Held For Ransom Page 3

  “Are you cold, your highness?”

  “No, sir,” she mumbled, feeling sick. But how would she even retrieve the knife without his notice? Nothing seemed to get past the man.

  She allowed her bowl to slip through her fingers and topple to the floor at her feet. “Forgive me,” she muttered. “My hands are clumsy after being tied.” She reached down to catch the bowl, snatching the knife when Crow stood to call to the Saxons for a cloth. Tucking the knife under her thigh, she scooped her meat back into the bowl and accepted the cloth to wipe the juices from the floor.

  She handed the bowl to Crow.

  He looked at the food in it. “Do you wish for a fresh serving?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I am not hungry.”

  He shrugged and handed the bowls and the cloth to the Saxons, shutting the door behind them. He came back to tie her bonds and she sat still as a stone, waiting for his approach. The moment he squatted before her, she grabbed the knife and struck in one fluid movement.

  He caught her wrist and twisted his head the instant before impact, but her blade still struck, catching him below the left eye and tearing across his cheek when he turned his head. She gasped, terrified at what she had done, watching blood spurt from the gash.

  Crow wrenched her arm backward, slamming her wrist on his knee to dislodge the knife from her grasp. His arm returned, cocked to backhand her, but froze mid-air. She could not breathe, her heart stuck in her throat, once again paralyzed by her own terror, though whether she was more afraid of what she had done or its consequences, she could not tell.

  He hauled her to her feet and carried her several paces to his chair, where he rested one foot upon the seat and pushed her torso over his thigh. When he yanked up her tunic and chemise and began to unfasten his sword belt, she realized his intent. Fighting as if for her life, she struggled against his hold, forcing him to drop the belt and wrap both his arms around her, pinning her arms to her side.

  He spoke in her ear through gritted teeth. “You can take my punishment and keep me as your guard or I can leave you to see how you fare with the Saxons. Which is it?”

  She stilled.

  “Wise decision,” he said, bending her wrist behind her back as he leaned over to pick up the belt. She looked over her shoulder as he doubled it, and drew his arm back to swing, blood still dripping from his face at a frightening rate.

  The leather bit into her bare skin, leaving a sting in its wake. He whipped her fast and hard, each lash falling right after the last, searing her bottom with the flexible leather until she danced with the pain. Still he continued thrashing her, with no sign of stopping. She wondered if he had lost his senses in his own pain, whether he would ever stop, and if he did not, how long she could take it. She attempted stoicism, but at last she reached a breaking point.

  “Please!” she gasped.

  To her surprise, the spanking stopped.

  “Please, what?” he demanded.

  She could not think what answer to give.

  “Please stop or please forgive me?” he prompted.

  Please stop. “Please forgive me,” she gasped.

  He lifted her from his thigh, turned, and sat on the chair, pulling her to perch on his knee, her clothing still lifted so her bare skin connected with his hose. The intimacy of it affected her, the humiliation outweighed by her physical response to his dominance. Wetness leaked from her sex, and she feared he would feel it soaking his hose. Her bottom stung, the heat only stoking the fire between her legs.

  She dared look at him and gasped at the sight. His entire shoulder and front of his undershirt were soaked with blood, the lower half of the mask clung to his face in the sticky mess.

  “You must remove the mask─”

  “Do not speak,” he ordered with gruff authority.

  She obeyed, watching him with held breath. He sat, staring at a point in the distance, as if thinking, or more likely, recovering his temper.

  He released her, pushing her to stand. “Go fetch me the knife,” he commanded.

  She complied, her mind whirling with fearful thoughts of what he planned to do with it. Did he mean to exact retribution? Make the same cut on her face she had made on his? Or would he just threaten her with it? She considered her options, and despite having a useful weapon in her hand, she knew she would not use it again. One failed attempt was all she could manage. At least for one day. She handed it to him, hilt first, and found herself pulled roughly to sit on his knee again.

  “What was your plan?” he asked. His voice sounded like his own again, the threat she had heard in it moments before ebbing.

  She could not meet his eye, nor could she look at his bloodied face, the wound gaping open and still bleeding profusely as he did nothing to staunch it.

  “You were aiming for my eye?”

  She gave a small assent.

  “Probably your best strategy considering your size and the length of the blade. But how did you plan to handle my men out there?”

  “Could you spare me the critique?” she asked, more to hide her fluster than out of ire.

  His voice turned hard again. “Do not speak disrespectfully to me.”

  “Or what?” she dared.

  Crow let his head fall to the side, looking exasperated. In the next moment, he upended her over his other knee, his thigh clamping over her legs to pin her in place. He shoved her clothing up and began spanking her with the flat of his hand, which should not hurt a grown woman, but did. Her bottom was already swollen and sore from the whipping, and now his hand stung like a dozen bee stings as he smacked at a pace too rapid for her to catch her breath. Lying over his lap, being spanked with his hand made her feel like a naughty child, even more shameful than being bent over his knee and whipped. She could not squirm out of his grasp, no matter how hard she tried.

  “Forgive me!” she cried. “Forgive me!” she cried louder, fearing he had not heard her.

  He did stop, his large hand coming to rest on her bottom, which still twitched and pulsed from the assault. To her shock, he rubbed her throbbing cheeks, making slow lazy circles over her heated flesh.

  What was he doing?

  The sensuality of his touch charged the air between them. His thumb trailed between her cheeks and she froze, but he withdrew it, continuing the slow strokes. She imagined his view–her bare bottom reddened, her sex probably visible between her legs. Because she did crave his forgiveness, she irrationally hoped he took pleasure in the sight of her.

  Eventually he stopped the caress, though his leg remained firmly clamped over hers, holding her in place. She heard the sound of fabric ripping, and looked over her shoulder to see him cutting another swatch from the bottom of his undershirt with the knife she had brought him. Balling it up, he held it to his cheek, at last attending to his wound. Holding her in the shameful position whilst he worked to right the damage she had done completed her humiliation.

  “Are you finished with your rebellion?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you,” he said, lifting her to her feet.

  She stood between his knees, unable to meet his eye, blushing from the humility of her predicament.

  He shocked her by picking her up and carrying her the few feet to the pallet, where he laid her gently on her side.

  ****

  He walked away from her, holding the bunched fabric against his wound to stop the blood. He had underestimated her. Or mayhap overestimated her, because it had been a foolish act. He might have snapped her neck by reflex before he stopped himself and truly, she was lucky he had lived, because she would not have fared well at the hands of Alwin and Denby.

  The sound of a sniff stilled him. He turned to look at her, huddled on her side, her eyes squeezed closed, tears running down the bridge of her nose.

  Curses.

  He had not had the heart to whip her till she broke, but now, when it was all through, she cried. The sound of it pained him more than the deep gash on his face.
He drew near and crouched beside her, reaching his hand for her shoulder, but stopping before he touched her. He had a feeling she knew of his presence and did not relish it. He doubted she would accept comfort from him.

  A silent sob wracked her body. He had to try. He laid his hand over her small shoulder.

  She opened her large green eyes. “Crow,” she croaked.

  He was surprised to hear his nickname on her lips and he responded by scooping her into his arms, settling himself on the pallet, with his back against the wall and the princess curled in his lap. It was a breach of etiquette, but then so was whipping her.

  He could think of no words, so he said nothing, just rubbed her back with one hand as he held the cloth to his face.

  “Crow,” she repeated, sounding sorrowful.

  “Peace, princess. Peace,” he said.

  He breathed in the smell of her hair, relished the softness of her small body against his. In that moment, they were not princess and knight, nor priestess and initiate, not even prisoner and guard. They were simply a man and woman who had both hurt each other and were sorry for it.

  He wanted to make love to her–knowing it would bring absolution to them both. Yet, like her, he was daunted by the fact she was still a maid–that she had waited all these years to give it for something special–not to a stranger who had just thrashed her for stabbing him.

  Her tears stopped and she lifted her head, the strong and capable priestess back in place again. “You must take off the mask and clean the wound. Else the fabric will irritate and cause infection.”

  She reached for his face.

  “Do not touch it,” he said, sounding more surly than he intended. He captured her reaching hand and gave it a squeeze to soften his words.

  “Crow,” she said, the sound of his name on her lips sounding so perfect, so pleasurable he wanted to kiss them. “Will you allow me to stitch it for you?”

  “And let you weave your curse into it?” he asked wryly, though he sensed her intentions were good.

  The line between her brows creased, marring her lovely features. If she were his woman, he would work hard to erase that worry line from her face, taking on her burdens so she did not carry so much. “I give you my word as a priestess of Avalon I will weave only the light and the love of the Goddess into your stitching. Will you allow it?”

  He liked the way she looked at him. The light in her face had increased when she spoke her pledge, as if she had called in the Goddess herself.

  He nodded. “I will allow it.” He reluctantly released his prisoner, rechecking the knife was still in the scabbard of his belt, as her hands remained untied. He opened the door and leaned his head through. “She tried to escape,” he told his companions.

  Denby whistled, grinning. “We heard you whipping her. Looks like it was well deserved. I told Alwin it seemed odd since you were so adamant about not hurting her.”

  He tossed the eating knife in their direction and it landed with its blade in the table. “You were the idiot who lost his blade to her,” he said to Alwin. “Do you have a needle and thread?”

  “Aye. In there,” he answered, tossing a small leather pouch.

  “Send Elric for a fresh shirt for me and a dress for her.”

  “All right. Do you not need help taming her, though?”

  He gave him a withering glance and closed the door without answer. Sitting in the chair, he opened the bag and found the most slender bone needle and a bit of thread. The princess crossed to him, taking the needle and feeding the thread through the eye before stepping between his knees to reach his face.

  He tensed, having misgivings about allowing his enemy so close to his eye with a pointed object. Grasping her wrist, he stopped her. “A needle in my eye will not stop me from whipping you again,” he warned.

  He expected her to bristle, but instead the corners of her mouth turned up. “I have no doubt of that, sir.”

  He grinned, sitting back, unable to resist giving her bottom a pat. She squeezed her cheeks underneath his hand, making him want to cup and knead them.

  “Take off your mask.”

  “No,” he refused, lifting the lower edges off the wound, though it covered half his vision. “And you are in no position to give orders, highness.”

  She stabbed him with the needle. He gritted his teeth to prevent from flinching. “Do you not think it is odd you still call me ‘highness’?”

  “No. Your station deserves my respect, even if you have relinquished your rights to it.”

  It was a painful place to be stitched, the flesh too thin beneath his eye to absorb the stab of the dull needle and the tug of the rough thread through his skin. He sweated, holding still so she could do her work. As she moved to the outer edge of the gash, she swung her bare leg over his thigh, straddling it to get closer.

  He closed his eyes, thinking how close her bare sex stood to his cock. Just a hand’s span away. What he would not give to take hold of her bottom with both hands, gripping her sore flesh, making her remember how he mastered her. What sort of man would a woman like her choose to mate with? One of the druids, pale and thin from their long meditations? Or one of her brother’s knights?

  Certainly not a rogue mercenary like him. Not a half-Saxon warrior who had known nothing but battle since the time he was ten. She leaned forward, offering a view down the front of her shift, her pale breasts firm and perfect like the rest of her.

  He had never wanted a woman more. Nor had he ever been denied a woman when he desired her. The frustration energized him with a virile power, recalling one of the lessons during his initiation, in which the boys were instructed to repeatedly bring themselves to arousal without spending for several days before their testing, lending them stamina and energy. It had made their reward all the sweeter, though he was certain all the initiates climaxed moments after they entered their maid, as he had.

  She leaned to his left and lost her footing, sitting on his thigh. Before she had a chance to stand, before he had a chance to think, he wrapped his arm around her hips and pulled her pelvis against his, feeling the heat and the moisture of her bare sex on his hose.

  She froze, drawing in her breath, her face so close he could kiss her.

  ****

  “Wh-what are you doing?” Against her will, her hips made a slight undulating movement, rocking her mons over Crow’s thick thigh.

  He released his hold on her waist, looking away and swallowing. “Nothing,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “Just steadying you.”

  I should not like to see you with any man but me.

  Knowing the burly man between her legs desired her sent fissures of heat cascading through her body, coalescing in her center core. As she stood on shaking legs, she felt dizzy with lust, the urge to rub her sex up and down on his leg, to tear off his clothes and touch him, skin to skin, to finally experience the act of power for herself overwhelming. Aye, she wanted him with a need that burned.

  Then she remembered the woman. He was doing all this for a woman. Someone who had gone missing with the other Saxon settlers, if she understood her impressions correctly. She pulled her leg out from between his legs, stepping back to safety, where she could no longer breathe his scent and feel his heat.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Not quite,” she said, sounding out of breath. She lifted the needle and found her fingers trembling. Worse still, Crow noticed, catching her hand before she pierced the skin.

  “You will poke my eye out that way,” he said, causing her face to heat. He tugged her hand toward his lips, not quite kissing it, but resting it against his mouth.

  Wishing to distract him, she blurted, “You may still die from this.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance. “I know.”

  A wash of cold flooded her to hear him agree. The cut was deep, and if it turned sour, he would die of blood poisoning. She had seen it often when treating wounded warriors. And while she had been the one to inflict the wound, she was not sorry her attem
pt at murder failed.

  He released her hand and she returned to her work, the seriousness of the situation calming her tremors. She did not finish until suppertime. When the food came, she ate little of her stew, her hunger curbed by lack of activity and a desire to use her second sight.

  “Come, highness,” Crow said, after one of the Saxons carried the bowls away.

  It was a change for him to summon her, rather than to go to her. Things between them had changed the moment he had laid his belt across her bare bottom and she had accepted it. Though he called her “highness,” he was the clear master now, having cowed her so easily with his childish punishment.

  She hardly considered disobeying when he called her to him, still craving some kind of absolution for what she had done to him–at best inflicting a permanent scar, at worst a slow death. She stood before him, holding her wrists out for his binding. He wrapped them behind her again, but she did not protest, as she knew he would say they had been free all afternoon.

  ****

  She fell asleep quickly, exhausted by the day’s events, though she slept fitfully. Every time she woke, she opened her eyes, peering through the darkness to see whether her captor slept, and every time she met his eye gleaming in the darkness. It seemed catching him in sleep was an impossibility.

  When she woke in the morning, though, she knew his wound had turned bad. The edges were swollen an angry red and white pus oozed from the stitched opening.

  “You are unwell.”

  He answered with his habitual silence.

  “Can you get some garlic for a tea?”

  He ignored her question again. The door opened and one of the Saxons entered, carrying two bowls of porridge and what appeared to be clothing. He handed the porridge to Crow and dropped the clothing on the floor at his feet before departing.

  “Come, princess.”

  Again the summoning. She stood and crossed the room to him, turning around so he could unbind her wrists, which ached from the non-habitual position. She rubbed the life back into her arms, and rather than picking up her bowl, examined the garments.

  “Is this for me?” she asked, holding up a plain muslin gown.