by Pamela Clare
She held it up for him to see, then read from the binding. “The Lives and Actions of the Most Notorious Irish Highwaymen.” She thumbed carefully through it. “Well, ’tis written in your tongue, but I can manage that.”
“I’d say you can.”
She met his gaze, flashed him an unguarded smile. Then her gaze focused on something to his right, and her brow furrowed. “What is that?”
“A globe.”
She put the book down, walked over to the orb, which was suspended on a stand that rose nearly to her waist. She reached out a hand, hesitated. “May I—”
“Yes, of course.”
She touched the surface, turned it slowly, frowned. “Where are we?”
Jamie walked over to stand beside her, turned the globe until England lay beneath his fingertips. “We are here. Outside London.”
“Then this is Éire.” She stood so close that he could smell the lavender soap she’d used in her bath, feel the warmth of her body.
“Aye. Dublin is here, which means Meath must be … here.”
“It’s so tiny! See how small Ireland is compared to the rest of the world?” She looked up at him, amazement in her eyes.
“The world is a vast place.” He wanted to touch her, run his fingers across the satin of her cheek.
“Where is Barbados?”
She was thinking of her father.
“Here.” Jamie turned the globe, pointed.
“So far away.” She reached down, touched the green shape, a speck in a vast blue sea. And for a moment, she fell silent. “Show me where you come from.”
Jamie traced his finger up the orb’s curve, until it found its way to the familiar coastline of Virginia and the Tidewater lands of Chesapeake Bay. “My estate is in Lancaster County, on the banks of the Rappahannock River. I was born there.”
She looked up at him again, rested a hand on his arm. “’Tis such a vast land.”
Her touch, so innocently given, was like a brand. Jamie could feel its heat through his clothing, through every part of his body. Suddenly, it all became so simple: He needed to kiss her, to taste her. Nothing—not even the voice in his mind that told him he was a fool—could stop him.
His gaze captured hers. He saw her pupils dilate, heard the breath catch in her throat, and knew she understood what he meant to do. He tucked finger beneath her chin, bent over her, and took her lips with his.
Chapter Twenty
Bríghid knew he was going to kiss her, did nothing to stop it. She felt the first tentative brush of his lips on hers, like the lick of flames. The raw pleasure of it made her whimper. What spell had he cast over her? She hated him, didn’t she?
Aye, she hated him. Despised him. Wanted him. Needed him.
Moved by a longing too strong to deny, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and lifted herself to meet him. His response was immediate. He pulled her hard against him, took her lips in a fierce kiss. And when his tongue sought entry, she gave it willingly, eager for that sweet invasion.
On the grass at Teagh-Mor, his mouth had tempted her, but now it possessed her, consumed her. She lost herself in the hot, wet slide of tongue over tongue, in the taste of him, in the feel of his hard body pressed against hers.
And hard he was. She could feel the rigid length of his sex against her belly. An image of his body, naked and powerful, leapt into her memory, and something deep inside her clenched. Not in fear, but in desire.
He broke the kiss, but not to free her. His eyes told her he would not free her. Not yet. “I like your hair down.”
She felt the fingers of one hand slide into her hair, remove the pins that bound it, felt the heavy mass tumble free.
He made a low, feral sound like a growl, fisted a hand in her tresses, pulled her head back. “You taste so good.”
She gasped, felt teeth and tongue rake her skin, a cascade of pleasure as he sucked, nipped, licked his way down the sensitive column of her throat. She clung to him, almost afraid of the way he made her feel, stunned by her own passion. This was so much better than being angry with him, so much better than not speaking to him.
Then his mouth strayed from her throat to the exposed mounds of her breasts where they rose above her gown, his lips hot against her surprised flesh as he kissed first one, then the other. She felt her insides quiver, her knees grow weak. “Jamie!”
Before she could object, he had borne her to the plush carpet and stretched himself out above her. She knew she should tell him to stop. She shouldn’t be doing this. Instead, she found herself twining her fingers in his hair, pressing his head closer, urging him on.
“Oh, God, Bríghid.” He cupped one breast, ran his thumb over her nipple through the silk of her gown, once, twice, again.
A shaft of pure pleasure shot from her where he had touched her to the heated flesh between her legs. Her nipple drew taut, tingled. She moaned, pressed her breast more fully against his hand. “Jamie, aye!”
“You are a banquet to a starving man.” His voice was rough with desire, his breath steamy against her skin. “I would taste more of you.”
Then he did something she never could have anticipated. His mouth closed over the sensitive peak of her nipple and suckled it through her gown.
She cried out, a wild, erotic sound. Ragged sensation tore through her, made her entire body tremble. The cleft between her thighs ached, grew wet, and for the first time in her life, she yearned to be filled. Her hips lifted of their own accord, pressed against him. He pressed back, his rigid length thrusting against her just there, just where she needed it most.
She knew she should put a stop to this. Why then was she moaning with pleasure as he grabbed her skirts in great fistfuls, lifted them, and caressed the bare flesh above her stockings? Why did she arch toward him when his mouth closed over the cloth covering her other nipple? Why was she running her hands beneath his shirt over the bare skin of his powerful shoulders?
Then his hand cupped the mound of her sex. No one had ever touched her there.
She drew her thighs together with a surprised squeak, but that didn’t stop him.
He began to move his hand in slow, agonizing circles, and she could no longer think or question. The shock of it, the delicious heat of it, made her body quake. A desperate yearning overcame her, part pleasure, part ache, as the heat between her legs became a raging blaze.
And that wild whimpering, that soft keening sound—could that possibly be coming from her?
“Let me bring you pleasure. Let me give you release, a Bhríghid. I’ll go no further. I promise.”
A Bhríghid. The Irish form of direct address. Where had he learned that? He’d heard Ruaidhrí say it, of course. Ruaidhrí. Her brothers.
Guilt slammed into her like an icy wave. Her brothers were in Ireland enduring God only knew what, while she lay on the floor practically making love with the Sasanach who had taken her from them.
“S-stop!” She pushed his hand away, twisted away from him, sat up, her skirts askew. “I can’t!”
Breath hissed from between his clenched teeth, a strained expression on his face as he fought to bring himself under control. He stood, helped her to her feet. His gaze met hers, his eyes dark with the same need that ran thick in her veins. “Cannot, or will not, Bríghid?”
She looked at the results of their ardor—rumpled clothing, his long hair loose about his shoulders, the darkened patches of silk where his kisses had made her gown wet. “With you, they are one and the same, Sasanach.”
For the briefest second, his eyes filled with pain before growing hard and cold as jade.
She turned toward the door and fled.
* * *
Finn lifted the oat bag over the gelding’s head, gave it a pat on the withers.
He knew he had to tell her. She deserved honesty at least. But how? He’d never been good at courting women—not that he’d had much practice at it. While other young men had chased girls like satyrs, he’d stayed home to help his father. He’d been eleve
n when his mother had died, had almost starved to death himself. The others had been so little, Bríghid and Ruaidhrí just babies. He’d been determined never to go hungry again, to help his father provide for their family, and had learned all he could about farming and raising livestock.
He could cure a cow of almost any sickness, geld an aggressive bull calf, help a ewe through a difficult birth. He knew when best to plant, when to harvest, when to leave the ground fallow. But speaking tender words to a woman—that was as far beyond him as the moon from the sea.
He wished for a moment he had Bríghid’s book. What would Don Bellianis say? Something flowery and poetic and pretty to female ears.
Finn took up another oat bag, hung it over the second gelding’s head. The two animals, purchased this morning, would haul them all the way to County Clare. Though Finn couldn’t say he was happy the iarla’s men had beat him senseless, two good things had come of it. Muirín had fussed over him, treating him with such tenderness that he’d found himself wishing he hadn’t recovered so quickly. But most of all, it convinced her of the need to flee. She hadn’t objected once since then—not when he’d sold the livestock, not when he’d bought the wagon, and not when he’d bought the team of bay geldings.
He’d gotten considerable help from Travis, the strange Sasanach man Blakewell had left behind to spy on them. Travis had found him unconscious in the snow and had dragged him indoors. Travis had done the heavy chores for the few days Finn remained abed and had then helped Finn track down buyers for the animals. He suppose he owed Travis—and Blakewell—his life, as he’d likely have frozen to death on the cold ground before Muirín had returned home.
She’d come home early to find her cabin torn apart and a strange Sasanach hovering over him. Her English was not as good as Finn’s, and it had taken Travis some time to convince her he didn’t work for the iarla and that he was not responsible for attacking Finn or destroying her home.
Poor Muirín. Finn knew the past weeks had taken a toll on her. Now she was faced with a long journey to a faraway place where she had no kin. But Finn wanted to change that. If she married him, she’d be part of his family with kin aplenty.
But how could he explain his feelings?
He could tell her the green of her eyes was like the blades of fresh browse that cattle fed on in springtime. But what woman wanted her eyes compared to grass? He could tell her that her face was as beautiful and delicate as a snowflake or a rainbow or the web of a spider covered with dew. But that sounded stupid, even to his ears. He could tell her that her breasts—
He’d better not say anything about her breasts.
Or her lips. Or the gentle curve of her hips. Or the fact that he hungered to kiss her, to touch her, to make her his. He felt himself grow hard at the very thought.
God, he was a bastard. She was a widow, a woman who had recently birthed and lost her only child, and all he could think of was bedding her. Every night he lay on his pallet aching for her, imagining everything he would do if he held her in his arms. Who was the satyr now?
He would not dishonor her. He’d made her a promise, and he would not break it.
There was only one thing to do.
Tonight, he would tell her the truth. He would make his intentions clear, and God willing, Muirín Ó Congalaig would soon be his wife.
Resolved, Finn finished his work in the dark, closed the door to the cowshed.
He walked back to the cabin, his brogues crunching against the snow. A few stars shone weakly in the darkened sky. Perhaps the sun would shine tomorrow.
Assailed by doubts, palms sweating, Finn opened the door to the cabin, entered its welcoming warmth. Travis had gone to Baronstown to post another letter to Blakewell and would likely not return until the morrow. Aidan was already asleep in the pallet, a blanket tucked under his chin.
Muirín stood by the table pouring a cup of tea. “You must be chilled to the bone.”
Finn was on fire, but didn’t say so. He hung his coat on its nail, accepted the mug, took a sip. “Thank you.” He sat at the table, tried to collect his courage, tried to find the words.
But just as he opened his mouth to speak, she disappeared behind her curtain. He was too late. Curse his slow tongue!
He sat in frustrated silence, furious with himself, and listened to the soft swish of clothing as she undressed for bed. He forced his gaze away from her curtain and onto the burning peat in the hearth.
He burned, too. Ached. Never had he wanted a woman the way he wanted Muirín. Aye, he’d felt desire before, but never had it ruled his every thought. He’d always been able to control his response, to turn his mind down other paths. But no longer. His need for Muirín felt reckless, violent, beyond reason.
His pain grew worse at the sound of the brush as she drew it through her long, honey-colored hair, stroke after stroke. He hadn’t seen her hair since she’d wed Domhnall, save a stray strand here and there. But he knew it would feel soft in his hands, like the silk of a horse’s muzzle. He took another sip of tea, tried to banish the image of himself running his fingers through her long, glistening strands.
“Finn.”
He looked up, forgot to breathe.
She stood before him, hair unbound, dressed only in her nightshift. Like an angel she was, a vision of paradise.
“Muirín.” He rose to his feet, helpless as his gaze traveled over her, drank her in. Her golden hair hung in waves to her hips, glistened in the firelight. Her bare arms were pale and slender. Her breasts, their crests visible through the worn white linen of her gown, were full and round. Her ankles and bare feet were delicate, tiny.
Blood pounded through his veins, his heart a hammer in his chest. He felt heat rush to his groin, felt his breeches grow tight. God almighty, he wanted her. Now.
Muirín felt the heat of his perusal, saw his eyes darken with the same emotion that burned in her. She knew she was being forward, but she feared unless she did something, Finn would never touch her. He’d promised not to dishonor her, and he’d been irritatingly true to his word. It had only made her love him, want him, all the more. And want him she did. Her body was healed from the travail of childbirth and hungered for his touch.
As his gaze swept her, she found it hard to breathe, and she wondered for a frightful instant if he would find her wanton and reject her.
He took a step toward her. “Muirín, I—”
“Finn—”
They spoke at the same time, stopped.
She gazed into his eyes as a charged silence stretched between them.
“’Tis lovely you are, Muirín, the fairest sight that e’er I’ve seen. I apologize, for I fear I cannot keep my eyes from you.”
“Finn, I—”
“Please, Muirín, forgive me, but I’ve somethin’ to say. Words do not come easily to me. If I don’t say it now, I might never get it out.” His brow furrowed, he drew one step closer. “I know you’ve suffered grief. I’ve no wish to intrude upon your sorrow, but … I’m a simple man, Muirín, so I’ll just speak my piece. I’ve got feelings for you—the kind of feelings a man has for a wife. I would count myself the luckiest and happiest of men if I could but see your face when I rise each mornin’ and when I fall asleep at night.”
Muirín felt as if her heart had grown wings. She hadn’t dared to hope for this. “Are you askin’ me to marry you?”
“Aye, I am. And as soon as possible, as I don’t know how much longer I can resist my desire for you.” The look in his eyes was one of deep sincerity, mingled with pain.
She crossed the distance between them, placed her hand on his broad chest, felt his heart leap beneath her palm. “I have feelings for you, too. I would count myself the luckiest of women if you would take me to wife. And if you don’t make love to me tonight, I shall die for want of you.”
A low sound like a groan escaped him. “Make love to you? I’m afraid to touch you. You’re so … small. What if I should hurt you in my clumsiness? I’ve ne’er held a woman before.
I’ve ne’er … ”
Muirín couldn’t help but smile. She should have known a man like Finn would approach his marriage bed untouched. “You could never hurt me, Finn.” She took his hand, so large and calloused compared to hers, and held it to her cheek.
“Should we not wait for the priest?” His thumb traced her lips.
“There is no priest.”
For an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, he looked into her eyes. Then with a groan, he pulled her against him and lowered his lips to hers.
* * *
Ruaidhrí tossed another brick of peat on the small fire he’d built, warmed his fingers. He’d learned what he needed to know today. By this time tomorrow, he’d be well on his way to Dublin and, from there, London.
Ruaidhrí looked about at the familiar walls of the little squatters cabin. The place seemed terribly lonely without Bríghid. Still, it would be a blessing to sleep on a pallet in the shelter of a real cabin again. He’d spent enough nights in bowers and cowsheds to last him the rest of his life.
He knew the iarla’s men had been here. He’d seen the dogs’ paw prints, the hooves of a dozen horses carved into the icy snow. Blakewell had been right about that—God curse him for a lying bastard otherwise.
But surely the cabin was safe with the iarla back in England.
Ruaidhrí sat at the wooden table, pulled food from his knapsack, bit hungrily into a brick of cheese. He hadn’t eaten since this morning, and his stomach was fair aching from lack. Fortunately, Blakewell’s coin was plentiful and would supply anything he needed—food, shelter, passage to London.
He’d thought about staying at an inn, but he didn’t want Finn to hear about it. He was supposed to be on his way to Clare, not sneaking about the countryside in Meath. He knew Finn would be angry with him, but there was no other way.
The iarla had threatened their sister, had kidnapped her and given her to a man to be used and defiled. He had threatened them all. He had killed a priest. He didn’t deserve to live. If British law couldn’t bring him to justice, Ruaidhrí would.