Promises

Lenka picked the lamp from the table and carried it to where he lay.

The light chased shadows from his skin, tanned to golden brown in the warmth of spring sunshine. His hair was thick, spreading across her clean linen, sun-blonde with dark auburn curls that coiled into ringlets behind his ears. It took all her courage to reach, but she slipped her fingers into the silky mass of it, combing it gently from his temple.

Her heart beat so loud, she was sure he would hear it. It thumped at the base of her throat making it hard to breathe, hard to swallow, hard to think. The shake in her hands ran from her fingertips, into her elbows, and up to quake in her jaw. Her teeth clattered as if she was naked in the snow, but there was no chill on her skin. It burned.

Her lips burned, too, and she slipped the tip of her tongue between them, wetting them, wishing for another sip. The lamp rattled in her hand, and the flame flashed and flared, sending a shock through her like sudden guilt. Quickly she bent to place it onto the floor.

She had moved so near. The warm smell of his skin rose to her, and she bit onto her bottom lip as she moved her face closer to him. Holding her breath, feeling her chest constricting in pure terror, she leaned and pressed her lips gently onto the taut skin of his side.

He twitched at the touch and she jumped back, tears welling in her eyes. If only he would wake and reach for her. If only he would hold out his arms to her, and smile and ask her to come to him.

That would come, she promised herself. That day would come. For now, it was enough that she should make this move for him, knowing he would follow once she set her path to lead.

Grimly she leaned to the lamp and puffed out the flame. The night went dark, leaving only the faintest glow from the hearth coals. As tears rolled down her cheek, she was thankful for the darkness. It would help to hide her shame. The shame of this brazen act. And the shame of how much she ached for it.

If only he would wake.

She unbuckled the wide belt at her waist, freeing her shawl and loosening her heavy skirts. She folded her shawl over her arms and set it onto the table. Her skirts were gathered along a cord and she slipped the bow easily, allowing the thick wool to slide down the length of her legs, over the soft linen of her underslip.

Letting her held breath escape in a long slow sigh, she began to unlace her bodice. Every day of her life she had dressed and undressed, but tonight her fingers fumbled with the ribbons, bunching them into knots that slipped and caught and slipped again, until the firm hold of her basque released with sudden ease and freed her heavy breasts.

Under the loose slip, her nipples ached and she rubbed a hand roughly across them, groaning at their tenderness and the sharp stab of pleasure that grew from the touch. Without the comfort of her clothes, the cool night air touched her skin and she shivered. Carefully, she lifted the fur that draped across Dragan's hips, and pulled it around her own arms. Again he stirred, lifting his shoulder, and she shoved as carefully as she could, encouraging him to roll onto his back.

His chest was uncovered, dark against the sheet, and her fingertips trailed down over the flat muscle. Her breath was too short, her head was light and she gasped, her fingers spreading over the silk of his skin, brushing the tight puckered bead of his nipple. How often in the daylight had she wished for the courage to reach out and touch him? Now, here he lay, unaware, and her courage was still barely enough to sustain her.

There were two laces, one at each hip, that held the front of his breeches closed. She tugged each one gently until it came free.

Her shaky legs buckled, dropping her sharply to the floor and she huddled there on her knees, her forehead resting onto the pallet beside him as she sobbed silently, caught between terror and growing desire. Clutching the furs tight at her shoulders, she closed her eyes and moved closer.

She had never seen a bull or ram asleep. Tears slid over his skin as she pressed her face into the warmth of his belly. Her lips moved. Heat was growing in his flesh, and the smell of a man swelled inside her head, in her chest, and under her skin. It ran over her like a million invisible fingers, teasing nerves that cried out for his touch.

As Goda had promised, his body did not need his direction. Beside her cheek, his cock stirred itself to life. Groaning softly, she moved her shaking fingers up to stroke its length and felt it firm beneath her touch.

If only he would wake.

Sniffling back thick tears, she stood on weak knees and lifted her slip up to her waist, raised her leg across him to kneel on the bed, and positioned her hips over his. If she balked now at all, her strength and resolve would fail. With one hand clamped across her own mouth, she did her best to guide him and slowly let her weight take her body down onto his.

For a moment Lenka was frozen by awkward vulnerability. Then tears and laughter, shock and burning pleasure burst together from her lips in a muffled cry as he filled her. Relief and terror flared in her blood and she raised herself, settling again as the rhythms of nature slowly overrode her fear.

From some far off fantasy Dragan responded, straightened his back, mumbling as he slipped his hands up her thighs. Gripping her hips, he moved in time, his head back, aware of pleasure and asking nothing more of his dreams.

In the darkness below her, his throat was exposed and she leaned to kiss him there, wanting to feel the hot blood pulsing under his skin. Heat was building deep inside her as she worked against him, and every movement stoked the flame like a bellows. Instinct was driving her hips harder and faster, and he moaned, grimacing and holding tighter to her as a sheen of sweat broke over his chest.

She caught his wrists bringing his hands up to cup her breasts, and the touch sent a jolt bucking through her. She needed to feel his mouth on hers even as she gasped for air she could not find. Again the muscles of her stomach jolted, and with it a bright bolt of light burst deep inside. Her eyes went wide and closed as she slumped down against him, and her strength seeped away on a sigh.

She lay in the dark silence panting, listening to his heartbeat slowing and wishing she did not have to move. Goda had warned her not to sleep. She must move away, she was told; come to him again tomorrow, and again, as often as it was possible. All Goda hoped for was a child, and seed did not always take.

Better to be sure before she risked his anger. But the trembling in her flesh now was from joy and relief, not fear. She closed her eyes for a moment, with her cheek pressed onto his chest. Just for one moment.

* * * * *

Dragan woke in the darkness with soft warmth pressed against him and the sweet scent of cider wash rising from her hair. In that rare and comfortable silence, his first instinct was to pull her closer and drift in that warmth for a few moments longer. But the cock's crow stirred him again and sudden realizations rushed him awake.

He didn't need a second moment to know who it was there beside him, even before his movements startled her awake. Lenka drew herself away like she feared he might hit her. She slipped from the bed, dressed still in her light undergarment and holding her arms across her chest as if the linen and shadows were not enough to hide her form. He couldn't make out the details of her face, but he didn't want to look at her anyway.

His mind raced, spinning through a rash of half formed thoughts that each brought with it a confusion of emotions. Anger first, and with it embarrassment and a sense of having been compromised. He was shocked by her recklessness and, at the same time, appalled by how calculated her actions had to have been.

In the darkness by the hearth, she sobbed quietly, shuffling her feet nervously in the fresh straw. "Please don't send me away, Dragan. You can't send me back to my father. Not now."

"I can," he said with more force than he intended. "What have you done? Why?" He knew the why, or at least he recognized the pressures that were pushing her toward him. Her father, he guessed, would not be concerned. Not until he did send her back.

"Haven't I been a help to you here? Haven't you said that yourself? I can stay on now. I can look after your house and care for your mother. I'll work. I can work beside you, you know. I don't mind."

Her desperation softened something in his gut that had been tight, but it only made his irritation stronger. "No, you can't. I've told you, many times, I am going back to the citadel to get the woman I want for my wife."

"There's no need," she pleaded. "I can be a wife to you. And helper. I'll raise healthy babies, too, I promise."

He threw back furs that had tangled around his ankles and sat, angrily tying the cords of his breeches together. There seemed no point in this discussion. All the time the sun was rising and he had chores that needed his attention. Frustration wailed in his chest; he wanted to yell at her to silence her pitiful appeals.

"Wait," she begged. "I'll bring up the fire." Already she was bundling kindling onto the coals and fanning, on her knees and blowing into the flame to encourage it to burn. "I'll warm some ale. I've got yesterday's crusts, and a broth to sop." She stood too quickly, pulling a stool up for him and patting the tabletop. In the rising light she trembled like an apparition formed from pure terror.

"No, no it's not that simple. You can't stay here now and you must know that. Why would you do this to yourself?" He stood, meaning to walk to the door and away, but his feet carried him closer to where she stood.

"It's spring. Life is calling to life and soon I'll be rounding with your child, Dragan. You won't send away your child." She moved closer, taking his wrists in her hands. "I can be all you'll ever need, I promise. I promise you. I won't ever refuse you. You won't want for anything.

"And my father is wealthy, Dragan. His orchards would be yours. You could pay hired workers, just as he does, and you could sit in the hills as you've always done. And you could travel to the cities, to the markets, and wear fine sewn linen. I'll stitch it for you. I can work fine embroidery."

"Lenka, listen. I don't want you for my wife. You will make someone very happy, I'm sure, but it won't be me."

"Who? Who will be my husband? Where will I go to look for such a creature, have you asked yourself?" She wiped angrily at tears, "There are no husbands. But if there were, if there was a line of men who came to my father to ask for me, I would turn them all away."

"Then you'd be a bigger fool that I thought. I am not the man for you, I have my own plans." He started to turn away, annoyance sharpening his tongue.

But she had no intention of releasing her hold, "I'm not a fool, and I have never been a fool. If I seem foolish it's only because I waited, year after year. When you still refused to see me, I moved us both toward the best of it. I'm right, I am. If you think on it a while you'll see it, too."

She had deluded herself, that was plain, but he had never noticed her waiting. It was true, if he thought about it, she was often here when he had returned home to work. She was his mother's close companion, but he had never considered her attentions were aimed at him.

"Please, see me now. Notice me here. I've wanted no one else but you since I was a little girl. While you were away at the war I stitched and mended your clothes, and I prepared all the things a bride would need for the day she was bound. I even wove this cloth," she dragged his attention to the pallet and the fine soft linen sheet he had slept on; "—and I stitched little dresses for my babies. I never thought to do these things for any other man. Now I am not young anymore and I want to have those babies; your babies.

"I've always loved you. Did you never see me? Never?"

"No. Never." His answer was blunt but true and he hoped it would be an end to the conversation. His mouth was as dry as a witch's tit and he pushed past her taking up the jug of ale which stood on his table.

Her face broke into a mosaic of pain. Every line of her crumpled features was the mark of a deep hurt. He wouldn't have wished it for her, but he finished the ale in a gulp and turned again for the door and his work.

"Then look at me now." Desperate, she pushed the neckline of her underwear clumsily over her shoulders, dragging it down her arms. The way she stood, with her elbows pulled too tight against her sides as the shift slipped to the floor, said she was mortified by her nakedness, here in the light of the morning's fire. But she stepped forward again, pressing her bare flesh against his chest and stretching up to bring her lips against his throat. She gripped his arms in clawed fingers and tried to pull him closer.

Dragan freed her hands and forced her to step back. "I won't change my mind. I don't want you for my wife. And now," he turned to walk out of his doorway, "—you will have to leave."

Editing, with thanks to Essie Holton.

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