The Barbarian (5 page)

His prisoner could
very well hold
him
to ransom.

****

Perhaps it was no
surprise that the first things she'd noticed about him were the breadth and
solidity of his thigh muscles. After all, she was thrown face down over them
before she could see anything else about her captor. Then she was on the
ground, on her back, partially blinded by rain, her other senses addled by the
cruel tricks he played with his fingers and his devilish tongue. Once she was
finally allowed up the right way, there was barely a moment to let her brain
settle, before she was tossed into a dark shed and imprisoned. Only as she
peered through the bars of a small window in the door, and watched him walk
away, did she finally get the complete picture. Stryker Bloodaxe was long and
sturdy as a great oak, with a shock of fair hair that gave him the appearance
of a tall church candle. So he was not old. Certainly he was full of good
health, vitality and had all his limbs in working order. He was also
large-boned, empty-headed and possessed all the manners, charm and courtesy of
a wild boar.

Before he left her
there, his gaze had briefly pierced her through the bars, like a shower of
arrowheads. Ami had never seen a man with eyes that intense, that thorough. In
just those few seconds she was searched by his gaze, then dropped, discarded.
How dare he treat her this way? At the very least she might have expected a
modicum of respect. She was, after all, a lady of the nobility, not a plowman's
daughter or some hussy he found in a brothel.

Did he think he
could win her over with a few licks of his wicked tongue? She had not known him
ten minutes and he was ready to use her like a strumpet.

He had treated her
brutally. Dead leaves were stuck to the back of her mantle and she was still
wet between her thighs. All proof of his manhandling. As for her nipples, they
firmly refused to retreat again, but stood to attention like sentinels.

Now she was locked
in what appeared to be an empty store shed. A guard was posted outside the door
and she was left to ferment in her own fury. There was some good to it though,
she mused. The shed was dry and the straw warm. After the wretched journey
she'd just endured, it was luxury.

So she settled
into the straw, determined not to let that beast think he'd won any sort of victory
over her. He wouldn't be the first man to try.

****

He came back to
look in on her sometime later.
 
By then
it had begun to get dark, the winter's night drawing in early, and he carried a
rush torch.

"Well, woman,
are you ready to plead forgiveness?" he demanded through the bars.

Ami sat in the
straw, hugging her knees. "Forgiveness for what?"

"Cursing at
me like a scold and using your teeth like a stray bitch."

"You should
be begging
my
forgiveness, for
tossing me about like a dead calf, hauling me out of a wagon by my ankles and
exposing my ... nether regions ... to all and sundry." His crimes were far
worse, in her eyes, than anything she'd done.
 

The fact that the
touch of his big rough hands on her body had excited her in what was surely a sinful
way only increased her temper. Ami did not like to feel weakness of any sort
and what this man did to her had a very strange effect on the intimate parts of
her person. It was most disturbing. Her nipples still poked through her shift
and rubbed on the wool of her gown, whenever she thought about the way he'd
enjoyed her pussy. She'd never known men could do things like that. She'd never
thought of men as good for anything much.

Amber torchlight
flickered between the bars of the window. "I suppose you are hungry,"
he said.

"No,"
she lied, ignoring her rumbling belly. The scent of roasting pork had made her
mouth water for an hour at least.

She could just
make out a wry twist of his lips in the guttering light of the flame. "I
don't care for a bride with no flesh on her bones. A wife is meant to keep a
man warm at night." A lump of bread fell through the bars, followed by a
slice of fatty meat.

Ami was puzzled.
If he wanted her out of that shed, why did he feed her? Was he so stupid?
Earlier the guard had brought her a cup of water from the well. She'd assumed
he did so without his master knowing, but perhaps he'd been instructed to let
her drink. A woolen horse blanket had also been pushed through the bars for her
when the temperature dropped.
 

This was no way to
lay siege. The man must be an idiot.

She heard his
heavy sigh. "I suggest you think about your position here, woman, and
about the thanks you owe me for taking you in. By dawn I shall expect
contrition."

"Expectation
is the surest way to disappointment."

There was a brief
silence and then, "I would eat that food before the rats claim it."
He walked away, taking the torchlight with him.

Ami drew her
fur-lined mantle tighter around her body and looked anxiously at the straw
surrounding her.

****

Stryker sprawled
in his chair, boot heels resting on the trestle table, hands cradling the back
of his head. "She'll be on her knees to me by morning," he said
confidently.

His best friend
Ifyr sat beside him, weary after a long day of hunting and then the rescue.
"I hope she is, or else you can say goodbye to her dowry. I hear you're
not the first man to fall foul of her shrewish disposition and send her back to
her uncle."

"I'll soon
have that temper tantrum flushed out of her," Stryker replied drowsily.
The woman made a lot of noise, but he could turn a deaf ear to it once he had
that fat bride purse in his hands. His manor needed the coin. "Each time
she disobeys me or talks back, she can return to the holding shed."

Ifyr scratched his
head and muttered, "Let's hope she's out of the holding shed by the time
her uncle comes in another month."

That made him sit
up, lurching forward in his chair, feet to the floor. "What?"

Ifyr began picking
his teeth with a slender piece of bone. He paused. "End of the month.
Baron Burleigh—yon wench's uncle."

"I know who
the bugger is. What's this about him coming here?"

"Your
neighbor is holding a feast for the Yuletide, to bless that castle he's raising
on the cliffs. Half the Norman hierarchy is invited to attend." Ifyr
sputtered with laughter and shook his head. "How could you not know?"

But Stryker tried
hard not to pay attention to his neighbor. Dominic Coeur-du-Loup had stolen
away the great love of his life and married her. For that Stryker would never
forgive him. He might put on a civil face occasionally, but deep down inside he
was still furious about that thieving Norman bastard who usurped his place in
Elsinora's heart—and then usurped her father's estate too. The manor of
Lyndower should have been Stryker's. For years he'd planned to enlarge his
property with those adjoining acres. He'd courted Elsinora—her father's only
surviving offspring—ever since they were children together running over the
wild moors and swimming in the sea. Then along came Dominic Coeur-du-Loup, an
ugly scarred
Norman
soldier, and suddenly Elsinora was wrenched away from Stryker and with her too
any chance of acquiring her father's farm land. So no, he did not go out of his
way to know what his neighbor was doing. Most of the time he would rather not
know. He'd promised Elsinora to lay aside his sword and his ill-will toward her
husband, but this was easier done if he could pretend the man did not exist.

Now it seemed the
place was about to be invaded by more
Normans
to celebrate the ugly bastard usurper's grand stone fortress—a building that
promised to be as unprepossessing as the man himself.

How could Elsinora
have married that Norman toad, when she might have had her old friend Stryker
Bloodaxe instead? He still could not get his mind to make sense of her choice.
But she was a woman. He supposed that must be excuse enough for her stupidity.

"When Baron
Burleigh arrives he'll want to see his niece wed and content," Ifyr was
saying. "I doubt he'll be best pleased to find her stewing in the drunk
shed." He laughed uproariously at the thought.

Ifyr, thought
Stryker grimly, had no responsibilities, no manor to run. His only concerns
were ale and women, with the occasional fight thrown in to keep a balance.
Stryker sometimes wished he could be so free of concern. Alas, he had the manor
and now he had a woman too. A haughty Norman wench.

If Baron Burleigh
was not satisfied with Stryker's treatment of his niece he might renege on
their bargain and take her back, along with her dowry. The Baron could tell
King William that Stryker did not treat his illegitimate daughter well. He
must, therefore, proceed with unusual care in this matter. He needed that bride
purse and, naturally, he wanted to stay on the sovereign's good side. Seventeen
years ago, following the Norman conquest of
England
, Stryker's father pledged
fealty to King William, hoping to keep hold over his small plot of land in this
remote, south west corner of the country. Other landowners chose to keep
fighting against the conquering army, but Stryker's father knew the rebellion
would be crushed sooner or later, and then what would he have? So instead he
aligned himself with the new king and was allowed to keep his remote fyrd. The
last thing Stryker wanted now was for the king to take it from him and gift the
place to one of his barons. He had a duty to his father's memory and to future
Bloodaxes. And this woman would help strengthen his friendship with King
William, as well as provide him with the necessary heir. As soon as she put her
claws away.

Slowly he rubbed
the rough bristles of his cheek and considered what to do about the shrew in
the holding shed. He could consult with his counsel but it was late to call a
meeting and if he could not handle his own bride he was not worthy of the name
Bloodaxe.

****

When Ami heard the
chink of keys she sat up, trying not to look too eager. She'd been quite
prepared to spend the entire night in the shed if need be, but perhaps the
great hunk of imbecile came now to let her out. Perhaps he was bringing her
more food, she mused. Clearly he had no idea how to smoke out the enemy.

But it was not her
captor. It was Villette.

Chirping
anxiously, she ran to her mistress and dropped to the straw as the door was
closed and locked behind her. "Oh, my lady, I thought something terrible
had happened to you."

Amias looked
around her and wondered how this did not count as something terrible.

"I am not
drowned, you see," the girl added. "Some men rescued us and all the
horses. A few things got swept away, but most were saved from the flood."

Ale hops were
evident on the girl's excited breath and from the grease stains wiped down her
gown she must have been fed. "No doubt you supped well, Villette, while I
was locked in here."

"They have
been most generous, my lady."

"Glad I am to
hear it. As you see, my evening has not been quite so comfortable."

Moonlight trickled
through the small window and lit the maid's plump pink face as she managed to
look crestfallen. "I am sorry, my lady."

"Well, I'm
not," Ami assured her. "I shall happily remain here in discomfort
until that foul barbarian sees fit to apologize for throwing me about like a
side of venison."

Villette knotted
her plump fingers together and made a grave face, that was almost humorous in
its pious solemnity. "I shall stay with you then, my lady, and share your
fate."

"Just don't
start singing."

"I thought it
might cheer our spirits."

Ami glared at the
girl. "You thought wrongly."

Outside she could
hear men murmuring and laughing as they gathered around braziers in the yard.
Despite the straw and the horse blanket, it was getting noticeably colder by
the half hour and her head felt very thick. At least, she thought, with
Villette's added body warmth she might not freeze to death tonight. She looked
at the girl again.

"Did that
villain send you in here to me?"

"No, my lady.
I asked to sit with you. How could I enjoy a pleasant night's sleep, knowing
you were out here all alone in the cold dark?"

She sighed,
shaking her head. Now she must worry not just about herself, but this silly
creature too. It was one thing to martyr herself for a cause, but she could
hardly endanger this girl too. The little maid's safety in this strange place
was her responsibility.

"He's
handsome, my lady, do you not think?"

"Who?"
she snapped.

"Your
husband."

Ami blew her nose
soundly on her kerchief. "I've seen goats with better looks. And cleaner
habits." She thought of the blood and filth on his clothes that day. He
said they'd been hunting, but in all likelihood he looked that way all the
time. Out here in the middle of nowhere—at the ends of the earth it seemed—what
cause could there be for dressing in finery? All her good gowns would go to
waste, with no one to admire them in this hellhole.