Master of Craving (29 page)

 

He pulled her into his embrace, and kissed the top of her head. “Truly I am in his debt. Forgive my boorish manners.”

 

She withdrew slightly and smiled up at him. “There is nothing to forgive. Under the circumstance you handled yourself as the noble you are.”

 

He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them. “Come, my lady, my hunger is fierce. Let us sup.”

When they descended into the hall, every person stood, and each one of them seemed to be holding their breaths. When Magnus broke out into a wide smile, a collective sigh was felt throughout the place.

As he seated her to his right, she smiled up at him. “My lord.” Before he took his seat beside her, he called down the hall. “My Norman friends, come sup at the lord’s table, and tell me of your king and his plans for this island.”

Arian held her breath, praying Stefan would decline, but she knew he would not. ’Twould be an insult to the lord and his lady. For propriety, he would accept. As he strode toward her, the arrogance in his step could not be mistaken for anything other than it was. His men fell in behind him, each a twin to the other.

Arian swallowed hard, but met his glare. She would not give the gossipmongers more to whisper about. Stefan made a short bow. “My lady.” Then he sat to her right. The others sat on the other side of Magnus, squeezing out Lord Overly and Lady Lisette. As Lisette was relegated to the next table down, Arian caught her harsh glare and could not help a smug smile. ’Twould serve her right. The lady gave herself too many airs.

The blessing was said by Father John and the meal was served.

 

“Tell me, Sir Stefan, does William have plans for Yorkshire?”

 

“I do not know.”

 

“Will he go north of the Humber?”

 

“I do not know.”

 

“I suspect he has his eye on Scotland as well.”

“The Scots are a bitter lot,” Rorick chimed in. “And while I have no doubt we could easily take that part or the island, methinks they are safe. For a year or two.” He laughed and drained his goblet.
“What of the young Olaf?” Stefan asked. “Does he plan to take up where his sire left off?”

Magnus set aside several choice pieces of meat he had cut for Arian, then waited for a servant to fill their shared goblet with rich Burgundy wine before he spoke.

 

He raised it to her lips, and softly said, “Drink, my dear, it will chase away your bride’s nervousness.”

 

Arian made to take the goblet from his hands, but he would not release it. “Allow me, Arian, ’tis a prelude to my most attentive nature.”

Arian smiled, deciding there was no time like the present to try and reacquaint herself with this man who only a month ago held her favor. She wrapped her fingers around his big hands, and without breaking his gaze, she brought the goblet to her lips. He tilted it, and she drank deeply of the wine. When she pushed it away, in a slow slide he wiped the dampness from her lower lip with his fingertip. “You missed some,” he whispered.

Arian looked boldly into his eyes, knowing the entire hall watched the exchange expectantly. If she were to convince them all, most of all Magnus, that she had eyes only for him, there would be less tension between them. She knew his pride waged a terrible war with his heart.

Demurely, she fluttered her lashes. “My thanks,” she said softly.

 

Magus smiled and set the goblet down and turned to Stefan, sitting to her right, as if just remembering his presence. “My pardon, Sir Stefan, did you say something?”

Arian turned slightly in her seat to face him and caught back a sharp gasp. She understood Magnus’s game the minute her eyes clashed with Stefan’s glacial ones. The small tic in his right jaw betrayed his fury. “Aye, I asked if your king had plans to take up the sword and claim England.”

Unable to sit so close and face him just a hand’s-breadth from her, Arian turned back to face her betrothed.

Magnus motioned for the servant to refill his goblet. “Olaf is young and a fervent Christian. He wants peace at all costs. Tell your king that unless he provokes us, he can expect Norway to mind her own affairs.”

“Aye, but what of his kin, Sven of Denmark? He casts a covetous eye to the south.”

 

“Sven is a fool. Should he take up arms against the Conqueror, he will get no help from Norway; of that I can assure you.”

 

“I have ridden these last eight years with Thorin Haraldson; ’tis he who Rhiwallon holds hostage until word of your marriage reaches him.”

 

“Olaf has many bastard siblings. He has no interest in them.”

 

“ ’Tis unfortunate. The Viking bastard has the ear of the most powerful king on the continent.”

 

Magnus nodded. “That may be, but Olaf is strong in his own right. He does not require Norman assistance, nor does he desire it.”

 

“One cannot have too many allies in these unpredictable times,” Stefan cautioned.

“If you have not noticed, Sir Stefan, anyone of Norman descent is unwelcome in the east. I fear that if William does not tread with care, he may very well find the area afire with revolt.”

Stefan leaned across Arian, his chest brushing against her back, toward Magnus. “If one finger is raised against me or my men, there will be hell to pay.”

 

Magnus laughed easily. “You misunderstand. I offer no threat. But do not think I would not raise more than a finger to protect what is mine.”

 

“All that is England belongs to William.”

 

Magnus’s eyes narrowed, very softly he said, “Nay, all that you see for fifty leagues in any direction is mine. No man will take it from me.”

 

“By right of conquest he can do it with a simple charter.”

 

“I will kill the man he sends to take it from me.”

 

Arian pushed both men away from her, and said sternly, “My lords, enough of politics. Let us sup in peace!”

 

Magnus smiled and backed down. “My pardon.”

Arian settled down with his apology. She could not blame him, though; she would react the same. She could not damn herself enough for not doing a better job of hiding her feelings for Stefan. ’Twas because of her weakness Magnus acted as he did. She would do better, for peace here at Moorwood as well as peace in her marriage. She would hide what burned so fervently in her heart.

But as the meal continued on a much lighter note, Arian could not relax. She sat between the man she loved and the man who would be her husband. Once the table was cleared and the musicians began to play and the village girls to dance, her mood still did not soften. Stefan remained beside her, his warmth encompassing her like a cloak. She dared not cast a glance at him. He sat as rigid as a lance beside her.

When one of the girls twirled and gyrated before Lord Wulfson, who scowled and turned to his goblet, then to Rorick, who grinned and grabbed her swaying hips to him, the girl pretended to be afraid. He pressed his face to her bosom and kissed her there. The wench broke from his grasp and twirled to Sir Ioan, who had turned to face her, his legs stretched out before him. Agilely she stepped between them in a quick staccato. He closed his legs, catching her between his muscular thighs.

“You are not quick enough to escape me,” he laughed, and brought her down into his lap. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the lips, then freed herself. Arian watched the wench’s dark eyes twinkle in mischief as she swayed and twirled toward Stefan. The music picked up in tempo and volume, her hips moved back and forth at a frantic pace; her loose kirtle slid off one shoulder, her breasts the only support for the flimsy fabric. As she moved in toward Stefan, Warner reached out and caught the front ribbons of her garment. She twisted, and when she did her ample breasts sprang free. Roars of male appreciation hit the ceiling beams. In a wild thrust of hips and breasts, she flung herself across Stefan’s lap, her back to his thighs, just as the music ended on a high note.

Arian could not look away. The woman’s breasts glowed from perspiration as they heaved up and down from her heavy breaths. She smiled up at Stefan and grabbed his hand, pressing it to her voluptuous mounds. “Do I please you, milord?” she gasped.

“Aye,” Stefan growled. He stood and hoisted her over his shoulder, and amidst loud cheers, he strode from the hall with the half-naked woman slung over his shoulders.

 

Arian felt as if she had been kicked in the stomach. But she dared not show it. She turned a smile to Magnus, to find him gazing upon her. “Tell me, milord, of Norway.”

 

His face broke into a wide grin. “ ’Tis beautiful, most especially in spring when the lilies bloom across the land.”

 

“It sounds much like Wales when the entire region is purple with bluebells.”

 

“Norway is a most welcoming land. I look forward to our life there.”

 

And she would try to look forward to it too.

A short time later, exhaustion claimed Arian. The walls and eyes of the smoky hall pressed down upon her, and try as she might, visions of Stefan in the arms of the lusty wench would not go away.

“Milord, the day has been long, and I tire. Please see me to my chamber.”

He nodded and stood, extending his hand to her. Slowly she rose, as did everyone in the hall. With chin high and shoulders proud, Magnus escorted her from the hall to the wide stairway, followed close behind by two Norman, two Welsh, and two Norse guards.

Before the door closed behind her, Magnus halted her. “Arian, one word before you retire.”

Slowly she turned to face him, seeing the pain in his eyes. Her farce was not lost upon him. Guilt assailed her once again, and she truly did not know what to do. He cleared his throat and slowly said, “Come what may in the days to follow, know always that I had your best interest at heart.”

Confused by his words, she asked, “What are you saying, Magnus?”

 

“Only that my heart is true.” He pressed a kiss upon her forehead, then left her.

 

When Arian entered her chamber, even more confused by his words, she was surprised to see a chambermaid straightening the linens on her bed. “What are you doing?”

 

The maid bobbed her head and bowed. “Freshening your bed, milady.”

Arian looked about the room for Jane. Save for herself and the maid, the chamber was empty. “Leave the bed and send for my maid Jane,” Arian commanded, walking over to the small table near the low-burning brazier. The nights had cooled considerably since her arrival; soon the leaves would be in full change, and winter would find her in the cold fjords of Norway.

Arian gave the departing maid no heed as the door closed behind her. Her eyes trailed across the room to where her wedding gown hung from a high stand. ’Twas beautiful, made of fine blue and white silk, with intricate silver embroidery around the low bodice, bell sleeves, and hem. The silver undertunic, embroidered with fine blue and white silk threads, she had stitched herself. ’Twas a garment fit for a queen.

She sank to the floor, fighting the despair that threatened to engulf her. Why could she not trade places with the lowly wench and take her beloved to bed this night? But she knew the answers. She was a princess, she must marry a prince or a most powerful magnate, and Magnus was that. But Stefan was a magnate in his own right. Noble blood flowed through his veins as well. Neither his sire nor his dam was a churl, but a great count and the sister to the woman who would be Queen of England. But it mattered not. Even should Magnus refuse her, Stefan had not declared love for her. And if he did not love her, then what was there? A marriage like her father’s to Morwena? Where one always held out hope for the other who would always chase a ghost? She sighed. Was it not what Magnus would endure? Would she ever wake and not think of Stefan before she opened her eyes?

Her fate was sealed. On the morrow she would be Lady Arian of Trygg. ’Twas her lot in this life, and she would be grateful for it. She stood and brushed the wrinkles from her gown, and it occurred to her she had not seen Jane since before the late meal. Arian opened the heavy door of her chamber to find six pairs of eyes upon her.

She looked to Sir Rorick, the one closest to her. “Sir, I seem to have misplaced my woman, Jane. See to her whereabouts and instruct her to come to me at once.”

Sir Rorick looked stunned that she would request such a thing from him. “My lady, I am a knight of William, not a squire. Ask your man.” He stepped back and looked to Pal, a young man from Dinefwr.

Pal bobbed his head. “I will locate her.” He turned and hurried down the hall.

 

Arian made a sarcastic smile and gave both Sir Rorick and Sir Ioan a short bow. “My pardon for making such a heinous request of a Norman knight!”
TWENTY

Stefan pressed his lips to a taut dark nipple. It came to life beneath his lips. Thick arms wrapped around his head, pressing him harder into the sultry cleavage. The wench tasted of wine and sweat, but she was willing and she would make him forget, at least for a time. He hiked up her kirtle, catching a whiff of her musky scent. Stefan thrust her onto the bed of hay in the stall next to Arian’s mare. The horse whinnied, as if disgusted with his choice for the night. Images of the woman who rode the steed prickled at his mind. His body tightened and his blood lit up. But not for the willing body writhing beneath him.

“Jesu!”
he cursed.

 

“Who comes?” the wench cried, trying to sit up.

 

His hands squeezed her plump breasts, pushing her back into the hay. “No one, be silent,” he commanded.

Her skin wasn’t nearly as soft or fragrant as the woman’s who haunted his dreams at night and every waking moment of the day. Stefan cursed again and pushed the wench’s thighs apart. She arched into him, groping between his thighs, nearly ripping his braies from him. She freed him and he hissed in a sharp breath. Her callused hands stroked him to hardness.

“My lord,” she moaned, “I have never had a man so large as you.”

Closing his eyes, Stefan imagined that the rough hands fondling him were the soft slender ones of a princess. Wet lips pressed to his. Stefan twisted away from her, his eyes flying open.

In one swift move, he flipped her over and pulled her up by the hips, throwing her skirt over her back. He did not want to see a face when he entered her. He wanted to imagine it was another. “My lord!”