As she followed him from the overheated hall, she said, “This is a serious matter, Lachlan. I don’t understand how you can make light of it.”
“I ...” A movement from behind one of the marble pillars in the entry hall caught his attention. He scanned the torchlit room then decided Evangeline was rubbing off on him. He was sensing danger where none existed.
“What is it?”
“Nothin’,” he said, nudging her up the marble staircase, overcome by an odd sensation. The fine hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He glanced over his shoulder. A warm tingling raced through his limbs and he frowned, rubbing the back of his neck, wondering if he was just now feeling the affects of the ale he’d consumed the night before.
“You can pretend to ignore my concerns if you wish, but you know I’m right.”
Reaching the second floor, he scanned the empty entry hall beneath them. “What are ye goin’ on aboot now?”
She huffed out an exasperated breath. “Magick, Lachlan. Bana has magick and you don’t.”
He followed behind her as she strode to their chambers, eyeing the sway of her hips and the view of her lushly rounded behind. As she opened the door to their rooms, he came up behind her, nuzzling the crook of her neck. “I would if ye gave me yers.” He frowned into the soft fragrant hollow. Where the hell had that come from? He’d made himself a promise not to take her blood again. The emotions it stirred in him were as powerful as they were dangerous. But the memory of the intoxicating rush of her blood, of the power and magick it gifted him with was difficult to fight.
“You want my blood?” she asked in a strained whisper as she stepped into his chambers.
Christ, he wanted to deny it, afraid of the consequences if he didn’t. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing the evidence of his desire to the soft cushion of her behind. Intoxicated by her feminine scent, an insatiable craving came over him, gnawing at the denial he thought to make.
“Aye.” He nipped her earlobe. “I want yer blood, Evie. I need it to make sure I defeat Bana. Leave no doubt in the Faes’ mind of my right to lead.” Sweet Christ, what had come over him? He was manipulating her, using her fears against her. It was her blood. It was making him mad with desire. He tried to fight it, tried to take back the words he’d uttered, but when she turned in his arms and lifted her violet eyes to his, he gave up the fight.
A battle warred within Evangeline—the urge to protect her magick as strong as the urge to protect Lachlan. When he crushed her mouth with his and enveloped her in his powerful embrace, any thought of resisting him evaporated. No matter what Lachlan and Fallyn would have her believe, it was her fault Bana challenged Lachlan for the throne. If his passionate kiss was not turning her legs and her brain to mush, she’d question why the urge to protect him was as strong as the one to protect her magick.
Never before had she put anyone or anything before her magick—until now. He tunneled his fingers through her hair, devouring her mouth, grinding his erection against her stomach. Uncomfortably aware of his size, his potent masculinity, the memory of Arwan’s brutal assault assailed her.
As though he sensed her fear, Lachlan pulled back, his breathing ragged. He rested his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry, I didna mean to frighten ye.”
The gentleness of his big hands stroking her back calmed the panicked racing of her heart and she relaxed in his embrace. He was nothing like his father. She had never wanted a man to touch her as she wanted Lachlan to. Never felt the heat of passion, the flare of desire he made her feel. For all that he drove her mad with his arrogance and teasing wit, his unerring need to defend and protect her left her feeling as though he accepted her as no one else could or would.
Her heart pinched at the memory of their shared smile outside of the stables that morning. She’d expected his anger and instead he had laughed. His reaction had managed to tear down one more of the barriers she’d erected to protect her heart. She knew if she wasn’t careful she would soon be defenseless against him—if she wasn’t already. Bringing her palm to his beard-roughened jaw, she said, “You don’t frighten me.” He did, but not in the way he meant.
“Nay? Good, because the hunger I have fer ye is bloody terrifyin’ me.” His heated amber gaze consumed her as he walked her backward to the bed. The edge of the overstuffed feather mattress hit the back of her knees and they fell in a heap of tangled limbs. Her breath left her on a whoosh when the heavy weight of his body fell on top of her. He shifted and something sharp scraped across her chest. She released a pain-filled gasp.
Lachlan rolled off her. “What’s wrong? Wh ...” His gaze followed the curve of her breast to the raised welt oozing blood.
“Your badge, it must have ...” As she touched the ornate pin with a sun at its center, her explanation died on her lips, his attention riveted on the wound. He bent his head, his hair tickling her oversensitive skin as his tongue rasped the open cut, then lapped at her peaked nipples. She squirmed, the rocking motion of his erection stroking where she grew moist and hot. He suckled deeply of her blood, lowering her gown to her waist, baring her breasts to his hungry gaze. His appreciative groan caused a ribbon of heat to unfurl in her belly.
Cupping her breasts with his powerful hands, warm and a little rough, he kneaded them. His gaze locked on hers as he drew a nipple into his mouth, watching as he sucked her deeper into the moist heat. Desire pulled low in her belly. The gnawing ache between her legs intensifying, begging for release, she rubbed against him. As though his need matched her own, he wrenched the silken fabric over her hips then with an impatient growl stripped her completely, tossing the gown to the floor. His words of pleasure were smothered by her flesh, his mouth buried in her breast, licking her, taunting her, torturing her. His hand skimmed over her belly to her thighs then he nudged her legs apart with his knee, opening her to his teasing fingers. She bucked against the flat of his palm as he explored her slick folds, creating an explosion of sensation inside her.
On the brink of release, pinpricks of light danced across her vision, alerting her to the danger. Panic swamped her desire. She struggled helplessly beneath his heavy weight. “Lachlan, no more.” Her voice a thin whisper, she tried to stop him before he drained her completely of her magick.
She tried to lift her hand, to utter a spell, but her magick was little more than a flicker of light, barely discernible within her ever-darkening vision. “No,” she cried as the inky void swallowed her and her protest.
Chapter 21
Evangeline groaned as she managed to pry open the heavy weight of her eyelids. Early morning sunlight flooded the room, casting her too-handsome, bare-chested husband in a golden glow. The rays danced over his rippling muscles and she scowled up at him.
He winced, then came to sit by her side, the bed creaking beneath his weight. “I’m sorry, Evie, I didna mean to take so much,” he said, gently brushing her hair from her cheek. His eyes filled with concern as he searched her face.
“Well, you did,” she grumbled in frustration as she struggled to sit up. The room spun, causing her stomach to heave. She fell back against the pillows.
He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Bloody hell, Evie, ye have to believe me, I doona ken what came over me. ’Tis yer blood, it ... intoxicates me.” He frowned as though the thought disturbed him.
“More likely my magick,” she harrumphed, troubled by the realization she wished it was her and not simply her power that intoxicated him. She pushed the thought aside.
A rueful grin curved his lips. “Aye, that, too,” he admitted as he came to his feet. His muscles bunched as he pulled his tunic over his head, then reached for his sword that was propped against the end of the bed. He wrapped his big hand around the jeweled hilt and Evangeline’s eyes widened at the faint yellow glow emitting from the blade.
She growled. The blasted man was happy—her stolen magick the reason. In all the years he’d carried the Sword of Nuada, not once had the blade glowed yellow. Only recently had the sword
reflected any emotion at all, and it had been anger. A small part of her was relieved that the emotions Lachlan had fought so hard to control, to deny, had managed to escape his bondage. But another part of her wished it was not her magick that was responsible for his happiness.
Magick she had no intention of sharing with him again.
“Why are ye growlin’ at my sword?”
“I didn’t growl,” she said, swallowing another angry rumble before it escaped. “Where are you going this early in the morn?” She grimaced at her petulant tone. It sounded as though she wanted him to remain with her in the oversized bed with the too-comfortable mattress. A bed in which last eve she’d thought to become his wife in more than name only, something that obviously hadn’t happened. And why that should cause the heavy weight of disappointment to settle low in her belly, she didn’t want to think about.
With a smug smile, he sheathed his sword and bent over her. He brushed her lips in a whisper-soft kiss, stroking the roughened pads of his fingers over the raised wound on her breast. A heated tremor rippled through her. He raised his knowing gaze to hers. “I would rather remain in bed with ye, but Broderick is to meet me on the trainin’ field momentarily.”
At the thought of Bana’s challenge, her anger that Lachlan had once again stolen her magick faded. One day without her powers—considering her weakness, she hoped that was all it would be—was a small sacrifice to make given the circumstances. Lachlan had to defeat Bana. It was important the Fae of the Enchanted Isles trusted him to protect them, respected his right to rule. In the beginning she, too, had doubted his abilities, but no longer.
She ignored the first part of his comment just as she attempted to ignore the tightening of her nipples beneath the sheer lacy fabric of her chemise in response to his warm fingers caressing her breast. Meeting his slumberous gaze, she shifted self-consciously. “You are confident you can defeat him, aren’t you?” His practiced fingers skimmed beneath the scooped neckline of her nightwear, and she barely managed to stifle a moan.
“Aye, verra confident.” His heated breath caressed her cheek. “And I ken exactly how I wish to celebrate my victory,” he murmured. His light, teasing kisses were driving her mad with desire and she fisted her hands in his tunic.
“I should come with you to make certain—”
“Nay ... Nay,” he repeated then claimed her mouth in the kiss she’d been waiting for. A hot, wet, openmouthed kiss that left her trembling, moaning with frustration when he pulled away. “Ye’ll wait fer me here. I doona want to be worryin’ aboot ye. Ye need yer rest.” He framed her face with his hands, resting his forehead against hers.
It took a moment for her to be able to respond, for her breathing to return to normal. “You do not have to worry about me. I will be fine. It’s important for me to stand by ...” she began as she attempted to rise from the bed.
He caged her in with his body. “Ye’ll obey me in this, Evie. I’ll have yer word ye’ll remain here or I will have ye placed under guard.”
Noting the hard set of his jaw and the determined glint in his eyes, she knew to argue with him would be pointless. Considering her lack of strength and the sick feeling that overcame her when she tried to get up, she reluctantly admitted she would be of little use to him. “I will cede to your wishes this one time, Lachlan, but I suggest you refrain from further use of the word obey. I don’t like it,” she informed him, crossing her arms over her chest.
He laughed, kissing the tip of her nose before he straightened up to tower over her, looking every inch the battle-hardened warrior. “I didna expect ye to like it, but I do expect ye to cede to my wishes.”
Watching as he strode to the door, she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that something could go wrong and Lachlan would be injured despite his prowess on the battlefield. “Be careful. Have Broderick watch your back. I don’t trust Erwn not to—”
He cut her off with an exasperated sigh. “I ken what I’m doin’. Ye doona have to worry aboot me.”
“I’m not worried about you. I’m simply suggesting ...” She threw up her hands at his pointed look. “Fine. I’ll wish you luck and leave it at that.”
He winked. “I doona need luck, Evie. I have your magick.”
At least an hour had passed since Lachlan had taken his leave and still, from where she lay on the bed, Evangeline contemplated the high-handed manner of men—highlanders in particular. A hesitant knock on the door to their chambers interrupted her petulant musings.
“Enter,” she called out. The slight quickening of her pulse at the thought Lachlan had returned faded with the realization he wouldn’t knock. How in the name of Fae was a man she once abhorred able to ignite the wild fluttering in her belly at the mere thought of seeing him?
“Your Highness.” A young maid entered, staggering under the weight of a gold tray piled high with domed dishes.
Without thinking, Evangeline flicked her finger to relieve the girl of her burden. A blue spark sputtered, then faded. At that moment, Evangeline didn’t have to wonder at her feelings for Lachlan. She gritted her teeth and swung her legs over the side of the bed, waiting until the room stopped spinning to come to her feet. Thankful her legs did not collapse beneath her.
Retrieving the tray from the maid, Evangeline staggered under its weight and the dishes slid precariously to the raised handle. She managed to lower both herself and her breakfast to the bed without incident.
“Thank you. You may go now.”
Head bowed, the young girl remained at the foot of the bed, shifting from one brown-slippered foot to the other. “His Highness left strict instructions that whoever delivered your tray must remain to see that you eat everything he ordered for you.”
Evangeline rolled her eyes. “I gather you drew the short straw. There’s no need for you to remain. Off with you, now.”
The maid fled without a backward glance.
Lifting one of the domed lids, Evangeline wrinkled her nose at the slab of beef sitting in a puddle of blood. Despite her distaste for the menu, a warm feeling welled within her at Lachlan’s concern for her well-being. Although it was tempered by the knowledge she wouldn’t require his concern if he had but controlled himself.
When she reached for the gold-plated knife that slid beneath the white china plate, her fingers brushed the edge of a piece of parchment. She tugged the paper free, scanning the missive with a frown. What could be so urgent and secretive that Uscias wished her to meet with him in the woods? Her pulse quickened. What if he had discovered that Bana’s challenge was a ruse and Lachlan would face more than just Bana? The thought had already crossed her mind. And if that were the case, how in her current helpless state could she go to his aid?
Knowing Lachlan could be at risk, she couldn’t waste time bemoaning her lack of magick. She would meet with Uscias, and together they would do what needed to be done. Rising from the bed, she once more attempted to use her magick to dress herself. Blowing out a frustrated breath when the effort failed, she reached for the gown Lachlan had stripped from her the night before and dragged it over her head. At the rate she was going, she’d be lucky to reach the woods by nightfall.
On the chance Lachlan had followed through with his threat to place her under guard, she cracked the door open an inch and scanned the deserted corridor. With her back flattened against the wall, as much for support as stealth, she cautiously made her way to the stairs. She managed to make it to the stables without being seen. The effort had sapped her strength and she leaned heavily against the stable door before entering. An uneasy feeling prickled along her spine. It felt as though someone watched her and she scanned the nearby stand of trees. Unable to make out anyone in the shadows, she shook off the sensation and headed into the stables.
Bowen raised a baleful eye as she approached his stall. “I feel the same way, but there is no help for it,” she told the steed. It had been difficult enough to contain her fear—no, not fear but trepidation—when she rode the big beast to the Far
North. But this was worse, she didn’t have her magick to protect her.
Using the slatted stall as a ladder, she climbed to the last rung. Her limbs were boneless and she weaved precariously. Grabbing hold of the post, she flung herself onto Bowen’s back.
The steed tossed his white mane with a disgruntled whinny.
“Oh, be quiet and take me to Syrena’s hiding place in the woods,” she said, clinging to his neck while trying to ignore the violent trembling of her limbs, determined to conquer her ... nervousness. Nothing mattered now but ensuring Lachlan’s safety.
Evangeline swallowed a panicked shriek as Bowen galloped through the open stable doors, crossing the courtyard at a bone-jarring pace. As he leapt off the edge of the mountain, she buried her face in his mane. The whoosh of his wings rising, the feel of them beneath her slippered feet, did little to reassure her. She repeated the words of a protective spell over and over in her mind. It mattered not that the words were useless without her powers: she took comfort in the familiar litany.
With her eyes closed, the cool musky air of the forest was her first sign they’d reached their destination. But she didn’t lift her gaze or release her breath until she felt the comforting thud of Bowen’s hooves hitting the moss-covered ground. Sliding from the horse’s back, she steadied herself then searched for some sign of Uscias. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker of movement. At the rustle of leaves and the snap of a branch, she moved away from Bowen. “Uscias?”
Lord Bana stepped from behind a tree, his thin upper lip curled. “I’m afraid not, Your Highness. No one here but you and me.” His words took on an ominous threat with the way he caressed the golden blade he carried.
She hid her shock, her unease, and dug deep inside her. Pulling on what little magick she retained, Evangeline lifted her hand. Fear skittered across Bana’s sharp features. His step faltered. When nothing but a tendril of smoke curled from her finger, the look of malicious triumph in his eyes turned her blood cold.
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