The Savage and the Saint Read online

  It was unnerving knowing that he was out there all alone. At least I hoped he was alone. God forbid he wasn't.

  A tinge of something awoke inside my chest with that thought. It was a feeling I wasn't familiar with, only worsening when I reached the edge of the woods.

  I heard him before I saw him, his deep moans echoing off the trunks of the trees.

  To my relief he was very much alone, his back to me as he braced one hand on the bark of a tree while his other slid back and forth under the flap of the obstructing leather.

  I watched from afar, my insides growing hotter, that annoyingly deep ache unwantingly making itself known again.

  The noises he made were similar to the ones John made when we had lain together as husband and wife. My body reacted to them as it had in the past, but never before this strong.

  No.

  Everything my late husband made me feel, this man made me feel tenfold.

  All the warmth in my limbs rushed to my middle when he groaned once more, his hips bucking jerkily into the empty space in front of him.

  I glanced away only to look back, watching with heavy eyes as his wasted seed spilled onto the foliage at his feet. My breaths matched his in heavy pants, both of our shoulders heaving with exertion. However, he didn't seem relieved. The muscles in his back all balled up and jumpy, he looked as tied up as I felt.

  Caught up in the sharp movement of his hardened muscles, I wondered if this had been where he came the last time I had refused him. Did he come here often and always alone? Had he ever been with anyone intimately before?

  I supposed he had, acting in such a forceful manner and of course looking like he did.

  From what I'd learned, good looks didn't necessarily make you bad, but they sure did make it a hell of a lot easier to be. Seemed like it anyhow.

  I had never been particularly vain, never gussied myself up for a boy nor a man, but I wasn't blind either. I saw the way they looked at me, how their hungry stares lingered, their eyes filled with thoughtful appreciation.

  John had been different from the rest of those boys. He had been quiet and kept to himself, never once paying me any mind until one day, out of the blue, he had shown up on my pa’s doorstep asking for my hand in marriage.

  I had been shocked to say the least, confused further when he had never truly warmed up to me, not even after taking that eternal vow of true love and devotion.

  I wondered if he ever had taken it upon himself to find relief as this man did, and if so, why he had felt he couldn’t come to me. Or worse yet, hadn’t wished to come to me—his own wife. I wouldn’t have been opposed to such a chore, not if he had shown half as much interest as the man before me.

  My wandering thoughts focused on him as he rested his forehead against the tree. I stepped closer, the snap of a twig breaking beneath my foot.

  Straightening my spine, I turned tail to run but was stopped when his hand wrapped around my wrist, his fingers warm with recent friction. It was the same hand that he had touched himself with only a few moments prior.

  Rising to full height, he stood over me like an eclipse, dark and immense, the whites of his eyes shining off the coal black of his irises. They sparkled like exposed pieces of embedded diamonds in the rough.

  His grip was loose and lingering, in such a way I would imagine a lover’s to be. His thumb lightly caressed the inside of my wrist. It was soothing, comforting, as if he was telling me he wouldn’t hurt me. Even though he had, I wasn't afraid of him, but more of what he was capable of, how he made my insides warm and pulse, as if my whole being was one big heartbeat.

  As the wind picked up whining with a whoosh through the trees, it blew the length of his black hair across his chest, a few stray strands of my own tickling the side of my face. I flinched slightly when he lifted his hand to pull a piece of hair free from my mouth and tuck it behind my ear. Lovingly, he cradled my jaw, slowly sliding his way down to my chin where his thumb swiped lightly over my lower lip. My tongue peeked out on instinct, just touching the tip of his finger as I turned to walk away.

  For the first time since I was taken, he let me go if only to follow close behind as we made our way across the darkened field and through the firelit camp, both ready to turn in for the evening.

  Exhaustion overtook me as we entered the tent and I dropped to my knees atop the fur to rest on my belly. I turned my head away from him, too unnerved of what I might find if I didn't. The memory of him touching himself was fresh. I didn't need to see him. I already saw him perfectly enough in my nosy mind's eye: him touching himself in the woods, him touching himself on these furs, him touching himself in front of me while thinking of me, of us together.

  The dry heat didn't help, only fueling the brush fire burning in my cheeks.

  I could feel his breath on the back of my head, blowing steadily to warm me through my hair. The front of his legs periodically brushed the back of mine, his hand occasionally coming to rest on my hip atop the fur throw. I could feel him through the pelt, the heavy weight of his palm cradling the rounded bone.

  He groaned in his sleep, the deep tenor vibrating through the padded ground between us to rest in the space between my legs. It throbbed as he did, I discovered, my eyes going wide when he pushed into my backside.

  God help me. If he only knew what he did or how he affected me, how he truly made me feel.

  Thrilled.

  Excited.

  Desirable.

  All bad things.

  Chapter Seven

  The next day I found myself alone and in much of the same state I had been in before, tossing and turning with the pain of a full bladder.

  Even though the people had been nothing but welcoming, I still didn’t feel comfortable roaming the grounds on my own, so I waited as long as I could for him to return.

  I was hurriedly scurrying to my feet when he finally walked through the flap of the tent.

  “Go,” I told him in haste. “I have to go.”

  Taking my hand, he acted as though he knew exactly what I was saying, dragging me out and across the camp toward the tree line. I allotted him the honor of leading this time, trying with all my might to keep up with the wide stride of his long legs.

  My patience was less forthcoming once standing side by side in the bulk of the lush trees. It perturbed me greatly that we had to go through all the same motions as the time before.

  Why would anyone want to watch such a thing anyway?

  Once he turned away, I hiked up my skirt, my eyes glued to the wide stance of his backside. I'd barely finished when he peeked over his shoulder.

  "Hey you, stop that!" I shouted, dropping my skirt and stepping over the small puddle between my feet. "Didn't I tell you not to look?"

  He only smirked, and with a huff I blew right on passed him, just escaping the teeth of his grasp.

  I was briefly stunned silent when he came up behind me, grabbing me by my sides and pushing my front up against a tree. The bark scraped lightly against my skin as his fingers dug into the bones of my hips. He pulled them flush with his, pushing his chest into my back as he pressed his hardened length into the swell of my bottom.

  I felt him hot and thick through the fabric of my clothing, the essence of that deep ache pouring out from inside of me. Breathless, I rested my head against the rough trunk of the tree as his hand skimmed down the swell of my hips. The haze lifted along with the hem of my skirt.

  "No," I warned. Pushing back against him, I was barely able to wiggle myself free, turning sharply to face his towering frame and slap him hard across the cheek.

  I continued to fight him, pounding my palms repeatedly against his bare chest, all for nothing but his amusement.

  With a smile on his face, he snaked an arm around my waist, bending to slide the other underneath my knees. A surprised breath blew from between my lips as he hoisted me up and into his arms. My arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, the intimate act enticing a rumbling growl from deep inside his chest. I c
ould hear it, feel it—his hot breath as it blew against the top of my shoulder. I involuntarily shivered, briefly feeling the touch of his lips before he pulled back to look straight into my eyes, so sure of himself.

  The act made me feel many things, but mostly I felt discomfort, diverting my eyes and pulling myself further into him. It was the only other place to go, besides I was so tired of fighting, just so tired.

  Silently distraught, I rested my chin on his shoulder, tightening my hold once he started to walk, moving swiftly across the forest floor.

  There was only one other time I had been carried in such a way, and that was over the threshold of my home on the day that I was married away. However, that moment felt nothing like this one did.

  No moment before had ever felt like the ones spent with him.

  I let him carry me through the camp, looking over his shoulder at the sun. It was beautiful, a vibrant orange settling nicely into a hue of bright red. Somewhat calming, the picturesque setting seemingly brought me to my senses.

  I justified my letting him carry me by reasoning that my feet were hurting, the shadows could be wrought with rattlers, and the last thing they needed was another dead civilian on their bloodstained hands.

  It wasn't because I wanted him to.

  ***

  The camp was alive with the sound of laughter and the high pitched squeals of children playing.

  I found myself reluctant to release my hold around his neck when he lowered me to the ground in order to join the other men.

  I didn't want him to go just as much as I acted like I didn't want him to stay. I couldn't understand my feelings, or how much they'd changed and only over the course of a few days. One minute I was hot, so flaming mad at him that I could spit, and the next I was still hot, but in a completely different way.

  It was unnerving how he both excited and frightened me, making me feel a whole heap of new sensations. I could feel him. Even though I couldn't understand, I could feel everything he did and said right down to my very core.

  God forgive me.

  It was late afternoon before the men emerged from inside that same hut they'd disappeared into. I wondered what it was they did in there, curious as to how they spent their time if not with the drink. It wasn't as if I could ask them. As far as I knew, no one spoke English, and what little words they did speak all sounded like a mouthful of noise.

  I supposed it was just noise, just like all the other words in the English language. But to not be able to speak it was strange to me.

  How did they make sense of anything? Did they write it down? If they did write it down, what did they scribe with? What did they scribe the words on? Pen and paper? Red clay and rock? Did they actually have an alphabet, or was it simply learned by sound?

  I was contemplating how to go about asking when I felt his presence, a warm palm and five long fingers closing leisurely over my clothed knee.

  On instinct, I shoved his hand away and scooted further down the log to put some much needed distance between us. Him touching me so freely and in such intimate places only fueled my confusion, feeding the fire burning a hole in my senses.

  The man had no shame, little sense of what was right and wrong, and miraculously knew just how to get under my skin; his proximity prickled below the surface.

  With stubborn resolve he scooted all that much closer, forcing me to repeat the notion until I'd made it to the edge.

  The smile etched on his face brought a scowl to mine. Not even that adorable dimple could turn my frown upside down.

  They were such childish games he was playing and I wanted no part, turning up my nose and pushing off the log only to be pulled back down into his lap.

  The heat rolling off his bare skin instantly warmed me, sinking like a rock to the pit of my stomach. I was too stunned to fight when that entitled hand of his slipped under the hem of my dress, the backs of his fingers sliding up the inside of my leg.

  I could hear myself breathing, could see the heave of my bosom rising with the obnoxious sound. My lungs felt tight, my mouth slightly parting to take in his steady breaths. I felt them hot and humid blowing across the side of my open mouth.

  The slow creep of his fingers stopped at the inside of my knee. My heart faltered when he dipped them just under, running back up to cover the top of my knee with his palm and push the hem of my night dress further up my thigh.

  This was the most exposed I'd ever felt, probably the most exposed I'd ever been while in the presence of others. But these people were different than my people, from the way they thought down to the beaded fabric they sometimes wore on their feet. Nudity meant nothing to them where it meant everything to me, everything that was wrong and sinful in the world.

  The absence of his warm hand left my skin cool in the early evening breeze, and I hurriedly covered myself as he reached out for an offered clay cup and a bowl full of fresh berries.

  I gratefully accepted the water he held up to my lips, taking the cup in my own two hands to drain the rest of its contents.

  I could feel his eyes on me and his hands at my waist, the ends of his hair tickling the little ones on my arm. It was distracting, my inattention allowing some liquid to escape from the sides of my mouth.

  Shrugging off his attempts to wipe away the tepid drips that dribbled down my chin, I pulled the cup from my lips to take a much needed breath. His fingers were insistent, following the subtle turn of my head to catch the rolling bead. They followed the trail leading up to the corner of my mouth, the pad of his thumb just brushing over my lower lip as the other four cradled my jaw, all urging me to turn back to him.

  The thick molasses of his stare was sweet on my lips. I felt lightheaded under it, in need of another long pull of water when he brought a glistening blackberry to my lips. Hesitantly, I let them part for him, my cheeks flushing from much more than the lingering heat of the sun.

  The intimacy—it was stifling.

  Each berry was more filling and delicious than the last, the delicate husks bursting on the edge of my teeth, bleeding their juices onto the plane of my tongue. The sensations I felt elsewhere and the way he watched me went beyond a friendly feeding, and I resisted the urge to squirm in his lap in search of some way to relieve the uncomfortable pressure.

  Uncomfortable, but not entirely unwelcome.

  My body was attuned to his, flushing hot with his proximity. It sensed that he was the one to fill this emptiness inside of me. The one to satiate this ache.

  His eyes begged me to.

  If only I would let him.

  Another brush of his fingers against my bottom lip left a hint of salt on top of the sweet, the tips briefly touching the surface of my tongue. They were rough but gentle, the calloused pads gliding lightly over sticky flesh. His gaze darted from my eyes to my lips, lingering where he was still touching me. They snapped back up to my eyes when I wrapped my hand around his wrist and let out a held breath against them.

  My heart was beating out of my chest, hopping faster than a spooked jack rabbit on the run. It stopped cold in its tracks when a boisterous voice resounded off the far off mountains, its deep demand silencing the friendly chatter and straightening my spine.

  My body went rigid, my hand tightening its hold around the wrist of the man beneath me, as if the act alone would be enough to save me.

  We may not have been able to communicate with words, but he understood the look in my eyes, the fear that dwelled there suddenly crawling to the surface. I barely trusted him even though he’d proven time and time again that he wouldn’t hurt me, not much, not enough to count, but that didn’t mean the others wouldn’t. I didn't trust them, however, that wasn't the reason I was frightened.

  The reason I was frightened was because for the briefest of moments, I thought I'd been found.

  All my worries were put to rest when the voice spoke again, drawing my attention as his long legs dipped down, pushing him back up as if he were rising from the ashes of the fire. It roared with the span o
f his arms, sending a swarm of fireflies flying as all four long limbs acted out the slinking movements of a dangerous predator.

  A story.

  He was telling a story, just as my pa did late at night when the moon was bright in the inky sky. His voice boxed both of my ears with the same loud boom. It commanded your presence, demanded that you listen carefully, making it clear you weren't going to want to miss this.

  I watched in rapture as the storyteller crouched low to the ground, twisting his torso upward to howl at the crescent moon. He pointed knowingly at the stars, tracing a series of shapes with his finger, I imagined, in recount of the reasons for their importance in the form of his native tongue.

  The sharp clap of his hands caused me to jump, and the arms around my waist tightened, pulling me closer into my protector's chest. He rested a comforting chin on my shoulder.

  I didn't need to understand the words to get lost in the torrid tale and the movements the storyteller used to convey them. They were mesmerizing, claiming a combined gasp when his splayed hands shot out in the direction of the fire. My wide-eyed gaze followed the flash of the flames that flew toward the gaped faces of the crowd, and my chin brushed against his warm cheek. I closed my eyes to the sensation, the overwhelming heat competing with the roar of the fire.

  His skin had a similar effect of the drink—the one John so often favored. I'd tried it once, understanding rushing through my limbs and leaving me tingling, dizzy. I’d liked it enough, until the following morning, that rush turning to pain, his missing peace all the reason he needed for my punishment. I’d never tried it again after that, had never wanted to, not if a sobering slap across the face was what it got me.

  John's skin didn't have the effect that this man's did, and I doubted mine had the same effect for John. I wondered if he had known such a sensation from another. Perhaps that was why he turned to the second best substitution. If so I didn't blame him, but I did blame him for dragging me in to it. If he knew he didn't want me then why ask for my hand? Why me?