Stealing Heaven

by Kimberly Cates

  She was shaking under the force of those bitter words, words that made her question his callous dismissal of the woman who had once been his wife. Words that made her wonder just how deeply Delia Kane had wounded him— this man who despised himself, everything he was, everything he stood for, except when his life brushed that of his cherished daughter.

  "Let me show you, Norah," he breathed. "Let me show you how much sweeter passion tastes than the poisonous bond you think you desire."

  Norah stared into that starkly handsome face, her lips parting to protest. But at that instant, Aidan Kane lowered his mouth to hers.

  His breath heated her tingling lips for just a whisper, those thickly curled lashes dipping lazily to half mast, until all she could see was a mesmerizing glimpse of emerald green. Then that hard, reckless mouth mated its sensual contours to her own, hot and moist and insistent. Fire sizzled through Norah's veins—wild, terrifying, as Sir Aidan Kane's mouth seduced hers with a mastery that left her knees weak and her spirit shaken.

  Rocked to her very core, she grasped for something, anything, to anchor her in the maelstrom his kiss released in her. Her fingers clutched at his coat, the scent of him musky and dangerous, touched with the tang of salt waves and wind-battered moors.

  As if her touch signaled acquiescence, Aidan moaned low in his throat. His tongue, hot and skilled and sweet, traced the crease between her own lips, starting a shuddering pleasure blossoming in that secret forbidden place between her thighs.

  A tiny sound of pleasure and despair rose in Norah's throat, and her lips parted to allow it to escape. Aidan caught it in his own mouth and answered the longing plea Norah didn't even understand by entering her mouth with his tongue.

  Once the lecherous youth her stepfather had bade her marry had attempted such liberties, and she had been so sickened she had all but retched after breaking away from him. But the wet, stroking roughness of Sir Aidan's intimate kiss unleashed in Norah something wild and frightening in its power. He shifted, the stiffened joints of his elbows softening, buckling, so that the length of his forearms met the stone, bringing the virile plane of his body tight against hers. The masculine ridges and hollows imprinted themselves on her until the folds of her gown and petticoats seemed no more shielding between his flesh and hers than the last veil of mist, burned away by a too hot sun.

  Her nipples were afire, abraded by the buttons on his coat. Her thighs were melting where his long, sinewy legs molded against hers, her senses spinning, wheeling dizzily into madness.

  She whimpered in quiet anguish when Aidan broke the kiss, trailing his questing mouth down her cheek to the vulnerable curve of her throat. Those straight, impossibly white teeth nipped at her with an exquisite artistry that made a sob shudder through her. A sob of need, of despair, born of longings that could never be fulfilled. Never, by any man. Especially this bitter, anguished, reckless Irish knight.

  "See, ladylight?" Aidan murmured against her heated flesh. "I can give you what you crave, though I can't give you love. I can give you this." His hand swept up to capture the fluid weight of her breast, his thumb circling the pearled bud of her nipple. "And more... there's so much more, Norah. I can show you. The moment my ring is on your finger."

  The words were icy water, drowning the flames he had ignited inside her with his consummate skill as a lover, a skill Norah knew with agonizing certainty he had learned in the beds of countless other women. Women who had offered him only the lush bounty of their bodies, the sating of mutual desires, not the striking of some cold bargain that had brought him to their bed.

  The thought tore an anguished denial from her throat, and she flattened her palms against him, shoving with all her might. "No! I can't—you can't make me—"

  Aidan staggered back a step, the unfathomable green of his eyes clouded with a strange light, his mouth reddened from taking hers with such fervor. "I can't make you what?" he grated, his breath rasping, a raw uncertainty about his mouth. "Can't make you want me?" he demanded, low. "By God, Norah, I already have."

  The truth seared Norah's shattered nerves as nothing else could have, and she choked out, "You think I don't know what you're trying to do? Use me? Bend me to your will by—by—"

  "By kissing you until your goddamn knees are weak? What? You expect me to regret that you responded to me? Or would you prefer a gentleman, who would attempt to lure you with soft promises and honorable deference? One who would beg for your help, and yet never dare to look beneath all your pretty tales of desiring contentment, a home, to be useful—useful, for God's sake? A man who would never once delve beneath your pretty protestations to what is revealed in those goddamn eyes of yours? That you, my dear, spinsterish, honorable Miss Linton, need a man."

  Tears were stinging Norah's eyes, humiliation rushing in to fill the void left by Sir Aidan's broken kiss. "How dare you?" she quavered.

  "You'll discover there isn't much that I won't dare. I may be everything you've named me," he bit out roughly. "A villain. A heartless bastard prepared to use you for my own devices. But I am also a man who knows a woman's body better than you do, my sweet innocent—places that the merest brush of my fingers, the softest touch of my lips or tongue, will hold the power to make you lose every one of your high-brow principles and beg for more."

  He had wounded her so deeply she couldn't breathe, ripped out the desperate secrets inside her, leaving her naked, vulnerable to his arrogance, his mockery. She groped for any weapon to drive him away.

  "If that is so, then I cannot fathom why your wife would have sought consolation in so many other men's beds."

  All color bled from Aidan's face, as if she had suddenly driven a knife in his chest, and for an instant his eyes were unguarded in all their wild anguish and self-doubt, all their fierce recriminations and regrets.

  She expected him to rage at her, let fly the fury she must have unleashed with her calculated blow.

  But Aidan only drew away from her, his lips curling, his voice bitter and soft. "Touche, madam. That was a thrust even Delia would have been proud of."

  With that, he turned and strode away from her, across the floor of the ruined castle, through the break in the fairy ring, an exile from Caislean Alainn's sweet enchantment.

  With her whole body trembling, Norah stared after him, hurting and angry, confused and raw. He had insulted her in every possible way, mocked her with his sensual arrogance, tried to bend her to his will by taking shameless advantage of her inexperience where the ways of pleasure were concerned.

  He had wounded her, bullied her, humiliated her by reaching into the darkest recesses of her heart and ripping out the fantasies she had once held, exposing them to the harsh light of reality.

  In the end, he had left her no choice but to fight back in the only way she knew how. To retain some tiny grip upon what frayed remnants of pride he had left to her.

  Then why did she suddenly want to go to him, to soothe him? Heal that wound she had glimpsed for such a fleeting moment in his eyes, assuage the hunger she had sensed in his mouth, his hands? It was not the carnal desire he had spent in the bodies of so many other women, but a hunger of the spirit he didn't even know that he possessed.

  Or had Sir Aidan been right when he'd cast out his accusation? a voice whispered inside her.

  Was it Norah's own hunger she wanted to ease? The ache of emptiness Sir Aidan Kane's impassioned kiss had just begun to fill?

  CHAPTER 8

  The study at Rathcannon was as grim as Aidan's mood. Heavy burgundy draperies were drawn tight over the windows, and the dark wood paneling that rose halfway up the walls cast the lower section of the chamber in pools of dismal shadow. The pale plaster above seemed alive with phantoms whose macabre robes bled through the ornate frescoes on the walls. Aidan knew the specters well. Spirits of Kane ancestors, blackened by devil fire and the reproachful wraiths of those they had betrayed.

  But tonight they were accompanied by a far more disturbing apparition: that of a determined seventeen-
year-old boy who had stormed away from Ireland and his family's dark legacy, determined to rise above the scurrilous past he'd inherited. A boy who had only found that destiny was far stronger than the will of one reckless fool who dreamed of becoming a hero.

  A fool who had had the dream dust clawed from his eyes by the savage talons of war, and by a girl as heartless as she was beautiful. A huntress who had used him and thrown away whatever goodness he'd struggled to dredge up from his soul in her name.

  Aidan swore, stalking over to where a cut-glass brandy decanter caught the last fragments of light from the dying fire. Grasping the delicate glass piece by its neck, he sloshed yet another measure into the goblet that hadn't left his hand in the hours since he and Norah had disembarked from the mud-spattered carriage, each ominously silent, melting into the depths of Rathcannon to tend the wounds each had been dealt by the other.

  Aidan had come to this room to forget, to drown his regrets, his fury... and, yes, damn Norah Linton to hell, his pain, any way that he could. But he had only found more specters stalking him, felt the fingers of regrets decades old clinging to his coat sleeves like beggar children.

  And for some reason—his own crushing guilt, or the haunting memory of the wounded brown eyes that had gazed into his amidst Caislean Alainn's shattered beauty— he could not free himself of his demons tonight.

  Aidan crossed to the desk in the center of the room and sank down into the leather chair behind it. He set the glass onto a surface bared of the usual ledgers and correspondence, tallies of livestock and business dealings that would have littered that of any industrious landowner.

  Aidan had long before delegated all such affairs to his man of business. God forbid the notorious Sir Aidan Kane be distracted by an outbreak of hoof-and-mouth disease when he was at the gaming tables, or that he inadvertently muddle up some dealings with his tenants. He didn't understand a blasted thing about farming, and the people who lived on Rathcannon land already regarded him with a loathing deepened through generations of conquering Kanes. Besides which, he had wanted to devote himself to Cassandra whenever he set foot on Rathcannon land.

  Yet tonight he would have been glad of the distraction of a mountain of paperwork to wade through. He would have been grateful for anything that could divert his thoughts from the scene that had played out in the exquisite ruin of Caislean Alainn.

  Christ, what had he done? Last night, upon the moon-dark moors, he had decided to wed Norah Linton, to use her for Cassandra's sake, and for his own.

  He had vowed to himself that he would woo the Englishwoman any way he could, with empty promises or hot kisses, with pretty lies he should have been able to utter without so much as a twinge from the deadened reaches of his conscience.

  God knew, that was why he had arranged the outing at the fair, and afterward taken advantage of Cassandra's absence to bring Norah to the castle ruin. That was why he had plied the Englishwoman with romantic drivel, softening her with his words, his touch, like a master violinist, preparing a familiar instrument to play the tune he desired.

  Even the kiss had been planned, the finishing stroke to drive away any doubts, to mold her to his will, to make her want him. Because that was one gift Aidan knew he possessed: the ability to bend a woman to his will by the use of his body, the sensual talents that had been but another facet of the Kane legacy. It was an ability he'd cultivated ruthlessly in the years since Delia's betrayal.

  It had seemed so simple in those moments when he'd exited the breakfast parlor to find Norah hovering in the corridor, big eyed and uncertain. But somehow, within Caislean Alainn's fairy ring, the carefully plaited strands of his plan had come unraveled, and there had been no way that he could stop himself... from what? From showing her exactly how ruthless he could be? From exploiting not just the secrets he'd gathered from the depths of her eyes, but stripping bare any pretenses, exposing to her exactly what he was doing.

  Then, worse still, he had taken her when she was fragile, uncertain, and forced his kiss onto her trembling lips, forced her to drink from a sudden and soul-wrenching river of passion he had not even suspected existed in himself.

  Aidan's fingers trembled, his pulse thudding in his chest at the memory of those sweet lips.

  Do you want me in your bed? he'd demanded, already imagining the far different flavor of passion he would taste in this reserved woman, one that titillated his imagination, made his sex harden and throb.

  Never in all his planning and manipulating, plotting and arranging, had Sir Aidan Kane suspected that the kiss of this gentle woman would undo him so completely, confuse him so utterly.

  Never had he suspected that he would want her.

  Not that it mattered anymore. He grimaced. He had made damn certain he would never be Norah Linton's lover now.

  She was doubtless in Delia's chamber overhead, gathering up her belongings, intent on escaping his evil clutches even if she had to walk the entire way back to Dublin.

  She had to be horrified at what she had seen in his face at Caislean Alainn, and she was thanking the saints that she had discovered she'd nearly betrothed herself to the devil before taking marriage vows.

  She'd be insane to wed him now that she'd looked into the darkest places in his soul, now that he'd let her see...

  Aidan dashed the thoughts away, uncertain why they should pain him so deeply. To banish them completely, he clung to a far more familiar misery.

  He had failed Cassandra. Condemned himself to a hell beyond even Lucifer's torturous imaginings. And in the process, he had somehow managed to rise above the orgy of decadence and gaming, drinking and wenching, that had been his life these past fifteen years, to sicken even himself.

  Aidan closed his eyes, remembering Norah's face in stark contrast to the crumbling gray stone of the castle wall.

  What kind of woman would cross a sea to marry a man she had never met, he had demanded to know. Now his conscience whispered the answer: a desperate woman, a hurting one, one wounded by the harshness of those duty-bound to protect her.

  Friendless. Alone.

  Just as his own innocent Cassandra might one day be, despite all his efforts to protect her.

  A knife blade forever buried in his soul wrenched savagely, making him grip the edge of his useless desk with white-knuckled fingers.

  No, he raged inwardly. Cassandra was worlds different from Norah Linton. He'd raised his Cass to be brave and bold, confident in her ability to challenge anyone who dared cross her. If she had to, Cassandra Kane would damn well be able to defend herself.

  And yet, Aidan reasoned, downing the last of his brandy in a single fiery gulp, hadn't quiet Norah Linton dealt him a blow that had paralyzed him for long seconds? Chilled him with its deadly accuracy?

  I am also a man who knows a woman's body better than you do, my sweet innocent, he had claimed in his arrogance. Places that the merest brush of my fingers, the softest touch of lips or tongue will hold the power to make you lose every one of your high-brow principles and beg for more.

  And she had gazed up at him, with those haunting eyes that seemed to reflect condemnation of all the evil he had ever done, and said, If that is so, then I cannot fathom why your wife would have sought consolation in so many other mens' beds.

  He'd deserved that verbal riposte, after all that he had done and said to her. But that hadn't dulled the brutal surge of uncertainty, the terror of his own inadequacy that had been Delia's parting gift to the brash youth who once would have conquered all the world's kingdoms for her sake if she had only taken a moment to... to what? Aidan thought bitterly. To love him?

  His chest aching, he buried his face in one hand, exhausted by the inevitability of it all. Disgusted with his failures—with Rathcannon, with Delia, and with the Englishwoman who had been set adrift by the fates and landed on his doorstep, like the most capricious of salvations.

  If there were a shred of decency in his jaded heart, he would go to Norah this instant and apologize, give her whatever aid she
required to leave Rathcannon, Ireland, and most of all himself.

  If he had a lick of sense, he would arrange for her departure before Cassandra got more deeply attached to her, or he sank deeper into the strange fever Norah's innocent kiss had inspired in him.

  But he'd spent a lifetime taking up the dice when all seemed lost, to cast them one last time....

  A soft knock at the door made Aidan straighten, dragging one hand through his hair in an effort to neaten the unruly tresses. His pulse quickened, and he bid the person enter, half expecting it would be Norah, wrapped up in pelisse and bonnet, ready to leave Rathcannon.

  But when the door opened, it was a rosy-cheeked Cass who peeped her head in. Aidan's brows lowered in puzzlement. God knew he couldn't remember the last time the chit had bothered announcing herself before she came careening in to greet him.

  "Papa, whatever are you doing?" she demanded. "We've been waiting and waiting to start dinner! Do you want Miss Linton to think you're always late?"

  "Miss Linton?" Aidan echoed, dazed. "She can't mean to dine with..." With the bastard who'd humiliated her, who'd taken advantage of her. "I was certain that after what happened, she..." He bit the words off abruptly as his daughter shoved the door wide.

  "After what happened?" Cass queried, her eyes lit with that unpredictable light Aidan had long before learned to mistrust. "Papa, what on earth did you do?"

  "Why are you so certain I did something amiss?" Aidan said in an effort to deflect her curiosity. "Isn't it possible your precious Miss Linton—"

  "Did what?" Cassandra repeated with a laugh. "Ravish you on the trip home from the fair?"

  Aidan's cheeks burned, and he looked away, scowling. "Cass, you dumped this woman in my lap, for God's sake. From now on, can you please let me handle the infernal courtship?"