The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "Enough! Nay, oh cease, cease!" She twisted in his grasp and he chuckled against her flesh, the sinister sound vibrating through her body. "I beg you," she cried, and slowly he let her fall to earth, lowering her legs, then sampling her tender breasts. She caught her breath and was on him in an instant, retribution in her bright green-blue eyes.

  She kissed him, ruthlessly, gripping fistfuls of his hair and tasting herself on his chiseled mouth as he dragged her off the chair and onto his lap. She tipped his head back, her chest working for air as she sucked his earlobe, whispering what she was going to do to him, and then did it. Her thighs spread over his, she rocked against his hardness, refusing him peace, her breasts rubbing his chest, and Gaelan could take no more. Then she wrapped her fingers around his arousal and slid off his lap, taking him deep into her mouth. He fell back and she came with him, offering him a view of her shape yet not a single touch. It was too painful, his want of her, and on the river of velvet, he forced her to her back. Siobhàn grinned up at him, her hair tangled about her throat and shoulders.

  "You said something about your knees?"

  Her brows furrowed, then relaxed, and he realized she'd meant straddling him. He would show her more this night and rolled her to her stomach, drawing her back against his chest, his erection between her thighs.

  "Oh, husband, aye," she moaned, pushing into him. His hands swept her body, her breasts and belly, then dipped between her thighs. She pushed against, and he stroked her dewy flesh. "My lord, please."

  "Please what, my wife?"

  "Give me."

  "What, Siobhàn?"

  "Your power, this power," she moaned, reaching between to guide him.

  He flinched at her touch. "Sweet mother, you are the hottest creature." Her skin felt burned by the sun, her silken depth wet for him. Gaelan groped for the chair, dragging it close and bracing her hands on the arms. He entered her swiftly, plunging deep, and she threw her head back, her hair, the bells, sliding over his shoulder like silken threads.

  She rocked and he gave her control, his hands free to tease and pleasure. She undulated like a wave against him, her motions stronger, harder, and when Gaelan did not think he could withstand another instant, she slammed back into him, reaching back to cup his buttocks and urge him.

  "I will hurt you."

  "Nay, nay." She shook her head.

  He wanted to see her face and left her, pulling her to the floor and driving into her. Her legs locked around his hips, his hands threaded with hers aside her head, arms braced. He withdrew and thrust, long and hard, and she watched him fill her and retreat. It was enough to make his climax arrive too soon.

  "Look at me."

  Her gaze flew to his, locked and held.

  His tempo increased. Her hips rose to greet him, take him. Every fiber of him throbbed with the rush of blood and sensation, feeling everything about her, her fingers flexing in his, the claw of feminine flesh, wet and slick and possessing. He drove and she accepted, the slow torture long forgotten in the thrash and slaughter of passion.

  Bodies surged in extravagant rhythm. Smooth and wet and savagely raw.

  Firelight spilled their primitive indulgence across ancient stone walls.

  With her, he had no patience, no command.

  He was at her mercy, and when her breath skipped, her body tensing, gripping, her pleasure ground through him, unleashing his seed.

  He shoved and they strained against each other. She curved off the velvet, exposing her throat, displaying herself a siren of womanhood in the throes of carnal rapture. A keening sound of exhilaration and surrender spilled from her lips. Her body groped luxuriously and he shoved and shoved, a tremendous shudder raking his body to his heels. He pulsed inside her and she felt it, felt him touch her womb and prayed for the gift.

  They remained so, poised for a fraction on the edge of mindless desire. She sucked in gulps of air, sinking to the floor, and Gaelan crumbled onto her, only his shaking arms supporting him. He released her hands and her arms enveloped him; this woman, his woman, cradled him against her heart, stroked his damp hair from his temple.

  "Ahh, Siobhàn," he murmured into her throat, trying to catch his breath. "You are the sweetest torture."

  She smiled against his hair, sifting his dark curls. "My thanks, my lord."

  He chuckled, shaking against her, then managed to lift his head. He brushed his mouth over hers, loving her easy response, her lips shaping his.

  "Oh, husband." She sighed softly. "You may do that all night if you wish."

  He cleared his throat. "Ahh, give me a few moments."

  "Oh? The dragon sleeps?" She laughed, wiggling, and he groaned, holding her still, a warning in his dark eyes.

  She was bloody damned smug, he thought, adoring it.

  Slowly, Gaelan shifted back, leaving her body in small increments. The separation was almost painful and he smoothed his hands over her from breast to thigh, then looked about for a cloth. Without a word she rose and went to the bowl and pitcher near the hearth, spilling water into the basin, and with a cloth returned to him.

  On her knees she bathed him, her strokes gentle and without teasing, and Gaelan savored her touch, her consideration for him. Then he took the cloth, dipped and wrung it, rinsing his seed from her. Her breath hitched when he dragged the cloth between her thighs, and Siobhàn lifted her gaze to his, feeling suddenly, ridiculously, defenseless. For weeks she had been on her guard and now so little remained concealed from him, save one thing. Ahh, merciful Lord, do not destroy this, she prayed. I have coveted these feelings, the fragments of hope for so many years. Then he leaned and rubbed his mouth over hers, intimate and now familiar, his dark eyes soft with affection, and her unease, her fears faded to a place she cared not to visit.

  She rose and held her hand out to him. "Come to our bed, my lord."

  His features tightened for an instant, in surprise or pleasure she did not know, yet he accepted, climbing to his feet and walking to the grand creation. When he hesitated, she looked back at him, half on, half off the bed. His gaze was on the mattressing, a frown marking his brow.

  "He has never lain with me here, my lord."

  Gaelan's gaze shot to hers. How could she read his thoughts so easily? he wondered.

  "Only in the one belowstairs in the solar."

  His gaze glazed her round bottom, the drape of hair as she climbed onto the bed, slipping beneath the covers, then tossing a portion back for him. "Nor has any man till now." She patted the space beside her.

  Gaelan all but leapt into the bed.

  She laughed softly, snuggling into the curve of his body, feeling sheltered and free. "Would it matter? For I do not ask of the women."

  "Nay, but I have no women, Siobhàn. Only the kind bought with coin."

  She met his gaze and clearly thought this a falsehood of the first water. "You chose no wife, ever?"

  His lips twisted wryly. "Women do not flock to wed bastards."

  "Codswallop."

  He chuckled.

  "'Tis English thinking"—she waved airily—"the church and its harsh ways. You are in Ireland now; think like the Irish."

  "God forbid."

  She elbowed him and he made a great show of folding over. "Of course," she conceded, "a lass would go a'running when she thought of bedding with you."

  He met her gaze, arching a brow.

  "You are a rather substantial fellow." Even as she said it, her hand rode over his shoulder, fingers tracing the sculpture of his thick arms. "Then again, the name is enough to send the fainthearted to fleeing."

  He hovered over her. "Oh?"

  "Aye, all those strange PenDragons," she said dramatically. "A history you have, of betrayal and treachery, incest, wife-stealin', brothers wedding to half sisters." She tisked, her lips quivering.

  He grinned, for 'twas obvious she cared less for his lineage. "Are you asking after my family. Now?" His gaze swept her body, then ended on his ring banding her finger.

  Her te
asing faded. "You do not want to share it?"

  "'Tis not pretty."

  "I did not think it would be, for you've been a mercenary for so long," she said with a sour look and a shove back. "I want to hear of the child." When he did not speak, she rose up on her elbow, pulling pillows behind his head and shoulders. "Your mother; where is she?"

  He shrugged, sinking into the down. "The last I saw of her I was mayhaps eight." He rubbed his back on the softest of sheets as she snuggled close to his side, tangling her legs with his. "She left me and my brother to work for Pembroke's army. I did naught but carry water, food. I made myself scarce, for one so small garners a cuff on the head for the slightest indiscretion."

  "Small?" Her gaze slid pointedly over his chest, so wide she felt she looked up a mountain.

  He smiled down at her, brushing her hair off her face with the backs of his knuckles. "I didn't grow till I was nearly ten and three. By then our mother had returned often enough to see we elevated ourselves to page, then squired for a man she bedded a few times."

  The bitterness in his tone made her wince, and Siobhàn realized why he insisted on a Christian marriage and her promise of fidelity. His mother was a whore.

  "Your brother?"

  "He is dead, killed in battle," came crisply. "I was my father's retainer then, though I did not know who he was nor our link until Mother arrived, asking for money. Saroan PenDragon was most pleased to know he had an heir." His lips twisted with the cruel memory. "Stephan had another father, and Saroan sent him to the stables. He died squiring for me."

  "'Tis not your fault."

  He reared back. "How would you know?"

  So defensive, she thought. "You wanted him near you, aye?"

  "He should have been left behind. I was newly knighted, only a year or so older than Reese, hardly skilled in so ruthless a battle, and for that reason alone, he is dead."

  Oh Lord above, there was pain in those words, she thought as he closed his eyes, his features taut.

  "I could not protect him."

  Siobhàn saw beneath the tightly gritted words, understanding his fierce need for the Irishmen to be prepared, for the keep to be adequately defended. "You cannot be all things, my lord," she said, turning his face to hers. "Yet you became the seasoned warrior, cloaking yourself in a reputation of fear and loathing, so oftimes you would not even have to lift your sword, hum?"

  Gaelan flopped back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling, and Siobhàn curled over him, half across his chest, her hands folded there, her chin on her fists.

  "Aye," she pressured.

  His gaze swept to hers. "I suppose."

  "You know I am right."

  His lips quirked. "But you are such a pain in my arse when you are."

  She smiled brightly, rising up to kiss his sour mouth.

  "Though 'tis a sweet pain," he growled, his hand smoothing over her behind, then up her naked spine.

  "You do not fool me, husband," she said. "Here." She laid her hand over his heart. "Is a gentle soul trapped in a fierce warrior." He scoffed and started to turn away, but she held him down, staring deep into his eyes.

  Gaelan felt something shift between them.

  "Show Donegal the knight you are, husband, but me, I want only the man."

  His fingertip traced the curve of her jaw, grazed her lips, and in a voice holding a slight tremor asked, "And what will you do with him, Siobhàn MacMurrough O'Rourke, wife of PenDragon, lady of Donegal?"

  She stroked a lock of hair off his brow, watching her moves before meeting his gaze. "Hold him when he desires, feed him when he hungers, teach him when he needs it." His lips quirked at that. "And accept him, no longer the enemy."

  "Does this mean you trust me?"

  "Hah!" She shoved his chest. "Do not be pushing your good fortune with m—"

  He kissed her, silencing her, loving her sass and rolling her to her back, his mouth molding hers with dark hunger and never-ending possession. 'Twas more than he expected from her in this lifetime, more than his unworthy carcass deserved, and he prayed he survived the days ahead, for his heart was no longer his to rule.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  « ^ »

  "Woman! You are in the way." Slapping his arm around her waist, Gaelan yanked Siobhàn back from the table of plans just as a mason turned and nearly bashed her in the leg with a spade.

  "I want to know what you are doing to our castle."

  He smiled at the "our" reference and let her go. "I would tell you if you'd asked. 'Tis dangerous." He lurched forward, catching a plank and glaring down at the man who'd swung it around without looking.

  "Forgive me, me lord," the man gasped, his gaze shooting between lord and lady.

  "Be watchful, Egan."

  Egan nodded and carefully lowered the plank from his shoulder, carting it off. Gaelan looked back at his wife, folding his arms over his chest.

  "Fine," she huffed at his I-told-you-thus look.

  "Do you not have enough to do?"

  "Of course I do."

  "Did you mayhaps miss me?"

  Her chin tipped. "Nay."

  "That is not what you said last night."

  She reddened, breaking eye contact, and Gaelan chuckled lowly. He'd fallen into bed the past few nights, too tired to even speak for the work going on about the keep. Until she started touching him, wiggling her bare body against his, her little hands stroking and teasing until even his fatigue was forgotten under her spell. Once the door of her passion opened, he thought pleasantly, there was no closing it. A delight, of course, to him, since he'd rather be loving her than arguing with her.

  Siobhàn tossed her hair back over her shoulder, fidgeting. Heaven help her, she felt like an untried lass before him, his gaze moving over her with such slow deliberation she thought of naught but his hands mapping the path. 'Twas shameful, this insatiable urge for him, and didn't know why she was here, for she could scarcely get a bloody thing accomplished with him about.

  She was pitiful.

  "Siobhàn?"

  Her head jerked up and she found him close, close enough to catch the scent of rare sandalwood he put in his bath, close enough that she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. Close enough to want.

  "I will show you the plans now."

  "Oh." She wanted him to show her something else, blast him. "Nay," she sighed, disappointed and half ashamed of her behavior. "I've a child to teach."

  Gaelan nodded, his seductive thoughts fading. Connal had grown more uncontrollable by the day and neither of them knew what to do, since the boy refused to speak to Gaelan and punishing him only made him more rebellious. He bent and kissed her softly, her arms immediately slipping around his waist. Around them, English soldiers and Irishmen and women worked, hammers pounded and horses drew carts pulling loads of stones across the inner ward.

  And Gaelan sank into the kiss, into her. Folk stared and smiled and they were oblivious.

  Then the soft crack of strained wood brought his head up.

  His gaze scanned the area, then abruptly, he pushed her aside, lunging toward the shifting scaffolding, Connal sitting but a few feet from beneath it. Gaelan ran and dove, grabbing the boy, tucking him to the curve of his body, his urgency slamming Gaelan into the wall. He ducked, enveloping the child, and an instant later, the scaffolding fractured, wood planks sliding free of rope and spilling stones on his hack.

  Siobhàn cried out, racing to them, but Raymond stopped her. Rock tumbled. Wood fell. Dust clouded the air as men hurried to clear the wreckage. Siobhàn shifted from foot to foot, her heart pounding with fear. He was a big man, strong, but the planks were heavy and supported a dozen huge stones for the wall. Two men hoisted a foot wide rock off the broken plank, then tore the wood away. Siobhàn darted forward, pushing people from her path.

  "Speak to me, speak to me!" She heard Connal whimper for her and released a trapped breath. But Gaelan was not moving. "Husband!"

  Crouched, he shifted, and Siobhà
n sank to her knees, tears in her eyes. "Where does it hurt—oh, nay, do not move!" Slowly he released Connal and the boy flung himself into her arms. She ran her hands furiously over his little body, inspecting him for injuries, and found naught but a scrape on his elbow.

  Cheers and praise rumbled around them, people shuffling to see if their lord was dead for saving the boy.

  "Husband," she gasped, sniffling, her trembling fingers skipping over his dusty hair. He tilted his head back, then sank to his rump on the ground. Clutching Connal, she looped her arm around Gaelan's neck and hugged him. He groaned in pain and she jerked back. "Oh, forgive me."

  Gaelan caught his breath, then raked his hands through his hair. "What were you doing so close to the work?" he hissed at Connal, and the boy cowered.

  Siobhàn nudged her son forward. "Answer him."

  Connal's gaze shifted between his mother and her husband. "Playin' in the dirt," he sobbed. "'Tis me spot."

  "What!"

  Siobhàn put up her hand, pressing her lips to the top of his head and rocking him. "I forgot. He plays there by the chapel wall often." She gestured and Gaelan twisted, the motion driving an ache up his back as he looked at the cluster of wooden toys, a discarded spoon and a pail near the wall. Scowling with concentration, he glanced at the destroyed scaffolding, then the workers, before bringing his gaze back to Connal.

  Reaching out, he forced the boy to look him in the eye. "Until the construction is finished you must find another spot."

  Connal looked at his mother, obviously expecting her to defend him.

  "He is right, child. You could have been killed if not for your lord."

  Connal's lip quivered pitifully, his gaze lowered. "You saved me life," he muttered, as if he could not believe it.

  Over Connal's bowed head, Siobhàn and Gaelan exchanged a look, and when Siobhàn opened her mouth to speak, Gaelan interrupted in a gentle voice. "Collect your treasures now, boy." He stood slowly, dusting himself off. Connal glanced uncertainly between the couple and Gaelan reached for him, pulling him from his mother's lap and ushering him toward the pile. He turned back to her, helping her to her feet.