by Kris Kennedy
He stopped short and instead of her holding him by the arms, it was she who was locked in a firm grip, her elbows bent in, her body drawn up against his. “You will have a bath tonight, Maggie,” he said fiercely.
Her eyes searched his. “This has naught to do with a bath,” she understood softly. “Tadhg I do not need you to keep such a whimsical promise—”
His eyes, heretofore abstracted, locked on her with grim intensity. “It is not a whim.”
She loosed a breath, half sigh, half distress. She’d seen Tadhg hard, she’d seen him merciless, but she’d never seen this…this…stone cold fury.
That is what he was. Furious.
With forcible effort, he relaxed his jaw and assembled his face into another faux smile.
She did not like his false smiles.
“Now,” he tugged down on her gown and straightened the veil over her head. “Behind me stands the Dove’s Inn. It is a quality establishment. They take only the finest guests. So look stern,” he said, and turned to push the door open. “And gravely disappointed.”
They stepped into a small vestibule. A low archway separated the receiving area from a firelit common room beyond. A huge fire roared in the large grate, and many of the tables had guests arrayed around. Pilgrims and visitors, merchants on fair circuit, they were all clearly wealthy, the evidence in their clothes and the food on the table.
Tadhg propelled Maggie to a high counter at the back of the entryway, where a man sat on a high stool. “The baroness,” he said, as if there was only one baroness in all the realm, “has arrived.”
The hostler blinked at Maggie, who was doing all she could to look high-born and haughty. His nose twitched like a bunny, then he rested an elbow on the high counter and leaned closer to Tadhg.
“Truth to tell sir, I’ve no recollection of a baroness.”
“Then your recollection is faulty.” Tadhg tossed a pouch on the counter with the careless gesture of one who had dozens more similar bags to toss, should they be required.
Which he certainly might, for this pouch contained half a dozen barbettes that he’d stolen earlier in the day.
Of course, the innkeeper would not know that unless and until he opened it.
“She’ll need the entire room for herself,” Tadhg announced. “As previously arranged.”
Maggie stared at the pouch. The innkeeper did too, then shifted his gaze to her in silent assessment.
She peered down her nose at him. “The baron will not be pleased,” she intoned.
He twitched again, his mouth this time. “Well, I’m not certain—”
“Become certain,” Tadhg suggested, his voice low and cold.
The innkeeper looked between them, eyes narrowed, and twitched a few more facial features—nose, an extremely dimpled chin, his upper lip—then, in sudden decision, he pushed off his stool and came around the high counter.
“Come with me, my lady. I’ll get you some supper.”
She disguised her stuttered breath of relief as one of approval. Tadhg gestured her in front of him, and as he followed after, she saw him sweep the pouch off the counter and slide it under his cape.
Within minutes, they were seated on cushioned benches in the common room, before a roaring fire, platters of food laid on the table, and the innkeeper was barring the door against the oncoming night. And against any soldiers who might be out there, looking for them.
But Magdalena knew Tadhg was better protection than any door or lock. She knew it to the pores of her skin. His determination was his weapon, his intention a scythe cutting through any opposition.
The hostler bustled up a few moments later to announce their room was ready, and Tadhg, after engaging in a low, murmured conference with the man, lead her up the stairs to the room.
It was not large, but was extremely well-kept, with a high canopied bed, fresh, sweetly fragrant rushes, and a small table and chair. The tub sat at the foot of the bed, high-rimmed and steaming like fog over a dark hollow. No rose petals, but the aroma of lavender wafted into the room.
“Your bath,” Tadhg said, gesturing toward the tub as he shoved the door shut and barred it. Then he strode to the far window, pushed the shutters open and looked out, down to the streets below.
He stood there for long minutes in silence.
She let him be with his coldness and stern determination, let him stare out the window at nothing.
She circled the steaming tub, skirts whispering. Then she bent and carefully removed her shoes, unlacing the leather straps from around her ankles and calves, and slid them off. The plank floors were worn to silky softness under her toes. Turning her back to Tadhg, she unlaced the ribbons at the sides of her sleeveless overtunic and tugged it off.
She heard him turn.
She let the tunic fall to the ground. Heavy with want, she looked over her shoulder. He was watching her, just as he had when she undressed in the hut, but there was more light here in this inn, so he could see her better.
And she could see him.
Slowly, she let down her hair, until it spilled down over her body.
All their lovemaking had been done in low firelight and encroaching darkness. That was fire here too, but in this room, light ruled the night. There were many candles and two braziers burning hot, and oil lamps hanging on pegs in the walls, and she knew her body was lit for him in shades of amber and russet-rose, flickering in and out of light and shadow. She knew he wanted her.
Desire was in his eye, but also the banked fire of a caged beast. The sun was close to setting and as it lit the window behind him, a wash of red sunset light spilled into the room. He stood in it, backlit by it, an aura around him glowing with the strange winter light, while the front of him was cast in darkness, unreadable.
“Are you not frightened?” His low rumble broke the silence of the room.
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“I trust you.” It was as simple and complicated as that. Trusted him to do everything he’d promised, not only in word, but in deed. The way he looked when he kissed her, when he sank deep inside her, that too was a vow, a promise for their future, and she believed in it. In him.
Even if he did not.
But tonight, Tadhg felt like a distant horizon. It seemed with every word spoken, every moment that passed, he was getting further and further away from her, like a ship setting sail.
And that frightened her.
She extended her hand. “Come away from the window. There is nothing there for us out there. The snow is falling; let it fall. Night is coming; let it come. We have each other; I am not afraid. Come to me.”
He pushed off the wall. It was a lazy push, and his stride as he crossed the room was that of a predator, his regard distant and appraising. And then, for the time, she felt a little afraid.
He stopped beside her. Her skin prickled, but he said nothing, just leaned to the side and trailed his fingertips over the top of the steaming bathwater. A long, narrow V formed in his wake, tiny ripples furrowing across the surface. She stared at the little swells, strangely breathless. He pushed one of the folded rags into the water.
It made the faintest splash.
She gasped softly, her chin tipped up, her lips parted.
A corner of his mouth curved up. It was not a smile so much as an acknowledgment of his effect on her. He could rip her apart from the inside out, simply by sending ripples across water.
If he wished it, she could be doomed in every way. She was entirely at his mercy, and they both knew it.
“Tadhg,” she whispered.
He reached in for the rag, held it dripping in his hand and picked up the scented soap that sat in little plate on the rim of the tub. Slowly he rolled the warm, wet cloth around the slippery soap, kneading it, then let the soap slip out. Her breath came in unsteady little beats as he draped the washcloth across his large hand and stepped behind her.
“I have done bad things, Maggie,” he murmured, pushing her hair to
the side.
“Why are you saying this?” she whispered.
“Because it is true.”
“Many things are true. You are not saying them all.”
Without warning, the warm, soapy rag stroked down the center of her back. Trails of wetness spilled down her bottom and legs, leaving long hot ribbons of shivery heat in their wake. Another gasp broke the silence of their room.
He rested his mouth on her shoulder. “You should not believe in me,” he murmured, soft like a lover.
“And yet I do.”
He nipped the sensitive flesh where her shoulder met her neck, and a starburst of pleasure radiated out through her body. “That is unwise.”
Chills raced down her body.
He skimmed the rag across her skin again, this time along her shoulders, his hand moving in a swirling massage as he soaped across her shoulder blades, then up the nape of her neck. “I am dangerous,” he whispered in her ear.
“I know who you are.”
His hard hand, swathed in soft linen and fragrant soap, kneaded the muscles of her back. Drops of warm water streaked down her thighs. She felt each one like a like a lightning bolt, a burning wet ribbon of pleasure.
“I will tell you who I am, Maggie. Those men are my brothers in all but blood. We left Ireland when were but boys, and the battles had all been lost, battles of sword and drink and diplomacy. We sailed to England on broken ships, and became criminals within hours of landing.” He lifted her arm and soaped up to her armpit, slow and languorous. “Upon a time, though, they were noble. Lords and princes of Ireland. Great men. I was never so great as they. Tighearna láib agus ba, they called me. Lord of Mud and Cows.”
She was being reduced to pants and gasps, her body trying to acclimate to the entirety of passion he sent coursing through her body, while her mind attended his dark words.
He lifted her other arm and did the same. “They are exiles now. Brigands. Stark naughts. They hire themselves out to any man, for any deed, so long as he can pay the price. And ’tis a high one. They do very bad things, and they are very well paid.”
He dunked the rag again and washed down her sides, sliding slowly over each rib, until she was slippery-wet and covered in chills, yet as hot as the fire burning in the grate.
He put his mouth to her ear. “I was one of them.”
“But are no longer,” she whispered.
He pressed his palm against her belly and brought her back a step, until her wet body pressed up against the front of his clothed one. His erection, trapped beneath his hose, bumped against her bare bottom. He reached down and dipped the rag again.
She held her breath as he reached around and closed his hand softly around her throat, and soaped with slow, erotic strokes, his fingers and thumb squeezing ever so softly, the pressure both threat and passion.
“You do not know me, Maggie.”
Her head fell back to his collarbone as his dangerous hand moved down, raking the soap-slicked, rough rag over her full breasts and belly. Her breasts felt heavy, laden, her nipples hard, almost painful, nubs. He skimmed them, soft as anything, then abraded them roughly. Her breath stopped as her head fell forward, so close to climax one more touch would do the deed.
“I do know you, Tadhg,” she whispered. “Better than you know yourself.”
She turned her head, looked over her shoulder so their eyes met.
“I see who you are. You see only who you fear you might become.”
Those dark eyes locked on hers, then his hands gripped her roughly and he spun her around, pulled her wet and slippery body up against his, so her breasts smashed against his tunic.
“I have used you from the moment I met you.” It was almost a snarl as he thrust his hands up into her damp hair. “From the beginning you have been nothing but a means to an end. I tore you from safety, ripped you from your home and livelihood, took you into cold and ruin, destroyed all that was good in your life. You are a fool to trust me.”
He curled his fingers around her jaw and tipped her face up farther, farther, then brought his mouth to hover an inch above hers. It was the closest a kiss could be to a threat.
“Name one deed I have done that would make a sane person trust me,” he growled.
She stared into the dark eyes so close to hers, so filled with pain and checked fury.
“You came back for me,” she said simply.
His eyes widened, then he gave a bark of harsh laughter. “Came back for you? That is how you measure my gift? My one good deed, to bring you deeper into this? Christ blood, Maggie, do you still not see the truth?” He sounded truly pained. “I came back because I am a selfish bastard. I have always been.” His hands tightened. “I left everyone, everything, when it did not serve me and what I wanted.”
“You did not leave me.” She slid her arms around his shoulders, pressing her wet, naked body up against the hard mail and fury of him. “You came back because you are a good man. You have the heart of a lion, Tadhg.” She tapped his chest. “Not your king, you. Tadhg, coeur de lion. That is why I love you.”
He made a hoarse, strangled sound, half curse, half cry, clamped his hands around her waist, and kissed her like a dying man.
For that is what he was. He’d been dying his whole life, dying and dirty, and Maggie was bringing him back to life again.
He sank into her mouth, and her tongue met his, plunge for reckless, greedy plunge. “I am sorry.” He growled as he dragged his lips down the line of her arched neck. “So sorry.” He cupped her head, kissed her cheeks. “I could still get you home again. You could have your life back.”
Her lips swept across his. “I do not want my life back.”
He dipped his head, put his face in the crook of her warm neck and whispered, “Och, lass, I do not know what the future holds.” He felt ruined, unable to give her even the promise of a tomorrow.
She cupped his face the way he was holding hers and made him look up.
“Tadhg, hear me: I have been dying slowly for half my life. I would have died a little more every day for the rest of it too. Twenty, thirty years or more of a slow, unnoticeable death. If I am fully alive for half that with you, or less than half—” she added when he shifted impatiently “—be it a day, fully alive, with you, then that is what I choose. ’Tis better than withering away through a long stretch of days without you, no matter how safe they may be.”
His warrior’s face slipped, just for a moment, all that was hard in him shifted, and he leaned his head to hers, and said in a guttural, broken whisper, “I love you.”
She was crying, because he was inside her now, she could feel it. His hands and mouth and breath were just the shape of him, but the essence of him, his true spirit, the thing that made him man, made him Tadhg, was inside her now.
Even so, she wanted the shape of him, the hard power of him, inside her too. His thick shaft, taking her, that brash male confidence that would come and claim her, make her shake with a desire so potent it left her breathless.
Her legs were already opening for him, and they still stood upright. Her knee lifted to hook around his hip. His hot hand scooped beneath her bottom and helped her up, lifted her to him, their mouths still locked in swooping, messy, hot wet kisses. Half missed their mark, landed on cheek or ear.
Still half-clinging to his hips, she began tugging on his clothes. He joined her, more mad struggles of hand and cloth, as it had been in the hut, as it had been the first time, in her shop, when they had not even bothered to disrobe, for this is how their passion had been ordained: madly, fervently, passionately.
Within moments he had her on the bed, her legs spread, and he was kneeling between them. There was no hesitation, this was no slow taking, it was possession, and eyes locked, he breeched her in a single, hard plunge.
She flung her head on the furs and sobbed from the pleasure.
He interlaced their fingers and stretched her arms out above her head, until she was stretched on the rack of his pleasure. He leaned
down on their entwined hands, pressing into them on every long, slow thrust as he entered her deeply.
She lifted her hips, meeting every penetration, never looking away as he took her hard, their hips rocking in a hard, striking, relentless rhythm, dragging hot cords of excitement across her body. He freed one of his hands and took her knee, held it to his hip and forced her to spread wider for him, his possession intensifying. Propped on one hand, their gazes locked, he took her harder, and harder yet, until she bounced on the bed, her head pressed back, her neck in a hard arch, her hips always lifting to him.
Scorching tides of heat and chills moved through her body, shocking tremors of sensation that alternately snapped and skidded and swirled. She never knew where the next whirlwind of pleasure would touch down, then blast through her like an assault. She was wasted, broken, helpless as each one took her.
Tadhg was their merciless commander, his head bent as he laved her breasts, hot sweeps of tongue, hard nips of teeth, alternating between her breasts as they met in surge after hot, sweaty surge.
Then with a muffled curse, the muscles of his arms tautened as he arched his back and rolled his body up, his eyes closed, his face contorted around a spasm of fierce male pleasure.
The sight of him lost in such hard pleasure dragged her closer to the pounding edge of climax.
He came down to his elbows, his forearms beside her head. He laced his fingers together above her head and stretched out low over her body.
The new angle made the thick curving length of him fill her at a new angle, slippery hard and rippling good.
A whipcord of pleasure snapped through her body. Her body arched up, her head jerked back, deep into the covers, and she froze, her mouth fixed open around a silent scream of pleasure.
“You like that, Maggie?” he rasped.
The breath rushed from her in a dizzying pant. “Do it again,” she demanded.
The ghost of a smile touched his mouth, but it was tight around ragged-edge need: he was close. He moved again, just as she needed.
Another broken cry stuttered from her.
They moved together now in an old rhythm, him lifting her on every surge. He was a wave she was riding from below, powerful and unstoppable. He crashed into her one last time, and their eyes locked, and he whispered, “Marry me,” a rasp of command around a silent plea.