She’d worn silk, a floor-length gown in soft violet, trimmed at the bodice and hem and sleeves with blue. It highlighted the fire in her hair and the color of her eyes, and it made it difficult for him to open the wine, to play the part of the civilized gentleman.
That role had come to an end after dinner. He had been tied in knots, and she had suggested coffee before the fire. He’d caught her hand and said that he’d rather have his coffee later, and in spite of the fact that they were coming to know one another very well, Kit had flushed the color of a winter apple. Her lashes had fallen over the dazzle of her eyes, and she had demurely excused herself to disappear up the stairs.
And she was still where he had found her ten minutes ago, sitting at the dressing table, brushing out her hair. The blue silk was gone, and she was wearing an even more provocative costume, some kind of shimmering gauze in a soft shade of mauve. It revealed more than it concealed. The lights were low, but he could see her breasts with each movement that she made. She had beautiful breasts, full and exquisitely rounded, but firm and crested in the most exotic shade of rose that he had ever seen, a shade heightened to a dusky mystery by the mauve that lay against her skin as softly as a cloud.
Enough was enough, Justin finally decided. He had tossed his own clothing in a haphazard pile in the corner, and if she didn’t get up and come to bed soon, he was going to attack her like a maddened animal.
He smiled slightly, remembering the first night he had seen her, running across the moor in gossamer white. She had been like a fantasy come to life, hauntingly young and innocent and beautiful, an enchantress out of the mist. He would never forget her eyes that night, shy and embarrassed and huge, with a sheen of tears and a touch of fear. And then, of course, they’d found Michael.
Everything that had followed had been bittersweet. He’d never meant to fall in love with her. He was the O’Niall—and the name brought responsibility with it. That was an old-fashioned idea, perhaps, but it was still something that came along with the castle, with the land, with the inheritance of his blood. He had been twenty-eight, too old for an innocent eighteen-year-old, even if she was a widow.
Especially because she was a widow. She had been hurt and lost and confused, and he had meant to be her friend. For a while he had succeeded. But only for a while. God, it was so difficult to look back.
Why did you leave me? he wanted to ask. Why didn’t you come back?
He hadn’t meant to fall in love with her. Not then, not now. But he’d spent the last eight years as a free man, refusing to tie himself down, almost as if he’d known, as if he’d been waiting for her to come back to him. He’d never wanted anyone so completely. Never ached to hold a woman, to know her spirit, to hear her laughter, to wake beside her time and time again. As soon as he had seen her at the cemetery, he had known that he had to touch her again. Even when he’d told her to leave, he’d never intended to let her get very far, because there was still the other matter, of course.
He understood why she had left him. He had known that she had loved her husband and had been too young to understand that letting herself feel again wasn’t treachery, that desire and the need to touch could not be buried forever.
True, they had been drugged. He knew that. But he wasn’t as perplexed as Kit. He was sure that the tea had been meant only to give her a gentle sleep and sweet dreams, to ease away the anguish in her soul.
He tightened his fingers behind his head. She was staring into the mirror, but he could tell that she wasn’t really seeing anything. Her brush was held idly in her hand, and he wondered whether she, too, was reflecting on the past and wondering at its part in the future.
She hadn’t really changed much. She had a veneer of sophistication now, and stylish clothes. Her hair was still long, but layered slightly and streaked with blonde. She was independent; after all, she lived in New York City. But her eyes...
They were still the same. Beautiful, innocent, exotic. They could sizzle, could caress. They were like the sky, wide and honest, yet he knew that the honesty wasn’t real. And oh, how that hurt.
She moved, just slightly. The slinky nightgown caught the light, and she was so erotically outlined that Justin exhaled a soft oath and tossed the covers away, then got to his feet. Alarmed, she lifted her eyes to his in the mirror.
He smiled, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was slightly menacing, because he didn’t think he could take any more of the torture she was putting him through.
“Justin...”
His hands fell to her shoulders. He bent down and pressed his lips against her, savoring the taste of her flesh, running the tip of his tongue over the delicious satin of her skin. He kissed her throat, grazing his teeth against it. He felt her tremble, heard the sharp intake of her breath, and felt his own body surge and tighten in response.
Their eyes met in the mirror again, and he smiled, sliding his palms over her shoulders and then lower, until he cupped her breasts. A flush rose to her cheeks, but she seemed unable to break their mirrored gaze. He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, which hardened beneath the fabric of her gown, and swallowed sharply when her head fell back against his belly and her hair swung tauntingly against his arousal.
“What are you doing?” he managed to ask with soft humor.
“I—I thought we should talk,” she whispered.
“Can’t we talk later?” he asked.
“I—”
He bent over her, taking her left nipple, fabric and all, into his mouth, laving it with erotic strokes of his tongue. He heard her breath catch in her throat and reveled in the way her nipple hardened like a luscious pearl.
“I...oh...”
She twisted against him; he raised his head, and she buried her face against his belly, thrusting kisses against it, making him shudder with the intense pleasure that swept through him as she darted the hot, wet tip of her tongue across his flesh. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his muscles tightening, his face a mask of desire.
“Katherine...”
She rubbed her head against him, covering him in the silky cascade of her hair, boldly exploring his reactions further and bringing the provocative allure of her damp kisses and caresses ever more intimately against him until she knew all of him. He whispered her name wildly, then wrenched her from the chair and into his arms. He tore heedlessly at the gown she was wearing, and she protested breathlessly.
“I bought this just for you! To be seductive and—”
“You’ve achieved it,” he said briefly, and the mauve gown fluttered to the floor. His lips seared hers, while he crushed his body to hers and his hands moved everywhere. She didn’t remember falling onto the bed—she was just there, and he was with her, over her, blanketing her. She adored the feel of him, the steely hardness of his body, the wonderful way they fit together. She cried out softly when he entered her, because it felt so good, so shattering, so complete. And when he began to move she lost all thought, eager only to meet each stroke, each thrust, to climb with him toward the peak, the culmination of all desire.
When she thought that she would explode with the sweetness, he was suddenly gone. Bereft and astonished, she gasped again, then shuddered when he caught her foot and knelt to kiss her sole, her instep, her knees, her thighs, then higher and higher until she was nearly sobbing. Only then did he sheathe himself once more within her softness, and then Kit felt herself shatter, shaking with the ultimate sensations that swept through her.
Justin was watching her, his forefinger moving lazily over her cheek. He was smiling, and she felt just a bit furious, because he knew the extent of his power.
She lowered her lashes, still gasping for breath, annoyed that she was blushing. “You’re a torturer,” she accused him.
“Me!”
“You...you...what you did. I was already...”
He laughed, and the sound was rich and sweet and inti
mate. “Me!” he repeated. “You sat there with that damn brush for half an hour.”
“It was only ten minutes.”
“And then, when I went to you—in pathetically desperate shape to begin with—you turned around and drove me nearly through the roof.”
“You didn’t...like it?”
“I adored it—but you deserved exactly what you got in turn.” He arched one brow and repeated her own words. “You didn’t like it?”
She opened her mouth, hesitated, then smiled and admitted, “I think I died a little bit.”
He smiled, leaned forward and kissed her lips. Kit curled contentedly against him, running her fingers over the fascinating whorls of dark hair on his chest as he slipped an arm about her, cradling her against him. For several minutes they were silent. Kit didn’t want to break the beauty of the moment. She wanted to pretend that there was nothing wrong, that no mysteries lay between them.
Finally, though, she spoke. “Justin?”
“Hmm?”
“We have to talk.”
“Aye, we do.”
She felt as if he was watching her intently, but she didn’t know why. She raised herself against his chest and stared into his eyes. They were so dark, dark and elusive.
She was in love with him, but she didn’t know what he wanted from her, only that, like her, he had his secrets.
She splayed her fingers over his chest and rested her chin on them. “Justin, when I was here before, I always felt like someone was watching me.” She raised herself again. “As if the trees had eyes. As if someone wanted to know...every move I made.”
She didn’t like his expression. He was smiling, as if he was thinking she had a very vivid imagination.
“The trees?”
“Damn it, you know what I mean!”
He sighed. “No, Kit, I don’t. I assure you—when I wanted to see you, I came to you. I was not in the trees spying on you!”
“I didn’t say you were!”
“Kit, you were very upset. Your husband had just died.”
“It didn’t make me crazy!” she snapped.
He sighed again. “Okay, so someone was watching you. What’s the point you’re trying to make?”
“I don’t know.”
Angry, she turned away from him and got up to find her gown. Having it on didn’t make her feel at all dressed, so she mumbled something unintelligible and slammed open the closet door to find a robe. Justin watched her in cool silence. She slipped into her robe and walked over to the window, where she drew back the curtains. The night was black, and the ceaseless wind moaned softly. She could see the gorse and bracken flattening against it. Beyond, the surf would be rising and falling angrily against the rugged, timeless cliffs.
“Kit?” He spoke softly at last. He didn’t move, but watched her from the bed.
She didn’t turn to him, continuing to stare out pensively at the night. “What?”
“I’m not trying to make you angry. I’m just saying that you were very young and upset—”
“I wasn’t stupid or psychotic.”
He hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was low and even. “I’m not trying to pick a fight, Kit.”
Kit gritted her teeth. “Justin, you’re refusing to take any of this seriously.”
“I take it very seriously. After all, I’m the one who’s suspected of murder.”
He fell silent, and suddenly she walked back and knelt upon the bed. “Justin, something was going on. Agreed? On the night I came here with Michael, a young girl—who had been claiming that her illegitimate child was yours!—was murdered. That same night, Michael died on the cliffs. You say he fell; I say he was murdered. And then, three months later, someone drugged the tea in my kitchen so I would seduce you—”
“Kit, now you’re pushing the line between fact and supposition!”
“You said yourself—”
“Aye, the tea was tampered with; we both wound up under its influence. But, Kit, I think some poor soul meaning only the best for you fixed that tea. Someone meaning to give you rest and oblivion and ease from your grief. Think about what you’re saying. No one even knew that I’d be there! And what is this leading to, anyway?”
“To the O’Niall.”
His eyes narrowed sharply, and his fists clenched on the sheets. “I’d thought you’d decided I was an innocent man, Mrs. McHennessy.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth!”
“It doesn’t appear that I need to; you’ve spoken quite a mouthful without my help.”
“You’re impossible!” she flared, leaning back against the headboard in disgust. “I’m trying to help you—”
“But I don’t need any help, Mrs. McHennessy, and I’ll thank you to be remembering that!”
Kit muttered something about exactly what he could do with himself and leaped out of bed. She didn’t stop for slippers, but charged down the stairs to the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of still-warm coffee and splashed a generous dose of brandy into it. She was close to tears. It seemed as if they got so close...and then he blocked her out. He had to care; he had to be worried. Why couldn’t she get through to him?
Suddenly she screamed as a pair of arms slipped around her waist.
“Kit, I’m sorry, lass. I didn’t mean to scare you, just to apologize.”
She turned to face him. His chest was still bare, but he had a towel wrapped snugly around his waist. “May I join you?” he asked. He poured himself a cup of coffee and poured some brandy into it. “Irish whiskey would be better,” he murmured lightly, flashing her a smile that went unreturned.
He walked into the living room, setting down his cup so he could put another log on the fire. Then he reached for his coffee and sat down cross-legged before the fire, patting the space beside him and nodding to her.
Kit hesitated, then sat stiffly next to him. She lowered her head. “There’s nothing left for me to say if you won’t take me seriously, Justin.”
“I do take you seriously. But, Kit, you’re talking madness.”
“Just listen to me, please,” Kit beseeched him. “Justin, I think that someone else might be mad. In ancient times your people, the O’Nialls, were the local kings. And after that they were political and religious leaders. Fact, not supposition. The goat-god—in the person of the O’Niall—took his virgin and conceived his son, and then his bride was sacrificed the next year so that her blood could feed the land.”
“Kit, you’re talking ancient history.”
“And you’re getting angry again.”
“Well, I don’t always care to be reminded that I can actually trace my ancestors to people who did such things.”
“You always laugh about it.”
“Sometimes, aye. One has to wonder what happened if he chose a barren virgin.”
“Now you’re laughing again.”
“Well, you were just complaining that I was angry. Make up your mind.”
“Justin—”
“I’m sorry, Kit, I just don’t believe it. It’s too preposterous.”
“You wanted me to leave,” she said accusingly. “Why? And why the bolts on the door? You’re afraid of something.”
“Well, of course I am!” he snapped. He drew in a breath and sipped his coffee, staring at the fire. “Kit, if a shark attacked a child at a beach, it would probably have swum far away by the next week. But I’m willing to admit no parent would allow his child to play on that beach for a long, long time.”
Kit watched him for a minute, then shook her head gravely. “I know I’m right, and I think you know it, too. There’s too much going on here for coincidence. The next murder victim was your fiancée—”
“She wasn’t my fiancée.”
“But the world thought she was.”
He turned to her. “And there goes your the
ory, shot to hell. Susan certainly hadn’t had my baby. She didn’t create the new O’Niall. Nor was Mary’s child mine, and anyone with a brain in their head knew that.”
Kit stood up restlessly, sipping her coffee, retreating to the safety of a chair. “We have to find out—”
“Kit, the police have been through all of this. Dozens of police, from here, from Dublin. The Accorns have had private investigators working here—and no one has learned a damn thing. Look, I appreciate your concern for me; I really do. But I don’t want you running around trying to find a murderer. If you’re right, and the killer is from around here, you could put yourself in real danger. If I had a brain in my head, I wouldn’t let you stay here at all.”
Kit felt a shiver inch its way along her spine. She lowered her eyes and stared into her coffee cup. “I’m all right,” she murmured.
“Are you?”
She glanced back at him and found him staring at her with a penetrating intensity. She couldn’t meet that gaze.
“Of course. The bolts are on the door. I’m sensible and I’m careful.”
“Well, be sure you are,” he muttered dryly. His gaze left her as he stared into the fire.
Suddenly he threw his cup into the fireplace, shattering it against the brick, sending the flames lapping and hissing to new heights. And then he was on his feet, very much the pagan lord, with the golden firelight playing over his shoulders and torso, his arms braced tautly across his chest. Kit had started violently at the sound of the cup crashing; now she saw the look on his face and dropped her own cup with a little cry, unable to move, unable to escape.
He walked over to her, pinning her in her chair as he leaned over to brace himself against it and stare into her eyes.
Sinister Intentions & Confiscated Conception Page 12