Sword Play Read online

  SWORD PLAY

  Sahara Kelly

  Contents © Sahara Kelly 2017

  Cover Art © Sahara Kelly 2017 for

  P&N Graphics, LLC

  Acknowledgements

  One of the most fun things about writing—for me anyway—is doing research. Although I have read and loved Medieval romances for years, these two stories mark the first time I tried my hand at writing in that period. And yes, it turned into a fully-fledged research project as well. I learned about middens, surplices, and mott-and-bailey castle construction. I learned the difference between a garderobe and a wardrobe. (Don’t EVER confuse them). And I learned about some of the more delightful aspects of country life hundreds of years ago.

  I am well aware that life was a great deal less pleasant than portrayed in most historical romance novels, but I doubt we want to read a lot of books that detail lack of hygiene, horrid diseases and a life span of barely three decades.

  So I ask forgiveness for any historical errors I have made, and also for creating a lighthearted look at a time when survival was often hard.

  I must send a big thank you to my writing partner and best friend, AKA the Title God. I was completely stumped when it came to refreshing the title for these two tales…and within a minute or so of my mentioning my challenge, Scott Carpenter simply said two words.

  That is why you’re reading “SWORD PLAY”. I hope you enjoy it!!!

  LORD RAVYNNE AND

  THE LADY SWANN

  Sahara Kelly

  This story was originally released as Magnus Ravynne and Mistress Swann, and has been revised and re-edited for this edition. It also appeared in the print anthology Fabulous Knights.

  Chapter One

  She was the most incredibly beautiful woman Magnus Ravynne had ever seen, and he felt as if her image had been burned indelibly into his brain.

  Mistress Anne Swann.

  Tall, stately, with skin like pale cream, her eyes were the softest blue of the calm summer skies, and her hair—her amazing hair—fell in two thick braids to her knees. Not quite a common gold, nor the glittering white of the swan whose name she carried, Anne’s hair defied description.

  Her body was slender, with breasts no bigger than a ripe apple—just perfect for sucking into his mouth as he took her.

  His loins tightened as he wondered how she would look spread upon his bed, clad in nothing but her hair. He’d pull it around her, sweeping it over her soft mounds, allowing him just a glimpse of her pouting nipples. Perhaps he’d tickle her delicate flesh with it, and watch as it produced tears of pleasure.

  The pommel of his saddle smashed against his growing cock and made him wince. The long days of riding had been hard on him, and now he was getting hard on his saddle.

  Not a good combination.

  He sighed, and let his thoughts drift. How right his Steward had been to send him to Maltby Abbey to meet the luscious Anne. It was indeed time for him to beget an heir for Ravynne’s Keep—past time many would say. But he had reached his thirtieth year through sheer determination, serving his country and his lands in peace and in war. He much preferred the former, even though his prowess in the latter had brought him fame and more lands.

  So now, in a time when his world no longer rang with the sounds of blade upon blade, a period of tranquility had descended on this part of England. Landowners, such as himself, had chance to attend their demesnes, make repairs and improvements to their estates, and generally set about building an inheritance for their heirs.

  The ones he would beget with Mistress Anne Swann.

  Just thinking of begetting heirs made his cock rise again. By the Saints, he was in a needy state.

  He’d parted company with his baggage train earlier in the evening, preferring to ride the last few miles to his home by himself. They’d be wending their way down the well-traveled road by now, the jangling of the horses’ tack alerting the castle staff to his homecoming, and causing fires to be lit and the kitchens sent into a bustle of preparation for their Lord’s return.

  Selfishly, he wanted there to be lots of anticipation. It would be sadly flat if, after three months away, he were to return to a cold hearth and even colder food.

  So he’d decided to meander through his forest, listening to the sounds of the night as it fell, and reflect upon his journey and, of course, Mistress Anne Swann.

  She of the probably beautiful bosoms. And the doubtless soft and pink nether lips.

  Ow.

  Magnus squirmed as his cock thrust hard against the rough fabric of his breeches. He toyed with the idea of releasing it and bringing himself to his ease. At least it would make the ride home a little more comfortable.

  But it seemed an empty gesture—if he could wait, there would be willing maids to tend to his needs.

  His Steward, Edward Mansfield, would see to that. Edward made sure that his Lord had all his needs fulfilled, but also ran Ravynne’s Keep with an iron hand that brooked no misbehavior. Even from the Lord.

  Magnus grinned. The old man was truly a tyrant and as bad as Magnus’ father had been in that respect. Edward and the late Lord Ravynne had had some truly amazing fights. Yet their friendship had lasted for nearly forty years, and Edward had transferred that loyalty to the young Lord without a blink. He was Ravynne’s man, through and through, regardless of which Ravynne he served.

  Yes, Edward would see that all was in readiness for Magnus’ return, including a couple of willing wenches in his bedchamber.

  Magnus’ heartbeat accelerated at the thought.

  He’d been quite celibate for the last three months which was quite unheard of for a man in his position. But he’d felt it appropriate seeing as he was hunting for a bride. It wouldn’t do for him to visit other lands and estates, survey the marriageable females within and then fuck his way through their maidservants. Other men would find that perfectly acceptable, but to Magnus it lacked style.

  And after having met Mistress Swann, he knew that style was essential. She was so much the lady, so delicate, so fragile. He worried that one touch on her soft skin might bruise her. Such a woman would not have appreciated a lusty fellow bedding her maids and then looking her over as a potential bride.

  He had visited seven estates, but none had offered what he was looking for, until Maltby Abbey.

  Small, but well-organized and elegant, Maltby Abbey had been in the hands of the Swann family for several generations. There was an oldest son, followed by Mistress Anne, and her other siblings. Since Magnus possessed a wealth of lands, he needed a bride¾not her property. He was free to pick and choose amongst the marriageable women and this was a freedom he much appreciated.

  Not for him the stilted coupling brought about by a land merger. He could pick a wife who possessed the attributes he felt appropriate for the mother of the next generation of Ravynnes.

  And Anne had them in abundance.

  She’d greeted his party with the right amount of deference and pleasure, dropping her eyes shyly before him, yet making sure he noticed the sway of her buttocks beneath her fine kirtle.

  Her father, Augustus Swann, had been intelligent, well-read, a good conversationalist, and not averse to admitting his daughter would indeed make a fine bride.

  He’d even permitted Magnus the luxury of a short walk in their orchards with Anne herself, who had contrived to leave her companion behind.

  They had discussed the weather, the varieties of fruit that would come from the trees they passed, and the excellence of the local Maltby mead. It had been all Magnus could do to restrain himself from taking her right there and then.

  But she’d allowed him to help her over a large root, and had graciously placed her cool hand on his. Her eyes had lowered and a blush spread over her cheeks at their touch.

>   Magnus grinned to himself. Oh yes. She would be his, without a doubt.

  The moon was rising as he wound his way through familiar lanes, its light obscured now and again by the overhanging horse chestnut trees. Their fragrance was soft, and sweet, and brought back memories of games with their hard, russet-hued fruit in the fall.

  Suddenly, Magnus felt grubby, itchy and in need of a good bath. He could wait until he got home, but he remembered the small lake that nestled into a glade less than half a mile away from the Keep.

  He turned his horse into the forest, following paths that were now overgrown, and clearly not well traveled.

  Before long he arrived at his target, a quiet spot where the river had flooded its way over its banks thousands of years before man arrived to admire it, and created a small lake that was continually refreshed by a little runoff back into the river itself.

  He’d spent many a happy hour here, learning to swim, playing with other boys. Later he’d played with the girls who would sneak away and vie with each other to take “swimming lessons” from the handsome youth he’d become.

  Those swimming lessons had been most pleasurable. In fact, the small patch of soft grass that had served as his bed for so many splendid trysts would probably still be there. Although he doubted if more than the occasional deer dented the grass with its hooves now. It was most definitely time to bring his children into the world and introduce his own son to the pleasures of the water.

  Quietly, he reined in his horse and dismounted, sighing in relief as his muscles stretched and reacquainted themselves with the business of walking upright.

  Then he heard it.

  He stilled, ears focusing, head tilted. His horse whinnied slightly, and he covered its nose with a soothing hand.

  “Shhh,” he breathed, senses leaping to battle readiness.

  There it was again. A song. A woman was singing.

  There was a sudden splashing sound. Someone was in his lake.

  He hobbled his horse, quickly leading it deeper into the undergrowth where it could graze, but not flee.

  On silent feet he returned, finding the one large tree where he knew he could spy out over the lake and not be seen.

  He grinned as he remembered the many young ladies whose nakedness he’d privately enjoyed as a lad from this very lookout.

  With a brief grunt he hoisted himself into the branches and found the one low-hanging one that had served him so well in the past.

  And there she was.

  The moon was almost full, and by its light he could make her out quite clearly.

  His first thought was that she was a wench from the Keep, but that quickly disappeared as he noted her smooth golden skin and rounded muscles. This was no serving girl or field worker. Her hair was a black slick in the night, falling down her back past her lusciously curved buttocks, and when she turned, his mouth dried up and his throat contracted on a gasp.

  She had the most incredible breasts.

  Full, heavy, yet tipped with dusky and erect nipples, they were begging to be weighed in a man’s hand. Crying out for the touch of a man’s mouth. By the Saints, a man could bury his cock between them and think himself one step from heaven’s gates.

  Her waist was slender, almost too slender for the curves above and beneath, and yet she carried herself like a queen, striding from the cool water to the small pile of clothing lying on the grassy patch near the edge of the lake. Her woman’s hair was a dark shadow between her thighs, and he bit his lip as he felt the urge to explore those secrets transfer itself to a savage arousal within his breeches.

  There was no way he could leave this woman unattended. She was standing, nude, silvery now in the moonlight, rubbing her cloth over her body, lingering at each breast and between her thighs.

  Magnus’ gaze sharpened as he watched her dry off, noticing her subtle touches to herself.

  He was going to have to do something about this, or fall out of the tree and impale himself on his own cock.

  Slowly, quietly, he slid down the trunk and dropped his leather jerkin beneath it. He unfastened the ties to his shirt and left that there too, along with his boots which he struggled awkwardly out of with a savage curse. His breeches followed.

  Barefoot and naked, he picked his way through the foliage until he was within yards of her.

  She was standing almost motionless, eyes closed, head thrown back, and her hands…they were moving over her body and rubbing between her thighs. She was pleasuring herself in front of him.

  Well, by the Saints, it looked like she needed some help, and, gentleman that he was, he couldn’t leave a lady in distress…

  *~~*~~*

  Constance felt the cool night air like a lover’s kiss on her damp body. The strands of her wet hair touched her back and her buttocks softly, leaving little trails of moisture wherever they chose.

  The trickles down her spine made her shiver, and heightened the pleasure she was feeling as she rubbed the rough cloth over her skin.

  She took a deep breath and let her hands linger over her nipples, relishing the spear of delight that her touch brought. It was the work of a moment to slip one hand to her mound and find that exquisitely sensitive spot which burned and ached now, readying her for a sensual invasion by…by…

  By no one.

  There was no one to take his cock and ease her need. There hadn’t been for three years now, since her husband had died on the battlefields in some senseless fight for a useless piece of land.

  Oh, she’d had offers, and plenty of them. But being a landless widow, those offers had seldom come hand-in-hand with a marriage proposal, and those that did were unacceptable. She refused to be a brood mare for some lusty Lord who had gone through three wives already, and wanted a ready-made caretaker for his family. Nor did she relish the thought of being bedsport for some uncouth and unwashed man who simply needed a warm body to fuck at his whim.

  Her next marriage, if there was one, would be by her choice. Her choice alone.

  Her fingers plunged deep within her swollen folds, stimulating her juices which began to run freely, mixing with the rivulets of water that trailed down over her thighs.

  A moan erupted from her throat, startling a frog, which leapt into the lake with a small splash.

  Her late husband had not taught her much of the pleasures of the flesh, and had unthinkingly gone and gotten himself killed, leaving her alone, childless, and with a limited knowledge of what her body could achieve in the way of sensual delight. She missed him in some ways, still. His presence had been some sort of security, even if his bedding had left much to be desired.

  She didn’t know if she’d loved him, in fact she didn’t know if such a thing actually existed. So for the time being, stolen moments like this kept her desires abated and her life relatively content.

  But…it would have been nice, she mused, feeling every part of her body rising to the touch of her own hand. It would have been nice to have someone else feel her quicken beneath him.

  To have a hard cock rubbing against the place she now caressed. To have a rough chest abrading her nipples and pressing her breasts between them. To lie on the grass beneath the moon and…

  Suddenly the moon went out.

  Constance opened her eyes in surprise and found a large shadowy figure in front of her blocking the gentle moonlight.

  With a gasp of fear, she dropped her towel and made to turn and flee, but it was too late.

  Strong arms captured her and pulled her up against the solid rough chest that she had just wished for.

  “Permit me to assist, lady,” said a deep voice.

  Before she could utter the thousand things that trembled on a scream, hard lips came down on hers and she was swept into a kiss that turned her world upside down.

  Chapter Two

  His hands were all over her, stroking her, driving her upwards into her own arousal.

  Constance groaned as he pulled his lips away from hers, then gasped as he found her breast with on
e callused hand. His mouth returned, his tongue thrusting into her, mimicking the act that she knew was to come.

  And, God help her, she wanted it. Wanted him.

  He was tall—she had to stretch to get her arms over his shoulders and around his neck. His hair fell through her fingers as she gripped him to steady herself and return his kisses, parrying his tongue and matching its moves with her own.

  He fondled her breast, taking it in his palm and raising it, then finding the nipple and squeezing almost to the point of pain.

  She grabbed his hair and pulled his head downward, needing the hot suckle of his mouth around her swollen flesh.

  It was sheer bliss when he obeyed her silent urging and took her into his mouth. His tongue was hungry, and when he pressed her nipple between his teeth and sucked strongly, she nearly came from the pleasure of it.

  As if he sensed her condition, he swept her into his arms and laid her down onto the grass, following her, lowering his head to her other breast and lavishing the same fierce attention on its rosy peak.

  He freed a hand and found her curly hair, riffling his fingers through it as he dove between her legs to feel her moisture and the opening to her body. She could have sworn it was widening for him as he touched her.

  She spread her legs, unable to stop the instinctive gesture of need.

  He needed no further urging.

  With a swift move he was between her thighs, pushing them apart and making a place for himself, his huge cock blindly seeking its target like a lance to the quintain.

  Sobbing and panting now, she raised her hips in a mute plea.

  He grabbed his cock, steadied her hips and with a single thrust buried himself inside her, pushing and pushing until he could push no more.

  She was stunned into immobility, and she vainly tried to make out his face in the darkness above her.

  But all was shadows, blended with the stars and the filtered touch of moonlight on his hair.