The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [33]
‘Tomorrow I’ll be gone. Who knows if we’ll ever see each other again? Please, my love? My heart aches with wanting you so badly. There’s never been another woman who could make me feel this way.’
This brought a wary smile to her slightly swollen lips. Gwairyc had one brief thought for her husband—what if he did leave early? Then he kissed her again, kept kissing her until she gave in and let him caress her.
‘Let me take you to your bedchamber.’
Sagraeffa went stiff in his arms and turned her head away.
‘Oh by the hells!’ Gwairyc snapped. ‘We’re running out of time!’
‘Don’t be so beastly, Gwarro! You’re just not as nice tonight as you usually are.’
‘Ah, curse it! What do you expect? I’ve been flayed alive, and I’m supposed to mince around?’
‘Well, you don’t need to be mean to me.’
Gwairyc felt his temper snap like a rope pulled too tight. He grabbed her, kissed her, and threw her down on the window-seat, falling half on top of her to kiss her again. She screamed, but only feebly, a little yelp carefully calculated to stay in the chamber. This time, when she surrendered to his caresses, he gave her no chance to change her mind. He picked her up, slid off the window-seat and laid her down again right on the floor.
When they were finished, Sagraeffa lay still on the carpet for a long time and stared at him. Her face was flushed, and when he caressed her, he could feel her nipples, as hard as Bardek almonds. Gwairyc gave her one last kiss, then got up, pulling up his brigga and lacing them.
‘You’re such a brute,’ she whispered.
‘Oh am I now? Those noises you made—it didn’t sound to me like you were screaming for help.’
Gasping in rage, Sagraeffa sat up, pulling down her dress and glaring at him. Gwairyc picked up his sword belt from the floor and began buckling it on.
‘And I suppose you’re just going to leave me now,’ she said.
‘You’re the one who was worrying about your blasted husband. I don’t want to leave. I’d rather spend all night in your bed.’ He gave her a grin. ‘Admit it—you’d like to have me there.’
Sagraeffa got up, then stood glaring at him while she tried to smooth down her skirts with nervous fingers. He liked seeing her this way—dishevelled, flustered, utterly weak before his superior strength. He took her by the shoulders and gave her a kiss, which she took meekly, leaning against him.
‘Oh ye gods, what if I have a baby? Obyn will know it isn’t his.’
‘Indeed? Then maybe you’d best do something to stiffen his, um, resolve.’
With a snarl, Sagraeffa pulled away and slapped him across the face. Her soft hand barely stung on his cheek.
‘Get out of here! I hate you!’
Gwairyc dodged another slap, made her a hasty bow, and ran for the door. As he let himself out, he heard her weeping. With a shrug, he slammed the door and hurried down the corridor. He had no more time to waste on her. The worst part of this last night lay ahead of him: going back to the barracks to face his men.
The king’s riders were housed in five separate barracks. Each warband had its own standard and blazon in addition to the royal wyvern. Gwairyc’s band, the Falcons, were housed in barracks closest to the broch complex. As he hurried across the dark ward, Gwairyc was brooding about the other four troops. During the winters, when they lacked real enemies, all five of them were bitter rivals. No doubt the Falcons were in for a lot of jests about the wyrd that had fallen on their captain. When he reached the door, he paused, summoning courage. Then he flung open the door and strode in, bracing himself for jeers.
Instead, the men merely looked at him, glancing his way, then turning silently back to dice games or polishing gear as he walked the long way down the row of bunks to his own small chamber at the far end of the barracks. He slipped in, barred the door behind him, then let out his breath in a long sigh of relief.
The room sweltered from a fire his page had lit