The Barbarian's Bride Page 3

  “Shameless!” Rikiar declared. “If you wish to experience such intimacies, you need only report to your betrothed.”

  “My betrothed is not a princess,” Mara smiled prettily. Oh, Mara was naughty and got away with far too much. As a member of Rikiar’s household, her discipline came under his purview, and he had clearly been too forgiving of late, for he did not sense even a glimmer of remorse.

  “There have been too many complaints about your behavior,” he said, “and now you do this. Come with me this instant.”

  “Come with you?” Mara’s brows rose and she covered a laugh behind her pretty hand. “I see you do not wish to beat me here, lest your lady love hear.”

  “Come now, Mara,” Rikiar growled. He strode to the room where he made ready for hunt or for battle, a room with all manner of weapons on the walls. Mara was not intimidated by any of it, for she knew very well that she was only there to meet his palm.

  “Bend over that stool,” Rikiar ordered.

  She obeyed, but with an expression of insolence, which made raising her skirts and baring her naked cheeks all the more satisfying. Clamping one hand at the back of her slim neck to ensure her continued cooperation, Rikiar laid his palm across her pale bottom once, twice, three times with the fullest of force.

  Mara’s squeals came quickly. He was not showing her any leniency whatsoever and he imagined the powerful swats would cause quite a sting in her rump. The jiggling cheeks with their instant red shade was testament to that.

  “You, Mara, need to learn your place,” he lectured. “And it is not creeping about outside your chief’s bedchamber, or stealing suet from the kitchen, or passing over your duties in favor of going to the market. Do I make myself clear?”

  He accompanied the question with six hard slaps delivered equally to each of her cheeks. Mara wailed her assent, but he knew it was likely more for show than a result of any real contrition. He repeated the treatment, spanking her deserving bottom until she danced in place, her cheeks swaying and jiggling like two bouncing apples upon a tree caught in a high wind. Mercy was lost on Mara. He had been merciful many times before and as a result she had continued to be a most disobedient little wretch.

  When her cheeks seemed to have taken all the spanking they could bear, he turned his attention to her upper thighs, swatting them until she jigged and squealed and promised good behavior on the graves of all her ancestors.

  “Do not desecrate the good reputations of your forbearers,” Rikiar advised as his great brawny arm carried yet another swat to her heated flesh. “You have made many of these promises and broken them each time.”

  “Pray, my chief, clemency!” Mara wailed. “Please! I shall not be able to sit, nor sew, nor eat, nor sleep, nor… Ow!”

  Her shriek came as a smirking Rikiar slapped her across both cheeks. Her pleading was good, but only because she had so much experience doing it.

  “If I catch you but once more engaging in this disobedience, I will take a leather lash to you until you are welted from buttock to thigh, do you understand?”

  “Yes, my chief! I do!” There was a new note in her voice; it sounded of panic. Oh, Mara did not like the lash, not one little bit. It did not stop her from earning it on many occasions, but a hot bottom coupled with the threat of that burning hellfire might just be enough to remedy her behavior for a day or two.

  Rikiar released his hold on his servant and stood back, watching as her hands flew to cover her cheeks as she began a circular hopping dance during which she rubbed furiously, buttocks and bosom both bouncing as she tried to rid herself of the effects of his ire. Fortunately for Mara, she was really quite cute, both before and after chastisement.

  “Run along, Mara,” he said with the indulgent fondness that never seemed to fade no matter how many times she got herself into strife. “Try to be good.”

  Mara wisely took the opportunity to scamper out of his presence. He noticed that she made no promise to be good. It was just as well. Better not to make promises one could not hope to keep.

  Chapter Three

  When Rikiar rose the next morning, Berner, his closest friend and redheaded cousin, was waiting outside the great house. He was amusing himself with his trusty ash wood bow and a plethora of arrows, which he was shooting into a bristling straw-filled dummy. Berner didn’t need the practice. Amongst all Rikiar’s men, he was the best shot. He could put a barb into a bee’s bottom at a hundred paces if necessary.

  “Rikiar!” Berner boomed, lowering his bow and returning the arrow held between forefingers to the quiver at his waist. “Is the deed done?”

  Rikiar shook his head curtly, hoping to avoid discussion on the matter.

  “No? Did you not find her pretty?”

  “She is exceedingly pretty.”

  “Ah, she begged you and you relented.”

  “She did not beg.”

  “Haha! Then you could not muster the desire,” Berner guffawed. “The chief’s snake did not rise to the occasion.”

  “It was none of those things,” Rikiar replied. “And no more need be said.”

  Berner scoffed and handed Rikiar a small, dirty rolled-up piece of parchment. “This came by raven an hour ago. Merla the witch wishes to see you.”

  “Have we not crossed the crone’s palm with enough silver?” Rikiar unrolled the missive and read the words.

  BLOOD TO BLOOD THE RAVEN CALLS.

  Cryptic as always. The witch did not like to be specific. Rikiar thought that was likely because specifics were beyond the ken of a witch. Witches were tricksters in his mind, but he had to pay attention when this particular trickster sent word.

  “We will ride out and see her,” Rikiar said. For a moment, he worried about Aisling. Then the worry itself made him worry. He had known the woman for a few hours and he was already concerned about her safety even though she was behind a door guarded by two of his most loyal men. It was not Rikiar’s wont to worry, especially not where women were concerned. Women were playthings and pawns for the most part. Something idle to pass a little pleasurable time with. And yet now two such creatures were causing his brow to furrow.

  Putting his concerns as far out of mind as possible, Rikiar went with Berner to retrieve their mounts from the stables. Rikiar’s silver mare was in a fine fettle that day, prancing back and forth at the end of the bridle as the stable boy led her out.

  “Shhh, easy,” Rikiar soothed, running his hand down her neck and then up behind her ear. She settled and lowered her head, her pretty white lashes closing over her eyes as she enjoyed the rub.

  “You should ride a gelding,” Berner laughed. “They do not have such fickle moods.”

  “Fila is faster than your geldings,” Rikiar replied. “I’ll take her spirits over a dour creature any day.”

  They rode the three hours to Hag’s Hollow at a brisk pace. It was no small matter to consult the witch, but when she sent word, a wise man responded.

  It was nearing midday when they arrived at the forest grove, and though the sun shone brightly on the plains around the trees, once they entered the dark space both men felt an earthy chill. Hag’s Hollow was always wet, always dark, and always smelled of moldering wood. It was full of mushrooms, Amanitas and Psilocybe alike. The Amanitas were bold red-capped dinner plates; the Psilocybe smaller, less dramatic until one noted the blue tinge at the bottom of their frills.

  “Toadstools,” Berner grunted, kicking one over. “Ate one of those when I was a boy. Lost my mind and my bowels for a straight week.”

  Rikiar’s lips twisted in amusement. Berner had always been rash, and he had always paid the price for it. Rikiar had learned a lot from his cousin’s antics when they were younger, and avoided a great deal of pain simply by not doing anything Berner would do.

  The hollow was still a ways off, but the forest grew more tangled as one approached. Rikiar had once suggested cutting a path through, but the idea had not been welcomed by the witch. They were forced to clamber through the undergrowth for clos
e to an hour, stepping in muddy puddles, scratched by thorns, burned by nettles.

  “We should burn this down,” Berner growled. “Each time we come it is worse.”

  “If you came more often, the path would not grow so thickly.” The witch’s sibilant voice rang out in a clearing to their left, stopping the pair in their tracks.

  “Wait here,” Rikiar said to Berner. “We need not both be subjected to this.”

  Berner agreed and sat down on a rotting log. He was quite pleased to do so, for nobody willingly sought out Merla’s company.

  “You sent word?” Rikiar called out.

  “Come and give me a kiss!”

  Rikiar sighed and stepped carefully down the narrow trail the witch had taken. She was a very short, very slight woman who could fit through the smallest passages. She did not take kindly to her forest being disturbed by rough lumbering men. Rikiar therefore had to contort his body so as not to dislodge tender buds as he sought the witch. He could see the glow of a clearing beyond, lit by rare light unfiltered by forest canopy.

  In the middle of the clearing, the witch was collecting mushrooms. Her small frame was swallowed by a cloak so dark that it drew in light from all around it, creating a shade of shadow about her person. She moved with a quick, pecking motion that made her look like something between a woman and a bird. There was a large black wicker basket sitting on the ground, nearly full of blue frilled mushrooms. Rikiar went to her and placed a kiss on her cheek.

  “What would you have me do, witch?”

  “That is no way to speak to your mother,” the crone replied, extending her arms.

  Rikiar hugged his mother dutifully, doing his best to hide his irritation at being called out for what seemed to be nothing at all. “What did you need?”

  “You have captured a princess,” Merla said.

  “How…” The question died on Rikiar’s lips. His mother had always known what he was doing. She did not just have eyes in the back of her head, she had them everywhere, in every crow, every sparrow, every beast of the air. “Yes.”

  “I saw it in my mead,” Merla cackled. “She is pretty, but you should not keep her, this one. She comes with a cloud. I saw it in my dream. I saw a little candle, and then a great billowing blackness that consumed you, Rikiar, and all those you knew.”

  Rikiar folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head at the wise old woman. “And what did that dream mean, mother mine?”

  “It means her darkness is much greater than her light.”

  “Which means?”

  “Rikiar, you do not listen,” she sighed. “I have told you twice what it means.”

  “I am listening, mother. But what you say makes little sense. The words are riddles. Can you not speak plainly?”

  “I have spoken plainly,” Merla said. “I have told you to distance yourself from this woman. Send her away. Quickly.”

  “She is harmless, mother. I have spoken with her. She is a complete innocent. I doubt there is any darkness in her. “

  “You have come all this way,” Merla sighed. “At least carry my basket back to the cottage. If you will not listen, something of use may as well come from this trip.”

  Rikiar dutifully complied. An hour later he met Berner back on the path after carrying out a few errands for his mother, including chopping several cords of wood. It was important she stay warm, and she hardly had the strength for chopping anything but kindling anymore.

  “You should move to the village,” Rikiar had said as he had said a hundred times before.

  “Over my dead body,” Merla replied, as she always did. He left her with a roaring fire over which bubbled a pot of mushroom tea. That would keep her occupied for quite some time.

  Berner was sitting by the path whittling a piece of wood into a dagger when Rikiar returned. He looked relieved to see Rikiar. Hag’s Hollow could be strange when one was alone. Sometimes faces could be seen in the trees, and sometimes voices spoke without bodies. Only the truly intrepid dared pierce the witch’s veil. Berner was bold, but even he had his limits.

  “Did the crone tell you anything useful?”

  “She doesn’t like Aisling,” Rikiar said, shrugging. “Dragged us both all the way out here to tell me that.”

  Berner snorted. “Women. They never like other women. Especially not the women their sons are going to marry.”

  “The plan wasn’t to marry Aisling,” Rikiar reminded him.

  “That wasn’t the plan, but it’s going to be the outcome,” Berner rumbled. “I spent much time with her on our journey here. And you didn’t sleep with her. That means you care.” He snorted. “Your weakness is your kindness.”

  “I didn’t sleep with her yet,” Rikiar growled.

  “There is no excuse for that.”

  “Hold your tongue.” Rikiar strode through the undergrowth with little regard for the wet tendrils. He was in a very ill temper. Though Merla’s disapproval had not changed his opinion of Aisling, her warning was cause for concern.

  “Stop worrying,” Berner said behind him. “You’ve managed to take the king of Claddaugh’s daughter. Of course there will be trouble as a result. The witch has not told you anything you did not already know.”

  His words did serve as comfort. Rikiar had known all too well what would happen when he sent his men to bid for the princess. Her kidnapping had been planned extensively, word had been sent out a month in advance stating the date and place of the auction. Few had taken it seriously, but Rikiar had gambled on the chance, and he had won.

  “You have yourself a fine piece of female flesh,” Berner grunted. “Best make haste back home and lay proper claim to it before someone else does.”

  * * *

  Aisling woke in comfort, then remembered where she was and pulled the sheets high over her head. Captured. She was well and truly captured. She was also hungry, and, finding herself alone, a little scared. There were no servants to call as she would have done at the palace, there was no one to help her to the toilet and bring her breakfast. With the linen sheet high above her head, Aisling thought she might just hide there until Rikiar returned.

  “Princess?” A soft, feminine voice broke through the barrier of the sheets. “Do you wish to rise, princess?”

  Aisling pushed back the covers to see one of the women who had washed her the previous evening waiting at the foot of the bed. She was a little older than Aisling, with light blond hair and green eyes dashed with mischief. Aisling found herself smiling back at the woman.

  “I am Mara,” the woman introduced herself. “Rikiar has asked me to attend to you in his absence.”

  “Oh, he has gone away?”

  “Not for long,” Mara replied. “Do you miss him already?”

  “Miss him? I barely know him,” Aisling replied. The truth was her heart had sunk when Mara told her Rikiar was absent, and had risen when she was reassured of his return. She could not explain why, aside from the fact that he was the most fascinating man she had ever met, and he kissed like an angel.

  “Rikiar has a way of claiming a woman’s heart,” Mara replied knowledgeably, coming about the bed to draw down the covers. “It is a magic of his.”

  “It’s good to be king, I suppose,” Aisling said, taking the proffered hand to help her from the bed.

  “Rikiar is a chief, but he will be king soon enough. And you, his queen.”

  Aisling nodded, not at all surprised by the revelation. She was a princess. It had always been her destiny to be someone’s queen. It was no more surprising than learning a caterpillar would become a butterfly.

  “You are very quiet,” Mara noted. “Will you come wash?”

  Aisling slipped the gown from her shoulders and sat patiently, waiting for Mara to wash her. That had been the way of things all her life. Aisling had never lifted a cloth to her own skin, never washed away the dirt of a day.

  Fortunately the maidservant realized what was required of her. Mara soon prepared a basin of scented warm water and a s
oft cloth, which she used to wash Aisling’s face and thence the rest of her body.

  “Spread your thighs.”

  Aisling obeyed, but closed them when Mara made a tutting sound.

  “He did not claim you.”

  “No,” Aisling said. “He did not.”

  “I wonder what that means.” Mara dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out.

  “Means?”

  “Oh, I am sure all is well, dear,” Mara replied with a reassuring smile that did not reassure Aisling at all.

  Something had gone awry. Something was not as it should have been. That concerned Aisling much more than being captured and kissed had. Those things were natural.

  “Spread your thighs and lean back and I will make sure you are ready for Rikiar’s return,” Mara instructed.

  Aisling obeyed, leaning back on the wooden bench and parting her thighs to allow Mara to gently wash every fold and crevice of her womanhood. Mara was clearly a practiced hand when it came to such things. Her touch was delicate but talented and it inflamed Aisling’s desire. She could feel a tingling arousal starting first in the hard bud at the apex of her thighs, then flowing out around the petals of her flower.

  Another soft tutting sound was heard. “Look at you, poor girl,” Mara said, gently running the cloth over Aisling’s outer lips. “A simple wash makes you leak desire.”

  Blushing, Aisling hid her face in her hands. This was not how a wash was supposed to go. Her own maidservants had provided cursory wipes in that region, not this careful, artful touch that made her wetter than the contents of the basin.

  In the darkness of her shame, Aisling felt Mara’s hand pressing gently just below her mound. It was a soft touch, but one that made her bud rise high and prominent.

  The touch of a kiss just above it made Aisling squeal with surprise and pleasure. “What are you doing?”

  “I will not have you going to Rikiar flush with fluids,” Mara said, running her bare fingertips along the soaked petals of Aisling’s quim. “You need a good cumming, my girl.”