Dye's Kingdom: Wanting It Forever Page 14

  Her legs stole upward and he helped her get them to his waist where they wrapped to lock around his body as he continued to pound into her constricting channel, hammering his way to cock-busting arrival, knowing he was about one bang away from orgasm and waiting for her sign before taking his own release.

  Mithra Fucking Andarta, she was something when she came. Like a flame touched to liquid fire, spilling hot and unquenchable around his dick. In a helpless fit of ecstasy, wild and out of control, she thrashed beneath the weight of his body shoving her into the pole. He felt the pressure tighten in his scrotum, the long flash of pleasure that claimed his lower body, then he was shooting into her in a long, hot, steady stream of burning cum.

  “Mithra,” he groaned at the end of his arrival, leaning against her damp, used body, skimming his lips across her forehead to press them into her temple. “Mithra!” he breathed the curse with feeling—feeling he couldn’t properly express in words.

  Looking down on her head, he found her face hidden in his chest and feared what it meant. Now that his overpowering, driving need had been sated, he wondered where he stood in her regard. Perfect sex was one thing—they had that nailed. There was no doubt she had orgasmed on his fuck. But he’d had to tie her to a post to get her there. He wasn’t sure whether he should apologize or thank her. Again, he found himself wishing he could get a hint of her feelings.

  Pulling away from her a few inches, he smoothed her hair out of her eyes and sought the answer in her face, but her gaze was thoughtfully lowered. She wasn’t giving anything away.

  “Look at me, Martigay,” he commanded with a rough grate of sound. With his hands on either side of her head, he lifted her face but still her eyes were averted downward. Finally, he followed her gaze and found it fixed on his arm—his left arm, just above his elbow where he wore her dark braid of hair, knotted below his biceps.

  “Listen to me, girl. I’m keeping you. If I have to tie you to my bed, tie you to my horse, I will. But I’m keeping you.”

  Loosening her bindings gave him a reason to keep his arms around her and that’s what he did. As her wrists were freed, he caged her, fearing she’d bolt, but she stood quietly within the circle of his arms, rubbing her wrists beneath the rope that bound her. Taking the ropes tied around her wrists, he led her to his cot. She was strangely quiet as he finished undressing. When he lay down, he pulled her down with him as he collected the ropes and knotted them off behind his back.

  If she had any plans to leave him in the night, he’d know of it.

  And he’d stop her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “So how was he?”

  Martigay sighed in the glow of the new pink dawn. “Well, let me put it this way, Pall. Before I realized it was him, when I thought it was you, I was ready to ask you—no, beg you—to wed me. So long as you plowed my furrow every night.”

  Pall smiled. “I love it when you talk agriculture.”

  They stood together in the small clearing where her tent had been pitched the day before. Guiding her pony’s ears through the halter loops, Martigay reached back to take the saddle out of Pall’s hands. “Impressed?”

  He nodded, a melancholy expression in his green eyes.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “That the king’s probably in love with you,” he told her with a diffident shrug. “Only he hasn’t figured it out yet.”

  She snorted. “Oh come on, Pall. Men like that don’t fall in love.”

  “Men like what?”

  “Men like that! Men who can have any woman they want. Men who’ve had every woman they want!” Planting a foot in Pall’s locked hands, she swung herself up into the saddle. “Wanted,” she corrected herself.

  He grinned. “Men like me?”

  She smiled at him fondly, leaning over to ruffle the straw on his head. “Yeah. Men like you.”

  “Oh, aye.” He cleared his throat importantly. “Men like me don’t fall in love…except maybe once in a lifetime. So…are you going to forgive him?”

  “I don’t know. Most like. I’ll let you know when I get back.”

  He grinned up at her. “When you get back? You’re not leaving him, then?”

  “Mithra and Donar, no! The man’s wearing my braid on his arm! And you know how I feel about sex.”

  He laughed. “But you mean to keep the poor man guessing. That’s cold, Martigay.” She lifted her chin as she smiled. “How long?”

  “I’ll be back before firstmeal. I’m not on duty until after that,” she laughed in answer. “He can sweat a bit until then.”

  “Which way are you headed?”

  “West should be a safe enough ride. I just talked to a scout who rode in from the west last night. He didn’t see anything. I won’t go far. Just give Scarface a chance to stretch his legs.”

  “You be careful, just the same,” Pall told her.

  “I’ll be careful,” she answered as, tossing her reins, she nudged her mount forward.

  * * * * *

  Dye came awake with a start, alone on his cot, clutching at the empty space beside him to find the loose ropes puddled on the blankets. His astonishment at Martigay’s escape was immediately eclipsed by his fear of what it meant. Despite her obvious attraction to him, despite all they had going sexually, she had left him. Guessing she was still angry with him, he slung the tangle of rope across the tent. He was dragging his doeskins up his legs as he crossed the tent and brushed outside.

  “When did the girl leave?” he asked the guard who stood outside his door. It was the same Thrall who’d carried her in.

  “My Lord?”

  “Martigay. How long ago did she leave?”

  The guard’s eyes widened. “Sir. She didn’t. I mean, she hasn’t. Is she not inside?”

  Dye cursed.

  Heading for the clearing where he’d last seen her horse, he found it empty. For several moments he stared blankly at the space where he wanted to see her paint.

  She’d left him.

  “Sir!” His guards warned him of his scout’s approach. Turning, Dye found Brand weaving his mount toward him at a trot.

  “Commander, the enemy is on the march. They approach from the west.”

  Rapidly, Dye’s mind shifted gears as he turned back toward his headquarters. “West?”

  Brand nodded. “They must have marched north in the night.”

  “How many? Where did you last see them?”

  Brand answered in dismount. Together they strode toward his tent, Dye flinging orders at his two guards. “Command my lieutenants to join me. Order the men to strike and harness. Change that!” he stopped his guards before they’d turned. “Order the men to harness only, leave their tents pitched. Find my messengers and send them to me.

  “Brand. Did you pass anyone on your way here?”

  “Commander?”

  Dye didn’t look at the man. “One of my captains?”

  Dye didn’t see the man’s cynical smile. “The one on the paint pony?”

  Dye stopped and faced the man. “Did you see her?” he demanded with a voice like a knife.

  Brand nodded with amusement unbecoming a king’s scout. “At a distance, Commander. Heading southwest.” Dye bit back the criticism that leapt to his lips, knowing Brand’s first obligation was to report to his commander, rather than try to warn a single soldier at a distance. “Where was the king’s captain going?” the Raith queried, and Dye resented the man’s question. “Was she on a mission for you?”

  “That information is…classified,” Dye grated out.

  “Yes, Commander.” The man’s response was deferential, automatic and entirely unconvincing. Just before they reached Dye’s tent, Brand stopped a moment. “Commander,” he said, and Dye turned impatiently to face him. “She’ll be all right. The girl’s very…resourceful.”

  “I know that as well as anyone, Brand,” he said warningly.

  Brand smiled at the king’s anger. “As you say, Commander.”

  Brand fo
llowed his commander into the pavilion and Dye strapped on a leather breastplate as his lieutenants assembled in his tent, along with Davik and Warrik, to hear the scout repeat his report. There was a hard knot of anxiety in his stomach which he tried to ignore.

  She was riding right into them!

  “Brand, describe the country between our camp and the enemy’s current position,” he ordered, stalling for time. Several of his lieutenants growled, knowing without Brand’s report that the land rolled gently uphill to the west.

  “We have to get out of this valley,” Greegor reminded everyone after Brand’s report of the local geography. “The east bank is too steep for a riverside defense.”

  Dye nodded.

  “If they’re keen on the fight, we should retreat far enough to take the high ground, make them come to us, fight on our terms,” Greegor put forth.

  Dye nodded again. That meant pulling back to climb east out of the valley. That meant moving further away from her. Mithra! Dye scraped a hand through his hair.

  “Get your men mounted and armed. We pull back to the south.” He forced the words out of his mouth, feeling sick as he did so.

  Would she be captured? How would he know? Hopefully, she’d see the Saharat before they saw her. Would she turn back if she saw them or simply detour around them and continue…to leave him. How would he know if she’d been captured, killed?

  “South?” The word slipped from Greegor’s mouth, a surprised question.

  Dye nodded at his lieutenant. “East or west, we’ll find ourselves trapped between the two Saharat forces.”

  “You expect the Saharat in the city to leave the walls and join the attack?” Greegor’s voice was incredulous. “Leave the walls of Amdahl?”

  “I wouldn’t do it and neither would you, Greegor. But the Saharat love a fight. And with a mere five thousand attacking us on the west, it’s the only strategy that makes sense. We’ll move south, leave our tents up, camp intact. With any luck, the Saharat won’t realize the camp is empty until it’s too late. We’ll take them on their southern flank.”

  Moments later, his lieutenants were moving out of his tent. “Greegor!”

  Dye pulled his steel from the baldric hanging from his chair and transferred it to the belt on his hip. When he was alone with his second-in-command, he spoke. “Greegor,” he said quietly. “See that my sorrel is harnessed immediately. You’re in command until my return.”

  “Sir!”

  Dye held up a hand to stop his officer’s protest. “I’m asking you to cover for me Greegor. I only need a few hours. I’ll be back before you’ve drawn the lines up south of here.”

  “Sir, where are you going?” When the king didn’t answer, Greegor persisted. “Surely your guard, part of your guard, can accompany you.”

  “The horse, Greegor. Immediately.”

  With an angry shake of his head, Dye’s officer strode from the tent, almost plowing into the huge Khal loitering just outside.

  The army was already moving south in orderly ranks as Dye exited the tent. He had one foot in the stirrup when Palleden rushed toward him, dragging his mount at the end of its reins. “My Lord. Captain Martigay—”

  “You’re with me, soldier,” he commanded. “Mount and ride.”

  Tearing up the rough, grassy slopes, they’d traveled no more than a league before catching sight of her upon cresting a low rise.

  He saw her on the western horizon, a small dark blot streaking toward his retreating camp. With a vicious curse, Dye spurred his mount forward. Behind the girl, a long fan of black dots pursued her—what looked to be an entire unit of mounted archers. As Dye urged his horse forward, he kept his eyes on her. “Come on, Martigay,” he whispered beneath his breath.

  A dense cloud of arrows rose from behind to rain around her and Dye flinched, expecting to see the little horse stagger and go down under the sleeting storm of arrows. Somehow she rode through it. “Come on, Martigay,” he roared.

  As the flagging paint lost momentum, he watched as one of the enemy riders gained on her in sure increments. Helpless to intervene, Dye watched with sick dread as the horseman continued to creep up on her. At the same time, he was judging the distance that separated him from Martigay, calculating his own rate of advance. Sliding his sword from its sheath, his heels dug into his mount’s flanks, urging more speed out of the beast as he raced forward with one intent.

  To kill the man who threatened her.

  After that, he had no plan. He had no plan to deal with the other fifty Saharat hurtling toward him.

  A glance under his arm to locate his sergeant revealed—a hundred Khallic Northmen backing him in a tight line of thundering horseflesh, racing to catch up, with Warrik leading on his huge black destroyer. Recalling how he’d passed Warrik just outside his tent, Dye grinned as he returned his attention to the pony laboring toward him, the paint growing larger as the two horses converged to close the gap separating them.

  A few more flying paces and he was past her.

  The pony went by him, lungs sawing like a blacksmith’s bellows, strings of lathered sweat flying from chest and flanks as its muscles bunched and stretched—the little pony struggling to keep ahead of the rain of arrows and carry his mistress to safety.

  Dye’s sword was swinging over the paint’s rump, arriving just in time to connect with the pursuing rider. There was a resounding thwack and the rider’s head hung in the air for an instant before it dropped and the Saharat horse barreled on, its headless baggage slumping loosely to slide out of the saddle.

  In a rain of pounding hooves and blasted breaths from the horse between his legs, the king barreled headlong toward the enemy archers, dragging Warrik’s Northmen behind him.

  Almost too late, the enemy archers wheeled in retreat and beat their horses into a hasty departure. Warrik’s Irregulars followed to cut down the stragglers as Dye wheeled his mount and kicked the beast back into a gallop. Leaning forward over the sorrel’s withers, he raced to follow Martigay’s track.

  Mithra! He’d come within a hair of losing her.

  What the fuck had he been thinking! How could he have thrust her into danger? This was his fault! No wonder the poor girl had run! He’d taken her without her knowledge, then tied her to a post and taken her again, by force. His unmanaged lust for her had driven her away from him and straight into the teeth of danger.

  Pulling his horse into a canter as he splashed across the river, Dye loped through his retreating camp, looking for the paint and its rider. When he saw a small knot of soldiers clustered close to a tree, he guided his mount in that direction.

  When he found her, his heart almost stopped. Reining his sorrel to a halt, he stared down at the broken beast crumpled on the ground. Slowly, his leg came over his mount’s neck as he slid from his saddle and his men parted to let him through. She was on her knees, where she’d obviously been thrown when the pony had gone down. Silently, he regarded the paint’s still chest before his eyes traveled to the obscene gout of blood blackening the ground beneath the pony’s slack mouth.

  Kneeling in the harsh, pale grass, Martigay stared at her pony. Hesitantly, her hand stretched out to touch its patterned coat. Abruptly, she stood and turned and buried her face in the nearest available surface, which happened to be the king’s chest.

  Dye stood frozen, arms out from his sides as his mouth opened in surprise. For several moments he stared down at Martigay’s head, his expression one of frank alarm, then slowly his hands gravitated upward to case her. His arms hesitated just before locking around her, as though he feared once locked into position, they’d never come apart again. His mouth moved inexorably downward to settle on her forehead.

  Slowly, he dragged his open mouth across her forehead to her temple. There his lips stopped for some time as he fought an inner battle as demanding as any wartime challenge. A groan of suppressed agony rumbled behind his lips just before his fingers were in her hair, tilting her head back as his lips smeared a path down her face to her l
ips. Here, he groaned again as his lips twisted into hers.

  As ever, the girl fought. But fought for his lips this time as her head went back, neck curved, lips straining upward and sucking down his kiss like it was the only thing that would save her. Her throat was full of little whimpers—half aching yearning, the other half just plain aching.

  He knew that.

  He wanted to console her. He needed to hold her and know she was all right. He wanted to kiss her but he knew just where his kiss would lead. And he knew the only kind of solace he could offer her was inappropriate to the occasion. He’d not take her in the midst of her grief. Not at a moment of weakness. Not again. Not after she’d just left him—and for this very reason.

  Dye wrenched his lips from hers. “Not like this,” he moaned against the corner of her mouth. “Not like this, Martigay.” Even as he spoke, his hands slid down her neck and into the top of her jerkin, causing her ties to part as his hands clutched to grip her shoulders.

  Martigay’s lithe body sealed against his own, her breasts against his chest—two compelling arguments threatening his resolve. Like the lock walls on the sea-to-sea channel, his hands moved out of her jerkin as his arms crushed her against him, a hand on the back of her head pulling her face into his chest—where he knew it belonged.

  With his lips in her hair, Dye looked around for his men, but his remnant army had tactfully withdrawn to prepare for the move south. In the midst of a thousand men, Dye found himself standing on a kind island of privacy as Martigay’s arms clamped around his waist and held him as though he was wreckage in a raging sea of sorrow.

  “Come on, Martigay,” he ordered gruffly. “Breathe.”

  Her body tensed against his a moment before he heard her long, sobbing intake. Her whole body rocked against his as though arriving at some nodding conclusion or at least agreement. When her arms loosened around his waist, he knew this was his signal to release her, but Hadi’s Saints, it was hard.

  As hard as his aching, throbbing dick.