The Barbarian (3 page)

"Get off me,
cruel fiend!" she cried, struggling with renewed determination. He ignored
her, but forced a second finger between her legs and then rubbed with both,
trying to squeeze them between her labia. To her shame the motion soon made her
moist. Her mound was pressed down in his lap and she felt a stiffening there,
protruding upward, further increasing her discomfort—and also, most strangely,
the waves of wicked pleasure now coursing through her.

What was he doing
to her? What did he mean by a bargain and getting his money's worth?

"Your
writhing makes me hot and hard, wench," he grunted. He took his hand from
between her legs and then she heard him give a soft, low whistle. "You're
wet for me, eh?"

"Yes, I am
wet," she exclaimed. "Soaked through in this miserable rain. Now let
me go."

He spanked her
again and returned his fingers to the molestation of her pussy which, try as
she might to prevent it, blossomed under the attention. "I've paid for you
for three nights of entertainment, wench. But I appreciate the act." He
chuckled and the hard protuberance in his breeches twitched again, pushing at
her mound, grinding against her wet heat. "A little maidenly reluctance
whets the appetite, but you needn't continue with it. I've no fancy for rape.
Save that performance for other customers."

"Customers?
Are you a madman? Set me down now and I shall see to it that no retaliation is
taken against you."

They were leaving
the wintering field and entering a clump of bare trees, dead leaves soggy under
the horse's hooves. He slowed his horse and his hand swept up to caress her
arse, almost as if he soothed a frightened animal. "I don't think I can
wait to get to the manor," he muttered huskily. "I'm likely to spend
in my breeches.”

Barely had the
horse stopped moving before Amias was on the ground, wet and rotting leaves beneath
her. She cursed at him, but those words apparently rolled off his skin along
with the sweat and the rain. He had both her wrists in one of his large hands
and hauled them up over her head. The worn leather gauntlet was rough and damp,
his fingers like manacles. His heavy body laid over her and with one knee he
forced her writhing legs apart.

"Don't you
dare," she cried, arching her back, trying to buck him off.

"I told you
to stop the act, my saucy vixen. You've got me nicely roused already."

Discarding the
other gauntlet in the leaves beside her, he used his free hand under her gown
and shift, parting her thighs wider. She looked up into his face then for the
first time and found eyes the color of steel, his lips parted by harsh, moist
breaths. Speckles of dirt and blood liberally dusted his rugged features. His
mouth was hard, his nose long and slender. Damp, sun-kissed hair stuck to his
brow and his chin was rough, unshaven. She caught a gleam of strong teeth, like
those of a snarling beast ready to devour its prey. But his eyes drew her back
again. They held her as firmly as his left hand held her wrists to the soft,
wet ground.

And then his bare
hand slapped up between her thighs and cupped her sex. His palm was callused,
hard, the skin warm from the leather gauntlet he'd just removed.

Although he
claimed to have no fancy for rape, what was this? "Do you take all your
women by force?" She hissed. "I suppose you can get them no other
way." Her body might be helpless, but her tongue was not.

He gave no reply.
His broad hand squeezed slowly, the heel of his palm exerting pressure on her
mound, his long fingers rubbing her labia. The flames flared again inside Ami,
much to her indignation. How could
his
touch do this to her? She was familiar with the slow smoldering caused by her
own hand on her sex, but when this man fondled her it sparked much quicker. She
felt her body melting, her own dew dripping onto his fingers, further
humiliating her. And when one corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing smirk she
knew he felt it too.

A stranger—a
rough-handed man—was holding her, forcing her to submit to his uncouth
fumblings. He slid one finger between her labia and held it part way inside
her, keeping the pressure on that flame without moving his hand. Her pussy throbbed,
tightened. She dare not move her hips or else his finger might slip further
inside.

"Please,"
she gasped out, finally finding her voice again. "Don't."

His eyes widened
and then narrowed. "You are truly fearful. I think this is no act. Have I
been sent a grass-green virgin?" He sounded incredulous.

"Of course I
am a maid," she exclaimed, choking out the words, her face hot.

"I did not
ask for a virgin whore."

"Whore?
Whore?
I am Lady Amias of
York
. Get your dirty,
stinking, lecherous hands off me!"

He stared at her,
his mouth open, heated breath rushing out of him as if she'd just kneed him in
the balls. Then he cursed violently. "You are Amias of York?"
Finally, a gust of raucous laughter rang out above her head. "So you're
the scolding, troublesome harridan no one else can handle."

"Touch me
again, foul brute, and you will know the—"

Defying her
without a care, his hand moved between her thighs, stroking as if he cajoled a
restless mare. Clearly he meant to have his way with her regardless. Ah what
would it matter to him? Men thought women existed for only two
things—child-birth and slaking their rotten, sinful lusts. Her breathing
quickened, lifting her breasts rapidly. His darkened gaze followed, stroking
down her throat to her chest, where she felt her nipples peaking through the
linen and wool. She saw him lick his lips. "If you take me by force, you
will be hunted down and slaughtered. I am to be married and my husband
will—"

At the mention of
her husband his eyes gleamed with wicked mischief, like those of a page she
once caught spying on her while she washed her hair. "You are ripe, my
lady," he muttered, low. "You are a pot of stew soon to boil over. I
do not need to breach your maidenhead to make you come. Your husband can still
have that pleasure on the wedding night."

Confused, she
tried to calm her breathing. "Make me come where?"

He squinted and
then laughed softly. "Come to heaven."

****

So she was not one
of the whores he'd ordered from the market town of Marazion. That would explain
all the curses and kicking, he mused. Until she confessed her name he'd assumed
this haughty reticence to be part of her performance. She was clean,
well-groomed; he'd simply thought she must be a costly whore. And, as he'd said
to her, he meant to get his money's worth.

Now he should
introduce himself perhaps, dispense with any confusion the woman might have
about his rights to take and her place to give.

But she was not
fighting him at this moment. Even though he had not told her his name, her body
ripened under his touch. Her wide, rich brown eyes were full of curiosity, her
lips slightly parted, each breath emitted huskily. Her full breasts pushed at
the front of her rain-dampened gown, the nipples erect and yearning. The honey
he felt dripping over his fingers, produced by her soft, warm cunt, made him
yet more aroused.

Lady Amias of
York
was a surprise in
more ways than one.

"Why do you
look at me thus, you filthy, rapacious beast? What have you to smile at? Take
your unworthy hands off me at once."

Unworthy, eh? Of
course she would think that.

But the
high-strung filly would be wrong.

"You don't
wish for me to pleasure you, my lady?" Anyone who knew him well would hear
the dangerous timber and know it was not a question at all.

She did not know,
however. How could she? She had much yet to learn. "No." It seemed as
if she had more to say, but settled for that one word and then snapped her lips
shut.

"No?" He
slipped his fingers away from her cunny and draped his hand over her thigh, so
she would feel the sticky wetness of her own making, pressed against her skin.

She did not close
her legs. Through half-lowered lashes she watched him. Her lips popped open,
her breath forming a thin mist before her mouth.

"I could make
you scream with delight, my lady."

He watched her
swallow and lift her hips just half an inch, but he kept his hand on her thigh,
his fingertips a tantalizing distance from her honey pot.

"I can do all
that and still leave you a virgin," he assured her, moving his hand so
that his fingers gently, casually trailed over the silky curls of her pudenda.
"I promise."

Suddenly she
lifted her hips again, an upward jolt that knocked her plump, pouty nether lips
against his teasing fingers. Her cheeks were flushed and he knew she would
claim it was an accident.

After all her
insults he ought to leave her wanting, just to teach her a lesson. But he was
randy as a stallion scenting a mate in season and there was no way he could let
her up without tasting the haughty lady's cunt. Surely, he could allow himself
that much and he had, after all, promised to make her scream with delight. He
always kept his promises.

****

Her kidnapper
lowered his head and she watched in alarm as his mouth closed around the sharp
point of her nipple through her gown. Her body instinctively wanted to move, to
writhe and arch, but she forced herself to remain still. She didn't want him
thinking she enjoyed what he did. He had taken her down on the ground and
ripped control out of her hands. Why should he be rewarded in any way? Why
should her body react like this? It was unfair. It was madness.

Yet it brought her
to life. Laid there on the cold, damp ground, with fallen leaves under her and
naked branches rattling against a grim winter's sky overhead, Ami conversely
felt the dewy warmth of a spring day moving through her body, awakening her
senses.

His tongue flicked
over her nipple and then he sucked greedily, even with her gown and shift in
his way. His index finger remained between the wet lips of her pussy, not
moving, just pressing on her lightly, teasing the most intimate part of her
body.

Ami strained
against the hand that still held her wrists overhead, but he was immoveable and
then he switched his mouth to her other breast, leaving the left nipple
abandoned, swollen. The friction of her gown against that tormented nipple was
almost unbearable. She heard her breath, too loud, too fast. Betraying her.

Turning her head,
she glanced to her left and saw that they were not alone. One of his men, still
mounted and holding the bridles of rescued horses, watched it all, his gaze
unblinking, his lips bent in a slight smile of admiration for his leader. When
he knew she'd seen him, he did not look away, but stared boldly and then
shouted, "Go to it, my lord. She's a beauty. Can I take a turn
after?"

Her attacker
raised his mouth from her breast and laughed sharply, "Not this one, Ifyr.
She is mine alone."

Suddenly he took
his hand off her trembling pussy and shoved her gown up to her hips. Ami's leg
was free to kick higher and harder. Since she now knew they were observed, she
did both, but he ducked, narrowly evading a strike of her booted foot to his
head. He grabbed her ankle, holding it up over his shoulder. Rage darkened his
face and when he looked down at her his eyes were two spears of flint. In that
moment she thought he truly would rape her, but instead he looked down her
body, his free hand holding her ankle, his knee nudging her thigh aside,
exposing her private regions to the cold air and his steel-eyed approval.
"You think the fine lady's cunny worthy of this filthy dirty brute,
Ifyr?" he grunted, half laughing. "She thinks not."

The young man
moved his horse forward and from that vantage point must have had a clear view.
"I think you're a lucky man, my lord."

"This, my friend,
is noble pussy. Refined, high-born, virgin quinny. A rarity. You won't have the
opportunity to see much of this in your lifetime."

"Indeed."

"But there is
a price to pay for quality. The fancier the pussy, the more work they are to
keep content. For now, Ifyr, you'd best stick to the common whores."

While they
discussed her so crudely, the fire he'd built in her was raging out of control.
His hand had manipulated her to a rocky crevice and left her teetering on the
edge. She longed to press her thighs together, and let herself fall. In anguish
she shouted at him to release her.

"The lady
likes to make noise," he growled. "I shall play her instrument and
teach her a new tune."

The young man on
horseback laughed and cheered him on. Shame burning her cheeks, Ami shouted at
him that if he returned her despoiled to her husband he need never expect a
ransom.

"
Ransom
?" he sputtered, laughing.

"That's
right, fool! Unless you return me safely and intact, you will never receive any
reward." Surely, she thought, that was why she'd been kidnapped. Men like
this were mercenaries, coin being their one interest.