Author's Note: Not sure how many people frequent the Braveheart section, but I decided to resurrect one of my favourite (and typically unfinished) fan-fictions. And also, I FORGOT THE EMAIL to my old account THE BARRACKING BARD, so I am now called THE BONNIE BARD. Trust me, I tried every email I can remember to access my old account but it's been impossible. Anyway, moving on. I know I probably won't get as many reviews this time round, but this fan-fiction holds a lot of potential. I'm proof-reading each chapter and there is a lot of work to be done i.e. dialogue and sentence structure. I hope you enjoy the updated chapters, and stay tuned for more to come. Please review!
WHEREVER THE HEART MAY SWAY
This story is rated T for obscene language, mild gore and suggestive themes.
Disclaimer: Anything you recognise does not belong to me, except my own characters.
"For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal "- 2 Corinthians 4:17-18
Stolen Kisses.
A slender hand twisted itself in the hair of the man sleeping. Slowly, it winnowed itself between the dark strands, brushing them away from the man's dreaming face. He stirred slightly, and slowly his eyes opened, facing the woman who lay next to him. A smile creased the line cornering his lips, and the woman returned it deeply. Dry skin chapped his lips from many days spent in the fields – but that was just how she liked them.
"I didn't mean to wake you," she whispered, pausing in the combing of his hair.
"I wasn't asleep." He prised her hand from his hair and cupped it in his own, kissing the thin skin of her wrists; keeping such a delicate thing within his grasp was a treasure to him.
"Your hands are freezing, woman."
The woman grinned. "Then I bid thee good sir, to warm them up." Stephen didn't need to be asked twice. He reached for her other hand, and pressed them against the warmth of his chest, which was dusted with dark hair. The woman sighed with pleasure and snuggled closer, engrossing herself in his heat.
"Ah, I love being married," she said quietly. "It's great to find that one person you want to annoy for the rest of your life."
Stephen sat up, a smile tugging at his mouth. This was why he loved Meghan; the woman came out with the most random things. She had a talent for mixing humour with brutal honesty, that Stephen found both hilarious and endearing. She wasn't easily offended, and each day was a hearty battle of wits and banter.
"Damn it, woman. No wonder I drink."
"Too much," Meghan replied, poking him accusingly in the ribs. "I had to drag your sorry arse from Connor's last week and change you for bed, like a child. You wouldn't let me, so I left you to it."
"Then what happened?" Stephen was grinning now, as Meghan's face swelled with mock rage.
"Fell asleep you did! Bottom in the air, face down on the bed like a three-legged donkey. Your snores kept Logan and I up all night, let alone the village." She sighed exasperatedly, and there was a moment's silence where they both simply looked at each-other, their faces taut from threatening laughter.
It exploded a second later and they hastily stifled their sniggers, lest they disturbed the dreaming child across the room.
They both wriggled around like children as they clamped each other's hands over their mouths to stem the laughter.
"You'll wake him," hissed Meghan playfully. She propped herself up on her pillow and studied Stephen. He faced her, while lying on his side.
She could see his nipples folded up against one another, poking up from the folds of the threadbare sheets of the bed ... everything about him was perfect. She loved him: from every scar drawn into his skin, to every line dimpling his dopey smile. Her thoughts must have shown on her face, for Stephen was watching her intently with his bright-blue eyes. Look away you silly man, she thought, don't make me push you off this bed …
Stephen smiled affectionately at the embarrassment burning on his wife's face. A flush was glowing on her cheeks, clashing with her long, auburn hair. He reached out and cupped Meghan's thin, bony hands. With the other he traced the angle of her small cheek with a calloused finger and slowly brought her face to his. He felt her press her lips to his own, lingering momentarily on his bottom lip, nibbling it gently.
Stephen slid his hand around her waist and pulled her to him, pleasantly surprised when she did not object to the rough handling. She met his gaze with one of similar need, the corner of her full lips crooking into a smile of encouragement as well as anticipation. The heat of their skin between them created a delicious friction and finally Stephen could bear it no more and captured her mouth in a kiss of intense passion. Her lips opened beneath him as he began exploring her mouth, enjoying it more when her hands wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer to her. Her soft body moulded perfectly to his own as he plundered her, his tongue duelling lustily with her own.
For her seemingly delicate disposition, she matched him with each thrust and parry of this sensuous combat, until a kiss had so much power over him he could barely breathe. He allowed his hands to ind the shape of her breast and began kneading. A small sound escaped her and he knew it was not pain. The soft, round flesh of her breast beneath his fingers made him growl under his breath, as he began to gently envelope her body with showers of kisses. Meghan's breaths came in short pleasurable gasps -
"NOOO! NOT MY CHILD! NO! HAVE MERCY! HAVE MERCY! PLEASE!"
A high-pitched scream ripped through the air with the force of an axe hitting stone. Stephan and Meghan jerked in surprise, banging their heads together within their tight embrace.
Meghan turned a wild-eyed face to Stephen.
"What …?"
Before Stephen could stop her, she sprang from the bed and raced across the room in quivering steps. She gave a wail of despair.
"Logan! He's not here!"
He bolted over; she was right. With a sinking feeling, he saw the dreaded sight of an empty cot and undisturbed sheets. Meghan had sank to her knees, her trembling hands covering her ashen face.
"He's – did you see him – I -" She struggled to speak, peeking one eye through her fingers up at Stephen whose face was mask-like. Logan was an adventurous boy but his son had enough sense to come home before dark. Either he was was lost, or something worse had happened. Before he could say something to comfort Meghan, there was another shrill scream and the ground began to shake with the pummel of hooves – confirming his worst fears.
"Stay here and hide," Stephen ordered, attempting to keep his voice steady. "I'm going to look for him."
"It's the English," Meghan gasped, tears now splashing down her face. "He's out there, all alone! Why – why – my child – my boy!" She began to sob in earnest, rocking herself back and forth on her feet.
"Meghan, please ... don't panic! I'll find him!" Stephan begged, as he observed his wife's distressed state with mounting concern. "I'm – I'm going to look, now please – please just stay hidden." The world had become a place of nightmares – strange, blood-thirsty monsters brandishing swords and crying like savages into the night. Every turn you take, Death coaxed you with His icy fingers, like a game of cat and mouse – it was no place for a child.
Giving his wife a consoling pat, he reached for his broadsword beside a table. He felt a sudden rush of determination. More screams of terror began to fill the air, and without a parting glance, Stephen slipped through the wooden door, leaving Meghan in a crumpled heap on the floor.