Gayle Eden (21 page)

He caught sight of her and stilled his green gaze on her rather intensely. Handsome in a hard and rugged manner, he also had a pierced ear and nostril.

“You’re very good at that.”

He bowed. “Ualtar, my Lady.”

His accent was thick. She smiled, “I am Illara.”

“Sure, an we all know that.” He nodded then held up one of the axes. “Spied you at practice with yer sword. Care to give these a go?”

She nodded and jumped down, grimacing at the mud sucking her boots, however she made her way toward him, now seeing he stood about an inch under six feet, he was sinewy and strong, brown as a peasant.

Illara accepted the axe, still warm from his hand, and stared at the lethal edges, two headed, and lighter than the broad axe.

“I use the reaper likewise.” He turned and walked to a leather satchel, drawing out two short curved blades. He made a motion with them. “Good for gut hooking.”

She decided he was dead serious and obviously not worried her woman’s sensibilities would not want to hear that. Illara grinned and assumed a stance, attempting to throw the axe.

He sighed when it fell short, and grunted, “In the wrist, not the shoulder. Go and fetch it now.”

She went and retrieved it.

He looked at her and took it from her hands, his green eyes truly striking as he commanded her attention. “Observe me throw, and where me fingers are.” He faced the target and threw so fast she scarcely saw it.

“I will never get the hang of that. But would like to have some skill with them.”

“Givin’ up so easily.” He grunted again and handed her the other. He took hold of her wrist, using both hands to set her fingers right, then guided and turned her hand. “You’re swinging wide, ta hit yer man. Therefore, ye must be fast. ‘Tis nay like the sword or dagger, but ye have more control close to tha hand and less chance of impact taking off yer grip.”

She watched him carefully and felt the movement, and when he let go she went through them herself. Illara liked the feel of it.

After a bit, she handed it back, and invited, “Go through your practice. I’d like to observe.”

He collected the other and stood a foot or so from her, turning the axes so fast, switching hands, and flipping them—and genuinely amazing her.

She laughed and shook her head when he was done. “Impressive.”

“Aye, ye should see me with swords.” He winked.

That wink was so at odds with his hard face that she grinned wider and nodded. “I’ve no doubt you’re a memorable figure in battle.” She glanced around and spotted Pagan. He was watching her, watching them, having leaned back against the wall and was sipping from a pewter cup.

She glanced back at the Celt, who had followed her gaze—and for some reason, Illara flushed.

The green-eyed man came close to grinning himself but offered, “‘Tis rare a mon needs a woman tae save his life. Rarer still, that one would ever be in the need. Any of his men would cut down a hundred score to stand ‘tween him and death. Ye did a brave and dangerous deed, from the tellin’ of it. Young Beroun saw ye lift the daggers from yer boots and swears yer feet left the ground shoving them in tha bastard’s throat. Were mine are born, any woman would do as much, but here, ‘tis a great deed.”

“I didn’t think on it. I just…did it. He was going to kill him.”

“Sure an we know that.” The man’s disgust was plain. “‘Tis no murder ye did, my Lady.”

She sighed and met his gaze. “But it’s a charge that’s brought everyone to this…”

“Nay. ‘Tis the betraying and killing, the burning, and torturing, that Pagan and Randulf—or rather that Thorel and Ronan saw, we all smell and hear the nightmare, in the dead of night ‘tis that—which brought us to this.”

He glanced over her head at Pagan. “I met him just after he was free. Nigh twixt man and boy we were both still. I took a bolt meant for him.” He rubbed his thigh. “And he took another, on the third day of battle meant for me.” His gaze returned to her. “Since then, we’ve lost count.”

“And Randulf?”

“Aye. Him too. I go when he does. Pagan asked me to. If he e’re leaves, he says, you go with him. Aye, I says. I will.”

She nodded and reached out her hand then waited for him to drop the axe. She took his, feeling strength there. “I pray for you both. And thank you, for your words.”

He stared at her and then smiled. “‘Tis a rare one ye are, Illara. I thank ye for the praise.”

She released his hand and turned to walk toward Pagan, striding around obstacles they used in training and seeing him toss the cup and straighten before she reached him.

He was sweaty and muddy, but she met his gaze with a slight smile. “Where may I find Beroun?”

“He’s busy. You’ve a mind to practice?”

“Aye.”

Pagan considered her in silence a moment. “I will send for your mount. You can follow along with the men, but do not strain or attempt anything to injury. You’ve earned the right to try.”

“I won’t get in their way.”

He nodded. There was an intimate message in his eyes, though Pagan said, “Sticks and wooden or hide shields this round. We’re going through the events and the melee.” He began walking and she fell in step. “In a melee, you have an equal number of combatants, riding toward each other, meeting, and fighting. There are no rules, save to live. If you are unhorsed you keep fighting.”

She stared at the brawny men who had turned and were watching them. “I don’t wish to distract them.”

“You will not.” Pagan signaled to a younger man, and when the male came forward, he called out for him to bring in another horse.

He waved Randulf over.

Her brother in law was as filthy as Pagan, and wore his leather half mask. His long hair was tied back and not braided, his clothing leather, and broadsword sheathed on his back.

Before Pagan could say what he called him over for, Randulf reached her and leaned down—kissing her. He straightened from it and looked at his brother. “Before you take my head off. That was for saving your life.”

“Try clasping her hand next time,” Pagan growled. “Her cheek would have sufficed, too.”

Randulf grinned. “I will remember that...Mayhap.”

Illara cut in, “You’re welcome. But, before you two come to blows. I wish to say that I am glad to see you again, Ronan—and now can we get on with indulging me. Pagan is going to allow me to train.”

“With the men?”

Pagan answered Randulf, “Aye. However, she is not to receive any hits, you tell them—

“Pagan—”

Pagan stared at Illara. “Not even a bruise.”

She rolled her eyes. “There isn’t any point then.”

“They are three times your size and several your bulk. They’re strength is such that one blow would knock you down.”

“Very well.” She sighed and started walking toward the lad who had brought her horse, fitted with the taller saddle the guards used.

* * * *

Pagan and Randulf watched her mount.

Randulf uttered, “She’s right. What is the purpose?”

“It is her desire.” Pagan murmured, “There doesn’t need to be a point. I cannot deny her. Yet I can’t stand by and let her be harmed.”

Randulf considered him sardonically. “I will put Colebane and William at her then. They will know what to do.”

Pagan nodded and observed the men mounting up at Randulf’s command. Colebane and William were men of thirty some years, who had trained younger lads. This time, Pagan moved to lean against the wall and watch as his brother began the exercise. Illara had removed her cape, had taken the wooden shield, and blunted wooden sword.

He scarcely paid any heed to the others. His gaze was fixed on her. She was the smallest and seemed even more so on the warhorse. However, she was expert at guiding it with her knees, staying seated at the faster pace and turns, and fluid in every movement.

When the clash came, Pagan set his jaw teeth hard together, but got a surprise when she slipped through two attacks, wheeled, and knocked one of the largest guards off his horse. The men were laughing, even Randulf, and the knight on the ground was.

Illara leaned over in the saddle and offered her hand to assist him up. The man thanked her and declined, getting to his feet and bowing to her.

She was smiling. Soon they all went through the paces with as much humor as focus. The morning had been hard and ruthless, intense drilling, and Pagan supposed it was not so bad that men facing injury and death had one day of laughter. They were not laughing at her, rather at themselves as she was a slippery and quick target, and even those who tapped her got blows to their hard belly or shoulder.

A few were calling out to her, encouraging, and pointing out targets, and Illara played along, as all the men did.

Randulf looked back at Pagan. He was chuckling and shrugged. Pagan found himself smiling too, before the evening was over.

It was nearly sunset. After the horses were taken, they went through drills. Pagan allowed her to do them also. She slipped and fell in the mud more than once, but held up her hand to ward off any help in getting to her feet. By the time they called a halt, his guards were talking to her, some looking at her sword, others handing her mead from their cask.

Pagan walked around and gave a few orders, advice, and praise, where needed. He strode back as the others were leaving. His wife sat against the wall, drinking. Her face was as filthy as the rest of her.

He reached down and pulled her up by her hand, and retained it while they strolled to the castle. It was then they both noticed how many of the children and craftsmen were climbing down off the walls, having watched the exercise that day.

“Randulf and I have been eating at the Lord’s Table,” he informed watching one of the young boys and a blond haired girl doing mock combat with sticks in the yard.

She glanced up at him. “Good. We must get bathed and changed, then.”

Inside, in the bathing chamber, while she dropped each muddy garment and waited for the water to pool, he stood after pulling off his boots, gazing over her body in the candle glow. Even grimy and with her shorn hair mussed, she stirred him.

Illara waded into the pool and submerged, while rubbing her face. She surfaced and slicked back her hair, her shoulders sparkling with water, breasts and ribs above the surface as she knelt.

“If you join me. I will not turn around and look,” she promised and scooped up soap to lather.

He first put out all but one candle, stripped and waded in. Standing behind her, Pagan watched her soap her hair and rinse, wash her arms and her torso, the foam sliding sensual and slow on her warm skin, down her spine.

He turned, his back to her back, and peeled off the mask. He unbound his hair then sat in the water, lying back and under it next before rising and began his abolitions. His thick hair felt heavy against his neck. He washed his face and rinsed it.

Pagan took a soft cloth and scrubbed his body, his sex full and aroused, his mind more conscious that Illara was nude behind him, than worrying about her not keeping her word.

He propped his foot on the side tiles and scrubbed his inner thigh, and slowed his strokes remembering her mouth on him, the feel of her inner lips around the head of his sex. Water trickled, and the rasping sound of the cloth joined it. He swallowed thickly, replaying the feel of her lips and tongue, moist and velvety caresses, which had bathed over him—his flawed flesh. His heart beat insistent. Blood moved sultry under his skin, while he shifted legs and rubbed the cloth over his sack, and around it, down the inner thigh. By the time Pagan went to his knees to rinse, he was trembling.

Head bowed and splashing water on his face, he smoothed his hair back roughly and took the ends to squeeze them free of water. When finished, Pagan arose and waded to the edge. His hands grasped it and he murmured in the silence, “Will you close your eyes?”

“Aye.”

He gradually turned his head to see her standing in the water, her eyes closed. Swallowing nervously more than once, he turned and waded toward her. When he reached her, Pagan took her hands and put them on his sides. When he touched his mouth to hers, she seemed to know what he needed, or perhaps to taste it. By the time he lifted his head, her hand fisted his sex.

She stroked him and whispered thickly, “Kiss me.”

Pagan cupped her face, kissing her while his powerful legs trembled and her stroke of him grew firmer and faster. Her free hand came up and tangled in his hair with sexual roughness. He breathed heavy through his nose, his climax catching him by surprise.

He broke the kiss and panted against her lips, “I did not—”

“It was very exciting.” She eased her hand off him, and when Pagan released her, turned her back. “I will touch you any time you like, Pagan. I like the feel of you.”

He closed his eyes a moment, and passed by her after cleaning himself, kissing her shoulder before he waded out and put on his mask.

She exited the water and proceeded to the solar to dress.

Pagan pulled on the clothing he had discarded the day before, and awaited her.

Illara emerged in a low waist gown of cream silk that made her skin glow and brought out the lighter strands of her hair. Over her shorn locks she wore a sparkling net that fit from just behind her ears. The front of her hair was smoothed back.