Isolde's Wish (10 page)

“I’ve seen.” She worked to keep her voice flat.

“No harm will come to ye. We’ve all sworn it.”

“I believe ye.”

“Isolde.” Colin caught her elbow and dragged her into the shadows, away from Sir Lionel. He pitched his voice low. “Ye were spotted outside the castle walls yesterday morn. How do ye explain yerself?”

“I was walking.”

“Yer hair was undone. Windblown.”

She shook him off. “Ye know how clumsy I am, Colin. I tripped, and in my tumble, my hair came down.” Hesitantly she looked at him.

Colin’s eyes, nearly identical to hers, searched her face. She felt the blush climb her cheeks, and she squared her shoulders and bore the scrutiny. “Take care, Sister,” he said softly and pushed her toward the knight waiting. “Guard her with yer life, Sir Lionel.”

Sir Lionel clapped his boot heels together. He flattened a palm over his heart and bowed solemnly to Prince Colin.

Damn, thought Isolde. Now I have a whole castle full of obstacles.

* * *

The next two nights, Isolde sneaked from her chamber at midnight, crept past the lax and sleeping Sir Lionel, and wandered in the rose garden. No drenching rains drove her away, and no drenching rains kept Sadler from coming.

Yet he didn’t.

Too edgy to remain in her chamber for long, too tense to labor over her despised needlework, she roamed the castle, searching for the one person who could ease her. Sir Lionel began to fade into the background, and her animosity toward him dispersed. She considered him a nuisance, but one she could and had thwarted.

Standing before the massive hearth in the great hall, she stared into the flames. Outside she knew the air was warm and sweet with summer smells, but the castle walls held the chill. Isolde folded her arms over her chest and fought her gloom.

“Sir Lionel,” came a voice from the doorway.

Isolde turned, and her guard snapped to attention. The young page stood with an armful of handwritten missives that heralded the annual games.

“What is it?” Sir Lionel asked.

“The men are having trouble creating a secure platform for the gauntlet. They’ve asked for yer help.” The page peered at Isolde from beneath a fringe of hair. A long minute passed. His gaze never wavered.

She stared back, a blush brightening her face. She dropped her head before Sir Lionel could detect her discomposure or her excitement. Pages never looked directly at their masters. This young man had a message for her—and a way to get rid of Sir Lionel.

“I’ll come straight away.” Lionel shot a look at Isolde. She saw his pleasure at the request in the set of his shoulders and his boyishly handsome face.

She extended a hand, palm up. “Ye’re needed, and I’m safe enough.”

He gave a short bow. The page nodded seriously, turned, and led the knight away.

Isolde gripped the heavy stone mantel to steady herself. Her knees felt suddenly watery, and she was as breathless as she’d been when she’d fallen at Sadler’s feet on the shore.

She listened hard for footsteps and heard the crackle of the flames and the shifting of the logs. A far-off dog barked, and hammers struck wood.

A rock-hard arm slammed into her chest. Her heart burst in her throat. Her breath whooshed from her lungs. The world tilted in her eyes. Blur of gray stone and stars of light.

Before she could struggle, Sadler’s mouth was at her ear, rumbling, “Don’t turn, Princess. I’ve my sword pressed into your back.”

“Sadler.” His name was a ragged sigh.

He whirled her into his arms and melted her with the heat of his gaze. When she was brought up against the length of his front, she felt his hardness against her belly—the sword he’d mentioned.

“Yer sword does not frighten me,” she teased, inhaling deeply. He smelled of growing things and clean sweat. His hair was loose and fell over his shoulders in waves.

“Does it not, Isolde? And ye a maid?”

“Nay.”

“Let us see if this inspires fear.” He released her and took two steps back. He gripped the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it. The steel sang. His eyes were hot and bright. “Sit in that chair.” He gestured with his sword to the stool in the corner.

His harsh tone belied his full-lipped mouth. The wave of his weapon warred with his burning gaze. Still, a shiver of apprehension flowed through her.

“Aye. I’m taking command, woman. Sit.”

Isolde glanced from the needlepoint stool in the corner. Slowly she paced toward it, hitched up her skirts, and sat.

Across the room, he licked his lips. “Now lift yer skirts, Princess, and show me yer thighs.”

A hot bolt of need shot into her sex, making it instantly weep with wetness. Her fingers twitched in her skirts.

Behind Sadler, a niche was set into the wall. He sank into its shadow until only his gleaming sword and his outline were visible. “The skirts, Princess.”

She swished the heavy silk about her bare ankles, slipped it up her calves, exposed her knees, and gathered it about her hips in a thick cloud of fabric. She kept her knees locked together, though her pussy was begging to be exposed to Sadler. To his touch. To his mouth.

His voice came to her, soft and lulling. “Let yer knees fall apart.”

The knot of want tightened in her stomach. Gently her knees dropped. The air kissed her soaking sex. The lips gasped open.

His breath came hard and fast. “More.”

Though his face was mostly in shadow, she felt his gaze licking over her. Her knot of need clenched tighter. She spread her thighs. In his fist, the steel of the blade flashed as he held it aloft. The other hand fumbled in his waistband and withdrew the long shaft of his cock. It bobbed in the shadows.

Isolde gulped, hungry to wrap her lips around it, to feel his body shudder at her touch.

“Slip yer hand between yer legs and touch yerself,” he demanded in a voice as rough as a saw on wood.

She hesitated briefly. “Why do ye not lower yer sword?”

He waved it slowly. “If we’re caught at this play, it will look as if ye were forced.”

A sick feeling of fear mingled with rising excitement. Touching her pussy was forbidden. Touching it in plain view of Sadler was stimulating. Playing his dangerous game—and the possibility of being caught—electrified her.

Her gaze fell to his hand wrapped around his cock. He stroked the root. Isolde plunged her fingers into her wet sex.

A low moan from Sadler washed her with need. Her skin lifted into gooseflesh.

“Beautiful, Princess. How does it feel?”

Breathless, she said, “Slippery.”

“I can almost smell yer sweetness. Now stroke the bud.”

Her fingers sought the hard, swollen bump of desire. Her fingernail toyed with the hood. She circled it, her hips jerking. Fluids dripped from her hole, and the knot in her belly tightened. In the shadows, Sadler slowly pumped his rod. He was too far away for Isolde to see the engorged head or the vein that ran along the underside or the pool of juices collected at the tip. But the images in her mind drove her fingers faster.

“Slide a finger inside.”

Her eyes flashed to his face. He’d stepped into a ring of light, and the look in his eyes scalded her. Her nipples hardened; her belly muscles tensed as she slipped a finger inside her cunt. The memory of Sadler’s long, rough finger maddened her.

Small pleas dropped from her lips. “Please, Sadler. I need ye.”

“Nay.”

“Just one touch.”

The weapon glistened as he pointed it at her. “Ye’ll do as I command, Princess,” he said in an amused voice.

She pulsed her finger in her sex, wanting to be stretched and filled. She glided a second finger inside.

Sadler worked his shaft harder with his fist. Their breathing grew more labored as their desires took flight. She tensed at the first contractions, eyes locked to Sadler’s hand, to the golden hair on the backs of his knuckles.

The wave rushed up, tearing a cry from her chest, and she jammed her soaking fingers into her sex harder, deeper, seeking to extend her release. Sadler’s groan rocked her. She opened her eyes to see him pumping his cock hard. Wet droplets plopped onto the stones at his feet. His head thrust back, his face—part shadow, part light—was a mask of ecstasy.

His enervated arm dropped, the sword falling to his side. His stare riveted her.

“Let me see yer juices,” he rasped.

Her fingers retreated to expose her soaking sex. Time unraveled between them, their gazes burning with longing.

“Where are ye sleeping, Sadler?”

His head shook gently. “Ye cannot know. I cannot have ye tripping through the night in yer long white gown to find me.”

She opened her mouth to say she wouldn’t, but it slammed on the words. If she knew where he was hiding, she’d never be able to stay away. As she rose, her skirts swished to the floor. Her bodice felt hot and clingy, her breasts too full for the fabric.

Trembling for his touch, for the feel of his kisses that always followed her release, she took a step toward him.

The sword thrust upward. “Nay. Go on to yer room, love.”

“But—”

“I’ll find ye, lass,” he said, voice rough and low and delicious to her ears. “I’ll find ye.”

She spun on a heel, too aware of the man, too aware of the slippery wetness of her thighs. As she ran the corridors, keeping her hot face averted from the passing guards and servants, she thought of her plan. How would she make Millvale tell her about Sadler’s attempt against the king all those years ago? She was playing with fire. If the king saw her spending time with Millvale, it could result in her engagement to him. She was far from ready for that end, having left her heart back in the great hall, in a shadowy niche.

Chapter Nine

Sadler turned his face into the hay-fuel, clapped a hand over his ear, and groaned. Beyond the stables where he lay hiding, the world was alive with the sounds of saws and hammers and men’s shouts. The hissing growl of flying machines filled the air as hundreds of people from all over the realm arrived on the castle lawn to enjoy the annual games.

The crush of people would help him hide and maybe sneak another private moment with Isolde. This time he would touch her. That he vowed.

And if he spotted her anywhere near Millvale, he would put his plan into action—a plan to grab the first android horse he could find, toss her over the saddle, and ride off with her. He’d take to the heather with her, feed her on wild game and what he could steal if he had to. But he couldn’t stomach the idea of her in Millvale’s arms.

Right now he sought another few minutes of precious sleep. He slept lightly, always on alert for footsteps or the creaking joints of a zeppelgonger. He had been awakened by several intimate acts between the two men who operated this obscure, out-of-the-way stable.

Loud voices sounded near the entrance, and Sadler shrank into the hay-fuel, flipping a clump over his face. He peered from between the sticky strands. The sun had lit the sky hours ago. The day was fresh and bright. Isolde would be in her castle chamber, attended by her maid, Corliss. Sir Lionel would be standing at her door, prepared to escort her to the great hall for her morning meal.

After picking at her cold meat and bread, she would choose an apple from a bowl in the center of the table and leave the hall to wander the gardens. Afternoons were spent at her needlework, and if she could persuade one of her brothers, fencing. Sadler knew her every move.

The voices fell away from the entry, and Sadler emerged from the hay, straightening to his full height and shaking all over to eliminate the sticky pieces from his skin. From beneath the pile, he dragged out a heavy cloak. He tucked his tunic into his breeches and then stuffed a wad of hay into the neck. It slid to his waist. He tucked it around his sides and waist, creating a broader frame. He patted it to judge whether or not it was enough, and then added more. The residue from the hay-fuel he smeared over his face to darken his skin. Lastly, he donned the cape. He hoped it made him look hunchbacked.

Satisfied with his disguise, he turned to leave. His leg muscles burned to sprint through the tunnel leading to the kitchens, to slip unnoticed through the castle corridors and locate the princess. To sweep her away and avoid Millvale’s pursuit of her hand, and then sneak back later and finish off the king—a move that would ease Sadler’s soul but that he’d never admit to Isolde.

Instead he headed out into the daylight. The previous eve, he had come across some blackened coals of a cook fire, rubbed them between his hands, and darkened his hair and beard. Without a mirror he couldn’t tell the exact hue, but if his reflection in the water pail was any indication, he looked like a different person. An air pirate, a rogue.

Smiling at this, Sadler walked boldly through the field, where dozens of flying ships had tethered and their occupants scattered. A small encampment had been set up, with women at the center, cooking and shelling beans, children chasing and squealing, and men seated around the fires, telling stories.

As Sadler passed, he slowed his pace, deliberately testing his disguise. At first glance, no one would know him. But the right person, looking into his face for a period of time, might. He wondered how long it would take the princess to recognize him.

And his disguise would give him a lead when he got away with her.

A conversation caught his ear, and he paused to listen. A group of men circled each other in the dirt, practicing their wrestling moves. Sadler had been in enough skirmishes to pick out the more experienced. The blocky man with arms like tree trunks would gain Sadler’s coin if he had one to bet with. As the wrestlers tumbled each other into the turf, they held a conversation in a series of grunts.

“The Earl of Millvale will win. What’s the sense of trying?” asked the smaller of the pair.

“Dinner with the king is privilege enough to try. Add the princess’s favor, and it’s an honor.”

The blocky man struck the younger one in the chest and sent him rolling arse over brow. “If ye’re set on being beat, they’re lining up to be judged by the princess now.”

The more muscled man grinned, swiped the sweat from his face with a forearm, and held out a hand to assist his opponent to his feet. The opponent ignored his hand, rolling swiftly and hurling himself at the legs of the other man, who sidestepped. The skinny body flattened in a puff of dust.