The Captive (24 page)

The broad chest of her master brushed lightly over the full swollen and arched mounds of her breasts each time he lifted his magnificent body to plunge into her. At each plunge she tautened her softness around his rigid flesh, caressing it and welcoming it in. He smiled down into her sapphire pools and seemed to sink into them, like a drowning man.

His plunges became more vibrant, more vigorous and she rose up to them. Her own surge took her by surprise. It seemed to lift her far above the dappled forest and, suddenly, he was with her. She felt him spurt hotly, again and again, until it seemed he would never stop. Her own climax seemed endless, shaking her from head to toe, time after time.

Zacora and Harold rested at last, satiated, satisfied, their goal achieved. Even Megan paused with the whip poised, and the soldiers began to experience a little relief.

Then, unexpected and intrusive, the voice of a girl dropped into the scene like a stone into a placid pond.

“What are you doing to Callan? That is my man.” The voice rose as the words progressed, as though the owner was in a temper.

All heads turned towards her.

“Bernlada!” Callan had spat out his gag and was struggling against the tree and his bonds. “What are you doing here?”

Bernlada wore a short leather tunic, lightly tanned, so that it looked pale against her dark skin. Her small feet were shod in simple sandals held to her legs by long crossed thongs. Her dainty hands were strong and they soon wrenched the whip from Megan, who was taken by surprise.

“I know what you thought and you were wrong,” said Bernlada sharply. “I was not going to leave you in the dungeons, my love. Anyway, everything went topsy-turvy after you left.”

Megan, her plump breasts heaving in indignation, tried to prevent the newcomer from releasing Callan, but was repulsed very firmly.

“And who is this monstrous woman?” asked Bernlada disdainfully. She looked Megan up and down, taking in the clinging, far-too-short black silk dress and the all too evident red suspenders.

“Megan Meleagan,” said Callan, rubbing his wrists and ankles. Not wishing to struggle into the tight leather breeches again, he cut a neat loin cloth and used it to cover himself, giving a heartfelt sigh of relief.

Bernlada smiled lovingly at him. “And who’s that skinny fellow?” she wanted to know, pointing at Gareth.

“Another Meleagan,” Callan informed her, taking her in his arms.

Bernlada turned to Harold. “Aren’t you going to free those guards? The poor wretches look very uncomfortable.”

Magnificently naked, Harold strode towards her. Even though he had emptied himself into the receptiveness of Zacora, he was still a sight to behold. “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “but what of the Prince?”

“Ah yes.” Bernlada paused. “Ah yes, the Prince. It was all too much for him. And besides his humiliation he knew the populace was against him, mobs had already been howling for his blood. He - he -“

“What?” asked Harold sternly. “What has that evil man done?”

“He - he - he knew he was finished -“

“Yes?”

“He fell upon his sword. He is dead.”

“God be praised!” said Harold. “It is over then!” He looked back at Zacora’s willing body. It was still open, ready for him, the legs splayed deliciously. The lovely face smiled sweetly, framed by the superb mass of tumbled hair, shimmering streaks of gold and silver in the light from the twin suns.

Surely she would bear him a son, a son worthy of the name Meleagan.

Bernlada’s small body squared up to the big man. “What is all this to you?”

Tall, imperious and incredibly imposing, Harold beamed down at her, “No doubt the residents of the principality have had a thin time,” he suggested, his muscular arms folded across his broad chest.

“Very,” Bernlada agreed. “All the Prince could think of was producing an heir. Every drachma went on potions and spells to produce potency and nothing worked.”

“I shall rule better, for I shall be at peace with myself.” Harold glanced back at Zacora. She was so beautiful, so pliant, she would make a perfect consort. The combined lands of the Prince and the Meleagans would flourish and prosper under their care.

He turned to the guards. “The Prince is dead!” he said. “Will you follow me?”

A cheer went up.

“Come then. We will take the Palace.” Chains were struck off and codpieces gratefully fitted in their rightful places. In his splendid robes and with Zacora sitting side-saddle in front of him, the procession prepared to move off.

“But what about us?” screeched Megan after them.

“Well, my dear,” said Harold softly, “you seem to have carved out quite a steady little career for yourself. Please feel free to continue. Gareth can keep your accounts for you and you may use the castle as your work place. All the - er - equipment will be useful.”

“And us?” Bernlada looked up at Harold beseechingly.

“Ah, yes.” Harold gave the matter careful thought. “The cottage!” he exclaimed. “You may make it your home.”

And at last there was sexual peace in Vakir.