Loveweaver (23 page)

In sight of Haesten’s fortress, one hundred Saxon tents had sprung up near the shore. Better accommodations would be had on the ships, their sails transformed to awnings, with wooden decks a preferable place for the higher-ranked to lie than on wet grass or mud. Indeed, just above Slayde, the foxhead sail tented a portion of his ship, the corners tied back allowing his view. His co-captains, Eadwulf and all thegns, divested of their helmets and armor, began to retreat to the vessels for the day’s end rest. Warriors milled about now their duties were through. Weapons in hand, sentries kept watch. The aroma of vegetable/barley potage arose from caldrons on fires, while a pipe player took up a melancholy tune.

He hesitated before awakening Llyrica, a sight too beautiful to disturb. His memory returned to their night of the ladder, to her sweet and ardent response to the sleepwalker. Now the StoneHeart would shatter her serene repose, demand to know for what purpose she had come. Turmoil would flare in her eyes, condemning him for using the sleepwalker for his own gain. Yet if he was lucky, she would not rightly charge him with denial of his true feelings, of hiding behind the facade of a night malaise.

In preparation for eventide, Slayde put his small torch in its bracket on one of the crutches that supported the dismantled spar. He leaned down long enough to give Llyrica’s shoulder a gentle nudge and set a bowl of potage on the deck. “Llyrica, arise. Eat while the food is hot.” 

She jerked to a sit and blinked up at Slayde, as she seemed to recall her whereabouts. A slim silhouette, she was haloed by the blaze of sunset behind her. Slayde’s vision adjusted, made out the perfect contours and colors of her face. Her eyes assessed him, did not at once show anger as he had expected, but compassion as she surely read the weariness in his body and spirit. It was so like Llyrica, a gentle creature, generous with her affections. Affections that Slayde had been taught could destroy a man.

A tender crease formed between her brows and she rested her hand on the upper swell of her left breast. “Come lay your head here and forget this bloody day.”

An unexpected blow, her invitation struck him hard, knocked the air from him. She was cool water to sunburn, its shock felt at first touch, a healing comfort to follow.

Yea, I wish it beyond imagining.
He glanced over his shoulder briefly. “You know I cannot.”

The want in his voice was ill disguised, but Llyrica’s features became pinched when he had looked to see if his second or another witnessed his dealings with her. Ailwin indeed watched from a far campfire, his disapproval evident in his erect posture and hands fisted on his hips. Others, not near enough to hear what was said, flicked curious glances toward Llyrica. Oddly, the majority of StoneHeart’s army reported the Songweaver’s presence was considered an omen of good fortune. Rumors had also begun circulating about her tie to Broder.

“Nay, indeed.” Sarcasm etched Llyrica’s voice. “When the world watches, a wounded man should set himself on his feet and
walk it off.
Is that not what you tell little Elfric?”

“There are no marks on me, no need to cry on your breast in front of my men.”

She raised an eyebrow at his cutting tone. “Oh, I should not expect you to come down upon me now. I should think you would wait and come to me as the sleepwalker. In your convincing portrayal of a lover, you might persuade me to do almost anything.”

Day lingered ... the sun hovered above the horizon. The StoneHeart still controlled the man. “Yet it seems you were not induced to share with me that your long lost brother is now at the forefront of Haesten’s stronghold. Not did you divulge your ill-conceived scheme to threaten the success of my campaign and endanger your own life! Do not prate at me, vixen, about persuasion. You are the one to first trick me into marriage, then a seduction of consummation. And now what? You declare you fear your father and hide from him for sixteen years. But once you have me,
and my army
at your disposal, you march straight to his door! I demand answers for this!”

Tears sparkled in Llyrica’s eyes. “Yet if I had not marched to his door, you would have delivered me there yourself! A cunning one you are, with sweet methods at night that soon reveal your treachery by day.”

This battle of words left no room for denials. “Then I am a worthy match for you, dame! Whether under my power or yours, you have found yourself at Haesten’s fortress, your intention all along, I think. But what part does your brother play from within?”

“My questions number as many as yours. He is here of his own doing, independent of mine.  I have come here on my mother’s behalf and because of her death by Haesten’s hand. I made her a promise to somehow avenge her years of living in fear of him!”

Slayde’s chest ached. By God, it now became clear. While her affection and desire for him seemed genuine, Llyrica had snared him for a single purpose. “Then I cannot but guess that you wish to have this battle between my army and Haesten’s fought for
you
!”

His statement made her start and her eyes widen as if with a realization. She grew still and pale, looked down at her hands clenched in fists in her lap, an odd concession. “You are exactly right. It is the very thing, though I - I did not foresee it as I should have.” 

Her admission did not sit well with Slayde, but not because she had used him. Nay, she conveyed a suffering that equaled his own and needed quieting as much as his. But frayed nerves and fatigue left him without command of himself and he could not near aspire to the tenderness of the sleepwalker she needed. StoneHeart must suffice. He was at the mercy of a fierce arousal, provoked by the heated blood of combat. It now engulfed him in an inferno of desire. The scent of ginger and his craving for comfort governed his every move.

His men’s observation of the argument suddenly did not matter, nor did their opinions, which could mar his reputation. Slayde reached up and yanked the rope to lower the tent sides. The torch flame convulsing briefly with the gust it created. Enclosed now with Llyrica, he unbuckled his belt and threw aside his sword. Outside, the sun slipped behind a distant cornfield. The colors of the sky would soon mute to a palette of aqua and peach, with trails of thin clouds painted in misty lavender. Moonless, the night promised only darkness.

Llyrica gasped when Slayde scooped her up and captured her lips with a scorching kiss. Ripe peach, soft as silk, they drugged him, muted the roar of battle. His thirst was vast, and he drew from her sweet spring, drinking her sigh of surrender. How light she was in his arms, her slight figure belying the power she had over him. He mated his mouth with hers, tasting the first hint of forgetfulness, felt the first rush of solace. Lifting his head, he met her aqua eyes, round with silenced questions.  In a jolting stride, he carried her to the hold and dropped them in. Emptied of supplies and prepared for sleep, it had been lined with furs. It was upon these, he urged Llyrica to her back and claimed her under his weight.

“Oh, God, StoneHeart. I will not bear this again.”  Her words came as a throaty sob. “You use your frustration at the world as an excuse to touch me.”

Her truth was like a spear tip to a fresh wound. “Aye, ye will bear it.” He moaned as their bodies pressed together. “For I must have your breast after all.”

Slayde lowered his head to rub his cheek against its fullness, nuzzling into the refuge of her silk-covered orb. The other he possessed with a firm grasp and a rough fingering of her nipple.

A burning at his scalp, Llyrica’s soft hands gripped his hair to pull him closer. “I have only the excuse of a woven spell that bids me to submit. A sweet word, Slayde. I pray but one from thee.”

His name on her lips seared him. From StoneHeart’s fear of failing as a man’s man, he wrung out what he wanted her to hear. “You must know I would never put you in harm’s way. Only God knows how much I need you.”

  She sucked in a stuttered breath. “If you do need me, then I shall be your asylum.”

This giving place she would take him was in sight. Slayde arose slightly to work at her shoulder brooches, a quick removal of these silver locks to her bare flesh. He unpinned one, and then the other was impatiently pulled away to the sound of tearing silk and Llyrica’s futile objection. Her weaving tools and vial clinked as the brooches were tossed aside and her cyrtel peeled back. A warrior’s fumbling at the neck of her cemes gained the release of the drawstring and the uncovering of Llyrica’s upper torso. Ivory skin shone unflawed in the torch light under the tent. The OnyxFox, half on and half off the water, swayed seductively.

Like a starving man offered bread, Slayde fell upon her breasts, supped on them with consuming kisses. His heart hammered violently as he used her softness, seeking to quiet the horror of the past hours. He drank deep and long, felt the burn of tears in his eyes. Llyrica writhed beneath him, inhaling sharply if he bit too hard or drew on a nipple too voraciously. Breathy, melodic, her little noises were music to his soul, spurred him to seek the moist, warmth between her legs, to stroke her there, entice more songs of healing. Ah, she was so soft, the feel of her feminine heat driving him to the edge of oblivion.

Llyrica seemed impelled to inflict a fury of her own, reaching between them to torture his desire with a hard caress. Her gifted hand unloosed his braccas, freed his erection, taking it in a tight grasp. She ran her thumb over his passion-slicked tip, moaned her approval.

Slayde clenched down on his control lest he spill into her palm. “
Holy Christ.
” He jerked Llyrica’s cyrtel and cemes to her waist, and caught her blessed hand with his to pin it beside her head. A parting of her thighs, a swift and forceful impalement, and he was inside her. The corridors of softness contracted around the hard girth of his need, made him groan from the agonizing pleasure of it. His withdrawal to lunge again brought a whimper from Llyrica, an inducement to caress her tender nib and arouse her to the height of intensity that he endured. Rhythmic stroking wrought Llyrica’s fevered cries and thrusting hips, the shattering of his valiant effort to maintain control. A lost cause, Slayde was lost to his need to bury himself in her soft comfort. He gave in to selfishness, pumped mercilessly until the pressure swelled to the bursting point. Llyrica moved again, drawing Slayde deeper. His release detonated, a blinding, mind-numbing explosion of the senses. Llyrica muffled a cry, jerked beneath him, and fell limp. Nearly immobilized by spent passion, Slayde gathered the last of his strength to clasp Llyrica closer and roll them side by side. He kissed her until he had to pull away from her lips, bereft of air, gasping as if just saved from drowning.

An eternity passed before he could speak. Endearments raced through his mind, phrases expressing gratitude, fulfilled longings, and tributes to Llyrica’s beauty. Concessions to love lingered on his tongue, but speaking them yet proved a surrender too risky to make. A confession formed, though, one he felt would be safe in Llyrica’s embrace.

“This is neither the sleepwalker who now holds you, nor StoneHeart. I am just a man.” 

A blessing, she nestled closer. “Yea, I know it.”

Just a man.
Since the day he had pulled Llyrica from the water, Slayde dared dream of living a different sort of life. He had envisioned freedom from organizing military campaigns and collecting Viking taxes from Saxon citizens. He imagined a time when he would no longer count his victories by the number of nocks on the blade of his sword. Or strain to measure up to Ceolmund’s impossible expectations of manhood. But logic bore a blunt view of reality. Deeply engrained were his tendencies, habits formed of long years. He had blood on his hands from a career he had not chosen, some spilled this very day.

I do not know who I will be if I am not who my father raised.

Even if he finished with Haesten and ignored convention to run off with a Viking warlord’s daughter, he did not know what kind of man he would be with her. The part he played as the sleepwalker did not ring wholly true to his nature and could not be maintained throughout every hour of a day.
StoneHeart will always follow hard on my heels.

Yet all of these worries were moot. Llyrica would not want him after growing weary of his unsettled countenance and would likely turn to a man like Canute.

Ceolmund was right. A woman of softness had rendered Slayde weak and vulnerable, no longer sure of himself. His army camped outside of this tent depending on his absolute command. Yet here he lay within, at the mercy of emotion, pondering how to mesh the StoneHeart of day with the sleepwalker of night. Weeks stretched ahead of pursuing Haesten, yet Slayde questioned whether he could muster the incentive to continue.
Help me God. I am lost. Lost.