Master of Craving

“Do you desire me?” Arian asked.

 

Stefan choked. “What kind of question is that?”

 

“One that requires an honest answer.”

 

He nodded. “Aye, I desire you.”

 

“Why? Because I am handy?”

He smiled and touched her hair. The soft thickness felt like spun silk beneath his callused fingertips. His blood, already heated, quickened. “Because you are brave, and passionate, and beautiful.”

“What if I were not brave, or passionate.” She yanked her hair from his grasp. “What if my face were that of a hag but I had this body. Would you still desire me?”

 

“I would desire your body.”

 

“What is the difference?”

 

He smiled slowly. “A man can find release between any willing thighs.”

 

“Is it the same for women?”

 

“I know of some women who soften only for one man’s touch.”

She peered at him hard, and slowly said, “ ’Tis where I am confused. My betrothed’s kisses were warm and tender. I did not mind them. But you?” She pressed her hand to his chest, and his heart slammed against it. “You do something else to me entirely. It distresses me that your touch evokes wantonness from me when my betrothed’s does not.”

Contents
Dedication Legend

PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR

Copyright

To Rhianna and David:
May your deep love for each other conquer all. I love you both with all my heart.

THE BLOOD SWORD LEGACY

Eight mercenary knights, each of them base-born, each of them bound by unspeakable torture in a Saracen prison, each of them branded with the mark of the sword for life. Each of their destinies marked by a woman.

’Twas whispered along the Marches that the demon knights who rode upon black horses donned in black mail wielding black swords would slay any man, woman, or child who dared look upon them. ’Twas whispered their loyalty was only to the other and no man could split them asunder, nor was there enough gold or silver in the kingdom to buy their oath. ’Twas well known each of them was touched not by the hand of God but by Lucifer himself.

’Twas also whispered, but only by the bravest of souls, that each Blood Sword was destined to find only one woman in all of Christendom who would bear him and only him sons, and until that one woman was found, he would battle and ravage the land …

… but the darkest secret whispered was that there was one amongst them whose violent craving for the one woman he could not have would be the spark that would set an entire region on fire, and nearly bring down a kingdom, with the aftermath to be felt for the next thousand years …

PROLOGUE
1047, Dinefwr Castle, Carmarthenshire, West Wales

“Push, milady,
push!”
Jane the royal nurse urged. Princess Branwen gritted and bore down with all her might, praying to the Goddess and to her Lord Jesus Christ that this time she would see a live child come for all her labor.

“I see a head as crimson as the Beltane fires!” No sooner had the words left Jane’s mouth than the lusty squall of a babe filled the small, stuffy chamber. Another painful contraction gripped Branwen as she forced the child from her body. “ ’Tis a princess!” Jane cried.

Branwen collapsed back into the straw mattress, and though she had prayed endlessly for a son, she could not hold back a smile of satisfaction. “Let me see, Jane, show me my daughter,” Branwen said softly, her strength, after three days of hard labor, nearly depleted. She held out her trembling arms for the squalling child, barely able to manage the gesture, but was glad for the effort when the mite of an infant lay in her arms.

Branwen peered down at the fiery thatch of hair atop the most angelic face she had ever beheld. The babe quieted the instant Branwen took her from the nurse. With her fingertips, gently she smoothed away the blood and caul from the babe’s eyes, and was rewarded with a calm, penetrating stare. She gasped, and her heart filled even more. She glanced up at the nurse, ignoring the frown lines furrowing her brow. “An old soul, Jane. She has been here before.” Branwen gazed back at her daughter, and pride filled her so completely she felt overwhelmed with emotion. The hot sting of tears blurred her vision. Though the babe was not a son, Hylcon would be so proud of her. After so much heartache, they had finally been blessed with a live child.

Jane clucked her response. Ignoring the child, the nurse pursed her lips as if she had just sipped vinegar. “One more push, milady, to rid your body of the afterbirth.”

Barely able to muster the strength, Branwen bore down, and, almost as forcefully as the delivery of the child, she felt the afterbirth leave her. She sank back into the damp pillows and hugged her child close, pressing a kiss to the warm forehead. Closing her eyes, satisfied with her chore, she laid the child to her breast and took several deep breaths.

Without a word, Jane pressed her sturdy hands to her lady’s belly and began to knead. Slowly Branwen opened her eyes and peered down at the creation in her arms. So enthralled with her beautiful daughter was Branwen, she did not give much concern to the continual flow of blood from between her thighs. ’Twould pass. It always did.

Branwen glanced up at the nurse from her daughter, who rooted at her breast. Perspiration beaded the servant’s brow as she continued to massage Branwen.

 

When she refused to look up and meet her gaze, a tremor of fear iced Branwen’s sultry skin. “Jane?” she whispered, her arms trembling, almost dropping the babe.

The midwife slowly looked up from her task, concern lacing the deep lines around her dark brown eyes, and by it Branwen knew a prickle of fear so chilling that she choked back a breath. In that moment of clarity, Branwen’s entire life, a life full of love and laughter and goodness, spun in a slow endless circle before her eyes, and she knew with a sinking realization that she would not see her daughter other than this one time.

“Call my husband,” Branwen whispered. At her command, the ancient tiring woman assisting Jane hurried from the chamber.

Branwen pressed the child tightly to her, then closed her eyes, praying once again to the Goddess, for the old ways still lived in the heart and souls of the Welsh Celts. She prayed the Goddess would protect her daughter, and give her to a man who loved her above all others. A man who would sacrifice all for her; a man who would protect her as her own dear Hylcon had protected her.

Jane worked feverishly, her experienced hands kneading Branwen as she would a round of dough. Branwen felt no pain. How could she with such a perfect gift in her arms? Closing her eyes, she tightened her arms around the mewling piece of humanity. Her chest tightened with the combined excitement of love and the jarring pain of despair, of knowing that all that she held dear was lost and there was nothing but a divine intervention that could stay it. She expelled a long tired breath, and with each wave of blood that flowed from her body, Branwen felt her strength ebb.

“Branwen!” Hylcon called as he burst into the birthing room, rushing to her side. Turning her head toward her husband, Branwen managed the barest hint of a smile. Fear twisted his noble features. Did he sense her end?

“My love, I have given you a daughter.”

He grasped her hands wrapped around the babe, his wide silver eyes giving no acknowledgment of their child. He had, since the day they first met, had eyes only for her. Her heart twisted in bittersweet pain. Prince Hylcon, every maid’s dream. He was so handsome, a mighty warrior and a good husband. A most worthy prince to their people.

“My love,” he whispered. Then, ever so gently, with his fingertips, he pushed the tendrils of her hair from her damp brow. “Do not speak, you will need your strength for later.”

 

“My apologies, my lord, for not giving you a son.”

 

Vehemently he shook his head and gently pressed his lips to hers. Just a brush, just enough to remind her he put her above all women. “Next time, Bran, next time.”

She could not tell him there would be no next time. But she saw the fear in his eyes when he burst into the room. Aye, he would mourn her passing, and for that she had some satisfaction. Not because she wished him pain, but because she was the source of it. For their love was uncommon. It had grown from just a tiny seed, when they met for the first time on their wedding day some nine years past, into a blossoming garden. But he would need to take another wife.

She caught a sob, as her chest tightened. She had failed him miserably as a wife. While he had given her all, she in return could only, after six stillborn daughters, give him a live daughter and one that would take her life. She choked back another sob, wishing with all her heart ’twas she who could give him his heart’s desire. But it was not to be.

“My love,” she softly said, “take our daughter, call her Arianrhod after the moon goddess, and give her all that you would have given me.”

Shaking his head, Hylcon dropped to his knees beside her, still refusing to look upon the child. He pressed his big hands to hers again, his silvery eyes not looking anywhere but at her, his wife whom she knew he loved more than his own life. “Do not leave me, Bran, I forbid it!”

With what little strength she still possessed, Branwen held her ground. She loved her husband with all her heart, but she would not take the chance that he would cast their child aside in anger at losing his wife. “Swear it, Hylcon,” she breathed. “Swear you will not cast her aside.” Her eyes beseeched his, and it was not until he nodded that she felt peace. She smiled and closed her eyes. “I will await you at the gates, my love. Take your time, for our daughter will need you. Give her only to the man of her choosing. And make him swear he holds her life more precious than his own.” She slowly exhaled, and barely audibly whispered, “Then come to me.”

“Nay!” he roared. “Do not leave me!” But it was too late.
ONE
August 1067, Battle of Hereford, England

Thick air settled like a sodden mantle upon the rising heat of the summer morning. The dusty blue sky above hung low and heavy, promising rain. Great black buzzards sat patiently high up in the oak and ash trees, as if summoned by the banshees to come and collect the dead. And there would be many souls to collect this day.