Wild Angel

by Miriam Minger

  "I . . . I can’t get the damned thing untied," she finally said after a moment’s flustered fumbling. Ronan’s hands replaced hers to see the matter quickly done.

  "Dare you finish the job?" he taunted, taking another moment to seize her and ravage her lips before allowing her to answer.

  Triona felt as if her head were spinning after that kiss, but somehow she managed to nod. And that wasn’t all she managed, hooking her fingers inside the waist of his trousers and then tugging the sodden garment downward over his lean hips . . . yet slowly just to tease him.

  "Woman . . ."

  "Sshh," she bade him, dropping to one knee as she continued to tug.

  Her heart began to slam against her breast as more and more of that seductive line of hair was revealed, and she couldn’t resist leaning forward and tracing it with her tongue. At once Ronan caught her by the shoulders, his voice gone hoarse.

  "Enough, Triona. I will finish the undressing."

  "Why?" she asked honestly, surprised that he’d made her stop. "Have I displeased you?"

  He groaned, shaking his head as he looked down at her. "You please me too much. Your boldness—"

  "Is a thing of love, Ronan." Suddenly very much aware of her seductive hold upon him, Triona gave another small tug to his trousers. "You challenged me to a task, did you not?"

  "Aye."

  "Then I would like to finish it."

  He exhaled brokenly, but offered no further resistance as Triona resumed stripping the wet garment from his body although in truth, her face couldn’t have been burning any hotter. Especially when that tempting streak of hair became a midnight thatch, her breath jamming in her throat when his thick swollen flesh finally sprang free.

  "Triona . . ."

  Again Ronan took her by the shoulders, his hands shaking as she instinctively reached out to stroke him.

  Her hands were trembling, too, a flush racing from her scalp to her toes that she could be so daring, but nonetheless she wrapped her fingers around the full-grown silken length of him. Ronan’s sharp intake of breath told her that he liked very much what she was doing, yet something told her there was another way she could please him.

  Her heartbeat hammering like thunder in her ears, she brushed her lips to him first, then swirled her tongue around his hot smooth flesh . . . once, twice, tasting a pungent wetness. Yet she had no sooner drawn him more fully into her mouth and begun to caress him with her tongue, her lips, when Ronan’s wild groan filled the cavern.

  The next thing she knew he had pulled her back up against him, freeing her only an instant to kick off his trousers before locking her once more within his arms. Now Triona felt all of him pressing against her, his chest, his lean belly, his hips, his hard thighs flush with her own. And pushing at that sensitive place between her legs, that fascinating part of him which she’d so eagerly caressed . . .

  "Did I meet your challenge?" she somehow managed when he bent his head to nuzzle at her throat, the heat of his palm easily rousing her nipple to a tingling nub.

  "Aye, woman, but now it’s my turn to please you—"

  "But you already have," she broke in, her breath catching as he gently bit her shoulder, then soothed the place with his tongue. In truth, the aching pressure between her thighs was already stoked to such heights that she thought she might burst from wanting him so much.

  "No, Triona, not enough yet to make amends for. . ." He didn’t finish, dropping to his knees in front of her and taking first one hardened nipple into his mouth and then the other, massaging and squeezing her breasts by turns.

  The feel of his hot tongue flicking at her flesh was so delicious that she leaned into him, tunneling her fingers through his wet hair. Yet nothing could have prepared her for the path he chose next, his hands grasping her bottom to hold her close as he mimicked what she had done to him only moments ago.

  His tongue forged a scorching trail to her navel only to linger there to dip and play, then traveled down her belly to the tuft of copper curls nestled at the crown of her thighs.

  "Ronan . . ." Already she was shaking, but when he kissed her there, burying his face, then his tongue in her female-scented depths, she thought for certain she would die. Soon she learned that exquisite pleasure could be like pain, too. She moaned wildly when his tongue speared into her again and again, savoring, exploring, until she felt her knees collapse from under her.

  "Ronan!"

  He caught her so suddenly that she gasped, Ronan carrying her with him as he rose again to his full height.

  "Hold me, Triona. Wrap your legs around me!" came his hoarse command, and she obeyed him, crying out in surprise as she sank onto hard flesh poised to meet her.

  But her cry became breathless whimpers at the power of his thrusts, her back pressed to the cold cavern wall while the front of her body was on fire. Her lips were on fire, too, his kiss impassioned, their tongu6 entwined, their hips fused as if each were desperately striving to become part of the other.

  And they did finally at the same moment, their shared climax so shattering that neither moved at the end for the throbbing spasms washing over them. A climax so intense that when it was done, Ronan collapsed with her against the cavern wall, his face buried in her hair as he fought to catch his breath.

  To his amazement Triona began to giggle, brokenly at first as she labored for breath, but with that wonderful huskiness he so loved.

  "I’m . . . I’m beginning to think you and I have little use for a bed, Ronan O’Byrne."

  He laughed, too, hugging her fiercely as he sent a prayer of thanks to the merciful God who’d seen fit to bring him and this incomparable woman together. Longing all the more for that moment when he and Triona would become husband and wife, Ronan noticed that the cavern was growing dark. Regretfully, he eased his body from Triona’s and set her down, though he still held her very close.

  "The day is closing around us, Triona. We should get back to the stronghold."

  "Oh no, let’s stay," she murmured, brushing the sweetest kiss against his lips. "We’re alone . . . no one can find us . . . no one."

  "Mayhap, woman, but this wet cavern won’t seem so pleasant when the night air grows cooler." He playfully smacked her bottom. "And you’ve not a stitch with you to keep you warm."

  "Ah, but you’d keep me warm, Ronan. I know it."

  Though sorely tempted, he shook his head, not quite the romantic that his wild angel appeared to be. "We can come back, I promise you. But I’m sure Niall has ordered a feast, called for the wine casks to be tapped, assembled my clansmen—"

  "All right, all right," Triona murmured, disappointed that their interlude should end so soon yet eager to share her wonderful news with Aud, aye, and Maire, her sister-to-be. "But first another kiss, Ronan, that hopefully will last me until the priest comes."

  "You’ll be getting kisses aplenty, woman, whether the priest arrives in Glenmalure tomorrow or no. That, too, I promise you."

  She giggled again, her languid feeling returning as Ronan captured her lips in a kiss that drove the breath from her body. But to her dismay, it hardly lasted long enough. With another good smack on her bottom, Ronan steered her toward the waterfall, the cascading tumult bringing a sly smile to her lips.

  "You forgot your trousers, Ronan."

  He laughed, caressing her cheek. "That would be a fine sight to see, wouldn’t it? The O’Byrne returning to his people clad only in his tunic . . ."

  He left her to retrieve his trousers, and Triona seized her chance.

  "Race you to shore!"

  She was gone before he could catch her, Triona diving from the ledge into the frothy lough. But when she surfaced, she heard loud splashing behind her and knew Ronan was swimming hard and fast in her wake.

  And when she rose breathless and laughing from the water, he was right at her side, catching her in his arms and carrying her the rest of the way up the bank.

  Chapter 30

  A DEEP GRAY dusk had settled over Glenmalure by the ti
me Ronan and Triona left the lough. Ronan cast a wry glance at the woman who’d proved far too great a temptation for him to resist making love to again. But they no sooner cleared the fir trees, riding at a hard gallop toward the stronghold, when he sensed suddenly that something was wrong.

  Even from here, a good distance still remaining for them to cover, Ronan could see that the stronghold’s stout outer gates were yawning open.

  Triona had noticed, too. She glanced at him questioningly, shouting above the pounding of their horses’ hooves, "Do you think it’s because they’re expecting us?"

  Ronan didn’t answer, his eyes on the line of glowing torches that was fast approaching the stronghold from the southeast. He counted thirty altogether, and now he could hear horses neighing and men calling out to those who were spilling from the gates with more bright torches.

  Relief filled him, his hand moving away from his sword hilt. The large band of riders were his own clansmen. Yet he bade Triona all the same, "Stay close to me!"

  They rode at a breakneck pace toward the stronghold, shouts of alarm going up as they approached—all the more strange to Ronan since his people should have known from Niall that he was soon to return. Fearing his men might not recognize them in the gathering darkness, Ronan had Triona rein in sharply beside him several hundred feet from the gates, a distance well out of range of any arrows.

  "Name yourselves!" came Flann O’Faelin’s great bellowing voice, the fierce command evidencing that Ronan had correctly judged his wary clansmen.

  "The O’Byrne of Glenmalure!"

  Immediately the host of riders came barreling down the hill, their blazing torches held high, Ronan and Triona soon encircled as they kicked their horses toward the gates.

  "Why the commotion?" he demanded at once of Flann, who had whirled his mount sharply alongside him.

  "Your brother was attacked, Lord—"

  "Niall?" Triona blurted, her face gone pale in the torchlight.

  "Aye, as he was riding to the stronghold," Flann continued grimly. "The men saw everything from the gates—rushing out as quickly as they could before the bastards had a chance to finish the job."

  "How is he, man?" Ronan roared, a sick feeling welling inside him when Flann shook his head.

  "Not good, Lord. He took an arrow clean through his right shoulder, and another caught him in the thigh. Not fatal of themselves, so the healer told us, but he’s lost much blood. Nor has he regained his senses. He fell hard as a stone from his horse—"

  "How could this have happened?" Triona cut in shrilly, her gaze jumping from Ronan to Flann. "It was still daylight!"

  "Mayhap the MacMurroughs thought Niall was the O’Byrne and decided they’d rather slay a chieftain than wait for nightfall to steal back their cattle."

  "MacMurroughs?" Ronan interjected.

  "Aye, Lord, a dozen or more. We managed to bring down one of them with a spear, the wretch dying with the foul name of Dermot MacMurrough on his lips. We gave chase after the others but—"

  "So it was from that you were just returning?"

  "Aye, we lost them over the pass, the dogs."

  Ronan was silent for a moment, his gut churning. Aye, it could have been him those devil’s spawn had brought down, and Triona as well if they’d ridden on with Niall.

  "See that the guard is tripled, Flann. I leave you in charge since my brother—" Ronan couldn’t finish, his eyes meeting Triona’s. She looked as stricken as he felt, her expression pleading with him to say it was nothing but a terrible dream. "Come. We must see him."

  They set off together through the gates, Ronan’s men closing grim ranks behind them.

  Triona wasn’t surprised to find Aud sitting beside Niall’s bed, her faithful maid having helped her through enough childhood illnesses to know a fair amount of remedies herself. Maire was there, too, her face ashen, her eyes brimming as she sat holding Niall’s limp hand.

  On the other side of the bed, intently mixing a strong-smelling herbal paste to serve as a poultice for Niall’s wounds, was the bald healer. He was sweating profusely, clearly hard at his labors, the sickroom reeking of sour wood sorrel and the juice of overripe mashed apples. Triona hoped the man knew what he was doing. After his cures had had so little effect on her ankle, she prayed fervently he’d have better luck with Niall.

  "How is he?" she asked of the healer while Ronan stared silently at Niall’s white face as if he couldn’t believe what had happened to his brother.

  "No better, no worse."

  "Can’t you tell us anything more than that, man?" Ronan suddenly exploded, his voice resounding in the large room.

  "It will be a long night, Lord," Aud interjected calmly as the healer gaped like a startled owl at Ronan, the man clearly too astonished to speak. "The bleeding has long since been stopped, a good sign. And the swelling on his head has grown no larger—that, too, a promising sign."

  "Has he said anything?" Ronan asked in a much quieter tone, Triona hoping that Aud’s soothing words had reassured him.

  "No, Lord. Not yet."

  Triona was warmed when Ronan took her hand and clasped it tightly as if to seek comfort from her, their fingers lacing. Aud must have noticed the intimate gesture, for suddenly her eyes were full of tears, a trembling smile on her lips. Yet she quickly recovered herself when the healer bade her to lift the cloth dressing covering Niall’s upper thigh so he could slather fresh poultice on the wound.

  "Damn those MacMurroughs to hell!" Ronan muttered fiercely as the angry red hole was revealed, Triona feeling sickened at the sight. Maire began to cry silently, her maid Ita hugging her delicate shoulders. But when the healer pressed gingerly around Niall’s wound, a trickle of bright scarlet blood oozing forth, Ronan’s vehement curse made all of them jump. He stormed from the sickroom, Triona following after him.

  "Ronan?"

  He seemed not to hear her, his clansmen surrounding him as soon as he stepped outside Niall’s dwelling-house into the night. There were so many men gathered that Triona couldn’t begin to push through them, and before she could try again to gain Ronan’s attention, Flann’s voice carried above the crowd.

  "Word came from Kildare earlier this day, Lord. King John has triumphed over his vassals. His army still lies far to the north, but those who went to join him have been granted leave to return to their homes or journey with him back to Dublin."

  "Then now is the time to strike," came Ronan’s harsh reply, his men loudly voicing their assent. "Those accursed MacMurroughs must pay for their deed, and before their clansmen return to swell their numbers. You will remain here, Flann, with enough men to protect the stronghold, but the rest of you prepare to ride south to avenge my brother!"

  As Ronan’s clansmen hastened to obey him, the night suddenly exploding with their clamorous shouts for revenge, Triona at last was able to elbow her way through the rapidly thinning throng. To her dismay Ronan was no longer standing where she’d last seen him, but now striding across the yard with Flann.

  Stung that he had forgotten about her, she ran after him, knowing that to try and shout above the din would be futile. But he must have seen her because suddenly he turned around, catching her by the shoulders as she nearly slammed into his chest. Her heart sinking, she knew what he was going to say the moment she looked into his eyes.

  "You must stay here, Triona. This is no well-planned raid where we’ve enjoyed the element of surprise. Dermot’s kin will probably be waiting for us—"

  "My place is with you!" she insisted stubbornly even as he shook his head.

  "And I’m telling you this time you will stay. Do not push me, Triona. If I have to lock you in your room just to know that you’re safe, I will do it!"

  Incredulous, Triona felt tears stinging her eyes but she angrily swallowed them down. "You . . . you would imprison me again?"

  "Not imprison you, Triona. Protect you—"

  "As if I haven’t shown you enough times that I can damned well take care of myself?" Furious, she wrenched h
erself free. "Don’t bother to send for the priest when you return, Ronan O’Byrne, for I’ll not be marrying a tyrant such as you! And don’t be surprised if I’m not here when—"

  He lunged for her so suddenly that she gasped, his embrace as fierce as any she’d known.

  "Cease your hot-tempered spouting and hear me, woman! The thought that any harm might have come to you drives me mad! If we’d continued with Niall instead of going on to the lough, that could have been you lying there in that bed, or worse."

  "Aye, or it could have been you!" Her chest tightening painfully, Triona searched his eyes. "Let me go with you, Ronan. If we’re both watching out for each other, then surely nothing could happen—"

  His kiss silenced her, so impassioned that she felt herself melting against him. But again, it was achingly brief. When he pulled away to look at her, she knew that she hadn’t changed his mind.

  "Humor me this once, Triona. I want to ride out tonight knowing you’re safe. Stay with Maire. She’s so fragile. She could use your company. And I know my brother would want one of us beside him when he wakes . . . God willing that he wakes."

  He kissed her again before she could answer, and then he was gone, mounting the fresh horse that had been brought for him.

  As he issued final commands to Flann, once more Triona felt as if she’d been forgotten. Yet Ronan’s eyes were riveted upon her when he spun his horse around, though she could tell from his harsh expression that his mind was already consumed by revenge.

  Strangely enough, she almost felt sorry for the MacMurroughs at that moment to have such wrath soon to descend upon them. But remembering Niall lying so still and pale in his bed, Triona cursed herself for such foolishness as Ronan and his men rode out the gates.