by Kris Kennedy
He dipped his head. Their foreheads touched. Just outside the line of trees, the army camped, coarse voices and weapons everywhere, like a foul river murmuring. The moon rose.
She finally moved, lowering her body, which of course she had to do. She could not hold herself up all night.
She slid her hips forward and back, rocking on him. That, she did not have to do.
His fingers tightened on her hips to stop her. “Senna—”
“I’m afraid.” Her voice was so low it was almost breath.
“I know,” he whispered back, running his hands over her cheeks, cupping her face.
“I do not like being afraid.”
Her hips rocked again and slowly, Finian became aware tears were slipping over his fingers, down her cheeks.
“Shite,” he rasped, and pulled her to him.
Slow and almost motionless, they rocked together, very slow. For a long time she just rested her forehead on his, and he kept his hands on her spine, and they moved, not wanting anything more than to just hold and be held.
But as the length of him was deep inside her, sliding over slippery, sensitive flesh, she started pressing down in harder thrusts, pushing for more. She didn’t move faster—they dare not—just harder, more desperately, pushing with more force. She spread her legs as far as she could, pressed down as hard as she could, and it was not enough.
He lifted his hips ever so slightly, trying to meet her obvious, desperate need, but they couldn‘t risk any more movement than that.
“More,” she whimpered.
He gave a ragged, whispered laugh. “Jésu, Senna, my hands are tied here.” A tiny but vicious pump of his hip only made her writhe more.
“More.” She bent to his ear and begged, “I need more.”
His wide palm suddenly pushed her back a few inches. Dark and moonlit, his face looked dangerous as he met her eyes, his gaze predatory and appraising. He grabbed both her wrists and pulled them behind her back, held them locked in his grip.
The other hand he closed around her throat very gently but very powerfully, exerting just enough pressure for her to feel his restraint. Dangerous and erotic. Then he leaned forward and sucked her breast into his hot mouth.
She dropped her head back and moaned silently. Her hips slid on him, and with another small, violent shove up, he jammed himself farther up inside.
It was like he knew her body from the inside out, because the changed angle increased the feel of him, touching her high inside. He was pushing against shuddering, trembling flesh, a slow, torturous slide. Each small plunge tightened some silken cord that ran from her womb to her breasts, down the back of her legs and up her spine. It connected her to his pleasure.
He tightened his hold on her wrists and on her throat, his eyes never looking away, pressuring her, pushing her. Hot, flat jolts of energy shot though her. She whimpered and arched her back. He closed his teeth around her nipple and flicked his tongue, hard touches just shy of pain.
She leapt in his arms, quivering.
“Is this good to ye?” he growled.
“Aye,” she whispered. “More.”
“How much more?” he rasped.
“Don’t stop. Much more.”
She heard a low growl, as if he’d turned animal, then, releasing her wrists, he sat up a little straighter and slid his hand down the sweaty curve of her back, over her bottom. Every movement was slow, torture slow, painful slow, safe, undetectable movements. He slipped his hand between her thighs, between his, to where they were joined. His fingertips circled through the slippery wetness, then he trailed them back and nestled them between the seam of her buttocks. Slow, never-stopping.
She whimpered, her forehead rolling on his shoulder. He nuzzled the tip of a finger between her smooth rounded cheeks and pressed up.
“Oh, sweet Lord,” she exhaled in a hot rush, so he did it again, slid his finger up a little farther.
“Ohh,” she whispered in a choked voice, and Finian didn’t know if it was pain or pleasure, or both.
“More, Senna?” he grated, and he almost didn’t recognize his own voice, it was so clouded with violent passion. “Do ye want more?”
Her breath exploded out of her and her teeth closed on his shoulder as her hips slammed against him very, very slowly. His head was spinning now.
She leapt in his arms, quivering. Her knees pushed out, so she was sprawled against his chest. Her buttocks, soft and yielding, gripped his finger tightly as her body trembled and rocked.
“Do ye like this?” he growled.
She was sobbing against his shoulder, biting him, quivering, tiny, frantic shoves of her hips, opening her to him.
“Feel all of me inside ye,” he rasped.
His finger, slippery with her juices, pressed up a little farther and held there as she threw her head back in a silent scream. He pressed and released, steady, ever-more pressure on the sensitive opening of her, until his finger was inside her and he could feel the orgasm begin in her womb with his finger and his cock.
He locked his mouth over hers as they erupted together, her explosive orgasm clenching him in hard, rhythmic pulses as he released deep inside her, utterly silent but for her sobs, which he swallowed, and the words she was crying into his mouth, “I love you.”
Later, when he could, when she was cradled in his arms, limp and sweaty, he lowered them by degrees to the floor of the deer blind and tugged her into the curve of his body. The army was almost silent now. Only a few small fires burned. A guard or two sat around them, desultorily on watch. No one else was awake but Senna and Finian, and an owl perched on the longest branch of their tree, blinking bright green eyes, waiting for unwary creatures to show themselves and become prey.
Some time later, she pushed up slightly and peered over her shoulder at him. Damp tendrils of hair curled beside her face, and her eyes were heavy lidded with passion. She looked exhausted and sated and magnificent.
“You heard, did you not?” she whispered. “What I said.”
He pulled her back down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He wrapped an arm around her belly and pulled her back into his chest. “Sleep if ye can. I’ll keep watch. Tomorrow, we find a horse. We’ll be at The O’Fáil’s by nightfall.”
As if that would solve a single problem.
Chapter 41
In the mists of a Dublin dawn, a troop of mercenary soldiers grumbled onto their horses, but every one of them knew things could be worse. The pay was good and the plunder better. There were worse professions than employment with the king’s governor in Ireland.
Motionless, the justiciar, Wogan, watched from horseback, supervising the muster as the soldiers mounted up. The sound of heavy boots and creaking leather bounced back off the wall of mist.
Always a march and battle, taking here and giving there, only to have it taken back again. Irish king-making and deposing, releasing men held hostage and rescuing besieged ones, appointing good men and burying dead ones. His face revealed nothing; he was a chiseled sculpture whose craggy presence made his men mount up more quickly when his gray eyes settled on them.
King Edward would follow shortly, but Wogan had orders not to wait. The king had received news that greatly displeased him. Wogan was to begin settling the matter. Soon the Irish would understand the king’s terms. They would capitulate, or they would die.
Wogan’s fingertips were damp and chilled, and he blew on them absently as he straightened in the saddle. His gelding nickered at the sudden movement and skittered sideways over the wet cobblestones. Wogan spoke a soft word, and the horse quieted.
Turning, his hand in the air, he swept his arm down in an arc, and the retinue headed off into the mists. They would make good time, bound for northern Ireland where the devil-try dwelt.
They wouldn’t see him coming for a long time. When they did, it would be too late.
When the sun was midway through its western arc the next afternoon, Finian lifted his hand and pointed into the valley belo
w.
“O’Fáil lands.”
Senna nodded calmly, belying her fluttering heart. Her entire life had been spent on a remote manor, locked away with profit sheets and a stylus. Exactly as she’d planned it. Finian seemed to feel sad about that, that she’d somehow been injured as a result, that a loss had been suffered. But she’d never seen it that way.
As a widow, she’d made the final decisions about her life. Bought a dying business and made it thrive, raised her brother and, until their father gambled it away, ensured a rich manor remained for the ensuing generations—that would probably never come, she suddenly realized, because neither she nor Will seemed inclined toward unions. Marriages, children, that sort of thing. Being connected.
They’d been ruined for it.
Each of them lived ferociously solitary lives, connected only to each other by steely thin threads of devotion, and to their father by knotted ropes of dismay. Dread. Desolation.
Until now. Senna had let go the rope and gone over the edge of that particular, spectacular cliff with Finian.
She tried frantically to straighten the wild curls of her hair into a semblance of a braid. It helped little to realize now that she was terrified of meeting people. That her self-imposed sequestration had not simply been a preference for numbers or the clarity of a contract. It had been—and was—fear.
She admitted it now: fear had ruled her life. For good reason. There was much to fear, and it was all inside her, flowing like blood. Just like blood.
The same blood that gave her powers to create the most rare, coveted dyes in the West. Dye-witch, indeed. A dye-witch was someone who courted terrible, dangerous things, who let passion rule her life. Senna knew now she was no better than her mother.
They were met long before the castle gates by warriors who obviously knew Finian on sight. Solid muscle locked on muscle as the long-lost warriors pounded each other on the back, hooting and hollering.
“Finian O’Melaghlin, ye crooked Irishman,” roared one voice above the others.
“Ah, Saint Pat, Finian, we thought ye were dead,” said another, and she could hear the despair the thought had conjured.
A burly arm wrapped around his shoulders, and her escort disappeared beneath the hearty welcoming of those who flocked to the gates.
Someone pounded Finian on his shoulder and roared, “’Tis more than good to have ye back. ’Twas grievous when we thought ye were captured and killed with the rest.”
“’Tis grievous enough that the others were killed,” he replied grimly.
“Aye, that it is,” the other man said. “But the king has need of all his nobles, and to lose a great lord and councilor like yerself would be a loss too tremendous to bear.”
Finian grunted noncommittally, but Senna’s weary eyes were yanked open by the recognizable English words. Great lord? Councilor? Her great, hulking warrior? What, with his irreverent jokes and earthy ways, favored by a king?
Lord Finian. Good Lord. He was noble.
The rest of the household greeted them just inside the inner bailey gates. Older men, women, and a bevy of children swarmed into the bailey or hung out of windows, waving and calling. Afternoon shadows stretched across portions of the bailey, and a golden glow of firelight formed a backdrop for the silhouetted figures.
Women of the household flitted and fluttered nearby, bright Irish butterflies. Senna was quick to note them pinch their cheeks and brighten their smiles when Finian’s gaze turned to them. A chill of worry slunk across her breast.
Someone approached. Tall, long-haired, and kilted, he nodded levelly at Finian. “Our king will no’ believe me when I tell him you made it out of yet another close call, O’Melaghlin. I was just on my way to save your sorry arse.”
Finian turned. “The day I need a Scot gallowglass to save my arse ’twill truly be a sorry day.”
“A regular day,” retorted the other, crossing his arms. “A day like any other. I’ve saved you too many a time to count.”
Finian snorted. “Ye’ve drunk me under the table too many times to count. Saved me? I think not.”
“Saved you, indeed. That’s why The O’Fáil was sending me out, to save you. As usual. I was just leaving.”
“Aye, well, ye’re too late. As usual.”
They stared for another moment, then suddenly embraced with hearty thumps on the back. These men did like to thump. Senna couldn’t help smiling, but the smile fled when she heard Finian’s low-pitched words. “The O’Fáil received word of my capture, then?”
The other man pounded him on the back, replying in a voice just as low, “Aye, we’ve a word: bastard.”
“I’ve two,” Finian said as they released. “Dead man. Where is the king?”
“Inside. He’s been worried like a sick cat, Irish. He’ll be glad you’re here.”
“Maybe,” Finian said flatly. “Until he hears my news.”
“We’ve had some news ourselves,” said the tall Scotsman.
Finian looked at him sharply. “Of what?”
The Scotsman’s eyes drifted in Senna’s direction for a moment. “Rardove has spun a fascinatin’ tale about your escape.”
“Is that so?” he replied grimly. “I’ve a tale as well. But for later,” he said, passing a sharp glance around the circle of warriors. “For now, all ye need to know is that this,” he reached out to Senna, “is my savior.” He tugged her into their circle.
“This comely vision was yer wings, ye lout?” one man roared in laughter and turned to her in mock reprimand.
Finian took a deep breath. “I’d have you meet Senna de Valery.”
Stunned silence swept through the group. Someone said in a quiet voice, “Rardove’s betrothed?”
He jutted his chin out. “She never was.”
“Rardove says she was,” another man said grimly.
“Rardove lies when he breathes.”
“Sweet Jesus, O’Melaghlin, why is she here?” someone else demanded.
“She’s here because I’ve brought her here.” Finian’s gaze glittered dangerously over the group, and Senna felt the tension ratchet up another notch. Her heart started that familiar thundering, and the resultant dizziness tingled at the base of her neck. The Scot who’d embraced Finian turned to her with a smile.
“Now, why would you have done such a thing as that, lass, setting a scoundrel like Finian O’Melaghlin free?”
She gave a weak smile. “Had I known the depths of his depravity, rest assured I would have found another.”
The crowd broke into noisy, if tense, laughter and turned to enter the keep. Finian looked down at her.
“They don’t want me here,” she whispered.
Chapter 42
“Not to worry,” Finian said. “I’ll see to ye.”
He slid his arm around her waist, laying claim in a way that might, he hoped, ward off any problems. But then, there was a war at hand, and women never fared well in them.
By keeping his arm tight around her waist, Finian was privy to every quivering muscle in her body as they climbed the stairwell into the keep. Her backbone ran in an unerringly stiff line from neck to buttocks. He pursed his lips as they topped the stairs.
“Do ye know where my favorite place in this hall was, when I was young and fostered here?”
She jerked her head up. “Nay.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He gestured with his chin. “See if ye can pick it out.”
Her gaze swept the large room as they stopped in the arched doorway of his long-ago home. The great hall, three broad steps below them, was wide, clean, and bright, lit by evening light coming in through high windows and rushlights burning in iron sconces. A huge fire roared in a recessed firepit along the far wall, a blaze of light and heat. Fresh rushes covered the floor, and the room smelled comfortably of faint herbs and warm bodies.
People were everywhere, in pairs and threesomes, talking, eating, and laughing. A young couple was having a lovers’ argument in a far corner, the disagr
eement evident by a quivering lower lip and dewy, tear-filled eyes.
A group of youngsters huddled at a far table, playing some kind of game. One lad exploded into such raucous laughter he rolled backward off the bench. The others erupted after him, little volcanoes of good spirit.
Two dogs lolled comfortably by the roaring fire, crunching bones. The outline of a cat was frozen in midstride, her bright green eyes fixed on some unseen rodent threat beneath the rushes.
A herd of young men, not yet warriors but no longer boys, loitered near a group of men. They weren’t watching their elders though, who were, at the moment, the most boring creatures imaginable. They were espying a bevy of young females chattering at another table, lasses who hid their lips behind slender hands, eyed their admirers, then giggled and looked away.
Senna’s gaze swept back to him. “At the head of that table where the maidens are?” she asked, the tremor gone from her voice.
He smiled, pleased his gambit had proven successful. “Guess again.”
“At the center of the dais table, then, being self-assured and commanding.”
He shook his head.
“Tell me, then.”
“No. Ye’re to figure it out yerself.”
“I will.” She accepted the challenge with bright eyes.
“Och, how could I doubt it? Ye’re quick-witted, and if ye cannot figure it out yerself, all ye’ve to do is pull out that pretty smile and lure the truth out of some poor unsuspecting.”
It was indeed a pretty smile that brightened her now-relaxed face as Finian led her into the hall, battling back the wave of protectiveness washing through him. There were more important things to attend to just now, such as recovery of ancient Irish rights and onrushing war. He must not get distracted by Senna.
Just then, the king looked up and saw him. He went still, then got to his feet, slowly. Tablets on his lap crashed to the floor.
Finian started forward, toward the man who’d taken him in when everyone else was willing to say he was a lost cause, who’d believed in something the others hadn’t seen. To them, he’d been the son of a mother who committed the sin of suicide, right now burning in hell, and a father who’d melted away after it happened.