Ignoring her suffering, he slipped the paddle beneath the round loaf, pulling the fresh-baked bread from the oven onto a wooden platter before replacing the paddle beside the brick hearth.
“Thank you,” she said, busying herself with a coarse brush and a little dish of melted butter. “Will you not take it home for your dinner tonight?”
There was a pause, where only his breath, ragged and fevered, could be heard. Won’t you invite me to stay? She heard his silent question, but did not look up from the golden butter that trickled over the top of the freshly baked loaf.
“I made some stew that would go well with it. ’Tis cold today, and you’ve worked all day long outside. It’s the least I could do in payment for all your hard work.”
Swallowing hard, she evaded his gaze, which she knew would be narrowed at her. He did not want her charity. He would not take a pence from her, even though he had repaired the neglected cottage and seen to the winter preparations. Her root cellar was full of potatoes and turnips, carrots and onions. The larder full of flour, butter and eggs. The woodshed was stocked with thick dry logs that would see her warm the winter through.
He had seen to her home, her safety, her comfort. But she dared not pay him with anything other than a full belly and conversation.
As she suspected, he said nothing as he walked past her and started stacking the logs in a pile beside the hearth. On the glowing embers, he tossed two thick logs and stirred the coals, the dry wood catching, the flames crackling, licking their way up the chimney.
From beneath her lashes, Sinead watched him, bent on his haunches, his muscular back rolling beneath the thin long-sleeved cambric shirt. His black hair, long and untamed, grazed his broad shoulders as they moved fluidly with his movements.
Kieran Thompson was as wild and black as the meaning behind his Gaelic name. Dark and quiet. Mysterious and dangerous. He was the first man since David who made her burn. The only man who had awakened the darker sexual needs inside her.
With David she had been a curious virgin, an inexperienced but eager lover. With Kieran, she would be a woman, not afraid to ask for what she wanted, nor afraid to take when offered. She would not blush at the sharing of her body with another, but indulge in the passion and pleasure to be found.
And there would be passion, and much pleasure, with Kieran, of that she was certain.
Except, to take what he offered would be a betrayal to David. To the vows she had said with such fervor. And yet, she knew her David was not coming back to her.
Needing to free her mind, Sinead reached around her waist and untied her apron, then laid it on the worn worktable. Crossing the small kitchen, she stood before the window that faced the forest. The trees were heavy with snow, the sun now below the horizon, casting gray and black shadows over the earth. The windowpanes were ice covered, streaked with fernlike lines of frosted snowflakes. Reaching out, she traced the path of one line, only to have a dark hand placed overtop hers. Slowly, Kieran’s forefinger traced her fingers, one by one, then slipped down to her hand, where he traced the delicate blue veins beneath her pale skin.
For several long seconds, she closed her eyes, savoring the gentle, erotic play of his hand on hers. His finger was callused, rough, yet masculine and strong. She thought of those hands touching her more intimately, and she whimpered when she felt his finger slip to her wrist where he drew tiny circles over her bounding pulse.
Greedily, she accepted his touch, absorbed it, clutching the memory for safekeeping where she could relive this moment night after night.
“You grow more lovely day after day. You intoxicate me until I cannot think of anything other than you.”
“Please don’t—”
“I see it in your eyes. You want this. You’ve wanted it to happen since that first day I came to the cottage.”
She shook her head, denying the truth.
“I’ve wanted it, Sinead, your body, your warmth. I’ve dreamed of having you, dominating you, making you mine.”
“Do you know what they say about me in the village?” she asked, her voice sounding breathless.
His head dropped down beside hers. She heard him inhale deeply of her hair, then felt his chin brush her unbound hair. “Aye, I know what they call you. Witch. You enticed your husband, the second son of a noble family, with little more than a wicked spell and the promise of your luscious body. You made him give up everything for you, his family, his fortune, his friends, in order to have you as his wife.” Lips, warm and strong caressed the column of her throat in the softest of invitations. “Black widow,” he continued, “for they believe that after lying with you, you cast another spell to kill him. They say it was not the battle in the Crimea that saw to your husband’s demise, but the spell of your body and your cursed love. They say you draw unsuspecting men into your sensual web where you seduce them, break them…fuck them,” he whispered darkly.
She shivered. He was coarse, yet her body responded as never before. Between her thighs she was wet, with just the sound of his voice whispered huskily in her ear. What if he were to touch her? What havoc he would cause inside her body, her soul.
“They say that while in the glimmer of ecstasy you enchant these men, you take their lives—the cost of sampling your abundant charms and sensual mystery.”
“And are you not worried that you may turn out to be my next prey?”
“I do not believe in idle village gossip, nor the hurtful words of women who are filled with jealousy and intent on ruining the reputation of a good woman. And if it were indeed, true, that you are a merciless black widow who can cast spells and enchantments, I would risk it, just for a chance to share one night inside your body.”
“You would give up your life, to…to—”
“Take you?” he asked. “What other kind of death could a man wish for, Sinead, than to die between the thighs of the woman he has waited for so patiently? Do you want that, Sinead?” he asked in a dark whisper that caressed her neck. “Me between your thighs fucking you?”
Rubbing her finger along the worn wedding band, she strove to put out of her mind the image of Kieran taking her hard. “I cannot. You must know why.”
“How much longer will you deny yourself the pleasure you crave?” His breath was moist against her ear, the words warming her blood like the finest wine. “How much longer will you go on wanting, yearning? Outside, the world goes on around you, yet you continue to live inside this cottage, dying a little bit more day after day, letting the idiot talk of villagers keep you prisoner inside this house—inside this body made for loving and passion. This body made for me.”
“No!” Shaking her head, she tried to pull her hand away from his, but he held her tighter, entwining his fingers with hers, clutching her tight as he pressed his chest firmly into her back.
“How long, Sinead? How long since you’ve felt the touch of a man? How many times have you thought of my hands on you, caressing you? How many times have you touched yourself, dreaming it was me?”
“You mustn’t say such things.”
“Why? Because it makes your cunt weep?”
“Kieran!” she cried, grasping his wrist as he palmed her sex through her skirts. She moaned as he cupped her, and instead of halting his fingers, she shoved his hand farther between her thighs so that his large palm was covering her mons.
“How many times, Sinead, have you looked at my mouth and wondered what it would feel like moving over your quim? How many times have you thought of my tongue flicking over your clitoris, wondering how it would feel, wondering if I could pleasure you like no other lover you’ve ever had.” His hand reached deeper between her thighs and despite the layers of her skirt and petticoats she felt him knead her sex. “Do you wonder at nights when you are alone in your bed with your fingers filling your empty quim, if I could take you places you never thought to go, or make you do things you’ve never thought of, heard of…or seen? Have you ever dreamed of just letting go?”
She could not adm
it to anything, could not indulge in this attraction to Kieran. She was a widow who had loved her husband, but that was not the only thing holding her back from accepting what Kieran so blatantly offered. It was Kieran himself. His position, as the officer of her husband; his age, seven years her junior. It was the dangerous sensuality lurking so close to his surface that frightened her. Not frightened her in the sense that he would hurt her or force her, but rather, the sense that he might be able to bring forth the secret desires she carefully kept buried within her.
On so many levels he was wrong for her. Yet, on many others, he was so right.
“I wonder,” he whispered as his lips nuzzled the shell of her ear, “how many times we have sat politely across from each other at the table in this very cottage, eating dinner, while mentally undressing the other and dreaming of fucking on that table. Just this morning, Sinead, I thought of laying you down, lifting your skirts and tasting your cunt.”
Her legs weakened and she reflexively softened against him. David had never spoken in such a way.
“Why do you deny yourself?” he asked, rubbing his hand overtop her skirt, pressing the heel of his hand into her mons, kneading her in a slow but commanding rhythm, so that she could do nothing but respond with a sigh, and the trembling of her fingers against his wrist, which no longer knew what to do—hold him there or shove him away.
“He is not coming back, Sinead. He is dead. But you are not. You’re still very much alive.”
“Don’t…don’t speak that way—”
He didn’t let her finish, but turned her around and brought her hard up against the wall, cupping her face and holding her for his kiss. He did not wait for her acceptance, but took what he wanted.
Sinead stiffened as he plunged his tongue between her lips. Shock, memory, the softening of assent. With a flick of her tongue against his, the kiss turned carnal and hard—desperate. She was clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into his back. His hands were in her hair, tugging pins free, then they were gliding down her throat, his thumbs stroking the cords in her neck as his mouth moved greedily over hers, his tongue plunging deeper, demanding that she give him everything she fought to hold back.
Never had she felt more sensual and beautiful—womanly—than at this moment, pressed up against the wall, pinned by Kieran’s body as his hands awakened her dormant body.
So long…it had been so long since she’d been touched, and she was starved for it. Yet it had never felt this way. This raw. This savage.
His hands were everywhere, traversing her body with skill and familiarity, making her pant and press into him, searching for more. He answered her, shoving his hips into her belly where she felt the hard outline of his sex through the rough woolen trousers he wore. She groaned into his mouth, clutching him tighter, allowing her nails to score down his broad back.
Tearing his mouth from hers, he reached for her bodice, pulling the string until the ruched cotton gaped open, exposing her worn corset. He tore at it, ripping it in half so that her breasts spilled out into his hands, and his face was immediately buried between them, his tongue licking a hot trail to her nipple where he flicked the sensitive tip, making her cry out.
“Kieran, God, yes,” she cried, grasping handfuls of his onyx-colored hair, as he suckled her nipple hard between his lips. Cupping both her breasts, he lifted them to his lips, hungrily taking her into his mouth. With her head resting against the wall, she watched him, his tongue laving her, his white teeth gently tugging at her nipples, making them turgid, until they yearned for rougher play. Knowing what she wanted, he took a nipple and bit teasingly, sending her womb aching. Her hand flew to her belly.
“Are you wet?” he asked, releasing her breasts. His eyes were black, the pupils indistinguishable, the depths fathomless. “Sinead? Are you wet for me?”
Immobile, she could do nothing but hold his gaze as his hands worked beneath her skirt and petticoats, raising them until she could feel his fingers on her thighs, gliding up her serviceable stockings, to her garters where her sex was wet and ready—for his hands and mouth and the large phallus she felt pushing insistently into her belly.
When his hand finally cupped her through the slit in her drawers, she gasped and reached out for the curtain, holding tight when her legs threatened to abandon her. She waited for his touch while he watched her as he toyed with her—teasing her. She was trembling, nearly begging, but he saved a measure of humility by stroking her, parting her sex with one controlling stroke.
His touch was like the heat from the fire on cold fingers. It stung yet felt so wonderful. She arched up, inviting him further and he grinned, slipping his finger between her folds, teasingly stroking her in circles around her sex.
“Is this where you want me?” He filled her, not with one finger, but two, in a swift, possessive thrust. The invasion of him in her body, the way he did not gingerly test her with one finger made her quim wetter, arousing her until all she could hear was the heavy drum of blood in her ears. When he felt the wetness flow between his fingers, he gave her one more of his callused fingers and she gasped, clutching wildly at the curtain.
Sinead turned to see her hand, white knuckled, gripping the linen drapery, the gold band glinting in the firelight—a reminder, a symbol, a mockery of what she was doing.
“Don’t,” she whispered, shoving him away. When he looked up at her, she turned from him, trying to gather her corset to cover her breasts. Her back was to him, and she heard him, breathing in harsh, short pants as if he had been running.
His hands wrapped around her shoulders, and his lips found her ear. “He is dead, Sinead. There is no question about that. The only question that remains is, when will you begin living once again?”
2
DAVID PEMBROOKE’S FACE SWAM BEHIND KIERAN’S closed lids. The last person he wished to see was his old lieutenant, the husband of the woman he had loved for so long. How could he dream of Pembrooke when the scent of his wife’s sex lingered on his fingers? When his body was coiled so tightly from unspent lust?
Groaning, Kieran rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow, trying to smother the memories flooding his mind. Those days were better left dead and buried. Sometimes he was haunted by the sound of the guns, sometimes the wails of dying men. Sometimes, like tonight, it was the day that fate had finally come to visit him.
He drifted off like that, his face covered in the crisp white cotton pillow slip; only, when he entered the realm of sleep he was no longer in his cottage, but someplace else. Hell. He did not want to go back there, but the dream called him forth, and unable to escape, he followed where the vision led…
Burying his face deep into the coarse woolen collar of his coat, Kieran fought the bone-racking chill that had settled deep in his marrow. Like the crisp, white frost on the ground, the cold blanketed him, penetrating flesh and bone, slowing his blood. Teeth chattering uncontrollably, he locked his jaw, conserving every bit of energy he possessed for the task he knew lay ahead of him.
But it was cold. So cold.
His boots were sodden, soaked with melted snow and caked with mud. He could no longer feel his toes. A blessing that, since he’d developed the painful condition of trench foot days before. Better to be numb by frostbite than to feel the flesh slowly being eaten away from his toes and heels.
Next would be trench mouth, and God help him, dysentery. Or worse, cholera. With winter approaching, the cold would halt the spread of disease through the encampment. But then, the cold brought with it its own set of evils.
He did not relish the idea of freezing to death in this dark and muddy hole he’d been forced to live in.
The wind picked up, howling over their heads, the hilled earth at least protecting them from the biting wind—a small favor from heaven. But only a small reprieve, for it had begun to snow again. It wasn’t the light dusting of flurries of a week ago, but the heavy stuff of winter in Balaklava.
Body trembling, belly growling, he sought to find
a place within himself that the elements could not reach. He was dying. He knew that. Slowly. Painfully. He and the others would not survive the winter if clothing and rations did not make their way to them. But the much-needed supplies would never reach them if they did not dispose of the Cossack army that was lying in wait for them across the field.
Fingers numb, Kieran snaked them deeper into the frayed, muddy cuffs of his overcoat. No longer able to hold his gun, he put it between his legs, letting his head rest against the barrel, wondering if it would not be better to pull the trigger and be done with it.
He had slept this way more nights than he could recall. In the beginning he had kept track of the days and nights with a scratch on the wooden gun shaft. He no longer continued to count, for the days all blended into a number that seemed infinite.
The metal barrel was cold against his dirty brow, and his hair was hanging in icy clumps against his forehead and neck. Yet despite the discomfort, exhaustion won out, and he allowed his eyelids to drop, letting his guard down only enough to doze. Sleep.
He wanted to sleep in a warm, soft bed, his belly full, a roaring fire in the hearth, a woman in his arms, her body warming his. Instead, he was in a waterlogged trench in the midst of the Crimean War, freezing and starving, surrounded by corpses in various states of decomposition.
Nothing went to waste in war. Not even dead bodies. With the coming of winter, everything would be frozen, and so too would the bodies, which would be used to provide shelter from the blind artillery fire that came at them nightly. Like the shields of the knights of old, the bodies were their defense, blocking enemy bullets that rained down on them like the arrows of hundreds of archers.
They had all pledged their bodies to one another to use in any way that might aid their cause. And while there was acceptance for what was needed, the horror as they banked the sides of the trenches with the bodies of their comrades so that they would absorb the Russian gunfire still sickened each and every one of them.
Winter’s Desire Page 12