The Barbarian (8 page)

"Take the
braids down," he repeated firmly, his eyes never leaving her face.

With a sigh she
sat back on her heels, dropped the rag and raised her hands to unpin the
braids. They fell heavily over her chest. He grabbed the nearest one and tugged
until she slid closer to the bath. A wild look came into his eyes as they
heated up again, losing the softer blue grey, returning to steel. White hot
steel.

"Untie the
braids. I want to see it loose."

****

Water lapped at
the sides of the bath and when he pulled on her braid again, some ripples
splashed over the edge, wetting her gown and the ends of her hair. In the
firelight her long, thick, wavy locks were a blend of copper and bronze,
although in daylight he'd thought it was chestnut, almost the color of a
favorite horse he once had. He wanted it undone and over her shoulders. He
needed to smell it, feel it against his lips, tangle his fingers in it.
Elsinora's hair was like a golden field of wheat in harvest, but this woman's
hair was darker, holding mysteries. Whenever he thought he knew what to call the
color, it changed again.

She was a
beautiful woman, more so now that she lowered her drawbridge and her pride
enough to touch him. For all the rumors about Amias of York, he'd expected a
fire-breathing dragon with scales. Perhaps her looks had lulled other men into
a comfortable foolishness and thus, when they experienced her wrath, they were
caught off guard. Well, he was one up on the other men already. She had not
been able to fool him for even a moment, but came out with claws raised,
spitting poisoned arrows.

Before, when she
sat in the hall with him, she was very upright, poised, haughty. It would be
hard for her to remain so, he'd thought, if he asked her to bathe him. He was
right.

Sometimes, he
mused, he did have a good idea.

The woman may not
be entirely certain about their truce, but she was considering it. Stryker
would simply have to persuade her of the advantages to be had in a peaceful,
convenient marriage. She thought him an uncivil, primitive beast, but this
beast could teach her about pleasure. From the way her body responded to his
touch, she was ready to learn. They may not have love, but then few married
couples were that fortunate. A sensible marriage was forged for land and coin.
Sexual attraction was a bonus and an agreeable surprise in this case. He only
hoped it was mutual. Hard to tell with a grass-green maiden.

Now she complied
reluctantly with his command to untie her braids, her long, elegant fingers
pulling impatiently on the threads of bronze as if they mortally offended her,
simply because they pleased him. Once the last knot was separated, Stryker
instructed her to continue washing him with the rag, while he reached out and
wrapped her loose, silken locks around his fingers.

His balls
tightened and his cock stretched another inch or so, filling with desire. He'd
caught her glancing at his manhood a few times. "You may touch it,"
he said softly. "Unlike you, it does not bite, Lady Amias."

She threw him a
quick frown and then sneezed so heartily he felt the bathtub shake. "Thank
you. I'll decline the offer for now."

Stryker leaned his
head back and laughed. He knew that as he stretched languidly, splashing water
over the edge of the tub, his shaft arched above the surface. A sly check
through half-lowered eyelashes proved that she'd glanced at it again.
"'Tis eager for your touch," he assured her throatily.

"Stop doing
that," she murmured.

"Doing what,
my lady?"

"Making it
... move ... and grow."

He opened his eyes
fully. "I do not make it happen. My cock has a mind of its own. 'Tis
curious about your pretty virgin pussy and wishes to make friends, Lady Amias.
You and I may be at odds. They need not."

"You are too
coarse," she exclaimed, looking over at the screen that shielded them from
other folk in the cookhouse.

"The kitten
and the cockerel want to play," he whispered.

Despite her verbal
protests, she was plainly fascinated by his erection. Her hand continued to
move the wash rag around it. Venturing a little closer each time.

Was that a
slightly sinister smile pulling on her reluctant lips? No, she would not give
it to him. He'd have to pry it out of her.

"Tell me
something about Amias of York," he said. "Something I do not already
know."

"That is a
broad subject. The things you do not know are many."

Cocky wench! She
thought she was clever, had sneered at him for not being able to read or write.
In her eyes he was uncivilized. Compared to other men she'd known he probably
was. But however rough his manners, Stryker was not stupid. His wisdom was
merely of a different kind to the sort she recognized. "I know this, my
lady—you are one and twenty and have been rejected four times by other men.
Why?"

She blinked, paled
a little. There was a tense movement she made when she tightened her lips. He'd
noticed it earlier when she spoke of chores. Stryker knew he must have shocked
her with such a direct question.

Eventually she
said, "They found me lacking in tenderness."

It took her so
long to come up with her answer that he doubted the veracity of it. "What
else should I know of you then, Amias?"

She considered for
a while, drawing the washrag back and forth through the water. "There is
nothing of import to tell."

"Tell me
unimportant things then."

"No."
She shook her head and sat back on her heels again. Withdrawing to a safer
distance. She was skittish and wild as a fox, he mused, and probably just as
dangerous when cornered.

"If it will
put you at ease, I can tell you something about myself. Something that will
make you laugh."

Her eyelashes
lifted; her wary, quizzical gaze sought his face. "I won't laugh."

Stryker cradled
the back of his head with both hands and propped his knees over the other end
of the tub. "I fell out of a hayloft once and cracked my head open."

She frowned.

"It
mended." He tapped a fist to his temple. "But I saw double for a
time." He grinned. "And walked sideways like a crab."

No response. Just
a mystified expression.

Well, he thought
it was funny.

"And I fell
off a horse when I was fourteen, trying to impress a girl by leaping a hedge. I
landed face first in a cowpat."

The woman turned
her face away and then fumbled in her rolled up sleeve for a kerchief.

"When I was
sixteen I proposed marriage to a glassblower's pretty daughter in Marazion. But
when I sobered up I discovered that slender beauty was six foot tall with
shoulders fit to pull a plow and his name was Ned."

Amias held the
kerchief to her face as if suddenly overtaken with another sneeze. One that did
not fully materialize and sounded more like a hiccup.

"Your
turn," he prompted.

She wiped her nose
and sniffed. "I can shoot the eye of a target from two hundred
paces."

Impressed, he
smiled. "What else?"

"I had a pet
toad when I was twelve. My favorite color is black. I once ate an entire pigeon
pie on a dare."

He arched an
eyebrow. "What else?"

She sighed, took a
breath, wound her kerchief in a knot. "A soothsayer told my mother that I
would be a boy and so she chose the name Armand. I was a great disappointment,
naturally. I cried so much as a babe that the nurse put me out in a basket one
night, hoping a wolf would take me."

He'd expected a
rehearsed list of accomplishments along the lines of embroidery and cooking,
but this was far more interesting. "And did it?"

"I am still
here, am I not?"

Watching her
steady expression he couldn't be sure whether she fibbed about the wolf story.
"What else?" he pressed again.

"I am not
afraid of the dark."

Of course not; her
favorite color was black.

One hand still
wrapped in her hair, he reached down with the other and ran his fingers down
the length of his penis, cupped his balls and then invited her again to touch
him.

"I explored
you earlier. Now 'tis your turn." He was hot for this woman, intrigued by
her. She kept herself aloof. No, she was not afraid of the dark, but she feared
to smile, to laugh before him. He wanted to know the secrets she held onto so
tightly.

Her haughty,
imperious gaze stroked his manhood and it was almost as arousing as her soft
clean fingers would be. When he licked her to orgasm in the forest earlier that
day he had denied himself the full pleasure of spending. All the way home, with
her body slung across his lap, he was hard as a rock. But whatever she thought
of him—whatever names she called him— he would not take her by force.
Consequently he'd suffered all evening, trying to ignore the need. Failing.

Now his balls
ached. He knew he must have release before the day was out.

Since she refused
to touch him, he would pleasure himself. He gripped his shaft and began to work
it in the familiar way, making waves that splashed up again and further wet the
front of her gown.

"What are you
doing?" she demanded, her eyes following the motion, her fingers withdrawn
from the water and curled around the edge of the tub.

"What does it
look like?" he grunted with a terse laugh, concentrating on her lips, his
hand moving faster. "What happens if a cow is not milked regularly?"

She shook her
head, shoulders lifted.

"It gets
ill-tempered and sore," he said. "And the teats leak, wasting
milk."

Amias pouted in
disbelief, her lips gathered tight as the strings of a miser's purse.

"The same as
it is for a woman's breasts when she's nursing. See?" He showed her the
bead of liquid dripping from his seed hole. "A man needs milking
too."

"I never
heard of such a thing."

Stryker resumed
his masturbation, while she watched, the waves of her thick hair loose over her
shoulders, an abundant autumnal display that seemed as bright now as the fire
in the cookhouse hearth.

"Does it
hurt?" she asked.

"Yessss."
Stryker looked down at his aching, bulging cockhead and longed to feel lips
around it. Pussy or mouth. His fist was adequate but never as good as those
other choices. The thick veins of his warrior were clearly outlined now, the
helmet dark and swollen.

"Stop
then."

"I can't.
Look. Touch it," he gasped, feeling the rush of heat build to a tumultuous
pressure, the fountain ready to gush.

With one hand she
reached out and her fingertips trailed over his crest. It was all he needed. A
stream of white seed shot out and startled her. She fell back with a small yelp
of alarm, but kept watching as he pumped the last of that pent up cream high
into the air.

His shoulders
falling back into the water, he laughed. Well, she was definitely an
inexperienced virgin. The thought pleased him, although until now he was never
troubled by a woman's previous sexual adventures. This wench would be solely
his. He would be her first lover and her last.

"You wasted
your milk," she observed wryly, looking at some of it splattered on her
gown.

"That is your
fault."

"Why? What
could I have done?"

He eyed her
lazily, his body relaxed now as he sank lower into the cloudy water.
"Taken my seed into you."

"You promised
my uncle not to breach my maidenhead until the wedding night."

"No
matter." Stryker grinned. "There are other avenues to that pleasure."
He brought his hands out of the water and swept them back over his hair.
"You could have taken me in your mouth."

She eyed him
skeptically again.

"You could
have drunk from me," he explained, "as I drank from you today."
He had not known many inexperienced, shy women when it came to sex, he
realized. Out here they bred them lusty and forward. But this woman must have
been raised in a sheltered environment. She was a proper lady, not a plump
little mud-lark he might tumble in the hayfield while she giggled and thought
it an honor. In this woman's eyes she did
him
the honor.

Perhaps she was
right, he mused. Perhaps he was nothing more than a barbarian who got lucky.
Her dew, when he tasted it earlier, was sticky and sweet as honey, her skin the
softest he'd ever felt under his palms. It took all his willpower to keep from
claiming her fully that afternoon in the forest. And Stryker did not possess a
vast deal of willpower. The sooner this wedding took place the better if she
truly meant to cling to her maidenhead, because he wasn't sure how much longer
he could wait.

"But of
course," he added with a sigh, "you are a lady. I cannot expect you
to behave like a whore. Our coupling is for duty's sake, not for desire."