by Shana Ab
They moved slowly and almost easily through these latest arrivals, no hurry, no rush, just a couple looking for friends, perhaps, or family members. They blended in with the confusion, they were nothing strange, nothing suspicious, moving closer and closer to the end of the multitude of people and animals.
The night was clouded and dark, although the wallwalk of Keir was lit with many torches. Firelight fell intermittently around them, actually aiding the disorder with deceptive patterns of shadow and glow.
Her feet came to grass—they were off the road, still walking calmly, their pace unbroken. No one called out after them. No one broke apart from the group, following them.
For the first time Lauren dared to look up at her surroundings, at the tall trees of pine and oak and birch around them, and at the man beside her, his hand warm and firm on her arm. Arion glanced down at her, then back behind them. Lauren followed his look.
Almost all the people were inside the gate. No one turned around to seek them out—they were headed for the golden light and laughter that was Keir right now, with no thought for the darkness of the woods around them.
Arion slipped his hand down her arm until his fingers intertwined with hers. Together they began a stilted run into the depths of the night, where a midnight destrier awaited them, and then Elguire beyond.
Chapter Fifteen
E TOOK HER TO A ROOM SHE DIDN'T KNOW. obviously not his own, this one smaller, more feminine somehow—the bed was made of ash, not oak, and the curtains that fell around it were folds of soft blue and white.
Elguire was a mystery to her, interlocking rooms, narrow turning hallways, people crowded all around them, staring at her, at their lord. Arion said nothing to them beyond sending for his steward, his hold on her hand undiminished as he escorted her to this chamber.
There was a connecting door in one of the walls here. She knew, without asking, that it led to his own set of rooms.
Arion had taken her here and bidden her to rest, few words, a sparse and distracted look to him. Lauren knew he needed to speak to Fuller, to inform him and the rest of the Murdoch's treachery, and that there was precious little time to waste. Aye, she understood when he kissed her hand and bowed away from her, his attention already gone past her and beyond, to a hall filled with his people, and to a battle almost certainly coming with the dawn.
On the ride to Elguire she told him all that Payton Murdoch had told her, his plans to attack, when and why, and Arion had listened and asked questions. Lauren had been careful not to mention her fiancé's treatment of her; in the anger and urgency of the moment, Arion had not asked. It was just as well.
She tried not to feel remorseful when he left her in this little room in his fortress. She tried to remember that she had done the right thing, that it had to be right to warn him of the attack, that it was what Da would have wanted, what any person of honor would have done.
But here in this foreign chamber, with its pretty bed and dainty rug of flowers and vines on the floor, Lauren felt a misery she hardly comprehended overtake her. She sank down to the stones in front of the hearth, untying and removing her wet and muddied boots because it was the practical thing to do, and a grain of practicality seemed like sanity to her now. She set them aside and let the fire warm her toes until the heat grew painful. Her knees drew up to her chest, arms wrapped around them.
Lauren watched the flames before her, allowing the warmth to bask her skin even as her heart grew colder and colder as she reflected on her actions.
She had done it. She had left Keir, and Payton Murdoch. She had thrown away the alliance she had been bred to create, she had tossed back in their faces her clan's wishes for her and run away with the man they had all been bred to despise.
Slowly her chin came to rest on top of her knees, her eyelids growing heavier.
What an impossible thing she had done. What a mad, impossible thing.
And tomorrow they might all die for it. It would be a war, after all … but at least she had made certain it wouldn't be an ambush … she had done her best to even the odds….
She must have fallen asleep, because when she looked up she saw Arion standing over her. She was curled on her side on the floor, her back to the fire.
He knelt in front of her, his look one of deep concentration. One hand lifted to touch her face, slow and soft, following the curve of her cheek, stroking under her jaw. She didn't move, she only watched him, his fingers now coming back up to trace the line of her eyebrows, down her nose, to her lips, his touch careful, almost tentative.
“Are you well?” he asked, hushed in the emptiness of the chamber.
She gave a slight nod and he moved his hand away. She felt the coldness of the air take his place, a strange loss. Lauren sat up.
“What happened?” she asked.“What did they say?”
“Elguire is prepared for an attack,” Arion responded. “We've been prepared for it for weeks. I don't want it to come to that, however. I don't want to risk the lives of the women and children here. We have lookouts posted throughout the island, a relay chain that will tell us exactly when and where they amass. We will meet the damn Scots in the fields rather than here. They won't find it easy to get past us.”
His look was hard and remote; she heard him brand her clan with easy contempt and felt the affront rise through her, though she knew he had good reason for his anger.
“And what of me?” she asked, a shade of tartness to her tone.“Here is a Scot already in Elguire. Are you not afraid I'll turn on you, and let in my fellow countrymen?”
To her surprise, he didn't respond to her challenge, but instead slowly sat down beside her, grimacing, reminding her of his wounds and how he had come by them. She felt a surge of shame, that she would be so hard with him, when all he had done was protect her, again and again.
“No,” said Arion, facing the dwindling flames.“Not you, Lauren. I know you too well. You would be honorable, no matter how much it harmed you to do so.”
Then he looked over at her, almost a dare in his gaze. She lowered her head, confused and oddly close to some finely strung emotion, something that both thrilled and saddened her. She saw Arion reach out and take her hand, holding it lightly.
A new thought struck her. “What were you doing there?” she asked.“Why did you go to Keir?”
He didn't reply at once, only kept his gaze locked on their hands, and then on her eyes, heated and darkly cryptic. At last he said,“I went for you. For the wedding—for you. To see you again, I suppose.” He gave a curt laugh.“It was incredibly foolish.”
“Aye,” Lauren replied, biting. “And you were lucky you didn't die from it, du Morgan.”
“You misunderstand.” He lowered his head again, firelight sliding over his features, casting him with flickering gold. “I went to Keir to steal you away, Lauren MacRae. I went to see if I could find you before your marriage took place, and persuade you to come with me to—I don't even know where. Anywhere. I had made a mistake, you see. A laughable, unbelievable mistake. I let you go. I should never have done that.”
“Oh,” she said, hesitant.
“I came alone. In case you said no.” He gave a pained smile to the logs in the hearth. “I didn't want to risk a war, but I couldn't stay away. I couldn't let you do it, marry him. Not without talking to you again, at least one more time. I had to see you—I had to see your face. At first I told myself it was only that I wanted to be certain I had done the right thing in letting you go, that you did not—could not—belong to me. But even that wasn't true.”
He took a heavy breath; the smile still there, darker than before, a hint of something intense and dangerous in him. “I wanted to reach you, Lauren. To convince you to come back to me.”
“You sent me away,” she said, unable to stop the words, the hurt that spurred them on, even though her hand was clenched tight around his.
“I was wrong.” Arion turned to her, releasing her hand, taking both of her shoulders and pushing her gently dow
n to the floor, until she rested on her back and he hovered over her, so serious, still holding that dark intensity.
“I was wrong, utterly wrong. I was trying so hard to be unselfish, and worthy of you. I was trying to be the thing that my uncle never was, a righteous man. And it took me too long to realize that none of that mattered—not selflessness, or honor, or virtue—not my title, my lands, my knighthood. Nothing mattered without you, Lauren. I'm keeping you now, and to hell with all the consequences. I'm a damned blackguard—and I don't care.”
“I don't either,” Lauren said up to him, just as serious.
“Good.”
He bent down to kiss her, nothing temperate, nothing soft, but instead everything she needed right now— his passion and fervency, his demands and entreaties, his body lowering to hers. Everything hot, everything wanted.
She welcomed him with her touch, with her kisses. She pulled at him and curved beneath him and loved the sound he made from it: a guttural growl, masculine, possessive.
Lauren turned her head and found his jaw, roughness from the growth of new beard, delight in that slight pain, the fragrance of him, the taste of his skin. Her hands felt the coolness of his tunic, straining across his back, the shape of the muscles beneath it, sculpted and taut. He pressed into her, finding their rhythm, leading her to it with him.
She thought, He may die tomorrow. We all may die….
But it seemed so far away, the thoughts of another woman, the worries of another time and place. Right now was only Arion, here with him in this room, rising together to their knees, his hands following the lines of her body, to the silver brooch she wore … removing it and tossing it aside, letting the tartan fall free to her waist, their chests skimming together, their lips exchanging sweetness.
Her belt was gone next; the tartan slid softly from her, down to puddle between them, and how much closer she could hold him without the weight of it against her. How much more of him she could feel, his form rigid against her. He pulled her nearer, her face tucked in to the heat of his neck, his hands almost frantic on her, roving, finding her shape and outlining it, their breath short and rushed. Lauren held on to him, not knowing what else to do.
He may die, she thought again in some distant part of her, incredulous. Yo u can't die, Arion, no, no, I love you….
And it didn't matter that she was inexperienced, that while she wanted all of him at once she didn't know how to achieve it, which way was best to touch him, to hold him. Everything she did seemed right. He let her know with murmured encouragement, with his hands, his legs, his mouth hard on hers and his tongue running over her lips—the back of her gown unlaced, coming loose across her shoulders, offering him more of the paleness of her skin.
He hesitated only when she knew he saw the bruises at her throat, but it was too late to try to hide them. Instead she turned her lips to him, finding the scent of him again, the taste of his skin with her tongue, and it brought him back to her, to the fact of her loosened gown, slipping down her arms.
His kissed her there, he sucked at the slope of her shoulder, across the fine line of her collarbone, his touch now light, almost delicate. It made her crave him more, so Lauren stretched into him, tilting back her head, supported at her waist with the security of his arm, and Arion let her know that this was right, too. His hand came up and tugged at the bodice of her gown, shifting it down, allowing his lips to follow the path.
He sent chills through her, he made the flames before them seem dim. With just a few spare moves her gown was gone from her, and then the thin shift beneath it, and she knelt before him with the firelight gleaming off her skin, abashed and eager together.
Arion paused, his look fervent and sharp, his palms just skimming the tops of her arms.
“Lauren,” he said, and nothing more. She felt the barest tremble to his touch. Shyness rushed through her, unexpected and unrelieved. Her head lowered, her hair falling forward in a whisper across her shoulders, concealing her.
His hands moved and found the back of her neck beneath the weight of her hair, cupping her head until she lifted her chin again. He gave her a light kiss that still scorched her, brought a blush to burn across her entire body.“Beloved,” he said.“Beautiful Lauren …”
He drew her up to stand with him, another kiss, and then before she could fathom it he had lifted her into his arms, taking them across the chamber to the blue and white bed, thick covers and pale furs around her. She fell into the softness, almost laughing, and he was smiling with her, leaning over her, heavy and splendid. The blankets were cool against her back and thighs, and Arion was warm above her. She didn't want him to leave her. When he moved she would be chilled again, bare and vulnerable, and so she twined her arms around his shoulders to keep him there.
His teeth found her earlobe; his breath a murmured rush. “You smell of flowers. You taste like … I don't know. Like Lauren, wild and perfect …” and he pressed his lips to a place behind her ear that made the air around her seem too thin.
He pulled back despite her hold, leaving her to shed himself of his tunic, the hose and belt and all the pieces of English clothing that held him back from her, until he was as bare as she.
Battle scars and clean lines, bandages and cuts, he was more than what she could have imagined, broader and better defined, so handsome with his dark hair and ocean eyes, and so different from her, so incredible.
But she had no time to admire him, even as the burning blush came back. As soon as he could he was back beside her, lithe and sinewy against her, holding her to him, caressing her, feeling her breasts, her ribs and hips. Lauren felt a measure of her uncertainty fade beneath the magic of his hands, the amazing feel of his skin against hers—and then he stopped, just touching her, his palms a burning heat. For a moment they merely stayed that way, staring at each other, a gathering spell weaving around them.
Then Arion moved; easily and with such grace that it seemed perfectly natural to her—he came over her and she felt his hardness hot against her belly, and then lower, to the part of her that knew him well, that suffused her with the stinging fire of the liquid sun.
Lauren thought she knew what to expect now, and this time her fear of binding to him was gone. All she felt now was anticipation, keen and aching, an impatient desire that opened her legs to him, an invitation.
This was better than before, in the barren winter of the meadow. This was what she had envisioned in her deepest and most forbidden dreams: the sight of him over her, his eyes closed, his face tight with concentration, his hands at her shoulders, holding her … and every bit of her stretching to take him in, reveling in the feel of him inside of her. It hurt, but that didn't matter. It was barely there, a new discomfort that still thrilled her.
He did not stop, as part of her expected. He came into her deeper, deeper, until the pain became more distinct, and a cold apprehension broke through her flush, stilling her.
Arion opened his eyes, emerald heat.
“I love you, Lauren,” he said, and did something sharp and awful to her, a rough push that buried him into her and made the pain go searing bright.
She gave a small cry but he caught it with his lips, smothering it, holding fast against her sudden resistance to him, clenched and strained above her, the set of his jaw tight.
“Sorry, sorry,” he was saying, a broken hush against her skin, and then her hair.“Oh, I love you, my beautiful Lauren….”
And it slowly became bearable like this, with his gasping apology, his body so intimate yet held away from her with just the support of his elbows and forearms braced around her face, his cheek against hers. When she thought it might be safe to try to move, to speak, he did it for her, saying her name again, matching the need in his voice with the stroking of his body, a slow slide out of her, and then back in.
Lauren loosened her hands, which had been braced firmly against him, feeling this wondrous new sensation, and then he did it again, and again. Her fingers unfurled, her back gave a slight arch,
and Arion nodded against her, no words now, only the labored release of his breath, rapid and warm. He began to move a little faster, a gradual increase of something, and she felt herself respond without thinking about it, her knees coming up beside him. She turned her head to his neck, tasting the salt there, feeling the blood beat through him and match with hers, with this rhythm they had found together.
It wasn't enough; something was missing, some vital element to him that she had not yet discovered, though it seemed she could hardly encompass more of him. Perfect ebony hair slid over her skin, a silken touch. Their bodies became slick together as he showed Lauren new ways to move, to feel him and let the sparks he gave her blossom in intensity, become lightning.
Lauren arched up again, a shade of demand to her now. Above her Arion's face was closed, lost to her, gone to his own realm of pleasure or pain, she couldn't say which. It made her falter some, seeing the starkness across his features, and she lost the beat of their bodies to her uncertainty, watching him.
Arion came back to her. He focused on her, sudden and almost ferocious with the raw emotion in his eyes, pushing deep and hard, and from nowhere the lightning exploded through her, countless sparks of burning delight, centered on him, all about him. Her head fell back, the soft cry came again, this time holding awe and revelation.
He stiffened above her, then began a series of rapid thrusts that ended as abruptly as they had begun, clenched above her, holding her to him, flooding her with himself until they were both lost to it, each wrapped around the other, panting, enthralled in their closeness.
“I love you, Arion,” Lauren whispered, when at last she could speak.
“Yes,” he said, and turned his head until their lips were brushing again, a sweet vow of promise and joy. Together they settled down deeper into the blankets surrounding them.