The castle was closed tight and well guarded. None would get in uninvited. Still, he worried.
He would go to his death with the image of Brenna draped across the soldier’s horse engraved upon his mind. The icy terror lingered still and probably would for days to come.
He would sleep in the chamber with her, and most happily, if not for the damage it would do to her reputation. He would not have his uncle and his kin believing her of ill repute even if she would be leaving this world for her own in a very short time.
A pain twisted his heart.
If only things had been different. His life was to have followed a different path—he should have been laird. At supper this evening, he’d felt awash with a feeling of longing and regret. What if he were laird of Picktillum and all her lands? What if he could keep Brenna as his bride? What if he were to live the life he was born to?
But events had long ago destroyed any possibility of that. He had long ago destroyed any possibility of that.
As he made his way back to his own bedchamber, he passed a short staircase that led to the small chamber that had been his as a young lad.
He eyed the closed door deep in the shadows for long moments. An unknown force made him grab a lantern from the wall and climb the stairs. He didn’t want to face this. He wasn’t ready. Yet his feet continued to climb.
With each step, the years peeled away. The simple act of approaching the door was so familiar. So strangely familiar. As he reached for the door latch, a frisson of apprehension tore through him. He knew not what he would find on the other side. A sleeping servant? The chamber unrecognizable as his own? Or the memories he both sought and dreaded?
He rapped on the door. When no one responded, he pushed it open . . . and stood rooted in the doorway. He lifted his lamp high. The room, awash with lamplight, remained unchanged. Indeed, by the looks of the thick dust and cobwebs, he was unsure anyone had been here since he left.
Twenty years.
He felt as if he himself traveled back in time. His small bed sat next to the wall, the bright blue bed curtains now faded to a dull purple. His desk stood as it always had, littered with a child’s assortment of treasures.
With feet suddenly turned to lead, he crossed to the desk and peered down at his past. Two oddly shaped rocks that had caught his fancy sat on either side of a feather from a falcon’s tail. Beside them, his first crude attempts at carving.
His heart snagged and tore as his gaze fell upon the broken swan. He set the lamp on the desk with a clatter and reached for the broken bird with shaking fingers. In one hand he picked up the body, in the other the head.
Grief, raw and painful, ripped through him. He sank onto the stool by the desk and stared at the two pieces that should have been one. His mother had loved swans. He’d spent long, painstaking hours trying to make this one perfect for her birthday. For her.
His eyes burned as his hands pushed the pieces together, fitting them as they’d originally been. He squeezed his eyes closed and wished with everything inside him he could make them one again. That he could undo the past.
But the pieces fell apart in his hands just as his life had so many years before. The body slipped out of his fingers and bounced onto the desk. Guilt crawled over his skin as he stared at the beheaded creature, the catalyst of the destruction that had followed.
If only he’d accepted the small disappointment of the broken gift instead of seeking retribution. But he hadn’t. In his childish, righteous rage, he’d betrayed them all. And his mother’s birthday had become the day she died.
Brenna froze at the faint squeak of the door’s hinges. She wasn’t sure if she’d been asleep or dozing, but suddenly she was wide awake.
Footsteps. Someone was in her room. A man. The nearly silent footsteps still had the heavy sound that could only be a man.
Her heart set up a hard percussion. What if Cutter had found her? The bed curtains were drawn, but of course the bed would be the first place he’d look in the middle of the night. She needed to get under the bed.
Swinging her legs over the side, she slipped out as silently as she could.
“Wildcat?”
Clearly, not silently enough. “Rourke?”
“Aye.”
She moved around the bed to where she could see his dark form in the shadows. “What’s wrong?”
“Naught.” But the misery in that single word was palpable. He continued across the room into one of the alcoves and stopped, silhouetted against the faint moonlight.
Brenna remained at the corner of the bed, watching him. Waiting. But he said nothing, as if the moonlight had turned him to stone.
She took a step toward him. “Are you looking for something?”
“Nay.”
Just standing in her room in the middle of the night. Alone.
She was reminded of the night shortly after Janie died, when she’d woken from a nightmare. She’d only been with her foster family, the Changs, a few days and was too proud to cry out to strangers for comfort, so she’d crept down the hallway to her foster parents’ room. Reassured they were still there, but unable to face her empty bed again, she’d curled up in the hallway outside their door and fallen asleep.
What nightmares had driven Rourke into her room in the middle of the night?
Sympathy and warmth bound her heart as she crossed the wooden floor to the alcove and the dark figure standing before the window. She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his back as she had so many times on horseback. He shuddered and covered her hands with his own, then turned in her embrace and wrapped his arms around her.
“Ah, Wildcat.” He pressed his cheek against her hair and held her as if she were his last hope. He turned his face, brushing her cheek as he sought her mouth. His kiss was infinitely tender, careful of her cut lip, and she felt herself falling, spinning head over heels, until she was lost in the taste of him, lost in the feel.
Completely, totally, in love. She reached up and slid her arms around his neck, her fingers burrowing into the soft fullness of his hair. He smelled warm and heavenly.
His hands slid over her back, gentle yet tense, as if he held their great strength in careful check. He wanted her. She could feel it in the tightness of his muscles and in the hard ridge of his arousal against her stomach.
The spinning intensified until she was dizzy with wanting him, too. He pulled away from her mouth only to trail kisses down her sensitive neck to the top of her nightgown. He dipped his head and took one of her breasts into his mouth, fabric and all.
Sensation shot through her. “Rourke.” She dug her hands into his hair, shaking with love and desire.
Rourke released her breast and stood before her, close, but apart. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but could feel his seriousness. Gently he cupped her face with his calloused hands.
“Wildcat. Brenna. I want ye, lass.” His words trembled with yearning and hunger. “But I dinna wish to frighten ye.”
Turning her face into his hand, she kissed his palm. “Make love with me.” She felt the shudder that went through him. “Just don’t . . .” She took a deep breath. “Don’t lie on top of me.”
“Och, aye.” He lifted her and swung her around so that his face was in moonlight. Fierce joy transformed his features, making him look rakish and charming. He wasted no time in removing their clothing, then he pulled her against him, holding her as if he would never let her go. Slowly he pulled back, his hands sliding over her back . . . and lower.
Brenna groaned. The soft furring of his chest tickled her breasts. His arousal pressed damply against her abdomen. In the darkness of the room, she had to use her hands to see. And she wanted to see . . . everything.
Her palms roamed the hard planes of his chest and the solid rock of his shoulders, then slowly moved down. She stepped back, wanting to reach his taut stomach . . . and the most fascinating part of his anatomy. That part followed her, springing toward her, still pressed against
her stomach.
Reaching for it, she cupped the hard length in her hand and felt a tremor go through him. She’d never touched a man like this before. Then again, she’d never trusted a man like she trusted her pirate. There was irony there. But all she felt was an overwhelming desire to be closer to him . . . as close as a man and a woman could be.
She touched the tip of his penis with her thumb and felt the drop of moisture.
“Wildcat.”
“You’re ready for me.” The knowledge pleased her tremendously.
“I have been ready for you since I first watched ye lying in my bunk.” He swept her into his arms and strode across the room to place her, sitting, in the middle of the bed, then followed and knelt before her.
Brenna scrambled onto her knees and they came together, chest to chest, mouth to mouth. He held her face in his hands and kissed her with a passion bordering on desperation that set her pulse to racing and sent hot syrup flowing through her veins.
His hands left her face, sliding over her bare shoulders, down her rib cage. She felt his hand between her knees and caught her breath as he coaxed her legs apart. Shifting, she gave him the access he demanded. His hand slid against the perfect center of her sensitivity, his finger finding her warm, moist core.
Brenna gasped and clung to him, her fingers digging into his hard shoulders. Rourke cradled the back of her head and kissed her hard. Her fingers slid into his hair as they kissed, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue.
But it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. Needed more.
She pulled back from his kiss. “Rourke. I want you.”
He released her to slide his hands over her breasts. “Aye, lass. And I you. But I want ye to be sure.”
“I’m sure.” I love you, Pirate. But she didn’t say the words out loud. She couldn’t. Because they couldn’t matter. All she wanted tonight, this moment, was this man and the joy they could bring one another.
Rourke lay on the bed and pulled her down beside him, then leaned over her to take her breast in his warm mouth, his soft hair sliding against her shoulder. Desire spiraled hot inside her as she clung to him.
“I thought . . . I thought we were going to . . .”
His devilish chuckle sounded low in her ear as he released her damp breast to the air. “Soon, Wildcat. I’ll have my way with ye first.” He took her other breast into his mouth, warming the first with the caress of his hand.
The need inside her tightened until she thought she couldn’t stand it anymore. Her hips rocked, wanting.
“Rourke.”
“You taste of honey,” he murmured, his voice shimmering with raw desire. “And smell like wildflowers.”
“Rourke, I want you. Please.” He’d reduced her to begging, but she didn’t care.
“Do ye now?”
“Yes.”
He rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. “You lead, Wildcat. I’ll not have you afraid of me again.”
Brenna rose and straddled him, feeling suddenly shy. But Rourke’s big hands cupped her hips, caressing. “Let me inside ye, lass.” His voice sounded hoarse with need. “I wish to be inside ye.”
And suddenly it was all too simple. She rose onto her knees until she felt him between her legs, then guided him to her entrance. Slowly, so slowly, she lowered herself on his hard length, taking him fully, wonderfully, inside.
She rose again and then back down, feeling the thick stroke in every cell of her body. Perfect.
“Can I help ye?”
“Yes.”
Rourke gripped her buttocks and thrust up and into her, sending waves of pleasure spiraling outward. “Is this too much?” His voice was strained and rough.
“No. It’s . . . don’t stop.” Over and over he thrust into her as she pressed her hands to his chest. “You don’t mind doing it this way?”
The sound that came out of his throat was half laughter, half disbelief, and all male. “Wildcat, there is no wrong way to do this. If ’twould please you, I would make love to you standing on my head.”
She grinned and leaned forward until she could kiss him, her breasts pressed tight against his chest. Amazingly, she felt no fear. Only power. Only joy.
She released his mouth and lifted until she straddled him, then arched her back as hot, glorious sensations fired through her, setting her aflame. She rode him harder, faster, driving against his thrusts, forcing him deeper until she thought she would die from the pleasure.
Flying free. Without care. Without fear.
The tension built, winding tighter until finally the spasms broke over her, sending her soaring beyond the bounds of Earth, beyond the reach of men.
Beyond the reach of all but one man.
Rourke pulled her down on top of him and captured her mouth as he drove into her, racing for his own release. He tensed and groaned, thrusting into her once, twice, three times. Then the tension drained out of him on a long, satisfied sigh.
He cradled her against him, stroking her hair. Her cheek found a comfortable spot under his collarbone, and she nestled against him, sated and happy. She’d never known such pleasure. Or such contentment.
“I love you,” she breathed against his chest, too softly for him to hear.
But even as she said the words, she knew this fragile peace was destined to be shattered. She was leaving to go back to her own world as soon as they found Hegarty. As soon as she convinced him she wasn’t killing anyone, prophecy or not.
And Rourke would go back to sea.
This love she felt for him was doomed, and had been from the start. But she’d lived with loss before and survived. Somehow, she would do it again, though a part of her wondered if this wound—the wound to her heart—would ever heal.
Rourke woke the next morning to find sunlight dancing on the papered walls. The hour was late, but he cared not. He had no responsibilities in this place but to see to Brenna’s well-being. A satisfied smile curled his lips. He had done that well.
Brenna’s warm body was still tucked against him, her silken head resting on his chest. She stirred slightly, her leg twining with his as if she could not get close enough. Desire for her swept through him as it had every time she’d moved during the night.
Sometime before dawn he’d realized what she’d become to him. His life. His breath. The beat of his heart.
It had begun when he’d first seen her lying on his deck in a pool of her own blood, a warrior’s blaze in her eyes. And since then, every day, every hour, she’d become more necessary to him until he feared it would not be long before he could not live without her.
He closed his eyes against the damning thought.
She was not of this world. Not of his world. She must go back to her own, for only there would she be safe and content. And only then would he be free to return to his own life.
This morning he would seek Hegarty. The troll would send her back. Rourke would accept nothing less.
But, heaven help him, how was he to breathe without her?
A low rap sounded on the door. Rourke groaned. He should have left before dawn, but he’d slept soundly with her in his arms, then been loathe to let her go. He didn’t want to spoil her reputation, but he could hardly hide his presence in her chamber.
As he disentangled himself from her, she rolled over with an unintelligible murmur.
He lifted the sheet over her, then grabbed his nightshirt and pulled it on, letting it fall over his hips before he crossed, barefoot, to the door.
Angus stood on the other side. “The man you warned me about has been spied.”
“Cutter,” Rourke hissed.
“He makes camp in one of the caves in the hills. Young Broderick saw him watching the castle this morn, then followed him. The lad is certain the cretin did not spy him.”
Rourke nodded. “Cutter will not live out the day.”
Before he left the chamber, he went back to the bed to gaze down at the beautiful woman lying there. She had given herself into his hands with her bod
y and her trust. I love you, she’d whispered just before she’d fallen asleep. Could it be true? The thought both warmed him beyond measure and chilled him to the marrow of his bones.
He leaned over and touched her temple with a featherlight kiss as his heart swelled with tenderness. He was not worthy of her love. If she knew the truth of that day so long ago, she would not give it.
He left her sleeping and made his way to his own chamber where he dressed and armed himself. Then he went outside to the bailey. To his surprise, he found his mount saddled and waiting for him, along with four other horses. Angus approached him, followed by three of Rourke’s kinsmen.
It took him a minute to realize they intended to go with him. He shook his head at Angus. “This is something I must do.”
Angus grinned at him, his eyes flashing with determination. “Aye. And we’ll be at your back while you do it.”
At his back. He’d never had anyone watch his back before.
Angus clasped his shoulder. “Douglases stick together, or have you forgotten? We’ll not send you out there alone.”
Rourke nodded slowly as the feeling of kinship took on new meaning for him. “Then let us be away.” He mounted and set off in a single move, his kinsmen close behind.
They rode into the hills close to the place where the lad had seen Cutter’s camp.
“There,” Angus said, pulling up beside him. “Between the two rocks on the rise above is a cave. Broderick saw him go in.”
Rourke nodded and dismounted. His men followed. While one youth took the reins, Rourke let Angus lead the small party up toward the mouth of the cave.
When they neared, Rourke motioned the other men back, then pulled his gun and sword at once. There was no sense in calling to the man. Cutter would never emerge to such an ambush. A patient man would wait for the fox to leave his den even if the waiting took hours . . . or days.
But Rourke was not a patient man.
The bloody cur had betrayed him. Twice . . . no, three times he’d tried to end Brenna’s life. And all because she’d gotten the better of him in an uneven fight.
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