The game had been Ballard’s idea, a way to teach Gavin martial skills beyond sword and horsemanship. It required speed, agility and endurance. The rules were simple. Chase after the fast-flying ball until you caught it, all the while preventing your opponent from doing the same and stop him from taking it from you by force. Gavin had embraced the exercise with enthusiasm, thrilled with the opportunity to pit his skills against his war-trained father. As he reached manhood, the game grew progressively harder, more brutal until it resembled no genteel entertainment but a street battle where the only true rule was to win.
The orb itself was a nasty piece of work, darting about with hummingbird speed. A fiendish creation spawned in Ambrose’s potions room late one night, it eluded capture, spitting blue sparks as if laughing at its pursuers’ efforts. Both men had soon learned that nabbing the orb was only half the challenge. Holding onto it was just as difficult. The dancing sparks sent sharp pangs through the hand and up the arm, causing muscles to twitch and convulse, and sometimes the prey turned on the hunters. Ballard had sprained two fingers in one game when the orb whipped around and smashed him in the hand. Gavin had lost a back tooth when it shot across the room straight at him. He didn’t duck fast enough and counted himself lucky to have only suffered a lost tooth instead of a broken jaw.
Gavin’s fingers just scraped the orb’s surface before Ballard tackled him from behind, taking him down at the knees. Both men crashed to the floor only to spring up and race after their prize. Ballard caught it for a brief moment and was slammed against one wall so hard, his teeth rattled. The orb popped out of his grip, and Gavin sprinted after it, crowing triumphantly. “Getting slow in your dotage, gaffer.”
The two fought from one end of the hall to the other, grappling, punching and cursing as the orb flashed between them, tantalizingly close but always just out of reach. In the end, Gavin won through sheer endurance. Gasping, dripping sweat and suffering a pounding headache after Gavin head butted him, Ballard sat on the floor facing his son and began to laugh. The other man had tucked the orb into the front of his trousers. A radiant glow illuminated his crotch. Gavin gritted his teeth, red face leaching of all color until he’d paled a ghastly shade of gray. “Done?” He gasped out the word.
Ballard waved a hand, wincing at the thought of what those needle-like sparks were doing to Gavin’s manhood. “Aye. You win. I can’t stand to watch you geld yourself over a game.” He stretched out on the stone pavers, grateful for their icy comfort against his back, and listened as Gavin recited the charm that disintegrated the orb.
He dropped to his haunches next to his father. “I bi my ton,” he garbled and spat a gobbet of blood on the floor in front of him.
Ballard eyed the arched ceiling joists high above him. “I’m getting too old for this.” A tickling sensation at his temple had him wiping at the sweat droplets gathered there. His hand came away smeared red. Gavin wasn’t the only one to walk away from this melee bloodied.
Gavin pressed a hand gingerly to his side. “You’ve an elbow like a hammer. I think you cracked a rib.”
He offered neither apology nor sympathy. Playing the game had been Gavin’s idea. The side of his face still ached from the last punch Gavin landed on him. “Was it worth it to cool your blood?”
“For now. Ask me again in couple of hours after I’ve sat by Cinnia at table, with her scent in my nose and her sister threatening to rip my heart out if I dare lay a finger on her.”
The clearing of a throat made both men look toward the screen separating the hall from the kitchen. Louvaen stood watching them, arms akimbo. Ballard clambered to his feet and swayed, dizzy. Gavin must have hit him harder than he thought. Large snowflakes veiled Louvaen’s braided hair, floating lazily from the crown of her head to catch in the loose strands and flutter over her face. She grimaced and swatted at a few that danced over her nose and tipped her eyelashes. It took him a moment to realize the snowflakes were down feathers. Magda had put her to work plucking their supper. Her gaze raked them, noting their disheveled state, the scrapes and bruises, blood and cuts.
“Magda sent me to tell you that once you’re through beating each other senseless to please leave the hall so the rest of us with something important to do can decorate for Modrnicht.”
Gavin flinched at her waspish tone. Ballard nodded and offered a bow. “It’s yours to do with as you wish, mistress. We’re finished here.” He bowed a second time when she spun on her heel without replying and disappeared behind the screen.
Gavin made to follow. “Better hide the weaponry. She’s in a foul mood.”
Ballard gazed at the spot where she’d stood. Unlike Gavin, he’d known to expect such behavior. Louvaen herself had warned him three days earlier.
“You’ll not want me for company this week, my lord,” she said. “I change from shrew to viper when my menses are upon me.”
She’d startled him with the straightforward intimacy of her declaration. Ballard had lived with three women in the same household for almost four centuries, had an idea of when each suffered through their monthly and wisely made himself scarce when they occurred. Louvaen was the first to outright admit it and warn him off. And she’d lived up to the warning. Peevish and tired, she’d avoided everyone, ate her meals alone in the kitchen or only with Magda for company and refused to spend her evenings in the solar before bed.
Ballard missed her presence and sat in sullen silence before the fire, drinking too much ale and recalling every erotic moment of the one night he’d spent in her bed. He wanted her, craved her, and would have her beneath him again in a second—bad moods and menses be damned—if she even hinted at her willingness. She hadn’t, and he respected her wish for solitude. He’d have to wait a little longer before she came to his bed a second time. The memory of that first time was its own comfort—her unexpected and stunning gift of affection. For a brief, nauseous moment he’d wondered if she’d regretted bedding him. Her admission of physical discomfort had banished that worry.
Or so he continued telling himself now, three days later. He’d needed the outlet of the game as much as Gavin, his desire for Louvaen raised to a fever pitch now that he knew the feel and taste of her. The temptation to cajole her into his room, even if only to sleep beside him, lay heavily on his mind. He’d slept in a lonely bed a long time—was used to it—but the thought of her curled against him in slumber, warm and soft, refused to fade. He’d offer the suggestion tonight. She might bite his head off for his trouble, but he considered the possible outcome worth the risk.
He trailed behind Gavin and entered the kitchen. Joan and Clarimond shared a worktable, one rolling out dough, the other peeling potatoes. Two freshly plucked geese rested on another table by the hearth where Magda stood watch over a steaming cauldron. She glanced at him and gestured with her chin to where Gavin sat on a bench, eyes closed in bliss as Cinnia tended his wounds. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let the beauty there patch you up. Right now, the other one would just as soon stick a knife in you and call it mercy.”
Ballard’s lips twitched. He could physic his own pains and accepted a bowl of water, stack of cloths and a jar of ointment from a flour-dusted Joan. He bent to the task of scrubbing the blood off his face and floor grime from his arms. “Where is she?”
Magda stirred the cauldron’s contents. “In the buttery. I sent her down there for a crock of ale and one of wine.” She shrugged. “If you’re willing to be flayed, you can offer to help.”
He found Louvaen tucked between two large casks of wine, on her hands and knees mopping up a spill. Still decorated in goose down, she glanced over her shoulder at the sound of his footsteps, arched an eyebrow and returned to her work. Ballard admired her narrow waist and the way it curved into the flare of her hips. They swayed with the motion of her scrubbing, and his breeches grew uncomfortably tight at the fantasy of kneeling behind her and lifting her skirts.
“Do you need help?”
She paused and turned to him
a second time, her eyes the color of hot ash. “No, and you’ll not be doing what you’re thinking in this crypt of a room, my lord.”
Ballard smiled and seated himself beside a crock of ale on one of the benches lining the chamber’s walls. “So you’re a seer now, mistress? What am I thinking?”
Louvaen straightened to her feet and tossed the wine-stained rag to one side. She wiped her hands on her skirt and strode toward him until she stood at his knees. He opened them to allow her closer. For the first time in nearly a week, her pinched features softened into a smile. “You’re thinking you’d like a good look at my smallclothes while I mop the floors.”
He passed a hand over her apron. “I’m not interested in your knickers, only what they cover.” His nostrils twitched at the scents of wine and lavender soap. “You smell of summer.”
“You smell of witch hazel.” She touched a fingertip to the split skin on his forehead. “That’ll be a quite a lump.”
Ballard flinched away, though hers had been a butterfly’s caress. “Gavin has an iron skull. Knocked my brains hard enough to make my ears ring.”
“He looked equally worse for wear.”
He smirked. “I might have laid a bruise or two on him, though I think he did more damage to himself. Bit his tongue and nearly gelded himself trying to win the game.”
Louvaen tilted her head, her expression puzzled. “You two do this for fun?”
He captured one of her hands and tugged until she settled into his lap, her long legs taking up the rest of the bench. She felt good in his arms, right, as if she belonged no place else. “No. We do it because we can’t have what we want.” A downy feather wrapped around his finger as he traced the line of her collar bones.
She slipped her arms around his neck, her stern expression at odds with the light caresses she bestowed along his nape. “Gavin can have Cinnia all he wants when he marries her. Not a moment sooner.”
Ballard shivered beneath her touch. All that knocking about in the great hall had done plenty to jar his bones but little to cool his desires for this woman. His cock was stiff, aching, and he thrust against her backside where she sat cradled across his thighs. “And me, Louvaen?” he asked softly. “When do I get what I want?”
“What do you want?” she countered with a teasing lilt.
He nuzzled the soft hairs at her temple and rubbed harder against her buttocks. “You. Beneath me.”
Graceful fingers combed through his hair. “What about on top of you?”
Ballard reared back and gaped at her for a moment before he broke into a grin. “On top, on your back...” He kissed her smiling mouth. “On your belly,” he whispered. “Your hands and knees.”
“Oh, I’m very fond of that one, just not on the cold floor of a buttery.”
They both laughed, and Ballard tightened his hold on her, relishing the easy way she rested in his arms and returned his embrace. No blushing maiden here; no worldly harlot either, just a woman comfortable with intimacy and willing to express her wants and preferences to him. He, not Gavin, held the most beautiful creature in the world.
“Come to my chamber tonight,” he pleaded.
She sighed. “Ballard...”
“Just to sleep if that’s your wish. I’ve a comfortable bed.”
She wiggled her hips. “And a tent pole in your breeches.”
He pinched her earlobe between his teeth, making her squeal. “You’re bouncing that sweet arse on me, and you act surprised? I think you’re more seductress than shrew.”
Louvaen snorted, both eyebrows arched in disbelief. “You can spout honeyed lies better than any court minstrel.”
Her small smile faded when he lifted a hand to cup her cheek. “No false words, Louvaen. All you have to do is breathe, and you seduce me.” He watched, entranced, as a blush purled up her neck to her face and into her hairline.
“You’re generous with your compliments, my lord.”
A scatter of down floated from her shoulders and hair as he stroked her. “And you’re beautiful in your scowls and feathers, mistress.”
They stared at each other for several moments before Louvaen dropped her arms and heaved herself out of his embrace. Ballard’s heart sank into his stomach, only to slam into his throat when she slid onto his lap once more, this time astride, her knees and thighs gripping his hips in a tight clench. His arms automatically rose to wrap around her back and help her balance.
“Louvaen?”
Graceful hands, with their calloused fingertips, cradled his face. Her thumbs slid across his high cheekbones, avoiding the bruises and smoothing the pale skin and dark scars etched down to the bone. Her eyes dwelt on every line and angle. He almost turned away, wishing for one moment he possessed his son’s handsomeness instead of the ruined visage he wore. Yet Louvaen looked upon him with those smoky eyes that grew dark with desire. It defied reason, but she wanted him in all his broken glory.
One thumb slid lower, pressing into the soft flesh of his lower lip. Louvaen leaned into him, face so close to his, she almost spoke into his mouth. “I’m glad it was Gavin who bit his tongue and not you.”
Ballard’s eyes lowered to half mast. He held her hips, massaging her upper thighs through her heavy skirts. “Why is that?” he murmured.
“Because then I couldn’t do this.” She caught his lip between hers and suckled.
Ballard moaned and almost heaved them both off the bench. Louvaen’s low, seductive laugh fluttered along his teeth. He opened his mouth; her tongue swept in and filled him. She kissed him deeply, exploring every curve and hollow, the edges of his teeth and smooth sides of his cheeks. Ballard’s lungs burned with the need for air, but he refused to pull away, content to suffocate as long as Louvaen worked her magic and fucked his mouth for all she was worth.
She halted, small breasts swelling above her bodice with her shallow pants. Her pupils had dilated until her eyes looked black in the rush light. High color painted her cheeks and reddened her swollen lips to the shade of a summer plum. Ballard’s cock swelled harder against his breeches. She was so beautiful he could come just from looking at her. She leaned forward, and his fingers dug into her legs, anticipation of her plundering his mouth again making him shiver beneath her.
Louvaen surprised him with the gentlest kiss. She smiled and stared into his eyes, her hands still holding his face. “Do you know when I’m alone in my bed, I pleasure myself by imagining your mouth, the touch of it on mine. Your taste. The slide of your tongue against mine.”
“’Ods’ teeth, Louvaen!” Ballard swore. He bucked, grinding his erection into her skirts in a futile bid to reach the sweet spot between her legs. Instead, he shoved against yards of bunched wool and the barrier of his own breeches. He was a blink away from ripping the dress off her and taking her until she screamed his name. “Witch, you would torture me.”
She silenced him with another kiss, this one like the first—deep, thrusting, reducing him to a mindless creature begging for mercy. He literally mewled when she broke the kiss once more. “No.” She breathed almost as hard as he did. “I would please you.” One hand left his face to glide down his neck and pluck the lacings at his throat. She scooted back until she perched precariously on his knees. “Take off your bliaud.”
She didn’t need to ask twice. Ballard whipped the shirt over his head and tossed it to the side. The buttery’s chilly air drafted across his overheated skin, and his nipples tightened—tightened even more at Louvaen’s avid gaze. His hands settling back on her hips to anchor her more securely into his lap. “I don’t suppose you’ll be doing the same?” The delicate skin below her collarbones beckoned. He bent to swipe his tongue across the pale expanse of flesh, pausing to nuzzle the rounded curve of one breast above the edge of her bodice.
Louvaen’s chest rose and fell with her quick breaths. She curved out of reach of his mouth, and he growled in protest, trying to draw her back. She tugged his hair. “Stop,” she scolded in a thin voice. I can’t think when you’re doing
that.”
He smirked. Good. The gods knew whatever coherency remained in his thoughts had been boiled away by the hot blood coursing through his veins. “What are you thinking?” he asked. The trailing tail of one of her bodice laces dangled in front of him. He caught it in his teeth and jerked in the hopes of unraveling the knot. He bit through the lace when she dragged both of her thumbs across his nipples.
Her tongue sliding between his lips cut off his guttural cries. He groaned into her mouth, his tongue battling hers as her fingers joined her thumbs, rubbing and lightly pinching until his nipples throbbed and his cock pulsed in time to the hard pounding of his heart. Some distant part of his mind thanked Louvaen’s foresight in clipping his claws short, otherwise he would have shredded her skirts and raked bloody furrows into her thighs by now.
His gasps bounced off the stone walls as she abandoned his mouth for his cheek, lips lingering on each scar and runemark until she reached the edge of his jaw and the soft skin beneath. At her wordless coaxing Ballard tilted his head. Louvaen nuzzled him, the sound of her slow inhalation tickling his ear. “Mmm, I like the scent of witch hazel,” she whispered. She rubbed her nose into his hair before slipping lower. Ballard’s eyes slid shut, and he sucked in a breath as she licked and nipped her way down his neck, pausing to swirl her tongue in the hollow of his throat.
Louvaen wiggled back, resting her weight across his upper thighs instead of his groin. He gripped her hips to steady her. Her busy hands drifted over his ribs and down his abdomen, played with the narrow trail of hair bisecting his torso, and finally halted at the ties holding his breeches closed. Ballard’s breathing quickened to shallow pants. Nimble fingers made short work of the ties. Both sighed—one in relief, the other in approval—when Louvaen slipped her hand inside and freed him from the garment’s confines.
Ballard opened his eyes and caught her staring at him as if he were a dessert she’d devour in one gulp. The salacious smile curving her lips promised he’d enjoy being consumed. He grumbled a weak protest when she slid off his lap to kneel between his legs. His back arched as her fingers curved around him, stroking lightly over the taut skin of his shaft. The hot cravings pooling low in his belly rippled throughout the rest of his body. He tried to talk, to ask her what further torment she planned for him, but he’d lost the ability to do more than gasp her name in staccato breaths. He forgot how to breathe and speak when her head lowered. He watched her open her lips and take him inside her mouth: first the swollen head of his cock, then the upper part of his shaft. Her cheeks hollowed, and she sucked, hard.