Prince of Dogs

Page 77

He was suddenly much warmer than he had any right to be on such a cold night. Somehow, her moist lips nuzzled his neck; her breath smelled of sweet custard. Somehow, her hand slipped around the curve of his buttocks.
“My—my father expects me inside.”
“Inside you shall be, my lord, if you wish it.”
The sudden heat that transfixed his body scared him, and yet, the more she stroked his body, the more he felt it. He fumbled at her shoulders as she maneuvered him back, pinning him up against the tree.
“You’re very handsome,” she murmured.
“Am I?” he asked, surprised. No woman except the bored Withi had ever shown interest in him before he became Lavastine’s heir. But the thought vanished as does mist under the sun when she kissed him, moving her body against his and taking hold of his hands, guiding them.
If this was the fire of lust, then it was no wonder people succumbed to it. But, kissing her, he made the servingwoman in his mind into an image of Tallia, and the thought of kissing her, of being free to do so, of meeting her in the marriage bed …
“Ah!” sighed the woman. “That’s better. Not as inexperienced as you look, my lord.” She deftly slid her hands along his belt and unfastened the buckle. “I’ve a brother who will be ready for service next spring. He’s a good strong boy.” The belt, and extra length of tunic held up by it, slipped down to around his knees. “He’d make a fine man-at-arms.”
At this moment, she could have asked for anything and he would have given it to her. She took his hands and helped them slide her own tunic up, to her knees, to her thighs, baring pale legs, to her hips …
From the kennels erupted a sudden uproar of barking and maddened howls and men’s shouts, punctuated by a scream. Alain knew those howls: Lavastine’s hounds. His hounds.
“I beg you,” he said, so out of breath he might as well have been running. He tried to slide out away from her, caught his back on a branch that stabbed in just below his shoulder blade. He stumbled, took a step, tripped over his not-quite-fastened belt, and fell hard to his knees. The jolt brought tears to his eyes. His skin was on fire.
“My lord Alain!” She came to his rescue, helping him up, fumbling with the belt.
“I don’t mean—I’m sorry—but the hounds—”
Her face was a flash of pale skin and dark eyes in the light of a thin crescent moon. “Of course you must go.” She had remembered the hounds, and what he was. Now she was frightened of him, she who had held all the power moments before.
He hastily tucked his tunic in over his belt so he wouldn’t trip on its length, then ran for the kennels, which lay out behind the great hall in the lee of the stables.
The hounds had gone mad, ravaging a man who lay like a rag doll in their midst. Alain waded in and dragged them off the poor man, who by now bled from a score of bites and ragged tears.
“Back! Back!” Made strong by anger and fear and the still coursing memory of the servingwoman’s caresses, Alain hoisted the man up and hauled him out of the kennel, kicked Terror back, scolded Rage and Sorrow, who slunk together to a corner and hunkered down as if ashamed of themselves. As they should be! One of the handlers slammed the gate shut behind him. He let the man down onto the ground and examined his legs and arms, which had taken the worst of it from the hounds. The man writhed on the ground, moaning and crying and begging for mercy.
It was one of Lord Geoffrey’s men.
“How did this happen?” he demanded, looking up at the others, a ring of Lavastine’s soldiers who were obviously drunk.
“He said such things, my lord,” said one, young enough and drunk enough to be brash. “He said things about you, my lord, but he never saw you in the battle against the Eika. He never saw you kill the guivre and save Count Lavastine’s life. He had no right to say such things and he wouldn’t believe us, what we said, so it came to—”
Those weren’t shadows on the soldiers’ faces, but bruises. “It came to a fight?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How did he get into the kennel? Ai, by Our Lord! You.” He gestured to one of the handlers. “Run and get the herbwoman who lives here. There is such a one, surely? Ask at the stable.” The handler obeyed, dashing off.
The soldiers did not answer at once. But he could guess how it had all happened. While he allowed himself to be seduced, this other game had unfolded here. Even now, watching the man weeping with pain before him, watching as blood pooled on the ground, running his hands over the man’s skin to find the gaping wounds, he knew this man could die. If he did not succumb to loss of blood or the simple trauma, he might well die later of infection.