Master of Craving (15 page)

The sow sniffed the dead piglet, then squealed loud, calling to the remaining ones, and stampeded away deeper into the wood, away from the unknown predator.

 

Making sure she did not return, Arian waited before she leapt down to the ground, grabbed the piglet up by the hind legs, and hurried to drag it back to the lodge.

 

Stefan stormed from the structure, his face a twisted mass of fury. He stopped short when he spied her. “Did you think I had left you, milord?” she taunted.

He remained silent, his gaze never wavering from hers. But she saw the relief there. Her heart thudded wildly against her chest. Was it because he felt something for her and feared she was truly gone, or did he worry that the coin he hoped she’d bring was now out of his reach? With some effort, she lifted the pig. “One of us must provide supper, so I took it upon myself to do just that.”

It was only then that his gaze left her face and traveled down her body. A soft breeze blew against her, molding the tunic’s fabric to her body. When their eyes met again, she saw fire in his. A slow smile crossed his handsome lips, and as it did when he looked at her thusly, her body warmed. “Do not look at me so! ’Tis not decent,” she cried, but did not mean it. The thrill of the hunt, the thrill of his reaction to her coupled with her own hunger, all sent her senses catapulting.

“You are most indecent in that small scrap of fabric.” He stepped closer to her. His nostrils flared. “I find myself most smitten by a woman who hunts dressed as the Goddess.”

 

She thrust her bow and quiver at him, then turned for the cookhouse. He followed her, and the wantonness she felt in this man’s presence intensified.

She heaved the pig upon the stone counter, and turned to him to tell him she did not require his help. He was there. He dropped the bow and quiver, his eyes held hers, and he slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her hard against him. “Arian,” he breathed, “you make me forget why I am here.”

Not trusting herself, she pushed him away, flinching at the soreness in her chest. She had over-used it and it throbbed in pain. “Stefan, I am hungry—”

He caught her chin in his hand and tilted her head back to look at him. The hardened planes of his face bespoke the tension in his body. It emanated from him like a bonfire. “I hunger too,” he said softly, then reluctantly stepped away from her. “Dress it and I will build the fire and ready the spit.”

Glad for something to take her thoughts from Stefan, Arian set about dressing the pig. She gave no mind to the blood soaking into her tunic, or the blood on her hands. Her hunger drove her to hurry. She would bathe later whilst it roasted on the spit in the great room.

Triumphant, she grabbed it up by the hind legs and though her wound stung from the day’s chores and the weight of the pig, she hurried from the kitchen to the great room. She was glad to see the fire roaring, and Stefan greasing the spit. “Hurry, and let it cook. I am famished.”

He laughed, and when he turned to her, his eyes widened in horror.

 

“What?”

His gaze traveled down her garment and her eyes dipped. The blood of the pig had dampened her so thoroughly that the curve of her breasts and nipples were clearly visible. “ ’Tis the blood of the pig. I will wash it.” She thrust the animal at him. “Spit it now, before I devour it raw.” When he did so, she nodded and hurried from the lodge.

The day had been warm and sunny, but now dusk settled in a soft shroud over the forest, and the air had cooled. In what light was left, Arian hurried to fill several buckets of water from the well and poured them into an empty half-barrel in the small kitchen. Then she filled several more and set them to the side. She lit several candles from the one burning on the small counter.

She grabbed bunches of aromatic herbs from a cracked earthen pot. With no soap, she would cleanse herself with the sweet-smelling stuff. Arian turned to close the door but scowled when she remembered it was open-ended.

She chewed her bottom lip, fearful Stefan might come upon her. But to her horror, a warmth spread across her chest at the thought of the angry Saxon’s hot eyes upon her naked body. Though she was not naïve, he stirred her in a way she never imagined a man could stir a woman. She had never been shy about her body and its cravings. She was very aware of the beauty of nature. The sounds, the scents, the textures, and the tastes.

And she was curious. She had peeked on her brother more than once as he seduced a maid in the high straw beds of the vast stables, her body warming as they lustily mated. When Magnus had been so bold as to kiss her the day after they met, she had allowed him, wanting to experience the same thrill. She had been disappointed that his gentle touch had not elicited a more passionate response from her.

She knew from the stories Jane told her that her parents were a lusty pair who were prone to slip from the hall at all hours of the day and night to couple. She was not embarrassed when she stood to the side of the paddocks and watched the hot-blooded stallions mount the mares. She admired the way the mares played coy, swishing their tails beneath the stallion’s nose, teasing him into a sexual frenzy before finally allowing him to mount. Aye, it was nature, and her body was young and craved such a natural union.

And though she did not want to fall in love with her husband, she prayed that once wed he would prove to be as lusty as the stallions of Dinefwr. Or … her mind wandered … as lusty as the Saxon.

Arian pulled the bloody garment from her body and stepped into the barrel. It was not quite wide enough for her to sit, even with her knees to her chest, so reluctantly she stood. When she grasped the heavy bucket and tried to lift it over her head, she cried out. The wound to her breast was compromised by the raising of her arm. She looked around for a bowl to scoop the water out and could not locate one. The few there were, were on the trestle table. For a long moment, Arian debated on darting into the room and grabbing a bowl or just making do. She chose to make do. And that meant scooping handrails of water from the bucket and pouring them over her head, but still the raising of her arm pained her.

“Would you care for assistance, milady?” a deep voice asked from the open doorway.
NINE
Arian crossed her arms over her chest, half turning to Stefan. “You are too bold!”

“As are you,” he said, stepping into the small area. “As well as covered in blood, and also you are wounded. At the pace you are bathing you will see the full rise of the sun on the morrow before you are clean.” He grabbed up a full bucket, and slowly poured it over her head.

Arian gasped. The well water was cold but it felt good against her skin. She stood rigid, not wanting to give in to the erotic pleasure of this man pouring water down her body. ’Twas not right! But had not her reputation already been destroyed? Aye, it had, and the sluice of the water across her sensitive body was too tempting to say no to. Besides, he had given his oath to her, and would not force her to do anything she did not wish to.

She bowed her head and allowed the water to pour into her hair. With no soap on hand, all she could do was rinse it with the herbs. She grasped a handful and rolled them between her hands, then dug her fingers into her hair and lifted the thick strands so the water could infiltrate.

She tried to ignore the man behind her and the way the triangle between her thighs flared with heat, but ’twas a battle lost before it began. Her nipples pebbled hard and her breasts trembled. And it felt good and exciting, and she wished ’twas her betrothed who stood so close. Then she could give in to her carnal cravings.

The bucket empty, she did not dare turn and face him. When he put his hands upon her shoulders, she trembled violently. “Please—” she whispered.

 

He moved closer to her, so close she could feel the heat of his body. “It seems, princess, we are destined to repeatedly meet each time you bathe.”

He rubbed something hard across her damp shoulders. His large hands slid easily across her warm skin. Soap? She turned, and his hands in motion slid across the fullness of her breasts. Arian gasped and stiffened. So did Stefan. When he did not remove his hands from her breasts but instead gently kneaded them, Arian felt the earth move beneath her. She was a wanton to allow him to touch her so, yet she remained beneath his touch.

His lips lowered to her ear and he softly whispered, “I gave my word I would not breach you, milady, but I never promised I would not touch the rest of you.”

Warm shivers from his breath scattered across her skin, down her body, and yet she stayed motionless. She looked up into his dark blue eyes. They burned hot. She gazed hard at him, trying to read his thoughts. And Arian could not clarify her signals, for she was as confused as he. He reached down and lifted the rough tunic over his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

Mutely, she nodded her head, wanting more than she had a right to. Despite the ugly scar that marred him, his muscles were well defined, his belly flat, his hips narrow, his manhood—she swallowed—large, and growing larger beneath his braies. Before she got herself into deeper trouble, Arian whirled around, presenting her back to him.

Stefan lathered up the soap between his hands. When he dug his long fingers deep into her hair Arian sighed, the sensation so sublimely sensual that she felt as if her body was liquefying. He stepped closer to her so that his chest pressed against her shoulders. The thick lather trailed down her neck to her back, slickening their skin.

Warm breath caressed her shoulders, followed by large strong hands massaging the velvety lather into her neck and shoulders in slow circular motions. Arian rested her head against his right shoulder and arched her back wanting his hands to slide lower to her heavy breasts and touch her there. His hands slid down around her waist, swirling the lather into her feverish skin, bypassing her sensitive breasts. Biting her lip to keep a moan from escaping, Arian gasped when the tips of his thumbs brushed the edge of the down shielding her mons. A hunger pulsed deep from within her womb outward, radiating through her entire body. With each swirl of his hands, with each breath he breathed upon her neck, with each soft thrust of his hips against her back, her hunger grew.

Her body did liquefy, and had he not slid his right arm around her waist to steady her, Arian would have melted into the floor. Pressing his left hand to the left side of her face, he pushed her head toward his shoulder, exposing the tender flesh of her neck. His fingers slid hard against her skin, moving the lather away. Hot lips pressed to her vital vein there. Heat shot to the apex between her thighs and her skin flashed hot. Arian moaned and hung heavy in his arms. Her eyes half-closed, she let herself revel in the pure carnal experience of him bathing her.

He lathered her more, and this time his hands traveled in slow up-and-down motions, finally cupping her full breasts. She arched into his palms, his lips pressed to her neck. Hot desire speared down her flat belly. She arched more, wanting the buildup of pressure to ease.

He rubbed her nipples, pressing her harder into his hips. Voraciously he kissed and nibbled her neck. Breathless, she pressed her head into his shoulder, her lips parted, the air forced from her chest. She reached around and grasped his buttocks, digging her fingers into the linen of his braies.

Stefan moaned as his body tightened and his hips thrust against her back. Their bodies strained for one tense indefinable moment, knowing there was nowhere to go yet desperately wanting to go there.

He grasped the cradle of her hips, and she could feel him fight the tension in his body. She did not dare move lest she be the one to cause him to break his oath. He lathered her thighs, his big callused hands moving so wantonly slow along her smooth skin she wanted to scream. With one hand he drew her tighter against his bare chest, and holding her like that, he slowly poured water over her body, his hand sliding across her skin helping wash away the lather. He repeated several times, and with each rinse she felt him grow and tighten against her back. Arian arched back, and her right arm, wrapped around his neck, pulling him tighter against her. He sucked in a sharp breath.

“You are a wanton, Princess Arianrhod. You would tempt the saints with your touch.”

She half-turned and looked up at him, her breast pressed against his bare chest. The sensation sent jolts of hot desire through her. His eyes widened and she felt him surge against her. Swallowing hard, she closed her eyes for a long moment, composing herself. She was on fire and fought a tenuous battle with her body. Finally, she was able to speak. “But you are a demon.”

He turned her all the way around to face him, her breasts dragging across his skin in agonizing want. He dug his fingers into her hair, tilting her face up to his, and then lowered his lips to hers, and just before he kissed her he said, “I am.”

The contact was liquid fire, her body straining for something she could not have against his. His lips, hot, firm, and demanding, sent her senses reeling. He was all things manly, his leather and sandalwood scent, his hard muscles, his dominant possession of her wreaking havoc with everything that made her a woman.

Her hands pressed upon his chest, marveling at the hard play of his muscles beneath her fingertips. She slid her hands up his chest, then around his neck, the pain of her wound long forgotten. His arm tightened around her waist, his long fingers splayed upon the top swell of her buttocks, his other hand pulling her hair so that she arched harder into him. He tore his lips away, pressing his forehead against hers, his breath warm and hard against her cheeks. “Ari,” he breathed, “my body cannot stand more.”

She hung in his arms, wanting desperately to allow him to proceed, but knew she could not. Slowly she nodded, and lowered her arms from his neck, but she did not remove them from his body. Nay, she could not help but trail her palms and fingers down the hard planes of his chest and follow the line of the sword to the top of his raised braies. He grasped her hands.

“Do not torture me so.” He reached over and poured the last bucket of water over her, rinsing the last vestiges of lather from her body, then he drew the linen she had set on the rough counter and wrapped it around her. When she would not step from the tub, he scowled. “Go dress, before I cannot honor my oath.”