Untamed (11 page)

Meg's face drew into tight, unreadable lines. “The priest found no stench of the Devil on the land. Never once, no matter how many times my father paid for exorcism!”

“The storm was mere coincidence, then.”

“Some believe so.”

“But the simple people of the keep…they believe their fate is bound up in that of their lady, the Glendruid witch.”

“Aye,” Meg said.

“Do you?” Dominic pressed, curious about the girl who was now his wife.

She shrugged and threw back the silver hood of her mantle, feeling stifled by the past, by the present, by the future; and most of all by the man looming over her like a storm on the savage edge of breaking.

“It matters not what I believe,” she said tonelessly.

Dominic looked at the fiery cascade of Meg's hair against the silver fabric of her tunic. Without meaning to, he reached out to touch a silky lock.

Meg flinched away before she could control herself.

“Did he beat you, too?” Dominic asked.

She said nothing. She didn't have to. The tightness of her body as she waited for a blow to fall said all that was needed.

“God's teeth,” Dominic muttered. “'Tis just as well he is dead. It saves me the trouble of sending him to Hell with my own hands.”

Silence expanded in the room while Dominic studied the girl who looked so fragile, and yet…

And yet, somehow this slender reed had managed to confound the hopes of a powerful Saxon lord. Though she had flinched at Dominic's unexpected movement toward her, she had quickly controlled herself. The witch was far from cowed. She sat with spine straight and head high, measuring him even as he measured her.

Reluctantly Dominic found himself admiring Meg's spirit, though he knew it would put him to much trouble as a husband.

This one will come willingly or not at all. God's teeth, what a trial for a man who wants only peace!

Then, almost secretly, came another thought.
I shall enjoy taming her even more than the peregrine. To hear soft cries of pleasure from her lips as I bathe every part of her in my breath, my touch
…

And to know with each cry that I will have sons of the witch!

Deliberately Dominic pulled off first one mailed gauntlet, then the other, and tossed them to the table. They thumped heavily into place between the bowl of river pebbles and a box that held bright, fragile twists of floss used for embroidery. A quick glance around the room told him that there was no substantial chair save the one Meg was using.

“That will have to be remedied,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

Dominic looked at the wary green eyes that were watching him.

“There is no place for a man to sit,” he said.

Gracefully, Meg got to her feet and gestured to the empty chair.

“I'm not such a churl as to take a lady's chair,” Dominic said.

“I'd rather stand than sit whilst you loom over me with your fists on your hips.”

Dominic's mouth formed a wry twist as he realized Meg was correct. His fists were indeed on his hips as though he were about to upbraid a knight for abusing a war-horse or a squire for not taking suitable care of his knight's armor.

“The day has been…” Dominic's voice faded.

“Trying?” offered Meg.

“Aye. That and more. 'Tis like having to fight again a battle you were certain was already won.”

When Meg saw the soul-deep weariness beneath Dominic's discipline, her heart turned over with the
same compassion for him that she had for the people of Blackthorne Keep; for he was one of them now.

“Your hauberk is heavy, husband. May I help you out of it?”

Dominic gave her a startled look and nodded.

The fastenings were unfamiliar to Meg. While she fussed and tugged, Dominic watched her bent head. Scents of spice and roses floated up to him from her hair, reminding him of the soap he had been using since he had come to the keep.

“You smell like a garden,” Dominic said.

The change in his voice from weariness to velvet darkness startled Meg. She looked up so quickly that her hair shifted and shimmered like wind-blown flame.

“'Tis my soap.”

“Yes. Do I smell like a garden, too?” he asked.

The humor curling through Dominic's voice was as unexpected as his question. Meg smiled and ducked her head.

“You smell of battle,” she said. “Chain mail and leather and urgency. And strength. That most of all.”

“Next time I shall use more of your soap.”

Meg looked up, curiosity plain in her green eyes. “More, lord?”

He made a rumbling sound of agreement. “When I bathe.”

“Ah, 'tis you who has left the bath such a mess! Here I was blaming poor Duncan.”

Beneath her hands, Dominic's body tightened until his muscles stood hard against his hauberk. She felt as much as sensed the sharp return of his rage at the mention of Duncan's name.

“Do you bathe often with the Scots Hammer?” Dominic asked.

The velvet seduction of Dominic's voice was gone
as though it had never existed. Meg's hands tightened and jerked, scraping her knuckles across a stubborn buckle. It gave way suddenly.

“There,” she said. “'Tis free.”

She stood on tiptoe to peel one side of the hauberk from Dominic's body. He turned suddenly, shrugging off the rest of the garment. The weight of it sent Meg staggering. Instantly Dominic reached out and lifted the hauberk from her arms, using only one hand.

Meg looked from the armor to the man who held its weight with such careless ease. She had known Dominic was large and certainly strong, but until that moment she hadn't understood how much stronger he was than she. The muscular lines of his body were clear against the supple leather undergarments that were all he wore.

She felt an urge to test his strength with her fingertips, her nails…her teeth. The thought of it startled her even as it sent a curious frisson of heat shimmering through her core.

“Do you?” Dominic asked curtly.

“Do I?” Meg repeated, dragging her attention back to his words with an effort.

“Bathe with the Scots bastard.”

She frowned. “Why would I do that? We both have attendants.”

It was Dominic's turn to frown.

“Why?” he asked. “For the pleasure of it, of course.”

Color climbed up Meg's cheeks.

“I'm neither a handmaiden nor a leman to attend Duncan's baths,” she said distinctly.

“'Tis not what I hear.”

“Then you are listening under the wrong eaves!”

Dominic grunted. “They are the same eaves where talk of Glendruid witches is heard.”

“The winter was long. There was little else to do but gossip and wait for the storms to pass.”

“Have you lain with Duncan of Maxwell?” Dominic asked bluntly.

“What a low opinion you have of your wife.”

“Your mother married when she was pregnant. You were betrothed to Duncan once. You knew Duncan's treacherous plans and made no outcry. What opinion should I have of you,
wife
?”

M
EG DREW A SHARP BREATH
that made the chain of Glendruid crystals she wore flash and sparkle in the candlelight.

“If you had Glendruid eyes, you would not see me so badly,” she said.

“I have the eyes God gave me and they see quite clearly.”

“If you think so little of me, why did you agree to the match?” The instant the words left her mouth, Meg knew the answer.

“Land and keep,” she said before Dominic could.

“And heirs.”

“Ah, yes. Heirs.”

“Unlike John,” Dominic said curtly, “I have no wish to raise another man's bastard, nor to scatter my own about the countryside like chaff on the wind.”

Meg turned away with a speed that made the fey cloth of her dress lift and swirl like mist. Dominic's free hand shot out, catching her arm before she could get beyond reach.

“I ask you for a third time, wife.
Are you breeding Duncan's bastard
?”

Meg opened her mouth to speak but no answer
came. If she had been in Dominic's place, and had lacked Glendruid eyes, she would have been as suspicious as he. But it galled her just the same.

“Nay,” Meg said, keeping her face turned away.

Her voice was low, trembling. The same tension vibrated through her.

When he remembered the rough treatment Meg had had at John's hands, Dominic's grip shifted subtly on her arm, becoming caressing, reassuring her even as his words did.

“Have no fear of me, small falcon,” he said. “I've never abused a horse, a squire, or a woman.”

Meg's head snapped up. A single look at the green blaze of her eyes told Dominic that it wasn't fear that had made her tremble.

It was fury.

“I am not a red-lipped leman to lie down on every man's command,” Meg said through her teeth. “I stood beside you before God as pure as freshly fallen snow, yet I have heard nothing but insults from your lips.”

One black eyebrow lifted. With a casual strength that told its own tale, Dominic flipped the hauberk one-handed onto the back of Meg's chair. Metal links flashed and rattled as the garment settled over the wood.

Then there was silence while Dominic studied his reluctant wife, a girl who stood close to him only because he held her arm within the iron grip of his right hand. His sword hand.

“You have heard nothing but truth from my lips, not insults,” Dominic said in a clipped voice. “Was your mother pregnant when she married?”

“Aye, but—”

“Were you once betrothed to Duncan of Maxwell?”

“Aye, but—”

Relentlessly Dominic overrode Meg's words. “Did you warn me of the ambush in the church?”

A shudder ran the length of her slender body.

“No,” she whispered.

“Why? Was the
affection
between you and that bastard so great you couldn't bring yourself to warn your betrothed of the murderous violence that had been planned?”

Meg's captive hand moved in a gesture of helplessness that was stilled almost as soon as it began.

“You would have hanged Duncan,” she whispered.

“Aye, madam, from the stoutest oak in the forest!”

“I could not bear being the cause of his death.”

Dominic's mouth hardened as he heard his fears confirmed: his wife did indeed have affection for Duncan of Maxwell.

“Hanging Duncan would have caused war,” Meg said, “a war the people of Blackthorne Keep would not have survived.”

Dominic grunted.

“My people…” Meg's voice faded.

A slight shudder ran the length of her body. She was like a thong tautly drawn and then drawn tighter still, trembling on the point of breaking.

“My people must have a time of peace in which to raise crops and children,” Meg said, facing Dominic once more. “They simply must. Can you understand that?”

Silently Dominic looked at the uncanny green eyes of the girl who stood before him proudly pleading for her people's lives. Not for her own life. Not for Duncan's life.

For her people
.

“Aye,” Dominic said finally. “That I can understand. Anyone who has suffered war can under
stand the balm of peace. 'Tis why I came back to England. To raise crops and children. Peace, not war.”

Air rushed out of Meg's lips in a long sigh.

“God be praised,” she said. “When you touched the falcon so carefully, I felt hope…”

Her voice faded into the soft whispering of flames in the hearth. With battle-hardened fingers, Dominic turned Meg's face up toward his.

“What did you hope?” he asked.

“That you were not the bloodthirsty devil gossip said you were. That there was kindness in you. That…”

Meg's voice caught at the gliding pressure of Dominic's thumb over her lower lip.

“That what?” he asked.

“I can't think…when you…”

“Do this?”

Dominic repeated the slow caress.

She nodded slightly. Even that small motion was enough to shift his touch to her upper lip. Her eyes widened at the unexpected sensation. Without thinking, she pulled back, only to find that his other arm had come around her, holding her for his touch.

“Don't fight me, small falcon. I am your husband. Or does my touch displease you so much?”

“N-no. I just didn't expect to be treated kindly by you.”

“Why?”

“You think badly of me,” Meg said.

“I think like a husband who doesn't know his bride. If I am to change my thinking, then I will have to know you better, won't I?”

Meg's eyes widened. Dominic could almost see her turning his words over in her mind, testing them for truth or falsehood…weighing him almost
as carefully as he was weighing each of his own actions.

“You have the right of it,” she admitted after a moment. “You must know me better. Then you will understand that you can trust me with your honor.”

Dominic made a neutral sound and stroked his thumb over Meg's lips again. More sensations shimmered through her, unsettling her. She hadn't known that her body had silky threads of fire hidden within.

“So soft,” Dominic said in a deep voice.

“You're not.”

He raised his left eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in amused agreement. At the moment, there wasn't one part of his body that was soft. Being this close to his reluctant wife had a profound effect on him.

“Your hand,” Meg explained, not understanding Dominic's rueful amusement. “'Tis hardened by war. Yet careful. I feel rather like the peregrine.”

“The thought occurred to me,” Dominic admitted, smiling slowly.

Meg looked into gray eyes that burned with a clear masculine fire. The sight was so beguiling that she didn't look beyond, not wanting to see the warrior's calculations that lay beneath. She was fairly light-headed with relief; of all the things she had anticipated on her wedding night, none had involved being gentled by Dominic's touch as though she were an untamed falcon newly brought to the mews.

“Are you still nervous of me?” Dominic asked.

“Aye,” she whispered.

“You need to be accustomed to your new estate,” he said. “Should I keep you in a darkened mews with eyelids carefully seeled, so that nothing is real to you but my voice, my touch, my very breath?”

When Meg would have answered, the back of Dominic's hand brushed over her lips as lightly as a sigh, scattering her thoughts before she could speak.

“Nay,” he said, answering his own question. “Not even the finest seeling thread of silk would I permit to mar the beauty of your eyes.”

The touch of Dominic's hand on Meg's throat drew a startled sound from her.

“I won't hurt you,” he said soothingly. “Like my peregrine, you are much too fine and fragile and courageous to damage with careless handling. Close your Glendruid eyes and simply feel, wife. Let me touch you until you no longer fear my hand.”

While Dominic spoke, he continued the caresses that were both reassuring and disturbing, sending glittering thrills coursing through Meg.

Slowly her eyelids closed, leaving her without a Glendruid woman's clear sight into a man's soul. For long moments there was only the whisper of flames and the soft rush of breath between lips parted in surprise. Meg had never known anything like Dominic's caresses, yet she kept feeling that she had. The familiarity haunted her.

“Why, 'tis like sunlight,” Meg whispered at last, remembering when she had felt such undemanding warmth before.

“What is?”

“Your touch.”

Dominic's smile wasn't nearly as gentle as his fingertips, but Meg's eyes weren't open to measure the difference.

“'Tis only fair that my caresses be as soft as sunlight,” he said, “for your skin is as tender as any rose petal I've ever known.”

A smile changed Meg's lips. Then her mouth opened slightly on a swift intake of breath when
Dominic's fingertips skimmed from the hollow of her throat to trace the sparkling chain of Glendruid crystals that wrapped around her body just beneath her breasts.

“Gently, falcon,” Dominic said in a low voice. “Soon you're going to trust yourself to my arm.”

“Even your strength couldn't support me if I gave my whole weight to your wrist.”

Dominic laughed and swooped like an eagle, lifting Meg in one arm. Her eyes opened in surprise.

“Will I have to make you go hooded?” Dominic asked. “Close your eyes and see as the newly caught falcon sees.”

As Dominic spoke, he bent and touched Meg's eyelids with the tip of his tongue, closing her eyes.

The unexpected caresses stole Meg's breath. By the time she got it back, Dominic was sitting in the big chair that had once belonged to John's grandfather, and she was half reclining across her husband's lap, her legs draped over one arm of the chair. She stirred restively, only to be restrained by her husband's hands.

“You are a falcon, remember?” he asked. “This is how we will learn about one another.”

Slowly the tension went out of Meg's body. Dominic shifted her hair free of its captivity, sending it cascading over the chair's arm and down to the floor, where it lay like embers waiting for fire.

A breathless sound came from Meg, nervous laughter or a tremulous sigh or both at once. The hushed intimacy and unexpected caresses kept taking her by surprise. They made her body feel both taut and languorous, flushed with heat. In the space of a few moments Dominic had given her more pleasure than she had ever expected from a man.

Yet Meg found she wanted more. As certainly as
she had sensed the pain beneath Dominic's ruthless self-control, she now sensed that there was a seething, twisting, hungry fire at her own core. She had never guessed such a thing existed within herself. It was like looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger, unnerving and enthralling at once.

Without realizing it, Meg settled more deeply into Dominic's grasp. The telltale softening of her body against his sent both cold triumph and hot hunger racing through him. He was heavy, full, hard, stirring with every rapid beat of his heart.

Meg smiled as though even through closed eyes she could see the evidence of his arousal straining against the supple leather of his undergarment.

“Are you peeking?” Dominic asked huskily.

“No, but I would like to.”

The thought appealed to him as well.

Slowly
, he cautioned himself.
I can't take her until she bleeds, no matter how stoutly she denies having lain with my enemy
.

But it would be sweet indeed to be naked with her, to have her touch me as she touched the peregrine
.

The thought of Meg's pale, slender hands stroking him dragged a rough sound of hunger and anticipation from Dominic.

“Are you laughing?” she asked.

“Nay. Would I laugh at a fierce peregrine beguiled by her master's touch?”

The pleasure curling through Dominic's voice charmed Meg. She smiled again and leaned against his chest. Heat radiated up from his body to her, luring her as greatly as her own pleasure, for the stones of the keep still held the chill of winter. Without understanding why, Meg yielded still more of her weight and herself to the man who was weaving a calculated spell of delight around her.

“You are like the sun in another way,” Meg murmured.

Dominic looked down at Meg's long, dark auburn lashes, creamy skin, and strawberry lips softly parted. The girl was yielding to him with a sweet sensuality that was as unexpected as the fierce hunger she called from his body. Need raked him with razor talons that threatened to slice through his self-control.

He needed her the way fire needed to burn.

Ruthlessly Dominic fought the violent passion Meg had aroused in him so unexpectedly.

“How am I like the sun?” Dominic asked when he trusted his voice not to reveal his naked hunger.

“Heat, my lord. You are like fire.”

“Do I burn you?”

“Not painfully. You warm me like sunlight after winter's long siege.”

“Then come closer, small falcon. Lay your head against me. Learn my scent and taste and textures.”

After a moment's hesitation, Meg gave in to the gentle pressure of his hand against her head. In silence she smoothed her cheek along Dominic's leather-clad chest. The texture of his garment was as fine and supple as a kid glove, and it fit him the way his own skin did. When she realized how clearly she could feel each ridge and swell of muscle, an odd tremor rippled through her.

“You're cold,” Dominic said. “Let me warm you.”

The thickening of his blood with passion made his voice low, almost rough. He feared it would make Meg wary. He didn't want that. Not when she was coming over to his side of the sensual battle without a fight, taken in ambush by the skilled caresses of a man from whom she had expected only blows.