The Irish Devil
Page 21
She raised wide, incredulous eyes to him.
“As you do now?” he finally finished on a soft groan.
Only then did she realize that her hand had been faintly stroking his leg and had slowly inched closer and closer to the edge of his tunic. Shocked by her actions, she yanked her hand away and fell to her backside.
“A repeat performance,” he laughed and leaned forward. “Only this time the outcome will not find you rushing out of the room.”
She glared at him and spoke with a defiance that was hard to ignore. “What do you want from me, Eric?”
“Touch me,” he all but ordered.
She shook her head most reluctantly while keeping her hands firmly clasped together, fearing they would betray her and do as he directed. “You warned me of the consequences.”
“Consequences be damned. Touch me,” he said, finishing on an angry whisper.
She was about to deny him with another shake of her head when he asked, “Do you not want to touch me, Faith?”
Did she deny the obvious? Could she tell him nay when all she wished, all she ached for, all she wanted to do was reach out and do as he had suggested—slip her hand beneath his tunic and touch him.
“Come on my little adversary—surrender,” he urged. “Touch me.”
She smiled then, a wicked little smile, and while he thought it capitulation on her part, she thought it a grand maneuver on hers. She would most certainly touch him, but the dark lord would be the one to surrender.
She got off her backside, up on her knees and ran her hands ever so slowly along his thighs, and whispered softly, “As you wish, my lord.”
Chapter Nineteen
Eric closed his eyes and took a deep breath, steeling himself against the exquisite torment of her delicate touch. He was not a young boy incapable of control. And though he had lost control once with Faith, he would not do so again. He would maintain command of this situation. He would demand, he would instruct and she would surrender.
“Look at me, Eric, please?” she pleaded with a pout. “I love your blue eyes. Their vivid color reminds me of the sky just before a storm.”
He did as she asked… it was such a simple request, after all.
She sighed with pleasure when his glance fell upon her and she continued in a lazy crawl up his thighs to the edge of his tunic and stopped.
He questioned her actions with a stern look.
Her fingers toyed with the deep red trim on the ends of his dark tunic and she released a long sigh. “I fear I am not certain how to proceed. Should my touch be light, or do you prefer it rough?”
If he were in command of his senses he would have realized she had thrown his own words back at him… the ones he spoke when first had they met. But being consumed with the anticipation of her fingers upon his already heated flesh, his thoughts were not of one in command, but one near to surrender.
“Whichever you favor,” he said confidently.
Her dark, determined eyes remained steady on his blue ones as her fingers slowly stole beneath his tunic. “Gentle, I think.” And her fingers tenderly cupped him until he rested full in her hand.
He shut his eyes against the pure, maddening pleasure of her intimate touch. Her fingers were cool and she softly squeezed, eagerly stroked and faintly rubbed his loins until they hardened in her hand.
“My lord, your eyes,” she pleaded like a spoiled child. “I want to see your eyes.”
He could not deny her, especially since her hand was moving to capture his aroused manhood.
The potency of his desire blazed in the blue of his eyes and she smiled as she roughly grabbed full hold of him. “Rough now,” she whispered harshly and his eyes widened in surprise as her hand took full and complete control of him.
She massaged, stroked and aroused him to such a maddening hardness that he thought he would go insane.
He almost flew out of the chair. He had not expected this from her. He had thought she would remain shy and meek, then suddenly like a bolt of lightning from hell he realized her intentions, and at that moment she realized the warring Irish devil had returned full force.
He leaned forward and her hand stilled upon his throbbing flesh. “You think to play with the devil?”
She paled, the look in his eyes one she had never seen before and hoped never to see again. If this was the look he took into battle then she understood why no one ever defeated him.
His eyes held no mercy.
He was out of the chair in a flash. He grasped her beneath the arms, dangling her in thin air in front of him before she had a chance to take a breath.
“Now it is my turn to play,” he said with a smile that promised retribution and sent shivers racing through her. He walked, holding her out in front of him as if she were nothing more than a sack of grain.
He tossed her on the bed and as she heard the crunch of the thick straw beneath her she also heard his query. “Gentle or rough?”
He did not wait for an answer and she thought he cared not whether she gave one. He hastily shoved her shift and tunic up and out of the way and as he descended down upon her she heard him say, “Gentle, for now.”
Faith cried out when his tongue stroked her. She had not given thought to a husband demanding such intimacy from his wife and if given time to think on it she might have feared such a strange union, but with his skilled and determined tongue taking complete command and giving her such pure pleasure she could think of nothing else.
His tongue flicked across her in short, rapid darts, sending shivers straight through her; and then his strokes turned lazy, crawling intimately over her until she thought she would go mad. Her hands gripped the bed linen and she bit at her bottom lip to stop herself from screaming. Until she could stand it no more, and his name rushed pleadingly from her lips. “Eric.”
He raised his head, looked at her and warned with a smile. “Rough now.”
“Nay,” she screamed just before his tongue dove into her.
Madness engulfed her; she lost complete rational thought. Her only concern was of surrendering to her husband fully and unconditionally.
“Eric, please,” she cried, a single tear slipping down her cheek.
His response was to drive her further to madness.
Her cries turned to sobs of anguish mixed with pleasure.
Eric raised himself to look at her and spoke with the roughness of a warrior bent on victory. “Tell me you want me.”
She thought to deny him, briefly, hesitantly, and he laughed.
“Damn you.” She cursed him in a raspy breath.
He flicked his tongue over her swollen nub, causing her to shiver and she cursed him again, and then he grinned. “The devil is already damned. Now surrender and tell me you want me and I will give you the climax your body craves.”
She bit on her lower lip to control the trembling. He was to surrender, not her. How had she allowed this to happen?
“Tell me,” he demanded and teased her with another flick of his wickedly skillful tongue.
She shivered yet again but remained silent. She wanted him—there was no doubt of that—but surrender? Did she really wish to surrender to the devil? Did she not want that from him? Was it not important for him to admit he wanted her and not just out of lust, but because he truly cared for her?
Or was she simply being a fool? If that be true, then surrender was not possible.
“Nay,” she said with difficulty.
“Tell me,” he ordered and stroked her intimately with his finger. “Tell me.”
He repeated the words over and over, her head ringing with his incessant command as his fingers took the place of his tongue. She bit at her lip and fought to control her raging passion, fought the urge to scream out her surrender, fought the panic as she realized just how much she loved the dark lord.
“Nay! Nay!”
“Damn you,” he said and with his tongue proceeded to bring her to an exploding climax that had her screaming out his name.
o0o
The great hall was in its usual state of chaotic pleasure that evening. Everyone was enjoying the food, drink and merriment, bringing the day to a pleasant close. Colin and Eric were deep in conversation with a group of men standing not far from the large hearth. The nights had turned colder and the flames chased the chill that seeped and drifted through the keep.
Faith toyed with her trencher of food, feeling isolated amongst all the gaiety. Her mind was much too cluttered with serious thoughts to give concern to those around her. Those ponderous thoughts had haunted her since her husband had fled her cottage in angry haste.
Ever since her arrival at the keep several weeks ago she had studied her husband with interest. He was not one to waste words, emotions or actions. Everything he did was based on careful consideration and deliberate action and yet he had constantly lost complete control around her, rushing his words, his emotions and his actions—beginning with their first encounter.
Love, true love, often caused people to act out of character. Could he truly love her? Or was she being a foolish woman who ached to be loved?
Bridget had informed her that Eric could have availed himself of any number of willing wenches since his return home and yet he had sought out none. Could his fondness for his wife have prevented him looking elsewhere?
Or was she but daydreaming?
“Your thoughts are heavy?” Borg asked, sitting in the empty seat beside her.
“You are not overtaxing yourself, are you?” she asked with concern.
He laughed heartily and it was good to see that he did not wince or hold his wound in pain. “Bridget watches me like a hawk and swoops down on me if she thinks I am doing the slightest thing to harm myself.”
“She cares for you.”
“That she does, and I care for her. We know that, the whole keep knows it . . . but you have yet to respond to my question.”
Faith attempted a smile, but failed. Her heart was just as heavy as her thoughts. “Much troubles me of late.”
“Have you spoken of this worry to your husband?”
“He is my worry,” she admitted freely, feeling comfortable in discussing Eric with Borg.
“Tell me,” he said seriously. “I will attempt to help you.”
She placed the knife she held in the trencher and then pushed it aside, not hungry for food, but starving for a sense of understanding concerning her dilemma. “Do you think Eric capable of truly loving a woman?”
Borg answered honestly. “I think Eric does not give much thought to love and therefore has trouble comprehending its meaning.”
“He does not recognize love?”
Borg shook his head. “He is a warrior educated in conquering. He approaches everything he does as if in a battle or skirmish, the end results always being the same.”
“Victory,” Faith finished with a smile.
“Now you begin to understand him.”
She sighed, exasperated. “But I am not skilled in battle techniques. How do I conquer an adept warrior when I am so inept?”
Borg laughed softly. “Surrender.”
She was startled and disappointed by his advice. “I cannot.”
“Cannot or will not?”
She laid a gentle hand on Borg’s arm. “My husband must understand how difficult surrender is for me. I fought so hard to live and then to survive and finally to live again. I did not crawl away and pity myself; instead I fought back and refused to submit to defeat. I discovered a strength and courage I never thought possible and I cannot or will not surrender.”
Borg placed his large hand over her small one. “When a warrior enters a battle he knows it will either end in victory or defeat. But there are a few rare warriors who understand that on uncommon occasions victory can only be won through surrender. And those brave warriors never actually taste defeat.”
She stared at him strangely.
“What you refuse to surrender is what will make you victorious.”
Faith’s eyes widened and her smile was generous as understanding dawned. “You believe me a virgin.”
“I have no doubt, and if my brother were not so stubborn and foolish he would know the truth for himself. But his Irish pride gets in the way.”
She laughed. “Vikings are not stubborn?”
Borg grinned. “A Viking stubborn? We do not need to be. We know everything.”
Faith’s laughter trickled away and her expression turned solemn. “Do you think then that the Irish devil could love me?”
Borg leaned closer and spoke softly for their ears alone. “Eric fought for what he wanted most in his life. If he did not fight, then he did not find it important enough to him to matter. He fights now for you.”
“For me?” she asked with surprise. “But who does he fight?”
“He fights the most dangerous opponent he has ever faced. One he may not be able to conquer.”
Faith shivered and rubbed her arms. “Who? There is no one to stand in his way. No one would fight for me.”
Borg whispered as if he should not speak the name. “The Irish Devil.”
“Himself?” she asked incredulously.
Borg nodded. “And he refuses to admit why he fights so fiercely.”
“Are you telling me he fights his own love for me?” she asked with a shake of her head, not believing her own query and not giving Borg a chance to respond. “He thinks of me as nothing more than his property, a vassal who will serve him well. He is lusty, arrogant, stubborn, demanding and—”
“You love him,” Borg finished with a smug grin.
Faith sighed, her answer coming directly from her heart. “Aye, I love him, the fool that I am.”
“You are no fool. It takes courage to love the devil, and even more courage to surrender to that love.”
“You favor the word ‘surrender,’” she said, her dark eyes shining. “Have you ever surrendered?”
“Nay,” he said with a wide grin, “but I intend to very soon.”
“How soon?”
“How soon will I be fully healed?”
Faith smiled. “I think you can surrender this night if you wish.”
Borg looked joyous, nervous and anxious and cast a quick glance around the hall until his eyes settled on Bridget. He sent her a smile that actually caused her to blush and then he turned his attention back to Faith.
“Will you surrender this night, my lady?”
She cast a hesitant glance around the hall, looking for her husband. Her cheeks heated when their eyes met and he immediately headed her way.
She looked with pleading eyes to Borg.
“Remember, he fights for what he most wants,” Borg whispered near her ear as he moved to stand and walk away.
She felt deserted, alone, vulnerable and suddenly frightened. It did not help that her husband descended on her with fierce determined strides or that his handsome face was stern or that his blue eyes blazed with a lustiness that sent a shiver racing straight through her or that her body ached for his skilled touch.
Surrender.
The word repeatedly echoed in her mind and made her doubt her own sanity.
“You wish something from me, wife?” he asked, standing in front of the dais and staring directly at her with eyes that cautioned and promised.
The choice was hers.
She reached her hand out. “Eric . . .”
The door to the great hall flew open and a man rushed in, interrupting the gaiety and Faith’s surrender.
Eric immediately turned his full attention on him. He looked to have ridden hard and long and he was near to collapsing from exhaustion. Colin and Borg followed behind the thin, tired man as he approached Eric.
“My lord,” the man said with a respectful bow of his head. “Donal Mor O’
Brien, king of Limerick, has sent me. He requests your help in quelling a skirmish at Finnmorgan keep near the coast. He asks for your immediate presence in the area.”
“How much of a presence does he request?” Eric asked.
“Enough to quell two disputing clans,” he explained.
“Food, drink and a place to rest will be provided for you and we will leave at first light with two hundred of my men.”
The man grinned. “That should end it right fast.”
The servants took charge of the weary man while the hall waited for their lord’s instructions.
Colin and Borg stood beside Eric, ready to do his bidding.
Eric spoke with the confidence and command of an aged warrior. “Colin, see to the preparations and send me Stuart—he is familiar with that area. I wish to form a battle plan before dawn. Borg, you will remain here and see to the safety of the keep. We have limited time before dawn and I want all ready for departure on time.”
Colin and Borg agreed with a nod and took themselves off to follow his dictates.
Eric turned a quick glance and even quicker words on his wife. “I will speak with you before I leave.”
He was out the door before the realization of the situation set in for Faith. He was going off to engage in battle, which meant there was a possibility that he would not return. Her heart plummeted and she felt near to fainting. She had not considered this moment, this time when she would bid her husband good-bye with uncertainty and so much left unsaid between them.
Suddenly surrender, victory, defeat seemed like senseless words and all she wanted to tell Eric was how very much she loved him and always would. She sat helpless, not knowing what to do, what action to take, what help to offer.
Then with a determination borne of pride and courage she took the matter in hand. If she could not speak with him now she would at least see to it that he and his men would not starve. She took herself off to the kitchen to talk with Mary.
The night grew late but the castle did not rest. Only when Faith was certain her husband and his men had all they needed to fill their bellies and quench their thirsts did she rest, and it was not until Bridget insisted that there was no more to be done that she reluctantly took herself upstairs to her chambers. She had hoped to catch a peek of her husband, but she learned he had retired to his solar with Stuart to map and plan their journey.