? Will you be my animal-mate tonight?" “Aye,” she sobbed. “Aye." But where was the companionship her mother spoke of? Where was the warm laughter of two lovers meeting and joining in happiness? Where was the scent of wildflowers? “I am no different than LaTourne in my wants,” he murmured, his ruined lips hot against the back of her neck. “You are nothing like LaTourne! He finds pleasure in causing pain. You do not." He laughed. “My dear, very little gives me pleasure anymore." She couldn't help herself; she began to cry. His despair. Her fear. They were too much. At her tears, he whispered reassurances in her ear. Coaxing things. Things that lightened the burdens of her heart. “Be my true mate,” he said. “Forget vows and obligations and romantic notions about love. Forget about right and wrong. Let there be no strictures between us."

He strummed her like a minstrel until her body sang and her desire dripped. So easy to forget about the morrow when she was soggy wet between the legs for him. He was not ... tentative. He nudged her woman's opening. Then sawed. Back to front. Stud to mare. Seeking, then withdrawing. Advance. Then retreat. A calculated assault on her defenses. In a furor to join with him, she dropped lower still, bringing her bottom up for him. Her fingers touched her toes. At her submission, powerful hands bracketed her hips. He steadied her, and then positioned her to his liking. She did not protest what he did or how he touched her. She was clay in his hands. But when he came into her in one hard push, back to front, entering her swollen woman's passage like a battering ram at an already embattled gate, despite her determination to hold steady, the impact jolted her. Her knees locked. Her heels dug into the dirt. Trembling, she waited for the raw shock of the possession to subside. The shock didn't subside. There was no recovering from the pain of this breech. His length was unexpected, and much too much. The width fair ripped her apart. He had held back before, but now he held back naught. He pushed. Pushed again. Up into her he went, driving hard. It hurt. His cock hurt her. One of her hands left the ground and went to her woman's place. To relieve the horrible pressure, she cupped her front, her fingers soothing the notch she had never dared touch before. This left only one hand on the floor, and with each painful thrust her captor made, she lost more and more of her balance, until she lost it altogether. She crumbled in the dirt at his feet, both hands now cradling her mons. He stood over her, legs spread, breathing hard. “Had enough, milady?" Pushing the wildness of her knotted hair away from her face, she looked up at him. Tortured eyes met hers. And she knew ... she knew then what drove him. Her captor wanted her to give up on him. To quit. To leave him to his demons. He sought not a companion for his trip into darkness; he sought to journey into hell alone. She tossed her head and her filthy hair whipped about her shoulders. “I shall never give up on you! I do not know what ails you but I shall not leave you alone this night." But could she heal him with her body and not lose her soul? He grabbed a fistful of her swinging hair. With a yank, he brought her to her knees. “ ‘Tis not that you do not wish to leave me alone,” he snarled. “Say it for what it is! Do not try to justify this thing between us." Did he think to rip her hair out at the root? Her scalp protested the ungentle treatment. Oh God, how would she ever withstand this?

“I am concerned for you,” she managed to say. “Ha! Concern! You are a child!” he said in disgust. “You have an appetite for this, for what I would give you. You like the pain. Only you refuse to admit it! So be it! If you are not the woman I need you to be—go back to sleep.” He let go of her. She fell to a feral crouch in the darkness. She wanted to be a woman. His woman. But how? Only recently a virgin, a mature woman's carnal knowledge was not hers to draw upon. She only knew she would not be sent away. No matter what he did to her, she would not leave him. And, there was something else too. Something shameful. For he was right—she was excited. Oddly, she found the hardness of his possession pleasurable. Even the pain was pleasurable. It was difficult to distinguish between pleasure and pain. “Different men have different requirements,” she whispered, trying to fathom the extent of her own depravity. “Do not confuse skill on the furs with second sight! You need to tell me your specifications." Leaning over her, he rasped the instructions in her ear. The command was as courteous as it was specific. The explicitness of it left her no place to hide: “Go to the furs,” he had said politely. “I would take you like an animal. Like a buck takes an ewe. Like a man takes a wholly receptive woman. Show me how much you desire it. Get down on all fours for me. Raise up your female body to receive my male body. Spread yourself open for my penetration. Legs wide. Hips raised high. Tail well up in the air. I would get it in you deep, as deep as my cock will go." The bedding was not far in distance. But how far it seemed in her mind! It was difficult to leave innocence behind and embrace a mature woman's sensuality. Difficult to admit she wanted him without reservation, without compromise, even now when the veneer of romance was long since gone. This was mating stripped to its most fundamental elements. Raw. Primitive. Unsanctified. Torn between desire and a reluctance to admit that desire, she hesitated. But only for a heartbeat. Tossing her head, she returned to the furs, the tether guiding her way Her master walked beside her as she crawled on hands and knees across the packed dirt floor. “You move like a cat,” he told her, his palm cupping her head. “Sleek and graceful. Part wild." She felt part wild too. He made her feel that way. Those pious days spent behind a convent wall seemed like they had happened to another person, not to her. Whilst he stood over her, fully clothed, and looked down upon her, fully naked, she positioned herself as he had instructed: Belly to fur. Elbows bent. Legs spread wide. Nay, not good enough! He said she must splay her legs. Part them as wide as they would go. She made the necessary split. Then raised her bottom. High. Higher. Higher still. Like a submissive female animal does in the wild, she gave him limitless entrée to her body. She felt unguarded ... vulnerable. And not at all like a lady. Her small teats bobbed and swayed. The tips were tight and hard, bruised from his mouth, pointed like spears. She was wide open. In front. In back. A woman totally

exposed. She hung her head and her hair fell over her face. “Please?" The captor traced her elevated spine with a finger. She blushed when his palm curved around her buttock. Nevertheless, she held herself still for his perusal. A digit went into the crevice, investigated her back portal, rubbed there. Oh, God. Tried to enter there. “Loosen your muscles,” he said. “Do not try to keep me out." Relaxing every muscle in her body, she simply let him. The tip of his finger entered her back portal. Just the tip. “You are truly a sensual creature. You make me tremble like a babe,” he said, his finger pushing in further. She made this huge warrior tremble? Before she absorbed the captor's declaration of mutual weakness, he withdrew the trespass of that fingertip. Dropping down behind her, he mounted her. Entered her. Using her like an animal, he fed his cock into her. She felt it go in. Felt him fill her woman's passage. Would he come out her throat? When his manhood kissed her womb, he began to thrust. She groaned whilst he worked over her like a blacksmith works over the fire, his hot iron hammering her, melding her, burning her. The pressure was enormous, the heat an inferno. Would the flames engulf her? “I was terrified when you tried to jump off my war-horse,” he rasped, ten fingers biting into her waist, holding her in place as he drove in and out. “Terrified as I have never been terrified before. Not even in battle have I been so frightened. I thought my horse would trample you. And then with the wolves too! How dare you frighten me like that! How dare you make me feel when I no longer wish to feel ... when I no longer wish to lust!" The ground trembled. She thought the ceiling of the cave would collapse on their heads. He nipped her skin, tasted her skin, licked her skin, sniffed her skin. Animals did the same with their mates. He whispered to her in English. French too. Guttural words. Harsh sounding words. Words she neither knew nor understood. It mattered little that she ken not the meaning of the phrases. Just the intonation of his voice told her that he was talking about this, about mating, about what he was doing to her, about what he would do to her still before the night was through. He kept at it. He kept at her. In the dim cave, bright splinters of radiance shattered inside her, and she swore she smelled the fresh scent of flower blossoms. The climax was devastating. More powerful than before. More joyous too. Coherence fled. Flooded with her lover, inundated with him, tears rolling down her cheeks, her teats bobbing, perspiration dripping down her spine into the crack between her buttocks, hurting between the legs, he could only weep that she loved him, begging him, pleading with him, in the middle of her turmoil to... What? Love her in return? Nay, he did not love her. But her name was on his ruined lips when he came, his release a hoarse shout

that echoed in the cave, his harsh rendition of Aeschine! a love poem to her ears. CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At dawn, Aeschine lifted her head from the pillow of her arms. She was no longer upright on all fours. Sometime during the course of the night, the captor had allowed her to change positions, for which she was most grateful, as her knees had begun to grow creaky. At first, he placed her on her side. Spooning her, he would come into her from the back, whilst her knee was bent and raised. In that manner, he could get at her opening and her teats, simultaneously. Next, he had placed her flat on her belly and on her belly she had remained for the rest of the evening, legs spread wide. In that prostrate position, he covered her, penetrating her body at his will. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but at closer and closer intervals as dawn approached. She no longer had difficulty accepting his length and breadth, though her woman's place burned bitterly sore from all the unaccustomed activity. Not sore enough to ask him to stop, however. Indeed, she had provoked him to continue. At one point, she had begged him to go harder on her. He did. He had gone much, much harder on her. He had pleasured her greatly. Wiping the damp lank of hair from her eyes, she climbed weakly up onto her elbows. “Captor?” she called. A scuttle of loosened rock brought him to her. “Again? So soon? Darling, you are insatiable..." “I am. I admit it. But I also admit to a pressing need to seek the bushes,” she bashfully explained. He dipped at the waist in a formal bow. “Forgive me. I should have inquired long before now. I shall take you at once." She rose from belly to knee. “Stay,” he said, voice firm. “You were not given permission to rise." She held herself still. “Good lass,” he complimented and unhooked her tether from the stake pounded into the ground. “Go back now." She slid back onto her haunches, arms behind her back as he had instructed, but kept her legs tightly together, as a lady should, for the sake of modesty. “Captor, I would go alone..." “You will not!" “But I thought that after we..." “That after we rutted I would relent and give you more freedom?” He shook his head. “I came upon you racing through the bogs, alone. Wolves almost mauled you. Obviously, you have a wild streak. If encouraged, this willfulness will eventually cause you untold harm. ‘Tis my responsibility to make sure you

are not endangered again." He looked down at the closed apex of her body. “Even now, you are willful. By closing your thighs, you think to keep your female secrets from me." She accepted the rebuke. The captor had made his requirements clear and she had accepted them. It was wrong to withhold herself from him. Wrong to go back on their bargain. Wrong to try to maintain even the illusion of modesty, when she no longer had the right to that illusion. “I am sorry,” she whispered contritely. Like the lowliest of slatterns, she spread herself wide until the notch between her thighs was displayed. “Wider,” he said, sternly. “All the way up on your heels and open it. Use your hand." Digging her bare toes in for purchase, she lifted up on her heels. Making a vee with two fingers, as he had showed her in the wee hours of the long night, she held herself open, showing herself to him. “Very nicely done,” he praised her, crouching down before her and staring into her opening. “The passage looks enflamed. You must burn there." She nodded. She did burn, but when he slipped two fingers inside, she murmured no protest. Indeed her teats tingled, the ends hardening and pointing. “I feel no rips. Which means we may continue. That is, if you would like to continue?” His lids lowered to her excited nipples. Damn him! He knew the answer already. Why did he bother to ask? She gave another bashful nod. He smiled, regained his feet, and then offered her his hand to help her rise. “Shall we be on our way, milady?” he asked when she had straightened, his hand once again on her bottom. In that manner, his palm riding her buttock, they moved to the mouth of the cave, a most formal if unorthodox promenade. ‘Twas almost as though they were off to a royal banquet, not to the bushes for a tethered lady to pee. Once outside the cave, her unkempt appearance made itself known to her. Her hair, her single pride, hardly stirred in the breeze for all the knots and dirt tangled in the strands. Her teats were swollen, the ends reddened and pointing. They bounced as she made her way across the rough terrain. The insides of her thighs were slippery with seed. Her fleece was matted with spent cum, darkened to the shade of a river otter's pelt with spent cum, as stiff as a beard with spent cum. Did he see the pearling on the inside of her leg as the seed spilled out of her? Did he hear the wet-squishy noises she made with each step? Did he think her ugly? Her eyes dropped, her vanity as bruised as her body “A man enjoys seeing the proof of his possession on his woman,” he said softly.

His woman... By his words, she was made beautiful. Smiling, she looked up and quipped, “Have you never before taken a stroll with a naked leman?" “Nay. For that matter, neither have I strolled with a naked lady." She was his woman. His leman. Not his lady... The distinction hurt, but his was a truth she must learn to accept. The reality was, she was no longer a lady: she was a warlord's whore. “During the Crusades, the campsites at night were boisterous places,” he volunteered. “The warriors were far from home, far from female companionship. After battle, a man's blood runs hot. Whores would come to the tents. Some evenings were a veritable orgy. Once the moon came out, the entertainment would begin. The festivities oft times continued until morning, naked females everywhere, there for the taking." “Did you take?" “I looked..." “Only looked?" “At the time, I was wed,” he said as though that explained everything, when Aeschine knew it did not; lords routinely cheated on their lady-wives. Not her captor, evidently. The warlord kept to his vows, despite his insistence that pledges were meaningless. Which could mean only one thing... “You must have loved your wife dearly to have remained faithful." “A man who respects his wife does not cavort with whores." They remained silent after that, until they came to a thin grove of low-growing mulberries. “Here,” he said tersely. She looked up at him from under the cover of her lashes. “Will you grant me privacy?" He already kept her on a short leash. When he folded his arms over his chest, the length of the rein lessened considerably. “A leman may not expect privacy. A captive leman may expect less.” He cocked a brow. “Does your bargain begin to chafe?" Her mouth twisted. Damn his arrogance! The need really was pressing. But she could not bring herself to squat at his feet, spreading her legs like a bitch on a leash, while he watched. Nor could she go further off the path because of the leash's shortened length.

“Why do you wait?” he asked, head cocked. “ ‘Tis undignified to piddle in full view,” she grumbled. With a dry chuckle, he leaned down to her and unhooked the leather strap from the tether encircling her waist. “Go to the bushes, lass, and be quick about it. The air is chilly and I would not see you take ill." She raced to a lovely full bush and squatted behind the leafy covering. With a barely suppressed sigh, she puddled onto the ground, a noisy splash. She giggled about what it meant to be a warrior's whore, cried a little about it too. This was certainly not the poetic love her mother spoke of. Much relieved, she returned to her captor's side. “Better?” he asked. A scowl was her reply. “No need for embarrassment. ‘Tis a human need." “Why have you no such needs?" “Ah ... well that is a question to ponder. I suppose the answer in part is that my humanity ended during the Crusades." “I shall make you human again. I shall give you reason to live." “You place a high value on yourself." “Nay, I do not. But I know you enjoy my woman's opening. And I know we would have a good life at your keep. We would watch our people prosper. I would give you bairns..." He shook his head. “'Tis not to be." “Why? I feel desire for you. Even now I would like to...” She paused. Tried to put into words what she wished to say. How did one put it delicately? She stood there like a complete ninny, her face warming with a maidenly blush, though she was a virginal maid no longer, and tried to piece together a polite phrase out of the limited and crude education she had received from an uncouth bunch of shepherd lads. The coarse words she knew, but not the sweet ones. She wished to say the sweet ones, because despite everything, despite the pain of her inexperienced body, mating with her captor was very sweet, indeed. “I know what you need,” he interjected, saving her the word search. “I am not unenlightened. There are females who require release as much, if not more, than the male, sometimes with more frequency. You are such a female animal. Unfortunately, if I take you again, I might rip you. Such a rip will require me to stitch you up internally. Not a pleasant eventuality for either of us." “You say you know what I wish. How do you know?" “Your female body has few secrets from me. ‘Tis your mind that remains a mystery.” He hooked her back into the tether.

That done, they returned to the cave. After her captor made her comfortable on the furs, he went back outside, leaving her alone and lonely without him. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Where do you go when you leave me?” Aeschine asked upon his return late the next day. “I walk. Hunt for food. Swim in the river,” he replied. “May I go with you next time?” his captive asked. She sat cross-legged amidst the furs rather than kneeling back on her heels, as he had instructed. He allowed the variation without comment, for he could still see her notch. “I will consider your request." “I would dearly love to swim.” Her voice was wistful. “Do you know how? The last I saw you in the water, you were almost drowned." She dimpled. “I learned as a child. And I was fully clothed before, which is why I encountered some difficulty." “English water is fierce cold,” he warned gruffly. Gruff, because she entranced him and he would dearly love her company. Gruff, because she was rapidly becoming a weakness, and he never allowed himself weakness. “ ‘Tis the same in Scotland, and I swam there all the time." Her irrepressible energy made him smile in bemusement. Where was the harm in a swim? Sage thought and took a drying cloth from his leather satchel. After unhooking her tether from the stake, he bowed, leash held in his hand. “After you, milady." As it turned out, Aeschine swam like a veritable water sprite. Knifing below the water's surface, she popped her head up in the stream far from where she first dove. He chuckled to himself. What a little imp! He let her play for a while, then clapped his hands: Aeschine was a fit female, but the river really was quite cold... She treaded water. “Please, Captor, may I stay in longer?" The secret of training a frisky animal—or a recalcitrant female—is to give an order once, and not repeat it again. He stood there, staring straight ahead, saying nothing, making no argument. “Oh, very well.” She climbed out of the river onto the grassy bank. “Behave like a vexed bear.” She offered him first her back, and then a bright smile over her shoulder as he fastened the length of strap

onto the leather belt he had left in place around her waist. “ ‘Twas a wonderful swim. My thanks." Leash firmly gripped, he handed her the linen. “Dry off." She took it with a grateful nod. As she dried her face, he rubbed warmth into her arms and shoulders. “Do something about your hair. The ends have turned to icicles and are dripping down your back." “As you say,” she said sweetly. Teeth clattering, she dipped at the waist. While he watched, she wound the linen around her head. With a deft twist, it became an exotic turban. With her wild mane wrapped, she seemed more naked somehow. Save for her pretty gold thatch of pubic curls, she resembled a sultan's concubine. Whores were shorn in many cultures. He, himself, had insisted upon it during the Crusades, to facilitate the examination of camp prostitutes for cankerous disease. Sage smoothed his palm over Aeschine's belly and then sank his fingers lower. Her pelt was quite thick, and still damp from her swim. Combing his fingers through the luxuriant silk, he said wholly bemused, “This is a pretty decoration." “Thank you.” She gave him a naughty grin. “Though it feels odd to thank you for such an unseemly compliment." Lord, she was sweet! Would that he could gobble her up whole... There was that weakness again in him. To keep the softening away, to keep in mind what Aeschine was, and what she was not and could never be, he removed his blade from his thigh. “I must shear you. “Shear me? What mean you?" “This must be shorn,” he answered, up to his knuckles in the golden bush. “Your female pelt must go." “You would shear me as I do my sheep?" He discounted the comparison with a wave of his hand. “Whores must wear the sign of their corruption on their genitals." “I am not corrupt! You enjoy what we do as much as I enjoy it. Why do I not shear you?" “ ‘Tis the law!" “Whose law?” she asked hotly. “My law!” he replied in kind. “And there are no exceptions! My decrees govern my leman the same as they govern everyone else. No preferential treatment!"

Why did her needling get under his guard this way? “'Tis easier to see the pustules of disease on a whore who is shorn." Aeschine gasped and went pale. “I am not diseased!" “Prostitutes always swear to that, and then they regularly spread their promiscuity taint amongst troops! This, I will not allow. You will be checked each month for disease with the rest of the castle whores. Bald, the examination is easier.” He continued on a softer note. “Shaving does not hurt, I promise. The knife is sharp but my hand is steady." He placed the blade against her mound. “Hold still, little lamb." Carefully, so as not to knick tender flesh, he drew the blade over her curls. She cried a little as he scraped her bare, but held steady for him. He gloated at the results. No more would she be able to hide her rosebud from him; the scrap of flesh was in plain view. And he was uncomfortably aware of it. He was hungry to make love to his captive... Make love? Where had that come from? “Return to the cave at once,” he told her brusquely, and gave her harness a shake. She jumped at his tone. “Why? What have I done?" “You are never to question my dictates!” he raged. How was it that in his thoughts he had called what they did making love? He fucked his captive; he did not made love to her. How had he confused the two dissimilarities, even for an instant? **** “Go to the wall,” Sage told Aeschine once they were inside the mouth of the cave. “What do you think to do?” she asked tremulously, but holding her ground. “I think to fuck you." “Do not demean what we have, Captor! Our attraction is of the spirit as well as of the body. We make love..." “We fuck. Like animals fuck." “But we are not animals. We have souls..." “Perchance you do. I lost my soul years ago. Now go and face the wall." “Nay! Not until you admit that we make love.” Her wide eyes accused him.

So as not to see her hurt look, he faced her away, draping her naked length against the cold gray stone. Aeschine's skin glowed like a lit candle in the darkness. He thought if he reached out, he might capture her luminosity the same way he had cupped fireflies in his palms as a lad, just to watch them shine against his fingers. He would imprison the winged creatures for a while, their brightness mesmerizing him as they fought for their freedom, and then opening his fingers, he would let them fly away. Light and courage. That was Aeschine. He wished he could open his fingers and let her go as he had released the fireflies from captivity. But he couldn't, and that inability had begun to grate on him. For all of her fearlessness, she was still a female with a female's vulnerabilities. His captive needed love like a flower needs water. Without it, she would wither and die. And he had no love, no tender emotions, to give her. All he had was hate and revenge and madness in his heart. Since he could not open his hand and let her fly away, he must instead snuff out her light. Her back was long and pale and sleekly muscled. Her buttocks were high and rounded. Tight. He smoothed his hand down her backbone. Over and over, he did this. He could not seem to stop. Never had he felt such raw, bleak, lust. He could not temper it. Could not slow it down. Could not free himself of it. The air in the cave was heavy. Thick with steam. Perfumed with the scent of wanton carnality. Stretched out on a rack of encroaching pleasure, spiraling toward damnation, his expectations surpassing all reasonable boundaries, he cupped his captive's derriere. “A man makes love to his wife. He does not make love to his leman. A man fucks his leman." “Nay, this is more than that. We are more than that..." Why did she persist in her romantic notions? Why did she insist upon making this what it was not? “You will not make this into a dream, Captive! Henceforth, I spill my seed outside your womb so that you will not conceive." “Interfering with the natural order is a grievous sin. The Church forbids it, and all other unnatural acts. If I agree, such a sin will blacken my soul." “Ah, sin. I have seen more sins committed in a Holy War than I have ever seen done in a sultan's harem. Nay, I do not believe in the notion of sin any more." “ ‘Tis heresy you speak,” she said, voice hushed. “If you think to gainsay me, forestalling me with accusations of heresy will not accomplish your goal. Speak plainly if you wish to prevent this, for I am no rapist." His captive had pious tendencies, for all that she had lain with LaTourne. For that reason, she must be made to understand the place she would serve in his life. Far kinder to do it this way than to make her reckless promises for a future neither of them might have. He was not her betrothed. Not her espoused. He was her captor; she was his captive. This bargain between them was all that they had, and the bargain must be placed in its proper perspective.

They fucked. They did not make love. This was the proper perspective. “I give you my heart,” she said, crying softly. “I would face the fires of hell to gain my heaven with you." He would not be swayed. “Do you deny me?” He ran the tips of his fingers down the seam between her buttocks. “I deny nothing, especially what I have become." He leaned over her, his body rounded to her back. “You are what you are. As I am what I am.” He tasted the salt of her tears with his tongue. Exonerating himself from the responsibility of those salty tears, he pulled back a ways and arranged her body for his taking: elegant arms braced against the wall, slender hips slightly forward, legs well separated. “No half measures, no strictures,” he coolly advised her. “Best tell me now if you have reservations about continuing our bargain. Best tell me if there is anything you do not allow." “Let your conscience be clear, Captor,” she said, her voice devoid of all emotion, including recrimination. “I allow everything. I give you full sanction, total consent. I crave your lovemaking no matter what form it takes." Lovemaking! This was not lovemaking! Why would she not see it for what it was? “Three sheep for this usage,” he said formally, courteously, and opened his loincloth. His manhood sprang forth and nudged her legs. Tightening her muscles, she covered her face with her hands. “You will never love me if I allow you this. A man does not respect a woman who goes against the laws of the Church, who interferes with the natural of order of conception." For once, Aeschine had not been able to read his mind. For he could love her. He could love her very easily. “Open to me,” he rasped. “Let me in. ‘Tis only your talk of sin that keeps me out." With a shudder of capitulation, her last desperate grip on piety fell. Loosening her thighs, she braced her arms against the wall and sighed, “I need you. But, oh, that need does burn me so. Quench me. Put out the fire. Come into me now!" From that first sighting, he had lusted after her. Aeschine had looked like a wild thing racing across the moors. The wet heat of penetration, the animal grunts and groans, the white-hot illumination of climax, the urgency, that mad, uncontrollable rush to mate—all these ruled him now. He entered her passage from the rear, giving himself over to illicit pleasure. While his captive wept softly into her hands, he spent his seed upon the ground when he was done. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Aeschine spoke to Sage's brooding profile as he stood at the entrance to the cave. “The sun will soon be high." He turned to face her. “It does look that way. You slept well?" “Aye. Thank you for inquiring. And you?" “Better than I have in years." He answered her as she would a stranger. Polite words created remoteness between them. But what had she really expected? Hugs? Kisses? Affection? A companion who shared all of his thoughts—the good as well as the bad? Aye, that is what she wished for, but that is not what she had gotten. She was the captive of a warlord who carried a great burden and who would not let her share it. But for all that he kept her at a distance, there had been joy in Sage's lovemaking last night. Mayhap, too much joy. The Church frowned on anything more than a circumspect mating between the lawfully wed. What they had done the night before was not lawful and it was hardly circumspect. What he had done, what she had allowed him to do, was forbidden. Interfering with conception went against the sanctity of intercourse. Clerics always asked for the details of the bedchamber during confession. Should she admit that her captor's caresses worked on her like an aphrodisiac? That his words of encouragement were as sweet as his touch was hypnotic? Should she ask forgiveness, because almost in a trance, she had agreed to everything he had demanded? The man she loved, the man she had freely given herself to in the name of that love, thought of her as a whore, as a prostitute, as an immoral woman who had copulated with a known sodomite. She had hidden her virginity from her captor, but had accepted sheep, which he perceived as payment for sexual favors. She had allowed all on the furs, including what the Church viewed as unnatural acts. Undoubtedly, she had sinned. Mayhap, she would simply not bother to confess. Mayhap, she was unrepentant. Mayhap, she was already doomed to hell. Mayhap, she was a whore by her own making. She had no recriminations against her captor. Plain and simple, she loved him. That was her most grievous sin of all. As a young lass she had oft tried to imagine what lying with a lover would feel like. In her immature vision, her suitor was handsome to the point of effeminacy, and gentle to the point of maternal. He did nothing more shocking than whisper reverent poems in her ear. The lovemaking was spiritual, save for the occasional chaste kiss. Last night, her whole world had been centered between her legs. Never again would she have those fanciful, innocent, romantic daydreams of lovemaking. Mating was brutally honest. Unpretty. Intensely real. Her girlhood dreams seemed silly to her now. Dull.

However, she still clung to one romantic portion of her dream: The kiss. She yearned to feel her lover's mouth on hers. “You may rise,” her captor said, tone clipped. At the instruction, she rolled to a sit, pushed the tangle of hair back from her face, and taking his hand, gained her feet with a grimace. Embarrassed at what that grimace revealed, she looked away. Cupping her chin, the captor forced her eyes to meet his eyes. “Are you well this morn?" Well? Her captor had used her hard. She was past tender into sore. The loving had most definitely pained her. But in all honesty, the hurt had never once exceeded the joy... She nodded shyly. Aye, she was very well indeed. At her response, the warlord's face took on a look of supreme male satisfaction. Gone was the sunken and dull glaze; his dark eyes now shone as they were meant to—like black jewels. “Thank you for last night,” he said. He unhooked her from the stake. Pleased that she had pleased him, she blushed. “How bashful you are!” he exclaimed. “You have this uncanny ability to make me feel as though I am your first and only lover.” He chuckled. “'Tis a clever trick, I know, but endearing, nevertheless." He dipped his mouth to her swollen nipples. As he tenderly suckled her bruised flesh, she closed her eyes. She longed to bring him closer, to wrap her arms around him, to offer him the comfort of her love. Her captor needed love's comfort almost as much as he needed her body. Only he would not see it. Not yet. And so her arms remained at her sides. After popping a glistening wet nipple from his mouth, he fingered between her legs. “You will ride sidesaddle today. You are very nearly swollen closed. I can barely get a finger in." “We leave the cave today?” she asked over the top of his head. As he pushed another finger in to widen her, she sighed. “I would stay here forever with you. I love our magical cave." “Stop this romantic prattle! Do you not understand even now, what this is about?" Oh, he would push and he would push, but he would not push her away! He had not brutalized her last night. He had not raped her. She was a willing accomplice in what they had done. If she wore bruises on her skin, she wore them with pride. And as to sin, well, God was forgiving if the Church was not. They might still have a future. They might still have a life. She would not allow her lover-captor to make what they had less than what it was! “I do not know what happened in your past to make you so cold. I hope someday, you will tell me what

it is. I hope someday, you will become human again. As I am obstinate by nature, I shall not give up on you." “I have decided against intercourse.” He withdrew his fingers. “Go to the springs and wait for me." “Brr.” She made a great show of shivering. “'Tis chilly in the cave this morn." “The hot springs will warm you." “Drat! I hoped you would." He chuckled. “Oh, Aeschine, you are a delight. What am I to do with you?" “Love me. As I love you." Raking both hands through waves of dark hair, he said in exasperation, “Wait for me at the hot springs by the ring of rocks. I will join you presently." ****

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Sage looked up from his packing. Aeschine's skin, moist and rosy from her bath, told him that his captive had once again disobeyed him. The leather satchel he had been stuffing dropped unheeded to the cave's floor. “I told you to wait for me." “No harm done. See? I am not drowned." “What I see is defiance." She crossed her arms over her heaving breasts. “As my lover, Captor, you have much to learn. Your coldness, your inflexibility, your disregard for my feelings—these must change. How will we have a happy life together if your distrust of me continues?" “You dare speak to me of happy? Of trust? Speak to me instead of your stepfather's politics! Of your sodomite lover's crimes!" Her arms were uncrossed and tossed in the air. “Not that again! I have already explained that my stepfather has no politics outside the accumulation of wealth. And as to LaTourne—thank God, that man shared no part of his mind with me!" He brushed that aside. “Then we will skip your stepfather and your last lover. Tell me this instead: Does your clan intend any further attacks on English-held keeps along the borderlands?" Aeschine looked at her feet. “Why are you asking me these questions in that judgmental tone? I have given you all I have to give. I held nothing back. My feelings for you make me so cowardly that I deny you nothing. I put my very soul in danger for you. Yet, still you think to judge me." “I need your answer."

Her chin went stubborn. “Neither King Malcolm, my betrothed, or my stepfather seek me out for council. I am only a woman, and therefore I have but one use to a man—a use you made the most of in this cave. But in my country even a lowly woman takes a solemn oath to keep clan secrets." “Your loyalties belong to me now!" Sage took Aeschine by the shoulders and brought her up on her toes until they met eyeball to eyeball. “A borderland invasion a twelve-month ago took the lives of many innocent women and children and elders. Tell me now what you know of it." “I know nothing! And if I did, I would not tell you. Do not seek to divide my loyalties. I am a Scotswoman to the death!" He shook her. “You must tell me!" “Not even if it costs me my life." “Before this day is finished, you may very well pay for your obstinacy with your life. As my captive, I command you to speak!" “By no other means but love am I your captive, as you will someday soon be mine!" “Foolish child!” he shouted. “Love is merely a conceit, an excuse. A way of explaining why you allowed the enemy to bed you. You know not even my name." “I love you, whatever your name." “Then you love Geoffrey de Sage, newly appointed overlord of Cheviot Hills. I am the warlord who keeps you, Aeschine of Scotland, prisoner. If you are fortunate, that is. Otherwise, you return to the royal dungeon this day." Her brow puckered. “What insanity do you speak?" “Hear you the horses pounding outside?" She moved closer to his body. Oh, she heard all right. “Who are they?” she whispered. “Why are they here? “They are King Rufus’ men, and they are here for you." She caught his arm. “Is there another way out of this cave? A back entrance?" “We leave by this opening.” Sage seized her wrists, pushed them behind her back. “Are you mad? What do you think to do?” She struggled against his restraining grip. “Release me this instant! Your king's henchman has no authority over me. I am Scots. I am answerable only to God and King Malcolm. I bow to no man!" “You bowed to me and loved it."

“Why do you say these hateful things to me?” She tried to shake him off. “Let me go, I say. You are hurting my wrists!" “This hurt is nothing compared to what you will feel when your neck is severed from your shoulders. If you wish to save your life, you must do exactly as I tell you." “Save my life? You speak in child's riddles!" “Political plotting is not child's play and those who enter into it pay a terrible price for their game." “Of what am I accused?" “Of the Scottish invasion of an English-held keep." “The invasion again!" “Prove to me that you are not a spy! Prove to me that you had no involvement in that invasion. Say something in your defense, damn you!" Her chin went high. “I am Aeschine of Scotland, niece to King Malcolm. There is royal blood coursing through my veins. I need prove nothing." He hissed in her ear, “Your pride will be your downfall!" “I repeat: I am Scots! I have naught but my pride. And I shall never betray my people." “Your pride will not prevent the henchman DuFont from raping you on the way to the royal dungeon. Where will your pride be after his men have had done with you? Your pride will not save you then, nor later when you are executed." “Ah, I see. I am to be executed,” she said softly. “'Tis already decided." “Not if I am your judge." The blood drained from her face. “Only God has the right to judge me." “Your God will not protect you if the King comes to believe LaTourne is guilty of treason. Rufus will have you beheaded beside the traitor..." “Then, help me! Let me make my escape into the woods. You need never see me again. Tell DuFont I was wily and managed to flee you." “You would not last the space of a heartbeat in the woods. If DuFont failed to find you, bandits most definitely would. Like it or not, I am your only hope, your last hope of survival. I offer you my protection until I find the truth in this matter." Breaking free, she rushed to the cave's threshold. One faltering step later, he reclaimed her with a hard pull on her leash. “Loose me!” she screamed.

“Be silent! DuFont will hear you." “I shall not be silenced. You will not tell me what to do." They now struggled at the mouth of the cave, in clear sight of DuFont. “You will cease this at once or pay the penalty for your disobedience." “No surrender—not while there is breath in my body!" He raised the flat of his hand. “Go ahead!” she dared him. “Strike me. Your blow is no more than my stepfather and LaTourne have already dealt me." CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sage observed the end of his arm. Did that violently trembling hand belong to him? He was always in charge. In control. He had always done what must be done, regardless of his feelings. Emotions never hindered him from discharging his responsibilities. Now emotion tethered him. How to deal with this latest weakness? He knew he must act, and act quickly. Aeschine was hysterical. Fighting him. He could not blame her; had their positions been reversed, he would have done the same. But while he admired his captive's raw courage, he knew he must crush the very valor he found so attractive. She must submit to him, for if she did not submit, if she refused to bend to his will in front of DuFont, she would undermine his authority in the henchman's eyes. And if that happened, saving her life would be next to impossible. “Do it! Hit me. Revenge yourself on me. Revenge has been in your heart all along." “Calm yourself." “You do not even bother to deny it." Nay, he did not. He would not deny the truth, though it was only a partial truth and not the whole story. In the cave, he had tried to show Aeschine in the most elemental way possible that he owned her. He had failed. He had not subjugated Aeschine to his will. Far from it. He had not conquered her at all; she had conquered him with her passion. Now he would need to use that same passion against her. Like a trapped animal willing to bite through its own paw to sever its connection to the snare, Aeschine fought him every step of the way as he dragged her against the wall. Ignoring her useless kicks, misplaced elbows, poorly directed knees, he stared into her hot blue eyes. Knowing the henchman could see them there, but not clearly, he bent his head. “Nay!” She twisted in his arms. Good! Let her twist and squirm; to DuFont, her writhing would look like passion.

“Not now,” she pleaded. “Not this way. Please, I beg you! Do not do this to me! Not before all these men!" No choice left to him, he took her lips. Gently. No force. No assault. No plunder. Using only the soft persuasion of his tongue, he stroked the closed seam of her mouth. Whimpering, she opened for him. Willingly. Warmly. Passionately. The interior of her mouth tasted of a lifetime of tomorrows, the tomorrows he was not free to promise her. He slanted his jaw, and she yielded, her body softening against him. All fight drained out of her as he made sweet love to her mouth, a slow and deliberate claiming. When she sagged against him, he ended the kiss. “How could you use me so?” she asked tearfully. “I would have preferred your fist." “There was no other way. Otherwise, you would have continued to fight me." “You used my feelings for you against me." “You are my prisoner. My first duty is to keep you safe." “At what cost?" “Your damnable pride!" She hung her head. “There is naught more to lose when pride is gone, when freedom is lost." “You lost your freedom at the moment of capture." “Nay, I still had a choice. My freedom was not lost until now." He never cried. Not at the atrocities seen in the Crusades. Not after hearing of Joan's death. Had Aeschine's life not hung in the balance, he would have howled like a babe now. His was a hollow victory. Keeping a wild creature captive held no triumph; there was no satisfaction in taming a brave female meant to live free. “You still have your life,” he offered by way of condolence. She kept her silence. “Come.” His hand went to the small of her back. “We must face DuFont." “I have not agreed to go with you to your keep. I may yet decide to return with DuFont to your English court." Sage used his last bit of leverage. “Hear you this—if you do not agree to accompany me, not only will you suffer, your people will suffer too. Executed, you make yourself a martyr. Years of bloodshed will follow when your clan retaliates against my keep. Is that what you wish?" “Nay,” she said vehemently.

“Then give me your allegiance. You are a pawn in this, as am I. But there is room for negotiation. For both of us." “ ‘Tis all bribes with you. First sheep, now the lives of my countrymen. You have no honor." “Geoffrey de Sage!” DuFont bellowed at them. “I am here for the King's prisoner." “We will discuss the smudged line of my honor later, should we live through this day." He marched her forward on the tether. At the very mouth of the cave, where he had piled his supplies, he came to a stop. He could not bring himself to do it; he could not take Aeschine out naked, as he should, as was the correct protocol for prisoners. Going against military rule, Sage recovered his fur-lined cape from the cave's floor and threw it over her shoulders. He had taken Aeschine's freedom; he would not take her dignity too. “I need you to trust me. In no way must you provoke the henchman, DuFont.” Sage pulled the cape grimly around Aeschine and tied it in place so that not a sliver of bare skin showed. He tucked the end of the leash under the leather belt at her waist. “Do you understand what I require of you?" But Aeschine looked obstinately away and refused to answer. ****

“Bring the prisoner forward!” the henchman ordered. With her loose hair and bare feet, Aeschine of Scotland looked wild. And regal. Showing no fear, his leman stood tall. Sage had never known another female like her; Aeschine was a true warrior-woman, through and through. Yet, on the furs she was a passionate seductress... DuFont gave him a sly smile. “Was she any good?" Thought that show of crooked yellow teeth befouled him, Sage hid his disgust and contempt in a wink. “Excellent. I have never had better." “You do have the look of a contented man about you this morn.” DuFont spoke to him, but looked at Aeschine. The henchman gave his head a jerk. “Come here, prisoner. I would see what has changed celibate to satisfied." Not acknowledging the King's deputy one way or the other, Aeschine remained dispassionately at

Sage's side. “I said, come here!” DuFont repeated. Calm. Sage told himself. He must stay calm. If he gave into emotion, if he clutched the gutter-whelp ‘round the throat, pressed his thumbs to his windpipe, snapped his neck with his bare hands, he would forfeit all hope of saving Aeschine. Sage would have the immense satisfaction of watching DuFont die, true, but there was no escape from his men; those soldiers would run them both through with their weapons before the henchman finished his death rattle. To save Aeschine, he must think and act as though she meant naught to him. Sage cracked his jaw in a loud yawn. Scratched his groin. “'Twas a long night, DuFont. The lady is too fatigued to come." A lecherous look came into the henchman's eye. “Say your name, whore." Sage nudged her. “Aeschine of Scotland." The henchman's brows lifted. “So, you admit to being a whore?" “I am what I have been made." “You possess a sharp tongue in a lush mouth. Let us get on with the formalities so that I might quell the former and test the latter. You stand accused of treason against the crown..." “ ‘Tis not a crown I recognize. I stand before you innocent." “Innocent, eh? Not since the cradle, I would say. Well, you will tell it to King Rufus.” He raised his gloved hand. “Guards! Take the prisoner away. Strip her to the skin and put her in chains. I will search her myself for weaponry. There is no telling where a crafty whore might hide a dagger." Sage stepped between the henchman and Aeschine. “Did you not hear the lady speak? She says she is innocent." “Sage, you fool! What do you expect her to say? Step aside, man, and let my vassals get on with my work." Sage took no step. “I tell you she took no part in the invasion." “Useless what you tell me. Have you proof?" After a quiet moment passed, DuFont shrugged. “I thought not. Guards! The prisoner." Sage stood his ground. DuFont's men would need to step over him to get to Aeschine. “The lady is not going anywhere. Rufus has given me authority to dispense justice in borderland disputes. I have jurisdiction here.” He held up his hand. “And before you bark at me, DuFont, I should tell you this: Rufus has grown increasing dissatisfied with borderland warfare. The fighting costs his coffers dearly, and this he will not tolerate. For that

reason, I am to deal with the situation ... from the motte-and-bailey at Cheviot Hills." The henchman threw back his head and guffawed. “And you would declare yourself friend of the King? You are grievously misguided." “Explain yourself." “ ‘Tis only this; I once spent a most unpleasant evening at that keep. I must relate it is a decidedly dank and filthy abode. I had to actually fight a rooster for my vermin-ridden bed of straw. After passing the night scratching welts, I soon realized I should have let the cock win. I made my adieu at daybreak and glad of it too. I do not envy you your permanent possession of that ungodly fortress." “Ungodly or not, ‘tis mine now." DuFont's dull eyes all but disappeared, swallowed up within the slack flesh of his face. “Be that as it may, the King's decree supercedes all else. Hand the slut over to me before you place your own neck in jeopardy." “In borderland disputes, the King has given me full authority. Where is the jeopardy there?" “Rufus talks out of both sides of his mouth. He plans to add this Scottish whore's fair head to the royal collection. I tell you, skulls are literally rolling left and right at court. ‘Tis difficult to maneuver one's footings for all the bones lying about." DuFont slapped Sage on the back. “Come now, let me carry out my orders. The slut is naught but a pair of malleable thighs. No matter how white, and how eager those limbs are to wrap themselves around a man's waist, the pleasure found within is fleeting at best. Hardly worth the sacrifice of your own head." The henchman's sly eyes danced irreverently. He smacked his fleshy lips, which caused an abundance of spittle to dot his chin like bubbles rising from the mouth of a mad dog. “Though, ‘tis difficult to linger in conversation with those thighs beckoning. May God forgive my wicked lust! I am but a man and women are the source of a man's wickedness." Sage folded his arms over his chest. “Man is the source of his own wickedness." “Woman has tempted man since Eve in the Garden, and this whore has certainly tempted you." “And the celibate happily succumbed. The lady really is quite adventurous. Why should I give up her talents when I have not yet tired of them? Rufus is a man; he will understand." “The King only understands his tenuous hold upon the throne. Rufus will not have living reminders of treachery. There is unrest in the ranks of nobility. The barons are grumbling. The betrothed of the pervert-traitor must die if only to show the King's strength in dealing with dissidents." A predatory gleam came over the henchman's fox-like features. Bloodied gloves went to the edge of Aeschine's borrowed fur-lined cape. “This slut must hide a multitude of tricks under this wrapper. Why else would you let her involvement in your wife's murder go unpunished?" Aeschine tugged at his arm. “Captor?” She tilted her chin up to him. “Your wife died in that raid?" “Look at that show of concern! The whore actually acts surprised.” DuFont's hooded gaze dropped to

the dark stain on his leather gauntlets. “Will you look at these gloves! A fine mess have I made of them.” He smiled, making a mockery of the show of uneven, discolored teeth. “As you must plainly see, discharging Rufus’ edicts are rather messy affairs. This is the third pair I have ruined this sennight, alone. While the King grows rich, I grow more shabbily garbed. Already, I resemble a peasant in attire." “ ‘Tis a pity you are so overtaxed in your endeavors. Perhaps you should retire your axe for a spell." “Retire my axe, indeed!” DuFont blustered. “Believe me, I have no great love for the red-haired blasphemer. The King is a conniver when he feels threatened, and he always feels threatened. But for all that, the throne has my loyalty. ‘Tis only the sad loss of my wardrobe I lament. As I am accustomed to having my neck fastened to my shoulders, I continue to carry out the King's orders. Any wise man would do the same." “Does it not worry you, DuFont, that royal justice appears less exact than your axe?" “Justice is never exact. There are always two sides to every tale. But a headless corpse does not rise up to fight another day. A dead Scots does not invade English territory. And a perverted nobleman buried deep does not stir up trouble. So does William Rufus keep his sovereignty inviolate. Thus, does he keep himself in power, and so too does this country remain at peace. The barons may hate the King, for he grows rich at their expense, but the common folk love him. And I should think you, of all people, would be grateful that a wiggling worm like your cousin is about to be squashed so very exactly." “You will get no argument from me about my cousin's unsavory inclinations. In the matters of his personal life, my cousin is beneath my contempt. In regards to his complicity in treason, that is for the King to decide. But, in the murder of my wife, I would need question him." The henchman tried a new tactic. “You call yourself the King's friend, but be forewarned: William Rufus’ is capricious; his friends become his enemies as quickly as warm spit travels in flight. Without knowing which way the wind doth blow, one cannot duck expectorate. Do not allow the phlegm to come back and hit you." Thus said, DuFont undid the fur-lined cape and reached inside for Aeschine. “Maggot! Do not presume to touch me!” She backed up. “I am niece to King Malcolm, you scurvy dolt-wit. My royal uncle will feed your gizzards to the swine if you but lay a finger on me! If my clan receives word from their leader, they will attack..." And who was that leader, now that Aeschine's natural father was deceased? Sage wondered. Who was this powerful, omniscient chieftain? His identity remained a mystery. A chill ran down Sage's spine. Daughters of dead chieftains were known to take up the leadership banner in times of warfare. And Aeschine had the heart of a warrior-woman... Uncrossing his arms, Sage pulled his captive against his side. “Be silent." “This rat turd does not intimidate me." “Be still!” Aeschine would get them both killed yet. He might have the authority, but DuFont had the might, and accidents were known to happen. The henchman toyed with them. He would bluster and prance and posture to save face, and then he would let

them go. As long as DuFont was given no provocation to strike, they would leave the camp unharmed. The henchman turned to Sage. “My, my. She is a feisty slut, I grant you that. Look at those flashing blue eyes! I have a yen of a sudden for a bit of diversion. Your cousin never minded sharing, do you?" Sage shrugged, continuing his uncaring stance. “Whom the lady beds is her prerogative. She is but bait to me." “Ever the man of principles is our Geoffrey de Sage! Is there no end to your scruples?” His expression turned cunning. “I recognize this fur cape! You were the envy of all the nobleman at court when Rufus presented the cape to you as a gift. Since when are prisoners allowed to wear the gift of a king?" Sage made no reply. “I doubt you would let just any prisoner wear this expensive, fur lined cape, a gift of the King. Is it your custom to show favoritism to certain prisoners this way?" Sage said naught. “You may show partiality to certain prisoners, but I do not.” The henchman parted the cape down the front. Aeschine's wild gaze sought his. Help me, her eyes pleaded. Though no sound escaped her lips. Sage held himself steady. “Lady Aeschine, have you decided yet who you will service?" “Better the devil I know,” the lady said, voice flat. “There. You have your answer, DuFont. The lady does not welcome your advances." “So what? Some women like persuasion." “Persuade?” The lady glowered as she rallied. No flatness dulled her tone now. “This is my answer to your persuasion.” Aeschine spat full in DuFont's face. The henchman's coloring went from radish-red to a mottled shade of turnip-purple. “You will pay for your folly, whore." “I do believe the lady has refused your courtship.” Sage scanned the positioning of DuFont's bivouac. He could take out ten soldiers. Possibly ten and two, before he was mortally wounded. The diversion he created would give Aeschine a chance to flee into the trees. With a Gallic sigh of acceptance, Sage arched his jaw to the sky. The warmth of the sun felt good. He felt good. Better than he had felt in a long time. After one last lingering look at Aeschine, Sage lunged for the henchman's throat. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The underside of DuFont's neck wobbled like a turkey's wattle as it met the sharp point of the dagger. Slowly but steadily, Sage pressed against the henchman's windpipe. “Call off your animals,” he said softly. The henchman's vassals continued to close ranks. “Say the words, or I end you here and now,” Sage snarled. The man on the ground croaked, “You are outnumbered. Are you ready to die this day?" “This day and every day. Life is a much overrated commodity.” Sage followed the direction of the lackey's beady eyes. “Do not look to your vassals to save you. One thing I learned from the Infidel is how to make a swift kill. You will meet your Maker a few gasps before me." “You are mad!" “The truth is out,” Sage said in mock horror. “The King will be interested in hearing this turning of the worm, especially if the little maggot is eating away at your mind." “DuFont, you tell the King whatever you please. My wife is dead. I have no sons. I lost much of my honor when I fought the Infidels. The remainder I lost when I took Aeschine my captive. My soul is sick. Little tempts me to breathe, save finding out all those responsible for my wife's murder.” Sage pushed the blade deeper. DuFont's eyes bugged. “You have already found her." “A lass?" “A spy!" “Aeschine is no spy." The henchman's breath gurgled. “By whose words? Her own? All whores lie. And you lie to yourself too if you believe yourself capable of killing a man in cold blood." “Cold blood? My blood boils. I long to see your blood spill onto the ground. But, pray, what will that prove?" Sage stuck the dirk deeper to punctuate his query. “I think you already know I am the better killer, for I do not let my emotions get in the way as you do. Killing does not pleasure me. N'est pas? I kill only to survive. And that is why I make the better executioner. Now, this lady is in my guardianship, and I defend her unto death." DuFont raged, “A pox on your guardianship! A curse on your responsibility and your damned sense of duty too. You are not so pure, my friend. This slut helped murder your wife and you itch for her anyway!" Sage turned to his captive. “You will leave us now, Aeschine. Await me where my destrier is tied."

“Nay!" DuFont's laughter rumbled under the tip of the blade. “It appears you need to assert more control over your captive, Sage. Her defiance does not speak well for your authority. And your softness toward her will not please Rufus." “Keep talking, you swill-eating pig, and you will give me the very reason I need to slice a wedge from your throat." “Lord Geoffrey de Sage, I am your property,” a feminine voice said. “I give you my allegiance." Turning, Sage saw that Aeschine had dropped to her knees on the ground, humbling herself. Not to save her own life, but to save his! Should he laugh or cry? “I do own you. I am gladdened you have come to realize it. Now get up off your knees.” Sage's attention snapped back to the man under his blade. “I do not trust William Rufus any more than he trusts me. I find his methods as barbarous as the Turks I have just finished fighting. But the Crown has my support. You may tell the King I said so when he asks. And as for you, DuFont, you would vilify your own mother to curry favor for yourself. But I am beyond caring, and for that reason alone, I am a dangerous man." He spoke into the henchman's ear: “If so much as the foul breath of one of your men touches my woman, this ground runs red with your blood.” For emphasis, Sage deepened the pressure. Then, lifted the blade. “Did you know that I once saved the King's life?” Sage asked conversationally, as the henchman gasped for air. “'Twas when we were boys. I jumped between him and an assassin. I have never asked for a favor in return, but I am asking for a boon now." “The Scottish whore, I presume?” DuFont wheezed. “Exactly. Call off your guards, henchman. Let us go. You have nothing to win here and everything to lose." “You saved the King's life?" “Sweet, is it not?" DuFont raised his hand, a signal for his vassals to retreat. “Take the whore and go." Sage's rose to his feet and bowed in mock salute. “Until we meet again, DuFont." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The motte-and-bailey crouched on raised rock, its blackened foundation defiling the vegetation, the air ripe with the stench of its decay. The fortress dominated the landscape as far as the eye could see, casting the surroundings into gloomy shadow. And as nothing thrives for very long in permanent darkness, the once green land lay barren. Sage wished he had some platitude to offer Aeschine. Unfortunately, no words would smooth over what

years of destruction had wrought. Not a blade of grass grew on the craggy hillocks. The few remaining trees grew sparse. Twisted. The bark stripped from their trunks. The marching of warring armies had left the ground deeply pitted, trodden to mud. The runoff of rain had gorged even greater ruts into the packed mud, deepening the wounds of war. No sheep would graze here for years to come. Shuddering, Sage wrapped an arm around Aeschine as a great gust of cold wind came up from out of nowhere and whipped across the battered terrain. If this place filled him with dread, what would it do to a female captive? The fortress was bloody dark, bloody cold, too bloody much like him. The sun would never find its way to this desolate wasteland! Aeschine was meant for warm days of sunshine and laughter. How would she tolerate living in a place that had neither? Lifting aside a corner of the fur-lined hood, he studied his captive's face as she rode in front of him on his steed. “Are you cold?" Aeschine shrugged and said nothing. His captive kept everything locked away inside. Men were expected to be stoical. Self-contained. Not females! The heap of barren rocks would make the most stalwart of men wince, and yet her features remained composed. He tucked the folds of his fur-lined cloak around her slender body, then kneed his mount towards the moat: It was going on dark, and after riding hard for two days, he would have his tired captive safely abed for the night. He said gruffly, “I am sorry for having to bring you here." “This is my life and I accept it." “Aeschine..." “Nay! Pray, say no more. ‘Tis really not so bad. Nothing will immediately improve the dreariness of the place, but when common folk learn they need not fear the new overlord, they will move back to Cheviot Hills and once again plow these razed fields. However, we have much to accomplish before that happens." We? Aeschine spoke like his helpmate, not his captive! “Do not despair, milord, the sun will shine here soon. And look, there is a lovely view across the moors all the way to Scotland. Not to worry over me pining away. Work is the best antidote for homesickness. And I intend to keep busy. I will not look back at what once was; I intend only to look forward." Aeschine's cheerful outlook humbled him. “But there is no grass..." “Och! Grass grows fast. So do trees. If you are just, and the borderlands are kept free of conflict, this hillside will spring to life. These ruts in the dirt will disappear under a spread of wildflowers and clover.” She nodded, everything decided. “Miniature sheep are well-suited for this place."

He found himself smiling. Damnable sheep! Thought she of nothing else? Aeschine turned to him. “You are a warrior..." “Like yourself, Aeschine, I am what the times have made me. But after I deal with LaTourne, I intend to kill no more." Her blue eyes narrowed. “There is always a next time, always a new reason. You stood up to DuFont and his men. You would have killed them." “I must protect what I own,” he explained. “But I made a vow on my wife's grave to put aside my sword in favor of peace. Will you work with me or against me in this?" “With you, of course,” she said immediately. “Sheep do not breed well to the clang of broadswords.” She laughed. “Neither do humans." Would she never give up this crazed dream of hers? The guard shouted down on them. “The gate is up, milord. Come ahead.” And he was prevented from saying more. As they started forward over the drawbridge, the putrid smell of fouled water started Aeschine to gagging. He pulled the corner of his cloak over her nose. “At first light, I will set my men to unclogging the River Cess Pool." They crossed the drawbridge and entered a vision suitable for one of his nightmares. The smells of vomit and unwashed bodies filled his nostrils, the stench worse than a latrine. Slatternly women, in various states of undress, roamed the courtyard. The females were prostitutes of the lowest kind. The men chasing them, throwing them to the ground and mounting them amidst raucous laughter and screams and white quivering heaps of flesh, were not men of his choosing: With his appointment as borderland overlord, he had inherited them along with the keep. Cursing under his breath, Sage turned Aeschine's face into his shoulder as a high-pitched scream rent the air. “You are not to look!" In the darkened archway of the stables, four men pressed a naked woman to the ground. One lout stretched her hands above her head. Another two crouched at her feet, each holding a leg. A fourth rammed between her bloodied thighs. When that man had finished, the next man in the long line took his place. After making a crude gesture, the woman was turned to her belly and spread-eagled in the dirt. The rapist went into her buttocks, the sodomy hard and rough. The woman gave an agonized scream... Sage had seen and heard enough. And so had Aeschine. “Oh, my God, oh my God,” she croaked. “That woman. That poor woman." Sage pulled his sword. “Wait here,” he growled and jumped to the ground. “And this time, you are to

keep your eyes closed." ****

Sage did what he could for the assaulted prostitute, which had not been nearly enough. On his way back to Aeschine, a bearded man jumped out of the shadows and waylaid him. “John Tuttrell, you slimy eel,” Sage shouted upon seeing the fastidiously attired lout. “I am delighted to see you again." John elbowed Sage's flat gut, laughing uproariously at his friend's intake of breath. “Flatulent son of a sow! And where else would I be but here? Are you growing so long in the tooth that you do not recall sending me to this miserable outpost to await your arrival?" “It seems a lifetime ago that I gave that directive. What goes on here?" “Looks like an orgy to me.” John stroked his shallow chest. “Well, do not look at me with fire in your eyes! You said no whippings during your absence. That did tie my hands somewhat." “The old ways did tend to produce a more speedy resolution of problems,” Sage replied dryly. “How did your ... ahem ... discussion go with your kinsman?" “There was no discussion. My cousin escaped me again." “And the lady you left behind in the courtyard? Is she your cousin's espoused?" “She is my cousin's betrothed,” Sage quickly corrected. “And now my leman. The King's henchman, DuFont caught up with us outside the cave where I held Aeschine of Scotland captive. The henchman demanded that I give her up so that he might take her away for imprisonment. I refused." John Tuttrell took a backward step. “Hmm. The lay of the land grows more complicated." “That it does." John stroked his lean cheeks. “But Sage, do you think this course of action wise?" John and he were as brothers; the least of what he owed him was honesty. “Probably not, but the matter is done now. DuFont would take her back to court with him. She would not have survived the journey." “I understand.” John's intelligent features tightened. “Though, be the lady guilty or innocent, you must realize that if LaTourne is beheaded, the King will call for the damoiselle's head too. As consort to a condemned traitor and as the natural daughter of one of Scotland's most influential clan leaders, Aeschine is doubly cursed. In gainsaying Rufus in favor of her, you have made your own situation more tenuous. Never forget that the traitor in question is your own cousin! Fair or no, such are the politics of the time we live in." LaTourne was his cousin. The reminder made him want to wretch. “From fighting the Crusades to visiting my murdered wife's grave to the treachery of palace intrigue to my blood affiliation with that sodomite, how would I ever be able to forget the politics of these times?"

“Sage, as your friend, allow me to speak freely: Others may misinterpret your motives here. By refusing to hand over the hostage, it may look to some that you have aligned yourself with a nobility who would see Rufus dethroned. Your action places you in the middle of the political mess that is brewing. I do not envy you your position in this." John told him nothing new. Sage's well understood that his once strong childhood ties with King William Rufus grew thinner with each passing year. That thread might be severed as quickly as the head from his neck. If Sage made Rufus look the fool, there would be consequences. “Lady Aeschine had no part in that invasion,” he grumbled. “I would stake my life on it." “You have staked your life on it,” John said in reply. “Listen John, we live under a king who rules only with his coffers in mind. Unrest on the borderlands is costing him. Because of my reputation in warfare, he has picked me to put things in order here; little does Rufus suspect that I no longer have the stomach for killing. But I intend to maintain the peace. My own way. The King will not look too closely at my methods if coins fill his purse. Revenue will keep Rufus appeased and keep my head on my shoulders." Sage had thought to use Aeschine as bait. He too was used in much the same fashion. He felt like a fat wiggling worm upon the hook, not yet dead but with limited life expectancy. His options, like those of the worm, were but a shaky few. He might avoid the haddock now, only to have a shark eat him later. When darkness overwhelmed him, the urge to ride rampage through the Scottish countryside, torching thatched roofs in reprisal for his wife's death, very nearly seduced him. But he had made a pledge at Joan's gravesite to stop the senseless bloodletting and he would do it. Sage spoke the thought aloud. “I do not rest until peace is once again restored on the borderlands." John placed his hand on Sage's shoulder. “You have taken up a tremendous burden this day. What might I do to help?" “I would call upon you to travel to Aeschine's home, to the village at Roxburgh. Act as my eyes and see what you find there." “And if I find that her clan is guilty and that your leman played a part in the invasion, what will you do then?" “I do not condone the indiscriminate killing of innocent women and children. We will never have peace here if reprisals pass as justice. And as to Aeschine's role in this, her stepfather beat her.” Sage cleared his throat. “He beat her—repeatedly. The lady expects a whipping at every turn. I tell you, such mistreatment infuriates me. Punishment must match the crime and it must be just!" “Some would say that for her, beheading is just." “You know, John, my father was a rough man. A warrior beyond compare. But he never once raised his hand to me, or to my half-sisters or to any of his wives.” He paused until his voice was free of emotion. “Were you beaten as a child?" “Never. As an only child, both my parents loved me to the point of smothering."

“Then how would we know what ‘tis like?” Sage thumbed his eye. “As to your former question—by kingly decree, the borderlands are my jurisdiction. If evidence is found of Aeschine's direct guilt in the invasion that took my wife's life, I alone will see to her punishment." “I stand at your side regardless of your decision. Whatever you need from me, I am at your service." “There is something else." “You have only to name it." “Go to the castle ruins. Inside my wife's bedchamber, you will find a royal ring in a gold chest set deep into the far wall. I hid it there myself before leaving for the Crusades. The ring was a token from the King, given to me when we were both lads in Normandy. I may have need of it soon." “Consider it found." “My thanks. Sometimes Rufus has a tendency to forget who his friends are. That ring will serve to remind him." Sage clapped John on the back. “Go now. I wish you God's speed and a safe return." CHAPTER NINETEEN

Sage had been gone so long! Where was he? Unable to sit idly by and do naught but pray for her captor's safe return, Aeschine made a hasty dismount and began to search the courtyard, starting at the barracks. Mayhap the warlord had gone inside for reinforcements. Even Sage, a giant among men, would need back up for his authority in this perilous place! The barracks were empty. Save for a maid hunched over an open hearth, scouring a large cauldron. The pot was huge, but the woman's belly dwarfed it. Far gone with child, she waddled from fire to trestle table and back again, heaving one blackened vessel after another over for scraping. A woman in this maid's advanced stage of confinement should never have been put to work here! Aeschine decided, rushing into the empty dining hall. Barrack work was too heavy for a woman in her condition! Aeschine took the next kettle in need of scraping and carried it over to the fire, herself The woman lumbered around, one hand on her lower back. “My thanks." “What are you doing here?” a male bluster said from somewhere behind Aeschine. Caught in yet another act of disobedience, she swiveled ‘round. “Milord! I overlooked you there. You really must stop sneaking up on a person like that! You almost gave me a fit! I thought to visit with this maid. And let me tell you, she is treated terribly! Lifting heavy pots when she is with child. I am afeared she will not hold onto her bairn if this continues. Something must be done about this situation

immediately!" “What do you suggest?” her captor asked reasonably enough. “Why, I shall stay here and help, of course..." The warlord of Cheviot Hills stalked across the packed dirt floor. Tunneling a hand under her cape, he found the end of her leash and pulled her away. “You will do nothing of the kind. The barracks are not safe." “If they are not safe for me, the barracks are not safe for this maid either. And I really do think..." Her argument was left to hang in the air while she was dragged out into the courtyard. The captor shook her until her teeth rattled in her head. “You are never to wander this hellhole alone!” The shaking stop and a large finger pointed at her nose. “Why did you not wait for me as I ordered you to do?" Her eyes crossed. “I was not wandering. I had a destination in mind." “Where was this destination, pray?" “You! You were my destination. Now if you will step out of the way, I shall return to the barracks. Allow me to help that poor maid, and in the future I promise I shall..." Sage held up his hand. “Enough bargaining. ‘Tis enough that I must listen to you bargain endlessly for your sheep. As of the morrow, the maid is reassigned to lighter duties. How is that? Is that agreeable?" At the end of the leash she curtseyed. “I thank you for your generosity." “Generosity has naught to do with this. That maid is my property, and as such, she is of value to me. I would have her delivered of a fine healthy baby so that one day that child will grow up and also be of value to me. Caring for my people is a matter of simple practicality. Happy and healthy serfs make contented workers. Now answer my question!" “What question is that?" “My previous one, the one asked with my finger under your nose. And please do not cross your pretty blue eyes again." “You think I have pretty blue eyes?" “Aeschine! The question!" “Hens lips! I have forgotten the question." “Luckily, I am a man with a long memory, both for slights and for favors. It would serve you well to remember that particular flaw in my character." Aeschine clucked her tongue. “There are so many flaws to remember, it grows burdensome.” She smiled at his dark look. “I was merely teasing. Am I not allowed to tease?"

His face relaxed. “I like your teasing." “Oh, for joy! Another compliment." He seemed disconcerted. “Wh ... what was I saying?" “That you had a long memory, milord,” she quipped. He frowned. “Anything else?" “I believe you had a question for me." “Ah! My question. Of course.” Taking her arm, though he had the leash gripped, he walked her away from the barracks. “Why did you not stay put?" “Because I was worried. You went into the night alone. I thought a man-at-arms covering your back might come to good use." “And that man-at-arms would be you, I suppose?" “I am invaluable in a fight." At her boast he came to a rest. “This I must hear. Tell me, how would you be invaluable to me in a brawl? What would you have done—bargain my assailant for my life?" She held out her hand. “Where did you come by that dagger, Aeschine?" “I lifted it from the henchman's pocket. I am an excellent pickpocket, especially when the mark is otherwise occupied. The village boys taught me the skill. They were a fount of knowledge." “You might have used that weapon against me on our ride here. You might have castrated me any number of times." “Aye.” She shrugged. “I saw no reason to. Where is the benefit of unmanning a lover I desire in my bed?" “Keep the dagger,” her captor said, looking bewildered. “You may yet have need of a blade." “My thanks,” she replied, and shoved the weapon back up into her borrowed cloak. “So—are you fit?" “No new scars and not one drop of blood spilled.” He shrugged. “These men are rough and require a strong hand, that is all." “Will the woman survive?" “Most likely not, but at least she will die decently, in a clean straw bed, not stretched out upon the ground. I had her carried inside the stables. The other whores will stay with her until the end."

“Is that how I am to end up too? Naked and stretched out, with a line of men waiting their turn on me?" Her captor took her chin in hand. He forced her to look into his dark brooding eyes. “Never say that to me again! You are not like that woman." “I am a whore. I have the bare mound to prove it. How say you that we are not alike?" “You are not like that woman because I give you my protection." “Your protection is a gift, rescindable at any time." “I do not make promises I do not intend to keep." “Men break promises to whores all the time." “Those same men break promises to their wives." “ ‘Tis not the same. A man might come to respect his wife, eventually; he will never respect his whore.” She pulled the fur-lined cloak closer. “That woman on the ground more than likely started off just like me." “Do not weave a story out of thin air, lass. You are not like that unfortunate prostitute." “Because I service one man instead of many? Is that the distinction between me and a common whore?" “There is nothing common about you. You are a lady of noble birth." “Oh, I see. ‘Tis my station in life, my royal blood, which signifies the difference.” She took a deep breath. “Would you wed me, Captor? Would you take me to wife? Would you make me respectable?" He looked away. “Impossible." “Because I am your whore?" “Nay. Because you are LaTourne's betrothed." ****

They entered the donjon at the first floor, and stepped directly into the great hall. When the trestle table was set, the open space would easily accommodate a banquet of five score guests. This day, the wooden planks used as a tabletop had been disassembled and placed out of the way against the walls. The hall stood empty, save for several enormous beds which linen curtains enclosed. The lord's family members used these. Visitors, serfs and animals slept on the rush-covered stone floor next to the central hearth. God's nose! Who would sleep on these filthy rushes? Aeschine thought grimacing at the soiled straw underfoot. Or even in those beds? She stared at the grimy bed linens.

Ever the castellan, she glanced from dirty straw to dirty linen to the hole in roof. “Something is blocking the louve. The smoke from the hearth is entering the room rather than exiting through the roof. That accounts for the large quantity of grease and soot about." Sage, following her gaze, went to the depressingly small fire in the hearth and lit one of the torches. He raised it up to the ceiling. “The carcass of a dead bird is sealing the hole.” He looked back at her. “A man will work on cleaning the opening on the morrow." “Mayhap a lantern might be installed too?" “Aye. More light would help in here. Of course, then you would see more of the dirt too.” Sage chuckled at the poisoned darts she sent him. “More loopholes cut into the walls for air and light—anything else?" “I shall draw up a list. A long list." When a vassal entered the chamber, Sage said, “Pardon me, Aeschine,” and left to speak to the redheaded man. Whilst the two men huddled together in hushed conversation, she toured the hall. Some grime was to be expected in a large hall, but this place was less hospitable than the stables they had just passed. Who knew what lay hidden under the smelly rushes or in the mattresses? She walked to one of the beds. And sniffed. Mice. The tick also smelled musty, and was more than likely infested with vermin. As she had no wish to pick nits from her hair, she resolved to seek another place to lay her head that night. She would dispose of the louse—ridden straw on the morrow... At that moment, a mouse ran over her foot, a green piece of bread in its mouth, and tunneled under the flooring. She felt bad for the rodent, pitied the hens brooding on their nests in the overhead rafters, and sympathized with a sow burrowing in a corner. They deserved better. “Forgive the interruption,” Sage said courteously upon returning to her side. “The solar is at the top of the mural stairs. We go there directly." “I am not tired..." “Trust me. You are tired.” He placed his palm on her lower back. “You need to retire for the evening." The redhead nodded at her when Sage escorted her past. “I have assigned Will to watch over you. Simply pretend he is not there." Watch over her? Spy on her more like it! “Thank you for your concern, Captor, but I do not need a keeper!"

“This place is unsafe. Henceforth, a guard will see to your protection at all times. Will's post is to be directly outside the bedchamber door." Watchover Will will not watch over me! Aeschine decided as they climbed the narrow, wooden ladder to the tower, which, though cleaner and more private than the downstairs hall, came with its own set of problems. The second floor was drafty and dark. Aeschine shivered almost uncontrollably as Sage led her down the long narrow hall, one hand holding a torch to light their way, his other hand guiding her. Although the heavy oak portal was up ahead, but a spit away, her captor halted their progress with a gruffly whispered: “Stay, Aeschine." “Aye?” Turning, she looked at him. Desire flared in the warlord's eyes. Their journey to Cheviot Hills had been rough and fast, with little time given over for eating or sleeping. Consequently, her captor had not made love to her since the cave. Out of consideration for her, she suspected, as she had felt his hardness when he had gathered her close at night to snatch what little rest they might on the cold ground. But he had done naught but warm her with his body during those nights. He gazed at her now as though he were starved. “Forgive the abruptness,” he said, and lowered his head. He kissed her without restraint, without control. Her hands crept around his neck and held on tight, as she opened her mouth to him, danced her tongue with his, her abandonment matching his. “Sometimes ‘tis impossible to forestall a kiss even a few feet,” he explained sheepishly after breaking their mouths apart. Speechless over the spontaneity of the embrace, when the warlord opened the oak portal, she followed him meekly inside. “The great chamber,” he said with a grand flourish and ensconced the torch he was carrying upon the wall. Her footsteps brought with them the familiar crunching sound of clean straw. So far, so good. “Though the hall is warmer, ‘tis too loud and noisy down below for my tastes. I hope you do not mind if we keep to the tower?" Did the warlord ask her opinion of the accommodations? Just a courtesy, she decided. Still, she answered, “I too prefer the quiet." “A lively lass, like you? I would have said just the opposite." Aeschine recalled the meditative years she had spent in the solitude of cloister. She had not the

temperament for the religious life, but what with tending to sheep and keeping a large garden behind the walls, she had not missed the society of the outside world overly much. “I do not always need to stand in the thick of things. And I have never cared to gossip. I have spent much time in ... quiet contemplation.” She grinned. “Sheep do not chatter, you know." “I would like it if you talked to me..." “About the clans, you mean?" “About anything. Say what you will. For example, you must miss your home in Scotland. Sometimes, it helps the sadness to talk. Anyway, you need not worry about vermin up here; in anticipation of my arrival, Will cleaned out this chamber." She went to the bed, parted the heavy damask curtains that surrounded the four massive oak posts, and gasped her pleasure. The bed was sumptuous! Silver fox furs and a royal-blue velvet coverlet topped a plump, goose-filled mattress. After her sparsely appointed nun's cell, this chamber was fit for a queen... Or a powerful overlord's lady. She was the warlord's whore. She had no right to this sumptuous bed. “A fur on the floor will serve,” she whispered, ashamed of what she had become. “You will sleep in the bed." “But ... ‘tis your wife's bed.” And she was an interloper. “Joan never slept in it. ‘Tis my bed, alone. A talented craftsman in my native Normandy built it for me." Greatly cheered at this disclosure, when the warlord began to divest himself of his armor, she rushed to his side, just as a wife would do. “Let me help." “I shall manage. You rest." “Inactivity gives one the opportunity to think and I would rather not." He grumbled under his breath, “A more stubborn wench I have never happened upon. You are not my servant, Aeschine." She put the armor aside, piece by piece. “There is honor in a servant's position, none in a whore's." “You speak to the wrong man about honor." In the cave, they had come together, man to woman. She had been as happy in that stone enclosure as she had ever been anywhere. But they were no longer in that magical place and reality intruded on passion. Tunic removed, she saw the warlord's naked torso for the first time. His chest was muscled ... and

deeply scarred. The reality of those scars said her owner was a man of war, not peace. Aeschine followed the line of black hair that accentuated the overlord's masculinity, from ridged belly to groin. She stared at his manhood, which jutted conspicuously against the confining wrap of loincloth. A few days past, she had been ignorant of such things. Now she knew the meaning of those ever tightening wrappings. Desire and repudiation. Lust and loathing. Responsibility and freedom. Her captor was a torn man. She was forever a link to LaTourne, ever a reminder of the loss of his beloved wife, ever a Scotswoman, and therefore, ever the enemy in his eye. I am not your enemy, her heart screamed. Would he ever realize that? She wondered. They had shared that lovely, spontaneous kiss in the hall. That was a start... Oh, God! How she loved this man who did not love her! Sighing, she removed the borrowed fur-lined cape and put it away on a nearby chest. Apart for the leather tether that encircled her waist and encased her genitals, she was nude. Already she missed the warmth of fur against her skin... “My turn,” her captor said. He reached for her tether. “You free me?” she asked as his hands worked the back fastener. “Just your openings,” he said, and removed the leather chastity belt from between her legs. “The tether must stay." His palm went to her bald pelvis. “So smooth." Just then, the oak portal slammed open. “Here is the hot water you requested, milord,” the vassal, Will, said as he entered their private chamber—without giving so much as a warning knock on wood! Conscious of her nudity, Aeschine raced behind the captor's back. Surely Sage would give the servant the set down he deserved! But no chastisement followed. No rebuke either, though the servant had entered a bedchamber without expressed permission and with a lady present. Nor did the vassal act as though anything was amiss. She realized slowly that there was no rebuke because there was no lady present! Sage called her milady, but this was only a courtesy title. To Sage, to Will, to all the servants, to everyone in the keep, she was the warlord's possession, accorded the same respect any possession would be given. As to her outraged sense of modesty—she might just as well forget that fine sensibility. She could no longer claim respectability. My, how low she had fallen! Aeschine mused, stepping away from the screen of her lover's back. Naked as the village tart, she crossed the room. Without covering her naked and bobbing breasts, or shielding

her bald lower regions, she went to him. The servant looked, and she let him look. She was only an object of curiosity. A thing. But she was a thing the vassal obviously admired. A look of tacit approval passed between the two men. The vassal was the warlord's right hand man; he most certainly knew of her captor's past celibacy. He now knew she was the reason he had cast celibacy aside. As to the warlord—he was proud of her. So proud of her in fact that he was showing her off to his vassal... ...like a mare at the fair. Still, she couldn't help but feel pleased. Especially since the warlord was more aroused than even he was before; his erection clearly bulged under his hose. Sage was excited that another man was seeing her in the nude! Basking in the men's approval, she tossed her hair and preened a bit. Glowing with a new confidence, she flirted a bit too. Vanity was a new vice, quickly added to her repertoire. “Thank you, Will.” Her lashes aflutter, she held out her hands for the buckets of hot water. “Let me take those. You must have enough to do without seeing to the lord's bath too." Whores may not expect privacy, whores may not command a lady's respect, but her mother had taught her that graciousness is often returned in kind. And though both flirting and vanity were new to her, and out of place in the serious business of life, she was only human... Aeschine wished for many things in life: peace, love, freedom. Privacy was the least of what she wished for, and of no real importance in the scheme of things. What she wished for the most was the exoneration of her clan in the murder of Geoffrey de Sage's much-loved wife. Alas, that was not possible. She was a Scots, first and foremost, and that meant abiding to a code of silence. Still, expressing sorrow violated nothing. And it was time. As soon as the vassal left she would pay her respects to Sage's beloved lost wife. CHAPTER TWENTY

“Will, you may hand the bath linens to Aeschine, but set the water over there on the hearth,” Sage said. “Milady is not to lift those heavy pails." The warlord smiled reassuringly at her. “Do not be afraid or embarrassed in front of Will. He will see you everyday, robed and unrobed, and he is worthy of trust. You will soon become accustomed to his presence and you will not feel the need to seduce him as you are doing now." “I merely smiled!” she protested, but her guilty conscience pricked her. He held up his hand. “Please do not argue. I saw for myself that you were trying to entice him. Act the whore, be treated as a whore.” Sage called to his vassal. “Will, you may examine milady now."

Aeschine frowned. “Examine?" “You will be checked once a month, internally, just as the other whores are examined. This is done to ensure your good health. Will, you may proceed." Will inclined his head. “Very good, milord,” he said matter-of-factly, and poured hot water over his hands. Sage turned to Aeschine. “Go to the bed, and get up on top." She blushed a bright red. “Captor, please. I have no disease..." “Now Aeschine." She flounced to the bed, her expression mutinous. Sage and Will followed. “On you back, lass.” The warlord issued the command. Aeschine reclined. “Feet on the very edge, toes hanging over. Buttocks brought forward and legs well apart. I want Will to have a good view of you." “Please, Captor. This is undignified for a lady." “Aeschine,” Sage said severely, his hand resting lightly on her knee. “There is no need to make this more than what it is. ‘Tis only your female's body, after all. If you are bashful, you have my permission to turn your face away. Though why a whore would be embarrassed to have two men look at her is bewildering to me." Rather than be found out, Aeschine brought her bottom and feet to the edge of the bed but kept her legs tightly closed. The captor disapproved. “You will stop this nonsense at once, lass! You are no innocent nun. You understand very well what we are about here. This examination is a requirement of the bargain you made with me." “Please, Captor..." Sage stroked her jaw with his knuckles. “Lass, my vassal will not hurt you in any way. And as to your dignity, you lost that when you flirted with a man who serves me well and loyally." “ ‘Twas harmless,” she said. “Now, or I do it for you." She pried her knees apart. “Wider, sweetheart,” the warlord urged, stroking down the inside of her thigh. “Separate your legs. All

the way, now. There's a good puss,” he said when her knees were split. “Now there is a very nice sight. Silly to hide behind false modesty, is it not? Especially when you must know that a leman is not allowed such conceit." Damn his arrogance! She would show him! Turning her face to the wall, she threw her arms defiantly over her head, opened her legs as far as they would go and boldly wiggled her hips. Let them both look! See if she cared. “Well, well, well,” said the vassal, Will. “I understand now why you broke with celibacy and defied the King for her. She is a lovely piece. Did she take all of you?" “The whole swallow,” the warlord indecently boasted. Odd, but rather than feel embarrassed at their joint and intimate perusal of her womanhood, Aeschine grew hot with pleasure. She grew even more pleasurably flushed when a digit deftly circled her nether lips. Whose finger was it? “The vulva appears enflamed,” Will pronounced. “I know that, man! Tell me something I do not know. For example, is she able to have intercourse today?" “How many men are involved?” Will asked. Her captor took no offence; indeed, he chuckled. “You wish it, you crafty scoundrel. But she is all for me." Will lowered his voice, but she heard him anyway. “The clitoris is a plump little nubbin. She must go off for you every time." “She has not missed yet.” A prideful chuckle here. They talked about her as though she were not even in the chamber! She was about to call the both of them on it, but then someone started to gently minister to the top of her notch. She squirmed, licked her lips. “Mmm." “The passage is extraordinarily damp,” Will quickly pointed out. Oh, God! Weather was damp. She was wet! Dripping with her own juices. And both men knew it! Sod them! Her passage was probed then. With one finger. Then two. Her bud of pleasure was unhooded and rubbed with a thumb. She felt only relief when her bottom was cupped in a warm palm and a digit was inserted deep into her back opening. She could not prevent a purr from escaping when that digit moved in and out of her.

“Oh, aye,” she groaned. “Oh, aye, aye, aye." When another finger was seductively drawn across her mouth, a feathery stroke, she gratefully opened her lips and latched onto it. She sucked on it, up to the knuckle, and then took it down her throat. All of her orifices were now penetrated. Multiple fingers moved in and out of her, and she still wished for more. Arching up off the bed, she offered up her teats; they needed attention too. Her nipples were pulled. Then pinched. Very, very hard. A hot mouth came down and bit one. Then the other. She writhed in abandonment, falling, falling into the swirling abyss. She was coming and there was no way to stop the rush of sensation. “Let it happen,” two voices chanted. It was too much! She screamed her release at the top of her lungs. Upon recovering, Aeschine opened her eyes and glared at both men. Who were not looking at her at all, but at one another, man to man. “She is well worth the break with the King.” The vassal complimented his warlord. Sage grinned from ear to ear. “Did I not tell you?" The gloating beasts! “I see no reason why she may not have intercourse today,” Will said, ignoring her and speaking directly to his lord. “Although the labia majora and the labia minora are very swollen and enflamed, there are no tears. A herbal douche administered over the chamber pot will give her some relief for the tenderness." “Then certainly you must do it. Though later,” he added. “After I am done with her." “Very well.” He nodded. “And she is clean, milord. I see no signs of disease in the vagina or anus." “Considering that LaTourne is a known sodomite, that is excellent news,” Sage replied. “Milord, the lady is extremely healthy. Obviously, she has no difficulty achieving orgasm. And since a woman who easily climaxes is usually easily bred, you should have no trouble getting her with child. I also believe, after checking the width of her pelvis, that she should have no problem delivering you a son." “I am not seeding her." “Oh! Excuse the presumption, milord. Then, she will have need of pessaries. Once the barrier is in place, you may enjoy her more fully." “Thank you, Will. Please see that as well."

“Of course. Today, may I suggest no more than a few vaginal penetrations? Stay on the conservative side—no more than three. If you require more, you might consider sodomy. You are built on a large scale, but I certainly see no reason for you not to try anal intercourse. A tincture of oil will make it easier for her to receive you in the buttocks. Anoint her with it prior to penetration and coat your phallus as well. Take your time over the entry. Since LaTourne already had her that way, why abstain? Her mouth should easily accommodate you, as well." Will placed his hands on her teats. “These are small." “I have no complaint,” Sage interjected. “Very well. I believe that covers everything. Next whore examination is in a month's time.” The vassal bowed. “You may close up your legs now, Aeschine” Sage said, and offered her his hand to help her rise from the bed. “And thank you, Will. That will be all. You may leave us now." Once again alone, Aeschine raised her pinkened face to his. “I am sorry. It just happened." “No need to apologize. Will has a deft touch where ladies are concerned. All the whores climax during the examination." “My joy had naught to do with Will. I found my joy in you." “If you say so.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why will you not believe me?" “Because what happened just now will happen with any man who puts his hands on you. It is your nature, Aeschine." “Better to have a hot nature than a cold one!” she cried as she paced the room, trying to gather her thoughts together. This was not the best of times to mention this, not after what had just happened, but though it was both impetuous and inopportune, she knew if she did not say the words now, right this very instant, they may never get said. And say them she must! Aeschine walked back to her captor. Shoulders squared, she stood directly before him. “'Tis because I am not cold that I must speak what is in my heart, though discretion would have me wait.” She cleared her throat. “I must, right now, extend my deepest sympathy to you for the loss of your wife. I am so very sorry for her death. I hate this constant strife between our people. I pray every night for it to end." “Joan was raped, tortured. After defiling her, the monsters killed her. So, thank you for the fine sentiment, but I would much prefer you named names than extend sympathy." CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

His leman stubbornly shook her head. “Your earlobes are like seashells,” he whispered, taking her into his arms, his chin atop her head. “Mine are not so pretty, but in their favor, they come with a sound lock and key. Once a secret is whispered within, it never escapes. Tell me who is responsible." “I am a Scot unto death,” she said, and started to weep. “Do you really think me involved in that invasion?" “Nay,” he said uneasily. “But you are hiding something, and I wish you would trust me enough to tell me what that something is. I wish that you would cast the blame where it belongs, and I wish to God that you would give me the information I need to clear your name with my King. Until you do, there will remain a shadow of doubt o'er your head." “Do not talk to me of shadows! You live in the realm of shadows." “And your world is so full of sunlight that the brightness blinds me to my responsibilities." “My world is not so bright any more." “This dark day too will pass.” He kissed her temple. “I think you are the most courageous woman I have ever known. Also the most foolish. Your sense of honor may yet cost you your life. That said, I cannot help but admire your integrity.” He stroked her back. She melted into him. “I am a coward." “Brave." “I got down on my knees to DuFont. I thought I would never kneel, save to pray to God.” She sobbed. “My cowardice shames me. If I were truly brave, I would have chosen death over life when you captured me." “Never say you would choose death over life, no matter what the terms. Death lasts forever whilst this day will soon recede in your mind." She sniffed back the rest of the seepage. “I did not mean to give way like this." Out of respect for her pride, Sage put the warrior-woman aside so that she might recover her lost composure. While she fought to restore her slipped dignity, he stripped to the skin. Aeschine was lovely in the flesh. On a good day, he barely looked civilized. On a bad day, he looked the barbarian. Did his scarred appearance frighten her? He sought to set her mind at ease. “I have lived my life as a warrior, and that occupation shows in my every scar, muscle, tear, and dent. I was built for battle, but I swear to you, I will keep the peace here and I will spill as little blood as possible whilst doing so." “I believe you,” she said simply. She believed him...

His shoulders relaxed. He had not realized they were tense. Sage harkened back to Joan, to their marriage, arranged for political expediency. They had been friends for years before they wed and they remained friends after the vows were spoken, but they had never shared true closeness. Not the way a husband and wife should enjoy intimacy. He had never washed before his wife. Or, even cast off all of his garb. He had certainly never been naked in front of her the way he was naked with Aeschine. Their conjugal times had been few and rushed. Uncomfortable for her. Unsatisfying for him. Ten years his elder, his wife's hair was already salted with gray on the day they wed. Joan had also been of a serious mindset. After digging two husbands into the ground before him, she had grown weary of the marital bed. Understanding his wife's weariness and his own daunting size, he had placed relatively few demands on her, other than to occasionally lift aside the shift she had always worn to bed whilst he tried to sire the child they both wished to conceive. Marital relations were a duty for both of them, not a pleasure, and they were too honest with one another to pretend otherwise... Aeschine had screamed her pleasure in his arms. Each sound, each groan, each moan, each quickening of her breath, aroused him. His erection rose like a stubborn lance from its coarse nest of back curls whenever he was near her or even thought about her. “Ignore it,” he told the staring lady. “ ‘Tis not possible to ignore a broadsword when one faces it. My goodness,” she said, with an audible gulp. “How did that ever fit inside me?" “With some difficulty,” he quipped. She laughed too. “I promise never will I force myself on you, for I understand about feeling helpless. I suffer black moods,” he said, confessing his weakness for the first time to anyone. “My dreams terrorize me so much that I dread sleep. Nights are a source of constant humiliation." He reached a hand to her. “You cannot help the way your body reacts to mine any more than I can help the way my body reacts to you. We are both trapped in this snare together. I would free you, but your only safety lies with me." “And your need for revenge? What of that?" He drew in a labored breath. “I will have justice for my wife's death. So aye, revenge is part of it, but not the only part. Believe me, I do not wish to feel this way. I do not wish to mix you up in my rage against LaTourne. Unfortunately, you are there in the thick of it. My life would be far simpler if I could separate you from the past. You make my blood rush hot, Captive. I desired you from the very first moment I saw you. And now, knowing you have lain with a perverted killer, I would have everything you gave him." Finished with his drying, he went to dump the cooling water in the garderobe. “Love matches are made only in sonnets,” she called after him. “I heard you say, you are cousin to LaTourne..." “I cannot lie: The pervert is my kinsman."

“I see. Well, your cousin paid a tidy sum to my stepfather for me, but there was no affection between us." Sage gave Aeschine his full attention. Would she make any more admissions about her past...? “However, LaTourne paid for a docile wife, and humility is not my strong suit." Sage walked back to her. His firm lips quirked in mirth. “I did notice..." Aeschine shuddered. “Your cousin enjoyed making his bedmates scream in pain." “I am not my cousin!" “How well I know it,” she said, softly. “But since my return from the Crusades, I am subject to dark spells. ‘Tis possible that I might hurt you too, just like my cousin, when they have hold of me." He took up the second pail, and dipped a square of linen in the hot water. Testing it first to make sure the cloth would not scald her, he smoothed it across her shoulders. “I never wish to hurt you, Aeschine." The illumination from the hearth's small fire danced about his captive's head like a halo, turning her wild tangle of fair hair to burnished gold. He had an urge to bury his face in its richness. Giving into the urge, he skimmed a hand under her hair to caress her nape. Aeschine's proud back obsessed him. There was her backbone. He mused, drawing the wet linen down the straight and uncompromising length of it. Then, there was her bottom, lush and rounded and seductive. What man could resist that unusual blend of strength and sensuality? Not him. He had gorged on her in the cave. Their coupling was melting-hot, blistering hot, and somewhere in what he had left of a soul, he knew that Aeschine was his true mate, and nothing, neither the promise of heaven nor the threat of hell, would keep him from her. He squeezed the cloth over her breasts. Beads of warm water raced down the small slopes to drip off the pointed peaks. Whimsically, he cupped his hands underneath, catching the falling moisture. Laughing, he did it again. Only this time, instead of using his hands, he caught the water droplets in his mouth. “Let your anger go, milord,” she said, her body pliable under his mouth, under his hands. “I wish, oh how I wish, that your wife still lived and that your night terrors were forever banished. I have no power in either domain, but I shall sleep with you at night and awaken with you in the morn. I shall hold you in my arms when you grieve for your wife, when the demons encroach and terrorize you in sleep. By making a life together, by our peaceful example, the senseless killings will end." “ ‘Tis a dream, Aeschine." “Nay, ‘tis not...” She shivered. “Cold?” He went to the hearth and threw more kindling into the fire. “This will warm you." “Naught will warm me this night,” Aeschine said brokenly.

As dry wood flared to flame, Sage bent to her lips. “I shall warm you.” He kissed her soft and giving mouth. “We are doing things in reverse order, I think,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle afterwards. “The kisses should have come before the furs." “We must accept the lot we are given in life,” Aeschine said philosophically. He agreed. He had not loved his wife, and he should have loved her. Had he loved her, he would not have gone to the Crusades and she might still live this day. That was his lot, the guilt of which he must bring himself to accept. “Take love, for instance,” Aeschine offered, somehow seeing his thoughts again. “There is no rhyme or reason to whom we love, no help for the condition either.” A tear fell from her eye. Sage pushed the mind reader's wild tangle of hair away from her wet cheeks. “For whom do you cry?" “I cry not for Joan, for she is out of her misery and is gone to a better place. And for myself, I have no tears left to cry. I cry for you, Captor, for all the pain you carry inside you. I beg you, let the pain go. Let me help you let the pain go. You deserve to find happiness." If life were just, Aeschine and he would have gotten to know one another the usual way, through conversation and sighs and kisses. As life was not just, they had come together because of a dark purpose, and from that dark purpose, a wild passion had grown. If he were a whole man, her dream might have had a chance even then. Alas, he was not a whole man. At times he was crazed. He might very well harm her during one of his night terrors. Yet, selfishly, he could not let her go. Aeschine gave him solace in a world gone mad. He was a one-woman man. A committed man. A responsible man. He made no apologies for his dull ways. Court debauchery was not for him. Never had he found excitement in flitting from one pair of open thighs to another. He desired Aeschine. Only Aeschine. And he would have her, every way that LaTourne had her. She whispered, “If LaTourne is found guilty of treason your king will have me beheaded." “You do not go to the block,” he said gruffly. “Vows, priests, wagging tongues, an army of soldiers, or anyone's idea of what constitutes sin—none of it matters to me. You are mine. This is mine,” he said cradling her shorn mound. “And neither your king, nor my own, will take you from me. If I decide you deserve punishment, I alone will see it through." He had not had her since the cave. Fearful that DuFont followed them, and knowing he would have to take her on the ground out in the open, he had resisted. Now they were safe in a warm chamber and he would have her again. There was no reason not to have her, save one. “Will said you might have intercourse, but what say you? Are you too sore for me to come into your belly?” he asked, holding his breath, his palm resting now on the small of her back as was proper. Even a woman as experienced as Aeschine would feel the aftermath of the excess of the cave. “Sore, but not too sore,” she whispered. “Never will I refuse you, milord." His hand slipped to cup her bottom, a thumb stroking along the crease. “Are you sure? You have only

just climaxed..." “I am very sure. There is no need to delay. Only, please, milord, do not take me impersonally this time.” She reached up to him and wound her fingers in his hair. “This time, come into me, breast to breast, belly to belly, breath to breath. Let us share the joy." His thumb stopped its intimate stroking; his eyes narrowed menacingly. “You think to set conditions?" She shook her head. “I was betrothed to a cruel pervert and now I am whore to a self-righteous overlord. I cannot say which is worse." “I am not my cousin! I am not LaTourne!" “You say the words, but do you understand their meaning? You are not a killer by nature. You are a good man forced to make hard decisions. Make the right choice now. Do not spurn me." “I do not spurn you..." “You spurn my feelings for you, which is the ultimate rejection of all! You give an evil slant to my intentions, which shows your lack of trust. I have a need for physical closeness with you. Yet you twist my need, my weakness, treating it as something vile. My passion for you is pure. Let me share my body with you. I ken the gift is insignificant but ‘tis all I have." “The gift is not insignificant,” he mumbled. He would not tell her the gift was everything. “Then, if my body has some small significance to you, let me see your pretty dark eyes light up with joy when you come with me." Pretty dark eyes... His face heated at the compliment. She grinned. “Milord, you blush!" “ ‘Tis arousal. Animal lust. Warriors do not blush. “There is more to this than animal lust. Why will you not admit it? You are the mate of my soul as well as the mate of my body." “I will admit you please me.” Moving the curtains aside, he placed her on her back atop the bed. He toppled down beside her, powerful arms thrown over his head in an attitude of surrender. “Do with me as you will." At the invitation, Aeschine scrambled to her knees, contemplating him with big blue eyes. “You give me full control?" Why not? What harm would it do? So long as her safety was not jeopardized, he could afford generosity. Loosening his authority over her—at least in the bedchamber—might even be enlightening. “Full control,” he said gallantly. “I am your submissive love slave."

“I may ride atop you?" He eyed her keen excitement. Had he created a monster? “Aye. Ride me hard. No whips, though. This hide of mine is easily bruised." Worrying her bottom lip, one inquisitive finger stroked his manhood. Gently. As if the corpulent beast needed such tenderness. She took her sweet time about her perusal, lifting him up, weighing his stones, girding him. Two fingers circling the shaft, she judged the circumference. He thought he might come in her hand when she polished the plum head of his cock. Did she think him a piece of fruit? Teeth clenched—to maintain his pained stoicism—he gave nothing away. He refused to acknowledge her power over him, refused to ask, to beg, to plead for her to take him. Not that his stoicism served a purpose, for the witch most likely knew his thoughts. With a smug smile, she swung her leg up and over him, taunting him, rising above him, her moist heat within thrusting range. One flex of his hips and she would sheath him. He kept his hips rigidly fixed. He stayed there passively underneath her, but his eyes burned into hers. Now. Take me now, woman! Grinning from ear to ear, she teased him some more. Unmercifully too. Wiggling her luscious tight bottom, jiggling her breasts, shaking her head until her fair hair bounced, destroying him with her smiles. “I believe I like the superior positioning,” she offered. Why did this not surprise him? “Now that you have my attention, puss, what do you think to do with me?" “Ravish you, naturally!" “Have to,” he said, hands clasped behind his neck. “Ravish away." “ ‘Tis so big,” she fretted, contemplating his largess. “And it must all be stuffed inside?" He laughed until tears poured down his beard-roughened cheeks. Hers was a problem he well understood. “Aye,” he guffawed. “If you would have your joy, it must all be stuffed inside." He stopped laughing when she looked woebegone. “Aeschine, what is wrong? I meant no harm by my levity..." “ ‘Tis only...” She looked down, began again. “To me, this is making love. To you, this is something else altogether." “Let us be frank. You enjoy what we do, do you not?" “I do. Very much." “And you are experienced..." She looked away. “To me, you are the first."

He sighed at her romanticism. “Well, thank you. You have swelled my conceit as well my cock. But you must understand that this, that fucking, is all that we have. All that we will ever have." “I wish for more,” she said obstinately. “So do I. Alas, I am not getting it.” He raised a brow. “Well?" “Well, what?” she asked with a pout. “I am merely curious as to what you are about." “About?" Her wiggling and jiggling and flouncing and pouncing made him more crazed than he was already. “Are we done here, Aeschine?" “Not by a javelin's long throw.” She finally lowered herself. “I feel it go in.” This was said with a squeal as she gleefully took his all. Stretching up off the pillow, he kissed her lips. In gratitude. In epiphany. Then he fell back onto the pillow, unable to think, to reason, to resist. Surrendering himself to her, he shouted to the turrets as ejaculate shot out of him. Screamed hoarse, his companion in lust toppled to her belly on the bed beside him. “Are you all of one piece?” He gasped; his own breath had yet to be restored. “Aye,” she croaked. “Shall we go at it again?" With his remaining strength, he reached over and swatted her bottom. “Be good now." She rubbed at the smarting spot. “I think you prefer me to misbehave." Aye, she was fair wondrous when she misbehaved. “With practice, I am sure to improve,” she said impishly. Improve at misbehavior? She needed no such improvement. She gave him an adorable wink. “At one point during the ride I feared losing my balance. Unseated from my mount I would have landed upon the floor. I felt myself falling..." He felt himself falling too. And not to the floor. And practicing what they had just done would only worsen the situation. Sage flung himself from the bed. “I must go." She came up on an elbow. “Do you return to me later this eve?" “Nay. And because of the danger, you will stay in this chamber. Do not venture downstairs until and

unless Will or myself grants you permission to leave." She rolled to a cross-legged sit on the bed. “I will stay put tonight, but not indefinitely. There is much work to do. Cleaning the great hall. Stables too. And the downstairs bedding must go. Then there's my sheep. They will need quarters..." While she counted off chores, turning on his heel, he raced from the chambers. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“What a lazy bedbug you are, Lady Aeschine! I thought you would never awaken." Aeschine opened a sleepy lid and squinted at the big-bellied maid who bustled about the chamber. This was the servant from the barracks. Sage had kept his promise to her! “I did not ask before—what is your name?" “I am called Ellen, milady.” The servant attempted a curtsey but her belly got in the way. “Himself assigned me to look after you.” Her maid opened one of her many large pockets and dropped a key within. “Does that key unlock the portal to this chamber?" “Aye. And do demand it. If I give it o'er, it will be out on my arse for me. You would not have me, a poor mother-to-be, returned to the barracks, would you?" Nay, Aeschine would never put the woman in jeopardy that way. But it galled her that the captor thought to exchange one form of imprisonment for another. “How long have I slept?" “Off and on for three days. The warlord had me check on you periodically. You were exhausted, poor lass. Himself wore you out, did he?” Ellen asked, but evidently expected no answer, as she continued right along with the one-sided conversation. “That is a bonnie lover you have there. And I should know, as I have had an abundance of experience in the area." “You, a whore too?" Ellen placed her hands on her well-padded hips. “Was a whore. I have the bairn to consider now. ‘Tis time to stiffen me spine, close up me thighs, and get on with the rest of me life. A good Christian life ‘twill be too. No more up all night carousing. No more tankards of ale, one aft’ t'other, down me gullet. No men in me bed, either! I intend to support this child with respectably earned coin." “What of the bairn's father?" “What of him?" “Is he to wed you?" “Wed a whore? Ha! I should think not. No decent man weds a whore.” She shrugged. “No matter. This bairn is not the first born without a father. I would have liked things done different, you understand, but wishing does not make them so.” Ellen let out a resigned sigh. “What choice do we women have but to

go on?" “No choice. We must all go on." Ellen sniffed into her sleeve. “That we do. That we do.” The maid's face crinkled into a tearful smile. “A gift came for you at daybreak. From the warlord. To show his thanks." “A gift! For me?” Aeschine flung back the furs. Sheep! “Where are they? In the stables?” Unmindful that she was as bare as the day she was born, she jumped from the bed and ran to the arrow loop so that she might look out upon the courtyard. “Ah,” Ellen said. “I see now what the warlord has to thank you for. So many love bites! I am well acquainted with the sins of the flesh, but never have I seen such proof of ardor. Methinks himself spent a fair portion of a day placing those hickeys on your rosy bottom." Aeschine covered the area with her hands. “He never complained about the time spent." “I imagine he did not! Well, I have a tincture that will soothe the bruises of ecstasy. I will fetch it while you bathe. When himself returns, the evidence of his man's passion will have healed, and he may start right in again to give you new ones." “Returns? The warlord is gone?" “Since two mornings past." “But ... but he said no goodbye." “He certainly did, ninny. He be all fool's drools when he looked in on you." Taken aback by this revelation, Aeschine asked, “When did you see him drool over me?" The servant plumped the now vacant mattress. “When I checked on you that first morn. ‘Twas right as the sun came up. Himself stood over this very same bed, a wolfish light in those dark eyes of his. I thought he would have you again afore breakin’ the fast." “He never did!" Ellen tutted. “If you do not give to him, there are plenty here who will. That man will have all the whores spreadin’ their legs for him. Save you,” she said disapprovingly. “You think I refused him?” She shook her head. “He never disturbed me." “The man must certainly love you! No prisoner gets that kind of consideration. You could be in chains down in the dungeon. Instead, you are ensconced in the lap of luxury, undisturbed in your sleep. There is a tale here, to be sure. Tell me true, how did you come to be the warlord's light ‘o love?" “I am the warlord's whore. Not the warlord's light o’ love.” She waved a hand at the juncture of her legs. “See? He scraped me bald with his blade, proof that he thinks of me only as a whore."

Ellen's nod was wise. “Men have been known to fall in love with their whores." “Mayhap. But as you just now related, men never wed their whores." “There is a first time for everything. Keep the lord happy and you may just find yourself lady of this keep." Aeschine lowered her voice. “Ellen, the warlord is—well—huge. He takes up all of me. Is that the usual way of it?" “Only if you be lucky. And if he keeps it up, in no time a'tall, you will be looking like me.” She began filling the bathing tub with water warmed on hooks over the fire. “While you soak your hinny, I will go see about having your gift brought upstairs to the solar." Sheep in a solar? Aeschine thought as she folded up her long legs and sank up to her chin in the warm bath water. “Methinks your gift is new gowns,” Ellen apprised her. “Best wear them straight away. Soon, you might not squeeze into them.” Prosaic advice given, Aeschine's new maid wobbled out of the solar, big belly leading the way. Not sheep, then. Gowns. Well, she supposed she did need something to don—though the delay in the arrival of her promised flock did disappoint her. Later, when some brawny servants delivered an exotic-looking chest to the chamber, Aeschine was too awed by it magnificence to touch it. She stood there, all-agawk, until Ellen bristled, “Will you open your gift any time soon, milady? Or do you merely intend to stare a hole in its lid?" Taking the maid's less than subtle hint, Aeschine pulled up on the leather handle located at the top of the chest. “Gowns,” she muttered, gazing into the chest's interior. “And under-things. I had hoped for sheep." “Ingrate.” Ellen snorted. Aeschine gingerly lifted a bright saffron gown. The crisp cloth crinkled in her hand like rustling leaves, and the slight sheen of the weave would catch even a hummingbird's attention. Taffeta, she decided, and the most gorgeous creation she had ever seen. Her teeth nibbled her bottom lip. “What need I for fancy garb when I tend my sheep? I need good, sturdy wool for shepherding!" Ellen bellied Aeschine out of the way and sifted through the trunk, herself. “No sturdy wool here. All these gowns be fit for a queen." “Aye. Queen of sluts!” Aeschine retorted, holding up a daring green gown. “That suits you, milady. Lord Sage must have handpicked the fabric." “The bodice is cut too low. I shall fall out!"

Ellen clucked her tongue over another, a silvery gown of near transparent gauze. “Sure I am that this one be meant for the bedchamber." “I think that is the general idea for all of them.” Aeschine ran a hand reverently over the sleeve. “The fabric is so shear, a spider might have spun it. ‘Tis wicked. I shall never wear it. But I must don something!” she fretted. “There is much to be done at this keep and I cannot work with this linen wrapped ‘round me. There must be one suitable gown inside this trunk!" She proceeded to fling one creation after another onto the bed. Orange damask followed a bright green silk; another gown was multi-colored, like a peacock's feathers. Soon, she had made a pile as high as a hillock on the bed. “Flamboyant decadence, the lot of them,” Aeschine said, contemptuously. “And a waste of good coin. Not even a plain shift amongst them!" She selected the dullest shift and gown from the pile. One-by-one, she carefully replaced the rest inside the chest and closed the lid. “Ellen—after I am garbed, we will go downstairs. There is nothing like a bout of stiff cleaning to get a woman's mind off her problems. After scrubbing filth for a while, we will both be too exhausted to get two thoughts together." Ellen placed her hand over her belly. “There is something you should know: I am to report back your doings to the warlord when he returns. Will is to do the same. We are to be your watchdogs. If you try to make your escape we are to notify the guards. I refused, of course. You just see if I do not convince that Will to turn a blind eye to your comings and goings too!" “My thanks, Ellen, for I am desperate for a little freedom. Cooped up in a cage, no matter how fine, is unbearable to me" “Take care! The lord of this keep is not the sort who would tolerate disobedience. Though, to be fair, you could have done worse in a lover." Aeschine agreed, and still she craved more. She understood Sage's pain, his need for retribution. To avoid that retribution, all she need do is explain that she had been a novice, cloistered in a convent at the time of his wife's murder. Her story would be easy to check. But she had already told him she knew naught about that horrible invasion, and she expected to be taken at her word. What kind of life could they hope to have if no trust existed between them? And there was something else too: If he wished to cast blame for that invasion, he had indeed chosen the right person. True, she had no first-hand knowledge of that brutal attack on a slumbering keep, but she must bear the responsibility for it just the same ... and she did. Any punishment the warlord decided to mete out would be borne by her, and by her alone. So her father had taught her years ago, and so she would accept now. Although she had not ordered those killings, they were her crimes just the same. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Sage cast weary eyes toward Hugh d'Aubrienne.

They had finished a sumptuous meal hours before, talked for hours after that, yet his host seemed reluctant to end their evening. Why? Sage drained his goblet of ale, then yawned. “This day has proved long and fruitful.” He placed the empty drinking vessel on the wide paddled arm of his chair. “I rise early in the morn, so regrettably, I bid you good eve.” He stood. “I am glad you like the sheep." Sage took a step toward the portal. “I do. My thanks again for your help in selecting them." Finally, his host rose. “I hope the small runts will please your friend." Sage's smiled at the prospect of pleasing Aeschine. She would surely love the lambs. Her tone always softened when she spoke of the babies... D'Aubrienne said something about Rufus. Sage's attention snapped back. “Pardon? What of the King?" Hugh d'Aubrienne's eyes shifted beneath their bushy white brows. “I only related that the King is far from these glens and you are here. I would do all that I might to keep the powerful new warlord happy." Of late, he had felt far from powerful. Strange, but a part of him seemed missing. There was a numbness too, which originated in his chest and spread to his limbs, resulting in a slowing of movement, a certain disorganization of thought, a pronounced inability to attend to the most simple of tasks... He missed Aeschine. More, not less, with every day that he stayed away. Touring his holdings, making the acquaintance of the few remaining villagers, meeting the neighboring nobility—he had used these excuses to absent himself from his keep. He had hoped that with distance, the fire in his loins would cool. He hoped in vain. Yearning fueled the flames, and they leapt stronger and brighter than ever. Even now, as his host droned on and on about borderland politics, concentrating primarily on Scottish resistance to English dominance, Sage's mind wandered to Aeschine. Her beauty. Her intelligence. Her quick wit. Their conversations. Their arguments... Her optimistic vision of the future. She might have given into self-pity after her capture. She had not. Instead, she was cheerful and good-natured, willing to meet any challenge. How many ladies would have entered his hellish fortress, with not even a garment to their names, and not let it defeat them? Naught defeated Aeschine. How he missed her high spiritedness! He was near crazed to get back to her. And his impatience had nothing to do with duty or responsibility. His host's mouth moved. What was he saying? Sage concentrated, trying to decipher the words. “Will those three pups never cease? The lands were divided up, and Rufus has England. What is there to

debate?” His host lowered his voice. “But I tell you this: a nobleman's arrow will find William Rufus's back if he does not ease up on his tithing. There is talk amongst the nobility of a rebellion. Rufus might yet find his arse ousted from the throne of Westminster, and not by one of his brothers, either." “So too have I heard,” Sage replied and quickly looked for a change of subject. A discussion of palace politics was hardly prudent when his cousin's head might soon adorn a pike outside Rufus’ courtyard. “Did you mention there are peasant men willing to come back with me to Cheviot Hills?" “Have your pick. All are good laborers. There are some recently widows too. Though none of the peasant women are sluts, all are willing to lie with a man for a few trinkets.” D'Aubrienne jabbed him in the side. “Dip your wick in one or two. Or three if you are of a mind to..." Sage kept his tone polite but firm. “I must decline your hospitality." “I have heard of your celibacy.” His host grumbled, “In my opinion, too much morality is bad for a man's health. Abstinence dilutes the blood, and brings on fevers and impotency." “Actually, I am celibate no more. My leman even now awaits my return, so widows in my bed are out of the question." “Why? Even wed—most especially I would say when wed—a man needs variety.” D'Aubrienne gave Sage a searching look. “Unless ... does this leman mean something to you?" Sage stumbled over his tongue to make a speedy denial. “N-ay. She is my prisoner. We have made a bargain..." “You have met my daughter,” his host interjected. “Yseult is a beauty, is she not?" Uneasy at this new subject, Sage looked around for another way out. “She is." “You have no lawful children. Most men have want of a son..." “In that, I am the same as most men." “Then I have a proposal to make you. As it happens, I am in need of financial assistance to make improvements on this humble lodge, and you are a widower in need of a lawful son. Why not link our future prosperity through marriage...?" “I have no plans to remarry." “I see no reason why we cannot come to terms on this, Sage. I need finances, you need an heir, and there is Yseult in need of a husband in her bed." Sage gazed into the shiny surface of his drained goblet and saw Aeschine's face there. He turned his eyes to the hearth, and in the jumping flames, saw her face there too. Everywhere he looked, he saw his captive's face. He must do something about his unwholesome obsession with his enemy's affianced. D'Aubrienne's suggestion might be the solution. In his head, Sage ticked off the reasons for making the alliance: Most importantly, his longing for a family, a son to carry on his blood after his death. His host was of proud lineage, and his daughter was attractive in the way he liked attractiveness. Bedding her would not cause him distaste. “Is she virgin?"

“I am a strict father!" Virginity, questionable— “I have little time for bed sport. She must breed with ease." “Start tonight. When you leave, take her with you. If she breeds within a year, then the vows will be spoke. If not, return her to me." “Such a generous offer. ‘Tis difficult to refuse, but I am afraid I must." “I throw in Kendle to sweeten the arrangement. My son will be of great assistance to you. The peasants do respect his tidy hand with the whip." “I am sure whippings will not be necessary,” Sage replied, diplomatically, but inwardly cringing. “Would your daughter fare well at my keep? The motte-and-bailey is not as hospitable as is this abode." “Yseult never complains." D'Aubrienne rushed Sage to the portal. “When Yseult comes to your chamber, you will see for yourself what a demure and modest lady is my daughter." ****

Sage stood pensively before the hearth in his bedchamber, gazing into the flames but not really seeing the fire because his thoughts resided on Aeschine. His manhood ached because of those thoughts. While brooding over his testy loins, the demure and modest Yseult d'Aubrienne made her appearance. “I am the most beauteous lady in the realm, am I not?” she demanded, sweeping to the middle of the stone floor, her rich velvet skirts lifting to show off a pair of well-turned ankles to the best advantage. Modest and demure, eh? He thought not. He also thought the query was not rhetorical in nature. The lady expected an answer. While massaging his suddenly throbbing temples, he tried to produce an appropriate response to the decidedly improper question. “I have not yet met all the ladies in the realm.” He had never been very good at flirtation, and that deficiency was not lost on the lady. Yseult sent him a withering look. “Well ... I suppose—not having met all the ladies in the realm—I would have to say that beauty is as beauty does,” he hastily amended, hoping to appease his host's daughter. As Yseult's mouth continued to droop at the corners, this led him to believe that he had not sufficiently placated the lady. He stood in stony silence after that, not knowing what other addendum to make.

“I understand we leave for your keep on the morrow?” the lady said, picking up the fallen thread of conversation while squandering a hot smile on him as she patted her loose, raven-black hair. Yseult did not wear a rail. As a hair covering was a sign of a lady's modesty, this made sense. A coif had hidden Aeschine's lovely pale hair when they had first met. He had asked her to remove it and she said... “You are well hung, milord," Nay, Aeschine had not said that! The supposedly virginal Yseult said that, which to his way of thinking left her state of innocence rather suspect. Just as well. A screaming virgin would make his already aching head explode. With a raucous laugh, and a bold leer at his crotch, the lady made quick work of her girdle, dropping it, jewels and all, to the rushes. Her gown, shift, boots and stockings followed. Yseult was lush where a woman should be lush, tapered where a woman should be tapered, he was uncomfortably erect, and there, within two paces, was the big wide bed. Weary from his cares, lonely too, and horny as a Billy goat, he wished to retire in that big wide bed. Alone. And dream of Aeschine. “Shall we fuck, milord?” Yseult inquired and dove for the mattress. Wincing at the lady's sad lack of romance—but relieved by her fortunate lack of intuition—Sage stripped off. Duty called and her open thighs eagerly beckoned. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

One full moon came and went, another grew round in the night sky and Sage had still not returned. Aeschine passed the lonely nights pacing the floor in the solar, alternately pining for her lover and pledging to never speak to him again. During the days, work occupied her worried mind. Ellen and she rid the hall of fleas and other sundry pests—the chores done under Will's ever-watchful eye. “My shadow will not leave me alone,” Aeschine muttered to Ellen one warm afternoon. “Oh, he is not so bad,” her maid simpered. “At times, a brawny giant comes in handy. Only this yester-morn, the behemoth helped me with some heavy chores." “But the man does not blink,” Aeschine complained. “If I do not a have a few moments to myself, I shall scream!" “Save your voice.” Ellen grinned. “Watch this." The maid bent to lift a pail of slops.

Will came rushing over. “You are not to lift that! ‘Tis much too heavy for a woman in your condition!” He carried off the dirty bucket of water and came back with a clean one. “Next time, ask for my help." Ellen whimpered a pitiful ‘thanks’ and set to rubbing the small of her back while making pathetic little mewing sounds. Aeschine, busy cleaning soot from the hearth, stopped to watch the drama unfold. “Are you well, Ellen?” she asked, going along with the ruse. “Is there ought I might do?" “Oh, milady. I have had this twinge all morn...” Here, another mewish whimper. “Lady Aeschine, I think Ellen should lie down,” Will said, worriedly. “The little mother looks dreadful pale." Ellen looked around Will's substantial bulk at her and winked. Aeschine returned the squint. “Er ... very well. Ellen, your duties here are finished. Go to your mat in the servant's quarters for the remainder of the day." “Ach! I do not need the rest." “Nonsense! Of course you do.” Aeschine turned and faced the giant watchdog. “Will, please escort Ellen to her quarters at once." “I am not going anywhere!” her maid protested. “I be fine. Stop your jabberin’ at me. If I fall over, just haul me back up again onto me feet." Will wrapped an arm around Ellen's rapidly disappearing waistline. “You go if I have to carry you. The little fellow in your belly is taxing your strength." Halfway to the portal, the vassal remembered his duty to the absent warlord. He called behind him to Aeschine. “I am not supposed to leave you alone, milady, but the vexing woman does need to rest..." “I am fine alone, Will. Take Ellen to bed." “This man is not getting anywhere near me bed...” squawked her maid. Even at profile, Aeschine could see that Will blushed to the roots of his red hair. Aha! So, that was the way of it. “Ellen,” Aeschine said sternly. “Go! That is an order. And Will, see to it that she is well-settled before you return." Torn between watchdogging the warlord's whore and taking care of Ellen, Will's mouth twisted with indecision. “I return shortly,” he finally said, making up his mind. Shrugging, as though the break of surveillance meant naught to her, Aeschine turned back to bundle

moldy straw for burning. When the couple disappeared around the corner, she gave the straw the heave-to and raced for the courtyard. ****

Sage galloped through the gates of his keep, entourage in tow. After delivering the miniature sheep to a holding pen, and installing Yseult and Kendle in their separate chambers, he took the stairs to the tower two at a time. Scattering straw as he flew down the long corridor, he pushed open the oak portal at the end expecting to find Aeschine involved in some harmless meditative pursuit and instead found that the solar was empty. Where was his leman? Frustration in full flower, he tramped back down the stairs to find Will. His leman's guard knelt on hands and knees in front of a blackened hearth, a bucket beside him. Sage walked up to him. Hauling back his booted foot, he kicked the wooden pail. Splinters flying, sudsy water splashing and sloshing onto the ashes, the smell of damp soot sent to his flaring nostrils, Sage roared, “What the devil do you think you are doing?" “I was scrubbing the hearth,” the vassal replied. “A scullery maid scrubs. That is her responsibility. A vassal guards. That is his responsibility. Is my point clear to you, Will?" “Clear as the snout on me own face. But you see, milord, what with Ellen big with babe and all, I thought I might guard and scrub at the same time." “My leman is missing. My floor is soaking wet. It would appear you do neither!" “Ask those two clean-crazed females if I do neither." “And which two clean-crazed females are those?" “Why Aeschine and Ellen. Who else?" “Aeschine is scrubbing too?" “Like she was born to it." “Where is my captive?” Sage seethed. “Now that is something I am none too clear on. Not her exact location anyway, milord." “What do you mean, you do not know her exact location?” Sage shouted. “I expect you to know her exact location to within a hair's breadth, for that is the task I assigned you." “I mean to say, I do not know her specific location."

“Very well,” Sage said, regulating the terror in his voice to a manageable concern. “What is her general location?" Will scratched his beard. “Now, you see, that remains a mystery..." Sage removed his gauntlets and slapped them against his thigh. “What has gone on here during my absence?" “Naught has gone on,” Will protested. “Just cleaning and more cleaning. These females are soap and water fanatical. Your lady has never stopped washing. I only just escorted the maid, Ellen, to her quarters. When I did return, ‘twas to find she had up and left." “When was this?" “ Before mid-day." The sun had already gone down. “I am gone not two moons, and when I return, what do I find?" “A clean hearth?” Will suggested. “Nay. Chaos! Utter pandemonium. Tell me quick, which mare did she take?" Will blinked in rapid succession. Had his steady vassal suddenly developed a squinty tick? “Uh ... my liege, she ... that is, well ... to my knowledge, she is on foot." Sage pulled his gauntlets back on. “While you are on your knees, Will, best pray that I find my lady and that she is found safe." ****

Sage rode hard, and mumbled frantically. Not curses. Prayers. When a crazed heretic sends up half-remembered words of entreaty to a God he no longer believes in, it is either a sign of his returning faith or his deteriorating mind. And so, when he finally spied Aeschine off in the distance he was unclear whether it was miracle or encroaching madness. Her occupation did not make his determination any easier. Aeschine was eating grass. Not a dainty nibble, either. His leman's mouth was filled to capacity with great clumps of the green stuff. And in the thoughtful, head-cocked pose he so fondly recalled, she chewed the turf with relish, as though she supped on the choicest of venison. Had supplies at his borderland fortress dwindled? Were foodstuffs rationed? Did hunger prompt his lady to dine on vegetation? He was about to call out to her—a warning or a greeting, he knew not which—when she looked up from her chewing and sent him a dazzling, if slightly grass-stained smile. Impetuous as always and running as usual, she picked up her skirts and raced to him, to Geoffrey de Sage, a scarred warrior with a battered soul and a dark past. And it came to him, as her feet skimmed the ground, swallowing up the distance that separated them, just how much she mattered to him, how much he had missed her.

Aeschine was a part of his life. An essential part. An integral part. The best part. He yearned for her like he yearned for the dawn at midnight. Both assuaged his torment. After mating, some animals will stay with their partner for a lifetime; other animals will not. He fell into the first category. It was Aeschine, and Aeschine alone, he wished to take to the furs. This night and every night, and for the rest of his life. But damnation! He was not fit! At times, he scared even himself. Whilst in the cave, he had come close to hurting Aeschine. That same danger still existed. When darkness fell upon him, when revenge soured his heart, he knew not what he might do. His expression set in the usual dour lines, Sage threw his leg over his destrier and dismounted. Heedless of his prohibitive scowl, Aeschine threw herself at him, the sweet catapult of her lunge through the air hitting him in the chest. Not yet recovered from the assault, she proceeded to hug the air from his lungs. “I missed you so!” she cried. Unwilling to show his own happiness, his arms remained knotted at his sides whilst he willed himself to breathe. Which went to explain his lowered guard when she doubled her fist and landed him a tremendous blow to the jaw. Stupefied, he stumbled back, causing her to slide off him; she landed with a plop onto her round arse, her wide spread of red skirts bringing to mind a poppy. His fingers felt for a crack in the bone. “Damnation! What was that blow for?" The virago jumped to her feet. “For fuckin’ not telling me you had planned to leave me." That said, she struck him yet another blow, this time in the gut. “That one is for not telling me when you would come back." He let her have the third punch, just so that he might hear her motivation. He lifted a dark brow. “Well?" “For leaving me here to wonder and worry about you, you arrogant pig prick." He would grant her the arrogant, but pig prick? Aeschine swore like a foul-mouthed lad, but she had her comparison's a bit confused. In no way could his cock be likened to a pig's prick. Save for his amusement, he might have been insulted. He imprisoned her fist before she threw her next punch. “You will hurt your knuckles if you persist." “I care naught for my knuckles ... you ... you ... domineering donkey dong!” She kicked him in the shins. Then her knee came up—her mark this time a much higher piece of geography—which he managed to avoid with a poorly executed twist.

He would walk with a limp for a day or so, but at least he still had his balls. For now. Picking her up in his arms, he held her close. “Cease,” he grumbled. By no means might this embrace be construed as a hug. The action was purely self-defense. As he wrapped her up in his arms and held her fiercely to him—necessary for his own protection—her blue eyes spilled over with tears. “What is this, lass?” he asked fingering a droplet. “You left me! Why did you leave me?" “Shh. I am back now,” he said gruffly. He touched her green lips with a gentle fingertip. “Why did you never tell me you graze like a cow?" “I do not graze like a fuckin’ cow.” She sobbed. “I see. Well, grass and green apples will each give a wee bonnie lass like you the belly ache,” he said with a burr, ducking a fist as it swung past his ear. “I am not a wee or bonnie, you cock's cock. Hold still so that I might land my blows." Females! Where was their logic? But she was crying, and so he held still and took the punches, making sure, for the sake of her knuckles, that her blows landed on areas of his anatomy the armor left uncovered. When her ire—and phallic insults—had been depleted she crumbled against him, exhausted. “Feeling better?” he asked, dryly. “Oh, much. My thanks.” She went back to hugging him. “Any time. Now tell me. Why do you eat grass?" “What tastes good to me will surely taste good to my sheep,” she murmured into his neck, her lips placing little wet sloppy noisy—wholly erotic—kisses there. “If ever I get sheep, that is." He turned his jaw so that her mouth might more easily reach his mouth. In truth, he would give her a whole flock of wooly beasties just for a taste of those berry-red lips, for a touch of that full, pouty mouth. One kiss, he thought, in desperation. She need not even give him tongue. Not much tongue, anyway. Not clear to his throat, tongue. He would gladly sell what remained of his soul for just one carnal taste of those lips, which matched her gown so precisely. “Not your bloody sheep again!” he growled, trying to sound much put upon. “Aye, my bloody sheep,” she said, and smothered his lips. She tasted of grass. And eagerness. And wild abandonment. The long, uninterrupted hours spent in the

saddle, the frantic pace he had set—even the complaints of that wretched brother and sister pair—all of it had been worth it for Aeschine's rib-breaking hugs and hot, wet, sloppy, grass-tasting kisses. And with that thought, he immediately put her away from him. “Every time my back is turned you are up to more mischief." “I do not necessarily need your back turned, milord. I sometimes do my mischief directly in front of you. ‘Tis much more fun that way." “I am serious, Aeschine. This latest disobedience of yours merits a punishment.” He looked at her sternly. A mistake. He should have avoided looking at her altogether. “That gown suits you,” spilled out of his mouth as though he were a lovesick bull. “You think so?” she asked, obviously looking for more compliments, a manipulation a wise man never gives into. “I do,” he replied, far from wise “The color compliments your eyes." She held up the skirts, swished them back and forth. “The gowns are to the last one wicked and decadent.” She blushed prettily. “My thanks for the gifts.” Another hug, another kiss. “And for the kind words too." He chuckled. “You have had your compliments, so stop squeezing me. I fear my delicate complexion is turning blue." “And I fear I cannot let you go. I missed, missed, missed you so..." Sage felt himself weaken. The urge to reciprocate, to tell her how much he had missed her too, to confess to his wretched loneliness without her, nearly overwhelmed him. But what purpose would telling her serve? None. Resolutely, he set her away from him. “No need to thank me for the gowns. I understand that young females like to primp. And I had to put you in something. What you wore the last I saw you nearly gave me a fit." “I was naked the last you saw me." “Er ... well ... I liked you just fine in that. I meant the time before that occasion." “I was naked then as well." He removed his gloves, and slapped them hard on his thigh. “Ahem ... let us dispense with the amenities of homecoming. Who gave you permission to leave the keep?" “I am a woman grown; I gave myself permission."

“You are a child, and you had no right to give yourself permission! I issued you an order to stay within the confines of the solar." “Do not worry so! I was perfectly safe the whole time you were away..." “Only because I took Will away from his regular duties and assigned him to your protection. Now, my vassal must catch up with work not done while he played nursemaid to you. Your inconsiderateness has made his days longer and harder." “You cannot mean that you actually expected me to stay put, inside the keep, during your entire absence?" “I did." “For almost two full moons?" “For as long as I was gone, for that is what I told you to do." “But I am the restless sort. I cannot stay cooped up inside for days at a time." “You will soon learn how. Your punishment is one week's confinement in the solar." “Sit idle in the solar for a week! Not likely!" His smile flashed. “You will not sit idle. I have some sewing for you. Many of my tunics are ripped or frayed or generally need some all ‘round repairing." “I detest sewing." “Exactly! If I gave you something you enjoyed doing it would hardly constitute a punishment, now would it?” Lord, how he had missed their arguments! “I shall botch the mending!" “You do, and you will rip out the seams and start over, again and again, until you do it right." “Torture!" “Such dramatics. ‘Tis only a basket." “A basket! A plague on you, sir! The mending might just as well rise as high as yonder hillock. ‘Twill take me forever to finish." “ ‘Twill take you one week." “Have someone else do your mending. I have a household to put in order, a stable I must make fit for sheep..." “You should have thought of that before you wandered off." “Milord, I only walked to the far side of this hill, and only to see if grass grew there for my sheep.” She

smiled seductively. “Is there naught I might do to change your mind about my punishment?" The coltish imp tried to bribe him, and blatantly too. After missing her for so many weeks, falling prey to her winsome enticement would not be too difficult. He had suffered the chill of their lengthy separation with as much fortitude as he could muster, and now she offered him paradise. What sane man would resist? Fortunately, he was crazed. “Stop your flirting,” he told her, resisting. “Nothing you do or say or offer will persuade me from my decision. You will be punished, for I would turn into a raving lunatic, altogether, if something ever happened to you." “Oh, Captor,” she said softly. “You do care..." “Naturally. As I care for all my property." “Property. Is that all I am to you?” She took a tremulous breath. The ties on her gown laced low, low enough to reveal the beginning swell of cleavage. It would take very little—a deeply drawn breath would do it—for her nipples to pop out. A sensuous creature like Aeschine would draw any man's attention. And wearing that red dress, she would attract men to her honey pot like bees to a hive. Had she allowed men to do more than buzz around her while he was away? The sharp dirk of jealousy twisted in his gut. “Touch me. Touch your property,” she whispered. “'Tis your touch alone that brings me pleasure." If only he might believe her! Knowing she had remained faithful would make him past happy. “I need you. It has been so long since we were last together. Far too long to do without my joy." Hating his suspicious tone, hating the jealousy that inspired it, he grilled her with, “Have you really gone so long without your joy?" “If you intimate that I have lain with another man in your absence, the answer is nay! There was no one else! Why do you persist in tarnishing what we have? ‘Tis you I long for! No other man." “I have eyes in my head. I see how seductive you look in that red gown." “I wear the gown you, yourself, gave me,” she protested. “While I was gone,” he began, ignoring the merits of her argument, “how many men enjoyed the wanton paradise between your legs? Four? Five? More? Shall we say an even dozen and leave it go at that?" “How might I have been unfaithful when you had your man spying on me, night and day?” She threw her hands up in the air. “At least be honest in your anger! Say it for what it is. You are furious over naught I have done, but because of a length of red cloth made into frivolous garb that you, milord, gifted me with. This scandalous gown, this whore's attire, is what you think of me, is how you see me.” She took a deep

breath and he had his heart's desire—her nipples popped out. She failed to notice the display. “All the time, I need you, and I ... I was anxious to look pretty. I waited for you everyday at the gates. Always for you! Accuse me not of vanity, or infidelity either; accuse me only of seeking to please you." She would please him tremendously if that red gown would fall down about her waist and those thrusting nipples found their way into his mouth, between his teeth. She would make him ecstatic if she removed the damnable gown altogether and he was rammed between her legs. “There is no need for jealousy over a foolish gown. You are more precious to me than red silk." “As you yourself said, puss, you need your joy. You will seek out other men if you do not get it." “I seek only you. ‘Tis you, alone, who gives me joy. And I wish to give you the same. Let me? Please, let me?" In answer, Sage pushed her towards his steed. “You will come along with me." CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Aeschine dug her feet into the ragged turf. “Where are you taking me?" “Back to the keep. For punishment.” The warlord gave her a foot up into the saddle. “About that. Might you not make an exception? Imprisonment in that chamber for seven long days is torture. Besides,” she said, brightly, “You have only just arrived home. There is much I would show you. Much I would tell you. Are you so ready to forsake the pleasure of my company?” She batted her eyes. “Please? Let your silly anger go. Just this one time. For me?" “I do not give preferential treatment. To do so, would weaken my authority and set an unwise precedent. You disobeyed me and now you must be punished. Do not take this personally. ‘Twould be the same for anyone under my jurisdiction." “Someday you will bend, Captor." “Bending is your particular area of expertise, milady, not mine,” he said, and kneed his mount to a smooth gallop. The canter threw her backwards. “All the time you ask for the truth!” she cried in frustration. “The truth would bite you on your righteous arse and still you would fail to recognize it for what it is!” She covered her mouth with both hands. Then, promptly tore them away. “Hear what you are making me say! I have been cursing like a shepherd boy since your arrival, and cursing is, at the very least, a venial sin! And I have tried so hard to be docile..." Sage laughed. “I like it very much when you are not docile." “Oh, Captor...” she said softly. “...except when your life is endangered.” He looked down.

She did too. Broken free of the confining laces of her bodice, her bared teats bounced in time to the steed's hooves. And if that were not bad enough, the red dress had blown back, exposing her bare legs and feet. The day had resisted the encroachment of cooler temperatures and so she had gone for her walk without a shawl. Then, to get mind off missing the warlord, she had removed her boots and hose to go wading in the river. No wonder he accused her of taking lovers during his absence; she looked like a slut! “I caught you on your way back from an assignation,” he accused. The wind sent her coif flying. Her hair loosened from its neat plait and whipped across her face “This is not how it looks. I spent the day alone, milord! I met no man!" “I shall soon see if you speak the truth." When he stroked her bared teats, she welcomed his man's hunger, gave herself over to it, knowing that this was the one thing not tied up in his mind with death and hatred and revenge. Or was it? Was there an element of all those dark things in his lovemaking? A small cry escaped her lips that had naught to do with him pinching her nipples. “Are these tender?” he asked. “A bit. My flux is due." “If you think a little blood will put me off, you are mistaken. I am not squeamish about such matters. Crying your woman's time will not keep me away from you now or in the future." “Milord, a woman is unclean during her time,” she said primly. “For the common good, she is put aside. Crops in the field wilt and die, the field itself becomes barren. Wine goes sour, if exposed to a woman during her time of the moon..." “Nonsense! Your flux is natural. ‘Tis what makes you female, and intercourse is always beneficial to a female, especially to a young female. You, in particular, need frequent copulation. You are full of moisture, full of carnal desire; you must have your joy or you will grow bitter, not the wine." “But Ellen says a woman during her bleeding time repulses a man." “Not this man." “Well, ‘tis not my time yet, so you have nothing to worry about in that regard.” She tossed her head. His palm moved between her legs, to where her woman's core met clammy horseflesh. His steed was sweaty from a long gallop. This could only mean that upon finding her missing, the warlord had remounted the exhausted beast. He was never negligent of his animals, never rode his stead into the ground. This was proof that she must mean something to him! “Lift up,” he ordered.

When she did, one long finger slipped inside her. “Christ Jesus, you are wet. Hot too." She whimpered in need as he probed her. “I can detect no semen..." “There is no need for you to torture yourself this way, milord. I was yours in the cave and I am yours now. ‘Tis only you I welcome with my body. Make love to me. Please?" “You make me jealous of even my own destrier,” he muttered. “Intolerable to have anything between your legs, save me." Her interior muscles clenched around the digit invading her body. She ached so for him! “I am yours, milord. Your property. To do with as you will." Raw with that ache, she lifted her hinny higher up off the animal to give him greater access, uncaring of their surroundings or who might see. Shameless in her love, she surrendered her all to him, allowing him to ruck her gown up around her waist and openly fondle her. At the front entrance of what looked to be a crofter's hut, Sage pulled up short on the reins. Removing his touch, he jumped to the ground. Her gown more off than on, she followed suit. Had he told her to strip naked there, she would have complied without a protest. Instead, he pulled her after him into the small dwelling and shut the portal behind them. Immediately she placed her hands on the padded leather vest he wore in place of heavier mail. “Let me make you comfortable. After your accoutrements of battle are removed you will not be such a grouch." “Wishful thinking,” he grumbled, and shooed her off. “The armor is filthy. The metal will dirty you." “What frightens you so?” she asked, not taken in by the ploy. “You." “Me? I am no threat to you." “Much you know!" While he put aside his warrior's garb, unaided, she looked around the quarters. “Whose place is this?" “Yours. ‘Tis nothing grand but a shepherdess needs a hut..." “You called me a shepherdess!” She touched her heart. “But how is that possible, milord, when I have no sheep?" “You do now. The bloody beasts are in the stables, ready for naming." “I do not name sheep. They are not pets to me; they are an occupation."

“Call them what you will. The sheep and hut are payment for service rendered. ‘Twas our bargain,” he said sternly. “A bargain you made and I agreed to. I owed you for the rutting and I always pay my debts. I selected each and every one of the sheep with smallness of size in mind. If you wish to breed miniatures, this flock is a good place to start." He had handpicked the sheep? For her? The warlord believed in her abilities! “You are the first person who has ever had faith me.” She squared her shoulders. “Fear not, your confidence in me will not go unrewarded. I shall breed the best miniature sheep in all of Cheviot Hills. You will see!" “I trust you will." Sheep, a hut, now trust. She felt blessed indeed. “You may come here and tend your flock, let them graze on whatever stubs of grass they may find. You will have a guard with you at all times, of course." “A guard. Of course.” The warlord was always so concerned for her safety. His worry warmed her heart. “This place is humble, but there is a good thatched roof, four stout walls, and a portal to close,” he tersely offered. Twirling in place, arms spread wide to embrace the happiness that filled her to the brim, she grinned from ear to ear. She would have the man she loved all to herself here. “ ‘Tis our own little world,” she cried in wonder over her good fortune. “Just like the cave." “Be forewarned, Aeschine, if your guards report you have brought lovers here, you will lose both the sheep and the hut." Her twirling stopped. As the remaining light of day spilled into the sparsely furnished hut, her happiness died, killed by Sage's words. His trust was but an illusion, taken back as easily as the hut and sheep. Had the same road brought them to different places? Nay! She refused to believe that. The destination was love; she had simply arrived there first. He would catch up; she knew that he would! “No man will enter this hut, save you,” she patiently assured him. “Would that I could believe you.” He gave a heavy sigh. Gliding to her captor, she wrapped herself around his body like a cat in need of stroking. She would make him believe! “The sheep. This wonderful hut. You are too generous. What might I give you in return?” She smiled seductively. “What do you wish, hmm?" “I have much work to attend to. I have no time for wishes..." She cupped his heavy testicles through his hose as Ellen had instructed; this gave a man pleasure, her maid had said. “I mean, what exactly do you wish?"

She closed her hand over his stones; the two sacs felt like heated coals in the hollows of her palms. “Shall I be your houri this night, Captor? Just tell me what it is you desire and I shall comply,” she purred, her mouth against his ear, her hand stroking the length of his pulsating erection. “What do you wish, milord? Hmm? What is your most secret desire?" She squeezed him, milking her hand down him from base to head. When he took her lips in a bruising kiss, she increased the pressure of her fingers. He tore his mouth away. “Christ..." Now that her mouth was free, she moved her lips down his chest. Using her teeth, she pulled at his flat nipples and then tongued them, just the way he tortured her. He groaned aloud as she kissed each one of his battle scars, tonguing them too. Knees bent, she nipped at his belly, giving him small love bites. She smiled to herself as his hands tightened on her shoulders. No need for further encouragement, she sank to her knees before him. “I think I know what you would have me do,” she said flirtatiously. Ellen and she had talked much about what men liked, and how they liked it. She had a fairly specific idea of what the warlord might enjoy. Pushing aside his tunic, she released him from hose and loincloth, and took him in hand. She fell back on her heels. “Oh, my. I had forgotten the amount of territory that must be ... covered." “Start something you cannot finish, puss?” He sounded bored, but she knew he was not bored; he was excited, as excited as she. “I always finish what I start, Captor. Though I best remove the gown before I begin." “I do not stay long. There are many pressing concerns awaiting my judgment back at the keep,” he told her. “Of course, milord. I realize that many seek out your council,” she said agreeably and slipped the red gown down her shoulders while he watched in pretended ennui. His black eyes narrowed on her jutting teats. “As long as you understand that I leave soon." “I shall do my utmost to make whatever time you spend with me well worth your while." The cause of his vexation pooled red and wrinkled on the dirt floor. She kicked the splendid silk out of both of their sights, leaving her clad in only her white linen undergarment. “Everything must go,” he said with a practiced disinterest. “I ... er ... need a full account of my holdings." “As you wish,” she said, quietly, and pushed the white linen down over her hips. Raising her arms, she swayed a little, so that her teats shifted, and undid what remained of her windblown plait. She shook her head, done deliberately so that her teats would bob as her tresses fell free.

“Will I do?” she asked, sweetly. He nodded. “You will do very well." “I promise you, never again will I roam the countryside without you or a guard at my side. Allow me to make the inconvenience of my search up to you.” Leaning forward, she kissed his erect member. He trembled. Over a chaste kiss. She could do better than that. Much better. She could make him explode in delight. Because she loved him. Love was the secret to sensual enticement. “Forgive me?” she whispered. The hand that tunneled under her hair was none too steady; she had done that to him! “You will still need to be disciplined,” he grumbled. “This—what you are doing—will not interfere with my duty." Confinement. For a week. In the solar. Sewing. Seven more days without him. She hated the punishment but loved the man. And because she loved him, she would not try to dissuade him from the course he saw fit to take. If the warlord neglected his duties, his responsibilities, he would be someone else entirely, a different man. Would she love him as much then? Looking up at him contritely from under her lashes, she blew out a whispery breath across his enormous shaft, as if his cock was a lit candle whose flame she would put out. His fingers closed upon the crown of her head. “You are quite experienced at this." She had no experience at all; love gave her insight, which in turn made her appear skilled. Love, not practice, gave her confidence. Pre-come bubbled from the head his cock. She touched the droplet with a finger, and then poised that finger to her mouth. “Shall I?” she asked, demurely. “ ‘Tis entirely up to you." She tasted his juices. “Mmm." “You like that, do you?” he asked, indifferently, while all the while his eyes begged, pleaded, implored her to take him in her mouth. “Aye. I like it very much.” Sure of herself as she had never been sure of herself before, she asked, “Milord, is there some command you would give me now?" CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“You little witch! You know damned well know what I would have. Take me,” Sage growled. Just to torture him, his leman licked him first, a long lazy stroke from base to crown and back again.

Then, her little pink tongue lapped at him, the ladylike flicks sparking hitherto unknown sensations. No lips had ever gone where Aeschine's lips adventured now; no lover had ever dared to fill her mouth with him. He pushed in. Gracelessly. Against her throat. Like he would die without it. Flexing his hips, he pumped with mindless abandon. When oblivion loomed, he surged into forgetfulness, finishing on a harsh shout. Disengaging, he stumbled back a few steps. “Well?” he said, curtly, shamed by his lack of control, wary of her power over him, and so awe-struck by what she had given him that he knew he would carry the memory of what had just happened to his grave. “Spit or swallow. ‘Tis milady's choice." Her throat convulsed. “I told you, I always finish what I start.” She wiped her swollen lips with the back of her hand. Dizzy with rapture, humble with gratitude, pleased beyond every expectation, he helped his captive to her feet. “Well...” he managed to say with some effort. The imp gave him a saucy look, and mimicking his tone, said, “You liked that, did you?" “You know I did." Aeschine was not only accomplished, she was also, without a doubt, the most uninhibited and giving of ladies. Had he been a poet, he would have composed a sonnet to her lush mouth; a troubadour and he would have burst into song. Alas, he was a warrior, a man more familiar with killing than courtly love. He picked up her hand, palm up, and placed a kiss in the center. “That was exactly what I needed.” He kissed her bruised lips too, which by necessity tasted of him. “Your turn now." “Pardon?" “You think me a selfish lover?" “Nay. I simply assumed every turn was the man's turn." “Not at all,” he said, and chuckled at her jibe. “In fact, I have decided the trick to taming you is keeping you satiated. You are far more malleable after you climax.” He eyed her bald pelvis. “Still shorn, I see." “A daily reminder that I am a fallen woman.” Her cheek now rested on his chest. “Oh, Captor. I missed you so. I longed for you during your absence. All the time I need you." “Where do you need me, darling? Show me." Her fingers dipped shyly to the center of her body. “Here." “Good thing I have brought you something to play with." Putting her aside, he went to retrieve his gift. “Whilst I recover my strength, you may amuse yourself with this.” He placed the carved box in her hands. “ ‘Tis a c-cock,” she sputtered upon raising the box's lid.

“ ‘Tis a finely tooled leather phallus which a talented artisan created especially for you." After examining it inside the box for a very long time, she finally lifted it out. She shook it. Squeezed it. Frowned at it, then at him. “I fail to see the merit of owning a leather cock..." “The size and proportions are the same as mine,” he explained, hoping she would take the hint. Alas, the hint took flight over her head. “So?” she scoffed. “'Tis not attached to you. What would I do with such an oddity?" “When I am not with you, you will use this rather than seek out other men for satisfaction." “Use it? Use it how?" “The phallus goes inside you." Her nose wrinkled. “Why would I put it inside me?" “For self-gratification. You move it as a man moves. When you are in dire need of your joy." “Idiot! ‘Tis not joy I am in dire need of. ‘Tis you. I am in dire need of you!" “This is a substitute for me." “A hide cock...?" “Humor me,” he said. After pitching the treasure back inside, she pushed the box into his chest. “Give this thing to some poor eunuch who might make some use of it. As for me, I have no use for a detached phallus. There is no substitute for the man I love." He snapped the lid on the box shut. “At least no leather substitute,” he growled, backing her up, leading her like a shepherd, his erection acting as staff, to the nearest wall. Her eyes danced merrily. “I see you have recovered your stamina, milord. Might I play with you now? I much prefer the genuine article to leather.” She giggled. “Even though your cock does not come in a fancy wooden box." “You think to tease me, witch? “No tease.” Her legs drifted languidly apart; her head fell back against the wall. “Do not stay apart from me any longer. I cannot endure further separation." Neither could he. Without further delay, he slid up into her, and immediately began to thrust, fighting for control, waiting for her to catch up, spiraling, spiraling towards the small death. Every stroke was ecstasy, and soon, too soon, he tottered at the precipice of climax, about to plummet over the edge... “Milord!” a vassal called from outside. “I have a message for you from Lady Yseult."

Impossible to stop! A few more thrusts and paradise would be his... He gave a low curse, not caring if one guard or a whole army converged at the portal. He would have this! “Stand to and deliver the message,” he called, still driving up into Aeschine. The portal swung in. One more stroke. Just one. That's all he needed... Stroke made, he pulled out, his climax exploding against Aeschine's lower belly. After putting his wet cock away, he turned to the guard. “Well ... what is the message?" Too busy trying to look past Sage to his leman, who stood against the wall naked save for the thin leather tether around her waist, the guard did not answer. Sage was about to issue the guard a reprimand when he thought better of it. This husband-like instinct to protect Aeschine from another male's prying eyes would never do. She was his leman, not his espoused! Shaking off a territorial urge to shield her, he deliberately stepped away from the wall, affording the guard an unobstructed view of his naked leman, who, understanding what her positioning allowed the guard to see, modestly began to close up her splayed thighs. Sage called out to her, “You have not been given permission to move. Remain like so." Aeschine's legs remained open. She was his whore, not his espoused, and he must make her understand that he would allow her no secrets, not of her body, not of her mind, not even from a lowly messenger at the portal. As for himself, he must rid himself of these absurd feelings he had developed toward Aeschine and remember that she was his only because he had paid for her. Any man with a purse fat enough could have done the same. Is that not what his cousin, LaTourne, had done? Glassy-eyed, Aeschine stayed plastered against the wall, her skin rosy, her hair disarrayed by his hands, a leather tether around her slender waist, the nipples on her swollen breasts red and pointing. Her pale thighs were open; her lower belly glistened with a plug of cum. She looked like a wild and beautiful animal. And she was his, but only because he had struck a bargain with her. In truth, she would have gone to any man. “You will stay like so until I return,” he called harshly over his shoulder as he went outside with the guard to receive Yseult's message. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

So foolish to love a conflicted man, Aeschine mused, awaiting Sage's return. Torn between duty and desire, still grieving for a lost beloved wife, what chance did she have with the dark warlord? And then the portal opened and the warlord strode back inside the hut, and her doubts disappeared.

His message from another woman received, he had returned to her. Did she please him? She wondered, limp and naked against the wall, legs open, anticipating his pleasure like a well-trained doxie? To make sure she did please him, she widened her legs for his delectation. “Please forgive the guard's interruption,” he said, formally. A glint of undisguised desire sparked his black-jewel eyes as they lowered to the apex of her body. “I would forgive you anything,” she replied as he began to disrobe. “You would?" While he stacked his neatly folded garb with military precision on a nearby chest, she contented herself with admiring the view of his manhood. His heavy cock lanced from its nest of wiry black curls, cutting a swath in the air like a libidinous sword. She licked her lips, the taste of him still there. “Aye, I would. Love always forgives." His brow quirked. “Even when the hurt runs deep?" “Especially then, for that is when forgiveness is needed the most. When the hurt is so deep that words cannot express it, love provides the language. Love heals all wounds." “You are romantic, milady.” He stepped closer to the wall where she waited. “I am in love, my captor. I understand your guard is duty-bound to protect you and your family. Rights to privacy do not extend, and should not extend, past those perimeters. As your whore, I stand outside that circle.” She gave a dispirited laugh, dejectedly gestured to her position. “Actually, I stand here, against a wall, awaiting your pleasure.” She opened her arms to him. “Let us continue where you left off.” Her chin tilted. “Unless, I am being presumptuous?" “You are never presumptuous, milady. I am only sorry that Yseult d'Aubrienne picked an inopportune time to send the guard to find me." He leaned into her; one warm palm covered her teat. Her throat arched as carnal heat traveled from her breast to her loins. “This Yseult d'Aubrienne—she is a guest you brought back with you?" “Not exactly a guest.” He worked her nipple. “Hugh d'Aubrienne seeks to arrange an alliance between his daughter and myself." She asked the unthinkable. “You are agreeable?" “Not nearly as agreeable as are father and daughter. For all that she is eminently suitable, I have no wish to wed again. That said, the sultry brunette makes for rather a nice convenience."

His hand smoothed its inevitable course to her cleft. A long finger split her folds and penetrated. She shivered. “Do you love her, this Yseult who is a convenience to you?" “Love a convenience? Who loves a convenience? One uses a convenience to make one's life easier—that is all." “What of me? Am I not convenient enough for you?" “This ... uh ... arrangement with Yseult will in no way interfere with us. We have a bargain..." “Will we all sleep in the same room, three in a bed, for convenience sake? So, perchance, you might roll over after coming into me to go into her?" “Now, there is an idea!” He laughed. She did not. “You think this humorous?" “Only because you put it so crudely. What I propose is a civilized arrangement. For instance, we need not share the same chamber—though, from time to time, sharing the same bed might make for rather an interesting diversion. Seeing you two kittens play would amuse me greatly.” He paused. “My, you are slick. Is it something I said?" Was he serious? Did he really expect her to perform for his entertainment? Or, was this no more than a continuation of the cave when he had tried to sever her hold on him? She looked away. “I have never slept in bed with a woman." “Who mentioned sleep?” He winked. “I wager you have been three to a bed with men." She said naught. “I wager you have done so with LaTourne and his men-at-arms. I wager you have had one cock in your mouth, whilst another took you from the rear. I wager you liked it too." Dipping his fingers in the seed still wet on her belly, he turned her to face the wall. Raising her arms above her head, her wrists gripped in the vice of a hand, he kneed her legs apart. He drew the semen-wet finger down the demarcation separating her buttocks. “Is this how you like it best?” He kissed her earlobe as he pressed the lubricated digit against her back portal. She groaned at the trespass. Not in shock. Not in shame. In acceptance. Of love. Uneasy, unpretty, love. “Mmm.” The pleasured sound escaped her parted lips. “Oh, aye." “Can you take another?” he asked politely. At her nod, a second finger entered. The two widened and began to stretch her.

She purred. “Go deeper." He did. The stretch discomforted her. Still, her body helplessly, sinfully, responded to the forbidden entry, loving the hurt of his unnatural possession. She ached for him to enter her, would do anything to have him inside her. In her extremity, her mind made no discrimination as to how the penetration was done. Her joy was building, cresting; she knew if he came into her, she would come on the first stroke. He knew it too. He knew that she was completely his. His whore. His harlot. His mastered captive. “Please,” she said urgently. He deepened the penetration. Again she pleaded, and this time brokenly. “Please?" “Bend,” he said. Wantonly, she bent for him. Wantonly raised her hips for him. Wantonly offered him her buttocks. How wantonly he removed his touch from her! “Oh, God. Do not leave me.” She sobbed at the loss. “I shall die if I do not have you." “Shh,” he crooned, calming her. He rounded over her, his mouth against her ear, the heat of his loins sealed to her, his warm palms petting her, his heavy ballocks swinging against her bottom—his hard cock prodding her, teasing her. Finally, when she thought she could no longer stand the anticipation, the bulbous end invaded the crevice, full on. Was it unholy trespass? Sin? Retribution? Impure attraction? Lust? Or simply another expression of love? When the head of his cock pushed against the puckered dimple, she pushed back, keening deep in her throat. “Harder,” she chanted. “Harder. Come into me." Oh, the agony of loving him! She would not shy away from that pain. She welcomed the pain, courted it, had to have it, for the pain was a part of him. “Do it,” she urged. “This is what you have coveted since the very first." “Nay, this is what you desire! This is what you crave!" “I desire you. I crave you." “Ha! You have darker longings than even I may satisfy, for I am not my cousin, LaTourne. I am no pervert. I do not practice sodomy."

“I would not call it sodomy,” she whispered, speaking the language of her heart. “I would call it lovemaking. And you wish it with me." “Nay..." Oh, but he did, and for very complicated reasons. Her motivations were not so simple here either... Was love ever easy? She recalled a memory from childhood. Once, her mother lightly drew a knife down the center of pastry dough, scoring the flat circle down the middle with the sharp tip of the blade. ‘Pie and love are both sweet, Aeschine,’ she said. ‘But neither is always served up in equal portions. At times, love is divided in two equal halves. Like so,’ she said, indicating the scoring. ‘Sometimes, though, the circumstance is not as even. The lord might love the lady more, or the other way ‘round. However, if care is taken, the portions may even out later. Then again, they may not. The true test of love is to rejoice in the loved one's larger portion whilst not grousing about the unfairness of your own more meager piece.” Her mother placed the knife aside and gave her only child a huge hug. ‘You see, love is not about reciprocity, or fairness, or equal measures. Find joy in giving, and you will have found true happiness.’ Aeschine had no understanding then of what her mother meant, but she understood now, for she loved this troubled warlord and he loved her not all. There was nothing more uneven than that! And yet, she still felt joy when their bodies came together. “No one has ever touched my soul, save you,” she told her captor. “'Tis you, and you alone I love. Cease fighting what I would give you and accept it." “Love,” he jeered. Letting go of her wrists, he turned her around to face him. “Even now, you speak of love?" Stroking neglected hair back from a scarred cheek, Aeschine drew her captor tight into her arms. “Especially now,” she whispered into tortured black eyes. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The days of Aeschine's banishment passed slowly. At the end of the fifth day, Sage questioned whom he punished, his captive or himself. As he sharpened his dirk, he reminded himself that the punishment he set was just, even merciful. He might have chained her in the dungeon for her willful disobedience. He might have assigned her lashes with the whip. Instead, she was installed in the keep's finest chamber—his own solar. Her punishment? Sewing. A task most ladies considered a pleasure. Or, at the very worst, a necessity that helped pass the time. But Aeschine was not most ladies. There was no comparing her to simpering young maidens who gossiped away the hours between delicate stitches. A needle and thread were devices of torture to Aeschine. She had told him so herself...

Sage hung his head, shamed. As he sharpened his dull blade to a killing point, he admitted using knowledge she had told him in private against her. Little wonder Aeschine would not speak to him of her past! Why would she, when he used the secrets of her heart to punish her? He was lower than a toadstool, and just as poisonous to swallow. And he was paying for his treachery now, for no matter what else occupied his mind, Aeschine claimed the forefront of his thoughts. Since her banishment, he would oft find himself in the middle of some arduous task when the scent of lavender would drift by his nose. He would stop the occupation, sniff the air, turn around, just to see if she had walked past. Of course, the perfume was only another apparition. No matter how many times he reassured himself that he had acted properly in his punishment of her, he remained unconvinced. Though he knew the lass needed a firm hand, he also knew that discipline is a narrow path; a stumble might result in crushing a wild creature's spirit. Aeschine hated confinement. Sage well understood; he hated confinement too. But his first charge was to keep her safe. There were too many rapes. Too many deaths. Too much violence. Damnation! He'd had no choice! After telling her she was not to wander the countryside alone, she had disobeyed and now he needed to punish her! By the afternoon of Aeschine's sixth day of banishment, his certainty had evaporated. Verily, he was crazed. No longer even able to recall what she had done to deserve punishment, he stormed the solar. He found his captive seated upon a low stool before the meager fire. She looked up at his entry. “You are early, milord.” She broke a thread with her teeth. “I expected you on the morrow.” She held up a tunic. “Fortuitously, I am almost finished with your mending. This is the last garment." “Thank you,” he said, but not taking in the fine stitches; he examined only the blue smudges under his captive's eyes. Aeschine was so thin! Too thin. “Are you eating?” He groped for the courage to ask. “I have not had much of an appetite.” She shrugged. “I miss the fresh air." “Have you slept?" She looked towards the covered arrow loop—as part of her punishment he had ordered every source of light curtained. “In a darkened chamber, ‘tis difficult to tell night from day.” She coughed. “Sleep refuses to come no matter how hard I try to capture it." How well he understood! Jesus! What had he done? “Is it pleasant outside today?” she asked wistfully. He wiped a shaking hand over his suddenly moist eyes. “Most pleasant."

Aeschine looked pallid, and not only because of a simple loss of sunshine. She had fallen ill. Her eyes shone overly bright. Her skin, stretched tight across high cheekbones, looked almost translucent. “You must learn to obey me, Aeschine. I punished you for your own good." “My stepfather always said he punished me for my own good too.” She coughed again. “He whipped me, locked me inside. Neither helped. Much the same approach was tried at the convent. Mother Superior failed too.” She covered her mouth to suppress a deep chest rumble. “Convent? What convent, darling?" She opened her mouth to speak, but it seemed to require too much effort. Her backbone slumped and she collapsed. In two steps, Sage crossed the chamber and bundled Aeschine up into his arms. “Will,” he shouted at the portal, while stroking his captive's face; her skin felt like ice. “Bring firewood immediately!" He was chafing her limbs to restore warmth when his vassal burst in, a stack of kindling in his arms. “Throw the wood on the grate. Fan it to flames,” he shouted at Ellen, who had followed Will into the chamber. “And I need fresh water in here too. Aeschine is delirious.” How else to explain her talk of a nunnery? “Where is that damn water?” Sage shouted again. Aeschine had gone from ice cold to burning hot since he had entered the chamber. “Here, milord.” Will raced into the chamber carrying a bucket. “Put the water down next to me." Flames now leapt in the hearth, and Ellen stopped her fanning. “For the past two days she would not let me near her. She had me leave food outside the portal. She refused to let me in to replenish the fire or see to her other needs. Lady Aeschine said she must do penance. She said she had much for which to atone.” The servant held her gown to her face. She sobbed into it. “I am to blame that the lady has taken ill." “You are not to blame,” Sage replied, dipping a square of linen in the water. He raised the moistened cloth to Aeschine's feverish brow. “I am the only one to blame here." “Here! Let me do that, milord. Men have no place in the sickroom,” Ellen said, moving to take the cloth from Sage's hand. “Nay. You go rest. You look ready to drop yourself. Your lady is in good hands with me.” He gave the servant a dismissive nod. But when Ellen still refused to budge, he said quietly, “'Tis what Aeschine would wish you to do. She would direct you to take care of yourself for the sake of your babe." “I know she would. Aeschine has a loving nature, milord. I would attest to that! We talk, you know. She is a good lass. It seems hardly possible that she be a whore like me." Looking into Aeschine's wan features, Sage cared not if she had fornicated with every crusader in the

Holy Wars—so long as she regained her health. “Aeschine loves bairns. She told me she has always longed for a family to love,” Ellen wailed into her gunna. “But her stepfather sent her away. He disapproved of her free-spirited ways, you see, and as a result Aeschine thought she would never have the bairns she longed for. Oh, ‘tis sad, so sad.” The maid wavered on her feet. Sage signaled for Will. “Take Ellen to rest." The vassal escorted the weeping maid away. Alone in the solar with Aeschine once more, Sage picked up her limp hand and held it to his lips. “Get well,” he whispered. “Please? I have much to tell you." Much to ask, too. ****

Three days later Ellen lumbered into the solar, wooden bowl and spoon in hand. Sage looked up from his watch beside Aeschine's bed. “Is that the porridge?" Ellen nodded. “Cooked thin, milord, just as you requested." “ ‘Tis easier for her to swallow it thin,” Sage said, dropping the patient's hand to reach for the gruel. “Does she keep any of it down?" Sage raised the spoon. “Some." “Why not let me try to get some into her? You have sat by the sickbed, holding the lady's hand, since she fell ill." “I am the reason she fell ill. I stay until she leaves." “You must need a rest. You have not let anybody else nurse her. You alone have bathed her, changed her bed linens, fed her..." “She is mine. I alone will care for her." “Milord, ‘tis not my place to say this, but you have a keep to run. Many depend on you for their welfare. You must not neglect your responsibilities." “I never have in the past, nor do I neglect my responsibilities now,” he said, quietly. He had assigned what duties he could to others. The responsibilities he could not delegate would wait until Aeschine improved. She would improve! He was warlord here and he said so. While Ellen looked on, he coaxed the thin gruel between Aeschine's cracked and feverish lips. “The bloom has faded from the lady's cheeks,” Ellen said with a sad shake of her head.

“Her rosy glow will soon return,” he insisted, his own optimism stunning him. Aeschine's positive outlook had rubbed off on him, he decided tiredly, and kept spooning the gruel. The next day, the fever broke and Aeschine opened her eyes and smiled up at him. Sage smiled back. “Feeling better?" “Much." “Good,” he said gruffly. “Your pets need you strong and healthy to tend to their needs." “Sheep are not my pets,” she weakly replied. “They are my occupation." “Forgive my mistake.” He clutched her hand. “No need to speak the words,” she whispered. And then her eyes closed and she drifted back to sleep, a restful slumber this time. Had she read his mind? Did she understand that he was trying to tell her he was wrong about more than the blasted sheep? He had brought her sheep, given her a hut, both payment for the use of her body. That was the bargain. Love was not part of the bargain. Aeschine said she loved him. And he had realized the day of his return that what he felt for her far surpassed any mere bargain. He needed her. He needed her more than he thought it possible to need another person. The all-encompassing extent of that need frightened him. “Forgive me, milady,” he pleaded again. But Aeschine slept on, oblivious. ****

“Oh, Ellen, do hurry!” Aeschine cried. “Sage promised to take me outside for a walk today." “Do not think to hurry a woman with a belly the size of mine,” her maid grumbled and continued combing her mistress’ hair, which hung free to Aeschine's hips. “Remember, himself said you are not to overexert the first day out of sickbed." “Taking a walk is hardly overexerting!" “Tell that to your man, not me." “He is not my man. I am his whore and he is my captor." Ellen clucked her tongue. “I should have such a captor! He would let no hands but his touch you when you took to sickbed. He is a man obsessed."

“Aye. By guilt, by revenge, by jealousy—he is obsessed!" “Nay, by you,” Ellen said. “Never have I seen such constancy." “After his hovering in the sickroom, I would prefer some inconstancy. One would think the overlord of Cheviot Hills had naught better to do than spoon gruel down my throat. He will not leave me be. He goes so far as to hold my head up over the chamber pot when I am sick. Why will he not quit?" “He loves you." Aeschine shook her head free of the ivory comb. “He loves only his dead wife.” She stared at her feet. “He does not come to my bed." Ellen twittered. “You were ill! He will come to you soon enough, now that you are restored to health. Look at those bonnie roses blooming in your cheeks! He will not stay away." “Ah, but he has Lady Yseult to entertain him now. Her cheeks are plenty rosy enough..." “What a bitch that lady is!" “Ellen, have a care,” Aeschine reprimanded her maid. “Your language! “Talk about the kettle calling the caldron black! You swore oath after oath at the warlord when he bathed you. But I tell you this in plain tongue: that brother and sister need watching. Both roll in the gutter. That lady, and I use the term loosely, spends her days in the stables with the grooms, and her brother has veritable orgies in his chamber each night. Two, three peasant women at a time he summons to his bed. They are not even whores. ‘Tis a disgrace to use servants that way when this fortress is crawling with prostitutes." “Has he bothered you?" “What! With my big belly and Will always at my side? D'Aubrienne would not dare." “I have not met either D'Aubrienne yet. Mayhap, I should avoid the introduction,” Aeschine commented. “Mayhap you should. They are trouble, the both of them." Aeschine wandered to the arrow loop. During her lengthy recuperation, the warlord had ordered the window uncovered so that sunlight might freely stream inside the chamber, and now as she looked out onto the courtyard she worried about her place in her lover's life. Sage had always held himself back from her, had always kept a part of himself at a distance, even when making love. Since her illness, the distance between them had widened. The warlord was solicitous, kind, considerate—a sure indicator that his lusty feelings for her had mellowed to a tepid fond regard. Who needs tepid? She needed heat, fire, a roaring blaze. Nothing less than making Sage's blood boil would do. She would never gain his love if she could not even keep his man's passions burning bright. Sage was virile. A powerful warlord. Now that he had forsaken celibacy, he might bed any woman he chose. He made no secret of his want of a child. Lady Yseult could give him that heir. For all she knew,

Sage had already planted his seed very conveniently in his guest's eminently suitable belly. Nay, Ellen was wrong. Aeschine thought, gazing out on the flurry of activity in the courtyard. Sage would never visit her bed again... Aeschine frowned. What went on down there in the courtyard? “Ellen!” she shrieked, never lifting her sights from a man in chains. He was fair of skin and hair, neither too tall, nor too short, and dressed in the simple and sturdy garb of a shepherd. “There is a prisoner newly arrived to the keep." The maid wobbled over. “So?" “I think I know him!” She squinted. “Aye! ‘Tis Peter. Peter is here from my village in Scotland! However did he get here?” Her tone changed quickly from excitement to fretful. “And why is he manacled?" Aeschine picked up her skirts and raced for the portal. “I must see what this is all about. Peter does not belong in chains..." “What do I tell himself?” Ellen called after her mistress. “The warlord thought to take you for a walk!" “Tell milord that I must postpone our walk as my dearest friend in all the world has arrived!" CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Sage embraced John Tuttrell. “I am gladdened by your safe return, my friend! But tell me, who is that man in chains? And why is my leman embracing him?" “In answer to your first question: He is called Peter the Fair and he is a shepherd. As it so happens he is also a thief. I caught him stealing my leather sack. Nothing of value was inside, only foodstuffs. The man was obviously starving, but when I took off after him, I saw him give the food away to a family member. Having no choice, as we had witnesses, I declared him my prisoner, and put him in chains. When I heard of his shepherding skills, I took him with me when I left Aeschine's village." “What!" “ ‘Twas either that or whip the poor starving beggar and leave him there to die. He was damnably weak, too frail to survive a whipping." “He does not look starved to me..." “I should hope not! He has been wolfing down my share of meat every night." So like John to give his food away! His friend's empathy was not the romantic kind so oft portrayed in the colorful and grand songs of chivalrous knights. Sage detested those flowery portrayals. No one would ever sing the praises of John's philanthropy, but his quiet championship of the poor is the reason why he was, and would always remain, his good friend—this, despite a background of noble rank and privilege that differed greatly from Sage's own more humble beginnings.

“And the starving family the noble prisoner stole for? What of them?” Sage asked dryly, knowing his friend's big heart only too well “He has but a small family. One sister, actually. Fair of face and form, now that she has some food in her belly too. She will be along directly.” He turned. “Ah, and here she is now." A peasant woman in a neat wren-brown kirtle and black shawl walked at the rear of John's traveling party. Though her hair was covered, her features subdued, anyone who cared to look would recognize her quiet beauty. “I blame you not at all for bringing her along. She is fetching,” Sage imparted. “True. But she is also an unworldly virgin. Not at all my tankard of ale.” John sighed and brushed a bit of dirt from his fashionable sleeve. “Now as to your second query: Why the shepherd is hugging your leman is anybody's guess." Sage guessed that Peter the Shepherd was one of Aeschine's past lovers. He well understood the attraction between the two. They were much the same age. The peasant, Peter, was handsome of face and possessed a lean unscarred body. He was also arrogant enough to have taken up with a female far above his own station in life... As Sage looked on, the prisoner twirled his leman around his courtyard, as though he owned both. Peasant stock thickened his blood, but this Peter had the necessary self-importance to take him someplace... And Aeschine was laughing up into the sod's face in carefree delight. Sage had never made her laugh like that! A smile. A giggle. A small chuckle. He had never managed more. Never had she succumbed to whooping laughter and mindless mirth in his company. Those two were acting like neither of them had a care in the world. Damnably irritating. Sage started forward to break the lovers apart. John caught his arm. “Let your jealousy show and you will lose her for sure." “Me, jealous? Never! I am merely concerned about the lady's health. She has been sickly of late..." John smiled. “Indeed." To give the interloper some credit, Peter took great pains with Aeschine. He held her reverently, as though she might break, as he twirled her. Sage cocked his ear when the ridiculous spinning ceased. “What are they saying? I can hear nothing with you jawing at me, John." Ignoring his friend's warning glance, Sage took a menacing step. “You there! Shepherd! Aye, you. Take care with her. The lady is not as strong as she appears." Peter shot Sage a look of unspoken challenge. Sage, just in the mood, accepted it with a challenge of his own.

Aeschine, oblivious to the undercurrents, cried guilelessly, “'Tis my friend Peter, milord! From my village." Friend? Ha! Anyone with eyes in his skull could see more than friendship connected those two. Sage had two good eyes, and a peasant would not cuckold him within his own gates! “Come along now, Aeschine.” Sage held out a hand to his leman. “Come along where?" “Our walk. Remember? I promised I would take you today." “Oh, you must have more important things to do..." More important than seeing to Aeschine's care? There was naught more important than that! He did have pursuits that required his attention, but Aeschine had needed a breath of fresh air and so he had put everything else aside for the day just so that he might accompany her. Obviously, some people did not appreciate the sacrifice. “You need exercise, puss." She turned a dazzling smile not upon him, but upon the shepherd. “Will you not take me for a walk, Peter?" Peter bowed at the waist, looking and acting very much the nobleman in his faded shepherd's garb and rusted prisoner chains. “If you will permit it, milord?" Sage's mouth twisted. “She was recently ill..." “Ill?” Peter asked, interrupting Sage's explanation. “Are you well now, milady?" “The overlord has a tendency to exaggeration.” Aeschine patted the shepherd's hand. “I feel much better now that you are here." John came up behind Sage and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Let them go. You and I really do have important matters to discuss." “What of Peter's chains?” Aeschine looked from John to Sage. “Peter tells me that he is to help me with the sheep. He cannot act as a shepherd if he is in manacles." “As Peter is not shepherding today, the manacles stay,” Sage replied, not giving into Aeschine's blatant bargaining. “Fine, leave the chains, but please to keep in mind that should I swoon, I shall lie in a heap until Peter limps to the guard for help." The thought of Aeschine lying prone and helpless in a ditch somewhere until a guard came to her

assistance made his heart drop to his boot soles. “Is the shepherd dangerous?” Sage swiftly asked John. “Nay. He stole bread, not a life." Sage gave the order: “Undo the man." While the shepherd's ankles were freed, Sage said, “A guard will follow close behind on horseback. Should my lady feel faint, you shepherd, will run and get him. You will not touch her yourself. Are you listening, sheep man?" “Aye, milord. “Good. Make sure you return her well before dark. I am not nearly as charitable as the noble you stole from." Sage was still following the shepherd's shuffling gait and Aeschine's happy bounce as the two crossed the drawbridge. John nudged him to get his attention. “I found it, and just where you told me I would." “Found what?” Sage asked, distracted. A signet ring was placed in his palm. “There's something else too.” John handed him a bloodstained glove. “Recognize the initials?" Sage's fingers trembled at the contact; disgust thinned his voice. “These are LaTourne's gloves! Where did you find them?" “Among the charred ruins of your in-laws keep." Sage stared at the glove. “Here is the proof I have needed. And now that I see it, it sickens me. My own kinsman was responsible for Joan's death. My own cousin is the traitor instigating unrest on the borderlands. John, you must ride to court at once and show the glove to the King. There is tyranny in this glove." “It would appear the blasphemous redhead is surrounded by those who would unseat him." “According to DuFont, the landed nobility is becoming increasingly vocal in their opposition to the dues Rufus extracts. The henchman believes my kinsman leads the most virulent opposition." John looked concerned. “The King gains much of his wealth from the collection of dues. He will not look favorably upon those opposed to the practice." “Rufus does like his purse kept fat." “That he does, which is why your cousin's ambitions will lose him his head, even if his murderous ways do not. But what of you? How will this impact you?"

“Rufus and I were once boyhood friends, but I no longer trust the man, nor does he fully trust me. However, as King, he holds my loyalty. Take the ring and LaTourne's gloves and remind the blasphemous redhead of a warm summer's day in our childhood when I saved his life. Tell him I hold Aeschine of Scotland for ... safekeeping until I prove her innocent of my cousin's treachery. Tell him, I ask for a stay in her execution.” Sage's chin sank as he ate his pride. “Tell him, I humbly beg for this boon." CHAPTER THIRTY

“Ugly Scottish whore,” shrilled Lady Yseult d'Aubrienne, tossing a garment on the bed. “Will you never listen? I told you to bring me your red gown today, not this plain blue one! Sage told me he likes me in red. Since you are little better than a servant in this keep, and a prostitute on top of it, what use have you for finery?" “No use,” Aeschine answered. “Then bring the red gown here immediately, you disgusting slut! I would wear the silk tonight." To punctuate the order, Yseult slapped Aeschine full across the face. Not willing to give the shrew the satisfaction of touching this latest welt, Aeschine turned on her bare feet and walked to the portal, shoulders back. Her garb was gone, but never her dignity. “Stop wench!” Yseult shouted after her. “Take off that gown you are wearing. As it so happens, it also pleases Sage to see me in green. He told me so yesterday morn in bed. And I do so endeavor to please him.” Her eyes glittered maliciously. “In every way." “I am sure you do.” Yseult's command had stopped her flight at the portal. Her fingers rose to the ties at the neck of the green gown. The warlord's new paramour clucked her venomous tongue. “Sage talks to me about you. Pokes fun at your pathetic attempts to make him happy on the furs. He tells me you are flat where a lady should be round, tight where a lady should give. He says I am just right. He says he would memorialize my beauty in a sonnet. Has Sage ever written a sonnet to you, skinny, ugly, Scottish whore?" “Nay,” Aeschine replied, tight-lipped. “That is because you, homely bag of bones, left him cold in bed. He does not go to you any more, does he?” she taunted. Not since the shepherd's hut... “Nay,” Aeschine replied. “You are not woman enough to hold onto such a lover. Sage is quite the animal. The bedding blazes hotter than a dozen rushlights when he visits me in my chamber. But he is romantic too. La, his kisses! He never tires of my mouth. Lovemaking and kisses and poetry—what more would any lady wish for?" “Nothing more,” Aeschine whispered.

“Did you say a babe? Well, I will have you know that I have already quickened. And well I should, as Sage has given me enough seed to father a dynasty of little brats. The warlord does so need sons—sired off a virtuous lady!” Yseult looked down her perfect nose at Aeschine. How well Aeschine understood that as the warlord's discarded whore, her virtue was a tattered cloak. But that was not what made a sob rise up within her. What made her want to curl up in a ball and weep was the realization that she would never bear the captor's babe. Now that Yseult carried his child, her dream was shattered. There would be no babe born of her love of the Captor. “Now that I have conceived, our betrothal will be announced. As soon as Sage and I wed, you slut, will be cast out of the solar and placed in the dungeon where you belong! Now, off with that gown!" Eyes downcast, Aeschine removed the gown and handed it over. Aeschine shivered in her shift. Yseult looked her up and down. “Hmmm That undergarb is lovely. Give it here!" “But Lady Yseult, I must wear something back to the tower! I cannot walk the halls naked!" “Why ever not? All the other whores do. Or, at least they do when the warlord is not around to catch them and spout his tiresome sermons at them." “The warlord is in the keep. I just saw him,” Aeschine said quickly. “He is?” Yseult's features sharpened. “Oh, very well! I am too merciful for my own good. Go to my brother's chamber. He usually has an extra shift or two lying about. You may swap the one you are wearing for one you find there, and then return to me, lovely shift in hand. Now go, lest I change my mind!" Aeschine raced from the chamber, horrified at the prospect of entering Kendle's chamber alone. What choice did she have, though? One way or the other, Yseult always received what she demanded; Aeschine had the bruises to prove it. She had thought to tell Sage of Yseult's abuse, but in the end, had decided to keep the mistreatment to herself. Her captor kept fair practices, but no reasonable person would expect him to defend his former whore against a lady he was bedding, the mother of his expected babe, his intended bride. And anyway, she never told tales behind a turned back, never placed blame unless she accused the perpetrator, face to face. She would not run to Sage with her woes. Not that she ever saw him alone or had a private audience with him anymore. She rarely saw him at all. He dined no more at the trestle table, preferring, according to Ellen, to take his evening meal with his vassals in the barracks. She missed him so! His touch. His kisses. At night, she would lie in bed alone and feel so empty. In her heart. Between her legs... But no matter how much she missed him, when the warlord wed Yseult of the huge melon breasts and wide rounded hips and spiteful nature, her Scots pride would not permit her to stay. She would make her escape, she decided, her knuckles giving a rap at the solid oak portal of Kendle's bedchamber. “Who is it?” yelled the detestable brother of Yseult d'Aubrienne.

“ ‘Tis Aeschine. Y-your sister has asked me to investigate your chamber for an extra shift I might have." At Kendle's, “Come in, wench. The latch is undone,” Aeschine opened the portal and stepped cautiously into the chamber. The air stank of stale ale. And another stale smell too which she would rather not think about, but which most certainly originated from the three lumpy shapes in Kendle's bed. “Do not just stand there, wench!” Kendle slurred. “Make yourself useful! Pull back the cover on the loop so we might have a bit of light in here." As soon as Aeschine did as bade, a matted head popped up in Kendle's bed. “Shoo, the ruttin’ light hurts me eyes,” a scullery maid whom Aeschine recognized said, sitting up amidst the furs. Another matted head popped up soon after. To the squeals of his bed companions, Kendle flung back the furs. “Come! Join us, wench. There is always room on the tick for another pair of tits." High-pitched giggles appreciated D'Aubrienne's drunken wit. Aeschine did not. “I cannot stay.” She picked a wrinkled russet rag of a gown up from the rushes. She backed up towards the portal. “I have what I came for, and now I must leave." “This eve then.” Kendle slurred the invitation. “Come to me after the banquet." Aeschine nearly choked on her loathing. “I fear I must decline." “That was not a request. If you are not here at midnight, I will tell the warlord that you have stolen from me. Something valuable.” Kendle looked pointedly at the russet gown in Aeschine's hands. “And that I caught you red-handed in the act of thievery.” He flung his arms around the two servants in his bed. “I have witnesses." Kendle actually thought to blackmail her? With this rag? “Your sister gave me permission to take a spare gown." “Spare? I am quite fond of that gown you have in your hand. I ripped it off the back of a terrified virgin, and so it has great sentimental value to me." “But your sister said..." “What a fine memory have you! Unfortunately, my sister is not similarly blessed; she will remember whatever I tell her to remember. And since you have perfect recall, you best remember that servant wenches are punished harshly for thievery. These are two fellow miscreants here with me now in bed.” Kendle pulled the bunched covers from the grips of his companions, thus exposing them from neck to ankles. Puffy welts and purple bruises covered the maids. Not the kind of welts and bruises received from overly enthusiastic lovemaking, either. Before Aeschine's horrified eyes, Kendle pinched the bare teat of one

lass. When she cried out; he treated the second lass in like manner until she also cried out in pain. “Ask these two thieves how I punish them,” he said mockingly. Fear coiled in Aeschine's belly. “That will not be necessary,” she said in a small voice. The loathsome Kendle snorted in laughter as Aeschine ran from the room. **** Much later, Aeschine was still running—between the kitchen fires and the great hall. As Ellen felt poorly, Aeschine had dismissed the maid and assumed the responsibility for serving the evetide meal herself. Thankfully, but two individuals dined at the long table: Yseult and her brother. The warlord rarely supped in the hall any more. Aeschine had only just situated the roast boar in the middle of the scrubbed trestle top when her haggard-looking captor rushed in and took the head chair at top of the table always reserved for, but seldom used by, the warlord. “Excuse my lateness,” he offered his guests. “A small problem amongst my men required my attention." Apology given to his dinner companions, the full weight of his disapproving glance fell on her. “Aeschine, why are you not seated too?" “I eat in the servant's holdings with Ellen, milord." He frowned. “Where is Ellen?" “Her feet are swollen. She needs to rest." “Of course. But what of the peasant women I brought back with me to act as servants?" “I am training them as best I am able. It takes time to learn new ways of doing chores, and I have been busy with other pressing household demands..." “That one is great for making excuses,” Yseult interjected. “She is a lazy good-for-nothing, is what she is. In my father's keep, the slut would wear the lash of the whip on her back." Sage picked up his goblet and drained it. “This is not your father's keep, Yseult. I do things differently here." “Certainly, the running of this bastion is your prerogative. I am merely informing you, as you are too busy to notice and as yet have no wife to oversee these matters, that the Scottish whore is a shiftless servant and would most certainly benefit from a sound thrashing." “Aeschine is not a servant; she is my guest. As you, yourself, are my guest. You will not speak of her in this insulting manner. Apologize at once!" Knowing full well that Yseult would make her pay later for an apology wrung out of her now, Aeschine

hurriedly said, “'Tis all right, milord. There is no need for Lady Yseult to apologize to the likes of me. I am sure she meant no undue harm by her words." The overlord's frown grew dark and ominous. “Why is your cheek, the one you suddenly seem all too anxious to turn the other way, red and swollen, Aeschine?" Aeschine quickly covered the side of her face with a palm. What with overseeing the preparation of the meal and her worry over Kendle's threat, she had forgotten all about her run in with Yseult. Now, she must think up an excuse for the latest slap. She kept the explanation purposefully vague. “My face reflects my own inattentiveness." “Nay, your face reflects a bruise. How did you come by it?" “I-I was not watching my footsteps, milord.” She stammered the evasion. “As a result, an obstacle in my path, that I should have seen coming, tripped me up. I shall take more care in the future so as not to offend your eyes with the result of my preoccupation." Sage's scrutiny seemed to penetrate her very soul. “Have I been remiss in my duties in regards to you, Aeschine? Has my neglect placed you in harm's way? If so, feel free to speak now, knowing you fall under my protection here." Her pride stung. She had become naught but one of Sage's many duties. Well, she would not run to Sage and whine about mistreatment. She would handle the matter on her own, without telling tales. She would not be an object of pity! Wishing the matter finished so that she might lick her wounds in private, she said, “You have not been remiss. I understand you have other concerns. And accidents will happen. Let us speak no more of it." “You have neglected me, not the whore, Sage!” Yseult loudly complained. “You have been remiss to my comforts. When you brought me here, I thought I would have your full attention. Now I see that I must share the few crumbs of your time with a sluttish servant." “First of all,” Sage began,” I did not bring you here. You asked to come. Secondly,” he said, voice escalating, “you and your brother may..." Kendle cut in. “You will have to forgive my sister, Sage. She is of a somewhat high-strung disposition. Her delicate constitution demands her needs be met without delay." This time, Sage turned to the male d'Aubrienne. “Perhaps you two delicate souls would be more comfortable if you returned to the comforts of your father's lodgings." “But we like it here,” the d'Aubrienne pair chimed in unison. Sage now stared at Yseult's gown. “I recognize that garb! I gave that red silk to Aeschine! Why are you wearing it, Yseult?" “I let your guest borrow it,” Aeschine raced to explain. “She thought to look nice for you." “What remarkable generosity, lass! But, then again, you have a generous nature. And now that the meal

is served, I would like you to be so generous as to grace us with your presence.” The warlord indicated the spot next to Kendle on the bench. She would not sit beside the loathsome Kendle. She would not! She would choke on the roasted pig if she took that position. Aeschine stammered, “I-I was just about to see to Ellen's meal..." “Once again, you show your generosity to others. Though your concern for a servant is commendable, I must insist you stay and take part of this sumptuous meal you have prepared. You may see to Ellen later." “Aye, milord.” Aeschine took the seat assigned her. ****

Wishing to avoid another confrontation with Kendle, Aeschine hurried along the corridors to the servant's quarters. Aeschine's relief upon escaping the lecher died a fast death when she found Ellen propped up against the back of her cot, rubbing her mounded stomach and breathing through her mouth in short pants. “I have had these pangs...” the mother-to-be said. “The bairn?” Aeschine asked. “Wind.” Ellen gave a belch that ended all belches. “My eyes were bigger than my belly, if that be possible.” The very pregnant servant observed the tremendous hillock resting on her lap. “I overindulged on the pig you had Will bring me." “Are you sure ‘tis only a stomach complaint and not the onset of labor?" “My bag of waters has not yet sprung a leak,” the maid replied just as Will appeared from the hall and went straight for the cot. “Has the mouth to your womb widened?” the vassal asked. “How should I know? Me eyes are up here, not down there. And who asked you anyway?” Ellen said, cantankerously, cranky as only an expectant mother may be cranky. “Stop interrupting. I be answering the lady's personal questions, ye great bull ox!" Ellen smiled like the Madonna herself at Aeschine. “As I was saying ... I am not in labor." Will rolled up his sleeves, plunged his arms in a nearby bucket of steaming water, scrubbing up to the elbows. “Saying is not good enough. I need to look.” After drying his hands on a clean linen, Will felt the expectant mother's belly then yanked at the covering. “I need to look between your legs, Ellen. Scoot your bottom down to the edge of the bed and open up wide." Ellen sat up straighter. “Scoot and open yourself, you ignorant giant! And you leave my bottom out of this! I am not a whore any more." “Woman, be reasonable! I need to see if the opening to your belly has widened."

“I ate too much, I tell you!" “The bairn has dropped. I think this angel may arrive any time. Please? I would never forgive myself if calamity befell you or the babe. I know what I am about here, Ellen." That made one person. “ ‘Tis glad I am that you are here, Will,” Aeschine said thankfully. “I told Ellen I would attend her lying-in." Ellen snapped, “That is what you said, but life has a way of interfering with the best of intentions, particularly the intentions of men. We shall see if you keep fast to your word." “I said I would deliver your babe and so I shall!” Will hotly declared. Aeschine turned to leave. The two lovebirds needed some privacy to flap their wings at each other. “Where are you off to now?” Ellen called after her. “I must go see Kendle." “Kendle,” Ellen harrumphed. “You be careful, milady. That offal is not to be trusted.” She nodded to Will who hovered at the foot of the cot. “Go with her..." Aeschine shook her head. “Nay, Will. You stay here with Ellen. I handled that wild boar we had for our evetide meal, and I shall handle the d'Aubrienne pig too." ****

Because of his black tunic and hose, Aeschine almost ran into the warlord, as he all but disappeared in the shadows of the dark hallway. “How is Ellen?” he asked, reaching out to steady her, two hands on her shoulders. “She has wind. From the bowels. She blames the pork." “Ah!” He grinned. “Wind. From the bowels. The pork, you say. Well apart from Ellen's indigestion—may I say that the meal this eve was delicious?" “I am glad you enjoyed it." “I did, and the company too." “Those d'Aubriennes! They do make for a lively dinnertime conversation." “I spoke of you, Aeschine." “Oh..."

“I enjoyed listening to how you spend your days. I am sorry we have not conversed of late.” He looked down. “I have missed you." His gruff words lifted her sagging spirits—until the green beast of jealousy raised its ugly snout. “I am surprised you have had time to miss me, what with having Yseult for company." “Yseult,” he said, dryly. “Now there is a lady good for only one thing." “And I imagine that one thing has been keeping you more than a little amused." Sage scratched his chin. “One would think so, but as it turns out, I do not enjoy it as once I did." Her brows raised. “You do not?" “Surprising, eh? Verily, anything grows tedious with repetition. After a few hours, I grow bored with the activity. And too, Yseult insists upon a hard riding each and every time. It wears a man out. I tell you, most days, I would rather do anything else." Aeschine felt herself blush. “This discussion is a private matter..." “Private? Since when? Why, most lords and ladies discuss the hunt to tedium and back.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You are red in the cheeks! Are we talking at cross-purposes?" “The hunt! You spoke of the hunt?” she sputtered, sorely embarrassed. “And what else would I do with that harpy? Any number of vassals might accompany her on her killing jaunts, but she insists I take her, and to be polite, I do. I would much rather take a walk with you. But, of course, you are busy with Peter..." “Peter is a good friend, an expert shepherd, and a quiet companion. He gives me much sound advice on sheep. He says, by the way, that you did a remarkable job selecting my new flock. He says, he would not have done better himself. He says, I should be able to breed miniatures in no time. He says..." “For a quiet fellow, Peter dost talk a great deal." Aeschine giggled. “Aye. That Peter does." He stroked down her arm. “Has your appetite improved? Has your strength returned? Are you well, Aeschine? Please confide in me that much." Her throat constricted. “I am fine, milord." Oh, God. Sage's big palm felt incredibly right on her body. She felt each one of his digits through the worn sleeve of her servant's gunna. As she no longer owned a shift, she was completely bare under the gown. Bare legged. Barefoot too. Her feet shifted in the straw as Sage's hand strayed from her arm to the thick plait that hung over her shoulder, his palm grazing one full breast on the journey. “Such pretty hair,” he whispered, moving his fingertips up and down the single braid, his knuckles brushing against her softness.

Both nipples tingled. Then peaked, hard and achy. They stood in an alcove of a darkened hallway, far removed from the bustle of daily castle routine. But their environs mattered not. Public or private, day or night, her desire for Sage remained constant, despite that he carried on an affair with another woman. Though sinful to desire a man committed to another, there it was; she lusted after him. The warlord lifted his hand from her plait—did she read reluctance where none existed?—as footsteps pounded behind them. She turned to find Will. The vassal panted, “'Tis Ellen. She is having her babe and has asked for you." “Go, Aeschine. You must be with Ellen in her time of need,” the warlord of Cheviot Hills said. Without another word, she followed Will, the longing in her heart a silent ache. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Peter and Aeschine walked together along the narrow countryside path, companionably, side by side. A flock of miniature sheep grazed up ahead on early tufts of spring grass. “Ellen's bairn grows bigger with every passing day,” Aeschine said happily, realizing out of the blue that she was well content in Cheviot Hills. She had held a brand-new life in her arms; she owned a flock of sheep and her own hut. The keep seemed far less ugly to her than when she had first arrived. An irresistible urge to set down roots in this place, to watch the brown land turn green—to nest like a bird—had overtaken her. “Think you a romance is brewing between Will and Ellen?” Peter remarked, bringing her back from her meandering. “I do. Will had his eye set on my maid since before I arrived. But she was whoring then, and Will did not approve. If Ellen would only admit to feeling more than gratitude to Will for saving her life and the life of her bairn, those two might make a handfast, particularly since Will saved the mother and child's life. Fortuitously, the vassal was once wed to a midwife. Sadly, she died with their two children in a fire. From his wife Will learned to turn a bairn in the womb. When Will determined that Ellen's bairn was in the breech position, he knew just how to put things to right. ‘Twas a miracle what he did, and the most wondrous thing I have ever seen. Though I had no idea that giving birth is such a labor. It seems relatively easy when sheep do it..." “Look at this, milady." Her babbling stopped, and Aeschine swiftly turned back at the sound of concern in Peter's voice. “What is it?" The shepherd pointed to indentations in the dirt. “Wolves,” he said. “The prints are fresh too." Wolves spelled disaster to a flock of sheep. They both knew it. “Traps?” she suggested.

“I have some ready to set. I sneak out tonight." “Peter, nay! You dare not venture outside the gates of this stronghold at night, not without expressed permission, and not under the guard's nose." “I am no longer a child, and neither are you!" “Nay, but we are both prisoners." “Not to worry. There is not a gate made that will keep me in if I wish to leave. As to the guard's nose—that beak is large enough for a small army to slip under, never mind one wily shepherd. No one will be the wiser that I was ever gone." “Ach! Take care! Caught, there will be grave consequences for you." “Lady Aeschine,” Peter began thoughtfully, “are you happy here?" “I love the warlord, Peter." “You are under a guard's constant scrutiny. Is that love?" “Who said he loved me? I said I love him." “Well, I love you, Aeschine. I loved you with a lad's affection; I love you now as a man. Like the brightest star, you were too far above me back then to declare my love. Then, you went away to join the convent. Now that you are not a nun but a...” He hung his neck, the thought left dangling. “ ‘Tis all right, Peter. No one knows better than myself that I have become a whore." “I meant no insult—I hold you in the highest esteem—I only wished to know—now that your fortunes are diminished—if I might have cause to hope. We might,” he declared, excitedly, “make our escape together. Return to a different village in Scotland where neither of us are known. We might live together as man and wife. I would take care of you, if you would only allow it. And if we took the sheep we would have a readymade livelihood..." She placed her finger over her friend's mouth. “Hush! Speak no more to me about escape. Or about love, either. Did you not hear me? I love the warlord. No matter where I go, I cannot escape that.” Though she would have to try, now that her captor planned to wed Yseult, now that she carried his bairn... But that was her dilemma, not Peter's. She would not tell him of her plans to leave, for to do so would give him reason to hope that there might be something between them, when there would never be anything between them, save friendship. “My sister is happy enough here,” her companion offered. “She no longer has need of my protection now that she has the nobleman, John Tuttle, watching o'er her. Someday soon, I leave to find my own place in this world. A grown man does not ask permission every time he would take a piss!" “The rules will ease up after a time..."

“But my love for you will not. To stay here and see you everyday with the warlord is too hard. Before, when I thought of you, I consoled myself in the knowing that you knelt at prayer in a convent. Now all I think about is you in bed with Geoffrey de Sage." “If you are caught, you will be flogged or worse." Peter held her hand. “In regards to my feelings for you—I abide by your wishes, milady. But in regards to my freedom, I must abide by my own best interests." Aeschine leaned forward and kissed Peter's cheek. “You will always be my friend, my very good friend. Rest assured I shall keep this conversation to myself. But I tell you this, be mindful. There are spies everywhere in this bastion. Do what you must do, only please do not underestimate the severity of the punishment should you be caught making an escape.” She hugged him fiercely to her behind a large bush at the hut. But Aeschine had learned to be careful, to never take what little privacy she had for granted, and so she looked up from the hug, just to make sure no one saw their embrace. There in the distance, on a hill overlooking them, a dark horseman waited. Do not go! Her heart cried. Stay! Let me explain. But the warlord galloped away, riding like a storm cloud over the hills. ****

Sage slammed his goblet of ale down on the solid oak trestle table, the fury of his flexed arm leaving the wide scrubbed boards quaking. Before his very own eyes, Aeschine had betrayed him with another man! Had he not borne witness to the Judas kiss, himself he would not have believed it. He would have sworn his life on his leman's sense of honor, on her loyalty, on her integrity. Thinking her incapable of duplicity, he had defended her to his King. Sage covered his face with hands that trembled. What a gullible fool he had been! He had almost believed her when she spoke of love. How close he had come to falling for her lie! But before he condemned her, Sage searched what remained of his conscience. Was he without blame here? To be fair, must he not accept partial responsible for Aeschine's unfaithfulness? Mayhap, fidelity was too much to expect from the promiscuous lass. He had moved out of the solar, leaving her alone in a foreign country with no one to talk to all day, save for Will and Ellen and the peasant women servants. Naturally, she grew lonely. Naturally, she needed her joy. Sage dropped his head between his shoulders until his chin touched his chest. He had left her alone intentionally. For her own good. Seeing her pallor, her fatigue after her illness, he had deliberately not placed any carnal demands on her. In light of his neglect, it was understandable that she would stray. A lively young beauty like her needed

the attentions of a man. The shepherd was a good man. A fellow Scots and much the same age as his leman, he was also whole of body, of mind, of spirit. Peter would give Aeschine the love she deserved. As warlord, he was landed now. With his vast holdings came power and wealth. But all the power and wealth in the realm could not make him whole. He might never again be whole. He had nothing to offer Aeschine, save his protection. Aeschine would have his protection for as long as she needed it, whether she took up with the shepherd or not. But he would not allow her to make a public fool of him. Lust had already made him foolish enough... He would release her from their bargain. She would still act as his bait, but she need no longer act as his leman. That decided he yanked his leg up and over the trestle bench, and climbed the wooden stairs to the tower. A much thinner Ellen talked with a toothsome Will at the portal. “Milord!” the maid gasped, hand over heart. “I did not expect to find you in the tower this eve." “Is Lady Aeschine inside?" “Aye. She is bathing. I was about to help her make ready for bed." “You are dismissed. Go see to that handsome son of yours,” he said sternly. “Will, you go too. Come back later.” That said, Sage opened the portal to the solar and stepped inside the chamber. His captive stood nude in the middle of the floor with her back turned. She dipped a linen bathing cloth into a bucket of water before her. From the shadows, he watched silently, voyeuristically, as she lifted an arm, raised a leg, the cloth going where his hands yearned to go. Only when she had finished her ablutions, and she started to dry off, did he make his presence known. Startled at his cough, she turned. “Captor! Forgive me! I thought you Ellen." Her eyes lowered. “May I carry on?" The golden hair decorating her raised underarm looked innocent and carnal, all at the same time. He remembered twirling his fingers in those silky swirls... Sage wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Aye. Carry on." “My thanks.” She finished drying the arm. “You must have sorely disappointed Ellen when you dismissed her, Captor. Bedtime is when we discuss the day's events,” Aeschine said with a merry laugh. “We call it a discussion, but ‘tis mostly gossip." “I imagine Ellen must talk your ear off about her son..."

“Aye, that she does." “Do your breasts next,” he told her. His gaze dropped to Aeschine's lush nipples, his hot eyes searing the hard points as they shifted under the linen cloth. His erection twitched. Aeschine continued to smile as she spoke. “Ellen does go on about her wee son. And I enjoy listening." They went quiet. He staring at his captive while she continued to dry herself, Aeschine looking down and away. “Between your legs next,” he instructed. She hesitated. “May I turn away?" “Aye. When you do between your buttocks. For now, remain forward. And open it wide, there's a good lass." She blushingly pulled up on the pink folds, showing him what he demanded to see. “Turn now,” he said politely. Presenting him with her back, she moved the linen drying cloth over her buttocks. “Bend,” he ordered, short and to the point. Upon finishing, she waited for his next command. “You may come ‘round.” When she had, he began quite reasonably, “Aeschine, we need to talk." “I shall gladly talk to you, milord, if I might only cover up first?" Still bargaining! “You still feel the need of modesty before me?" “Aye,” she said, gazing up at him from under her lashes like a shy doe. He gave a perfunctory nod. “Very well. You may use the drying cloth." The scanty linen would not cover all of her. The narrow strip might cover her top or her bottom, not both. She must decide which to hide. She wrapped the cloth around her waist, as a male would do, leaving her pretty breasts bared to his gaze. Fortunately, a female is not built as a male. Linen that would fit around a man's narrow hips would not meet around womanly flare. To achieve the most modesty, Aeschine started to tie the knot to the side, slung low at the hipbone, which revealed the shapely length of a leg, but nothing more.

“Nay,” he said tersely. Her busy fingers halted. “Milord?" “Knot the linen at your middle, either in front or at the rear,” he commanded. Blushing more furiously than before, she brought the two edges of the linen together over her navel and knotted them there. This left the cloth agape over her mound, but covered her in back. “Tell me ... how do you pass your days?” he asked, ambling to the middle of the chamber and circling her slowly. “With my sheep, as you must know from my guard. Peter has some wonderful ideas for breeding the miniatures.” She had suddenly gone breathless. “How nice,” he said, and unsheathed his dirk. “There is no need for jealousy! There is nothing between us but friendship." “I saw the kiss..." “Och! A peck on the cheek. Come visit me in bed and I shall bestow on you more than a dry kiss. You will awaken in the morning with a smile upon your face." “Only whores go from one man to the next in the same day,” he said, and made a slash in the drying linen in back with the sharp point. “There,” he said, ripping the cloth so that both buttocks were bared. “Much better. Now—do you intend to run away with the shepherd?" “I am fond of Peter. He is like the brother I never had, but that is as far as the affection goes. I would never think to run away with him." “You stay for your sheep, then?" “Nay. I stay for you." “Lies! All lies. You have lain with Peter, and more than likely, other men too." “Since we met, there has been only you!" He turned to go. “You need your joy, Aeschine, and I have not visited you of late." “Please, Captor. Do not leave! You are right. I did need my joy recently, and I found it too!" He knew it! She had lain with Peter. He turned back ‘round. Licking her lips, his promiscuous leman backed up to the bed. “I found my joy, but not with Peter or with any other man. I used the gift you gave me."

His brow lifted. “Oh?" “Aye. ‘Tis on the shelf above me." Two could play at this game... He reached for the box overhead, opened the lid, and handed her the finely tooled leather phallus. He smiled. “Convince me." Reclining on the bed, she proceeded to do just that. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“The guards have taken Peter prisoner!” Ellen cried, and pulled aside the curtains surrounding Aeschine's bed. The morning after the unspeakable pleasure of the night before, still sluggish with sexual satiation, Aeschine failed to grasp the meaning behind Ellen's statement. Her first thought involved the fancy box lying atop the covers. Aeschine quickly slipped her guilty secret under the tangle of furs before saying, “What for the love of God and all his saints and angels are you going on and on about in the wee hours of the morning, Ellen? I know full well Peter is a prisoner here at the keep." “Nay! These are new charges! The guards caught the shepherd outside the gates last night. He stands accused of spying. ‘Tis said he was returning to his village with information about this keep's battlements. Weak spots in the wall where attack would more than likely succeed." Aeschine sprang from bed. “Nonsense. Peter is no more a spy than I." “Do not say that, Lady Aeschine! Tongues are already wagging about your part in this. ‘Tis said Peter had an accomplice and that the accomplice must be you! The talk is that you are a spy too." “I must find Sage. I must tell him that Peter is innocent,” Aeschine cried throwing the patched russet gown on over her nakedness and racing out the portal, her knotted hair streaming down her back behind her. ****

A crowd had gathered. Mostly soldiers, but whores and peasant farmers and some skilled tradesman were present too. A festive atmosphere of joviality and jesting reigned. The early risers expected rousing entertainment after giving up the comforts of their warm beds this cool morn. To the hisses and boos and jeers of the audience, the prisoner was brought up from the oubliette. In shackles, he was led limping across the packed dirt surface of the courtyard. “Under penalty of death, no stoning of the prisoner,” the warlord shouted with the full weight of his authority and prayed his authority still carried some weight with the crowd. Could he hold back the mob

long enough to get Aeschine to safety? Thankfully, the crowd took him at his word. They fell back, enough to allow the guard sufficient room to position the shepherd before the stocks, chest braced against the post, arms straight out at shoulder level. Sage dared not delay punishment. To save the prisoner's life, to prevent the crowd from surging forward en masse and ripping the poor bastard apart, he must act quickly and exactly. He raised the whip. “Nay!" Aeschine rushed forward. Elbowing her way through the blood-hungry spectators, she threw herself at him, dragging downward on his raised arm. “You must stop this!" Sage pushed her away. Aeschine fell to the dirt. “What are you doing here?” he growled down at her. “I had to come,” she cried, coming up onto her knees. “I had to tell you that Peter did naught wrong. ‘Twas the sheep! He was trying to trap wolves. The beasts had come too close to the flock's grazing grounds. He sought to protect my lambs!" “He was caught outside the gates in the middle of the night, satchel in hand. The satchel contained a map of this fortress and scraps of dear meat." “Peter draws for pleasure. All the time he makes drawings. In the dirt. On parchment, if he gets his hands on some. I gave him a few skins just the other day." “The prisoner admits to making an escape. He carried with him the interior layout of this keep. He had meat for a journey. He stands accused of spying. As he will not defend himself, I have no choice but to punish him." “You do have a choice! Milord, you are a just man. You know he is no spy! He is a shepherd who likes to draw. The meat was meant for the wolves, not for him to eat on a journey. Do not let your jealousy get in the way of what you know is right." “My feelings for you do not enter into this judgment." “I never betrayed you. I swear it." “Did you know Peter would try to escape? Were you his diversion? Is that why you kept me entertained in the solar last night?" “I knew his lot dissatisfied Peter, but he made the disclosure to me in confidence." “Tell me the points of this disclosure." “Nay. Just know that as a captive deprived of my own freedom, I well understood how he felt. I would not betray him, but neither would I act as his diversion. I did not go to you last night; you visited me.

Remember?" “I remember that you availed yourself of my present last night when you refused it before. Is there anything you will not do to save the man you love?” he snarled into her face. “There is naught. For the man I love is you, not Peter,” she cried. In a frenzy, she lunged for his arm. “If you do this, if you whip Peter out of jealousy, my exclusivity to you is at an end. Do this, and I bed who I choose, when I choose." “Still bargaining?" “Nay. This time I beg. Do not hurt this man out of petty spite. If you do, it will be your soul, not his back, that carries the harshest scars." “Guards!” Sage called. “Take this woman to the dungeon." “Please,” Aeschine screamed as they dragged her away, a guard on either side. Pulling back his powerful arm, Sage let the strap fly, the whip coming down again and again on the shepherd's shoulders. ****

Three days later, the same two guards who had dragged her away, led her back up the stone stairs from the dungeon. She had been stripped, but thankfully, she had not been violated. At the landing, the vassals set her loose. After days of total darkness, she squinted against the blinding light of the courtyard. Disoriented and dizzy, her legs gave way. A pair of muscled arms caught her before she fell. “Nice deep breaths now,” the warlord said, as she sagged naked against him. “You have only a few more steps to go, warrior woman. Remain strong." “I shall not faint,” she said, knees locked against the vertigo. A faint would destroy her last remaining shreds of dignity. “May I have a cover?" “I'm sorry. ‘Tis not allowed." One arm around her waist, he supported her weight as she made her way through a handful of hecklers in the courtyard. “Apart from dizziness, how are you?” he asked quietly. “I live. Does Peter?” she asked looking up into her captor's haggard face. It gave her no pleasure to acknowledge that he had suffered too. “The shepherd will survive." “I heard there was rioting..."

“The soldiers were on a rampage to see justice done. They sought a bloodletting." “And so you gave them Peter's blood." “And so I gave them Peter's blood." She blinked rapidly to keep back the tears. “Peter is no spy. I tell you, he thought to trap wolves..." “I know,” he said tiredly. “I found the traps only a short time ago. They were baited with the same scraps of deer meat he carried in his bag." “He designed the traps himself." “I saw the designs. The damned stubborn Scots had the sketches hidden in the hut. He never said a word about them, not even for the sake of his own defense. He really is clever, and a most inventive artist. I have posted the pictures in the courtyard for all to see. They will allay fears that Peter is a spy." “Will it work?" “ ‘Twill work. Many of his accusers have already placed orders for the traps.” The warlord gave a dry laugh. “Not only will the shepherd be well occupied when he recovers from his lashing, but his pockets will be laden with coin. Life is full of such irony. And now that Peter is known as a skilled trap maker, not a spy, order has once again been restored amongst my troops, and you are free to go." “Free?” Her lips trembled. “Free to go where? Do you cast me out?" “You are still my bait, Aeschine,” he said softy. “You will return to the solar under a guard's protection." “And Peter will live?" “Your lover will not only live, the industrious trap maker will live prosperously." “Peter is not my lover,” she said weakly. Sage lifted her into his arms and carried her up the second flight of stairs to the tower solar. “I must disgust you,” she said turning her face away in shame. “I am ripe." He turned her chin back to him and smiled for the first time, a slight lifting at the corners of his mouth. “Ripe, but well, non?" She nodded. “I am well." “And you were not molested?" “Those two guards kept the mob away." “They will be rewarded for their loyalty to me." Tired and hungry and filthy, strength depleted, she turned tearful eyes to him. “Why do you hate me so?"

“I do not hate you." “You think the worst of me at every turn. You accuse me of taking lovers." “You were no virgin when I had you. There was LaTourne before me and who knows how many others. ‘Tis not an accusation to acknowledge the truth." CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“More ale here, Maid Morgwynna,” the swarthy young squire called. A buxom maid with freckles on her nose and lazy rolling hips delivered the tankard with a wide smile and a wink. “There you go, sir." “Nay! Here you go." The plump servant was snatched about the waist and passed around the table. Along the way, she was given a wet buss on the mouth and a tweak on the bum. For her enthusiastic cooperation in the merriment, she received a trinket. That the gift was delivered down the loosely laced front of her bodice only led to further hilarity amongst the revelers. After the hunt that day, the young bucks decided by mutual agreement to spend the night as guests of Kendle. As Sage played host to the spoiled pup, he could hardly refuse the keep's hospitality to his hunting friends. And so, a group of ten and five males now gathered at dusk for a banquet in the great hall to celebrate the kill. Eating and drinking and wenching surrounded Sage. While he listened with only half an ear to the self-important storytelling and loud boasts that inevitably follow a day at the hunt, he sourly enumerated all the pressing matters in need of attending to and which he was not attending to because he played chaperone to a hall of lusty young swains. His first responsibility was to keep both eyes open for the welfare of the serving maids, of which Aeschine was one. So far, Aeschine had managed to duck the kisses and pawing and fondling, though it meant a loss of good coin. With a queenly dignity, she shunned every advance... Save Kendle's. His advance, she welcomed. First Peter. Now Kendle. How many others would his leman cuckold him with? The familiar black melancholy settled over Sage. By midnight, the drunken songs and jests and insults tossed back and forth between Kendle and his hunting friends had long since ceased to amuse him. Oh, to retreat someplace quiet! Sage thought wearily, rubbing his throbbing temples. Regrettably, an early leave-taking was impossible, as the charge to make sure debauchery did not escalate to mayhem fell to him. With a low groan, Sage slumped in his chair. The prostitutes had just filed in. The evening's entertainment moved to the front of the hall and displayed their naked wares. When Sage waved aside his right as overlord to first choice, a heated argument ensued over the pick.

“Why is Aeschine not up there with the rest of the sluts?” d'Aubrienne leaned over the corner of the table to ask. “Is she not a prostitute?" Sage's gaze fell on Aeschine, as it had been doing off and on all night. His leman took no stock of the happenings at the front of the hall. Minding her own business, she went quietly about the task of cleaning up after the meal. Yet, Kendle's question rankled. Aeschine had lain with LaTourne and others. Sage had come upon her kissing Peter. Tonight, she had not rebuffed Kendle's advances. Still, he could not bring himself to name her as a prostitute. The warlord said naught in reply. “Forgive me, milord.” Kendle fell back in his chair. “I had no idea you held the whore in affection—" Where had the young pup come by that mistaken idea? He did not hold Aeschine in affection! Lust was not affection. Sage downed the mead in his goblet in one long swallow, and then turning to Kendle, repeated what Aeschine had told him: “The lady is not for my exclusive use. If you wish to rut her, Kendle, you must ask her. If she agrees, she is yours for the eve." “Very well. I go now to ask her,” Kendle replied. Rising from the table, he swaggered over to Aeschine and bent his mouth to her ear. Dazed blue eyes looked up and sought his. He gave the final nod. It was naught to him if she chose to go off with Kendle. Sage sat rigidly in his chair, fists clenched, staring straight ahead as Aeschine left with her new customer. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that his leman's russet gown sagged off one shoulder where Kendle pawed at her. Whatever happened to the pretty silks he had bought her? He wondered. Aeschine had made a loan of one gown to Yseult, but what of the rest? Where had those fancy gone? As Sage sat there, he recalled how Aeschine had begged not to be shared. How frightened she had seemed at the prospect of being given away to another man. He had made her no promises, Sage thought, acquitting himself of blame. He had not told her that she would not be given to another. He told her specifically that he would make her no guarantees about the future. After all, it was the height of rudeness not to extend the keep's hospitality to guests. That hospitality included the use of castle whores. Kendle was a guest and Aeschine had most certainly proved herself to be a castle whore... But he remembered her voice in the cave when she had begged him not to give her away to another man, not to take her freedom of choice away. Aeschine was a proud warrior-woman. She adhered to a strict code of silence, practiced honor and stoicism in the face of pain. Yet she had begged him for mercy in this one thing...

Dear Christ! What had he done? Jumping up from the trestle table, Sage raced to find Aeschine. ****

Aeschine cringed away from Kendle, as his cruel fingers squeezed her bare teat. How would she survive what was to come? And how was it that she had misjudged the man she loved? How could the overlord have given her away to another man? She had fought Kendle at the portal to the solar. In the struggle, her dagger had dropped from her thigh. Defenseless, he had dragged her inside, stripped, pawed, and spread-eagled her on the bed. Red velvet cords tied her wrists and ankles to the massive oak posts. In the isolated tower, no one heard her screams. “Go to hell, gutter rat!” She spat in defiance at Kendle. Her spittle landed on his handsome cheek, hanging there before dribbling down to his chin. “You will pay for that, bitch,” he raged, wiping his face.. It was only her body, Aeschine told herself. No matter what was done to her, she would distance herself from it. Sage had said survival was a human's strongest instinct and so she would survive this... She had only just closed her eyes—to remove herself from what was about to happen to her—when the door crashed in and Sage was hauling Kendle off of her. The warlord heaved her intended rapist across the width of the chamber. “You are to get your baggage together, and that includes your sister, and leave this keep tonight,” the warlord seethed. “Sage, you misunderstand,” Kendle whined from the rushes. “The slut begged for it. She insisted I tie her to the bed. And she stole from me..." “Enough!” Sage arched his jaw to the entrance. “Guard!" A vassal appeared at the portal. “Milord?" “You are to escort this poor excuse of manhood to Lady Yseult's chamber and stand watch until both d'Aubriennes are outside the gate.” The directive given, the portal was slammed and barred. Turning on his heel, Sage stalked back to her on the bed. “Are you well?" “Why do you care?" He asked heatedly, “Did you steal from him?" “I did not,” she said, tight-voiced. The question angered her, but the rising lust in her captor's black eyes also excited her. “But you are guilty of the rest of his charges?"

She said naught. “You begged to be tied to the bed? You like it? Is this what you did with LaTourne?" She kept her silence, refusing to honor such nonsense with a denial. Sage threw her love for him back in her face when he asked a question like that. He thought her a liar. A thief. A whore. And why? Because it was easier for him to believe those falsehoods about her than to accept the truth that she loved him. His need for revenge colored all he saw. Damn him! Well, let him work his revenge out on her tonight, and have done with it once and for all! She looked up at him brazenly. “You desire me." His black eyes went to half-mast as they examined her nude body on the bed, taking in the red velvet cords, lingering on her teats, searing her between the legs. “Nay..." “Oh, but you do, Captor. And just this way, tethered to a bed, completely submissive.” She smiled. “This is my last bargain with you. Take me tonight, do what you will with me, but on the morrow, I am a free woman." He shrugged out of his outer tunic. “I cannot allow you leave the keep. You forget—you are the bait needed to bring LaTourne out of hiding." “I will go only as far as the shepherd's hut. And I will return each night. You have my word on it. All I ask is to come and go without a guard watching." He considered her terms. “Very well. Agreed." He approached the bed. “You will freely do anything I ask?" She asked stiffly, “Will your request include sharing me with other men?" He blanched, his flesh taking on ashen death tones. “I give you my word on this: No man save me will come into you this night." “My thanks. And I freely agree to do anything you require." “Very well. The terms are set. After tonight, you are free. To come and go to the hut. To rut with any man you choose. Even so, I promise you will always have my protection." “That is most generous." “Out of curiosity—I know the shepherd is a prisoner now, but later, when his sentence is finished, do you intend to wed him?" “Nay. I never plan to wed,” she replied, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Still breathing hard from his last splendid orgasm, Sage reached a hand to Aeschine's jaw and thumbed away a tear. “I took great care not to hurt you. I thought I had not. I thought that you liked it. Was I mistaken?" “You are not mistaken. I did like it,” she said softly. “And you did not hurt me. I cry, because after tonight, I shall never know such boundless joy again." Women! Where was their logic? “This is your bargain, not mine,” he reminded her. “You would have your freedom." “Nay, I would have your love, but you are too comfortable in your dark despair to risk the light of my love.” She sniffed. “Are you done with me?" He had only just withdrawn, but his cock was rapidly engorging all over again. Such was the way whenever he was with Aeschine. The tearful lady, however, needed time to recover. “I am done with you. For now,” he stipulated, and rolled off her to stand on the floor. He began to undo the red velvet ties. Unbound, she raised her tear-streaked face to his. “May I rise? I-I need to wash." He helped her up from the bed, his palm at the level of courtesy on her back. He did not kiss her, though he dearly wanted to. Somehow, signs of affectionate appreciation seemed inappropriate, even disingenuous, considering the mercenary nature of the bargain they had struck. He watched Aeschine cross the rushes to the water warming hearthside in a bucket. As she washed his seed away, he sighed at her romanticism. Might they not simply enjoy the animal lust they felt for one another? Must she always drag love into this, even now when their liaison was ending and he was granting her the freedom she requested? “After you finish bathing, do not dry yourself.” He liked how her moist flesh felt against him when she wiggled. Aeschine was such a wild creature. Nothing was held back in her passion. She nodded. “Very well." “We have until dawn. You may sleep a while, if you would like,” he offered, though he wanted her again right now. Immediately! “I sleep later." Facing him, she cleansed the semen from between her breasts and then moved the cloth down to her belly where he had left the greater abundance of seed. Done there, and grimacing a little, she wiped the linen carefully over the swollen folds of her vulva. Dipping the cloth again, she washed away the pearled semen that raced down the interior of her thighs. He'd had four times already, each time harder and faster than the time before. Tied, she hadn't been able to move, to shift her body to accommodate the driving force of the intercourse. She had to be sore from the violence of the congress and galled from her forced submission. “It gives me no pleasure to pain you, Aeschine."

She stopped washing, placed the square of linen aside. “I know that, Captor. And I have already told you—I am not pained. I like very much what you do to me." Unable to stay away, he walked up behind her. Backing her up against him, he took her breasts in hand, thumbing both centers until they peaked and jutted and she moaned in acquiescence. Though the intemperate fucking had left her nipples bruised, he could not cease! He had to keep touching her. This was their last night together. After this, he was letting her go. Slipping his free hand down low over her flat belly, he spanned her mons; two fingers dipped into her already swollen slit. Her head fell against his chest. She opened her legs wider, letting him do what he wished to do. No complaint. Full compliance. In tune as he was with her body, he did not miss her involuntary wincing; he missed nothing, spared himself nothing. Under his marauding fingertips, her delicate tissues felt dry. The extended congress had squeezed the last drop of honey from her passage. And still he persisted, moving first two, then three fingers inside the swollen canal. When she began to writhe, her bottom pushing against his hardness, squirming to get closer, her hard-tipped breasts thrusting outwards, he placed his mouth against her ear. “Now? Or later? I will wait if you would prefer." Aeschine's throat spasmed. “'Tis entirely up to you." Now! That was his preference. He reached into the finely tooled box he had purposefully left on the hearth. Taking the leather phallus in hand, he oiled it with the small tincture of perfumed unguent also stored in the box. He would not wait any longer. He would have this. She had given it to LaTourne, and she would give it to him too. “Raise your foot onto the hearth. Take care not to stub your toe,” he advised. She had such pretty feet. Docile as a lamb, she raised her heel onto the slab of stone, making no other movement save to turn her face into his chest. The hard oiled length of leather went into her woman's notch fairly easily, her acceptance of the foreign object slow but sure. He wished it could have been his cock going in, but alas he could not be in two places at the same time. “There's a good lass,” he whispered, encouragingly, as the last measure hit the barrier of her womb. “Just a little more now. All of it inside, puss." She whimpered a little then. To help her relax, he rubbed her breasts, then her belly, then between her legs. He would do this for any distressed animal. He kept petting and whispering to her until the leather phallus was buried deep, and then ministered to her clitoris. She started to buck and writhe, small needful moans were emitted from her throat. His captive was about to come. The crest was a fist in her belly, hot and molten, about to explode; he

knew this for he felt that same betraying agony in his own body. It was time. Leaving the phallus lodged deep in the passage, he led her by the hand back to the four-poster bed. Because of the thickness of the embedded leather, she walked with her thighs spread akimbo and her bottom lifted. He smiled at this, as captivated as he had ever been by anything in his life. At the side of the bed, he took her by the shoulders; his eyes searched hers. “Are you sure?" “I wish it too. I wish to belong to you in every way a woman may belong to a man." Swallowing his excitement, he helped her up onto the bed, situating her on the very edge of the tick. A hand on her spine rounded her over. “Tuck your legs underneath you,” he told her, and waited while she did. His palm on her left buttock, his thumb curved into crevice, he said, “Raise up more." He watched while she did. Now that her long legs and elegant arms were tucked in under her belly, and her hips were raised, her bottom was very nicely presented. “Comfortable?” he inquired. “Aye." “I will not tie you.” He paused. “Unless it becomes necessary." “Thank you,” she said softly. “But I will have it all the way in. No half measures, Aeschine,” he warned. “Done deep. Full penetration. All three holes." “What will go in my mouth?" “My thumb.” As hot, wanton lust rushed to his loins he smoothed his hand freely over both of her bottom cheeks. “Afterwards, I will install a plug.” He probed a finger between her elevated buttocks. When Aeschine offered him no resistance, continuing to remain docile despite the immodesty of her positioning, he pressed the digit against her back opening. As still no resistance was forthcoming, he wiggled the finger up inside the delicate hole. “The plug will keep you open between subsequent occasions." There were hours remaining ‘till the end of their agreement. No sense pretending he would have her this way only once. Once a lady has allowed the forbidden, there is no going back. “You must have worn a similar devise with LaTourne,” he said, not expecting nor receiving an answer; Aeschine never spoke of her past lovers. “In between occasions, I will take you for a walk along the turrets. ‘Tis a lovely night for a stroll, and I would see your beauty under the moonlight."

“The guards?” she asked, her voice muffled in goose feathers. “Will be there. ‘Tis a little late now for maidenly vapors. And besides, I would enjoy showing you off. But if you would rather I not..." “I have agreed to everything." She was right; she had agreed. To everything. His finger, oiled during the application of the leather phallus, stayed against the forbidden portal, pressing, pressing, until her muscles went lax and the digit entered, only up to the knuckle at first. Though he was gentle, she cried as he stretched her. Despite her whoring ways, the lass possessed a romantic heart, and this was not the stuff of poetry. He persisted until he had widened the dimple sufficiently enough to accept the addition of a second oiled digit. “You are very dainty, darling. Pretty too,” he soothed her, when she began to cry a little harder at the prohibited congress. “I promise to be very careful." It was time. His cock surged in anticipation, the heavy jut prodding the undefended cheeks apart and delving the forbidden hole, the plum-head, moistened with pre-come, trying to get inside. Shivering with an arousal so intense, so darkly carnal, he knew that nothing, neither the promise of heaven nor the sanction of hell would stop him, he sodomized Aeschine with one hard push. Weeping, she came on the first full stroke. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“Come see the new gowns!” Ellen cried. “They must be from himself." “A parting gift to a whore,” Aeschine answered, scathingly, scarcely giving a look at the contents of the trunk. “Nonsense! Whores receive gifts of shiny jewels and gowns of lustrous silk. These gowns are well made and of good quality material, but they are plain. Not whore's fancy garb at all. Why, any noble lady might wear these gowns with pride.” Ellen held one up. “Gad, this is sensible!" Aeschine took a bracing breath of air and pulled back her shoulders. “I need boots. Winter is coming on and I cannot go shepherding barefoot in the snow." “There are fine heavy boots inside the chest. You should thank the warlord for his consideration." “Thank him? Why should I thank him? Those gowns are not a gift; they are payment, and as such, they are an insult. Should I thank him for insulting me?"

“Do you ken that himself roams the keep at night like a lost soul? Will tells me the man does not sleep, that he rarely sits down to eat. He is working himself into an early grave. He will sicken in that cold chamber he uses at night. No fire in the hearth. No tapers on the walls. No bed. No rushes on the dirt floor. Cold and damp and as dark as a tomb is that chamber. He is a strong man but he will not last the winter if he stays there." Aeschine sighed. Sage had looked more fatigued than usual the last time he had inquired about her health. Upon hearing that she was well, he nodded his head and moved on down the dark hall, alone. The warlord of Cheviot Hills was always alone. How did a soul live with such aloneness? Aeschine felt the tight knot of hurt give way inside her. “Himself saved Peter's life,” Ellen said as she put the new gowns away. “You do not credit him enough for what he did." “He whipped Peter! He did so out of jealousy and spite. The warlord thought Peter and I were lovers and so he punished my good friend..." “You must grow up, lass! This is an armed fortress on the borderlands, not a peaceful farmer's village! The warlord keeps control here only through the exertion of the strictest military authority. There was a near revolt in the soldier's quarters after Peter broke with the law. The call was out to have the shepherd drawn and quartered. English soldiers do not take kindly to Scottish spies." “Peter is no spy! He left the gates that night to trap wolves, not to give away military secrets!" “That is what we know now; ‘tis not how it looked then. Had himself not punished Peter, the crowds would have torn the shepherd apart on the spot. If he had survived that assault, his guards would have killed what was left of him later in the dungeon. The only reason he still lives at all is because the warlord punished him publicly. Now, he is almost healed from the lashing, and once again, ‘twas himself who saw to his care. Peter owes his life to the warlord. Even the shepherd concedes that." “But Peter was innocent of the charges!” Aeschine insisted, angered at the injustice. “He was not innocent of breaking the law! Peter knows now that he was wrong to sneak out at night. He understands that going off as he did placed this battlement in jeopardy. A fortress does not remain impenetrable for long if the very inhabitants who need its protection leave it open to attack. And Peter holds no ill will towards the lord." “Well, he should!" “Pigheaded lass! Will you not see this for what it is? Himself saved the shepherd's life for you, Lady Aeschine. He did it for you! If the warlord is jealous of your relationship with Peter, it is because the man loves you. Why else would he have combed the countryside looking to absolve a prisoner? Why did he bother? Why not let the man rot in a cell next to yours in the dungeon?" “I ken not why he does anything,” she mumbled. “I shall tell you, then. Even with whipping Peter, he had not secured your position. Now that the soldiers believe in the shepherd's innocence, your situation has also changed. Understand this—the warlord controls this fortress only so far as his soldiers allow him to. If they lose respect for him, his authority is

no more. Punishing Peter kept you both alive; otherwise, the mob would have stoned you both to death on the spot." “The warlord gave me away, to be used as whore,” Aeschine argued, holding on to a small corner of her hurt. “Aye, he did, and that was wrong too. You are no whore. But you did shame him in the courtyard in front of the spectators when you cried off as his leman." “I said I would pick who I slept with..." “Lady Aeschine, you are young yet so you are to be forgiven. But when do we females, queens or servants or whores, ever truly pick who we spread our legs for? You are a captive here, a prisoner, yet you have a hut and a flock of sheep. You have the run of the place. Give o'er, luv. A woman must put her childish dreams of romance away and get on with what is important. Himself was wrong to give you away to Kendle, but you angered him, and more importantly, you shamed him in front of his own men. What chance do we all have of staying alive on the borderlands, of making a good life, if the warlord whose rule we depend upon for our protection, loses the respect of his soldiers?" Picking up her russet skirts, Aeschine raced for the portal. “Where are you off to now?” Ellen called after her. “I am gone to pick buttercups,” Aeschine replied. “'Tis too cold for buttercups!" “Then, I shall find some other green growing thing to light the gloom of the warlord's heart." ****

In his hand, Sage held a message from John Tuttrell. LaTourne had been found, and by order of the King, executed. The traitor's head now adorned a spike at Westminster. To show his gratitude to his childhood friend for ferreting out the sodomite's treachery, Rufus had decided to pardon Lady Aeschine of Scotland—with the stipulation that she wed the overlord of Cheviot Hills. According to Rufus, an alliance between an English overlord and the daughter of a Scot clan leader would do much to promote much needed harmony on the borderlands. Only a wedding would stay Aeschine's execution... What a cruel jest! This was no boon! Sage raged. The King forced his hand, done to ensure that warfare would not deplete royal coffers! Once again he was coerced into a marriage of political expediency. Only this time, his bride was not a dear friend, but the betrothed of a perverted murderer ... of Sage's own wife. Was the message in his hand Aeschine's death sentence or a call for a hurried wedding? Light footsteps came to a halt outside the portal. Sage took up his sword, blade pointed at the entrance.

Aeschine swept under the weapon and into his private chamber. “You may put that down now. If I had any plans to harm you, milord, you would have been dead long ago." He had very nearly run her through! Would her impetuousness never end? Would she never learn there are consequences to heedless, incautious behavior? Or at the very least, would she learn to knock? “This chamber needs a flower to brighten it,” Aeschine said softly, and twirled about the room. “Right here, I should think." She placed a frozen—weed, he guessed it was—in a crockery dish on his writing table. That accomplished, she went to the hearth and knelt down, as though to rekindle the split wood. “No fire." Her hand stilled. “I shall grow chilled if there is no blaze." No choice left to him, he bade her to rise from her knees and he took over the task. He turned to her. “Why are you here, Aeschine? Do you need something for your sheep?" “Nay. The sheep are fine." “Something you need, then?" “I need naught.” She lifted his leather-bound account book. “You worked on the ledgers before I interrupted?" Nay, I was reading the King's warrant for your death... “I detest balancing the accounts,” he said evasively. “Allow me to do them. I am quite good with sums. Free of bookkeeping, you will have extra time. Extra time will allow you to take me for that walk you promised me a while back. I would show you my flock before the snows start." He frowned. “You ask to go walking with me?" “Aye." He wiped a hand over his burning eyes. “What is this all about, Aeschine?" “Ellen explained about Peter. How whipping him publicly saved his life. ‘Twas my fault, you know, that he broke the rules. ‘Twas my fault that you were forced to whip him. Had I told you about the wolves, none of what followed would have happened. My thoughtlessness caused Peter pain, not your hand. You nearly lost control of this fortress because of my misplaced loyalty, and I am here to tell you that I am sorry. I shall try to grow up, Captor. I know you do not love me, but we might still be friends. Might we not?"

“Nay, we cannot be friends." “Oh...” she said, forlornly. “Never friends. But I would have us wed." “You wish to w-wed me?” Her eyes shone bright. “You do love me then?" “Love you? Nay!” he said, crushing that sparkle of hope in her eyes. “What I feel for you is lust. Unholy desire." Sage thought back to the terrible forbidden ecstasy they had shared that last night they were together. Christ, but he had wanted her! He still wanted her, and in every way. But the wanting had naught to do with love. “The cleric will speak the words in three days,” he told her. “No sense delaying." “Such a romantic proposal! Are you not afraid you will turn my head?" Her attempts at levity would not sway him; their lust for one another was too dark for laughter. “You will take no lovers, now or in the future. You are for my exclusive use." “I have remained faithful! You gave me to Kendle!” Her hands went to her hips. “And what of you? Will you stay faithful to me? “I have not had another lover since you, Aeschine,” he said quietly. “What of Yseult? Does she not count?" “I got into bed with her and got right back out again without ever touching her." Her hands came down from her hips; she reached to him. “Do you ken that LaTourne will not come for me if he knows I am wed?" “The pervert is dead. He will never come for you now, anyway." ****

“You made a lovely bride,” Ellen said. Aeschine smiled as her maid wiped a sentimental tear from her eye. Three short days since Sage's proposal and she no longer served the warlord as his leman; now she was his wedded wife. “The new cleric spoke some holy words, that he did,” Ellen continued. “Moved, I was. As was everyone in attendance." “Aye, the ceremony was most meaningful,” Aeschine said and smoothed her hands lovingly over her pretty new blue gown, another gift from Sage. When Sage bestowed a respectful kiss on his bride's cheek, Ellen wiped again at her misty eyes.

“We will leave you two alone now. I would see to the wedding banquet, ensure everything is perfect. All that food and drink! These castle walls will shake with merriment all eve,” Ellen said, scurrying away to the hall with Will trotting along beside her. Aeschine was alone with her husband for the first time. Her husband... As they made their slow and stately procession down the corridor to the hall, Aeschine's hand placed formerly on her husband's arm, she beamed up at the lord, proud to be his wife, anticipating the joys of the wedding bed following the banquet that night. “I am glad you invited all the new villagers, milord, to help celebrate this day with us." “As many people as is possible must observe our bliss,” was her husband's rather cool explanation. Whatever was wrong? Aeschine fretted. She had not seen Sage since his proposal, but he had acted sweet and loving during the ceremony... What had happened? Was it something she had said? Done? What had changed Sage from the solicitous groom of a few moments ago to a distant stranger? No time to ask. From the brightly-lit hall, she heard their guests, chatting and laughing; the happy sounds spilled out into the corridor. She saw the troubadour just inside the portal. A signal from the warlord, and he would herald them into the banquet hall in jubilant welcome. Minstrels would begin to play their instruments then, and the dancing would begin. Aeschine felt the bubble of happiness swell within her chest. Sage took her elbow. “Over here,” he said and yanked her into a dark and narrow alcove. “Sage?” she questioned. “'Tis either fuck you here where there is some privacy or out there in the corridor. Why not collect what I paid for with the coin of my freedom?" Oh, God! Something was terribly wrong! How could he mean what he was saying? To make love directly outside the hall, in this little dark dreary corner where cobwebs hung from the ceiling, with the smell of mice droppings fouling the air! On their wedding day! She craved her husband's lovemaking with an unseemly anticipation, but to give way to passion here when their guests expected them to arrive promptly after the ceremony would give reason for speculation... “Do not play virgin bride with me,” he shouted for all to hear. Shame filled her. True, she was not a virgin, but still a bride's first time with her husband should be slow and rapturous, not sordid and hurried. With a curse, he fisted the veil that covered her hair, a bride's symbol of purity, and flung it to the floor.

Then, he went back to attack her dress, deliberately pulling at the modest square neckline, tearing at the laces, coldly and calculatingly, ripping the bodice until it gaped. Reaching inside, he fisted her fine linen shift and tore it down the center. Her teats spilled out. It mattered not. ‘Twas only a gown. Only a shift. Her concern was for him, her husband, the man she loved, the warrior she had only just wed. He kneaded and pinched and pulled on her elongated nipples until she thought she might cry out. When he took one in his mouth, she did scream then, the sounds of her intense pleasure echoing in the keep's cavernous corridors. The banquet hall went suddenly silent. As their guests listened, her new husband rucked her ruined gown up to her waist, and cried for all to hear, “Spread yourself for me, wife." When she had, with a loud grunt, he pushed aside his tunic, a hue so dark it might just as well have been black not blue, and rammed himself into her. She was wet, but still she gasped at his enormity, at his precipitous entry. She clung to him, legs now about his waist, head thrown back, ecstasy building and cresting as he pounded up into her, screaming as her joy exploded first, then listening to his abandoned shouts as he came next. He smiled. “You always scream at the end,” he said and put himself neatly to rights. She melted, disheveled, utterly boneless, against his chest. He gave her bare posterior an irreverent spank. “As usual, you were an excellent fuck. Now onto the wedding banquet." “Meet our guests like this? Never! I must make repairs. Wash, fix my hair ... Otherwise, everyone will guess the reason for our lateness." “Exactly,” he said, and pushed her forward. Her gown dropped to the floor. She wrestled the bodice up to cover her bare teats and held it there, as to the exultant notes of heralding trumpets, Sage presented his half-naked bride to the people of Cheviot Hills. “How could you disrespect me so?” she wept. “ ‘Twas necessary for the good folk of Cheviot Hills to know that the once celibate warlord is a complete rutting fool for his new bride. No one will think this marriage is forced." She frowned. “Forced?" “You are the betrothed of a pervert and a traitor, my dear. By order of the King, ‘twas either wed you or see you dead. Now, no one will question the motive for this travesty of a marriage. Everyone here, all of our guests, esteemed and humble alike, will know that the former celibate was so devoted to his little whore that he would not wait for the wedding night to consummate the union. The good people of Cheviot Hills will not know you are a warlord's bitter choice."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

She came to him in the middle of each day, carrying a buttercup or some other wild-growing springtime thing. Heath or heather, it mattered not to him; her company was what he craved. Sage made certain his private chamber was well lit, lest Aeschine trip and fall in the dark, and that a fire burning bright in the hearth warmed the room, lest she grow chilled. After the blossom, picked just for him, was installed in a watertight vessel, she would take a seat before his desk and untangle the mess he had made of the ledgers—sums were not his strong suit. That finished, they would converse about everyday matters. Then she would disrobe for him. Everything must come off. Stockings, shoes, everything. He was strict about this. After unbraiding her hair, she would stand before him naked while he sat back in a chair, totally absorbed in her glowing beauty. He never touched her, because the temptation was always there to take her, but he would look his full. “I love you so,” she whispered that day. “Why do you not let me satisfy you?" He shrugged. “You forget—I practiced celibacy when first we met; for years I had gone without intercourse." “You will never get the worth of your lost freedom this way! How will I ever recompense you for saving my life if you do not use me?" “'Tis not a question of your owing me, or my using you. Do not make me the ogre in this. I am no monster, Aeschine!" “I am heartened you have finally realized that!" “I have lost my control with you!” he raged. “When I consummated this unholy union, I tried to withdraw and failed. I spilled inside you. Only good fortune saw to it that you did not conceive." “I know you do not love me, but I have enough love for both of us, and I wish to be bred. I long to carry your son. Let me?" He bowed. “If you will excuse me? I have just recalled something I must do." “You may run, husband, but you cannot escape the truth,” she called after him as he raced from the chamber. Her husband was bound to suffer untold agony later as a result of not trusting in their love for one another. He loved her. But he would not admit, not even to himself, that he did. When would he understand that there is no impartiality in either love or loyalty? ****

Sage needed to talk with Peter.

He found the shepherd working at a rough-hewn table in his modest cottage, busy completing yet another order of the wolf traps he had invented. Sage dropped all subterfuge, all pretense and went to the core of the matter. “Do you love my wife, shepherd?" “Aye. I always have. Though ‘tis hopeless as she loves someone else. And you need not drop the rest of your dignity to ask who she loves for the answer is her husband, milord. Aeschine loves you." “The lady has loved many men..." “Not true. She may have had to submit to LaTourne but that does not make the lady a whore." “She is skilled on the bed furs..." “When did she have the training? She was but a child, and chaste, when she lived at her stepfather's keep. From the age of ten and two she was cloistered in a convent. The lady was to take religious vows—though she had no vocation, believe me—when her stepfather called her home to say her wedding vows instead." “Nun vows? What you tell me ... how is this true?" “Why would I lie?” Peter placed the unfinished trap aside and folded his sinewy hands on the table. “Because of her unconventional appearance and independent temperament, her stepfather deemed her unmarriageable. To rid himself of her, he imprisoned her behind the walls of a convent." “My wife is beautiful,” Sage contradicted the first point and disregarded the second as true but unimportant, before asking, “Which convent?" “Saint Mary's. She left the convent a week or so before her betrothal to LaTourne." Then, Aeschine had no involvement in his wife's murder; she was cloistered at the time of the attack! His wife might have vindicated herself to him! Why had she not? A convent kept records. He would dispatch someone to speak to the abbess and deliver the proof of her innocence to Rufus. He would see to it that his wife's name was cleared of all wrongdoing! ****

When Sage returned to the solar that eve, Aeschine was already there, sewing. A tunic for him. There was no greater proof of Aeschine's love than her voluntary use of needle and thread. Sage walked up to her chair. Dropped to his knees before the fire, he took the fine stitching from her hands. “I took your virginity in the cave. You had never lain with LaTourne or any other man before that night." “You know?" “Somewhere inside me, I think I always knew. Why did you do what you did?" “Self-preservation, mostly. ‘Twas either you or death."

“Such compliments! Are you not afraid to swell my head?" She gave a sad shake of her head. “I was escaping LaTourne the day that you abducted me. I would never have wed that killer! Never! You unknowingly aided my escape when you abducted me. Still, I would have chosen death had I not seen that look of lust in your sad eyes. Incredibly, that look was all for me! ‘Twas a gift, that lust. You saved my life then, Sage, and many times since." “I stole your innocence." “No theft, milord. I gave myself to you. I seduced you. LaTourne plotted to wed a virgin-bride of noble birth. He paid a huge sum for my maidenhead. But I decided to deprive him of the rape and at the same time spare unnecessary killings when my clan came to my rescue. I knew LaTourne would not come after me if I became your whore, and I knew my clan would expect a signal from me before they attacked. I sent no signal, and I let it be known that I was willing to bed you." “You might have escaped me at any time..." She smiled. “I escaped often enough from my stepfather's keep to become rather an expert at it. And as to defending my virtue against you..." She reached into her sleeve, took out the dirk she had pick-pocketed from DuFont, spun it about, and sent it sailing across the chamber. It pierced one of his clean tunics precisely at the level of the heart. “Let us just say that my aim is true and leave it go at that." She sat up straighter in her chair until she looked like a queen. “I say this only once, and I trust you never to speak of it or ask anything about it ever again: “I am leader of my clan, Sage. After my father's death, I was placed in the position of authority. Clan leadership was my inheritance, my right by default. Though I was cloistered at the time, and knew nothing about the invasion that took your wife's life, I alone must accept responsibility for those deaths. That is something I must live with for the rest of my life." His lungs filled with air. “Up until today, I was jealous of a dead man. I swear, I wished to take my cousin's head down from the pike on which ‘tis perched and use it as a jousting ball for I feared you enjoyed his touch more than you do mine. I am not a man easily frightened, but I tell you, I am fair petrified of the prospect of happiness." He held her hand, then lay his cheek atop their joined fingers. “It will not be easy. These are perilous times and I worry about hurting you. I am not the man I once was. The night terrors still possess me at times. You are not safe with me when they take hold." “Your nightmares are lessening, are they not?" “Aye, but only because they intrude on my dreams of you." “I am glad I intrude,” she said smugly. “I know I shall never replace your wife but... “Joan and I had a special relationship, and I loved her as a friend, but no more than a friend."

“Oh, Sage,” she said, softly. “I am so sorry for your loss. Friends are hard to replace." “Why, milady, did you not tell me that you resided in a nunnery at the time of that invasion?" “Because melancholy with anger and remorse, you sought revenge and I was desperate to have your need for retaliation ended with me. I am a Scots. I shall always be a Scots. I shall not betray my people either now or in the future. I love you, but you must understand that I am no traitor." “You are the most steadfast, the most loyal of women. With your help, we keep the peace here, Aeschine. Help me unite our peoples, at least here, in our own little kingdom. We will make something out of this keep. We will prosper. I promise you..." She placed her lips on his fingertips. “You need make me no further promises." CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Though wed for some time, Aeschine had decided in her mind that this eve was their official wedding night. The warlord waited in the solar. His lady entered the chamber, knowing full well that he was there. Crossing the rushes lightly, she untied the satin laces that joined the corners of her covering. Not acknowledging his presence, she shrugged her shoulders and let the garment fall where it might. Underneath, her silvery gown shimmered like the stars in the night. The gift he had given her months before was totally transparent, but modest in all other respects, covering her slenderness from collarbone to ankles below. If the sheerness of her garb was not sufficient to incite the warrior, her next actions were fool proof. Daintily, yet sensuously, she raised up the luminous hem to mid thigh and then beyond. When she heard his telling gasp, she climbed up on the high-topped bed where she knelt facing him. He moved only to breathe, while she swayed to the music inside her head, an erotic dance for him alone. When the silent melody ended, slowly and seductively, she reclined on the wolf pelts, her fair hair drifting across the furs. Only then did she raise both arms in greeting to her husband. But the warlord continued to hang back against the wall, unwilling to make that long trip across the floor. “Love me,” she invited. She smiled and relaxed into the softness under her back. “Please,” she pleaded, when he still moved not at all. “We'll make it right this time." Was it reluctance or something quite apart from that which made him hesitate, which caused his usually firm step to falter? Because falter it did on that long trip across the floor.

When finally he stood over her, his survey of her body was given as a challenge. She accepted it as such. Not about to be put off, yet aware of the chance she took, she extended her hand, linking her cool fingers with his much warmer ones. The darkness of his frown was her only answer and not the one she sought. “Come here,” she encouraged like she would with a child. “You are much too far away up there." The bed dipped, as almost resentfully, he sat next to her hip. Feeling the heat rising from his body, she knew she was winning at last. Soon, the hunger would consume them both. In a gruff tone edged with despair, he said, “If there was ever a lady willing to risk a second chance, ‘tis you." Their hands were still joined. A good omen, she thought. She spoke into his black gem eyes. “There is no chance here, no risk." A warning sharpened that raspy voice of his. “You cannot know that." She lowered her lashes in acceptance of the truth in his words. Except for their fingertips, they had yet to touch. They would though. They would touch. They would be lovers. It was their destiny, a wish made long ago in a cave and fulfilled this their wedding night. Suddenly, the warrior's indecision was finished. Taking hold of the transparent looseness of her gown, he pushed it down her pale arms to the elbow. He then went back to claim the rest, dragging the silvery cloth to her waist. His breathing had gone ragged; his touch was more demanding than gentle now. His strict control was shattering like a dream upon waking... She did not pull away. Not when desire burned like fire between them. Not when his mouth fed on the flame. He was the one who broke free to ask, “Are you afraid?" “I trust you,” she answered simply. At her words, he lifted her hips and sent the gown to the fragrant rushes. It lay there crumpled, a cloud of silver beside the bed as he stood to get himself undressed. “You are lovely. And I have not the strength to resist you." At his admittance, she let her limbs fall open; their vulnerability to each other was now complete.

“You, my witch, have cast a spell,” he whispered, sinking to his knees between the rich softness of her bent legs. “Do you read my mind now?" “I have no more magic in this than any other woman. I am a simple shepherdess; mind reading does not fall under my dominion. You must tell me what you think." He shook his head. “I tell you what I know, instead. I know I was wrong, Aeschine, and I beg your humble forgiveness for not treating you as the treasure you are. And make no mistake about this: I am begging. I am pleading. On my knees, as you see me, for your forgiveness. And I promise, nay I vow, that I love you with all that I am now and with all that I will ever be." “About time you told me too,” she said, and took him to her heart. And this time, her lover, her husband, her captor, came into her, breast to breast, belly to belly, breath to breath, sharing the joy. THE END About the Author:

Louisa Trent is happiest writing and so she writes all the time, even when the veggies are in need of peeling and the dust bunnies are in need of vacuuming. When she was far too young to contemplate anything as serious as marriage, she snatched up a boy with a sense of humor and led him right to the altar. Somewhere along the way, she picked up a couple of academic degrees which she uses each and every day, though certainly not in the way she intended to use them. Blessed with three funny sons and a husband who still makes her giggle, she lives in a quaint New England town in a messy home surrounded by flowers and laughter. Visit Louisa's website at: http://www.louisatrent.com Email Louisa at: [email protected]

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