Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1)

by Glynnis Campbell

  She stiffened defensively.

  “Too hard?”

  She shook her head, suddenly all too aware of the intimacy of their position. She felt his breath upon her thigh, and with each stroke, his fingers pushed ever closer to that damp place betwixt her legs that had known his touch before.

  He pressed his thumbs forward again, and she braced her leg, clenching the coverlet in anxious fists.

  “Yield, my lady. I’ll be gentle.”

  She swallowed hard. How could she yield? It wasn’t in her nature, not on the battlefield, not in the bedchamber. Already she felt her control slipping, which served to heighten her defenses.

  After several tense moments, he stopped abruptly, drawing her glance. He regarded her with an arched brow and a perceptive smile. “You’re afraid.”

  “Nay.”

  “You’re wound as tight as a crossbow. If ‘tisn’t fear...”

  “‘Tisn’t.”

  He stared at her, obviously amused. “Then lie back. Relax.”

  She couldn’t.

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  She trusted him. She didn’t trust herself.

  Finally, with a soft chuckle, he placed three fingers on her forehead and pushed her backwards onto the bed.

  She closed her eyes, and it didn’t take long before the magic of his fingers began to work on her willpower. Softened by the warm bath and the sweet-scented oil, her muscles seemed to melt beneath his touch. Her pain diminished with each pass of his hands, replaced by a pleasant tingling that increased until it felt as if her blood fairly sang through her veins. Yet every time his thumbs approached the juncture of her thighs, then abandoned her, the unrequited ache of desire throbbed sharply in her womb. Each unfinished brush of his fingers honed her sensual frustration to a keen point. Soon she was filled with the most perverse longing to seize his hand and place it...there!

  “Does that feel good?” he murmured.

  Oh, aye, it felt sinfully wonderful, but she dared not confess it. Instead, she shrugged.

  “Ungrateful vixen,” he chided, guessing her lie, grabbing her wrists, and hauling her upright.

  Pagan was unprepared for the naked desire glazing Deirdre’s eyes. Hell, it was almost his undoing.

  This was undoubtedly the most challenging deception he’d ever undertaken, pretending nonchalance while his bride disrobed before him, lounged naked in a steaming bath, let him caress her bare thighs, and currently sat before him in nothing but damp linen. His loins throbbed painfully, and every instinct told him to seize the day. But he’d not make that mistake again.

  Deirdre was like an unbroken mare. Aggression only reinforced her resistance. If he circled his quarry carefully, patiently, eventually she’d come to him of her own free will. And if he was clever, she’d even believe it was her idea. But, sweet Mary, it was not an easy task. Not when she looked at him with those smoldering blue eyes.

  He trained his voice to indifference as he let her go and retrieved the lavender oil. “You know what I think?”

  “Mm?”

  He thought he’d never seen a woman more beautiful, more arousing, more desirable. He also thought he’d die soon if he didn’t get to ram his cock between her long, silky legs. Before he spouted out something he’d regret, he rose and ambled across the room, depositing the vial of oil on the table. “I think you have a mortal fear of men.”

  “What?”

  He turned toward her, smiling confidently. “I think you fear men.”

  Now the passion deserted her eyes. Indignation took its place. “What!”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, daring her to disprove him.

  “How can you think that?” she countered. “I fight men all the time. I’ve killed men. You of all people should—“

  ”Oh, I don’t mean in battle,” he said, chuckling.

  “Then what do you mean?" Lord, she was beautiful even when her eyes flashed silver with anger.

  “You’re afraid of men in your bed.”

  Her blush betrayed her. “Pah! ‘Tisn’t fear. ‘Tis—“

  ”Oh, aye,” he assured her. “‘Tis fear. ‘Tis quite apparent. Your hands clench, you avert your eyes...”

  She defiantly released the coverlet and lifted her gaze. He smiled and sauntered toward her, brushing her cheek with the back of his finger. She flinched.

  “You fear my touch.” He bent forward until he was near enough to whisper in her ear. “And you’re absolutely dreading my kiss this eve.” He nuzzled her hair. “Aren’t you?”

  She answered with an uncertain, “Nay.”

  “Shivering in your bones.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she insisted, her voice growing stronger.

  “Then prove it.”

  Deirdre sensed she was being manipulated, but she couldn’t quite figure out how. Her emotions and reason, anger and desire, logic and longing, whirled about her like battling currents, pulling her this way and that as she fought to keep her head above the engulfing waves.

  She knew she should, as Pagan maintained, choose her battles wisely. This was one from which she should definitely walk away. But he’d issued a challenge she couldn’t resist. Her courage had been called into question. Her pride had been insulted. She must answer his charges.

  Before caution could squelch instinct, before her conscience could make of her a coward, she pushed him away and blurted out, “Do your worst then. Touch me anywhere. Kiss me anywhere. I don’t care. I am not afraid of you.”

  On some level, she realized what her bravado invited, what her words inferred. But she was no halfwit. While surrender might be delayed, she recognized it was inevitable. One day she would have to submit to Pagan. She was, after all, his wife, and it was her duty to make heirs for Rivenloch.

  At this moment, however, she was in control of that surrender. This was her challenge, her charge. He might vanquish her this night, aye, and inflict upon her that most demeaning of acts, but by God, it would be at her own bidding.

  “Is that your will then?” he asked.

  She hesitated, then leveled her gaze at him. “Aye.”

  To her wonder, Pagan’s eyes gentled as he returned her gaze, and though his lip curved up, it wasn’t in the cocky grin she expected. Instead, his smile seemed one of almost...relief.

  Perhaps, she imagined, it wouldn’t be so terrible. Perhaps she could retain some dignity in the face of this degradation.

  Pagan loosened the tie of his robe and let it slip from his shoulders, leaving his splendid body bare. He was unquestionably aroused now, she noted. His cock jutted from its dark nest like a dagger, waiting...

  Waiting to stab her.

  She swallowed down her foolish trepidation. Let him come. It wasn’t in her nature to abstain from battle for fear of a wound. She braced herself for his attack.

  But to her surprise, he didn’t reach out to violently strip the linen from her. He didn’t smother her with kisses. He didn't dive forward to flatten her upon the pallet. There was no pawing or groping or clutching. Instead, he stepped near and sat calmly beside her on the bed as an equal, so close she felt the heat coming off of his skin.

  “I know why you fear me,” he murmured.

  “I don’t fe-“

  ”You fear me because you think I’m your enemy.”

  He was half right. She did still consider him a foreigner, an invader, a threat.

  “You know the first rule of warfare, don’t you?” he asked. When she didn’t reply, he gave her the answer. “Know your enemy.”

  With that revelation, he stretched out upon the pallet, flat on his back. Then he spread his arms wide, palms up, in a gesture of absolute surrender.

  “Come,” he bid her. “Know your enemy.”

  Deirdre gulped. She would have preferred to crawl under the coverlet. Still, she realized the value of Pagan’s offering. Aye, she’d already implied consent to lie with him, but now it was clear it would be on her terms. She needn’t feel subjugated or shamed, for he�
��d let her come to him of her own volition. She would be in control. It was a precious gift he offered.

  However, that knowledge wouldn’t make the task any easier. When it came to swiving, she was as ignorant as a novice knight putting on chain mail for the first time.

  She bolstered herself with a deep breath, then twisted where she sat to look down at him, considering how to begin.

  Her gaze lit upon his left hand, to the long scar bisecting his palm. She wondered how he’d gotten it. With trembling fingers, she reached out to trace the mark.

  “Used my hand as a shield when I was ten and six,” he softly volunteered.

  She winced at the thought, then followed the scar to another further along the inside of his forearm. She looked at him in question.

  “Slip of the knife, cutting captives free.” Then he added meaningfully, “Scots captives.”

  Next she turned her attention to a jagged white line high above his left breast. She brushed it with a fingertip.

  “My first melee,” he said.

  She smiled in memory. Lifting the hair off her neck, she showed him the nick from her father’s sword. “My first melee.”

  Their eyes met. He grinned, and Deirdre felt a sudden and curious kinship with him. Every scar had a story, and theirs weren’t so different. Indeed, with each passing moment, Pagan seemed less Norman and more fellow warrior, less enemy and more husband.

  Emboldened, she ran her thumb along his jaw, over the scar she’d noticed when she’d first seen him. His chin was recently shaved, and it was smooth to the touch. She could see the pulsing in his throat, strong and steady, beating almost as rapidly as her own.

  “Almost lost my head in battle,” he confided.

  She gasped.

  He smiled. “‘Twas Colin who saved me.”

  High on his brow, near the hairline, was another faint mark in the shape of a triangle.

  “And this one?” she prompted.

  “A jealous falcon.”

  She glanced into his eyes. They shimmered with humor.

  “He didn’t like me kissing his lady falconer.”

  Jealousy pricked Deirdre for an instant as she envisioned Pagan kissing another woman. But she shrugged it off, letting her gaze wander to his right shoulder. She ran her fingers over the flesh there. It was unblemished. Then, as she traced down to the underside of his arm, toward his elbow, he twitched.

  She frowned at him and stroked again.

  “Ah!” he gasped, flinching.

  “Does that hurt?” she asked in concern, sliding her fingers along his flesh again with less pressure.

  “Cease, wench!” His arm slammed down, trapping her hand against his ribs.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  She narrowed her eyes. He was lying. She repeated, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I said. Just don’t—“

  “Are you wounded?”

  “Nay.”

  “Deformed?”

  “Nay!”

  “Crippled?”

  “Nay, nothing!”

  She moved her squeezed fingers gently between his arm and chest, searching along his ribs for a flaw. “Have you—“

  ”Nay, you prying wench!” He clenched his arm even tighter.

  “Then what—“

  “That tickles, damn you!”

  CHAPTER 22

  Even the fire on the hearth silenced at his revelation. Deirdre blinked in astonishment.

  “Are you content now?” he grumbled, his brow furrowed in irritation, his swarthy cheeks actually pink with shame. “I’m...ticklish.”

  For a moment she didn’t know what to say. Then a smile tugged at her lips, and a devil whispered in her ear. She wiggled her trapped fingers.

  “Ah!” he cried. “Stop!”

  Naturally, his pleas only inspired her to further mischief.

  “God’s hooks, I cannot seem to get my hand free,” she lied, wriggling her fingers even more enthusiastically between his ribs.

  “Bloody wench!” he growled, even as laughter spilled from his mouth.

  Highly entertained by his helplessness, Deirdre moved to kneel above him and began to use both hands, tickling him with even more zeal. She fluttered her fingers along his twitching belly, the inside bend of his elbows, the hollows of his hips as he made ineffectual grabs for her mischievous hands.

  “I think I’ve found my enemy’s weakness,” she crowed as his giggles and curses warmed the air.

  Exactly when the linen wrap slipped away, she didn’t know. She was too preoccupied with her fortuitous discovery to notice. But her advantage didn't last long. After several moments of tormenting her captive, he finally found purchase. Seizing her wrists, he used his weight to bowl her over, and when he rose in triumph above her, pinning her naughty hands to the bed, their bodies met, skin to skin.

  Deirdre scarcely noticed at first. Loving nothing as well as a good fight, she grinned. Breathless, he, too, laughed down at her, his teeth gleaming, his eyes bright with emerald mirth. Lord, he was comely, as wickedly beautiful as a fallen angel. She wondered how his laughter would feel, spilling into her mouth.

  As they stared at one another, their breath coming rapidly and their hearts hammering in counterpoint, the humor of the moment gradually faded. Pagan’s gaze drifted over her features as if seeing them for the first time, and his smile softened as he eased his grip on her wrists.

  She felt his tender regard like an ice-encrusted pine must feel the summer sun. But Pagan’s eyes did more than thaw her. She grew hot, simmering, beneath his stare, and now she became aware of the dearth of cloth between them. His flesh burned against hers like a broadaxe still warm from the forge. His weight fit her as comfortably as a well-made coat of chain mail. And pulsing low on her belly, like an uninvited invader, his cock seemed to pound at the gates of her innermost keep.

  Yet she was not afraid. Indeed, her body thrummed the way it did when she was about to spar with an unknown fighter, with anticipation and excitement.

  “Ah, wife,” Pagan breathed, “may I take my kiss now?”

  She wanted nothing more. “If you wish.”

  She closed her eyes, expecting to feel his mouth upon hers. Instead, he slid slowly down her body, his flesh smoothing hers the way a hot stone smoothed cloth. Maybe, she thought hazily, he’d kiss her throat, where her pulse surged in her veins. But nay, he slipped further, taking her Thor’s hammer between his teeth and moving it aside. Perhaps he’d kiss her breast again. She drew in a cool breath, anticipating the exquisite sensation. But he didn’t stop there. His hair tickled her belly as he moved lower still.

  His hands yet encompassed her wrists, so the instant she realized his destination and gasped in mortified panic, he tightened his grasp to still her ensuing struggles.

  “Nay!” she hissed as his breath stirred the delicate curls guarding her womb.

  “Hush, my lady,” he whispered. “‘Tis the place of my choosing.”

  Deirdre felt her face go hot. Oh God, surely he couldn’t mean to kiss her...there. She twisted her wrists in his grip.

  “You’ve promised me this,” he murmured, the heat of his breath seeming to sear her, “of your own free will.”

  She shivered. It was true. She’d said it herself. Touch me anywhere. Kiss me anywhere. But she’d never imagined he might do it.

  And now she must comply. It was a matter of honor. As difficult as it was, she fought her nature, forcing her body to yield. She relaxed her arms and ceased fighting him. Stifling a moan of frustration and horror, she shut her eyes tight and waited.

  When he released her hands, her fists immediately clutched at the coverlet beneath her. His palms slid along her waist and settled upon the bones of her hips, stroking her with gentle assurance. His thumbs grazed the place low on her belly where the hair began, edging nearer and nearer her most secret spot. To her amazement, her body began to quiver with anticipation, to swell with need, as if it somehow wanted this. The sus
pense was excruciating.

  His hands glided lower. A sob caught in her throat as his thumbs tenderly parted the petals betwixt her thighs, forcing them to blossom, leaving her distressfully exposed.

  And then his mouth closed with searing heat over her flesh. She'd felt his touch here before, the warm slip of his wet fingertips. But this...

  Sparks of radiant fire shot through her body, incinerating any thought of vulgarity or guilt or disgrace. It was beyond shame and care and even thought, this glorious sensation, and it robbed her of the last shred of her resistance. The moist pressure of his lips, the molten ecstasy of his tongue, drove her to such mindless madness that she couldn’t help but cry out and arch up to eagerly receive his kiss.

  She’d thought that was heaven enough. But when he began to bathe her, lapping and circling and suckling in a rhythm of primitive hunger, her body jerked to life as if struck by lightning. Though the music was unfamiliar to her, yet she answered his cadence, rocking, twisting, sobbing with yearning. It was as if the world danced on that one sweet point called desire.

  Higher and higher her passion wound, like the tightening spring of a crossbow, until at last she could rise no higher. Yet, impossibly, a part of her did rise. Some piece of her soul soared, transcending the worldly realm to send her shuddering across the sky like a spent arrow shot at the sun.

  Crying out in the throes of bliss and awe, she bowed upwards, and in that instant of beatific turmoil, Pagan moved swiftly to join with her. There was a brief, sharp sting, no worse than the shallow graze of a dagger, and then an incredible fullness as he plunged within. So deeply did he impale her, she feared at first he dealt her a mortal blow. Yet the pain vanished as quickly as it came, and she was left with only a strange sense of invasion and possession as he abided within her womb, waiting for her tremors to subside.

  Pagan shivered above her, letting the waves of her climax flow over him, delaying his own satisfaction until she fully accepted his intrusion. Sweet Saints, it was nigh impossible, for he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman.

  God, she was beautiful. She’d surrendered to him, aye, but there was still the look of a conqueror about her. Her skin was slick with clean sweat, her brow creased with exertion, and the pure womanly strength with which she’d answered his seduction had nearly made him crest before his time.