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psalm_onethirtyone*shifty eyes* You know, I'm not actually to blame for this. Nanni and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
holyschist are. They really, really are.
Anyway. Forholyschist I present: A romance novel excerpt about vampire knights. Specifically Gawain. I feel unclean, I hope you realise this. XD I have never written anything this revolting. And I felt the title was in the spirit of the thing, just for the record.
(Somebody owes me for this, especially since I'm going to hell for it.)
By the time she got back to her cottage she was breathing so hard her throat hurt; she felt ragged and painful in her chest, and a little surprised that she didn't show any outward sign of it. Everything else she showed, the blood all over her bodice, the twigs in her long red hair and the cuts on her face and hands. She fumbled with the door--the cats strode back and forth on the windowsills, flicking their tails and miao-ing. Stupid animals, she managed to think.
Lark didn't actually like cats, but that was the trouble with being a witch, you needed a familiar, and cats were the rule--she had four, all from the same litter, tawny and skinny and excellent mousers, and that was about the only thing they had going for them. Otherwise they got under her feet and tripped her up and fussed. Besides, they left the mice in her bed, where she found them by rolling over in the morning when she was too drowsy to see straight. Squish. She did not love the cats.
But she wasn't thinking about the cats now. She was half-sobbing as she pushed the door open and leaned her back against it. Where in God's name did vampires come from here, in the middle of Orkney? She'd read about them in the books, the crumbling brown ones you learned from when you were getting the starting spells down and figuring out the difference between feverfew and daisies, but they were supposed to be in other countries, they truly were. Not Scotland. God, not Scotland. Not laughing like something out of its wits and attacking young witches in the middle of the forest in groups of ten, for heaven's sake.
She had sick thoughts of the village, her village, and the vampires. It truly was her village--the people there always came to her for little spells, for rain if it got too dry or little potions to keep them well, and she refused or agreed as she saw best; she was their witch. They knew so, she knew so. What if the vampires left the forest and went down the small dirt track? It was only two miles, God knew, close enough.
Something had to be done. She didn't want to do it. She still felt her breath hard in her chest, and the stitch in her side from running. So many of them. Everywhere, with teeth as sharp as wolves', laughing at her, laughing, and coming closer, wanting her, wanting her, so hard, so fierce that she could feel it in her and thought she was going to be sick--she still thought she was going to be sick. It was bad to be so wanted. It meant bad. She knew enough of magic to know that.
She had been training since she was five, first from her mother's old friend, who taught her the mind you needed for it, the readiness to believe in the magic and let it live in you. It was all very well to call on it from the air around you, the old woman said, but if it was sleeping in your bones and you could nudge it awake and ask it for a service, that was better, and it was less likely to turn on you. It would turn on you in the end, but the better you were to it the longer it let you use it safely.
Briefly Lark wondered whether the vampire attack was the magic turning on her, but it was too soon, she was too young.
After three years with the old woman it was the middle-aged man who brought out that old book and taught her herbs and spells that were simple and true. She was apprenticed to him and lived with him for eight years, and then it was one year with a young man who knew more advanced things like the rain and fuddling with the ocean, but she didn't want much to do with that. It was asking too much of the magic, and too much of the world. But once all that was done she was a proper witch, and she went back to Mainland Orkney (the young man lived on one of the small islands, one scattered with standing stones), and made herself a cottage by the side of the road to the village, right beside the woods, and settled down. She was twenty-three now. She knew the business. She'd thought she knew the woods.
She didn't like that.
But she still felt sick and bad from the vampires, and she couldn't think well enough to do anything for the village, not yet. She needed to lie down for a moment. Slowly she staggered to her little wood-worked bed and sank down on it.
Squish.
"Damn you!" she shouted at the cats.
~~~
When Lark awoke, she was still feeling sick, but there was no more time. She changed her dress for one not torn and bloodstained, and then hurried around the cottage, gathering handfuls of things together for her basket--dried sage, tiny white pebbles, blue feathers, green grass from the spring, needles, bone, and pepper--and trying not to trip on the cats, who were bumbling about under her feet and making a fuss.
"Be quiet," she told them. "Not now."
A moment later she slipped out of the cottage, shutting the door tight behind her and checking twice to be sure the protection spells were in place. The last thing she needed was vampires in the house. Unless they ate the cats, of course.
She made good time on the road, and she was at the village less than an hour later. A few children ran up around her and chattered at her, and she answered curtly. She was afraid. She could feel it in herself, and she didn't like it at all. It was bad to be afraid. It left you open to too much.
She circled the village twice, digging tiny holes and filling them with pepper and needles and bones, in patterns that crisscrossed and made shapes. Then she made more spells, mostly in front of the houses, and one big one in around the well. She left the church bare; God could take care of himself. Once in a while someone came and asked what she was doing, and she said important work, and they looked at her musingly and left it at that. Everyone trusted her to do right. After all, she was their witch.
Their witch.
By nightfall she was finally finished. More than that she was exhausted, and she wasn't looking forward to the walk home in the dark. One woman asked her if she'd stay the night, but she smiled and said no; she had work to do at home. It wasn't strictly true, but Lark didn't think she could explain why she needed so badly to get back to the cottage; she didn't quite know why herself.
She hoped to heaven she wasn't worried about the cats. That would be all too much.
So it was dark when she started back, and she was edgy as hell and jumping at tiny things, little rustles in the grass and ideas in her head. Bad girl, she told herself, condescending--she called herself 'girl' when she wanted to lecture herself. She hated it. She wouldn't stand it from anyone else. Bad girl. They like the woods. They won't come out. Leave well enough alone and stop thinking; you've just got to get back to the cottage. This is ridiculous.
Ridiculous. For certain. She wasn't going to get caught unawares again. She had a small ward on herself now, one that would warn her if anyone came near who shouldn't, and she was jumpy enough that she likely didn't even need that.
It was just that she couldn't believe they'd gotten her like that. She'd been out gathering cones and blackberries and a few things she needed, and wasn't paying attention--wasn't paying attention, stupid girl--and all of sudden she was surrounded by fluttering people. They were man-shaped, but they weren't solid, somehow, they were moving like bat wings and looking at her, nudging one another. They were laughing. She hadn't even noticed until she heard them laughing. Stupid, stupid girl.
And then they came at her. They wanted something from her, she could feel, but she didn't know what until she saw the teeth and felt them pawing at her neck and thinking at her-- Sweet one, pretty one, be nice, don't be angry, we won't hurt you, we won't hurt you much. We want it. We want it. Don't be angry, settle down, let us take what we want --thinking and laughing, because they pretended to be gentle with their thoughts, but it was mocking gentleness and they were rough and held her hard when they bit at her. At first she couldn't breathe or think and she let them, and then she got her head back enough, and threw a quick magic at them, something not very powerful or lasting, but enough. Then she ran, ran like the devil himself were after her, and heard them laughing all the way to her cottage door.
God. Lark shuddered. It wouldn't happen again. She was wary now, and she knew they were there. She'd got the village well-enough protected, set up good spells that would halt anything wicked and wanting, so that she could rest easy over--but she felt sick at the rest. The wound on her collarbone wasn't tended yet. She'd been in too much of a hurry to bandage or clean it properly, and she'd just worn her thickest kirtle and hoped that would be enough to stop blood seeping through. To let that happen--stupid. So stupid.
"My lady--I crave your pardon, lady?"
She let out a low cry and startled, and felt the sickness roil in her again. Stupid, calm down, it's just a man.
"What?" she said, sharply. Perhaps too sharply, but she wasn't of a mind to be gentle with someone who'd scared her, even if it was her own fault. Not paying attention again.
The man smiled at her; or at least she thought he did. She couldn't see him in the dark, but she was certain he was smiling. She could hear it in his voice. "You walk in the night alone. Do you desire an escort, my lady?"
"I'm all right by myself, thank you."
"May I then have the company?" So good-humoured.
"Do as you please." She was still trying to calm her stomach down.
"Very well; I shall obey as you command. What, I pray, is your name?"
"Lark. I'm the witch." Frown. "Do you have to talk like that?"
"Nay--sorry. Court talk," sheepishly. "A person gets in the habit. I'm Gawain."
Lark hesitated and squinted at him in the moonlight. "Gawain?"
"That's right, my lady."
"King Gawain?"
"Well--aye."
"What are you doing out here?"
"Oh, I've been hearing things about the woods. I thought I'd look into it."
"Look into what? I live here. I do all right by myself."
"Of course, I believe it. But I still thought I should. After all, what good is a King who doesn't bother with his people? My lady sister would have something to say."
"Lady Clarissant."
"Mmhmm." He bent down and picked something up. "She's very emphatic about me doing the right thing by my people. I think I've learnt more from her than anybody else about ruling well, except perhaps Uncle Arthur. Is this your home?"
"That's right." She hadn't noticed until he drew her attention to it. She was getting sloppy, that was what was happening, and she wasn't pleased. She could blame him for distracting her, but it was her own fault truly. "Come in, Your Highness?"
"Thank you very much," cheerfully. "I don't suppose I might trouble you for something to drink, my lady?"
"Of course."
She opened the door, whispered a short spell to let the house know it was all right to let Gawain in, and stood back to let him go by. Instead, he bowed deeply and gestured for her to go first. Lark rolled her eyes and went inside. He followed, closing the door behind him. She muttered something to it.
Then she went for her old kettle and set it on the fire. Gawain sat down in one of her chairs, after asking politely whether it was all right, and watched her. Finally she turned around and got a good look at him.
He had a warm, interested face that his smile suited perfectly. He was much more handsome than she'd heard anyone tell; longish red-fair hair and blue eyes that were both guileless and amused. His tunic was simple and he wasn't dressed like a King, but she could feel it on him the way she could feel magic on another witch. It was certain and strong, a regal air that, tempered with his good-humoured nature, made a person want to like and trust him. She wanted to like and trust him.
She tried to rescue the moment, which was threatening to steep in awkward silence like a cup of tea.
"What is your business here, Your Highness?"
"I'd heard," he said, delicately emphasising the 'heard', "that there was something--unwelcome in the woods."
Lark caught her breath. It wasn't just what he was saying--it was that while he was saying it she caught a glimpse of his teeth. They were pointed and sharp, like wolves'.
"Your Highness," she said, "I'm not sure I want you in my cottage."
"Please pardon me! What have I done to offend my lady?"
"I'm thinking that you're something like the unwelcome things in the woods, if you take my meaning."
Gawain looked at her, all innocent dismay. "Not at all, my lady! From what I've heard they're ruffians, and I hope I'm not that."
"All the same, I'd like you to go, King or not."
Stupid girl. But unwise as it might be to show disrespect to the King of Orkney, she was terrified to breathlessness. In her cottage. In her cottage, one of them. And she still hadn't seen to her wound, and there was fresh blood on her, under her kirtle, and she could smell it, just as she could smell it on the torn gown she'd left in her bedroom. If she could smell it, he could surely smell it twice as strong.
"I promise you, I don't have any untoward intentions--"
"I'm certain you don't, Your Highness."
"I was hoping you might assist me in, um, dealing with the unwelcome visitors. Judging by my lady sister and my mother, you have quite a bit of knowledge, and I thought the trouble might be more quickly resolved with your help. I would truly be glad if you would."
Lark eyed him. Why was it that what he said sounded like good sense? She didn't want good sense. She wanted him out.
"Truly," he said, more softly. "You're a wise-woman. I give you my oath I won't harm you, but I believe we can defeat them more easily in pair."
"Let me make an answer in the morning."
"Aye, my lady."
"And in the meantime--out."
"Aye, my lady!" He bounded to his feet. Lark gave him a mug of tea, and he slipped out the door.
Before she fell asleep, she felt a stab of guilt. He was out there alone, and there were vampires in the forest. But he was one of them, he could manage well enough. She was sure he could. She gritted her teeth and tried to put him out of her head.
A cat jumped up on the bed.
~~~
She dreamed about him. Even in her dream, she was mumbling stupid, stupid--but she dreamed about him, and mainly about kissing him. And more than that, much more.
He held her in arms as strong as the Orkney wind, but warm, and securely. He was stripped of his tunic, and his chest was hard with muscle; she could feel it through her gown as he tipped his head up to kiss her. She thought--he shouldn't have to lean up to kiss her, it wasn't right, but she was a little taller, and her dream didn't deny it. She twined her fingers in his hair, so soft, and he unhooked her gown and she felt her own red hair spilling down her back.
And then--he stroked his hand down her back and she let out a gasp of pleasure as she felt his knee thrust forward between her legs. Her body quivered. He was kissing more than her mouth, now; her eyelids, her throat, passionately her throat and then lower, the first rising swell of her breasts. She gasped again.
"Gawain--"
He nipped. With those sharp vampire teeth he nipped, and she wasn't afraid, only slipping somewhere inside and caught up in a beautiful dizzy feeling in the pit of her stomach that was travelling further downwards. She almost couldn't get together the presence of mind to try to tug his hose down, but somehow she managed, as he moved away, just for a moment, just long enough to let her gown slip down her body and fall to the ground; and then he was close again, his hand falling low--
"Gawain--"
~~~
A few moments later she awoke to a cat miao-ing.
There was no getting back to sleep then; not after what she'd been dreaming, what she could still picture perfectly. She got up and started moving around, putting together a new basket for fighting the vampires and starting breakfast at the same time. It was getting light outside, as it always did early this time of year.
After an indecisive pause, she went to the window and peeked out. Gawain was there, curled up by the woodpile, the mug beside him as he slept. She remembered the hard safety of his chest, and shook her head. Stupid girl. Get yourself ready, wake yourself up.
When the dawn broke fully, she went outside and knelt by him, shook him softly.
"Your Highness."
He started up. "My lady! Good morning," as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "How do you this morning?"
"Well enough," she said. "Are you ready?"
"Of course, quite ready, thank you."
She could smell him. He had a distinctive smell, a little like the ocean, and very much like a man, a man who lived by the sword and rode hard and lived roughly--he was watching her, his blue eyes on her face. She realised she was still kneeling close by him, and started to say something or move away or anything that might diffuse the awkwardness that she thought must be creeping up again.
And then he kissed her.
And it was just like her dream. Passionate and strong, and she gave up and let herself press against him, felt the slight roughness of his cheek from his morning shadow of beard, and the skill of his tongue in her mouth. When she pressed further, he lay back, pulling her over his body and never once letting stop the kisses.
She felt his hand travelling her back, close to the hooks of her gown, and caught her breath deliciously.
"My lady?"
Everything ground to a halt.
"Yes?"
"May I have your consent?" he asked politely.
She started to say yes, but the moment, the moment wasn't quite the same, and what in God's name was she doing? He was a vampire. No, no, no, how stupid did she intend to be before this was over? No. If he were a human man, perhaps, perhaps that would be all right, even if he was the King and she just a village witch, but the truth was that he was a vampire and those teeth were exactly like the ones that had torn at her just the day before. Just yesterday. The fear at the memory cleared her head, and she sat up.
"I think not, Your Highness."
"Forgive me, my lady."
"Not at all," she said, hoping her voice was tart as it ought to be. "Come and have breakfast. Then we'll start out."
"I thank you."
"My duty." She shrugged and stood quickly, trying to smooth her hair back into place; his hands had tousled it. She turned towards the cottage door without looking back, but from the corner of her eye she could see him stand and straighten his tunic.
She had a feeling this wasn't the last of the kisses.
Worse than that, she knew she was certainly hoping not.
...
DEFINITELY NOT TO BE CONTINUED, GIEZ.
holyschist are. They really, really are.Anyway. For
holyschist I present: A romance novel excerpt about vampire knights. Specifically Gawain. I feel unclean, I hope you realise this. XD I have never written anything this revolting. And I felt the title was in the spirit of the thing, just for the record.(Somebody owes me for this, especially since I'm going to hell for it.)
By the time she got back to her cottage she was breathing so hard her throat hurt; she felt ragged and painful in her chest, and a little surprised that she didn't show any outward sign of it. Everything else she showed, the blood all over her bodice, the twigs in her long red hair and the cuts on her face and hands. She fumbled with the door--the cats strode back and forth on the windowsills, flicking their tails and miao-ing. Stupid animals, she managed to think.
Lark didn't actually like cats, but that was the trouble with being a witch, you needed a familiar, and cats were the rule--she had four, all from the same litter, tawny and skinny and excellent mousers, and that was about the only thing they had going for them. Otherwise they got under her feet and tripped her up and fussed. Besides, they left the mice in her bed, where she found them by rolling over in the morning when she was too drowsy to see straight. Squish. She did not love the cats.
But she wasn't thinking about the cats now. She was half-sobbing as she pushed the door open and leaned her back against it. Where in God's name did vampires come from here, in the middle of Orkney? She'd read about them in the books, the crumbling brown ones you learned from when you were getting the starting spells down and figuring out the difference between feverfew and daisies, but they were supposed to be in other countries, they truly were. Not Scotland. God, not Scotland. Not laughing like something out of its wits and attacking young witches in the middle of the forest in groups of ten, for heaven's sake.
She had sick thoughts of the village, her village, and the vampires. It truly was her village--the people there always came to her for little spells, for rain if it got too dry or little potions to keep them well, and she refused or agreed as she saw best; she was their witch. They knew so, she knew so. What if the vampires left the forest and went down the small dirt track? It was only two miles, God knew, close enough.
Something had to be done. She didn't want to do it. She still felt her breath hard in her chest, and the stitch in her side from running. So many of them. Everywhere, with teeth as sharp as wolves', laughing at her, laughing, and coming closer, wanting her, wanting her, so hard, so fierce that she could feel it in her and thought she was going to be sick--she still thought she was going to be sick. It was bad to be so wanted. It meant bad. She knew enough of magic to know that.
She had been training since she was five, first from her mother's old friend, who taught her the mind you needed for it, the readiness to believe in the magic and let it live in you. It was all very well to call on it from the air around you, the old woman said, but if it was sleeping in your bones and you could nudge it awake and ask it for a service, that was better, and it was less likely to turn on you. It would turn on you in the end, but the better you were to it the longer it let you use it safely.
Briefly Lark wondered whether the vampire attack was the magic turning on her, but it was too soon, she was too young.
After three years with the old woman it was the middle-aged man who brought out that old book and taught her herbs and spells that were simple and true. She was apprenticed to him and lived with him for eight years, and then it was one year with a young man who knew more advanced things like the rain and fuddling with the ocean, but she didn't want much to do with that. It was asking too much of the magic, and too much of the world. But once all that was done she was a proper witch, and she went back to Mainland Orkney (the young man lived on one of the small islands, one scattered with standing stones), and made herself a cottage by the side of the road to the village, right beside the woods, and settled down. She was twenty-three now. She knew the business. She'd thought she knew the woods.
She didn't like that.
But she still felt sick and bad from the vampires, and she couldn't think well enough to do anything for the village, not yet. She needed to lie down for a moment. Slowly she staggered to her little wood-worked bed and sank down on it.
Squish.
"Damn you!" she shouted at the cats.
When Lark awoke, she was still feeling sick, but there was no more time. She changed her dress for one not torn and bloodstained, and then hurried around the cottage, gathering handfuls of things together for her basket--dried sage, tiny white pebbles, blue feathers, green grass from the spring, needles, bone, and pepper--and trying not to trip on the cats, who were bumbling about under her feet and making a fuss.
"Be quiet," she told them. "Not now."
A moment later she slipped out of the cottage, shutting the door tight behind her and checking twice to be sure the protection spells were in place. The last thing she needed was vampires in the house. Unless they ate the cats, of course.
She made good time on the road, and she was at the village less than an hour later. A few children ran up around her and chattered at her, and she answered curtly. She was afraid. She could feel it in herself, and she didn't like it at all. It was bad to be afraid. It left you open to too much.
She circled the village twice, digging tiny holes and filling them with pepper and needles and bones, in patterns that crisscrossed and made shapes. Then she made more spells, mostly in front of the houses, and one big one in around the well. She left the church bare; God could take care of himself. Once in a while someone came and asked what she was doing, and she said important work, and they looked at her musingly and left it at that. Everyone trusted her to do right. After all, she was their witch.
Their witch.
By nightfall she was finally finished. More than that she was exhausted, and she wasn't looking forward to the walk home in the dark. One woman asked her if she'd stay the night, but she smiled and said no; she had work to do at home. It wasn't strictly true, but Lark didn't think she could explain why she needed so badly to get back to the cottage; she didn't quite know why herself.
She hoped to heaven she wasn't worried about the cats. That would be all too much.
So it was dark when she started back, and she was edgy as hell and jumping at tiny things, little rustles in the grass and ideas in her head. Bad girl, she told herself, condescending--she called herself 'girl' when she wanted to lecture herself. She hated it. She wouldn't stand it from anyone else. Bad girl. They like the woods. They won't come out. Leave well enough alone and stop thinking; you've just got to get back to the cottage. This is ridiculous.
Ridiculous. For certain. She wasn't going to get caught unawares again. She had a small ward on herself now, one that would warn her if anyone came near who shouldn't, and she was jumpy enough that she likely didn't even need that.
It was just that she couldn't believe they'd gotten her like that. She'd been out gathering cones and blackberries and a few things she needed, and wasn't paying attention--wasn't paying attention, stupid girl--and all of sudden she was surrounded by fluttering people. They were man-shaped, but they weren't solid, somehow, they were moving like bat wings and looking at her, nudging one another. They were laughing. She hadn't even noticed until she heard them laughing. Stupid, stupid girl.
And then they came at her. They wanted something from her, she could feel, but she didn't know what until she saw the teeth and felt them pawing at her neck and thinking at her-- Sweet one, pretty one, be nice, don't be angry, we won't hurt you, we won't hurt you much. We want it. We want it. Don't be angry, settle down, let us take what we want --thinking and laughing, because they pretended to be gentle with their thoughts, but it was mocking gentleness and they were rough and held her hard when they bit at her. At first she couldn't breathe or think and she let them, and then she got her head back enough, and threw a quick magic at them, something not very powerful or lasting, but enough. Then she ran, ran like the devil himself were after her, and heard them laughing all the way to her cottage door.
God. Lark shuddered. It wouldn't happen again. She was wary now, and she knew they were there. She'd got the village well-enough protected, set up good spells that would halt anything wicked and wanting, so that she could rest easy over--but she felt sick at the rest. The wound on her collarbone wasn't tended yet. She'd been in too much of a hurry to bandage or clean it properly, and she'd just worn her thickest kirtle and hoped that would be enough to stop blood seeping through. To let that happen--stupid. So stupid.
"My lady--I crave your pardon, lady?"
She let out a low cry and startled, and felt the sickness roil in her again. Stupid, calm down, it's just a man.
"What?" she said, sharply. Perhaps too sharply, but she wasn't of a mind to be gentle with someone who'd scared her, even if it was her own fault. Not paying attention again.
The man smiled at her; or at least she thought he did. She couldn't see him in the dark, but she was certain he was smiling. She could hear it in his voice. "You walk in the night alone. Do you desire an escort, my lady?"
"I'm all right by myself, thank you."
"May I then have the company?" So good-humoured.
"Do as you please." She was still trying to calm her stomach down.
"Very well; I shall obey as you command. What, I pray, is your name?"
"Lark. I'm the witch." Frown. "Do you have to talk like that?"
"Nay--sorry. Court talk," sheepishly. "A person gets in the habit. I'm Gawain."
Lark hesitated and squinted at him in the moonlight. "Gawain?"
"That's right, my lady."
"King Gawain?"
"Well--aye."
"What are you doing out here?"
"Oh, I've been hearing things about the woods. I thought I'd look into it."
"Look into what? I live here. I do all right by myself."
"Of course, I believe it. But I still thought I should. After all, what good is a King who doesn't bother with his people? My lady sister would have something to say."
"Lady Clarissant."
"Mmhmm." He bent down and picked something up. "She's very emphatic about me doing the right thing by my people. I think I've learnt more from her than anybody else about ruling well, except perhaps Uncle Arthur. Is this your home?"
"That's right." She hadn't noticed until he drew her attention to it. She was getting sloppy, that was what was happening, and she wasn't pleased. She could blame him for distracting her, but it was her own fault truly. "Come in, Your Highness?"
"Thank you very much," cheerfully. "I don't suppose I might trouble you for something to drink, my lady?"
"Of course."
She opened the door, whispered a short spell to let the house know it was all right to let Gawain in, and stood back to let him go by. Instead, he bowed deeply and gestured for her to go first. Lark rolled her eyes and went inside. He followed, closing the door behind him. She muttered something to it.
Then she went for her old kettle and set it on the fire. Gawain sat down in one of her chairs, after asking politely whether it was all right, and watched her. Finally she turned around and got a good look at him.
He had a warm, interested face that his smile suited perfectly. He was much more handsome than she'd heard anyone tell; longish red-fair hair and blue eyes that were both guileless and amused. His tunic was simple and he wasn't dressed like a King, but she could feel it on him the way she could feel magic on another witch. It was certain and strong, a regal air that, tempered with his good-humoured nature, made a person want to like and trust him. She wanted to like and trust him.
She tried to rescue the moment, which was threatening to steep in awkward silence like a cup of tea.
"What is your business here, Your Highness?"
"I'd heard," he said, delicately emphasising the 'heard', "that there was something--unwelcome in the woods."
Lark caught her breath. It wasn't just what he was saying--it was that while he was saying it she caught a glimpse of his teeth. They were pointed and sharp, like wolves'.
"Your Highness," she said, "I'm not sure I want you in my cottage."
"Please pardon me! What have I done to offend my lady?"
"I'm thinking that you're something like the unwelcome things in the woods, if you take my meaning."
Gawain looked at her, all innocent dismay. "Not at all, my lady! From what I've heard they're ruffians, and I hope I'm not that."
"All the same, I'd like you to go, King or not."
Stupid girl. But unwise as it might be to show disrespect to the King of Orkney, she was terrified to breathlessness. In her cottage. In her cottage, one of them. And she still hadn't seen to her wound, and there was fresh blood on her, under her kirtle, and she could smell it, just as she could smell it on the torn gown she'd left in her bedroom. If she could smell it, he could surely smell it twice as strong.
"I promise you, I don't have any untoward intentions--"
"I'm certain you don't, Your Highness."
"I was hoping you might assist me in, um, dealing with the unwelcome visitors. Judging by my lady sister and my mother, you have quite a bit of knowledge, and I thought the trouble might be more quickly resolved with your help. I would truly be glad if you would."
Lark eyed him. Why was it that what he said sounded like good sense? She didn't want good sense. She wanted him out.
"Truly," he said, more softly. "You're a wise-woman. I give you my oath I won't harm you, but I believe we can defeat them more easily in pair."
"Let me make an answer in the morning."
"Aye, my lady."
"And in the meantime--out."
"Aye, my lady!" He bounded to his feet. Lark gave him a mug of tea, and he slipped out the door.
Before she fell asleep, she felt a stab of guilt. He was out there alone, and there were vampires in the forest. But he was one of them, he could manage well enough. She was sure he could. She gritted her teeth and tried to put him out of her head.
A cat jumped up on the bed.
She dreamed about him. Even in her dream, she was mumbling stupid, stupid--but she dreamed about him, and mainly about kissing him. And more than that, much more.
He held her in arms as strong as the Orkney wind, but warm, and securely. He was stripped of his tunic, and his chest was hard with muscle; she could feel it through her gown as he tipped his head up to kiss her. She thought--he shouldn't have to lean up to kiss her, it wasn't right, but she was a little taller, and her dream didn't deny it. She twined her fingers in his hair, so soft, and he unhooked her gown and she felt her own red hair spilling down her back.
And then--he stroked his hand down her back and she let out a gasp of pleasure as she felt his knee thrust forward between her legs. Her body quivered. He was kissing more than her mouth, now; her eyelids, her throat, passionately her throat and then lower, the first rising swell of her breasts. She gasped again.
"Gawain--"
He nipped. With those sharp vampire teeth he nipped, and she wasn't afraid, only slipping somewhere inside and caught up in a beautiful dizzy feeling in the pit of her stomach that was travelling further downwards. She almost couldn't get together the presence of mind to try to tug his hose down, but somehow she managed, as he moved away, just for a moment, just long enough to let her gown slip down her body and fall to the ground; and then he was close again, his hand falling low--
"Gawain--"
A few moments later she awoke to a cat miao-ing.
There was no getting back to sleep then; not after what she'd been dreaming, what she could still picture perfectly. She got up and started moving around, putting together a new basket for fighting the vampires and starting breakfast at the same time. It was getting light outside, as it always did early this time of year.
After an indecisive pause, she went to the window and peeked out. Gawain was there, curled up by the woodpile, the mug beside him as he slept. She remembered the hard safety of his chest, and shook her head. Stupid girl. Get yourself ready, wake yourself up.
When the dawn broke fully, she went outside and knelt by him, shook him softly.
"Your Highness."
He started up. "My lady! Good morning," as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "How do you this morning?"
"Well enough," she said. "Are you ready?"
"Of course, quite ready, thank you."
She could smell him. He had a distinctive smell, a little like the ocean, and very much like a man, a man who lived by the sword and rode hard and lived roughly--he was watching her, his blue eyes on her face. She realised she was still kneeling close by him, and started to say something or move away or anything that might diffuse the awkwardness that she thought must be creeping up again.
And then he kissed her.
And it was just like her dream. Passionate and strong, and she gave up and let herself press against him, felt the slight roughness of his cheek from his morning shadow of beard, and the skill of his tongue in her mouth. When she pressed further, he lay back, pulling her over his body and never once letting stop the kisses.
She felt his hand travelling her back, close to the hooks of her gown, and caught her breath deliciously.
"My lady?"
Everything ground to a halt.
"Yes?"
"May I have your consent?" he asked politely.
She started to say yes, but the moment, the moment wasn't quite the same, and what in God's name was she doing? He was a vampire. No, no, no, how stupid did she intend to be before this was over? No. If he were a human man, perhaps, perhaps that would be all right, even if he was the King and she just a village witch, but the truth was that he was a vampire and those teeth were exactly like the ones that had torn at her just the day before. Just yesterday. The fear at the memory cleared her head, and she sat up.
"I think not, Your Highness."
"Forgive me, my lady."
"Not at all," she said, hoping her voice was tart as it ought to be. "Come and have breakfast. Then we'll start out."
"I thank you."
"My duty." She shrugged and stood quickly, trying to smooth her hair back into place; his hands had tousled it. She turned towards the cottage door without looking back, but from the corner of her eye she could see him stand and straighten his tunic.
She had a feeling this wasn't the last of the kisses.
Worse than that, she knew she was certainly hoping not.
...
DEFINITELY NOT TO BE CONTINUED, GIEZ.
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Date: 2007-06-19 06:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-19 06:50 pm (UTC)