Defiant

by Kennedy, Kris

  He hesitated. “How, then?”

  She ran her hand by his cheek, and he ducked into it, ever so slightly. “As we ever have, Jamie. So there is no going back.”

  He turned his head to nip her palm at the same moment he thrust into her with a single, deep rocking penetration. They both flung their heads back and cried out, then stilled.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at the ceiling.

  “Aye,” she whispered. “Do not stop.”

  “It will get better,” he promised in a rasp, and one palm planted by her head, the other holding her hip, dark hair falling forward past his cheekbones, he began moving in slow, rhythmic sweeps.

  At first, Eva just held on, trusting the way his eyes never left hers, the way his body, so perfectly formed, sought hers, the way, after a few moments, a very small, very hot core started forming deep inside her, getting hotter each time Jamie rocked his hips into another slow penetration.

  He knew it too. Her lips parted once and she blew out a breath. He smiled that little half smile, and she smiled back tentatively.

  “Better?” he murmured.

  “Aye, a little—oh, Jamie,” she gasped as he shifted slightly, angled his hips just so, and pushed in. Something hot and wicked snaked down her back, like fat lightning hitting the earth inside her. She gasped and froze.

  “A little better?” he asked wickedly.

  “Aye,” she whispered. “The smallest, little bit.”

  He did it again, that long, slow, perfect thrust. “Bigger now?” he whispered by her ear.

  Cold-hot tremors ripped up her back and her belly, the shivering sensations so good and deep it was almost frightening.

  His eyes gleamed as he gripped her hips and surged into her again and again, each time nudging her flesh apart to go deeper into some wild place high inside her that made her want to grip his hips with her knees and howl. So she did. She bent her knee and Jamie clamped it against his hip. She lifted the other and locked her ankles around his back, her arms around his shoulders.

  “’Twas, perhaps, the tiniest bit better,” she murmured as she hung beneath him, her hair falling to the bed. “But I’ve almost forgotten it now.”

  He laughed. An intimate, masculine, powerful-quiet laugh, and her heart turned a bend, so she could only see it from the back now, as it moved toward Jamie. Hurricane Jamie.

  And now, given a choice, she knew she would always choose this, to swing over this pit with him. Jamie and his scarred heart, his noble, bad choices, his holding power. She would give up every choice that was to come, to have this choice, of turning toward Jamie.

  He planted his hands on the bed and his thrusts grew deeper, faster. His harsh male breath was by her ear, and he was like a sun inside her, until the hot pulsing inside her become a shivering undulation through her body.

  “Oh, Jamie, please,” she whispered. “Do not stop.”

  He rolled them over suddenly, so Eva sat astride him.

  “Now ’tis you who must not stop,” he said, his hands on her hips, holding her in their reckless, sweaty rhythm. He fisted his hand around her hair and tugged her head back, so her body arched up for him, wanton and exposed. Back arched, head tossed, knees dangling over his sculpted body, Eva felt as if her soul were burning.

  He pushed his head back onto the mattress, the cords of his neck revealing the taut power of him. He shoved his hips up into the air, so she was riding him, her knees dragging against the bed. She leaned over him, reaching for the bed, gasping hot, meaningless sounds, kissing his hot neck, their tongues meeting in hot, hungry swipes. She could not even form words, she could only sob and feel his body consuming hers. She was overcome.

  He surged into her again and she shuddered over the edge. Her head jerked backward as her body exploded in thudding tremors that undulated along his shaft, and he lost himself too. Hard, hot spasms of orgasm surged through him as he erupted inside her. He propped himself on his elbows as she collapsed atop him, and their bodies pounded together for plunge after plunge of hot, wild thrusts, Eva calling out his name into his neck, sobbing.

  There was no time after that, just long moments of slowing heartbeats, awareness of trembling muscles, panting kisses along jawlines and necks, and then there was Jamie, wrapping his arms around her back as if she were a gift and holding her to his chest until they both fell asleep.

  Fifty-two

  It was still dark when Jamie awoke. The moon slipped like water between the shutters, pooling in pale white spills around the dark and shadow-throwing things in the room: bed, small table, his boots. Eva was curled up beside him like a cat under the furs, her back to him, her feet against his thighs. He rolled to her. Her hair was a tangle of blackness. He ran his fingers through it gently, combing out the knots their sweaty lovemaking had created.

  “You do that most well,” her sleepy voice drifted up a while later. “I fear you must have practiced on many women.”

  “Scores,” he teased.

  She rolled onto her back and looked at him. “I must insist you break all their hearts at once. You will practice on me alone.”

  “My whole life has been practice for you, Eva.” He bent to kiss her, then pulled back to peer at her hair again. “It does need a great deal of attention. All the knots.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Stop gripping it so”—she held up her hands in little fists and shook them, growling a little—“and it might come away less so.”

  He laughed and ran the back of his hand down her cheek.

  “Jamie—”

  “No.” She was filled with questions. He knew what they would be about. He did not want questions. “Not now.”

  Moonlight spilled over the edge of the furs, and she nodded. “No, you are right. All that is for later.”

  “I simply wished you... to know.”

  Wished someone to know. Wished the past were not the past, and, more often, his future were not his own. But right now, holding Eva, feeling her small ribs beneath his calloused palm, this was enough. Which was noteworthy in itself, for until this moment nothing had ever been enough.

  “I will know this very fully, and very secretly,” she promised. He ran his hand down the furs over her belly and the top of her thighs, and back up. She felt like a furred animal, her legs and arms under the silky pelt. “I am good at secrets.”

  “Yes, you are,” he agreed drily.

  “We shall speak of things other than secrets.”

  “And politics.”

  “And what has been.”

  “And what is to come.”

  She eyed him. “Perhaps we should speak of clothing.”

  He smiled as his gaze traveled over her face, now flushed with color. “Tell me about your river wine, Eva.”

  His rumble was low-pitched, the dusky shadows on his sculpted face deepened by his smile, making small lines curve beside his very capable mouth. Eva felt a ray of heat shoot through her, shivering-bright, a single beam up from the center of her heart. It was as if a little sun were rising inside of her. Best not to look directly into it.

  She looked up at the ceiling and said lightly, “Ah, see, I am turning you to the wine already. Let me think.” She thought a moment, then brought her gaze down and smiled at him. “It will be a small cottage, with a red roof and a little garden. Most certainly, there will be turnips and leeks in it. And garlic, of course, for you, having been raised here in England, will wither without it.”

  He gave a snort of laughter.

  “And I will make us supper, and maybe a friend will be by to visit, but mostly, I think, not. After, you will hold your belly, you will have eaten so much. My cooking will be that good.”

  She lifted her eyebrows a little, daring him to disagree.

  He propped himself up on his elbow and shook his head. “I can almost taste it now. Delicious.”

  She laughed.

  “Turnips?”

  She turned her head to him, and the small movement pushed arcs of black hai
r across the pillow. “They are quite good, mixed with bread and eggs.”

  “But, turnips? This is a fancy, Eva. It could be anything you might dream of.”

  “Turnips,” she said firmly. “One does these wide-awake dreams about the things one has never known, but wants, is that not so?”

  “That is so.” He looked at her. “You have ne’er grown turnips?”

  “Or leeks. Or kept sheep or chickens. Or had a home by a river.”

  He smiled. “Then these are the things to dream of.”

  She smiled and ran her hand over the back of his head, a smooth stroke. “I knew you would understand.”

  He tipped forward on his elbow to place a kiss on the sweaty side of her head, then moved down, a kiss for the neck. She tilted her head, granting him access, and continued her stories, while he continued kissing, both of them doing what they were good at.

  “Then,” she whispered, “while the fire burned behind us in its little grate, as the stars were coming out, we would sit by the little river, you with your ale, and me with my wine...”

  She stopped then because words such as you and your were troublesome, in that they painted a picture that most certainly required Jamie. But he was an earl. What they were doing here was only for here, for now. Cottages and rivers and humble wine did not mark a great man. And then, of course, he served King John.

  “Would you have me?”

  She jerked her head around at the sound of his voice.

  Dark eyes were waiting for her. He was waiting for her. His hand was resting on her belly. “If you would have me, Eva, I will come to your cottage, if that is what you want.”

  Eva felt heat. It was so pure and bright, raying up, it was like light, starting in her belly and expanding from within, the sun rising, eating up the cold darkness of her heart. It went to all corners of her body as if a torch had been lit inside her.

  The brightness of all this made it hard to see; she had to view Jamie through the veil of shimmer. “Would you?” she asked.

  “If you would have me.”

  She gave a little broken laugh. “Have you?”

  He seemed to sense her tears—he was a hand’s breadth away, so how could he not? And the broken sob... oh, he had ruined her. All her old vows—no tears, no heart, nothing to matter—were slipping away like sand.

  He cupped her jaw, his eyes never leaving hers. “I will come. With you, I can do good.”

  The shimmer spilled over, just a bit. “Oh, yes, with me, you can do very good things.”

  He smiled and brushed his thumb down the track of wetness on her cheek.

  “But, of course, I must tell you, it is far from here, and in grave need of repairs. It is in almost as sad a state as the little hut you have seen here in England. Clearly, these are the sorts of homes I am destined for.”

  He smiled. “Then we shall go and rebuild it.”

  “We will rebuild it.” She touched his hair, brushing it back from his face, tucking it behind his ear. He did not push her away.

  “And drink wine,” he said, his voice low.

  “Yes.”

  “And watch the sun set.”

  “Yes.”

  “You will make me supper.” He bent to her mouth. The gentlest kiss, across her lips.

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered, and it was hardly a sound anymore.

  “And I will repair the red, red roof.”

  “You will.” A tear spilled over.

  He curled his fingers slid beneath her chin, lifted her face when she would have lowered it. “And we will grow turnips, and leeks, and any number of other root vegetables.” She gave a gasping, watery laugh. “This makes you cry?” he teased softly.

  Really now, there was nothing but an array of light inside her. She felt as if she glowed. She nodded as the tears fell, over her cheeks, his hands, his lips, kissing her from ear to ear, his murmured words, “You are my mission now, Eva.”

  “I accept,” she said, laughing.

  “But there are some things you must know, Eva. I was going to kill the king.” Jamie let her smile fade before he continued, “You heard this, in the tavern.”

  She shifted, but not away. She only turned a little, slid her hips closer, her shoulders back, so she could look at him more directly. “Yes. I heard.”

  He gave a clipped nod. Why was he saying this? Why was it leaking out now?

  Because he’d been wrong.

  Having thought himself a barren plain, Jamie realized now he was a reservoir. And he ached. Ached with shame for running, for want of going home. And he never could. Never did. Found every reason under the sun to induce John to send others to Everoot when judicial eyres brought the king’s men up North, when civil unrest required royal forces, when itinerations rounded northward to occupy the empty castle at Everoot. Jamie had stayed away, ever away, ferociously, desperately away.

  It was a shameful thing, these two little facts, one that had taken no more than a moment, the other that took the rest of his life: run from your father’s murderers, and never go home again.

  But now... now he wanted something. He wanted Eva.

  His palm rested lightly on her chest, and he looked her in the eye as he revealed his shameful self.

  “He killed my father. That is why I was willing to kill the king.”

  “I imagine it was a hot, driving thing,” she said quietly.

  He pressed onward. “And when John killed my father, I ran. I watched my father drop to his knees, and then I ran away.”

  There it was, the burning whole of him. Out in the open. He had to open his mouth to keep breathing.

  Eva nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Yes. I can see this. It would be the only sensible thing to do.”

  He felt unsteady at this validation.

  “This is just what a person does when they are faced by men with swords who are much bigger than they. It is what I would do. I would venture to say it is what your father would have wanted you to do.”

  He could hear his father’s voice even now, ordering him to run, even as he went down.

  She looked over. “This is why you do not do the sensible thing now, Jamie, no? Ry worries that you are trying to get yourself killed. But you will not do that anymore, will you?” She put her hands on the sides of his face and pulled him down to her face, close. “I would much prefer you stay here. With me. We will go to my river and grow things.”

  He felt washed through, but managed a faint smile. “I have a question, Eva. Only you can answer it.”

  The braziers had burned down and only one candle burned now, guttering in its holder. The moon had risen, filling the room with silvery light. Eva considered him for a long moment, then propped herself on an elbow, facing him. Her hair spilled down over her arm.

  “I am prepared,” she said in a solemn voice.

  “Why did John kill my mother?” He forced his voice level. “For years he’d been sending gifts north, as he often did to widows and wards.”

  She nodded. “Yes, John has a great deal of patience with those who cannot hurt him. He ought to have been a falconer. For years, he was most kind to the folk at Everoot.”

  “Then why?” He pulled his gaze away from hers and focused on the glimpse of a rounded white shoulder visible beneath her dark hair.

  “Jamie, I cannot say whether or no John murdered your mother. I know for certes he killed d’Endshire, for I saw that myself. He claimed he was within his rights. I do not know if that is so or not. Was it treasonous for a vowed vassal to do what they did?” He heard her take a breath. “But your mother, the countess. . . . Jamie, I think she might have died of a broken heart. That was the second man she’d loved whom the king had slain.”

  He lifted his gaze. “Second?”

  She nodded slowly. He let it lie a moment, then nodded too. “What treason did John claim was done at Everoot?”

  She swallowed. He watched it move down her throat. “The treasures.”

  “Treasures,” he echoed.

&nbs
p; “There are treasures rumored to be in Everoot’s cellars, Jamie. Your cellars.”

  “I know that,” he said quietly. He’d known it since he could walk, since his father had led him down the steep, hidden stairwell behind the lord’s chambers, taken him into a dusty vault filled with bright metals and gems and other things that Jamie had not understood and had never been explained.

  When it’s time, son, his father had said, you will know. One day, you will be Everoot. Until then, I or another caretaker will hold the keys.

  But now his father was dead, and no caretaker had ever shown himself.

  Eva was speaking quietly. “Your mother and Roger’s father were trying to spirit these treasures away before John came for them. They feared the state he was in. He needed coin for his wars, he needed support against the papacy, he needed—” She shook her head impatiently. “To be thought well of. He needed inducements to make people love him, no? Your mother feared he would recall the forgotten treasures of Everoot. She was trying to get them away.”

  “And I left her to it,” he said, his words devoid of emotion, no change in tone or tenor, just a single pitch, flat and cold.

  Eva tipped her head to the side. “You were a child when your father was killed.”

  “Not when my mother was.” Anger sawed at him, making him sharp with the one person in the world who did not deserve anything but gentleness. He took hold of her arm and said through a clenched jaw, “When my mother died, I was in France, serving the king. Preparing my vengeance. All those years, letting her live alone, thinking I was dead.”

  She tolerated his fierceness in the room, neither rejecting it nor joining in it. She just watched him. Slowly he loosened his hold. His hand fell back to the mattress.

  Then she tipped in, so close her nose almost touched his. “Your mother was not alone, Jamie. I was with her. And she loved you very much. She knew you were not dead. She told me this, many times.”

  “I have thought of her,” he said thickly. “Every day, for twenty years.”

  “Perhaps she felt your regard, for she said it very often, very calmly, a thing she knew completely. My son is not dead. He is too strong for John to kill, and too smart to come back.”