His Captive Princess (7 page)

Now who’s proud?

If his pride didn’t kill him, her close presence would.

He slapped the oily salve upon his wound, relishing in the burn. The effect failed to pull his attention from the lovely redhead whose dexterous fingers worked in his hair and whose soft, full breasts rubbed his shoulder as she wove the strands. From her kneeling position, the hollow of her throat stood before his eyes, smooth skin beckoning for his exploration. Forgetting the bowl, his task, and everything around him, he reached for her. Sliding his hand around her alluring neck, he held her still.

“Warren—” Her eyes widened as she drew in a breath. She stiffened but did nothing to resist, nothing to contest him. Her chest rose and fell as she stared back at him, and her lips parted, exposing the glimmer of her tongue within, the beckoning of invitation.

But he would taste her skin first.

He leaned forward and buried his face beneath her chin, darting his tongue to the very spot that had been the focus of his attention these past few days. He licked the concave softness, relishing the vulnerable point—perhaps one of the few the brash young woman possessed.

Her hands dropped on his shoulders, and she whimpered.

Yearning overcame him, making him want to explore every inch of her body for more such places. He would not stop until he conquered them all.

Desire slammed through Eleri. Warren’s lips and tongue swept along the crevices of her neck, while his thumb passed up and down. Her heart beat like the feet of an ensnared hare. Panicked, she backed away to restore her pulse.

“Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Sayer—”

He peered over her shoulder briefly then reached for her again. “If we’re quiet, he’ll sleep well past dawn.”

She pulled from his hands even as waves of unearthly pleasure sprouted beneath his touch. “’Tis very wrong, and you know it. Let’s finish.”

His hungry gaze followed her as she moved to his other side. This time she kept more distance between them, stretching from afar to braid his hair.

He changed positions, his jaw clenching, but dabbed his fingers in the concoction without objection.

Idle conversation would surely help ease the tension between them. “Your hair is quite long, my lord.” She selected three small strands and set to work.

He rubbed the tincture in a circle around his wound. “My sister offered to shave my head, but I’ve found the length keeps the sun off. Helps cushion my helmet too.”

“You have a sister?” She imagined his eyes and hair on a beautiful young lady.

“And a half-brother, Dom. My sister Claire is ten.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m sure she meant well, but even if I wanted my hair short, I would not ask her. She cannot sit still for a moment. My brother and I took her fox hunting once. We came back with naught but saddle sores from trying to keep up with her palfrey and thorns in our legs from when she decided to chase a rabbit into the thicket instead.”

Eleri laughed, and he smiled. Sharing in the warmth of his story put a different sort of flame inside her. She eased behind him, starting a braid where she wouldn’t be tempted to stare into his dancing eyes.

He cleared his throat. “I have the wound covered, methinks. Verily, I will be green for days.”

“You’ve barely put it on at all. There’s still more in the bowl.” She smiled. Despite her better judgment, she crawled in front of him to wet her fingers in the bowl.

His skin glistened with the verdant color, making a perfect canvas she longed to fill.

Unable to stop herself, she put her moistened fingertip just beneath the cleft of his chin and made a curved line, creating a swirl around his neck. She repeated the stroke an inch lower. His skin was warm and smooth—a pleasure to touch—his chest rising and falling beneath her ministrations like a majestic warlord of old. She fell under a trance, certain she would be content to touch him thusly all day and night.

The next time she pulled away to re-moisten her fingers, Warren’s hand dropped on her thigh. Innocent enough…until she leaned over to trace a pattern beneath his neck and into the valley of his muscled chest. His thumb rubbed intimately across her pelvic bone, and his breath rushed out, stirring her hair. She met his gaze and found him watching her with a predatory look.

He might’ve been full, but wasn’t sated. His transparent hunger filled her with excitement.

He leaned forward slowly and took her willing lips. She opened her mouth and his tongue slid inside.

He built a rhythm with each stroke of his tongue, while his hand came to hold her side, just beneath her breast. She relaxed her tongue against his, savoring the expertise of the kiss and the sinful pleasure of his hand on her body. His touch was everything she knew she should not abide, and yet everything she craved. His fingers fanned across her breast, and she heard a sound escape her throat, only to be swallowed by his kiss. If he could make the rest of her body sing as well…

She shifted, giving him more of her breast for his exquisite handling. Vaguely she felt his movement as he set aside the medicine, and then his other hand flattened against the small of her back while he pushed deeper into her mouth. Guided by his actions, she leaned against him, wanting more, needing to feel his skin.

His hand eased down the slope of her back, cupping her buttocks. Gripping her, he moved back, pulling her atop him before he leaned on his elbows. The juncture of her thighs touched the hardened staff between his legs, and she jerked away in alarm.

“Warren—”

He put his finger against his lips, silencing her. Then, he settled back on the fur beside her. “Finish your healing. I won’t touch you, if you don’t want me to.” He slid his left hand into his breeches. Stroking himself slowly, back and forth, his gaze held hers.

Her heart jumped in her throat. She had caught her husband giving himself relief in such manner when he thought no one was around, but he’d never done so with the intention of her seeing.

For Warren to do so here? In her presence?

Ignore him!

He withdrew his hand to take hers and pulled it close until the turgid flesh beneath the material filled her palm. “You’re driving me mad. You see? ’Tis all I can do—” he broke off, swallowing.

She glanced back at Sayer. Still sleeping. Then she looked upon Warren’s face, his expression tight in the firelight. Light and shadows danced over his muscled form as he made himself more comfortable. Her unguent on his tan skin made him look primeval, raw and strong in the flickering firelight.

She yanked her hand from his, curling her fingers into her palm. To cover her lack of experience, she feigned interest in his scar and the taut muscle running over his chest, rippling over arms marked with other intriguing pale scars from long past. His motions drew her attention, however, as he stroked his flat stomach.

Fascinating
. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. She told herself it was the fire, but the real heat was coming from the man lying next to her.

Putting one arm behind his head as a pillow, he angled himself to watch her, leering as if he’d heard her thoughts as he continued to touch himself.

She dragged the bowl closer with a shaking hand and trembled as she applied the mixture in another swirl against his collarbone.

“Like what you see, Princess?” He laughed breathlessly.

Aye
, she longed to respond, but the scoundrel needn’t hear it from her lips.

“You tease me,” she accused in a tiny voice.

She took another dab of herbs and reached for his stomach, but his rough grunt stopped her.

“Move your hair off your shoulder,” he rasped.

Her gaze shot to his, and she found him snarling, his eyes hooded. He slid his hands beneath his waistline and pushed the fabric down his lean hips until his organ appeared, long and engorged.

Her hand shook as she did as he instructed, exposing her neck to him as she strained to keep her eyes fixed on his face and the upper half of his body. She didn’t want to think about the way he held himself, working as he admired her.

“Your skin is so pale against your hair. Beautiful. I imagine your thighs are, too, against your curls.”

Her breath caught at the candid remark, and she swayed mid-reach for him. Her legs parted in the movement, drawing his gaze.

He made a strangled sound in his throat. “I would chafe you there with my teeth. I’d like to see your skin flush. I’d chase it with kisses, then watch your eyes drift closed.”

She held her breath. Aware she’d allowed her eyes to do just that, she forced them open.

He bit his bottom lip. Then his knees bent and his hips canted. His hand followed his now-glistening cock to the dark hair at the base, and he groaned with his broad stroke.

“The way you’re looking at me, Eleri… One word from you, and I’ll haul you into the woods right now.”

Her gaze descended along his glistening torso as her stomach somersaulted. He was perfection, and he wanted her. She could have him with a word…

Guilt licked her cheeks as she sat frozen in indecision. Searching for something chiding to say instead, she moistened her lips, and Warren responded with a low growl that vibrated a chord deep inside her—a note of pleasure she wished he’d pluck again.

He panted, “Tonight, before you sleep, touch yourself and think of me and what I long to do to you.”

Her inner thighs ached at his suggestion, keening for fulfillment. Dare she do as he said? She wanted to.
Damn him!

His gaze locked with hers, dark as night and as unreadable as the man’s soul. Hard and fast, he convulsed with the explosion of his spilling seed, the final lash striping across his stomach.

She rose unsteadily, for the first time not brave enough to meet his eyes. Her shaky thighs felt damp with her own unrequited need as she made her bed on the opposite side of the fire. Mayhap that had been his intention all along—a cruel trick on his captor—making her lust when he knew she could not ease herself. It was almost as if he knew what she’d been denied in the marriage bed—passion—and he could so obviously provide it for whomever he wed.

But he was her enemy, was he not?

Whatever the cost, she
must
avoid touching him until they reached their destination.

She spread out a blanket and in doing so, glanced at the front of her tunic. A green handprint fanned across her breast, where the echo of its owner’s weight branded her again.

Chapter Seven

When the tidy stone walls and rooftop of the monastery appeared on the horizon, Eleri noticed that Warren’s shoulders relaxed, in contrast to Sayer, who exchanged a tense look with her. They had visited Bodin Abbey two years before when she had first moved south from her homeland with her betrothed, along with Nest. Now her friend rode ahead to greet the abbot’s gatekeeper and let the monks know they were travelers from Deheubarth and not a band of brigands come to plunder.

Sayer would also inquire about Lord Vaughn or Gareth, in case they’d arrived ahead of them. She prayed their foes were long gone.

She had already washed and combed her braids out, and had donned her feminine bliaut beneath her cloak, making herself as Christian as she could in case they met any monks along the road. Gerald de Gernon, the abbot, disapproved of the ancient ways of the Cymry, but he found her reputation for ethereal visions even more repugnant. His welcome wouldn’t be warm.

Upon seeing Sayer’s wave to them, Eleri and Warren drew closer to the gate. She became aware of Warren’s horse lagging behind her—the first time she’d been alone in the man’s presence since their intimacy the night before. She hadn’t been able to sleep, recalling what she’d witnessed, remembering the ecstasy of his kisses on her skin and his comment about what he wanted to do with her.

Madness
. If she’d only been of her right mind, she would’ve scolded him for his actions, or at least left him alone to his pleasures. But she hadn’t. She’d been too enraptured by his release, too spellbound. And now she only wanted to experience more.

“Princess,” he hissed suddenly, his voice cool behind her, sending a quiver down her back. “You said we would be staying at an abbey, but you didn’t say whether it was Welsh or not.”

“Does it matter, my lord?” She kept her gaze fixed ahead.

“Aye. It does if it’s Norman. Tell me this is not a French order.”

The solemn architecture became more apparent as they approached the four stone buildings behind the wall. Romanesque with arched entries, the abbey was a far cry from the crude tribal fortresses and wooden buildings at Castell Dinefwr and the Glamorgan coast.

“I would think you’d be glad to see a familiar Savigniac house.” She watched him from the corner of her eye.

He stiffened, his hands tightening on the reins. “You mean to hide my identity amongst French monks?”

Eleri smiled to cover her trepidation. Mayhap she’d gone too far this time. Mayhap he would turn on them.

She allowed herself another glimpse of the man. Pride and righteous anger hardened his expression. Beneath his unshaven chin, he wore a layer of pagan medicine running down his neck to disappear beneath Sayer’s borrowed tunic. That, along with the braids in his hair, seemed a waving emblem of Welsh dissonance and rebellion against all things Christian, Norman and civilized. She’d marked him as the enemy of the Church, and now the wary brothers would doubt him if he claimed otherwise.

She prayed he would not retaliate with violence. Not only would he be a difficult adversary, but she also didn’t wish to kill him. They’d saved each other’s lives, after all.

“You forgot one thing.” He smirked.

“I did?” Her brows went up.

“When I speak, they’ll know I’m not your kind.”

She mirrored his aloof expression. “Oh, but you won’t speak. You’re my captive. Know your place, Warren. We’ll say you’re a mute.”

After a pause, considering, he finally nodded. “If I cannot speak to them, I also cannot speak to you. So be it. But…I’ll need another name. You cannot call me Warren de Tracy.” He glanced at the white-robed priest at the gate, and his eyes narrowed.

Eleri rubbed her temple where a headache had begun. He had agreed too readily. He didn’t
want
to be recognized. Being an excommunicated Templar would make him ashamed, of course, but she felt it was more. Something else made him hide from these countrymen.

What if it had something to do with his assassin? Might the monks also consider him an enemy of the crown?

She would have to make inquiries later.

“Your name will be Yorath. You were shot fighting the Normans.”

He didn’t agree or disagree.

She added a serious note to her voice. “If you attempt to ask for help from the monks, Sayer and I will be forced to remove you from here, and they are…
unarmed
.”

“You would shed their blood? I think not, Eleri. You’re not cruel.” He smiled. “Still, I’ll pretend as you wish. ’Twill be a pleasure watching you handle yourself amongst other foreigners. No matter how uncomfortable you might find the clothes you’re wearing now, you look more presentable. Almost like a woman.”

She frowned, but refused to take his bait. “Unlike your army, these monks are here by invitation under a charter of good terms. They’re not invaders. And they’re certainly not trying to subdue my countrymen by killing our husbands and marrying our widows.”

She dismounted and straightened her clothing as Abbot Gerald strolled across the lawn toward her with Sayer at his elbow.

Warren leaned down and captured her shoulder beneath his gloved hand. Startled by his sudden touch and the current of warmth his strength sent coursing through her, she glanced up with a gasp.

He whispered, “That’s not my intention either. I’m not your enemy, Eleri.”

Releasing her, he swung down from Bane in one graceful swoop, while Abbot Gerald extended a hand to her. The priest’s eyes widened a fraction upon seeing the tall, unfamiliar Deheubarth warrior close behind her, but he quickly recovered, welcoming her with a practiced expression.

The travelers were ushered into the courtyard where monks took the horses to be fed and watered. Then the party was divided. Warren was taken to his berth in the stables—far from the skittish monks—while she and Sayer were told to follow Brother Allard to sleeping accommodations in the cells before supper later that evening.

Unease filled her at leaving Warren. These were his people, and he could still ask for their help. If not in protection, perhaps in aiding his escape. It would only take one monk to lead him to the Norman castle he sought.

But Warren had shown he wasn’t willing to go there without her. He’d been ordered by his ruler to marry her.
Stupid, arrogant king!
And if he returned empty-handed, without his men, he would be humiliated.

So he stayed for her.

But what did he hope to accomplish? Surely he didn’t expect she would swoon at his touch and accept his marriage troth.

Not her enemy? Nay, but she still felt unsettled in his company.

At last, left alone by the monks as she and Sayer stood outside the wooden doors of their rooms, Eleri dropped her cloak’s hood back from her hair.

“What news did the abbot share with you?”

He sighed, rolling his big shoulders. “We’ll be safe here. Abbot Gerald said Lord Vaughn and his men arrived before us, but they left. If the gods favor us, they’ll not realize we’re riding behind them.”

“How long can we stay? Nest needs at least six days to return from Dinefwr with news.”

“We’re allowed to stay a fortnight, but the Templar, er,
Yorath
, must keep to himself in the stables, and,” he hung his head, mumbling, “the monks will bring food and ale to your room, as well. You’re not welcome in the great hall.”

Their religion left no room for superstition and the otherworldly magic of Mother Earth, while Eleri lived as her father did—with one foot in each, respecting both Christian and pagan beliefs.

She pinched her lips together, feeling bitter but not surprised. “’Twill be a relief to not endure their stares.”

Two days passed with no news, until any diversion became welcome for Eleri. On the night of the second day, she awoke to the sound of male voices speaking in tones so soft they were nearly carried away by the north wind outside her tiny chamber. Verily, the white monks. Once during the time of their stay, she’d left her cell to walk to the courtyard for a few moments of sunshine, but the sight of the brothers’ scowls of disapproval had her returning to her room, furious and insulted. So she’d tolerated the chilly room with its poorly constructed walls and the cold that seeped in to stir around her bed while she tried and failed miserably to sleep without wondering about her captive.

Left alone in the stables, would Warren be able to keep his promise to not utter a word? Or would he break like a coward and beg the abbot’s help to return him to his people?

Sayer, being the good friend he was, had visited each day, but each night he chugged down the abbey’s ale and then slept next door like a log. He wouldn’t be awake at this late hour, nor would he hear the murmurs of the soft-spoken monks.

She pulled her wool cover from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders to go and see what the commotion was about.

Upon her approach, a pair of priests seated on a stone bench ended their conversation, a swirl of Norman words. Wide-eyed, they sprang to their feet.

“Forgive us, Princess. We didn’t mean to wake you,” the taller monk said quickly in her tongue.

“Aye.” The other priest’s head bobbed, as he stared at the ground. “Our apologies. We were just returning from matins.”

She forgave them, and no sooner had the words left her mouth, the pair scattered in opposite directions, leaving her alone in the darkened yard.

Eleri sighed and dropped to the vacant bench. Sadly, even conversing with the dour monks would’ve been preferable to spending another evening alone. Now the long open walkway was completely empty. She braced her elbows on her knees and propped her chin in her hand. Usually she spent her sleepless hours waiting on the watery spirits to name the dying, but she could not commune with the
cyhyraeth
without the monks knowing.

“What did the priests say to you just now?”

Her stomach flipped, hearing Warren’s low, silky voice whispering in the darkness. She turned in his direction, but saw nothing in the shadows. How long had he been standing there watching the priests…or her door? “Nothing. You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Why? What’s wrong with the mute venturing out at night?” He sauntered into the moonlight and sat beside her.

Her side tingled from the warmth of his presence. She pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Shhh. They might hear. Besides, they’re very intimidated by your presence.”

“And yours, ’twould seem. I think they would’ve jumped out of their robes if you’d threatened them.” He leaned closer until his arm brushed hers, and gave her a half-smile. “Your herbs are like a plague on my skin. I scrubbed half the afternoon, and the smell is still there. But…they’re all abed now. It’s just us. Would you like to know what these two were saying before you came outside?”

She felt her face blanch. “Eavesdropping, my lord? Go on, what did they say?”

“Apparently they believe your pagan soul is lost to the devil and that you speak to the dead.” His voice held no humor or sarcasm, only contemplation—almost reverence. He took her hand and folded his around it. His warmth spread through her—a most comforting sensation, but he stared distractedly at his knees. “Of course I didn’t believe them, but there are those who would appreciate that ability. Myself included. To be able to speak to the departed one last time…”

Regret filled his voice. She squeezed his hand, and his gaze lifted to hers. “’Tis more a curse than a gift.”

Astonishingly, he didn’t argue against her ability. Instead, he drew her hand to his mouth and warmed her frigid fingers with his breath. “You know, I
do
regret that I didn’t learn your language, Eleri.”

“Why? Do you feel left out of my conversations with Sayer?”

He looked up, staring at her for a long moment. “Nay. If I’d understood Welsh, I would’ve known the words the traitor had used when we arrived, misinforming your people that we were there to do you harm.” He then bent to her ear and whispered, “Do you think if I were Welsh, you would agree to marry me?”

She smiled, glad to be done talking about the dead. “Nay. My father only gave me to Owain because he was prince of the territory he wished to control. When you meet Father you’ll understand. He’s a very proud ruler but fair. The Aberffraw family is descended from Rhodri the Great, so I’m expected to marry royalty.”

A wolfish grin spread on his face. “Ah.
Tres bien
.” He drew her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Would it help my offer of an alliance between us if I told you my father was a king?”

Eleri reeled back, tugging her hand free to cradle against her chest. “You jest, Norman, but ’tis no joke. All of my sisters were wed to princes. I was the last to wed, waiting whilst my father searched for the best match. I could’ve died a maiden.”

His eyes searched hers for a long moment, leaving her to wonder at his thoughts. She wished she’d kept her candor to herself. Speaking of matters of the bedchamber with such an experienced man made her hot with embarrassment.

“I wish I were jesting.” He sighed after a length. “There were several of us born to different royal mistresses. Mine, Gieva de Tracy, bore Henry two children, including myself. My father acknowledged my little sister’s birthright, but died before acknowledging me. Though after everything…I am for certes he never would’ve claimed me as his son if he’d lived to be a hundred.” He shrugged.

There was nothing but honesty in his words and his resigned demeanor.

Her breath rushed out as horror washed over her. “Oh Goddess! I’ve kidnapped a king’s son!”

“A bastard son,” he said lightheartedly. “And now another king, my cousin, sits upon my father’s throne, so you see I have royal blood, but again naught else to recommend me, except…that which I’ve fought for.”

He leaned back and the shadows hid his face. Eleri longed to see him better, to search his expression at the moment. She recalled his body: the scars, dark skin, muscles and calluses of a knight—aye, he’d fought hard.

“I’m sorry, Warren,” she whispered.

Sorry his father had passed away so recently, leaving him without making peace…sorry she’d treated him as a marauding villain, and…