The Penwyth Curse (22 page)

Then she sighed softly and laid her cheek against his
cheek. She was falling, but he was with her. It seemed they were falling into a deep hole and it was black and warm in that hole. She wondered vaguely if they would ever stop falling and what would happen if they did.

24

Present

B
ISHOP WALKED BACK TO
the front of the cave to see Merryn warming her hands over the small fire she'd made. He stood there watching her for a moment and thought how much like Brecia she looked.

No, no, she wasn't Brecia. Brecia was from long ago.

Bishop wondered how long he had been away. And he had been away, he knew that now, knew it to the soles of his boots.

“Merryn?” He started. His voice sounded rusty, as if he hadn't spoken for a very long time.

She looked up, smiled just a bit. “Did you find anything in the back of the cave? What you were looking for, whatever that was?”

He shook his head. “How long was I gone?”

“Just a few minutes. You came back because you were hungry or because there was nothing for you to find?”

Only a few minutes? Longer, much longer. No, he didn't know. “I suppose there is some truth in both
things,” he said, and no longer knew what he was talking about. He rubbed his cheek where the hand had struck him.

“I have some bread that is stale, but I was going to put it on a stick over the fire. What do you think?”

“I should like that,” he said, and realized he was starving. He also realized that his chest hurt, as if someone had punched him with his fist. He rubbed his hand over his chest, and the ache receded.

He watched her slice the remaining bread into thick slices and fix it to a stick. She began waving it close to the flames. She said, without looking up, “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing much,” he said, and sat cross-legged beside her. “It is dark in the back of the cave. There's nothing there.”

“You weren't gone long enough to see everything, surely.”

“No,” he said, taking a toasted slice of bread off the stick she was pointing at him. “Just a few minutes.”

“Fearless whinnied while you were gone. I looked outside but didn't see anyone.”

“I will look again after I've eaten this delicious bread. This was a very good idea, Merryn.” He wasn't about to tell her that he'd been pulled into a black hole by someone who'd laughed and then slapped him. And then—As he chewed on the toast, he closed his eyes, and there was Brecia, lying on top of him, trying to save him, killing herself in the process, and he felt what the prince had felt, anger at himself for his foolishness, his failure, his anguish that he would die and never have Brecia.

But it all happened in his head. He had no death wound. He'd been gone but a few minutes. A dream—it had been some sort of dream that they'd wanted him to relive. Why? So that he would know they were real, that he would accept them? Why?

The curse. It always came back to the curse.

He calmed himself. They would show him what must
be done. He ate more of the delicious toast. Whatever was, whatever had been—it was fading quickly from his mind, from his memory.

Merryn said as she pulled a burned bit off her own toasted bread, “You said you had to come here, that it has something to do with the curse. I don't understand that. You said you didn't find anything. What will you do now?”

He kept chewing on his toast, looking directly into Merryn's small fire. He said, “This is the origin of the curse.” He frowned. “Or this is where the curse has to end. I don't know yet.” He had no intention of telling Merryn that someone had slapped him hard and laughed when he'd leaned over that black hole, and pulled him into a long ago death scene.

She said, “But you don't know what you're supposed to find here? What you're supposed to do here?”

He shook his head. “I feel like a blind man.” But he was no longer scared. The dreams that weren't dreams—they'd made him a part of them, made him feel them.

He shook his head and ate the final piece of bread.

“What are you going to do now, Bishop?”

He looked at Merryn's hair, the red dulled in the dim cave light. It was braided tightly around her head, not long and flowing down her back with white ribbons. “I don't know,” he said. “I just know that we must be here. All of it happened so long ago.”

“What happened so long ago?”

He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. “Many things,” he said, “were long ago.” He watched her apportion the remaining strips of salted herring. His pile, he saw, was three times larger than hers. She was humming softly under her breath. A lock of red hair had come out of the tight braid and was curling lazily around her breast. Without warning, he felt a bolt of lust that nearly stopped his breath in his chest. Overwhelming lust, such lust as he'd never felt in his life, not like this, like thunder striking him, pounding into him, prodding him, sending him into
madness. It was too much, this lust. He had to have her. He had to have her now. He saw the prince, he saw Brecia. “Now. I want you now.”

She dropped her small pile of herring into the fire, stared at him, and saw something that scared her to her toes. “Oh, no!” she said. “Look what you've made me do, Bishop. Stop what you're thinking and help me.” She was leaning over the fire, trying to pull the separate strips out of the flickering flames and ashes, but it was no good.

“Take mine, I don't care, but first, I have to have you, Merryn. Now.”

“What's wrong with you? You eat toasted bread and suddenly you're overcome with lust? How could you want me? You wanted me before and then you pulled away. Admit it, you don't really want me, you just want what I would bring you. What is different this time?”

How could he not want her? Oh, God, he wanted to come inside her and she wanted him to admit something? He liked the toasted bread. Hadn't he already told her that? He shook his head, but nothing was there except roaring lust and he simply couldn't control it, not now. He reached for her. To his surprise, she handed him a strip of the dried herring. He ate it, reached for her again, only to have her stick another strip into his mouth.

He said around the fish he was chewing, “I want to see you naked. I want your legs open wide. I want your hands on me, right now.”

“You're not afraid that the curse will smite you?”

The curse? What utter nonsense. “Come here, Merryn. Take off that gown and come here.”

Slowly, she came up onto her knees, then stood, hands on hips, looking down at him. “No,” she said. “Go away, Bishop. Don't talk like this. I've never heard you talk like this. Your face is shadowed, but I can see that your eyes look strange. No, stay where you are. Go away!”

“I cannot do both.” He saw her eyes nearly cross as he spoke those words, not bad words, with a bit of wit in them. He was the same, dammit. It was just the lust for
her that was driving him over the edge. He heard the quick hitch in her breath before she turned on her heel and ran out of the cave.

“Merryn! Damn you, woman, come back here. It's dark, there are wild animals and—”

Of course she couldn't hear him. What was wrong with him? He was harder than the wall of the cave he'd been leaning against. He was pounding with need—no, he should be honest about it, he was drowning in his own lust, and it was pushing him and he knew he had to have her, knew that soon she would be his wife and so it wouldn't matter if he impregnated her. Wouldn't matter, wouldn't—God would surely forgive him.

He yelled her name over and over as he chased after her. He saw her running toward Fearless, who was looking at her, shaking his great head. No, she wouldn't steal his horse, would she?

He grabbed her leg just as she managed to swing up onto Fearless's broad back.

He jerked her hard and she fell against him. He held her close. Oh, God, it wasn't the first time he'd held her, felt her breasts against him, but now it was more. He wanted those breasts of hers naked, he wanted her flesh against his mouth. He wanted her long legs pressed against his, and he could feel every bit of her. He was breathing so hard he almost couldn't speak.

She was hitting him, his chest, his shoulders, and now she smacked her fist on his jaw. She didn't have any leverage, so it didn't hurt much. Not like those two slaps from the black hole. Actually, he didn't notice. Just the feel of her, her breath coming in gasps, fanning his face, and it was simply too much.

He finally realized that she was afraid of him. He'd shocked her, frightened her with his talk. He had to do something, he couldn't just throw her to the ground and take her. He grabbed her shoulders, shook her until her head fell back. He wanted to kiss that mouth of hers, but he yelled, “What is the matter with you? You will be my
wife. There is nothing wrong with lying with me. It matters not that a priest hasn't yet blessed us. It will happen, Merryn. Stop fighting me. Don't be afraid. You're a strong girl, you shouldn't be afraid of anything. I just want to take you, surely you want that too, don't you? Can't you see how bad it is?”

“How bad what is?” she shouted in his face and slammed her fists against his chest.

Her words made no sense at all. He'd said his piece, and now it was time for him to take her. “Tell me you're not afraid anymore. Tell me you want me.”

He was hard against her belly. He knew she could feel him clearly, the shape of him, the size of him, and he knew it scared her. It didn't matter, nothing mattered except getting between her legs. Now.

“Tell me.”

She pressed her palms against the sides of his head, harder, until she got his attention, at least a bit of his attention. “Listen to me. You will be my husband for as long as I live, if the curse doesn't strike you down. Ah, that stupid, evil curse.”

He kissed her. Merryn felt something really quite nice settling low in her belly. She cradled his face between her hands and kissed him back. The feelings were bolting through her belly again, spreading through her insides up into her breasts, and surely that was strange. And now she was having trouble breathing. Just because she felt his sex against her, shoving against her? Now his hands were on her hips and he was cupping her, raising her and pushing himself against her, and he didn't stop. And his kisses, she never wanted him to stop kissing her. His tongue pressed against her lips and she parted them. Her brain nearly stopped when his tongue touched hers.

She yelled, then slammed her mouth back against his for more. By all of Saint Jude's finger bones, it was too much, and yet not enough, not nearly enough. She didn't know what was happening, but she didn't want it to stop. In the small part of her brain that was still thinking, she
realized she knew what men and women did to each other, and she'd always thought it was ridiculous, horribly embarrassing, surely an abomination to the woman. That part of him was harder than it had been just the moment before, and it was pushing against her, and she felt his length. He closed his arms around her and pulled her close, pressed her so tightly against him she was almost part of him. She wanted to get closer. It was overwhelming, this need to push and shove herself against him. And touch him. She wanted to touch him, even that part of him that was molding against her. She felt the pounding of his heart and it seemed to connect to her own heart and now she was panting and breathing hard, wanting, wanting.

“This is a wonderful thing,” she said just before his mouth closed over hers again and he not only swallowed her words but took what they were deep inside him. She came up onto her toes, trying to get closer to him, yanking at his hair to bring his mouth down.

“Forget the curse,” she said, and yelled again.

Bishop was pounding with lust. Dear God, her mouth, her breasts, all of her. It was too late. Nothing else mattered. He would have her, right now. He jerked her feet off the ground and carried her back into the cave, her arms around his neck, his mouth on hers. He stumbled over a rock and nearly went down. Since he was swimming in lust, it wouldn't have mattered. She was squirming against him. He couldn't stop kissing her, nor, it seemed, could she stop kissing him. She was his and now he would have her. She would be his wife.

He realized just before he came down over her, in some sane corner of his brain, that despite four husbands, she was innocent, she was a virgin, but even though he knew it, recognized what that meant, it simply made no difference. He had to have her, right now, not an instant from now. She didn't yell—this time she moaned.