Thrown, Conor remained silent, though inside he marveled at the woman who was his wife. How could she have known that he needed this—needed her? He didn’t care whether she knew how to make candles, stuff a mattress, or pluck a chicken. If it ever came to it, and he was unable to defend Dunlough, knowing she was within its walls was a sweet relief.
“Erika?”
“Hm?”
“Tomorrow, if you will attend me at council?”
A gasp answered him, and a minute twinge of pain as her fingers tightened in his hair. Before he could demand to know what befell her, she answered, “It would honor me.”
“Good. We will begin after the morning meal.” He settled deeper in the bath. Her hands in his hair were as gentle and lulling as being in a curach on the still waters of Lough Dun. He could imagine himself in the little boat, waves cradling them as he rested his head in Erika’s lap and played her a tune on his harp…
A sharp cracking sound had him lunging from the water, reaching for his sword. Laughter stopped him, and he turned around.
Erika still sat on the stool, her hands covering her mouth, her eyes dancing with mirth. “We are not being attacked, my Devil. ’Twas but a snore.”
Heart still pounding, he pushed his wet hair from his eyes and returned to his previous position. “If you are weary, my lady, we should end this.”
A fist connected with his shoulder. “Do not think to lay that devil’s sound at my door. ’Twas yourself that snored, and loud enough to wake the dead. ’Tis right obvious you are tired. Perhaps sleep is all you need this night?”
Lightning quick he turned in the bath to grab her, but she had already stepped away. Miffed, he stood, planting his hands on his hips as the water sheeted off him. “Do I seem as if sleep is all I need?”
Appreciation sparked her eyes as they dropped to the center of his anatomy. “Far from it, my lord.”
The husky murmur swelled his erection further, pushing the tip snug against his navel. He held out a hand to her. “Come here.”
As if in a dream, she shook her head, her gaze never leaving his arousal. “Only if you let me finish your bath.”
“I am done with my bath, and with waiting.” He paused, and her gaze moved to his face. “I want you, Erika.”
A small sound escaped her as she dropped the cloth she held. Her breathing came faster, causing her nipples, firm and proud, to push against the delicate barrier of her shift. It was a moment before she found her voice. “If I—if I could dry you?”
With a nod, he stepped from the water and moved to stand before her. She retrieved the cloth she’d dropped and stepped behind him to dry his hair. He could feel the heat of desire rising from her, and the gossamer glide of her shift on his back near undid him. Tremors shook her fingers as she rubbed the cloth in a slow, amorous manner over his shoulders, down his back to his buttocks, down one leg and up the other.
Conor forced himself to stand still, to accept the torturous ministrations that seemed so important for her. The cloth, damp now, slid down his left arm as she crossed in front of him. Then across his chest to the right arm, the heavy-lidded expression she wore stealing his breath.
Sweet skies, she made love to him with her hands, her heat combining with his to evaporate the water on his skin. The cloth slid down his chest, bypassing his turgid center, and she knelt to dry the front of his legs. She made his battered body feel more precious than any treasure.
Warm breath on his thighs almost brought him to completion. His erection didn’t want to be dried. It wanted to be wet, to bathe in the warmth of her mouth. But she had never done that to him and he had never told her of that ultimate pleasure. Then her hands closed about him, both hands not enough to cover the length. The half-formed request died before reaching his lips as his hips moved forward, pushing his hard length through her hands. He thought he would die.
And then she kissed him.
Knees close to buckling, her name on his lips was a groan, a plea, a prayer. Then a benediction as her mouth drew him inside. She was unskilled—the brush of her teeth told him that—but her fervor was enough to kill a lesser man. He was sure he himself saw the lights of heaven.
Harsh groans tore from him, and he attempted to back away from the exquisite pleasure. She stopped him with fingernails digging into his flexing buttocks and the gentle press of teeth on his vulnerability.
When he stood still, she paused long enough to ask, “Do you like this?”
“Like it?” His voice was a strangled groan he didn’t recognize. “I’m close to dying from the liking of it. Who told you of this?”
“A whore in Constantinople,” was the blithe reply. “She said it could drive men to madness. Are you mad?” She licked him.
“Delirious.” Another harsh groan shook him, deep and rumbling, as his hips flowed forward on instinct. “Erika, stop. I am close to spilling in your mouth.”
She paused again, looking up at him in mischievous pleasure. “Will I like that, do you think?”
Breath whooshed out of him on something close to a laugh. “I do not know, mo aingeal, but you are close to discovering it for yourself.”
“All right.” And damn him if she didn’t latch onto him in earnest, demanding with lips and tongue until he shouted.
She gagged and withdrew. He dropped to his knees, weak-limbed, the final spurt of his seed spilling to the rug. He thought he’d been struck blind with pleasure until he realized his eyes were closed. Dragging them open, he discovered his wife beside him, wiping her hands and mouth with the drying cloth she’d used earlier.
Her smile was satisfied as she poured a goblet of wine. “You’re salty, like sea-spray. Not unpleasant at all. Next time, I will be prepared for the amount.”
“Next time?” Conor near dropped the wine she passed him. “Next time?”
She took the goblet back, taking a long draught that fired his senses. “Surely there will be another time? You were pleased, and I enjoyed giving you pleasure.”
She enjoyed pleasing him. With such ease and truth the words came from lips that had just ravished him. “Have no doubt, my lady, I enjoyed receiving it. Now I shall return the favor.”
Rising, he lifted her to her feet and crossed to their bed. Her cheeks flushed with pleasure as he ran his hands over her curves through the diaphanous material of her shift. Even that flimsy barrier was too much and he grabbed a fistful and drew it over her head, the motion causing her to sit on the edge of the bedstead.
Kneeling between her thighs, he cupped her face in his hands. “You are beyond imagining.”
As she flushed pink with flustered pleasure, he slid his sun-darkened hands down the pale column of her neck to the twin globes with their rosy peaks, teasing them both with the tips of his thumbs. She moaned low in her throat, head tilted back, her breasts thrust outward in a silent entreaty he could not deny.
His lips closed around one nipple, her appreciative moan gratifying and hardening him. As he laved her with his tongue, his free hand slipped down her belly to the pale hair at the juncture of her thighs. The immediate rush of heat and intake of breath inflamed him, as did the welcoming shift of her legs to give him free rein.
She was ready for him, wet and warm. His thumb found the sensitive rise of her flesh even as two fingers slipped inside, delving into her softness. Breathing his name, she arched against his mouth and his hand, her body tensing with longing.
Not stopping the motion of his fingers, he raised his head to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed with passion, her eyes dark as the evening sky. The stark desire on her face, pure and unfeigned, pleased him.
“Now, my angel, it is time to please you as you’ve pleased me.”
Erika didn’t have to wonder what he meant. His lips replaced his thumb on the throbbing flesh between her legs, and she collapsed backwards with an inarticulate cry.
Waves of pleasure tossed her as Conor drank from the fount of her desire. Her hips rose of their own accord, her shoulders pres
sing into the feathered mattress, her hands digging into the bedcovers, his shoulders, his hair. If she didn’t anchor herself, the pleasure was sure to carry her away. As it was, the rhythmic laving pushed her to the edge of a precipice, dangling her over the edge.
“That’s it, my sweet,” he whispered against her center. His fingers continued their relentless advance and retreat inside her. “Leave go.”
When his teeth grazed lightly over her engorged crest, her hips convulsed. As he drew on her, pleasure slammed into her with the force of two armies colliding. Reflex caused her legs to clamp about Conor’s shoulders, his name a warbling cry on her lips as ecstasy launched her off the cliff and into the stars.
She didn’t know how long she danced among the stars before her body glided back to earth, her senses in shreds. Dimly she became aware of Conor’s mouth leaving her, the dip of his weight as he climbed onto the mattress, the heat of his body as he settled beside her.
Languid, she turned her head to look at him. Clear gray eyes stared back, sparkling with satisfied warmth. She would swear that his lips curved in a grin.
Heart thumping wildly with pure nameless emotion, she reached out, touching his lips. He caught her hand and kissed her palm. “My Devil, if this is hell, I will stay here forever.”
His chest heaved, causing her to sit up. “Did you just laugh?”
“I did not.”
“I believe you did.”
“You believe wrong.”
“We’ll see about that!” Erika pounced on him, her fingers searching out the sensitive areas on his body. He rolled away but she followed, not to be denied. Victory was hers as she straddled him, tickling his ribs and coaxing a true guffaw from him.
“I’ve done it!” she crowed. “I’ve made the Devil laugh!”
“And so you have.” He gazed up at her, eyes darkened, his hands on her thighs. “Such a momentous feat deserves a reward. Name your pleasure.”
Her pleasure was lengthening beneath her. “You.”
The look he gave her made her insides go weak with want. “Then take what is yours.”
With his hold to steady her, Erika impaled herself, melting around the warm, delicious length of him. How he filled her, expanded her. Completed her.
Deep, so deep she could taste it, she felt him. Then he shifted, flexing his hips to settle her more firmly. In an instant her world exploded, in quick, violent waves that momentarily blinded her.
The swift fulfillment only served to fuel the flames of her desire even more. “Conor, come with me. I want to—I need to feel you with me…”
He rose to sear her breasts with the rippling pleasure of lips, the exquisite pressure of his teeth. Head tossed back, hands clamped to his shoulders, she rode him, urging them both on to glory. His fingers dug into her hip bones as a hoarse shout tore from him. His joyous release welled so deep inside her that she cried out, arms flung wide with the searing overwhelming pleasure of it.
Depleted, sweat-slicked, they collapsed against each other. His arms closed about her, cocooning her in the afterglow of their still-joined bodies. Sated satisfaction slid towards sleep as she kissed the taut skin over his heart. “We have done it,” she whispered. “We have made our child.”
She registered the tightening of his arms around her and nothing more as sleep claimed her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Magda caught Erika at the entrance to the dun’s smaller meeting hall. “The men are at council.”
“I know they are, thank you.” Erika forced civility into her tone. Dunlough’s former mistress had given her hostile looks all through the first meal of the day, a meal she and Conor had arrived to late. If her expression had been identical to her husband’s well-sated one, Erika knew everyone at the table—perhaps everyone in the dun—knew why they were so exhausted.
Displeasure turned down the corners of Magda’s mouth. “If you know they are at council, then you must also know they are not to be disturbed.”
Erika stepped back, surprised at the other woman’s decidedly waspish tone. She watched Magda make a visible effort to calm and say, “Perhaps things are different in your homeland, that women sit at councils of war, though how a lady could stomach such talk is beyond my knowing.”
She gave a delicate shudder. “Of course, I realize that you are lacking full knowledge of our customs, having spent your time in our fair land engaged in bloodletting. It is a joy to me to impart to you the knowledge I gained as mistress here.”
There was not a day that passed that Erika didn’t hear what Magda had done as mistress of Dunlough, and she had heard enough. “I am glad, Magda, to give your life some joy. My duties as mistress are plentiful, and your assistance with Cook and the housekeeping earn you my heartfelt thanks. In fact, if you would be so kind, assist Cook with bringing refreshments to the council. My lord expects me, and I do not wish to keep him waiting in matters of war.”
Done, she moved past the startled—and blessedly silent—woman and entered the chamber. Smaller than the main hall and free of the perpetual cloud of smoke, this chamber held a single table running the center of the room. Around this sat Conor, Olan, Niall and three others she did not recognize. The latter were recently arrived, if the dirt-caked look of their clothing was any indication.
All had turned, stood, when she entered the room. The strangers stared with surprise, and Erika wondered if she had stained her smock yet again. She almost bobbed her head to check when Conor stood, his eyes lightening as they rested on her. When he held out his hand she stepped forward to take it, and smiled for him alone.
He led her to the place beside him at the head of the table. “Lady wife, this is Domnall mac Cormac, emissary to Taig of Connacht. With him are Cormac Roe, and Lughaidh, both of Belanagare. I present to you Erika ni Conchobhair, princess of Dunlough.”
She had not heard her new name and title since the ceremony of their marriage, and it startled her at first. Domnall was a slender fellow with intelligent blue eyes beneath his auburn hair, his strong chin devoid of beard as was the wont of a few nobles. Cormac the Red was true to his name, with a shockingly bright beard and mane of hair. Lughaidh was as dark as Cormac was red, with a stature that could have called to mind Danish blood.
Domnall blinked several times before bowing to her.
“They sing of your beauty, though I must say, mere words do not do justice to the actual seeing.”
She was aware of Conor tensing beside her, probably as uncomfortable with the flowery comments as she. “As for seeing, I see that you have traveled long and hard to reach this council. That bespeaks the seriousness of your news?”
“You speak true, my lady,” Domnall replied. “Though my tale may not be suitable for your delicate ears.”
Delicate ears! Her hand began to curl in a fist until Conor covered it. He leaned forward. “The Angel of Death will hear what you have to say.”
The emissary swallowed before saying, “The fighting near Dubh Linn is increasing and has sparked fighting near the mouth of the Shannon. Power struggles between the Ard Ri’s surviving heirs and the former high king have fractured what was even then a precarious alliance. Some of the Munster tribes have engaged our people near Clonmacnoise.”
Clonmacnoise was not so terribly far from Glentane. Far enough to be safe, yet close enough to worry.
“The King understands the need to be ever vigilant against Ulster,” Cormac Roe said, “but he believes the presence of the kings of the north—and the Devil of Dunlough in particular—will turn the tide.”
“Meanwhile we leave our homes defenseless,” Niall observed.
From the few years she had spent traveling Ireland, Erika knew the remark was not cause for treason as it might have been elsewhere. Taig ruled Connacht because the province wished it so. Provincial kings ruled by tradition and agreement and strength of the tribal chiefs, local kings and rulers of the larger duns and raths.
Conor, as chief of his tribe and ruler of one of the largest local
kingdoms, and Niall, a powerful chieftain in his own right, were a reckoning force. The Connacht King had to ask for their assistance. Their first thought would always be to their tuaths, then their tribe, then to their over-king. If Niall decided not to join this fight, then the men of Dun Lief would not go. It was almost certain, Erika knew, that if Conor refused, Glentane and Dun Lief would remain behind as well.
Erika waited with interest for Domnall’s reply. “Tigerna, the King does not request that you empty your fields or leave your homes unprotected. Yet he is firm in his belief that a showing of strength by the rulers of the north would be a fine showing indeed.”
The three northern rulers exchanged glances, and Erika realized that an accord had already been reached, most likely before the emissary and his companions had been spotted on Dunlough land. Conor confirmed it when he said, “Taig will have his showing, and we will have ours.”
Doubt was clear on Domnall’s face. Erika realized that their showing was why Conor had asked her to be present. She turned to her husband. “What would you have me do?”
“That which you do so well,” Conor answered.
“Fine. Who am I to kill?”
By midday, all was prepared for departure. Erika, who well knew the necessities of a traveling army, oversaw the preparations. Magda, after greeting the men from Roscommon, was notably absent.
Erika stood with Gwynna and Fionnuala at the entrance to the dun, as they and their captains prepared to return to their respected homes. “You rendered Domnall mac Cormac speechless?” Fionnuala asked. “I didn’t believe such a feat possible!”
“When Conor asked me to be the Angel of Death, I asked him whom he wanted me to kill. Lughaidh cursed, Cormac spewed his wine, and Domnall just gaped like a dying fish. And since Conor didn’t intend for me to kill anyone, all our husbands just smiled!”
The image had them erupting with laughter, laughter they needed to cover the worry Erika knew each of them felt. Their men were capable warriors, honed in battles and border skirmishes. That did not mean they would worry less, however.
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