Isolde's Wish (14 page)

“Where is yer child?”

“With my old mother, two cots down.” She gestured toward the street. “While I earned a coin dipping water, she sat with him.”

Sadler rubbed a grimy hand over his face. His skin felt rough and dry. The trickle on his thigh had slowed, and the odor of the herb was helping him remain alert. “And I’m keeping ye from yer water barrel.”

She paused in her work to look at him. A lock of hair fell into one eye, and he saw the beauty beneath the fatigue of everyday life. “Little matter. The blood is slowing, I see.”

“Aye.”

“It’s bled itself clean, but this will help it.” She soaked a strip of linen and crumbled the herb powder onto it. She crossed the room and stopped before him, a sudden blush scalding her face. “Can ye remove yer breeches for me to tend it?”

It was his turn to blush. “I can manage it, if ye’ll tell me what to do.”

“Tie this about the wound. It’s not so deep. I can see by the amount of blood. It’s only in a bad place.” She passed him the linen and disappeared out the door to allow him privacy.

He remained still for a moment, looking around the bare cot. It was clean and dry and sparse. How did Marian manage with no man to provide for her and their child?

He got to his feet and fumbled with his laces, then let his breeches drop to his knees. His cock swung free, and he thought instantly of his idea to take Isolde into the countryside and make love to her, to secure her as his own and nix any chance of the earl wanting her. No way was Millvale making her his wife.

He began to stiffen. “At least my cock works well enough,” he muttered as he examined his wound. It was a short but ragged stripe on his upper inner thigh. Riding an android horse would be misery, but for Isolde, he’d do it. He tied the dripping cloth about the gash and hastened to pull up his breeches.

When he opened the door, Marian was sitting on a wooden bench outside. She looked up at his appearance and smiled. “Ye look improved,” she said with a smile. “Ready for that horse?”

Chapter Twelve

Galloping full steam from the cottage yard, Sadler glanced back at Marian over his shoulder. He gave a final wave of thanks that she had cared enough to tend his wound and lend him her horse. Before leaving, she’d shoved a fistful of thick white wool into his hand and told him to pad his thigh with it to ease the riding.

Thoughts of riding led to thoughts of Isolde, of drawing her atop him, of her luscious bare thighs straddling him and her moist pubic lips closing the distance between her and his shaft, and had him hard as stone. The joys to come nearly canceled out the humiliation of losing the sword fight to Millvale and forfeiting the airship race. While Marian was grinding the herb for his wound, he’d heard the call to airships. He wished he’d bested Millvale. Millvale was behind much treachery, with his army of zeppelgongers combing the forests for Sadler. Why would the man spend so much time and coin to locate a renegade boy, even if he had tried to assassinate the ruler of their land? What personal vendetta did he have against Sadler?

The hooves of the android horse creaked as it thundered toward the castle yard. The purple light of evening was falling over the land, and the violet shadows of airships dotted the earth. In the near distance he could hear the cheers of the crowd rising and falling like a great monster, interspersed with the twanging rhythm of stringed instruments.

A hard ball of need for Isolde burned in his gut. He crouched low over the horse’s back and urged it harder, driven by the look in her eyes when he’d last touched her.

The castle yard was looming ahead. Once he reached it, then what? He was flying by the seat of his pants in this endeavor to steal her away without being seen. In his recent past, he had been spared twice by Marian. He prayed for a third. One more getaway. One more, he chanted in his head.

He skidded to a halt in the castle yard, the shriek of the unoiled horseflesh beneath him going unnoticed in the din of the crowd. The airships were in the final leg of the race, and the crowd erupted as the huge vessels bobbed into view.

Sadler threw a frantic look toward the wooden platform when he saw Isolde standing near the edge of the crowd. His pulse quickened as he prepared to battle her obtrusive brother in order to escape with her.

He leaped off the horse, praying it stayed put. In five strides, he reached Isolde. His arm lashed around her middle, and he yanked her off her feet. She went utterly still and then fought like a hellion—kicking, clawing handfuls of his hair, trying to sink her teeth into him.

Luckily the noise of the airships drowned her cries, and all eyes were fixed on the vessels in the sky rather than the dark-haired rogue who was kidnapping the princess. He heaved her over the horse on her belly and swung up behind her.

He clenched his hands on the reins, and his thigh muscles hardened as he spurred the horse away. His blood crowed with victory as they pulled away from the castle and into the countryside. The groaning joints of the android horse were music to his ears. And with the sight of Isolde’s hot little bottom bouncing up and down with every galloping stride, he knew the pinnacle of joy.

* * *

High in the hills surrounding Weligbyr, Sadler slowed the horse. The soft horsehide still hummed beneath them, indicating it was well fueled. He thanked his stars again for Marian.

Some time ago he had paused to shove the wool padding into his breeches. It was still hot and uncomfortable, but the ache in his groin was worse than the ache of the wound. For long hours Isolde’s luscious round ass had teased and tormented his cock as she rode before him. Now it throbbed against the laces of his breeches.

He wrapped his arm about her waist and lifted her into a sitting position. Her hips ground upon his with each gliding step of the horse. Sweet torture. He kissed the tender spot below her earlobe, and she snapped her head around.

“Who do you think you are, to kidnap me?”

“Yer favored contestant.”

She wriggled, and he gritted his teeth to bear the shot of need she raised in him. “Ye stole that blue cloth, and ye know it!”

His chest rumbled with laughter. “Aye, that’s true.” He leaned in and let his hot breath skim the sensitive skin of her throat. “Ye wanted me to, no?”

“Just as I wanted to be thrown across a horse and stolen away from the castle?”

“That’s right. Did I not feel yer eyes on me, practically begging for my touch?”

She slapped him hard, rocking his head. He laughed and climbed off the horse. He reached for Isolde, and she sent a kick at his chest. He caught her foot, pulling off her slipper. He held her gaze as he drew her arch to his mouth and kissed it once.

She quivered in his grasp, and he replaced her slipper to assist her off the horse.

He ducked his head to peer into her eyes, but she looked out across the land. The moon hung low in the sky. As they watched, an airship crossed it. In the distance, the golden-roofed turret of the castle winked in the moon’s glow.

Sadler gently pinched the point of her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her to look at him.

Her eyes faltered and then returned, hot and furious. Sadler’s chest filled with emotional heat that was as thick and downy as a woolen blanket. He tugged on the reins and guided the horse into a copse of trees at the peak of the hill.

When he turned back, he saw that Isolde had not moved to flee. They were hours away from the castle on horseback. On foot, it would take her days to return home. But something else held her here with him, and that was curiosity. He didn’t know whether to growl with irritation or rejoice in the fact that she wanted him—even in this disguise.

He gently gripped her by the elbows and turned her to face him. “Tell me you don’t want me, Princess.”

She shook her head. The golden waves bounced over her shoulders. “I don’t.”

The crooked smile grew over his face, and she went still. “You don’t?”

“No.” It was a breathless whisper.

He drew her against his chest. She shivered. He threaded his fingers through her hair and tilted her head. He lowered his mouth slowly, letting her think about what she was allowing him to do. For a moment, he fought the idea that she was too generous with her kisses—that she may have permitted Millvale and Sir Lionel the same liberties she’d given him.

Then he met her eyes and saw there a knowing look. A look that suggested she might have an inkling as to whose arms she was in.

With a growl, he ripped the golden laces from her bodice. She gasped as he clutched her hands together and bound her wrists. But if she wanted her kidnapper, he would make sure her fantasy was fulfilled.

Roughly he pulled off his tunic and dropped it to the ground. Then he pressed her down and forced her arms overhead.

“Princess. Ye want this.”

“Nay.” Her breasts heaved with each breath, pushing at the open bodice.

He knelt over her and stared into her eyes for a long minute. “Ye want this. My body moving inside ye as ye lay helpless.”

She gulped. “Nay. I’m a maid. I don’t think of such things.”

“Do ye not?” He claimed her mouth. She made a quiet coo of wanting, and his cock stiffened at the sound. His tongue burned a trail to her breasts and licked the tight seam of her cleavage. Her small moans drove him on, and he buried his mouth in her bodice and began to make love to her ripe mounds.

He deftly freed the right breast and watched the dark pink bud of her nipple tighten in the chill air.

When he looked up, he found her steady gaze. “I’m going to take ye as my own, Isolde.”

Steady gaze.

“I’ve got to.”

Unblinking, steady gaze.

“It’s what a man does when he realizes he can’t live without a maid.”

A small fluttering at the corners of her eyes.

“When a man realizes he loves her.”

She hurled herself against his chest. Her breath rasped in his ear, and he found she was in tears.

Filled with tenderness, he scooped her beneath the knees and carried her into the trees. The white birches stood in concentric circles as ladies at a dance, their slender branches clinging like hands. Inside the second ring, the moon was a faint reminder they lived in a world besides each other’s eyes.

Sadler lowered her to the earth, guiding her precious head to a thick pillow of moss. Her eyes were fogged by emotion and blurred by tears. They spilled over the rims and coursed down her pale cheeks. He kissed them away one by one, sucking the salty drops into his mouth, freeing her hands as he did.

She drew his hand to her left breast and gripped his index finger like a quill. While holding his gaze, she traced a heart shape upon her flesh. “Yers, sir.”

“Mine? Ye’ve known me mere hours.”

“I know ye. Marvic, master of the gauntlet, expert swordsman.” She tugged his hair. “I know ye.”

His heart burst with joy. He could force no sound through the lump in his throat, even if he could conjure the words to convey his feelings. She was well aware of who held her captive, but wasn’t ready to give up the guise. Hot longing ran through his veins; he knew this coupling would be explosive even without their little game.

He braced his hands on either side of her delicately boned face and kissed her. The first touch held the heat of ten airship fires, and together they ignited, melting into a single vessel containing their passion.

Her mouth was open beneath his, her tongue hot and out of control. He sucked it into his mouth, tasting her sweetness, while his hands worked away her clothing. He peeled off her bodice to reveal the pale, golden skin beneath. Small red creases lived where the tight fabric had cut into her, and he scratched these lightly with his fingernails, causing her to writhe in pleasure. He caressed each small section with his hands and followed them with his mouth. He kissed her high, round breasts around the base, licking the sensitive side near her underarm so that she squeaked. And then he kissed a trail to the peaks of each breast, where he nudged the puckered pink nubs with his lips before drawing them deep into his mouth.

She cried out at the pressure he exerted, but when he slacked off, she twisted a hank of his hair and begged for more. While suckling each needy nipple, he found the hooks of her skirt and popped them one at a time. He fondled the bare flesh of her hip as he stripped away the fabric, kissing the V of her rib cage. He spent long minutes lapping at her navel. She pulled him back up and located the silver bars piercing his nipples. As she flicked and twisted them lightly, he stopped breathing. His cock grew painfully hard.

She tongued them, scalding him with her hot, moist mouth. A ragged breath escaped him, and he fought to control the urge to tear off her skirts completely and sink into her. Instead he plunged his tongue into her mouth. She moaned at the invasion even as he fondled aside her skirts and cupped the mound of her sex. She bucked against his hand, but he simply held it, taking pleasure in the pulsations against his fingers. He locked his mouth to hers and refused to let up the assault, drinking her taste, feeding off her fervor. She gasped at each onslaught, hips grinding in the air, begging him to probe between her secret lips.

One finger stroked her inner thigh. She shivered. It slipped along the plump outer lip. She trembled. It discovered the soaking inner fold, smoothing from dripping hole to swollen pearl. She cried out as he circled her clit, gently at first and then with increasing pressure, grinding the hard core into her body. She unfolded beneath his hand like a fragile flower, the petals of her slick sex falling apart as it swelled with want.

She surged upward, caught his lower lip between her teeth, and dragged him to her. Her nails raked the skin on his back.

He pressed her into the forest floor so the fallen leaves and soft grasses knew the weight of their combined bodies. The fragrant scents of growing things filled his nose, and he heard the rustle of creatures finding their homes for the night.

They rolled together, her breasts hanging free and ripe as she settled atop him. He winced at the touch of her bottom against his wound, and she shifted at once.