Free Master of Craving by Karin Tabke Page B

afraid than before. Would he take her to Normandy? “Nay, only a Norman name.”
     
She eyed him suspiciously. His English was good and his Welsh passable. “Do you speak French?”
     
He nodded, and pulled her toward him, closer to the fire. “Enough questions. Come closer to the flame so that I can see.”
     
Arian resisted, but with his relentless pull, she gave in. Dragging the saddle close, he set her against it. Once she was settled, his brilliant eyes caught hers. “ ’Twill hurt.”
     
Swallowing hard, Arian whispered, “I survived Dag, your brutish attack, and a day riding naked in a saddle with a demon behind me. The needle is child’s play.”
    When he smiled, she caught her breath. Despite his ravaged face, the gesture, not one of mocking this time but of admiration, transformed his features from demon to … something else.
    When he pressed his left hand to her hip and bent slightly over her to minister to the wound, Arian bit her lip. His hand was hot, and rough against the smoothness of her skin. As she watched him gently wash the area around the cut, to her horror her nipples puckered. She closed her eyes rather than see his taunting gaze. She bit her lip harder and pushed her head back; in so doing, her back arched and her chest thrust toward him. She heard a slight groan, and her eyes flew open, she caught her breath. Heat flushed her cheeks at his hot regard of her. His eyes lifted to hers and at that moment, something deep inside her warmed. “I cannot do this,” she breathed.
“Aye, you can, and you will.”
     
Vehemently she shook her head. “ ’Tis not decent that you touch me that way or look at me with such—such want.”
    His fingers caressed the flare of her hip. Nervousness she had never experienced shook her resolve. “I cannot help that I crave you. I am a man, and you a beautiful woman. ’Tis natural.”
    She looked down at his large hand and long thick fingers. They were the hands of a man who was used to wielding weapons and killing. Yet they were capable of gentleness. He moved back from her. “I give you my oath, and my oath is my word; I am not like Dag.” He pulled a needle and thread from a leather pouch beside the fire. His eyes caught hers. “Sit back, princess, and do not move. I will work as quickly as I can.”
    Stefan had sewn many a wound in his time, not only on his men but as horse master to the destriers. And never once did his hand tremble as it did now. He looked up into her terrified silver-colored eyes that glittered with tears, and found he did not want to inflict pain on her for any reason. He swallowed down a curse and pressed the needle to her skin. “Close your eyes.”
As trusting as a child, she did as he told her and when he pierced her skin, she cried out. The needle jabbed deeper into her flesh and she cried out again. “Be still, my lady, be still or ’twill hurt more.”
    She choked back a sob. He pressed his left hand to her breast, to steady her and to push the two sliced pieces of her skin together, and felt her heart leap against his palm. Her nipple followed, and he swallowed hard. “Steady,” he said softly. As he pushed the needle through her skin, then pulled up the thread, she bit her lip, but she did not flinch. The next stitch earned a hard flinch, the third and fourth a low moan of pain and the fifth and sixth a teardrop. The entire time her eyes were squeezed shut and her body taut. He caught the teardrop with his fingertip, and softly said, “I am done and yet you live.”
    She expelled a long breath and opened her eyes, catching his gaze. At that moment, he wanted to lose his fingers in her thick hair and bring her full lips to his and offer some comfort, but he did not. What he had in store for her would garner no affection, and he was not a man to play with a woman’s emotions. He moved back from her and handed her his tunic. “Here.”
    He stood staring down at her as she tried several times to raise both her arms