From the ridge, no one could take them unawares. The broad-leaved forests below thinned to open meadows before the ground rose to this peaceful hillock. Below, low-lying riverside pastures spread before them, abundant with pine martens, squirrels, and song thrush.
DARA UNPACKED a blanket from the pannier and spread it on the grass. While Strongheart tethered the horses, she removed the food and laid out cold chicken, Leinster cheese, fresh wheat bread, and wine.
Dara used the moment alone to set her racing thoughts in order. Had the spy they’d flushed out of the wood somehow known of her intent to meet with Mata? Or had it been sheer coincidence?
And what of Strongheart? He’d used the utmost restraint and had not asked one question since the monks left. If only she trusted the Norman . . . but too much was at stake.
After carefully removing his sword, but placing the weapon within reach, Strongheart settled beside her on the blanket. “Do you receive surprise visitors often?”
She scooted as far away from him as she could get while remaining on the blanket. “We are known far and wide for our hospitality,” she murmured vaguely, without answering his question.
“You can’t reach the food from over there, can you?” he teased.
Reluctantly she edged a little closer, her shoulders stiff. Why couldn’t she relax around this man? She no longer thought he might pounce and force her to give him another kiss. But the reminder of the first time he’d held her caused her stomach to knot and her heart to flutter.
She looked out across the land of greens and purples and dramatic shapes and contours under a changing canopy of blue and white blown in from the Atlantic. This was her home. She’d explored the mountains and moorlands, appreciated the lush river valley, lowland bogs, steep cliffs, and broad sandy beaches. She raised her fingers to the shamrock at her neck and promised herself that O’Dwyres would always live here.
She wrenched her thoughts to the conversation at hand, then realized he’d asked a question and she’d lapsed into silence. He was looking at her with a perceptive intensity that made her want to squirm.
Brushing back the hair from her face, she pretended to be calm.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“What caused the enmity between your father and the Ard-ri?”
She helped herself to a drumstick, but the thought of eating made her queasy. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Strongheart suffered no such malady. The balmy Irish air seemed to have increased his appetite. His straight white teeth tore into a chicken breast. “And how did he make an enemy of O’Rourke?”
With a sigh, she tossed aside the chicken and sipped her wine. “I don’t want to speak of that, either.”
He bit into the cheese. “Then tell me about your mother.”
“No.” Did he suspect that all the answers he sought were different pieces of the same giant puzzle? She couldn’t meet his eyes, so instead she looked toward the bullfinches and spotted flycatchers that soared and dipped above the thickets near the wood.
“Princess, we are running out of subjects to talk about.”
“Don’t you have secrets, Norman?”
From the startled look on his face she surmised her question had taken him by surprise. She hadn’t given him time to conceal the pain in his eyes, but within the space of a heartbeat the lines of his face settled into a stoic mask.
“Now you know how it feels to have someone prying into your past.” She spoke softly, twisting a blade of grass in her hand.
He reached out and covered her hand with his. “I’m sorry, Princess. Forgive me. I meant only to help.”
At his touch, warmth flared from her fingertips, raced along her arm, and settled over her shoulders like a warm shawl. She should jerk away, but how could she when he’d just apologized so gently? The pad of his thumb circled repeatedly in her palm, and she shivered at the intimacy.
You can do this. She was overreacting only because she was not accustomed to being touched. Holding hands was such a small affection—if she concentrated, she should be able to slow her racing blood and curb her hammering heart.
With his free hand, he plucked a berry from a bowl and raised it to her lips. “Try one. You haven’t eaten enough to feed a kitten.”
Obediently, she opened her mouth, expecting him to place the berry between her parted lips. Instead, staring into her eyes with a power that wrenched her soul, he teased the succulent berry over her waiting lips. Finally, he let her take the fruit. Her tongue captured the sweet juice, and she swallowed, the sweetness trickling down her throat.
He fed her berry after berry, one by one, until her lips became so sensitized to his touch that she ached for another kiss. She gazed into his smoky black eyes and wondered what was wrong with her. He was Norman. A man who had openly declared his intent of wooing her to gain her land. So why did her stomach tighten every time he looked her way?
It mattered not that he was handsome. Surely it had to be more than his looks that sent her every nerve tingling. She pulled away and lay back with her hands clasped behind her head, gazing at the high soaring clouds with their infinite mackerel patterns in the gray sky.
He lay on his side looking down at her, elbow bent, head resting in his palm. “Your lips are as red and juicy as the berries.”
“You must leave me alone now.”
He grinned teasingly. “That wasn’t our agreement, Princess. If I leave you alone, you’ll ignore me, and then you’ll never learn what a nice man I can be.”
“But I don’t want you to be nice,” she protested petulantly.
He chuckled, the warm, rich sound of his laugh melting her insides to warm honey. His finger touched her temple and drew a tantalizing line down her cheek. “You’d rather I threw you over my shoulder, carried you off, and forced a priest to marry us?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what do you want?”
She closed her eyes, debated for a moment, and decided to be honest. “I want my husband to love me—not for my beauty, not for my lands, not for my title. I would want my husband to adore me if I were a peasant, if I had no power, if I came without dowry.”
“That’s not the way of the world.” He sat up then and shifted around by her head, his hands gently rubbing her shoulders. “If you insist on believing in fairy tales, your heart will be broken.”
“I’m not a child,” she protested, refusing to accept that he could so easily trod on her dreams.
She should stop him from touching her, but the caress felt so good. His hands found her tight muscles and eased them, while at the same time, dangerous feelings welled in her heart. For just a few hours she wanted to forget her responsibilities and pretend she was a mere kitchen girl and he a visiting man-at-arms.
“You aren’t a child, but you need someone to take care of you.”
The heat of his hands rubbing her shoulders flowed over her back in a rhythm that sent tiny trembles down her spine. “I can take care of myself. Besides, I have Da and Sorcha.”
“They can’t keep you warm at night.”
She was about to protest that the cozy fire in her room kept away the winter chills, but his touch had kindled heat through her—and not just in the places he touched. From the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, she felt flushed. Her flesh came alive on its own accord, tightening, rippling with goose bumps as after a refreshing spring rain.
It could not be an accident that he knew just where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply. “How many women have you kept warm at night?”
At her question, his hands stopped moving, then continued. “’Tis not a proper question for a lady.”
She arched a brow. “That makes the answer all the more interesting, don’t you think?”
“I should turn you over and paddle yo
u,” he threatened.
Somehow, she couldn’t take his threat seriously. Why would he strike a woman when he could so easily charm her? “Would you beat your wife?”
He chuckled again. “There are much better ways to control a woman.”
She wasn’t surprised that he’d confirmed her suspicion, and the amusement in his voice made her curious. “Like how?”
“Like this.” His hands edged under her tunic.
Her heart galloped. His fingers slid slowly, deliciously lower until his hands covered her breasts. Only her thin linen shift separated her flesh from the warmth of his hands. She hadn’t known her skin could be so sensitive. When his palms cupped her peaks in a circular movement, it drove her mad, and her back arched instinctively until she pressed toward him. Her nipples budded, and still she couldn’t get enough.
She bit her lip to suppress a groan of delight. She hadn’t known such bliss existed. A direct line of fire blazed from her breasts to heat her core. She wanted him. She ached to rip off her clothes and press her bare flesh to his. She wanted his lips against hers. His caress was only enough to tease.
She wanted more. More of him—just like her mother.
No.
She wouldn’t let desire rule her actions. Though it took every bit of her determination, she must put an end to this sweet torment.
“Stop. Please, you must not.”
“Whatever you say, Princess.” He withdrew his hands, giving one last flick of pleasure to her nipples, leaving her gasping, her emotions stretched taut.
She dared not open her eyes until she regained a measure of control. Breathe—in and out. Slowly, the roaring receded from her ears, and yet the heightened desire didn’t abate. He no longer touched her, but like hunger unappeased, her appetite hadn’t been satisfied.
His fingers played with a loose tendril of her hair. “Can you deny you want me?”
“Yes.” Opening her eyes, she snatched her hair from his grasp, welcoming the pain that should have distracted her from her sensitive flesh, but instead left her wanting his arms around her.
The sun shined down, emphasizing the glimmer of amusement on his lips and the glint of passion in his eyes. “If I’ve left you unaffected, perhaps I could remedy that with a kiss.”
“No. Do not.” She rolled off the blanket and onto the grass, afraid that if he touched her again she would yield to the current rushing through her and be carried away on a tide of passion. Her chest heaved, and she stood shakily on trembling limbs.
He remained on the blanket and looked up at her with mocking concern. “Your face is flushed.”
She would never admit how hard it was to pull away. “It’s hot.”
“And you are breathing hard.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ah, yes. You are very fine. Never have I felt skin so soft, silky, sensual. A man could feel like a king after the privilege of touching you, of feeling such a wondrous response.”
The heat rose to her cheeks at his teasing. “I was cold.”
He chuckled. “Hot. Or cold? Or confused? Which will it be?”
“You have the manners of a Kerry slug!” Just as he’d trapped her with all-too-appealing sensations, he’d attempted to entangle her with words. No man from Eire would have been so bold. Panic surged through her at his knowing smile, as if he knew how difficult it was to pull away, as if he knew her secret. Unable to face him for another moment, she spun around and raced to Fionn.
He jumped to his feet. “Wait. ’Tis not safe for you to ride alone.”
Behind her, she heard the pound of his footsteps and urged her feet faster. She couldn’t let him touch her—not ever again. Leaping onto Fionn’s bare back, she grabbed the reins and realized he’d tied his warhorse to hers. It would serve him right to have to walk back to Castle Ferns.
With the horses’ reins tied together, she urged Fionn to a gallop, but his big warhorse lagged behind. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Strongheart’s horse limp. Could nothing go right this day? While she might leave the Norman to walk, she would not risk his horse in a gallop with a stone lodged in its hoof.
She pulled Fionn to a halt, slid off his back, and patted Strongheart’s nervous warhorse on the neck. “Heh, fella. I won’t hurt you,” she crooned. Running her hand down his strong neck to his broad chest, she eased slowly along his flank to his rear hoof.
Bending, she forced him to stand on three legs while she surveyed the damage. Within a moment Strongheart joined her, leaning over, his chest so close to her back she could feel his heat.
His clean musky scent washed over her, flooding her with the remembrance of why she’d fled. His deep voice, so close to her ear, made the little hairs on her arms and neck stand on end.
“Did he pick up a stone?”
“I think so. Yes. There it is.”
She held the warhorse’s foot aloft, and Strongheart plucked out the stone. Then with his thumb, he massaged the pad of the horse’s hoof. She recalled those gentle hands on her breasts and stood so abruptly, she knocked against the horse. The warhorse snorted, and Strongheart’s hand clasped her waist, helping her regain her balance.
“Thank you for stopping.”
“I would not want the horse to pull up lame.”
“And what of my feet?” He held out one shiny leather boot, a roguish arch to his eyebrow. “These were not made for walking. We’ll have to ride double.”
The trip back was a mere hour, but she knew it would be the longest hour she’d ever known. She sat on Fionn’s back, and Strongheart nimbly pulled himself up behind her. Gritting her teeth, she pretended his hard body tight against her had no effect.
“My warhorse has saved my life many times, but I don’t think he’s ever arranged anything quite this pleasant.”
She wanted to slap him for sounding so smug. If she’d thought he’d deliberately arranged for his horse to pick up a stone, she would have dumped him onto the ground. With her back to him and his hard thighs cradling hers in such an intimate position, she blushed instead. When Fionn walked, Strongheart’s chest brushed her back, his hand wound loosely around her waist. She should order him to remove it, but instead she pretended as if his hand on her waist were nothing more than an innocent girdle. She should be good at the deception. Powerful passions had always coursed through her blood—she just hadn’t known how hard they could be to control.
A breeze flung a lock of her hair near his face, and he breathed deeply, then let out a long sigh. “Your hair smells like roses.”
She snatched her hair down and tried to still the trembling that ran through her like the summer breeze. “Just remember roses have thorns.”
His hand caressed her hip. “Prickly flowers have the softest petals, do they not?”
She tried to sit up straighter, knowing there could never be anything between them. The Norman didn’t need to know her secrets. She’d keep them bottled up inside her forever.
Chapter Eight
DARA SHOULD HAVE known better than to confront her father in the sweltering heat of the barn. The rare cloudless day combined with unbearable summer temperatures, and no wind had left everyone sticky and miserable. Even the weeping willow branches outside the stable failed to stir.
Wiping the perspiration off her brow and careful to step around the cat nursing her kittens in the corner of the barn, she approached the stall where he knelt beside mare and foal.
Looking up from the foal with a bemused expression on his face, her father smiled in greeting. “The wee one is fine.”
Her heart turned over as he took simple pleasure in the unsteady filly and the protective mare. “I’m glad. We can always use another good horse. This breed is much superior to our Connemara ponies.”
The deep lines around his eyes crinkled. “Must your thoughts always run to such pract
ical matters? Can you not enjoy the beauty of birth and life?”
Her father knew her so well. She advanced, knelt beside him, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m worried about the Norman.”
“You leave the worrying to me.”
If only she could, but Da had become even more forgetful than usual. This morning he’d ordered a feast for MacLugh’s arrival, forgetting the man had already come and gone. She’d had to cancel his plans and smooth out the difficulties in the kitchen. Dara sighed and pulled her tunic from where it stuck to the moisture trickling between her breasts. “Mata sent a message.”
“Well, don’t keep me waiting. What did the monk say?”
“O’Rourke and MacLugh have formed a truce. The Ard-ri may arbitrate the dispute.”
Her da waved his hand, and the foal shied away. “And what of her?”
Why could her father not forget her mother? Although he hadn’t seen her in years, he always asked about her. Still, Dara hated to disappoint him. “There was no message.”
Her father frowned and turned back to the foal. “Mata always brings me her messages.”
“We could not speak freely in front of the Norman,” Dara explained with as much patience as she could muster. “Come, let’s find a spot of shade and perhaps a stray breeze.”
They walked outside. Not a red grouse ruffled the grass, and the puffins and greenland whites napped in the heat. The sun beat down unmercifully as Dara led him beneath the weeping willow tree. Only the Norman had the energy to move in the heat, and he ruthlessly drilled the men in the far fields, his huge form dominating the other men and drawing her gaze. While other men moved with a sluggish weariness due to the combination of heat and exercise, he attacked and parried with the precision and fluidity that belied hours of practice.
After she and her father settled themselves against the tree, she came to the point. “I will not marry the Norman.”
“Of course not.” Conor patted her hand. “You are betrothed to Borrack MacLugh.”
Conquer the Mist Page 11