Warrior's Bride

by Gerri Russell

  She skimmed her hands up his chest. His heart thundered beneath her palm, contradicting the slow intoxication of his kiss.

  He made a sound, low and deep—a groan or laughter, she could not be certain—as his lips worked their way down her throat. His mouth against her flesh touched a note inside her, resonating, filling her with vibrations of heat and pleasure. He pulled back to loop a tendril of hair that had fallen over her shoulder about his finger.

  He worked the strands of her hair with his thumb and fingers, caressing the fibers with the same gentleness he'd lavished on her skin. "Your hair is beautiful." His fingers moved higher and higher until he caressed the nape of her neck.

  Madness. Passionate madness. Her body pulsed, then ached where his touch met her skin. Startled by her thoughts, she pulled back, then stood. "I must go." Her voice shook, as did her limbs.

  He came off the bed to stand somewhat unsteadily beside her. "Where will you go to escape this, Isobel? Am I not your husband? Are you not my wife?" He reached for her and brought her up against his chest.

  "You should stay off your leg."

  "I feel no pain now." He drew her toward him. She let herself be trapped as his lips found her neck, trailing kisses along the length down to her shoulder, and lower to the rise of her breasts.

  She arched her neck, allowing her head to fall back ever so slightly at the riotous sensations he brought forth. Near him, in his arms, she felt wantonly bared, yet free, as if nothing but sensation stood between them. No lies, no deceit. Just one exquisite sensation chased by another, pooling deep inside her core as if preparing for something more.

  And she knew what that something more would be. He'd said it himself. She was his wife. The reality of her situation seemed suddenly clear and the turmoil of doubts inside her shifted to a trembling, aching need.

  "Nothing else has to exist for us right now except each other. A man and a woman in need of forgetfulness." He reached behind her and released the ties that pulled her gown tight against her chest. She drew a startled breath as he then pulled the garment up over her head, leaving her dressed in the sheer fabric of her shift that skimmed against her skin with the lightness of a lover's caress.

  Wolf took a step back, but only far enough to draw his fine linen nightshirt off and toss it to the floor. She stared at him in helpless fascination. The dark hair thatching his chest looked soft and springy, and she felt a tingling in her hands. She wanted to touch him, to run her fingers through the downy softness she was certain she would find there, to explore the powerful muscles cording his chest and shoulders.

  "Can you forget about everything that stands between us and just allow yourself to feel?"

  She forgot everything as her gaze traveled down his chest to the tightness of his muscular abdomen, then down . ..

  He stood naked before her, with his legs apart, blatantly aroused, the very essence of bold masculinity. She could not pull her gaze away, nor could she fill her lungs with air.

  "What do you feel when you look at me?" he asked, his voice filled with as much vulnerability as there was confidence.

  "Everything I should not." There was only chaos in what she felt. She was hot and dizzy and confused and excited. He had chosen her over Fiona.

  "Come to me."

  Only one step separated them, she would not have to go far, and still she hesitated. There would be no turning back if she took that one step. Had her mother not warned her of the insanity that would follow?

  He took her right hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed her palm, his gaze never leaving hers. "I need you."

  The simple words brought forth a sudden surge of tenderness that swept away the last of her reserve. Insanity seemed but a small price to pay for the pleasure that awaited.

  She took a step forward. His arms came about her. Then the shift covering her body was gone, tossed aside along with his garments. Her nipples brushed the hair on his chest. She gasped at the sensation. His hands moved to her shoulders, her arms, her back, kneading her with a yearning tenderness, and an unbearable tension gripped her body.

  In the next moment, he cradled her in his arms and gently nestled her onto the bed. He followed her down until he half-lay, half-knelt beside her. Before she had a chance to feel frightened, his lips found hers. Mind-numbing sensations flowed through her, making her long for things she did not yet understand.

  His hands caressed her leg, her thigh, her midriff, and she lay open and exposed as she never had before. Only here, in his arms, she did not feel vulnerable. Instead she felt free—freed from the constraints that always had tethered her in place. Did he feel that way too? Was that why he had asked her to forget all else but this moment? So that he could find a moment of freedom from his oppressive responsibilities? And she could find freedom from her past?

  Morning air rushed against her flesh, cooling her only briefly before the warmth of his hands covered her, warmed her, pulled her toward something more. She watched his face, watched the tensions ease from the corners of his eyes, yet another type of tautness took its place.

  Bravely, she reached out and touched his chest. Her fingers coiled through the matting of hair she'd so ached to touch before. Her tentative exploration was met with a quick intake of breath, followed by a sound of pure pleasure. A groan, a sigh, a curse, a prayer, she could not tell precisely which.

  His reaction spurred her to trace the outline of his hair down across his smooth abdomen, down further as the edges narrowed to a She paused, suddenly afraid to follow the hairline where it dipped closer to his manhood.

  "You may touch me where you like, Isobel."

  Could she be so bold?

  "Between us, like this, there are no rules but pleasure. There is nothing to fear."

  She drew her fingers back, hesitant.

  He gave her a wicked smile. "Let me show you."

  His hands skimmed across her waist, her abdomen. Where he touched, her body trembled, responding to him in a way she never imagined she could. He gave her no time for embarrassment. Nay, as his hands stroked her she could feel all reserve melt away, igniting a strange burning sensation between her thighs. As though reading her thoughts, his hand slid down her abdomen to the thatch of curls surrounding her womanhood. His fingers caressed, stroked, rubbing back and forth at the very entrance of her body.

  She closed her eyes, arching up against his hand, wanting more, craving more, and yet she knew not what she searched for. Sensation after bewildering sensation tore through her as his fingers slipped inside the soft folds of her flesh. Her eyes flew open and she gave a little cry. She clutched at his hand, suddenly afraid. "It hurts," she said, not knowing how else to describe what she felt.

  He eased back but did not pull his hand away. "Describe what you feel." He gently, slowly entered her again. "What does this make you feel?"

  She released his hand and relaxed, allowing the unfamiliar sensations to flow through her. "I feel warm. And I ache."

  "So do I, my dear. That's how pleasure starts. A slow, sweet ache that builds to so much more." His fingers delved deeper, his palm continuing his rhythmic caress.

  Unbelievable ripples of feeling spread through every part of her body, intensifying that ache, shifting it to desire—desire that tore through her reserve and made her bold. She pressed against him, and the movement brought his fingers deeper inside. She shuddered and cried out—for what, she did not know. Something threatened out there on the edge of nothingness, something she wanted but didn't know how to reach.

  The thought had barely formed when satisfaction exploded within her, bringing with it wave after wave of pure, physical rapture. She arched against him, until the waves of sensation settled, calmed. His hand moved to gently stroke her thighs.

  Weak and shaken by overwhelming sensations, she watched him. Light from the room spread across his hard body, bathing him in hues of red and gold from the colored glass above. Her eyes riveted on his chest, which rose and fell with each ragged breath as though he, too
, had experienced what he'd given to her. And yet tension lay there in his muscles as well. She reached up to touch his chest. His skin was damp and hot beneath her touch. His muscles tightened reflexively as she trailed her fingers down, down, until she stopped a finger's reach from his rampant arousal. Desire, so recently sated, pooled again, flooding her body with need.

  "There is more if you are willing," he said as his gaze followed her own.

  His voice was low, ragged, and filled with as much unbridled hope as raw vulnerability. Something inside her responded, flared, opened to new possibilities. Her hand cupped his cheek. He leaned into her touch, and a soft groan escaped his lips. A moment later his lips replaced his cheek, and he trailed kisses against her palm and down the length of her arm. "Unspoiled and pure," he murmured against her flesh.

  She had no time to consider his words as he pressed her against the bed and moved between her thighs. His arousal nudged provocatively against the center of her womanhood. She gasped at the sensation and at the desire that flared so quickly inside her once more.

  She reached up and pulled his head down to hers, capturing his lips in a hungry kiss. His hands moved down her shoulders, trembling as they moved across her flesh, urgent with a passionate need.

  She arched against him in response to his touch. Tension coiled his muscles. A satisfied possessiveness flared in his dark gaze as he lowered his head once more and took the hard nub of her nipple deep into his mouth. He nipped and licked with deliberate slowness, playing with one nub and then the other until her body shook with need.

  Her senses swirled and a heady intensity filled her. She wanted more. "Wolf—" was all she could say, unable to put into words what she felt deep in the center of her being.

  His mouth once again found hers, sweet, urgent, and tender. Not breaking the kiss, he lifted her hips, bringing his manhood to the center of her being, poised for entrance, yet he held himself back.

  "I want you," he breathed against her lips, sounding like a man in agony.

  A rush of tenderness merged with her own desire, and she knew he waited for her to show her consent. She arched against him, wanting to be absorbed into his hard body, to join with him in this most intimate of ways, to burn with the same passion that hitched his breath in his throat.

  On a groan, he pushed into her.

  Pain tore through her, hot and swift. Her cry was smothered by his kiss as he eased farther inside her, then paused, poised above her as though he were afraid to move forward or back.

  Beads of sweat gleamed on his shoulders and chest. His hair fell across his brow, wild and untamed, yet he was no beast. Not now. He was only a man, mortal, exquisite, and joined with her.

  She clamped her fingers around his arms, realizing she did not want to let him go. The thought filled her with wonder as the pain faded and she became aware only of a deep, rigid fullness.

  His palms cupped her buttocks and held her against him, almost as though refusing to allow her retreat .Yet he waited, his gaze on her, his breathing ragged.

  "I..." She tried to convey what she felt deep inside. "I... want you."

  He released a low groan deep in his throat. He drew out and plunged forward. A hot shiver rippled across her flesh. He moved with raw, blinding sensuality, driving deeper and deeper, building that frantic urgency within her again.

  He rocked her back and forth with each driving thrust and she reached to meet him, giving back what he tried to give her. Then it happened. A jolt of sensation blossomed, then ruptured, spilling over in wave after wave of pleasure. She tightened her legs around his hips and arched up. He thrust against her, accepting what she offered until a deep, body-wrenching shudder moved through him as his own pleasure peaked, then soared.

  Silence settled over the room as he settled onto the bed beside her. His head rested against her shoulder while his hand continued to caress her abdomen, her ribs, her chest. "Sleep now," he murmured against her ear. His breath was warm, soothing.

  Izzy sighed, utterly content. Gradually, her breathing slowed, and she could feel the tension ease from her body. Lush with the unfamiliar sensation of satisfaction, she drifted, allowing her mind to wander. In Wolf's arms, time and memory had no meaning. All that mattered was the fullness, the completion they'd just shared.

  Her mind drifted, thoughts flitted through, disjointed, abstract, but no trace of insanity threatened. Izzy allowed herself a satisfied smile. Her mother had been wrong about joining with a man. Her mother had been wrong about many things.

  Izzy's hand crept up to touch the necklace still fastened about her neck. Her fingers found the Stone, and she brushed her thumb over the polished surface. Perhaps it was possible to forget all the things that had brought them together, all the secrets that remained untold, and just live in the moment as he had encouraged her to do—to live a life of make-believe.

  He looped his forearm about her waist, pulling her tight against his warm, solid body. She'd had enough of nightmarish times during her life in the tower and on the isle with the MacDonalds. Maybe this man and this life was her reward for those turbulent times. Or was this just a small respite from an even greater danger that threatened?

  The thought had no sooner formed when a flash of white light darted through her mind. Her grip tightened on the Stone. She tried to pull her fingers away but instead found herself clinging to the necklace all the harder. The white light faded and a swirling vortex took its place. A vision filled her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  A splash of red appeared in Isobel's mind, followed by another splash of green, purple, and gold. Exotic colon blended together, twisting and turning. She tried to block the images, tried to fight the all-consuming power over her thoughts the images held.

  She tensed and clenched her hands, her fists, every muscle tightened, but it was no use. The vision invaded until a clear image filled her mind's eye. She saw herself standing at a river's edge. Dirty brown water raged at her feet. White-tipped waves sprayed her with a fine mist. She wore her old ragged gown, the one Mistress Rowley had burned. The dress hung loose about her shoulders. What remained of the thin, wet fabric hung in loose strips that fell to her feet.

  Behind her sat a wolf—the same wolf from her earlier vision, only this time his leg was healed. He watched her from a distance. His eyes were dark and as impenetrable as a sheet of ice on a cold winter's eve.

  A chill invaded her. She tried to wrap her arms about her waist in an effort to retain what little heat remained inside her, but something pulled against her wrists. She tugged, harder this time, only to find her wrists were bound by manacles—-just like the ones she had worn for years in the tower on the isle.

  Water touched her bare toes. She flinched back, only to find herself surrounded by the current. The water tugged at her calves, then her knees. She tried to move, but her feet held fast, as if frozen by some force outside herself.

  A rush of panic filled her. She looked back to where the beast sat. A shout left her lips, but her plea for help was carried away by the sound of the rushing water that now reached her waist.

  The beast's features hardened and he loped away. Secrets have a way of coming out. The knowledge of who you are will destroy you, destroy us, a voice echoed all around her.

  Confusion mixed with panic. The water seemed to rise higher and higher with each breath she drew. The current tugged at her flesh, brutal, unforgiving. It covered her head, pulling her down in its depths toward darkness, toward death. She had to get out. She had to live.

  "Isobel." A voice broke through the darkness. "Isobel!"

  "I am Isobel," she repeated to herself, trying to keep hold of herself and her reality. Something pushed at her arms. Her mind cleared. She sat up on Wolf’s bed, clutched in his arms. "What... what happened?"

  "I do not know," Wolf said, a frown darkening his face. "One moment you were here with me, the next you seemed miles away. You had a vision, didn't you?"

  Isobel gazed hazily about the room, trying to gai
n control over the frantic beating of her heart. The water was gone. The chamber was bathed in muted light that filtered in through the stained glass windows. Dizzying relief soared through her, yet confusion lingered as well. "I have no wish for these skills."

  Wolf reached for her necklace. "This Stone looks like Brahan's, except that the image carved onto its face is different, more rounded."

  She might not want to be a seer, but she'd had another vision. That much she could not deny. And what did this vision tell her? That to continue her life as a lie would only end in death?

  She shivered, not from Wolf’s touch against her naked flesh, but from a chill that radiated deep from within her core. So cold. Had she ever been this cold?

  He held her close against his bare chest, and she let him, not wanting to release the warmth and safety he offered. When she shivered against his shoulder, he pulled back and moved from the bed. He limped across the room to a short wooden chest and withdrew a fresh shirt and breeches for himself, then retrieved her shift and gown from the floor before returning to the bed. He draped the garments over her head and settled them around her body before he sat beside her once more. His gaze fixed on her face. "Are you warmer now?"

  "Nay," she said truthfully. "This chill is worse than after my last..."

  "Vision," he finished her sentence for her.

  She cringed at the word. To acknowledge that she had visions meant she had to believe that what she saw could come true. He had asked her to withhold the truth from him. If she continued to do so, did that mean she would die?

  There had to be another choice, something she didn't take into account. He brought his hand up to caress her shoulder, and she could feel the warmth of his flesh through the fabric of her gown. And still she shivered. Her body ached with a bone-chilling cold. Perhaps if she weren't so cold she might be able to think of something else, but her brain felt sluggish, incapable of rational thought.

  Wolf's expression grew troubled. "When Brahan has a vision an increasing section of his hair turns white. Perhaps the same thing happens to you, except your sacrifice is your body's heat." Wolf tugged one of the blankets from the bed and wrapped it about her shoulders.