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  SURRENDER

  Book 4 of the Raptor Castle Series

  SOPHIA JOHNSON

  THE HUNT

  "Elyne. I can run all day." Graemme's words came through a tight jaw, more growled than spoken. "Ye will tire afore I do," he taunted. "In fact, I will stop for the count of five to give ye a better start."

  Quickly, she glanced back again. On a boulder, he didn't stand upright but crouched, head slightly forward. Fists on his knees, his fingers clenching and unclenching.

  The picture of a wolf ready to spring flashed through her mind.

  "By the count of ten, I will have ye in my hands. Ye had best run like ye never ran afore!"

  "One!" His voice was soft, silky.

  She gasped and leapt forward.

  "Two!"

  She kept running. When he came to 'Nine', she knew he was right behind her.

  Was he going to kill her? Pray God, not. Beat her? She didn't doubt it.

  She ran like a rabbit chased by an eagle.

  "Ten!"

  SNARED

  Elyne flew through the air with such speed she believed an eagle had taken her ankles in its talons. The ground quickly receded. Upside down, she rose towards the treetops. She screamed like she'd never screamed afore.

  Several times, she rose and fell, each time less than the other. Finally, she swung slowly. Her skirts hung down over her arms.

  Cold rain fell on her bare legs and nether parts as she fought her kirtle and smock.

  Graemme grabbed the hems of her clothing and hauled them away from her face. He bent slightly to look into her eyes.

  His voice turned gentle as a kitten's purr.

  His eyes belied the tone.

  Menacing.

  "Ye should have listened. I told ye at ten ye would be in my hands. I neglected to add helpless. But then, ye should have known ye would be."

  Copyright 2012 by June J. Ulrich

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  The book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, localities, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Electronic books or eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of the work.

  Cover design by Delle Jacobs

  http://www.dellejacobs.blogspot.com

  Visit the author's website at www.sophiajohnson.net

  Chapter 1

  Raptor Castle, Scottish Border to Northumbria.

  Why in Hades was she sitting bare-arsed on the cold ground when she should still be curled up in her warm, comfortable bed?

  Elyne startled, chasing all remnants of sleep from her mind. She shivered and rubbed her arms, dew-wet where the thin, yellow smock had drooped and exposed her flesh. Wondering what might be in the wet grass beneath her bottom didn't help. For truth, her fear of spiders caused her shivers to turn to shudders. She sprang to her feet, quickly brushing her hands over her hips and legs.

  She frowned. Shook her head as she looked around. Why was she beneath an apple tree in the middle bailey? In the dead of night? Something fell from her lap when she stood. She retrieved a small handful of greens and held it to her nose.

  Hm. Herbs, but not those she generally picked.... Had she been dreaming?

  An elusive memory teased her as it swirled in a dark, gray haze. She squeezed her eyes tight and wrinkled her nose. Her brows met in a fierce frown as she willed her mind to recall it. Surely, it would come to her why she was outside the keep at such an odd time of night.

  Bright colored streaks shot behind her closed lids then changed to flashing images as she coaxed them into her mind's light, piecing them together. As the images formed, she shuddered and groaned.

  A black wolf. Leaping from atop a boulder, his eyes gleaming, his teeth bared in a throaty snarl. For nigh on to two years, the beast had haunted her dreams. In the past nine months, the wolf had slowly evolved into the form of a man.

  Had she seen his face this time? Nay. Shadows still hid him as they had done in all the other visions. For certs, she wouldn't share them with her father. He'd had cause enough for mirth over her dafty tales—as he called them—in the past years.

  But not last eve! When the gatekeeper appeared to ask permission before allowing a Highlander and his two men to enter, his frown had changed to surprise. They had ridden up to the drawbridge after the guards had lowered the portcullis for the night. Bleh! Her father sent her to bed without allowing her to see who came at such a late hour. She had the right to. After all, a sennight ago it was she who dreamed a Highland warrior would come in the very same way.

  With a father like Chief Broccin, 'twas no wonder she dreamt such... such what? She scowled and thought. But not for long. The sound of a man's boots striking the cobblestones reminded her of her present predicament. She dropped the wilted herbs, grabbed the nearest branch of the apple tree and scrambled upward. Afore the man rounded the corner, she was perched mid-tree facing the well, her left arm hugging the trunk.

  Drats. Her heart pounded. Had she some spell which called the man-beast of her dreams into the world? She took a shaky breath and peered below.

  Ah. No wolf. Only a man carrying a helmet in the crook of his arm. She tilted her head and studied him. 'Twas a shame there was not more moonlight. From his height and the breadth of his shoulders, he was most impressive. He observed the well then apparently made up his mind. With the sinuous grace of a sleek animal, he prowled around the small area and studied it. He hesitated for a heartbeat or two before he placed the helmet on the huge boulder standing nearby.

  From the depth of his hair coloring, it must be black or a very deep brown. Shaggy, it hung down the back of his neck past his shoulders. A hank slid over the left side of his forehead teasing his eye, annoying him, for he shoved it back. Because of its unruliness, 'twas probable he'd cut it himself.

  Elyne pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle a giggle, for the man disrobed as quickly as a loose slattern tempted by gleaming coins. Though, truth to tell, he had on less clothing than any whore. Naught but a woolen kilt carelessly draped around his body and over his shoulder, held in place by a leather sword belt strapped around his slender waist.

  The belt and cloth he tossed atop the bolder, near knocking his helmet to the ground. His sword received gentler treatment for he carefully balanced it against the well near to his hands.

  But it wasna the sword which drew her attention. His bare body did. His, um, strong, muscular arms. Wide, impressive shoulders. His bared back. Oh, my. When he bent to rid himself of his boots, his fine arse caught her gaze. Muscles played over taut flesh when he faced the well to lower the bucket and pull it up again, filling both wooden pails set beside the well for washing. When he shifted, the movement highlighted strong, sturdy legs.

  For certs, those legs were covered in black hair? Would it be wiry or perchance soft? She wasn't sure. One summer when her friend Catalin came to visit, she'd brushed against her brother and cousin's legs the day they all stole away to the lake to teach her to swim. Their hair was neither wiry nor soft. Mayhap coarse? She'd never stroked her hands over a man's legs. Or anyone else's. Had never felt the urge to.

  Until tonight.

  Ack! Could a person hear another's thoughts? The man turned and scowled, studying everything around him. Thank the good saints he didn't look upward—except at the nearest window openings.

  She barely dared to breathe. She must stay hidden.

  He was nekid. She was close to the same state
of undress.

  Her smock was so thin anyone could see through it. She should have discarded it years ago, but it was soft from wear and perfect for balmy nights.

  She must stop thinking. He'd stilled again. Did he sense someone watched him? Nay. He shrugged his shoulders, took the first pail and held it high, letting the water cascade over his body. She fancied she could see the chill bumps on his skin. Only a Highlander could stand such cold water of a night. Or her brother Ranald. Even in winter, monks never had heated water to bathe.

  She stilled her thoughts again. He hooked his fingers in the soap tub, took out a goodly amount and began rubbing it briskly over his body. He backed up to give his arms room to scour his chest. His body was finely honed, the flesh separated by bunching muscles across his breast. His hair-encircled nipples must surely be hard from all the friction. She lost interest in trying to spy them. Her sight had locked onto the dimly lit rippling muscles leading down to divide the hard slab of his stomach, belly and narrow hips.

  When his hands lathered from his waist, over his belly and ruffled the hair leading an interesting line to his maleness, her mouth was so dry she may as well have stuffed it with wool from a shorn sheep.

  Mayhap it was a good thing she could not see him in the light of day. She would have fallen from the tree by now.

  Graemme, a Morgan of Clibrick Castle, knew someone watched him with such intensity that he edged closer to his sword. He continued to cleanse himself as if unaware. Should he see the slightest advance or shift that gave away the person's position, they would find his sword at their throat.

  He took slow, measured breaths as his eyes beneath hooded lids probed the shadows. He splashed his right hand in the second pail of clear water. Soapy fingers couldna grip a sword steadily without a waver. His best defense was to appear unwary of danger and take an attacker by surprise. He didna want to kill needlessly. The chief here was neither a Morgan nor a Gunn but, by looks and reputation, he was fully as warlike as both families.

  When his left hand lathered his cock, it took his full concentration not to hesitate on hearing a soft gasp. He slightly tilted his head to the side and his gaze followed where his ears picked up the sound. Ha!

  No assailant would wear such light-colored cloth.

  No assailant would perch in a tree in the dead of night.

  Had a serving maid come to steal apples when no one was about? Mayhap he would have someone to warm his pallet. It had been near a month since he swived a woman. Just the thought set his cock to swell and stand upright to stare at him.

  Eager.

  Ready.

  Begging.

  He stroked the soap over the head, down the shaft and between his legs, hefting his hardening sacks.

  "Dinna worry, lads," he crooned. "Soon ye'll have a hot, wet sheath and warm buttocks to comfort ye after pounding against naught but a leather saddle so many days."

  His keen ears picked up another gasp. He grinned.

  "Is it my cock ye wished to spy, lass?" His voice was near a harsh growl with his need.

  His flesh was so hard, so eager he didn't think he could last until he entered the lass. Best to take the edge off aforehand. He stroked his engorged flesh. Slowly at first. Then faster. But not too fast. Not until that special feeling that told him he was about to spend. His head raised and arched backward as the sky cleared. Moonlight streamed down on the apple tree.

  His face tensed, anticipating his release. His gaze fastened on startled eyes opened wide and gleaming in the moonlight. They belonged to the most comely face he had ever seen. If he did not know better, he would deem 'twas the face of an innocent angel. But no innocent angel hid in a tree to spy on a man.

  "Come down, pretty lass. If 'tis bed sport ye crave, I'll be happy to swive with ye." He waggled his brows and grinned.

  The girl drew up her legs trying to fold into a ball and hide herself, but the branch was too small. He laughed outright.

  "Come, lass, ye are well and truly caught spyin'. And ye were all but droolin' enough to rinse me."

  He lifted the bucket and upended the water over his head.

  His cockstand wilted.

  Deflated. Like a soap bubble touched with a warm fingertip.

  Cold water ran in rivulets down his body to disappear between the cobblestones surrounding the well. He shook himself like a huge dog, causing his sex to sway and bounce against his thighs then walked over to stand beneath her.

  His hand flashed up and snared a creamy ankle. When she kicked out at him, he laughed, deep and throaty.

  Elyne held tight to the tree while he tugged at her leg. The branches swayed and creaked, and knowing the limb was about to break, she shrieked.

  Loud.

  "Halt! Who goes below?"

  Bleh! No way to hide, now. She was done for.

  The hand grasping her ankle jerked as if in surprise.

  The guard atop the wall-walk made enough noise to alert the dead as he shouted an alarm. From the sounds of men's voices and boots running, likely half the guards on the wall were scrambling to the stairway leading below.

  Whoever would have thought so many things could go wrong all at once?

  Something had to occur first. She'd heard the loud crack of the branch when it tore from the tree and she hurtled down. At the same time, she'd cracked her head against his and knocked the man to the ground.

  The very nekid man.

  She was atop him. Her smock had twisted around her waist. She knew it was so because cold air felt like ice on her nether cheeks. She tried to rise. 'Twas awkward. Who knew a man's body could be so wide? She rocked and tried to get her right knee off his, um, precious parts. He grunted with pain. He tried to help. His hands were on her bare arse seeking to lift her.

  Her father's shouts rent the air. Afore she could count five breaths, it sounded as if everyone in the keep had swarmed into the bailey.

  She frowned. Why was the first thing she saw— after the painful stars cleared from her eyes—the sight of her father's very large, bare feet?

  She gulped.

  The earth shifted.

  "Ack! Merciful saints!"

  She threw out her hands to steady herself. They landed on thick, wet hair. She looked down to find her fingers gripped the hair at the man's temples and pinned his head to the ground. Her gaze locked on deep brown eyes squinted nearly closed in fury and lips pulled back in a silent snarl.

  She was near pulling the hair from his head. She balanced on one hand and lifted the other. It didn't help. In fact, it made it worse for her hand slipped, yanking his hair even more.

  "Shite!"

  She scowled back at him and spread her legs to steady herself. It caused her to reconsider her position. She was sprawled atop him. Every move she made pressed her feminine parts more intimately against his sex. Two very hard ballocks warmed her thighs, and above them his rampant tarse, stiff as an ax handle, pressed against her stomach.

  "Lass! Be still!"

  "Tsk. No need to yell, sir. I was trying to help."

  She sought to lift herself from his wet body but should have saved herself the effort.

  She yelped, for a hard arm snaked around her waist and lifted her like a floppy bag of grain.

  "Hist! Elyne." Her father's commander Domnall whispered the caution as he settled her on her feet.

  The Chief growled with anger, his scowl ferocious, when his gaze raked her from head to toe. She glanced down and bit her lips. For truth, she looked near nekid. Her smock had acted as a fine drying cloth. Unfortunately, it became near invisible when wet. As it now was.

  "Cover her," Chief Broccin thundered.

  Spying the kilt laying on the boulder, the commander whipped it out and around her, giving her back a pat. Her aunt stepped around her father and came to put her arm across Elyne's shoulders. She thanked all the Saints above that her aunt happened to be paying them a long visit.

  Elyne hugged the wool close under her chin and tried to still her trembling. She'd b
een in trouble before. Once, someone had even kidnapped her. But now when she saw her father's broadsword pricking the hollow in the man's neck causing blood to trickle down his flesh, her knees near buckled under her.

  "Broccin, mayhap you should ask what has happened afore you skewer the man?" Her aunt's hand patted Elyne's shoulder as she spoke.

  "Ask? I have eyes to see, sister. Is he not nekid? Was she not atop him, her smock hiked around her hips?" He stopped, drew in a breath then bellowed, "Swiving?"

  When all eyes turned toward her, Elyne felt her face flush. Even so, she lifted her chin high.

  "I was not swiving."

  "Dinna dare call yer father a liar!"

  Chapter 2

  The chief's shout caused his hand to move, digging the broadsword's tip even deeper into Graemme's vulnerable neck.

  What hurt even more was the words "yer father" careening off the walls of his skull.

  No scullery maid.

  No goose girl.

  Not even the baker's daughter!

  He had exposed himself. Had.... The thought of what he had been doing to entice what he knew now was the chief's daughter, made him groan and squeeze his eyelids shut. He swallowed. Uh! Wrong move. If he wasn't more careful, he would lose that bobbing lump that marked his throat as male.

  Hearing shouts and grappling between men, he opened his eyes and knew it was his friends, Brian and Colyne, restrained by Raptor knights.

  "Guard them in the stables until I deal with this," Broccin ordered. "Take Elyne out of my sight. She isna to leave her room, do ye ken? If I see her afore I command it, I'll take a whip to her!"

  Graemme didn't dare move. So. Her name is Elyne. Judging from her father's voice, she had best listen to him. The wind turned brisk, ruffling his body hair as it swept over him. A good thing he wasn't modest, else he'd have turned scarlet by now. He glared at two women near stumbling over their bare toes so intent were they on staring between his sprawled legs. Though his cock was a lifeless fellow right now, he was still a long one. He didn't attempt to close his legs. The movement would pinch his witless cock and his balls if he couldna lift them out of the way.