Princess of fire, p.23
Princess of Fire, page 23
“You were his property. I gave you to him!”
That easily, she thought. That horribly, that wretchedly. That morning she had been honored as the king’s daughter; no man would have dared touch her.
And now she was property? Nay . . . never! Her fury rose, as did her hatred for Alaric. Vile, bloody Norman bastard.
She raised her chin and swore that her old enemy would never best her. He could give her to a thousand men, and she would despise them all. Eventually she would escape. And if she ever slew a man, it would be this one.
“I am the king’s daughter, a princess of England. The daughter of Harold Godwinson. I am not property—”
She broke off when he began to swear at her in a rage and took a step towards her. He announced that she was no princess, but his slave. William had given her to Alaric—she was property.
Anger bubbled up inside her again. The day had been too long; too much had been lost. She swore back at him, and told him that she did not recognize the authority of a Norman bastard.
“English law recognizes the ownership of slaves—Princess! Whether criminals condemned in court or prisoners of war.”
She was about to start crying again, and that she would not do before him, but she refused to show weakness. Time and time again she had assured him that she would not bend or break, and still, she was very near to falling to her knees before him and begging him to say that the events of the day had never been.
She could not do that. In his towering rage, she barely knew him. And she was trembling furiously herself. She longed to escape. Wildly, she exploded at him, calling him a barbarian. He responded, but she hardly heard him. She fought, barely knowing what she said. The violence rose like heat between them, and suddenly his strides, long and hard, brought them face to face. The fire of his fury seemed to leap from him, to encompass her. She promised that she would always fight him; he swore in a deadly quiet voice that he would gladly tear her limb from limb.
He was too close; she was suffocating. And she was afraid. She had never thought she could be so terribly afraid of Alaric. But the violence about him was tangible and alive. He moved even closer and his words fell against her like blows. Her fingers curled and she realized that she still held the little knife with which she had downed Falstaff. She didn’t know whether it was courage or fear that made her raise it again; she only knew that she was desperate.
But he was not Falstaff; perhaps he had even anticipated some trick. He hit her hand forcefully, and the knife flew out of her grasp. The next thing she knew, his fingers were tearing into her hair and he lifted her and threw her upon the bed that Falstaff had made for lovers to share. “Saxon bitch! By God, you will he humbled!”
“No!”
He fell upon her. In wild panic she raged against him; even while fear filled her, she sought inside herself for some courage. He spoke quietly, but he actually threatened her with death.
“See to it, then!” she challenged him. “Slay me, but—”
“Bend!” he raged. “Bend, lady! Ask for mercy, beg for your life. Fallon, by God—”
She could not bring herself to claw at his eyes, and so she spat at him.
He went so rigid that fear seemed to flood her in an instant. His eyes, like steel, tore into her. She felt him with every fiber of her body; the arms that held her prisoner, the sinewed thighs that pressed against her legs.
Suddenly he laced his fingers with hers and held her arms above her head. His free hand was like a brand as he swiftly tore the top of her gown and pushed her skirt high over her waist. His hand touched her naked flesh, and she stifled a cry of distress and astonishment at the heat of it and at her awareness of the desire he so boldly sought to appease.
She was Harold’s daughter, she reminded herself. Harold’s proud daughter. Delon had given her tender, chaste kisses, but no man had ever done more—except this warrior.
And not even this was the same!
For in those curious moments in the past, he had never pursued her in brutal vengeance. She had known his kiss, and it had burned and consumed her, but he had never been ruthless. Now he looked at her not only with desire but with a burning hatred as well.
“Barbarian!” she whispered, her eyes wide, her tears barely in check. She found a stronger voice. “Barbarian bastard, gutter whelp of Normandy!”
His face was an angry mask, his jaw locked. He had never appeared harder, never more like steel and stone. She twisted against the strength of his arms, but they might as well have been walls that pulsed with life. His flesh was sizzling, and she trembled beneath the heat of his muscles. She swore still, staring into his features—ruggedly handsome features, now twisted with lust and rage.
He pushed away from her suddenly. Stunned, she gasped at her newfound freedom and glanced about for a means of escape. She attempted to rise from the bed; he caught her arm with one hand and tossed her back with a force that left her breathless.
And only then did she realize that he had left her only to doff his sword and scabbard. He wrenched his tunic and chemise over his head, and in the pale firelight, the rippling sinews and muscles of his chest and shoulders gleamed gold. She inhaled sharply, but before she could move, he was on top of her. Wearing only his chausses, he made her very much aware of his body in all its male power and heat.
“No!” She tried to scratch, she tried to kick. She had a certain wiry strength, she knew, and yet it was as nothing against him. He deflected her every blow and secured her wrists, then parted her thighs with his knee and slammed his weight hard against her. She had no power to escape him then. He lay hard against her. If she but moved, she would touch him more intimately.
“Beg quarter, Fallon!”
“Quarter! From you! I shall die first!”
He pinned her arms to the mattress and pressed his weight against her, his jaw in a tight, merciless lock.
“Bastard!” she hissed. He ignored her, and she began to fight again, desperately now, writhing and sobbing.
His eyes held no mercy. The steel in them had dissolved into combustible violence. He hated her. He touched her intimately, but with contempt, his hand raking over her savagely. She could feel his naked belly hard against her own.
Fear and misery won out over pride. Her voice faltered as she whispered, “Nay! Nay, please, Alaric. Alaric . . .”
He went deadly still. He did not release her, and she felt hot tears beneath her eyelids.
This was Alaric, she reminded herself numbly. The man she had sought so often to torment over the years. The man who had touched her with fire again and again, but always given in to her. The man who had been her father’s friend, who had rescued her from others more than once.
She stared at him, and before she could stop them, the words were out. “How could you give me to someone else?”
Silently he hovered above her. She did not know if he heard her; his eyes were a gray enigma. She choked back a sob and tried to turn away from him, aware that she had brought herself into dangerous contact with him. She could feel him so thoroughly, so keenly! Heat raged through her limbs. His flesh was hard against hers, and it made a liquid fire burn inside her. He had to move; he had to pull away from her before she began to scream and cry in abject humility.
And then, miraculously, he did. Fallon quickly covered herself with the linen sheets, and Alaric silently donned his tunic.
“So, my lady,” he said softly, after retrieving the knife she had stolen. “You tried to murder Falstaff because he dared to touch a princess of England!” He strode back to her, a sardonic smile on his lips. “But now you know that you are nothing more than the whore of the Norman bastard’s bastard henchman. You are mine, Fallon, to do with as I will. Give yourself no more airs of grandeur. Harold Godwinson is dead; the Normans will rule England now.”
She forgot the fear that had driven her to plead for mercy. She stared at him and saw a cool, disdainful enemy, and she hated him afresh. How could he speak the name of Harold Godwinson so dismissively? She rose to her knees, despising him, determined to strike him.
He caught her wrist in such a cruel hold that she cried out at the pain of it. He stared at her with cold brutality, and she gritted her teeth, lowering her head so that her hair might hide the emotion with which she might betray herself. Harold was dead; England was lost. The tears were spilling from her eyes and down her cheeks, and there was nothing she could do to stop them.
“Fallon!”
He eased his hold; he whispered her name. He sat down beside her and drew her against him. “I am sorry about your father; he was a brave man. I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .”
She was lost, she was wretched, and she was stunned by the change in him. He had been so ruthless, but now his tone was soft, and he was suddenly the man she had known for so many years. His hands soothed her; his words were tender. He held her so gently, so comfortingly, that she hadn’t the strength to push him away. He eased her down against the pillow, his eyes seeking hers as he leaned over her. His lips touched her cheeks and her forehead, kissing away her tears.
Then his lips touched hers, and she felt all her emotions collide and explode. She could not deny the blistering heat that swept into her with the sweet tenderness of his kiss. In those moments, he was friend, not foe, and no matter what might come or what had been, they shared a simple truth in those moments as they grieved together for Harold, the slain Saxon king. She felt his grief even as she felt the raging fire that seared her limbs. Again and again they had clashed; again and again the blaze had been kindled.
In a hundred years, Fallon would never have yielded to force. But this was something else.
She did not really know what course he had charted for her; she knew only that when he kissed her something within her welcomed him. Her lips parted to his, her arms curled around his neck. And she trembled, alive with heat and vibrance. There was no violence here; there was no force but only gentle persuasion. His tender kisses fell across her face, then he possessed her mouth again, and he filled her as he seemed to drink from her. He whispered senseless words, and she was soothed. His arms held her, and she was secure.
He smoothed back her hair, murmuring. With passion and fire he seared her throat, and she could not have stopped him when he cradled her breasts in his hands, teased and stroked them like a lover, igniting a searing new fire in her, sent the flames swirling into the very center of her being. A wind raged around her, fanning the sea of fire within. Alaric was the wind, and she could not stop him. If she would whisper in any protest, his lips would catch her words, and she would forget them again in the tempest of his kiss.
He touched her with ever greater abandon. She felt the hot caress of his rough palm against her thigh, stroking her hip. She was dimly aware that she lay nearly naked with him, that her gown was torn and twisted. His hand slid up the length of her inner thigh, and he touched her freely, but her gasp was lost to his hungry kiss, and even as he touched her, he pressed his weight hard against her. Panic seized her, but even as she realized how far they had traveled, something hot and molten and nearly painfully sweet sent a shudder rippling through her, and where he touched her the blaze went wild.
But then the feeling ebbed, to be replaced by a sharp and piercing pain. Brought back to harsh reality, Fallon tried to twist her lips away from his, to wrest herself from his hold, to escape the sudden sting of pain and humiliation.
He had called her a Norman whore this night, and now he had made her one.
She cried out in horror; she slammed her fists against his face and she fought the new tears that threatened to blind her. She could not dislodge him. The shaft of his body burned deep inside her, burned and invaded.
He caught her hands and held them, but even as she twisted to escape him, she felt his eyes on her, holding her still, making her breathless.
“Alaric . . . you hurt me!”
He shook his head. His features were starkly handsome, and his voice was soft when he spoke again, “Nay, it will hurt no more.”
He took her mouth in a hungry kiss, then laced his fingers with hers and began to move against her in slow, steady, rhythmic thrusts, burying himself deeper and deeper inside her.
The painful·sweetness began to seep into her body again. Her fingers fell limp. He ravaged her mouth, and he whispered words to her; he buried his face in her throat, and his lips seared her breasts. His teeth teased her nipples, and his tongue swept over her again and again, and he suckled heatedly, and all the while he moved.
She was not sure when or where the honeyed longing began. She moaned softly and arched against him, and splendor spilled through her. Their breath grew heated and came like thunder. The heat seemed to build, and she tossed as if in a wild tempest beneath him, awed by the sensations. He rose above her and she saw that his features were taut and hard and twisted in a mask of passion. He thrust his body harder and faster as he watched her. He placed his hand on her breast and felt her heart, and she closed her eyes as her body surged to meet his, ever seeking . . .
It came upon her like a dizzying magic. Like the comet streaking across the sky, like a sun bursting in a midnight sky. It was a honey that swamped her; it was the most shattering feeling she ever known.
And it had come from him.
He thrust against her one more time. His body arched, and it seemed that he flooded into her, sweeping and warm. For a moment they were locked together, motionless.
Then their eyes met, and reality came crashing down around her. Alaric was soaked with the heat that had claimed them, but he was still nearly decently clad, while her one garment was ripped and torn. He was still within her, she realized with horror. Surely he was amused by the ease with which he had had her. Surely he knew every sensation that had streaked through her.
He started to smile and she swore in a fury, pounding her fists with all her strength against his chest. He caught her hands, and he watched her with a fathomless expression while she twisted and fought, until she finally lay still, panting beneath him.
“We’ve both known that was coming, haven’t we, Fallon?”
Any trace of a tender lover was gone; his words were cold and brutal, and they made her feel like a whore. She wrenched her hands free and tried to rake her nails across his cheek. He caught her fingers and held them fast, and offered her a distant smile.
“Thank you, milady, for a most entertaining evening.”
“Bastard!” she hissed. A tear trickled down her cheek as she felt the callused pad of his thumb against her flesh.
He whispered to her once again, “You did not fight me, Fallon.”
She gritted her teeth and stared at him. “I hate you, Alaric.”
“You came to me willingly. You parted your lips to my kiss and put your arms around me.”
“I hate you!”
He shrugged. “Tell yourself what you will, Fallon. I am a Norman, I have brutalized you, the country will be raped, so please yourself, and assure your heart that you have been raped as well. But I am not Falstaff, Fallon. I am not entranced. I am wary of your temper and your lethal talents. God knows, I have nearly perished by a few.” He paused, watching her. Then he released her hands and stared at her still, and she knew that he was daring her to raise a hand against him again.
He rose from her at last. She wanted to scream out her relief to be free of him. She grasped the sheet instead, determined to cover herself.
He straightened his clothing, but his grim, taunting smile remained in place. “Fallon, remember—by English law you are mine. My property, my slave.”
Her temper came alive and soared. “I am no criminal to be sentenced or sold—”
“Ah, but my lady, you are,” he assured her. “You have attempted and perhaps accomplished murder. The loss of Falstaff ’s services is a great inconvenience to me. His services, you see, are far more valuable than yours, charming as yours may be.”
Her temper was ever her bane. She had ignored his taunts before, but now she cried out and rose, desperate to strike him, to hurt him. But he was ready for her. He caught her hands and pulled her to him, crushing her bare breasts hard against his chest. Fallon cried out; she felt color flood her cheeks, and he smiled with ruthless humor at her embarrassment. He pressed a sheet into her hands. “Behave, slave,” he said softly.
“Son of a jackass!”
“By English law, Fallon, your crime is murder. Your punishment is slavery. And I, milady, am your master. You have always told me that you cannot be broken, but I swear it now, lady—you will bend or break.”
“You have not broken me, Alaric! You never will. And I will never bend to your Norman bastard duke!”
He smiled at her pleasantly. But she heard him grind his teeth, and enjoyed one moment of triumph. He dragged her hard against him once more. “Then the battle is only just engaged,” he whispered.
It seemed that aeons passed, a lifetime in which the churning gray slate of his eyes held her captive as surely as the strength of his arms. Then he released her, and she fell back on the bed. He spun around, dismissing her, and strode from the tent.
Fallon looked down at the sheet and saw the evidence of her loss, and hot tears welled up in her eyes again. Her father was dead, England was lost—and she had surrendered her innocence and dignity.
She turned her face into the pillow as tears racked her. In less than a day she had lost everything that had been dear to her in life.
She sobbed herself into a merciful sleep.
PART THREE
The Conquerors
Chapter Fifteen
Alaric did not return to his quarters that evening. He asked where Falstaff had been taken, then hurried to see his old friend
Falstaff slept; the physician told Alaric that they must wait and see. If there was no infection, and if the wound healed cleanly, Falstaff might well live. But one could never tell with such injuries. Many, many men lay wounded. They were still being carried back from the battlefield as the living went about the grim task of separating those who breathed from the dead, among whom they lay.
