Carolyne Cathey

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Authors: The Wager
take.
     He grasped her
wrist, placed his mouth over the meat and sucked the food from her fingers,
slow and steady, searing her icy fingertips with his mouth, burning her chilled
flesh with the hot circle of his hand.  Merciful heavens.  The sensual motion
reminded her of when he had suckled at her lips with his kiss.
    His gaze heated. 
Then as if unsatisfied with mere surface heat, he suckled on her fingertips,
one at a time, and each tug of his moist mouth pulled molten ribbons from her
womanhood to his tongue. 
    Confused by the
sensations, Eleanor jerked her hand to her lap, her mind urging her to flee his
seduction, her body luring her to remain.
    Smugness twitched
one corner of his lips as he broke off a hunk of bread.  He contemplated his
trencher, head down, a wayward curl on his forehead.  She longed to brush the
gold from his face, but she dare not. 
    He lifted his
gaze and her heart skipped a beat, for his eyes shimmered like blue pools, deep
and clear.
    "Now,
Eleanor, confide to me how you have survived with your proud spirit intact, for
you have a sense of self-worth that is unusual for one of your lot.  Why have
the nuns not beaten your defiance out of you?"
    "They
pursued various means to humble me, my lord.  I've gone without food, slept on
wintry stone floors without pallet or cover, been forbidden to speak, to rest. 
Then as time passed they accepted my manner as a test given them by God.  ''Tis
only Eleanor,' they would say.  'The devil's spawn in the Lord's house.'  Until
the last.  And then . . ."
    Remembrance still
too fearful ceased her speech.  She picked up another cut of meat.  "I
don't understand the defiance myself.  But within, a voice cries out to be
honored as a child of God, not as a mindless beast."  She met his
scrutiny.  "I don't believe mortals are meant to be treated as dregs upon
the refuse of life, no matter their status at birth."
    His eyes
widened.  When he opened his mouth to protest, she popped the bite past his
lips, then withdrew before he could snatch her wrist.
    "And what
about this dream of yours?"  He mumbled his question around his food. 
"Is this the first, or have you had others?"
    Apprehension
stiffened her lungs.  Would he react as had the nuns?  Or worse, declare her a
witch and burn her at the stake?  She could barely shove the words from her
throat.
    "Only this
one, my lord, but repeatedly, taunting my labors, haunting my sleep, like a . .
. " ‘ Madness’ clung to her tongue.  She swallowed.  "Seeking
understanding, I revealed the dream to the nuns."
    "And then .
. . they burned your feet?"
    Her heart tumbled
inside her chest.  "Aye.  To purify my soul and to remind me of the
torture for witches should I persist in what they called, ‘Satanic
revelations’.  Then they threw me into an underground pit without light and
food until I felt certain I would die, forgotten.  A lifetime passed before
they released me."  Her tone dropped, weighted with unbidden memories. 
"Fearful of further punishment as well pushed by an urgency I didn't
understand, I escaped."
    She sighed,
unable to meet the certain censure in his eyes, praying he wouldn't force her
to return.  "'Tis a strange curse to be given messages but be unable to
act upon them.  Why bother to reveal them to me?  And in truth, I knew not whom
the dream indicated."  Her gaze drifted to his tossed-aside black surcote
with the white cross.  "Until you appeared.  And then I knew."  She
looked into his eyes.  "'Tis you." 
    Wind moaned. 
Shutters banged.  Smoke clouded into the room from a downdraft and choked her
lungs.  She gasped for air, then coughed and reached for her tankard.
    Lord Kyle
stiffened and sat back in his chair.  "Nature's timing.  How
providential.  We speak of prophetic dreams and then are accosted with the devil's
breath."  He waved his hand in front of his face to clear the air. 
"Do you practice witchcraft?"
    Eleanor dropped
her tankard and the clay

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