She wound her hands into his hair, tugging him closer. She had to recognize his need. Had to know what she encouraged. He shuddered, his arms tightening about her. Breathing hard, she drew her head back. “Release me.”
Strongheart shook his head to clear the dull roaring in his ears. By the rood! Where had the woman learned to kiss like a seductress? Would she guess how much her demand cost him? Of all the women he’d ever known, why must this Irish princess be so hard to resist?
If she had not pulled away, he wasn’t sure what would have happened. What had she done to him? Had she cast a spell? Wild and untamed as Leinster’s green mountains, impassable as her dark bogs, Dara had draped him in the mystic darkness of ancient Eire.
As he withdrew his arms from her, he longed to see her face clearly. Such passion couldn’t be faked, and he wanted her to admit her reaction to him. He yearned for a hint of a smile, a small caress, an acknowledgement of what they’d shared.
She rested on her back, gazing up at the stars, seemingly unaffected by what had just passed between them. If only he could deny the lust she’d incited. Shifting his breeches to accommodate his stirring fullness, he knew he should move away to the fire, where the breeze couldn’t carry her feminine scent, where he couldn’t see the soft silhouette of her breasts, but he could not leave her.
He’d meant to arouse her with his kiss. Instead, she remained calm, motionless, belying the passionate trembling he’d felt only moments before. He knelt at her side, but she stared into the darkness, fingers laced behind her head, refusing to look at him.
“Are you all right?”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” Her flat, toneless voice matched her stillness.
What could be wrong? He had neither hurt her nor frightened her. From the passionate, demanding way she’d responded, his kiss could not possibly have been her first experience. She’d known exactly what to do, so his reaction shouldn’t have taken her by surprise. No man alive could have reacted otherwise when kissed like that.
Clearly passion hadn’t overwhelmed her. Not when she’d inflamed him with her wild abandon, then demanded like a prim-and-proper maid that he hold to his word. She should be taunting him for his daring or trying to stab him with her dirk. Her dark and murky stillness unnerved him, and he wondered why she appeared so composed.
His hand cupped her chin, and his thumb caressed the soft smoothness of her cheeks. “Did I offend you, Princess?”
She shoved his hand aside with bleak outrage and sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. Clasping her legs, she rocked and mumbled to herself between clenched teeth. “Did you think I would like being tumbled? I will not be like her. I won’t.”
Baffled by her words, he cocked his head to one side. “You won’t be like whom, Princess?”
Her hands released her knees and slapped the ground, then she stood. “’Tis no concern of yours. I wish you cursed dreams.”
DARA STOMPED away from him, her back stiff, unwilling to admit she would not sleep this night. Strange sensations still rippled deep inside her. Somehow she didn’t think kissing the Norman was the kind of beguilement her father had in mind.
Her hands trembled at what he’d made her do, at what he’d make her feel. She’d discovered controlling her unruly passions with this man would not be as easy as dismissing other men’s advances. A peck on the cheek would never have rid herself of him. So she’d decided to tease him with what he could never have, hoping he’d leave in frustration. Her plan had worked too well. He hadn’t been the only one caught in the web of desire she’d spun. She’d been filled with a curious inner excitement, a feminine sense of power at the realization she’d drawn such a response from him.
She’d almost wished the Norman had been unable to keep his word. He would not easily have forgiven her if she’d drawn the dirk from her boot and stabbed him to keep him from taking further liberties. Did he comprehend she’d incited his desire so she could reject him? Or did he think himself such a great kisser that she’d been unable to resist?
She needed a moment alone to calm herself. If the Norman followed her to Sorcha’s side, she’d scream the entire camp awake. She had no wish to discuss the incident with him and hoped that if she ignored their kiss and the strange stirring in her blood, by tomorrow she’d forget the way she’d responded to the Norman. A hated Norman.
Even now, as she leaned over her friend’s side, she wanted more of his touch. How could a man so skilled in the art of war be so gentle? Even when he’d tripped her, his strong arms had cradled her fall. She’d intended to fuel his desire, then let him suffer with unsated lust, but her plan had reversed itself, and she’d become so lost in sensation that for a moment she’d forgotten he was a stern, unyielding, and relentless Norman intent on conquering Eire.
Her mood had shifted continuously since his arrival, and she was having difficulty reining in her impulsive nature. Each emotion, whether anger, disappointment, embarrassment, or passion, seemed heightened and more intense than ever before. When the Norman had covered her with his taut body, the bunched muscles of his hard thighs had twisted her insides with excitement. Her fingers had clamped in his thick hair and a tight clenching sensation had seized her lower body.
His kiss had been carnally devastating. His raw sensuality had done peculiar and dangerous things to her. With one kiss, he’d aroused her body and scrambled her brain. What had happened to her good sense? Muttering a curse under her breath, she fled to the one person who understood.
Sorcha lifted her head. “I saw . . .”
“What?” Dara offered her friend a drink, wondering what she’d seen, how much she could guess.
Sorcha swallowed some wine, and her warm brown eyes stared intently at Dara, her voice sharp. “Too much. You gave him too much.”
Dara dropped the wineskin, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “God help me. I lost my head.” Her voice choked, emotion bleeding from her like spilled wine. She drew a ragged breath and regained her senses. Sorcha needed rest, and she shouldn’t be worrying about Dara’s weaknesses. Pushing aside her doubts for the moment, Dara stroked a stray lock from the maid’s forehead. “Are you in pain?”
Sorcha sighed, softening her tone. “Nothing like the torment you are feeling now. You only kissed him, lassie. You didn’t sully yourself like your cursed mother.”
Sorcha’s words were meant to ease her pain, and Dara did her best to accept them as fact. Again she tried to turn the conversation away from herself. “Could you eat some meat?”
“I’m not hungry.” Sorcha closed her eyes. “You rest, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
Dismissed, Dara wandered to her blanket. If the Norman thought to claim their land by conquering her, he must be insane. Even if her father allowed a match between them, which he wouldn’t, the Ard-ri would kill Strongheart before handing over Leinster’s wealth to a Norman renegade. Besides, there was the small matter of the marriage agreement already made.
She spent most of the night tossing and turning, her mind replaying her response to the Norman’s kiss and what she should have done differently. By morning, she’d admitted her mistake and had come to only one conclusion: He must never touch her again.
The smoke from the glen had lifted during the night, making the air clear and sweet. Now at first light, the mountain mists hung over the moorland, muffling the whistle of a blackbird in the fern and the bark of a dog in the distant village.
Sorcha’s bleeding had stopped, and she’d regained much of her strength. While her father’s men rounded up the cattle, Dara and Sorcha shared the morning meal of goose eggs, oatmeal porridge, and barley bread.
Strongheart gathered the horses and saddled his mount before joining the women at the fire. Even as she was aware of his every move, Dara was determined to ignore him.
But when he joined them, he spoke not to her but to Sorcha
. “You’re in no condition to ride. Gaillard can take you up before him again.”
“One of our men can carry her,” Dara insisted.
“Gaillard has a saddle. With his feet anchored in the stirrups, ’twould be safer if she rode in his arms, and she could sit sideways as a lady should.”
Sorcha nodded in calm acceptance, and Dara stood, dusting her hands, then rubbing the shamrock locket at her throat. Though his suggestion would give Sorcha comfort, his condescending tone unnerved Dara. The man overflowed with arrogance. Now that they were free of the danger of raiders, he needed a lesson in humility.
“Excuse me.” She walked from the fire, leaving Sorcha alone with the Norman.
“Don’t go far. Raiders might still be about,” Strongheart called after her.
She didn’t answer, but waved away his warning. She’d lived here all her life and knew the dangers far better than he.
After tending to her needs in the privacy of the woods, Dara cautiously edged to where the horses stood waiting. Pulling her dirk from her boot, she raised the sharp blade to cut the Norman’s cinch strap, but the sturdy knot gave her an idea, and she resheathed her blade.
Her fingers worked quickly, and when she’d finished, she laughed under her breath, anticipating his embarrassment. Mounting Fionn, she waited for the others to join her.
Gaillard mounted and reached down for Sorcha. Strongheart lifted the maid into his squire’s arms. Gaillard cradled her, and she nodded once to Dara that all was well, then settled against the squire’s chest. The squire urged his mount into a walk, leaving Dara and Strongheart to catch up. They would travel slowly, with her father’s men herding the cattle back where they belonged.
From a pouch on his saddle, Strongheart withdrew a bouquet of primroses and handed them to Dara with an endearing flourish. As she inhaled the sweet scent, she realized he must have awakened in the early morning and gathered the flowers. His thoughtful gesture made her regret her prank.
She lifted her head from the nosegay and opened her mouth to warn him. Strongheart was already climbing into the saddle.
Before she could utter a sound, the saddle slipped sideways and his horse reared. The Norman’s powerful thighs clamped the animal’s flanks tight, but the crooked saddle spilled him into the dirt. He landed on his backside with a curse and nimbly rolled to avoid the bucking stallion’s hooves.
Clasping her hand to her mouth to cover her gasp, she chewed on a knuckle. She hadn’t thought her prank dangerous. She’d only intended to dump him on the ground as he’d dumped her last night before taking that kiss. How in the name of Jesu had she come up with such a dumb idea? The Norman had so befuddled her, she was committing childish acts she’d outgrown long ago. His magnificent physique, his rakish glances, the seductive curve of his mouth had her profoundly aware of his intense attractiveness. But she’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing he had the least effect on her.
As he scrambled away unhurt, her concern subsided. She would never let him know his tender gesture, his gift of flowers, had softened her toward him—if only for a moment. “So how do you like being tossed on the ground like a sack of winter wheat?”
He ignored her taunting words and rose to his feet. Grabbing the reins, he controlled his horse with a few soothing words. Strongheart scowled at her, removed the entire saddle from the horse’s back, examined it carefully, then shook out the blanket.
The rough texture of his voice was almost as intimidating as his glower. “Did you put a burr beneath the blanket as well as loosen the cinch?”
“I have no wish to harm your horse,” she replied blithely, unwilling to admit she hadn’t expected the animal to buck wildly when the saddle slipped.
Dara watched him rub his hands on the seat of his breeches and took satisfaction in knowing he’d have an uncomfortable ride back to Ferns. He deserved it. It was his fault she hadn’t slept a wink all night. All the flowers in the world could not make up for his having forced her to kiss him. Or for his making her all too aware of his every mood.
“If you ride on raids with men, you must learn to behave like a warrior—not a reckless child.” At the hard ruthlessness in his voice, she stiffened in the saddle.
If her father placed him in charge of Leinster’s defense, Strongheart could forbid her to ride with the men. His words proved the changes she so feared would curtail her freedom. She straightened her back to cover her alarm, refusing to shrink from his cold black eyes. “I’m seventeen years old and Leinster’s only heir. I do as I wish.”
“Seventeen is old enough to know better than to loosen a cinch.”
At the note of censure in his tone, she tossed his flowers to the ground. “And what of your games?”
He placed the blanket over his mount’s back, and he looked up, his dark eyes boring into her. As their gazes met, the glint in his eyes sent icy fingers of warning trickling over her shoulders.
“If you had a good man to bed you, you would not be so upset over one insignificant kiss.”
She cursed under her breath. How dare he belittle her efforts and call their kiss insignificant? That kiss had been hot enough to brand flesh. Just recalling the incident brought heat to her cheeks.
First he’d demanded what she hadn’t wanted to yield, then he’d belittled her effort, and her fury rose with the rising sun. “Norman, if you dare touch me again, I’ll stick a knife between your ribs and carve out your heart.”
His eyes glittered dangerously. “Your trick could have maimed or killed me, woman. All because of a kiss?”
At his fury, and at her own peculiar urge to apologize, she backed Fionn out of his reach and lied, “You tasted like swine.”
His lips twisted in a cynical smile. “I think you liked it.”
The ridicule in his tone, his accurate and arrogant guess, and the knowing mockery in his glance sent a shiver spiraling down her spine. “There’s a wee devil sitting on your shoulder for sure, Roland de Clare, and I hope he delivers you to hell.”
“What you need is discipline.” His commanding tone scared her more than if he’d shouted, especially as she realized they were all alone, but she’d never let him know it. His jaw clenched so tightly she heard his molars grind. His hands gripped the saddle tighter until his knuckles whitened, his rage all the more evident in the precise way he replaced the saddle on his horse’s back.
She recalled his hands on her, pulling her so close their two bodies had melded in the dark. “I need nothing from you. Stay away from me.”
He raised a brow. “Or?”
“Or next time you will be maimed.”
At her threat, his face darkened, his lips tightened, and his eyes narrowed a fraction more. She swallowed hard, no longer thinking it safe to taunt him. Her heart thundered in her chest. He tugged the cinch strap tight. Before she could dig her heels into Fionn’s sides to flee, he grabbed her horse’s reins.
“Get down,” he ordered.
She turned her head, searching for her father’s men, but they’d given her the privacy her father demanded. She shifted uneasily in the saddle. “You have no right to—”
He seized her waist and dragged her from the saddle. As he trapped her wrists at her sides, ignoring her gasp of outrage, she squirmed against his massive chest. Where were her father’s men?
She flicked her hair off her face with a jerk of her head so she could see. “Damn you. Let me go.”
His voice hardened mercilessly. “We will settle this dislike you have for me, Princess.”
Dislike? The Norman had the sensitivity of a rock. “I hate you.”
She struggled harder.
He held her firm.
Tilting back her head, she looked up at him and realized antagonizing him had been a terrible mistake. One glance at his furious face and fear gnarled her stomach. Sweet Jesu! Her father
had told her to beguile the man. Whatever had possessed her to antagonize him?
When his nostrils flared, she kicked his shin as hard as she could. He flinched, but instead of releasing her, his hands tightened on her wrists.
“If you do that again, I will not be the only one riding back to Ferns with a sore bottom, Princess.”
Alarm, anger, and embarrassment rippled along her back. Her breath quickened, and she flushed crimson with resentment and humiliation.
“You cannot—”
One cocky eyebrow raised. “I could.”
She drew herself to her full height. “You cannot come to my land and order me about. If I were a man—”
One finger, strong and gentle, pressed against her lips, silencing her. “If you were a man, I’d knock some sense into you with my fist. But if you were a man, I would not have kissed you. Your problem is not the fact that I stole a kiss. The problem is that you liked it.”
His words stabbed her as truly as an arrow piercing her heart. A shudder racked her when old wounds that he’d opened now bled anew. Damn him for seeing what she’d tried so hard to keep hidden. After a kiss like his, she’d have had to be stone not to respond.
When her stomach had tightened and her pulse had raced in enjoyment, he’d all too easily made her feel passion against her will. She hadn’t wanted to respond, and still, she hadn’t been able to control herself. At the memory of her failure, her head dropped in shame and her shoulders sagged.
With one kiss, he’d wiped away years of her hard work to repress her emotions, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of confirming his high opinion of himself. He might try again, and her nerves were too raw to feign disinterest.
Of all the men interested in her, why did she have to respond to this one? She didn’t even like him. He was too arrogant, too sure of himself. She thrust away the memory of him cradling Sorcha’s head in his lap, ignored the memory of the flowers he’d gathered for her, now trampled by Fionn’s hooves.
Conquer the Mist Page 5