Lila's Wolf (Out of Time Book 1) (2 page)

“Greetings, stranger.” Marc spoke the local dialect with ease. “We are footsore and weary travelers, trying to make our way to Londinium . We’d be grateful of the chance to ride with you, as my lady is particularly tired. How far to the nearest inn?”

“There is no inn, not any more. I am returning to my lord’s hall, just four miles from here. Are you a merchant, sire?”

Marc offered an enigmatic smile and opened his cloak to show the leather tunic and short sword beneath. “I am, good friend, and I do a fine trade in ladies’ fripperies. But I am well able to defend my wife, should the need arise.”

The old man flashed us a toothy grin in return. “There may be some business for you at the hall. Please, climb up, you and your wife can sit behind me. There is a party riding out to Londinium in the next week, if you are in no hurry.”

Marc helped me climb into the back of the cart, where I settled next to a wicker basket of chickens. They clucked and squawked when he shifted them to make room for us both, but settled again quickly with the rocking motion once we set off. Marc draped one arm around my shoulder, tucking me under his cloak with my head against his chest. I hesitated at first. In my time, physical intimacy was rare. We’d developed into a self-contained race of enlightened people, no longer subject to the whims and violence associated with strong emotions. If Marc, or my physicians, knew of my deep resentment at Jared’s betrayal, they would never have allowed me to make this jump. I had to stay calm and aloof. Accepting the comfort of Marc’s body-warmth was in keeping with the period, and I was only acting the part. It didn’t mean I would enjoy it.

Jared

The first time Jared saw the ripe corn sheaves swaying in the breeze, the color reminded him of her hair. She used to wear it long, in a thick plait like a rope that swayed across her back when she walked, tempting him to give the end a gentle tug. He saw her everywhere these days. The yearling colts galloping across the meadow made him think of her. She had legs that seemed too long for her body and a wild grace that captivated him from the start. The electric blue flash of a kingfisher diving into the river matched the brilliance of her eyes, and the plump, velvet rose petals he harvested were the same color as her lips.

He needed to focus on her now, more than ever.

Hilde lay beneath him, her breathing a heavy rasp as she came down from her last climax. Not fully sated yet, he waited, holding his hard length inside her and stealing a moment for himself. All too soon, Hilde’s eyes snapped open, and she smiled archly at him. “
More
, Wolf.
Another
.”

Although his back ached and his shoulders burned with the strain of propping himself up, he smiled as if delighted with her response.
Not long now
. Bending his neck, he closed his eyes and suckled her nipples. He could pretend she was someone else. “Give me more, Wolf.”

Ah fuck.
His erection was softening. A frisson of panic, a sharp pain cut low in his belly, and he fought to stay focused.

Corn-colored hair, rose petal lips, kingfisher eyes.

He’d never even kissed her, never known how she would feel beneath him, but he could imagine she lay with him now. She would have soft, small breasts that fit into his palms, and a tiny waist, and the heels of her long narrow feet would be raking his back. He thrust with renewed vigour, his teeth grazing the skin on the underside of Hilde’s breasts and rasping over her erect nipples.
Yes. Better
.

Hilde grunted, her nails digging painfully into his shoulders, but that was okay. He pounded into her, driving harder than ever before, his aches and twinges forgotten. Through half-closed eyes, he pictured
her
. It was
her
throat he kissed.
Her
lips he plundered.
Her
hair that he raked between his fingers.

Lila
.

“Wolf,” Hilde moaned. He felt her tighten around his cock, the spasms finally enough to exhaust her. She lay replete, but then pushed at him with a firm shove at the iron collar around his throat. The thrall ring chafed around his neck and rubbed on the ever-present sores, but he held back a hiss of pain, biting down on his lip to stay silent.

“Get off me, boy, I’m done.”

Lila

My stomach churned and grumbled as the cart bounced along, and Marc drew my head onto his lap, arranging me so that I curled up next to him, covered by his cloak. Under the pretense of being his wife, such physical contact would be normal, but it felt unsettling to me, especially when he rested one hand on my nape. The breath hitched in my throat. What was he doing? His gentle fingers circled the back of my neck in a soothing motion, caressing beneath the heavy weight of my hair. Turning my head, I stared, met his gaze, and drew a tiny smile.

This close, there were crinkles around the edges of his eyes, a shadow across his cheeks, and a pale, almost white scar dissecting his left eyebrow. He wore his dark hair long, in keeping with the period, and I suddenly realized how well it suited him. Combined with his neatly trimmed beard, it lent him a rakish appearance, as though he had mischief planned. He looked very unlike the serious
ghardian
I knew; he had to be a better actor than I imagined.

“My wife has been feeling unwell.” His voice was a low rumble above my head, while I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. The nausea faded after a few deep breaths, and I relaxed, feeling strangely at ease when Marc shifted, hugging me closer to him. It allowed his fingers to curl around the edge of my shoulder, his body becoming a warm and cozy blanket, and something tight inside of me relaxed.

•●•

“
Lila
. We’re here.”

I opened my eyes, struggling to sit up and take in our surroundings. Had I fallen asleep? The
hall
turned out to be a large and well-maintained Roman villa set in lush farmland. A mixture of slaves and freemen picked grapes and were tending the fields as the cart bumped down the track to the gatehouse. Whoever had built this had been wealthy. The cart stopped on a narrow section to allow a pair of slaves—children—to drag a massive basket of fruit from one orchard to another. They looked too small to be doing such heavy work, and I found it hard not to stare at them. Marc gave me a gentle nudge, a reminder to look away. Slavery was normal for this period, but while the logical part of me knew that, I would never get used to seeing it.

Once the explanations were complete, we were offered hospitality as though we were valued guests and not complete strangers. This might have been helped along by Marc’s cover story. He claimed to be a merchant selling ribbons and beads, and had plenty of samples in his bag. The resident ladies were all keen to see his wares.

We sat around a huge wooden table eating honey cakes and drinking a light mead, as though we did this every day. I stayed quiet while Marc set out his trinkets and tokens, and I used the opportunity to assess our Saxon hosts: the warlord’s very young wife, Rowena, and her two ladies in waiting; her sister-in-law, and several female cousins and companions. The warlord himself, Widreth, was in Londinium taking part in a series of diplomatic talks with the southern tribes and would be back in a few days, in time for the midsummer festival. It all sounded very civilized. I glanced up to see an older woman joining us at the table, and Rowena was quick to introduce her mother-in-law, Hilde. She took a place at my side, staring at me intently. I felt my cheeks heating under her gaze.

“Forgive me. Your hair is an unusual shade.” The words
for a Briton
were left unsaid, but I guessed that’s what she meant.

I managed a respectful smile in return. “Thank you, my lady. My husband and I appreciate your hospitality. Tell me, have you been in this area a long time?”

“My son settled here three years ago, and we joined him on the following spring tide.” A flicker of sorrow darkened her eyes but the shadow quickly cleared. “My husband died in battle for this very homestead. We honor his memory with every day that passes.”

What she meant was, her husband’s raiding party had most likely slaughtered the previous occupants of this fine farm and taken possession of ripe, fertile land for themselves. They were brutal times. As a fellow historian of mine loved to say,
they weren’t called the Dark Ages because of bad lighting
.

Her smile looked friendly. “Do you know the area?”

“Yes.” I gestured at my
husband
. “We were last here two years ago, doing business with the village.” I took a sip of the mead and sought for an offhand tone to my voice. “There was a young man working in the smithy who had a fine hand for delicate work and jewelry. He sold us some pieces. I think his name was Flavius. Would you know of him?”

Her mocking laugh sent a chill through me. “The village is no more. Those who refused to accept my son’s rule were either executed or taken as slaves.”

Jared

Released from his mistress’ quarters, Jared made his way through the corridors to the kitchen, to fetch her a snack. The cook made him wait long minutes, and he stood in the open doorway, gazing out at the fields beyond. More strangers arriving. A flash of corn-colored hair caught his eye, and he squinted to try and see them better. A young woman with a man’s arm around her, and with that bright hair she was most probably a visiting Saxon cousin.
Not Lila
. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

One day, it
would
be the
ghardians
. They wouldn’t abandon him. No matter how bad it was, he hung onto that thought, the single belief that sustained him through every day,

The tray was loaded with mead, rough bread, and stewed plums, and his stomach grumbled at the enticing smells. If Hilde had been pleased, she might share, otherwise he’d have to wait for supper with the other slaves. He repeated his mantra inside his head:
My name is Jared, and I will be free again
.

•●•