Free Household by Florence Stevenson Page A

him with so heady a mixture of innocence and sensuality that he could not refrain from caressing her delicate little foot. It was beautifully shaped. Almost without volition his hand was moving slowly up her ankle. He expected that at any moment she would pull away, but she did not. Looking up, he met her eyes again and caught his breath as he read excitement in them, an excitement that matched his own. Her mouth was slightly parted, and he could see her breasts rising and falling. She was breathing quickly, almost as if she had been suddenly robbed of breath, and she was gazing him as if she expected... wanted... as if, indeed, her desire matched his own! Then, incredibly, amazingly, she reached out her hand and lightly caressed his hair.
    “Catlin,” he whispered and knew somewhere in the depths of his numbing brain that they had been given a stimulant—an aphrodisiac, perhaps. He must warn her, apologize, explain... but these scruples dissolved even as they formed, flitting out of his mind, leaving only desire behind.
    Outside, a wind was blowing and tree shadows danced on her face. He must brush them off. He shifted his position. He was lying against her now, his lips on her throat, and beneath his hands he felt her hardening nipples. He tore at her gossamer garment and it yielded easily; soon that flimsy barrier lay in shreds. Her body was very white where the shadows did not darken it, the tree shadows flicking against her belly and her thighs and against the soft golden fleece that bloomed between them. He had stopped trying to brush the shadows away. He would kiss them away, instead. And that was when the men came, the men in the dark robes, wrenching the two of them apart and bearing Catlin away, her sudden screaming echoing in his ears.

Four
    “C atlin... Catlin...” Richard cried in fear and agony, then found Sir Francis at his side, soft-voiced and reassuring. “You’ll see her soon again, lad.”
    He spoke as if he were addressing a boy of 12 rather than a man of 22, Richard thought resentfully. But why did he, himself, feel so dull and dizzy, and what had happened to Catlin? He caught Sir Francis’ sleeve. “Where is she?” he demanded furiously. “Why did they take her away from me, and who was it? Tell me so that I can carve his guts out!”
    “Lord, you are a firebrand, dear Richard, but you must release me. There are matters to which I must attend—immediately.” Sir Francis made an effort to pull himself out of Richard’s frenzied grasp.
    “I’ll release you,” Richard said between his teeth, “when I know where you’ve taken Catlin. She must be allowed to go home. She’s no wanton. She’s a virgin!”
    “I quite understand.” Sir Francis still spoke gently. “And you, dear boy, were bent on relieving her of that particular asset, were you not? Well, I promise you, your thirst will not go unslaked, but meanwhile you must be patient.”
    “Damn you!” Richard tightened his grasp on Sir Francis’ sleeve. “I do not...” Whatever else he would have said died in his throat as he felt himself grabbed from behind, his arms pinioned by a huge man in a monk’s habit. Cursing and struggling he tried to free himself but to no avail. The hands that clutched him were iron to his wood.
    Moving back, Sir Francis shot Richard a commiserating look. “Sorry, dear boy, but you’ll see her again and very soon.” He glanced at Richard’s silent captor. “I suggest you bring him with us.”
    Though Richard struggled fiercely, he was no match for the man who held him. He was forced to follow Sir Francis, for his captor fell into step behind him and there were others in back of them, a procession. Down the stairs they went, and as they reached the ground floor, they were joined by dancers in motley, leaping in front of them through the open door and out into the windy darkness, where in the shadows a violin screeched, a fife squealed and someone beat a drum. Someone also was singing