Mischief's Lover

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Warnings: Ok, this is going to be M rated, explicit, but tasteful, PWP. Well it will have some plot….and I put emphasis on the word 'some'. However, if that is not to your taste, well fine by me. I will more than accept criticism on my writing style, or grammatical errors, however flaming because I write lemons will be ignored. And Loki will make your keys disappear ;P Apart from the last prompt chapter, these are all pre-Thor.

Prompt #1: Riding

Dartmoor, England, 2nd October 1885

The moors stretched out across the horizon, the sky a solemn, steel grey, clouds massing on its edge.

She needed to hurry. Rain was on its way.

Lady Gwyneth Brandon checked her horse for one infinitesimal moment, the grey's powerful legs dancing on the sodden ground, before pushing him into a canter, the wild moor wind plucking at the edges of her fur-lined riding hood and jacket. She had only gone into the village to fetch her father's tonic from the apothecary's. It was the beginning of winter on the moors, and she had no desire to be caught in the rainstorm which could so quickly turn to snow and ice.

She glimpsed the trees and parkland which surrounded her home, and pushed the grey on, into gallop, thundering down the lane.

Although there were plenty of servants at the house, she didn't want to keep Papa waiting. He was ailing, the cooling days and chilly nights setting an ache in his old bones, and making him cough. He had suffered from consumption in his youth, and Gwen prayed it would not raise its head once more in his old age.

She was just entering the first copse of trees that flanked the gates of Brandon House when she felt it. A chilling wave of cold swept over her, penetrating the heavy skirts of her riding gear, straight down into her marrow. The grey reared and snorted in alarm, and she fought to calm it.

A strange howling sound had filled the air, and Gwen frantically looked for its source. She thought she heard a groan, somewhere in the trees, and summoning her courage, she dismounted and tied her mount's reins to a branch, soothing the flighty stallion with soft pats and cooing.

The howling faded, silence returning on the dead air, and Gwen wondered if she had imagined it. As she turned from the grey, and peered into the dim light of the copse, she thought she glimpsed a flash of black and green against the reds and browns of the decaying leaves.

The detritus from the trees crunched beneath her feet, and she could hear her own heartbeat in the silence, thundering in her ears. She eased her way through the undergrowth, ignoring the branches catching at her skirts. The grey stamped and neighed, prompting her to glance back for one moment in surprised concern, before another groan drew her on.

Human. Definitely male. Not that she had ever had any experience in such things…

She rounded a tree, and stopped dead for a moment. There, in the centre of the clearing, lay a man.

Cursing her shock, she started forward, dark blue skirts flying. The man was lying facedown on the cold ground, and she immediately knelt by his side, checking him for wounds.

He seemed well enough, if barely conscious, and he was hot to the touch, even through the leather of her riding gloves. Satisfied he was not injured, she heaved him onto his back, panting at the effort, and stopped short at the features which met her gaze.

He was handsome, no, beautiful even. Pale, chiselled features, harsh and sensual, were framed by inky black hair that looked like silk to the touch. Gwen found her fingers literally itching to do so.

He was dressed…oddly. She had never seen the like before. His strong shoulders were encased in black leather, trimmed with what looked like light armour, accented with deep green. Long strong legs were encased in riding breeches of a similar material to his coat and tunic, while long boots were exposed by the cut of the coat.

Fascinated, Gwen reached out one hand to his cheek, her breath suspended in her throat.

A strong, cold grip stopped her in her tracks, her wrist complaining at its ill treatment. With a small shriek, she met the intense, burning eyes of her mysterious stranger.

Emerald green. Intelligence shone in them like a beacon, coldly assessing her even as she noted the feverish glaze to them.

"W-where am I?" he demanded, in a low hiss that grated through Gwen like icy spears. "Alfheim? Niffelheim?"

Brow furrowing at his raving, she felt his forehead. "Sir, you are not well," she murmured. "You are on Dartmoor, in the woods around Brandon House. You're safe now."

He chuckled weakly, his eyes roaming her face and form impudently, so Gwen both flushed and glared at him coolly.

"I fear you have a fever," she continued briskly, stripping off her riding jacket and laying it over him. "Are you injured? How came you here?"

"That would be telling, woman," he muttered, and she sighed through her teeth, fighting for patience. Her knees were starting to grow damp from kneeling on the wet ground.

"My name is Gwen," she replied pointedly. "My home is not far. Remain here, since you seem unable to walk, and I will fetch help."

He made no answer, and Gwen bent over him once more, concerned. His voice, peeved and hoarse, made her jump.

"Well, if you are going to fetch help, then do so woman. Your hovering is annoying," he growled, and she huffed impatiently.

How was it possible for one man to be so infuriating? And he was clearly raving, so how did that bode well for his mental state when sober?

Regardless, he needed help.

With another huff, she left her infuriating, mysterious stranger, hurrying towards her mount. A glance at the sky through the canopy of skeletal branches and reddening leaves lengthened her stride, in a most unladylike fashion. She needed to get him home, and soon.

Loki could feel his entire body burning. It swamped all other sensation, so he was unaware even when strong, calloused hands lifted him, and the rocking sensation of a cart, swept through his consciousness, fleetingly.

The only thing to bring him succour from the burning was…her.

The mortal. Gwen.

Her features were blurred, he could recall no details coherently. But her eyes, like two sapphire gems watching him with an inner fire that mimicked the burning in his body.

The burning took over, and he cursed his weakness, and his stupidity. Damn it all, he was not his brother! Usually he would never have tried a new spell without proper preparation or research, but the opportunity to find a way to travel between the Realms, without the Bifrost, without Heimdall's supervision, his never ceasing vigilance…had been too much to pass by. He was a Prince, his time was often not his own.

And now he was trapped on this barren, primitive rock. He knew where he was now. Midgard.

The woman's name. Gwen. A Midgardian name.

As he was laid back against something soft and warm, a strange flickering against his eyelids that he guessed was a fire, he mentally grimaced. His mind was too fogged; he could feel his magic, at the edge of his senses, just out of reach. He was too weak, fatigued by his sudden and unplanned descent from Asgard. He needed to rest and heal, even if it was on this forsaken rock.

Inwardly angered at himself, he focussed on the voices around him.

"Wonder where he came from…"

"Funny gear. Looks like one of them gypsy players…"

"Hush Annie! Jimmy! I do not wish to hear any gossip," came his saviour's voice, cutting across the importuning male and female voices. "He needs our help, so be quiet and do!"

Commanding. Unyielding. The voice of a Valkyrie.

"Yes milady," the servants chorused, and he suddenly felt the strange sensation of his clothes being tugged from him. He would have objected, told them to leave him be and get their filthy mortal hands off of him, but then an even odder sensation overcame him.

A heat to overwhelm the burning.

Small, perfectly formed hands gently helping to undo his clothing. Her. Gwen.

"Milady! You really shouldn't-it's not proper!" the woman, Annie he thought, shrieked censoriously. He could almost feel the impatience and sarcasm rolling off of his saviour in waves, lapping against his skin.

"I will decide if it is not proper, Annie. Because, Heaven forbid, something scandalous could occur with an unconscious man!"

He mentally chuckled at that.

"He has a fever," she continued quietly, businesslike. "Fetch me water and cloths. We need to get his temperature down. Oh, and Annie, could you ask Cook to have one of the maids take Papa's dinner up?"

Another quietly, respectfully toned "yes, milady," and a door opened and closed somewhere.

Those hands left his now coatless and bootless body, leaving him in his undershirt and trousers. Soft linen was pulled over his legs and waist, before a weight depressed the mattress beside him. The door opened again.

"The water, milady,"

"Thank you, Jimmy. You may go and have your dinner now," Gwen's commanding voice sounded again.

"What about you, milady? Would you like a tray sent up?"

"Very well. But just some bread and broth-"

"I meant for you, milady," this Jimmy's voice was both suspicious and exasperated, leaving Loki in little doubt what estimation he was held in, wherever he was. Foolish mortals.

The time of gods might be over on Midgard, but he was not to be trifled with.

"I am not hungry. Now, go on," Gwen replied firmly, and he heard the door close. Silence fell, with nothing but the crackle of the fire, and the soft breathing of his hostess as she bustled around the room.

Abruptly, he felt a cool, damp weight against his forehead, easing the burning even while he felt his muscles tense under her touch.

"Hmmm, under all that dirt, you are quite beautiful, you know," she murmured, obviously unaware that he was conscious and listening. He smirked inwardly. "Who are you?"

He decided to speak at that, enjoying the prospect of teasing his new hostess. Mortals were so much fun to play with, after all.

"Loki." he was annoyed to hear how hoarse his own voice was, but the jump of her fingers was more than worth it. He heard a gasp and a splash, followed by quiet, mild cursing.

"Look what you made me do!" she hissed, as he opened his eyes, to see her shaking out her skirts, a damp patch growing across her lap from where she had jumped and dropped her wet cloth on her dress. "Well, at least you are not suffering from amnesia."

She met his gaze, and his first estimation of her eyes was not inaccurate. He had little knowledge of mortals' systems of measurement for age, but he guessed she was but twenty Midgardian years. Little more than a child to him.

Intelligent blue eyes blinked at him from a pretty face, with curving eyebrows, a straight nose, plump rose-pink lips, and soft pale skin of a similar shade to his own. Her face was framed by dark hair, a soft shade of mahogany, with a trace of auburn in the firelight. Compared to Asgardian scales of beauty, she was average, particularly as she possessed darker colouring than was thought ideal, but she was, he supposed lovely.

His gaze flicked down, to a slender neck only just revealed by the high neckline of her gown, thin white gauzy fabric giving a tantalising glimpse of the skin beneath. The rest of her was obscured by the voluminous navy blue skirts of her dress, although her waist was nicely outlined by the fitted bodice.

The last he had been on Midgard, the women had worn loose sheaths of rough wool, and cloaks and boots, their hair covered. He found he rather preferred this era's manner of dress.

Gwen felt his searching gaze, and endured it defiantly. When his eyes met hers, she refused to look away, or to blush. He smirked, and it was appreciative.

"You said your name was Loki? Loki what?" she asked, turning slightly in her chair to replace the cloth in the basin on the table beside her.

"Odinson. I am Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard," he murmured, watching her closely for signs of fear, or of derision. He was surprised when she just laughed.

"You expect me to believe you are a figure from Norse legends?" she asked, disbelievingly. "You are clearly still raving."

"My fever has passed, mortal," he returned, imperiously. "It takes rather more than that to make a God rave."

"Now I know you are insane," she shook her head. He frowned, then laughed and shook his head. "What amuses you?"

"You do, mortal," he replied steadily, holding her gaze. "You deny what is right in front of your nose, as if usual of all your insignificant kind."

Instead of bristling, or even screaming for help, she just raised one brow and leaned back in her chair. "Oh, what have I missed?" she murmured.

"My attire for a start. It is clearly not of mortal make," he began, but she just shook her head.

"Jimmy suggested you could be a member of some travelling theatre troupe. If so, those could just be a costume," she returned, and he had to admit she was quick and logical.

"We all wear a costume, my lady," he said, drawing out her title mockingly. "Tell me, is that your title or is just a form of respect from your servants?"

"Both," Gwen said. "My full name is Lady Gwyneth Hermione Brandon. My father is Sir William Brandon."

So she was nobility. All to the good.

As his eyes once more wandered over her form, he thought over the prospect taking shape in his mind. She had aided him, after all. She deserved a reward for her services.

But first things first…

Smiling, calling on what dribbles of magic he could, he opened his palm and a white rose flowered. Gwen's eyes widened, but she did not recoil or scream.

She was not awed.

"Impressive," she breathed. "But a conjuring trick does not a God make."

Loki's smirk was amused, at most. "Just wait, little mortal. When I have rested, then you will see…"

In fact, he would might have some fun with her tonight, if he was sufficiently recovered. No point offering a gift to one who would look it horse in the mouth.

His eyes wandered again, and her curt reply snapped them back to hers. "You are impudent, sir, to look such at a lady," she snapped, and he chuckled.

"You are a fiery one, are you not? After all, it was you who called me beautiful and removed my clothing, despite the protests of your servants," he murmured silkily, glad to see a slight heat in her cheeks.

"It matters not, my Prince," she returned mockingly, gesturing dismissively. "It was but a fleeting comment."

"Were I not weakened, my lady, I would punish you for that insolence," he retorted, and this time he was pleased to see her openly flustered. They all broke in the end.

But then to his surprise, she hardened, her eyes turning cool, hiding her discomfort. "Watch your tongue, sir, or I will call the doctor to have you removed to an asylum," she stated commandingly. "Much as I abhor those institutions, they might have ways to curb your offensive tongue."

Oh, yes, he liked this mortal. She liked to play. "You know what they call me, my lady? Silvertongue. My tongue may be offensive, but only in a pleasurable way…"

She opened her mouth to retort, her eyes flaming now, but the door opened as a bulky, middle-aged man in plain but smart black attire entered with a tray. Gwen stood, ignoring her charge.

"Thank you, Jimmy. Place it over here," she gestured to the table on which lay the basin. "The basin is no longer needed."

"Very good, milady," Jimmy nodded, taking away the basin but not without a suspicious glance at Loki. He chuckled to himself; the man was right to be suspicious.

"You know they will be listening at the door? To make sure the mysterious stranger does no harm on your beloved person?" he taunted her, as she turned back. She eyed him coolly, before setting the tray across his lap.

"Eat. God knows, it might shut you up for a moment," she muttered, and slightly taken aback by her harshness, he set to the chicken broth and bread reluctantly.

It was good, much as he refused to admit it.

"Do you not dine?" he asked, as she sat back down again, taking a book from the side and opening it to a marked page. Her eyes glanced up to him.

"No," she replied. "I am not hungry."

"You need sustenance," he said firmly. "Eat." he pushed what was left towards her.

"I am not hungry-" she protested, but he interrupted with a commanding bark.

"Eat! I insist," he added, to soften his voice slightly. She flushed, with anger, and he idly wondered how far that blush extended, and he was pleased to see she was not immune to his commanding nature. The games he could play with her…

With a huff, she slowly ate the last of the broth, and Loki's eyes fixed on the slender column of her barely exposed throat as she swallowed. The redness leaching into her lips as the heat of the liquid warmed them, and he was surprised by the fierceness of the longing that hit him, in a strong wave. He desired those lips.

He would have them. He would brook no argument, and there would be none, he was sure of it.

Once he had mastered the spell to travel the ways between Realms, he would have to visit Midgard often.

"Are you wed, my lady?" he asked, and she paused in her meal, eying him consideringly.

"No, I am not," she replied shortly.

"Betrothed?"

"You ask too many questions," she returned. He caught her gaze and held it tightly.

"I will have an answer," he murmured.

"No, I am not betrothed or promised," she sighed exasperatedly. "Now may I ask what the purpose of that interrogation was?"

He just looked at her then, and she fought not to shift tellingly under that heated, cold emerald gaze. He leant forward, and her breath hitched as the mattress creaked with his weight.

His hand rose, slender fingers, that Gwen had taken little notice of before, sliding against her chin gently, enticingly, before they firmed and held her in place. Her annoyance, her unease, dissipated and she lost herself in those eyes.

Loki's smirk widened, as his thumb traced her lower lip, and they parted unconsciously. His body stirred, weakened as it was, and his senses unfurled like a hunting cat waking from a nap.

This human had aided him, challenged him, and now she aroused his desires with her fire and her beauty. She would be his, but not yet.

She was too young, and Time was a sure way to bind her to him all the more effectively. To make her his lover, and his alone. Loki did not like to share.

He wiped a drop of broth from the corner of her luscious lip, feeling the deep shiver that she tried and failed to hide, and suppressing the urge to kiss her now. Soon, soon.

"You will find out soon enough," he told her, his voice slipping into a husky tone, like melted chocolate, or satin over blazing steel.

Gwen escaped.

She leant against the door of her bedchamber, in darkness, cool, blessed darkness. It soothed her, washed aside her fears and her uncertainties, even as her body began to awaken to the seeds of….what? What was he about, her dark stranger? Was he mad? A charlatan?

She didn't know. Regardless, he was still unwell, and he needed shelter. At least for tonight, she could give it to him and decide what to do on the morrow. She pushed aside all thoughts of the pounding of her heart as he had held her chin immovable, and his thumb had caressed her skin, that warm breath skating over her aching lips…

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "God help me," she murmured fervently.

Across the house, Loki heard her, and chuckled. Oh yes, he would enjoy this…

To be continued…