The Long Betrothal Ch. 03

Dear Readers– Thank you so much for the hearts, stars, and comments! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story and incredibly grateful to know my characters come to life in your minds and hearts.

If you're one of Maxen's critics: I agree that he's behaving like an uncouth ass! Kerin isn't blameless, either, but without conflict, there'd be no story. Please try not to judge them by modern standards. Their story is set in the 12th century, where a warrior lord wasn't encouraged to "get in touch with" his emotions. Also, this IS non-con! Love- Stefanie

–-o–- NOTE –-o–- The Long Betrothal is [now] a FIVE-part series. While it's possible to read the sections out of order and not get lost, there's an actual story to back up all the naughty bits, and it's more fun if you start at the beginning! (This chapter has more story than sex, BTW.)

–-

Soldiers don't dream.

His father's words ringing in his head, Maxen lay staring into a darkness so complete, he may as well not have opened his eyes at all.

Soldiers don't dream. Women dream of babies and dresses and songs of courtly love, but soldiers sleep soundly in the knowledge their duties have been done.

Three times his father had told him that in the weeks following his mother's death. Maxen was only six at the time, and he'd been present when she slipped and fell on the stone steps at his grandfather's home, landing in a twisted, silent heap. The third time he'd woken crying from the nightmare, perhaps ten days after her funeral, Dyfed had hauled him from his bed, beaten him, and banished him to the outer bailey. After five nights in the stable, he'd been allowed to return to his own bed, and he'd never cried again, nor dreamt, as far as his father was concerned. Soldiers didn't dream.

Maxen learned quickly. It was a good thing, too. The year after her death, he'd been fostered to a Scottish laird with seven other boys– some belonging to the master of the house. Maxen was the youngest of the bunch, and took a beating every day as it was. To have woken crying in his semi-permanent Highland home would have been akin to suicide.

In the years since then, Maxen had seldom been plagued by either nightmares or dreams, and in any case, would take no notice of even the most troubling– he'd seen and done much worse on the battlefield in full sun. Since arriving at Penrhyn Tywyll, however, he'd been haunted on a nightly basis by the same dream for which his father had beaten him two decades before, with one significant exception: instead of his mother, Kerin was the woman slipping from his grasp.

In the darkness he lay listening to her breathing, as he did every night after he'd woken sweating and anxious. She was still sleeping on the pallet near the hearth, where she snored softly. Even her snores were ladylike.

The small smile of which he'd been unaware faded quickly. For the better part of the past week, he'd kept Kerin locked in their chamber. He hadn't planned it that way, but every time she left the room, she tried to escape, and she was very good at escaping. Twice she'd gotten as far as the barbican gates before one of his men noticed her missing or saw fit to stop her. It was especially infuriating because an hour before her first escape attempt, she'd come to Maxen with a proposition. If he'd release her men unharmed, Kerin would consent to the marriage and endeavor to be an obedient and agreeable wife for the remainder of their lives.

Though her bargain was uttered with sweet sincerity and Kerin's hands were folded in a show of meekness, Maxen was enraged. So, she was willing to martyr herself for her lover's freedom? Maxen seriously considered digging an oubliette in which to imprison the lad for life in the moment of fury which followed the request. He bit back the impulse and glared down at Kerin.

Agreeable and obedient? So far, she'd been neither.

"I'd be happy to release your men, my lady– "

Kerin's eyes flew to Maxen's face, but the blooming joy in them disappearanced when she saw his expression.

"– as soon as they pledge their fealty to me."

She pursed her lips, folded her arms, and frowned, all sign of her recently promised obedience fleeing.

He waited and, when Kerin apparently chose to withhold her opinion, left the room, feeling no better for having angered her.

–-o–-

He'd taken to visiting Kerin's man in his home "belowstairs", as Geralt said, referring to his accommodations jokingly as servant's quarters rather than the makeshift donjon it had become during Maxen's tenancy.

The second time he visited the older man, Maxen took with him a chessboard he'd found among the old king's belongings, hoping Geralt knew the game. He did, and from then on, they played for an hour every day.

Eventually, Maxen touched on one of the topics they avoided. "Tell me why her people defend the Lady Kerin. I see naught to inspire them to pride."

Geralt cast a sharp eye up at his captor, unable to stop the whistling intake of air through his teeth as his body tensed in automatic ire at the affront.

Maxen didn't response to the unspoken threat, though he hadn't missed the other man's reaction.

"There is much to inspire if you look past your preconceptions, my lord."

Maxen snorted. "I find little admirable about a lass who would slay her younger brother to placate noblemen she'd never met."

Geralt's hand froze momentarily above the board. He set the rook down and responded slowly, without lifting his eyes. "Everything my lady has done has been for the good of her people."

Maxen was tired of hearing about this non-existent paragon of virtues. Abruptly, he stood, his voice abrasive in the cool, still air. "Why do you cleave to her so tightly, man? She's but a girl."

Geralt neither rose nor tensed this time, but met Maxen's eyes solemnly. "Nay, my lord Maxen; she's a queen."

After a long moment of silence, Maxen stormed out, and did not return the following day. He liked Geralt, but didn't delude himself by hoping that Kerin's loyal retainer would divulge whatever secret his mistress was keeping.

–-o–-

Even after he imprisoned her in their chamber, Kerin disrupted Maxen's peace. He'd go up to fetch her down for dinner and find her tutoring the village children in music or art, or seated on the floor weaving wondrous stories for their entertainment. Maxen was forced to start rotating men daily when he discovered the soldiers he'd stationed at her door were taking afternoon tea with her and the children they allowed to visit. Admittedly, Maxen hadn't expressly forbidden them from taking tea, or admitting children, or bringing treats to Kerin's kitten– which she'd named, maddeningly, Sir Furball, completely ignoring its gender– but he shouldn't have to spell out the rules of captive etiquette to experienced warriors.

Prisoners weren't supposed to be coddled, but his men were no more immune to Kerin's charm and wit than her villeins.

They were practicing in the courtyard with staffs and spears when Maxen's sparring partner suddenly stopped fighting. Maxen took the opportunity to strike, of course, and Dunestan collapsed with a metallic thud. The men nearest paused to stare.

At Maxen's right hand, Edon chuckled. "Huh. Dunestan isn't usually that slow-witted."

Maxen frowned. "That wasn't slow-witted, that was no-witted. What–?"

He pivoted slowly, seeking a reason for Dunestan's distraction. In only a moment he'd located the cause.

Though she'd chosen a path as close as possible to the spot where a battlement met the flat side of the keep, Kerin wasn't completely concealed by the protruding tower. Even in her plain brown dress, it was much too light for Maxen to miss his intended wife picking her way down the steep stone wall.

"I'll– " Maxen tossed his staff aside and covered the ground between them in less than a minute.

Kerin didn't hear him coming, so the hand around her ankle was a complete surprise. She squealed when he yanked her off the wall, and her eyes widened when she saw who held her. He headed for the door without putting her down, and everyone ducked aside, heads bowed.

Kerin greeted him coolly. "My lord M– "

"SHUT. UP." He growled through his teeth.

She did.

Kerin's guards were more than startled to see their prisoner being carried into her prison, but one managed to open the door before Maxen kicked it in. He kicked it closed instead, with a crash that was surely heard on the Irish shore. He tossed her into the middle of his bed and was on her instantly, straddling her thighs and looming over her.

Kerin froze, her eyes wide and panicked.

"My lady Kerin," Maxen's voice was astonishingly calm. "I think it's time you tell me why you are so eager to leave Penrhyn Tywyll."

His was inches away, but Kerin barely heard his words. Maxen's eyes were sparkling and his bronzed skin was shiny with sweat. His hair was darker when it was wet like this, she noticed, but the dampness couldn't control the waves at his neck and temples. His scent filled her nose, hot and masculine.

And mine, her body whispered.

Her heart pounding so loud she thought surely he must hear it, Kerin lifted her hand and touched his face, where his beard had darkened since morning. Helplessly, she traced the contours of his jawline down to the beautiful mouth which had kissed her so tenderly, though it was now set in a severe line. She'd dreamed of those kisses every single night since he'd arrived, no matter what happened during daylight hours, and having him so close was more temptation than she could withstand.

She watched her fingers rather than his eyes. With only the merest hesitation, she continued her exploration, tracing the outline of his lips– across the top, into that little dip below his nose, around the corner. The muscles in his face and jaw were twitching, she noted dully. She switched to her thumb when she traced the line of his full lower lip, the rest of her fingers sliding back to caress his rough cheek. When her thumb returned to the corner where she'd started, Kerin lifted her eyes to his, her desire written plainly on the flushed features.

His nostrils flaring, Maxen lowered his head to taste her.

He sipped once, twice, gently, and when Kerin responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down, he left off being gentle. His hunger for her tearing through him like a fire, Maxen settled his weight and set his lips to loving her.

Kerin melted under the heat of his assault, letting him tip her head and tease her mouth open. Licks of flame brushed her body as his tongue dipped between her lips. Somewhere in the muddled mist which so swiftly encased her mind, Kerin knew what they were doing wasn't right, but she couldn't seem to control her body. Maxen made his malice plain, but it didn't stop her heart from wanting him.

As Maxen's fingers swept her veil aside and combed the ribbons from her hair, she shifted beneath him, her breasts brushing across the heat of his muscular chest.

She should halt this lunacy– the words swam unheeded through Kerin's head.

It was just a kiss– that phrase penetrated the fog with perfect clarity.

They were betrothed, after all, and it wasn't like before, when she'd been naked from her bath; this time she was wholly clothed. Maxen's hand was on her waist, just stroking her lightly through her dress. Surely that wasn't wrong.

Kerin's muddy litany of mitigation was buried beneath a wave of sensation when Maxen's hips nudged her legs apart and the bulge under his tunic pressed firmly against the heated flesh of her core. She gasped at the flood of heat which welled from her body in response, and she tilted toward him, seeking more.

This was so wrong. Yes, they were betrothed, but this wasn't their wedding night.

Maxen rocked his body side-to-side and Kerin moaned as his hardness pressed the lips of her most tender skin aside. The fabric of her gown was quickly drenched in the slippery fluid seeping from her body. Unable to absorb more, the woven threads began to slide sideways with Maxen's every movement. Kerin was practically crying with need by then, and no longer trying to justify her behavior. She wanted him so badly; if all she could have was his body, at that moment, Kerin was willing to take it.

The rumbling of Maxen's groan reverberating against her own chest shocked her back into her senses and Kerin found herself rubbing against him like a cat in heat.

What in the name of heaven was she doing?? Appalled by her own carelessness, Kerin tried to turn away, but Maxen's mouth– dominating and delicious– limited her movements.

Maxen was oblivious, the undulations of Kerin's slender body beneath him pushing all interpretation aside. With the fiery folds between her legs gripping at his cock, there were no wars, no duties, no dreams. She was wet and hungry; he was swollen and eager to satisfy her every carnal desire.

Kerin's breast fit sweetly in his palm, her nipple begging his thumb for attention even through three layers of cloth. He was so ready that it took a minute for Maxen to notice Kerin had quit responding to his kisses. She was struggling now, her palms planted on his chest as she tried to push his heavy body away.

He lifted his head, staring down at her.

"No– no, we cannot, my lord."

The gasped plea struck Maxen like an icy axe.

He levered himself off the bed and stood glaring at his betrothed, his nostrils now flaring for an entirely different reason. She'd been overcome by lust at an awfully convenient time, hadn't she? Just in time to soothe the savage impulses his earlier anger had called forth... Kerin's appearance infuriated him further– the cloud of wavy, light-brown hair pooling like a halo, her lips and cheeks flushed, her eyes soft and liquid.

"My manners are still not refined enough for a lady like yourself, I see." He'd never been as close to being out of control as he was at that moment. Finding one of his men buried to the balls in his late wife hadn't come close to enraging him as thoroughly as Kerin's most recent rejection. "Nonetheless, you'll learn to live with them."

Kerin shrank away from Maxen's scathing comment.

Striding to the door, he opened it and bellowed. "SMITH!"

A small brown man appeared a minute later, huffing as he bowed. "My lord."

Maxen looked back at the bed and showed his teeth in something Kerin supposed could be called a smile. "My pet needs a collar."

Two hours later, Kerin was chained, the iron band around her neck securing her to one of the bed's giant oak posts, at the feet of a man who would soon be her mate for life.

–-o–-

That afternoon, Maxen went to visit Milot in his cell. Edon accompanied him. When the guard admitted them to the tiny basement room, Edon saw what he'd been missing: Milot was a younger, prettier version of Lloyd, the friend Maxen had discovered in flagrante delicto with his former wife– the friend Maxen had subsequently slain.

He was instantly apprehensive. Maxen had returned to the practice field in a temper of epic proportions, his mood worse than any Edon had ever seen, boding ill for this meeting. He dared not say anything, though, for fear of making the situation worse. The haggard, shadowed face told Edon his friend and liege had not been sleeping, and the ferocity with which he'd been sparring at daily practice said Maxen hadn't been bedding Kerin or anyone else.

The dim, cool rooms beneath the great hall usually felt serene despite their current purpose, but today the darkness seemed threatening and oppressive.

Edon didn't speak, but stood close by Maxen's side when Milot rose to face them, his expression closed and grim.

Maxen studied the young man silently for a minute, measuring his foe.

"You are loyal to your lady."

It wasn't a question, but the boy nodded, his face solemn.

"You love her."

Milot lowered his eyes and paused, then nodded once without lifting his eyes. "Yes, my lord."

Maxen paused, too, his jaw working.

Edon tensed. Milot's lowered eyes gave the impression he was hiding something, which was one of the least intelligent paths he could chose today.

Maxen's voice was soft, but his face was not. "Have you touched her, lad?"

The corner of the boyish mouth twitched in what Maxen saw as a secret smile, and his temper exploded. Milot didn't see the backhand and went spinning bonelessly to the dirt floor.

In seconds, Maxen hoisted him easily aloft, one hand knotted in the neck of his prisoner's dull blue tunic, his other fist drawn back.

Risking his life, Edon put a hand to Maxen's thick wrist. "My lord, you are not like to get answers from beyond the grave."

Maxen didn't move. The air in the cell vibrated with repressed violence, but tension held Maxen in the icy grip of stillness.

The boy's lips moved, a whisper emerging amidst bubbles of blood and spit. "My lord, the queen... is... a maid... and chaste."

Maxen lowered his fist slowly, his face relaxing.

Edon circled him cautiously. Maxen released the boy and Edon helped him stagger to his pallet by the wall.

Maxen left without a word to either.

–-o–-

As Maxen's second, Edon didn't descend to gossiping with the troops, so he arrived at dinner that evening without having heard the rumor the men had been whispering with a mixture of mirth and disbelief.

When Maxen led Kerin into the hall and around the table to their seats wearing an iron chain and collar, Edon was truly shocked. He stood studying the narrow band encircling Kerin's graceful neck as his friend wound her tether around the arm of his chair. Maxen noticed Edon was still standing, though the ladies had taken their seats, and motioned for him to sit.

Edon considered walking out. Maxen's behavior had passed the point of "battle weary"; stress and fatigue from loss of sleep were pushing him straight to the precipice of madness. Gritting his teeth against the censure which wanted to spill from his spleen, Edon also bit back the impulse to stomp from the building. He lowered himself slowly to the rough-hewn bench

Kerin, to her credit, acted as though the chain weren't there, making light conversation with those of her ladies nearest her, plus Edon and Iago across the table. Edon was flabbergasted by his friend's behavior and didn't say much, but he stared a lot, from Kerin to Maxen and back again. At the end of the meal, when Maxen rose to lead Kerin away, Edon glanced across the table and caught a flash of something in Kerin's eyes, and it wasn't anything he would have expected to see on the face of a woman leashed to her intended. Instead of hatred or anger, emotions which wouldn't be out of place in her current circumstances, Edon saw something else. Whatever secret she was hiding, whatever she'd done in the years since they met, Kerin Hemmet was passionately in love with Maxen ap Dyfed.

No longer worried about Maxen's heart being crushed, Edon began to pray for the priest's arrival.

He might have pledged to stay away from Kerin and get his heirs on someone else, but Edon thought a wedding would solve most of the couple's issues. Maxen would take his bride to bed where she'd be unable to hide her feelings for him, then she'd tell him what haunted her, and Maxen would fix it.

That priest better make haste up the slopes of Snowdonia.

Edon scowled at the mug of ale he was nursing and didn't notice the soldiers around him uneasily withdrawing.

Mayhap he'd send another rider in the morning. Their first messenger had disappeared– apparently killed or waylaid in some manner– and it had been almost a fortnight since the second departed. A wedding was exactly the remedy this situation needed, and Edon eagerly anticipated being witness to the results.

–-o–-