wounds. He walked naked back into the lodge. For a long moment, he stood and stared down at the feverish princess. Her slender body looked small in the large bed.
Pulling the warm linens from her body, he could not help but admire her. Even the damage to her breast did nothing to detract from her uncommon beauty. Aye, she was a most exotic bird amongst the simple sparrows of England. As he dampened fresh linens in the bucket of cool water he brought in with him, Stefan could not help a smile. If she knew how he looked upon her now, those silver eyes of hers would turn molten in outrage. He liked that part of her. She was no ninny crying at the first sign of danger. He wagered if properly trained she would be a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. He pressed the linen to her chest, and felt her nipples pucker beneath his fingers.
His blood quickened. She was not shy, but bold and courageous—he would venture she would be the same as a lover. His hand trailed down her waist to the cradle of her hips, marveling at the smooth, velvety softness of her skin. He longed to press his lips to her belly, then to the soft down that shielded her. She would be sweet as honey. He itched to go where he knew he should not. She moaned softly, and when she did, her hips moved, pressing into the palm of his hand. Cursing, he stepped back from her, doused another linen, and placed it over the lower half of her body.
The heat in his body subsided somewhat when he donned the sturdy pair of woolen chauses and worn braies he found in a trunk in the great room. As he dug deeper, he pulled out several rough tunics such as one would don for the hunt. They were clean and would do. Once dressed and his sword belt secured around his waist, Stefan felt more like himself. Spitting the grouse, he set about securing the small dwelling.
Later, he pulled the bird from the spit, filled a goblet with wine, and made his way back to the small chamber. He settled into the lone chair, ate the meager meal, and drank heartily of the wine, never once tearing his eyes from the woman who would set his brothers free.
SEVEN
Heat swirled about her, as if she were in the depths of hell. Dark laughter filled her ears. Foreign words murmured in the hot shadows ebbed and flowed as if an audience observed her from behind a heavy curtain. She lay naked, spread-eagled and tied down upon a cold stone altar. Arian cried out when she realized there was no escape. Harsh laughter filled the flaming chamber. Craning her neck to see who taunted her, Arian’s heart stopped. Through the swirling smoke and livid flames, Dag emerged naked, his jutting rod menacing and smeared with blood. She swallowed hard. Horns protruded from his bald head. His teeth were long and sharp, his lips full and red as if he had drunk blood. Arian could not breathe. She dared to look down her naked body and screamed. The same blood smeared the inside of her thighs. Desperately she fought against the bindings. “Nay!”
From the thick acrid smoke, Magnus appeared, with her father beside him, the two united as one against her. “I will not have you to wife!” Magnus bellowed.
“You shame the house of Dinefwr, Arianrhod. No daughter of mine are you!” her father roared.
A gentle hand appeared from the swirling gray smoke, touching her shoulder, followed by a coolness that settled her.
Dag laughed, coming closer to her, and nodded, acknowledging the hand that soothed her. “He cannot help you now, princess, he is weak and I am strong! My seed has been sown!”
Arian struggled against the gentling hand. Soft French words soothed her; she wanted desperately to trust the voice that went with the hand, but she feared Dag more. She twisted away from the hand, yanking hard at the rope binding her wrists to the slab of stone.
Dag’s claw-like hand touched her foot, his nails digging into her tender flesh. Arian kicked at him, but he held her legs down with his hands. When he sank his teeth
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