Chapter 8 #2
He lifted my skirts and rammed himself into me with such vigor that my back jarred against the tree trunk.
The air was forced from my lungs in mewing gasps as he pounded in and out, slamming me into the tree.
With each powerful thrust, the pain of the rough bark digging into my body morphed into the most intense pleasure.
Urging him on, I wrapped my legs around him and he drove into me harder and faster, until I was engulfed by the inferno inside of me.
The urgency of his movements increased and my body tightened in recognition of what was to happen.
He then bellowed out his release and I let out a sharp cry as pleasure exploded inside me.
His horse stood placidly, unaffected by our frenzied coupling.
For a moment, I held him tightly, my heart hammering against my chest, until my vision cleared.
Sawford’s breathing, hoarse and labored, was hot and against my cheek.
His eyes were tightly closed, with little creases around the corners giving him an almost pained expression.
When he opened them, I saw doubt in their expression and something else, akin to fear.
Something tormented him, and I ached with the need to ease it.
I brushed my lips against his mouth, placing gentle kisses where his lips were bruised and swollen.
Then I lifted my hand to stroke his face.
I wanted nothing more than the pain in his eyes to disappear.
He placed a hand over mine. His touch was so tender I gave a low moan of anguish before kissing him once more.
Then I laid my head on his shoulder and sighed as he caressed the back of my neck, the gentle touch of his fingertips sending a small fizz of delight through my veins.
Then the distant sound of a hunting horn echoed across the air.
Sawford stiffened, then he curled his hand into a fist in my hair and yanked my head back.
The cold demeanor returned and once again the predator replaced the man.
He released me and, shaking, I lowered my skirts.
My stomach twisted with disgust at what we had done, what I had let—nay, begged—him to do.
My thighs were sticky with his seed and the stench of arousal thickened the air.
Sawford pushed me toward the stallion, then helped me onto the saddle, before he swung himself up behind me.
We followed the sound of the horn and rejoined the hunt.
Sawford explained the incident with the mare to my husband, his tone flat, as if nothing had happened between us.
Yet, for the remainder of the hunt, I could feel his hardness against my lower back as the movement of the horse rocked our bodies together.
By the time we returned to the stables, my nerves were torn to shreds, and as soon as I lowered myself to the ground, sprinted toward the stall that housed my horse.
I found Percy helping a groom rub the mare down. He lifted his head and smiled as he saw me, then he waved the groom away.
“How fares the mare, Percy?” I said, approaching him.
“She is well. She’s not been lamed. Once the smith’s seen to her shoe, you should be able to ride her again, perhaps even tomorrow.”
I stroked the animal’s forehead, rubbing her nose and smiling as she nickered in delight.
“’Tis good to see you smile, Lisetta.”
I startled at Percy’s familiar use of my name. He drew close and lowered his voice.
“I know you are unhappy, lady, and my desire is to change that.”
“Do not be kind to me, Percy,” I warned him. “My life is as it is. Kindness, however well intended, will only make it more difficult for me to maintain my resolve.”
“I can help you,” he whispered.
I smiled and held out my hand. He curled his fingers limply around mine. I felt warmth and friendship, but nothing compared to the burning heat of Sawford’s touch.
“You must think of yourself, Percy,” I said. “Do not concern yourself with me.”
He squeezed my hand. “I’m not only loyal to you, lady, but the king—”
His voice broke off, and he looked up, a shimmer of apprehension in his eyes.
Sawford stood at the stable door.
I lowered my voice.
“My loyalty is aligned with yours, Percy, but while that cockroach of a manservant creeps about the place, I can do nothing.”
“But I can,” he replied. “You have a friend in me. Have you not always seen that?”
I pulled him closer. “Tarvin?” I whispered, “is it you?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but Sawford joined us and Percy drew back.
“Begone, Percy,” he said, his voice cold and hard. “Sir Baldwin will be expecting you. Return to your duties.”
Percy colored, then he bowed and retreated. Sawford reached for my arm, but I had anticipated the move and pulled free before he could gain purchase.
“Do not touch me,” I snarled.
“That’s not what you said when you were mewling like a she-cat in heat as I rutted you.”
I tempered the little spike of pleasure at the memory of his exquisite touch. Overcome by self-loathing, I swept past him, but he called after me.
“Be careful whom you attempt to befriend, madam. For your sake and theirs.”
The following morning, I woke earlier than usual, exhausted and a little nauseous. Rather than wait for Harwyn, I dressed myself, unable to shake off a lingering sense of dread.
The previous night, my husband had shown a particular relish while pleasuring himself in the solar, licking his lips as he watched me with his fetid eyes.
Sawford returned me to my room as usual to take me for himself, but his touch had been unexpectedly gentle.
To my shame I had cried in his arms at his touch and before leaving me he held me close for a brief moment, his heart pulsing against my chest. After he dressed, he reached out to wipe the tears which moistened my cheeks, but I jerked my head away, turning my back until I heard the door close behind him.
Harwyn entered my chamber just as I finished dressing.
My cries of ecstasy from the previous night rang in my ears.
I dismissed her and spent the day in my treatment room, but the echoes of my cries still plagued me, almost as if they were real.
As hard as I tried to shake my head to disperse them, they grew louder—shrill cries, ending in a single high-pitched scream.
An atmosphere of anticipation lingered over the household.
When I passed my husband’s men on my way to the garden, they stopped their training to stare, until I ordered them to show their mistress respect.
I spoke in a hollow voice, knowing what little power I wielded here.
Lord save me, had they heard my cries? Did they listen at the door when Sawford took me?
As the day drew to a close and the sun began its descent, my husband summoned me to the stables with a message that we were going hunting again. However, when I arrived, only he and Sawford were there.
“Where is the hunting party?” I said, a knot of apprehension balling in my stomach.
“I have instead decided to take you on a tour of the estate,” my husband said. “There’s a view that I particularly wish to show you.”
“A-a view?” I said.
“Yes, my dear. I am certain that you’ll appreciate it.”
I glanced at Sawford to see his gaze trained at me and I caught a flicker of discomfort in his eyes, as if he were attempting to gauge my reaction to my husband’s words.
Did Mortlock know that Sawford was the stud who was servicing his mare?
I raised my eyebrows in question, but Sawford blanked his expression and looked away.
But the unease remained. Something was amiss and Sawford knew what it was.
The ride itself was uneventful. Mortlock led us on a tour of the grounds and through the village.
On seeing us approach the peasants scattered, the oppressive atmosphere affecting their spirits as much as it did mine.
My husband pointed out various landmarks and buildings of interest, as if we were a young couple in love enjoying an evening ride.
Once again he referred to the view awaiting me at the end of our excursion.
My fear rose when, on the road back to the drawbridge, Sawford drew closer until our horses almost touched, while my husband followed immediately behind.
We passed the drawbridge, entered the bailey, and the silhouette of the main building came into view. A small group of crows circled an object that stood out in the rays of the setting sun.
It was a head on a pike.
I caught my breath and pressed my lips together.
Then I steered my horse closer until I could make out the features.
The mouth was locked open, as if he had been screaming the moment his head was severed from his body.
His lips were drawn back, showing a row of white teeth.
There were gaps where his torturers must have pulled some of them out before they killed him.
The jagged edge of his neck told me that it had not been a clean cut.
He would not have died at the first stroke—the axe-man must have made several attempts before succeeding.
Droplets of blood had formed around the rough lines of flesh, some congealing, others sending thin streams which had trickled down the wall, following the spaces between the bricks before coming to a halt where they dried.
Then I lifted my gaze to his eyes—or what has once been his eyes. They stared out blankly like dark, hollow sockets and my own eyes began to throb and ache. Then a crow flew at his face, driving its beak into one of the sockets, causing a spatter of blood to drip onto his cheek.
The features were distorted and by dawn tomorrow they would be unrecognizable. Yet I recognized him.
It was Percy.