by Kris Kennedy
She cried and the wave toppled and she fell, into him.
Her body broke in successive shudders, her mouth gasping his name, over and over, just as he liked it, his mouth crossing hers, catching his name, giving back hers, “Maggie, my love,” and he climaxed in explosive completion, spilling his seed inside her.
Magdalena had no idea how long it took to come back to the surface of world. She was submerged in Tadhg, swallowed by pleasure. She could barely breathe, did not want to breath, just wanted to inhale Tadhg.
She floated in the heat of their passion, Tadhg propped above her, his head bent, his hair falling down, their mouths together, his heat a blanket, protecting her.
Finally, perhaps a day or two later, his arms finally gave out, and he dropped to the bed beside her.
He pulled her to him, tucked her into his side. She rested her head on his shoulder with a sigh. The heavy, comforting weight of tiredness pulled itself over her. Tadhg’s hand slowly stroked down her arm and waist, down to her buttocks, then up again, his fingertips light, raising chills as she slipped into sleep.
“You have made me a very pleased woman,” she told him sleepily.
He laughed. She felt it rumble along her body, everywhere they touched. “Aye, well, that’s good to hear.” His voice was a rough whisper. “And I am a very pleased man.”
“Good. We please each other.” She closed her eyes and snuggled in deeper. “We will have many happy children.
He was still a second, then tightened his arm and rolled her over her to lie atop his hard, sweaty body.
She tried to bat him away and roll off again. “I am tired, you have exhausted me completely, you greedy man, stop,” she complained.
He was unmoved, perhaps because she was planting sleepy hot kisses across his face as she lodged her complaints. “How many children?”
“Two, four, I do not know.” She tipped her heavy head up and looked into his eyes. “How many do you think would be just right?”
“However many make you happy.”
Their eyes were inches apart, and even through her utter, almost blinding tiredness, she could see fierce happiness glint in his eye, at the thought he could make her happy, and this made her…happy.
She smiled as her eyelids drifted shut. She was powerless to stop them this time. “I think four,” she hummed as he rolled her to the bed and pulled the covers over her. “Or six.”
“We’re not home yet Maggie,” he said, a faint warning.
“Do not worry,” she murmured, her eyes were drifting shut. “All will be well.”
She felt him press kiss to the top of her head. “Sleep, love.”
“Say that again.” It was barely breath now.
“Sleep, love.”
“Just the love.”
“Love.”
As she slipped into the deep violet land of sleep, she trailed her fingertips across his chest.
“You need only to stop looking for others to be great, my love, and all will be well. You are great.” Her fingers strummed across his chest. “My lion-heart.”
Chapter Forty-Three
TADHG LAY ON HIS BACK, palms crossed beneath his head, staring up at the smoke-blackened rafters that crisscrossed the ceiling.
Maggie was right. About everything. As usual. Which could, he reflected somberly, become a problem over time.
But tonight, it might just save their lives.
He knew now what he needed to do. He did not need a great man with titles or armies at his command. He needed a simple man who wished to do something good, but did not have the means.
Tadhg’s task was to give those means.
He slipped out of the bed, glancing down at Maggie, hard asleep. Let her sleep. She’d been subjected to so much since he’d come into her life, so much worry, so much running, so little rest.
Let her rest now. He’d be back before she awoke.
He dressed and unbarred the door. A pulsing orange light rose up from the banked fire in the huge fire trough of the high-ceiling common room below. He glanced back. She was on her side, one arm bent above the furs, a hand tucked beneath her pale cheek. Hair spilled over her face and shoulders like dark, slippery strands of silk.
He pulled the door shut behind him. Swiftly then, he found the innkeep and explained his need, both to leave and then return without fanfare, but, he promised, the gratitude of a king, if only the innkeep was willing to be patient a few more days.
He was.
Moments later, Tadhg was gliding down the streets, staying to the edges, his bootsteps barely scraping against the darkness as he made his way to the quay. There were occasional nighttime disturbances, a distant argument in a suddenly-lit bedroom window, the intermittent barking of dogs, but otherwise, it was him and the small, intermittent snowflake that still drifted down from a flat grey sky, as if the storm was exhausted to find it still needed to snow, but was doing its best.
When he reached the quay, he made his way to the only building still lit at this hour, the dockmaster’s hut.
He stopped beside it and peered cautiously through the horn window.
Lit by the lamps within, it glowed in amber-gold translucence. Through it, he could discern the shadows inside only as smears, but he was fairly certain there were four man-shaped smears, heaped like piles of old clothes on the floor, and one man-shaped smear, sitting upright in a chair against the wall.
He heard someone fart, then a low mutter, “Accursed Frenchmen.”
He smiled, swept up a pebble from the ground and tossed it at the window. It clattered lightly.
The sitting figure straightened with a jerk.
He tossed another. Then a third. No more. Now, he waited.
The smeary figure continued sitting smearily, then rose and came to the door. It cracked open, and the dockmaster’s face peered out.
Tadhg waved.
His eyes widened, then he glanced rapidly up and down the deserted quay, cast another look over his shoulder, and stepped though the door, pulling it shut behind him.
“What the hell…?” the man whispered, coming to him. He wrapped his arms around his body, for the night was cold. “I see you did not take my advice.”
“My wife says I’m stubborn,” Tadhg explained softly.
He snorted. “You know they are hunting for you? Frenchmen, Englishmen, God knows who else. You’re a popular man.”
“That is why I am here.”
“You came to wrong place, then. They are all here.”
“Yes, but so were you. And I thought you looked like a man who does not like following orders that strike him as disloyal.”
He grunted. “I do not, but I do like my head being affixed to my shoulders, so I don’t want any funny business.”
“I am in deadly earnest. The question is, do you not like the following orders of a French lieutenant on English soil because of your pride, or because you are still loyal to your king?”
The man’s eyes fixed on his. “You are saying he is not dead?”
“He is not dead.”
“And you would know?”
“I know it personally. He stood as far from me as you are. He lives.”
The dockmaster looked at him. “What do you need?”
Relief weakened his limbs for a second, then Tadhg reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. “How extensive is your network of messengers?” For dockmasters always had a network of messengers, smugglers, and any number of other informants.
At least the competent ones did.
This dockmaster gave a low laugh. “I have messengers coming out my ass, Irishman. What do you need?”
“I need to track down the Earl of Huntingdon, get him a message. Has there been any word of him? I was told he was shipwrecked.”
The dockmaster smiled slowly. “Among other things. But he’s just returned. Going to dedicate a church in thanks for not dying in his many adventures coming home from crusade. Guess you know how he feels,” he said with a shrewd look.
“And I know just where to find him.”
Chapter Forty-Four
MAGDALENA DREAMED OF SHERWOOD.
The nightmare was so vivid, so close to what had happened in the past, that she could see him stepping into her bedchamber, feel the scrape of his boot on the floor, hear his low, cunning voice saying her name.
“Magdalena.”
In her sleep, she shivered.
“Magdalena.”
The reality of it yanked her awake. She jerked and sat up straight, staring wide-eyed and sightless. With a heavy hand she pushed hair back from her sweaty brow, trying to break the awful spell of the dream.
“Magdalena.”
Coldness broke and ran down her spine like ice.
God in Heaven, no.
Sherwood stood in the doorway. Her nightmare had come true.
She backed up to the edge of the bed, up against the wall, grappling for her bedclothes.
He came in, looked her over, then reached for her chemise and tossed it to her. She grabbed it, drew it over her head, then climbed out of the bed, snatching the iron poker from the brazier as she went.
“What have you done to him?” she demanded.
“Nothing.” He came into the room and, as he passed the brazier, tossed a new brick of peat on the coals, then sat down in the small x-chair beside it.
In the newly flaring firelight, she caught sight of his face. A horrid, raw wound disfigured one entire side of it. Tadhg had done that.
He looked at her silently for a minute, the way she stood with the poker half-raised, fending him off, then glanced around the room, at the tepid tub, her slippers, one tumbled over the other, her tangled chemise laying in a heap—all the clear signs of passion—and sighed.
“It is time to rip off the blindfold,” he said in a sad voice. “What has Tadhg told you, Magdalena?” He sounded infinitely patient. “Has he told you reasonable, understandable things?” He lowered his voice. “Or has he told you outrageous, incredible things, and tried to make them seem reasonable?”
She thrust up her chin. “He has told me you are a lying pig. That seemed entirely reasonable to me.”
It was madness to oppose him so bluntly, so insultingly, but tiredness, shock, and anger had stripped her to her essential elements, and that apparently was loyalty to Tadhg. And open defiance. And insults.
But Sherwood only smiled. Perhaps because he was not afraid of her paltry insulting defiance, as it meant nothing. He was entirely like Bayard, simply with more power to wield. But just as petty, just as bullying.
And this time, she had no recourse. She had no Tadhg.
Where was he?
Her mind set itself to this new problem as Sherwood spoke again. “You are devoted to the Irish brigand, mistress, so let me tell you about Tadhg. I have known him many years. To be blunt, he is a criminal and a liar.”
“And you, sir, are a traitor to your king.”
“Look to the evidence for the truth, Magdalena. You are too smart to ignore them. Does Tadhg not steal as easily as he blinks? Lie as he breathes? Is charm not a way of life for him, getting him everything he wants?” The baron’s eyes skimmed down her gown. “Everything.”
She looked away.
“What did he tell you of the dagger?”
She said nothing.
“It is the king’s.”
“I know that.”
“Do you know he stole it?
She shook her head. “Why are we speaking of this? We both know the truth. What do you want?”
“I want you to listen to reason. He did steal it. Took it from the king just as he was captured. Oh, yes, the word is spreading, King Richard has been captured, sold to the Holy Roman Emperor, and will be ransomed for an outrageous, kingdom-beggaring sum. But when the king was at his lowest, sickest, most vulnerable, Tadhg took the one thing that can rip the kingdom from the fair king’s hands, and ran. I have been chasing him ever since.”
She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Yes, I see. That means Tadhg spoke the truth in everything. For he said every one of those things you just did. He took the dagger from the king—although the king handed it to him—just before he was captured, by soldiers you brought, and then, when the king was at his lowest, his sickest, Tadhg took from him the one thing that can rip the kingdom from his hands and ran…from you.” Their eyes met. “And you have been chasing him ever since.”
His jaw worked. “Tell me, mistress, what proof do you have of the stories Tadhg told?”
She tapped her chest.
“I see.” He leaned forward, a forearm slung over his knee. “Whereas I offer you the proof of kings. I tell you, madame, the law is after him. A king, a prince, and me. Does that measure nothing against the lies of your outlaw?”
“Nothing.”
Something flashed in his eye, perhaps respect, perhaps fury. Perhaps both.
“Then consider this, Mistress Magdalena: whether or no you like the definitions of the terms, you will see that you, very personally, are now engaged in treason too.”
That caused the faintest flutter in her chest. Traitors were hung. If they were fortunate. “I do not claim for the English king,” she said.
“True, but neither will your French king like to hear how you have thwarted me.”
“I am not in France any more.” She was between worlds; the truth struck her now.
Sherwood smiled. “You are whatever I say you are, Magdalena. And you will be wherever I say you shall be. Do you not understand?”
He spread out a palm toward the door, and she looked. His soldiers stood in the corridor, sentries standing on either side of the door.
Her heartbeat slowed, her mind whirled. Sherwood could be brutal, had been brutal, might well rip Tadhg limb from limb, partly because of that awful open wound now scarring his face. But her, he would do nothing to her.
Not yet. Not until she openly defied him. Play along, then. Use the time to think, to plan…
“Let us speak openly, madame.” His voice was low, coaxing. “I can repair the damage done to your life. Get you back to France, out of this endless adventure that must no longer feel like an adventure so much as a nightmare, yes?” His eyebrows lifted. “I will see you safely to your home, or…”
Her eyes moved to his.
“To mine.”
“Your home,” she repeated.
“Yes. I have several, and will soon have many more, in France. We can travel, visit them all. And then, when I must leave to manage matters of state, as I will often have to do, you can stay at whichever you most prefer. In the south, perhaps? You will like it there. It is quite warm. None of this snow.” His gaze traveled down her body.
“You want to take me to your bed,” she said dully.
“Very much. But more than that. I offer you a life. What kind of life did Tadhg offer? But with me… Just think. No more worries about money, or food, or warmth. No more endless toil. No more extortions from fat little mayors who cannot see your true beauty.” He sat back slowly. “Think hard, Magdalena. These chances come but once in a life.”
She stared at the wall.
“Take your time,” he said softly. “We have all night. For Tadhg will be coming back. And you and I will be waiting.”
Horror rattled her, shook her so deep she began shaking. She realized she could not sit here biding her time, thinking of clever ways to thwart and anger this man. The longer she sat, the more likely Tadhg was to return—where had he gone? Would he return?
None of those things mattered now. They were for another hour, another minute, another beat of her heart. Right now, there was only escape.
Sherwood watched her with hooded eyes.
She backed up.
Sherwood shook his head. “There is nowhere to go, Magdalena.”
She kept retreating until she hit the wall. Then, hands spread behind her, she scooted along it toward the window.
Sherwo
od got to his feet. “Magdalena,” he said sternly. “We are on the second floor, you cannot—”
She hauled herself up on the ledge, swung one leg over.
He thrust out a hand. “No!”
She glanced down, swung her other leg over, grabbed hold with her hands, and dropped out.
She heard a loud shout, and clattering boots, then she hit the haystack beneath the window in the courtyard.
SHERWOOD’S SHOUTS drew his men into the room. They turned at once, drawing their swords and shouting for her, but Sherwood stayed them.
“Go quietly,” he ordered. “Follow her to make sure she does not engage with anyone before Tadhg returns, then grab her and bring her to me. But do not draw attention to yourself. She is not the prize.” Much as he wished she was.
He had retribution to lay upon Magdalena and her full lips and defiant eyes. He touched his hand to the finger she’d broken and smiled faintly.
She would not escape. She was alone in a foreign land and her only friend was an outlaw he was about to smash open, quite literally. She would be found. She was too magnificent to disappear entirely. And there was nowhere she could go. She knew no one in this entire realm.
No, he would have his revenge on the bitch who would not let him beggar himself to get what she’d given away so freely to the Irishman.
But the trap was laid. Tadhg would come for her. And Sherwood would be waiting.
MAGDALENA slid off the haystack, limping from the impact but not injured. Cold winter air blew over her, shockingly cold against her flushed skin. Barefoot, she flew through the courtyard of the inn, splashing through puddles, then stopped just inside the gate that lead to the streets, her back against the wall of the inner courtyard, outside the shine of torchlights.
Had Sherwood been correct? Had her desire for adventure blinded her? Had passion once again ruined her? Had hope, once again, been a terrible, black-hearted lie?