Briar Rose

by Kimberly Cates

  The last button came free, the gown lying open across her back. Swallowing hard, he delved through yet another layer, unlacing the short corset that bound her breasts, his fingers lingering over silky curves and hollows where faint shadows clung. It was nigh more than his senses could stand, that sensation of release as her breasts were freed of their confinement.

  Now was the time in lovemaking that they would spill into his hands. He could picture it as vividly as Rhiannon did her fairy magic, and he longed for it with the unforgettable fire of a man who had never allowed himself to want anything that truly mattered.

  It was the hardest retreat Redmayne had ever made, withdrawing his fingers from the ivory satin of Rhiannon's skin. But he made it with the fierce resolution of one hopelessly under siege.

  "There." His voice gave an uncharacteristic rasp. "You should be able to manage the rest by yourself."

  "Yes. I should. Thank you."

  He expected her to turn away, float out of his room like the glowing splash of moonlight she was. But there was something strange in her tone. She came about, facing him. Her arms crossed over her breasts, holding up the drooping folds of her bodice, a maddening icing of lace and chemise peeking over the velvety swells. Her gaze clung to his, melting warm, heartbreakingly hopeful, a little afraid.

  He saw her hands tremble for a moment, then her slender fingers loosened on the fabric, let it fall free. Soft puffs of sleeve glided down past her elbows, carrying bodice and white waves of undergarments with it, to tumble in drifts about her waist.

  Redmayne burned, desire hot as coals in his belly as his gaze devoured the perfect globes of her breasts rising with each nervous breath, the rose-pink of her nipples beckoning him, more delectable than anything he'd ever imagined.

  "Rhiannon, don't." He forced himself to reach out, attempt to draw the bodice back into place. "You don't know what you're doing."

  "I'm asking you to make love to me, Lion." Her mouth curved in a smile both tremulous and brave. "Asking for the second time I might add."

  He winced, all too aware of how much he must have hurt her, humiliated her when he'd turned her away in the glen. How much he'd hurt her even now. To protect her. To keep her safe.

  "We can't do this," he ground out. "Damn it, don't you see? I'm trying to... to keep you from..." He fumbled, sudden, stark honesty raking through him. "What if this is all a mistake? Once I make love to you, there's no taking it back. I won't risk that."

  "Lion, I'm not afraid."

  Damn her! She should be terrified, putting her trust in a man half of Ireland hated—with good reason, Redmayne thought hopelessly. "I won't ruin you."

  "But I know that—that you want me, Lion. I can see it in your face. And I know there have been others for you, before me. It's not as if you haven't—"

  "There has never been any other woman before you, Rhiannon," he bit out savagely. "Not one that I've given a damn about. It was all just mutual lust. So easy, uncomplicated."

  "I can be uncomplicated too. From the first I sensed you're a man who takes what he wants, Lion. Why not take me?"

  Why the devil not? He was half mad with wanting her. Every fiber of his body was screaming with need. Even that imagination he'd kept so firmly under control was in complete rebellion, taunting him with visions of Rhiannon gasping in a wonder of discovery, her hands on his naked body, her hair spilling across his skin in a veil of silk, her thighs parting in welcome as he drove himself home. The gods give him strength, Redmayne pleaded. He'd been lost for so long, and now the fates were offering him such a sweet taste of redemption upon his lady's lips. But no matter how beautiful this loving was to him, for her any union of their bodies could only mean ruin unless they were safely wed.

  Hurt was beginning to creep into her eyes. "Lion, I don't understand. Please. I..." She hesitated, fretted her lower lip. So innocent. So seductive. "I want you so much."

  His resolve almost shattered, and he cursed this sudden plague of scruples that had infected him. She wanted him—this angel with her cinnamon hair and her rose-bloom lips. This woman who had reached into his chest, breathed life into a heart that had been cold and dead for so long. She'd asked so little of him. Not even for the love he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to give. She asked only that he take her to his bed.

  But that was why he couldn't scoop her into his arms, take them both where this tide of passion would lead them. She asked so little. She deserved so much.

  "Maybe I'm trying to prove something to you, to myself," he admitted softly. "I can't even remember the last time I did anything that wasn't selfish, Rhiannon. I've certainly never surrendered anything I wanted in order to protect someone else. If I can do this, make this sacrifice, keep you safe, even from myself, then maybe I can begin to hope that someday I might almost be worthy of you."

  "But, Lion—"

  "I won't make love to you until you are my wife."

  "Your... wife?" she breathed in wonderment. "Lion, is that what you want?"

  It was all that he wanted. The wanting filled him so fiercely it hurt. A lifetime of wanting bursting free, shattering him, stunning him. "Yes." It was all he could say. How could mere words ever possibly convey an eternity of need? "But I won't bind you to me until I'm certain I won't hurt you, disappoint you." His voice dropped low, the confession stripping his newfound emotions raw. "I can't fail you, Rhiannon."

  She curved her palm against his cheek, her eyes glistening with a sheen of tears he would have paid his life to keep her from shedding. Crestfallen, resigned, she gave a little sigh. "I just... Lion, I need so badly to feel your hands on me. I've imagined being with you night after night. Dreamed of it, even when I tried hard not to. I want you so much it hurts."

  Blast, how he knew. It was bad enough, being torn on tenterhooks of desire himself. But to know that Rhiannon was being tortured this way...

  He captured the hand that lay against his cheek, drew it down between them. Turning her palm up, he stared into its soft hollow. Could he abandon her to her lonely bed, as he had resolved to do? Could he help ease the pain of longing inside her without crossing that fatal line?

  He teetered on the brink of a decision, torn. Was he fooling himself? Was this just one more of Lionel Redmayne's famous games of logic, playing with facts, rearranging them to suit his own purposes? Or was he thinking only of Rhiannon?

  He gazed down into her upturned face. "Sweetheart, there might be a way..." But was he strong enough, selfless enough to show her? "There is a way I can help ease the fire you're feeling if you trust me."

  "Of course I trust you." Trust—it was as natural to her as breathing. But did he dare to trust himself? For her—he could do this for her. Ever so gently he reached out, easing the layers of cloth down her hips, thighs, until it fell in a wreath of soft green and rose about her slippered feet.

  Her body gleamed in the flickering firelight and the glow of the single candle, slender, graceful as the stem of a lily, all her feminine secrets revealed to his hungry eyes. The rose-tipped mounds of her breasts, her waist, the flare of her hips, the dewy curls that clung at the juncture of her thighs. And her legs, long, shapely, clad in the finest of stockings, ribbon garters tied at their tops.

  The vision she made was exquisite, mind-shatteringly sensual, and yet so much more. Something ethereal turned her face luminous, so beautiful that for the first time Redmayne could almost believe in fairy enchantment, and that this remarkable woman had been born of it.

  Scooping her into his arms, he carried her to the bed where he'd faced his darkest nightmares alone, fought to stave off sleep. He laid her upon the coverlets, and bent to kiss her.

  She tasted of the nectar of every flower-strewn meadow she'd ever run through, her lips parting, seeking his, eager. He skimmed his hands across velvety skin, each brush of fingers and mouth designed to feed the flames now licking their way through Rhiannon's veins.

  Torture, such sweet torture, touching her, kissing her. "I love you." She whispered the wo
rds again and again, as if trying to make him believe they were true; she instinctively knew how difficult it was for him to do so. Who could have guessed that those words, which had so terrified him with the responsibility they implied and the vulnerability they proclaimed, words that he'd scorned as weakness, would fill him with such awe, such joy. Make him want... want all of her.

  He held on to that legendary control more fiercely than he ever had in his life, knowing that if he merely rose above her, she would open those pale, soft thighs to cradle him, draw him into her body with all the eagerness, the generosity of her loving soul.

  Torture... Rhiannon arched her head back against Lion's pillow, drowning in the sensations he unleashed with his hands, with his mouth. Hot, damp, he trailed kisses in a precise line across her collarbone, down to the cleft between her breasts. She trembled, a tiny groan escaping her lips as his mouth edged closer and closer to the burning bud of her nipple, her whole being half mad with a hunger she couldn't fully understand. Mysteries she'd never expected to unravel were revealed to her one finger stroke at a time as he explored her, a land more wondrous than any tale of fairies or magic or enchanted kingdoms.

  She cried out as his mouth found its goal, suckled her nipple deep, as if he were drawing life itself from her body. She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him there, against her, heat sizzling from where his mouth was fastened to her most secret feminine places.

  Melting, she was melting in Lion's arms, the power of his loving turning her wild with craving for more. Greedy, awed, she flattened her palms against his shoulders, feeling the tension in him, the questing. Hating the layers of shirt and breeches that separated them while she lay there, so open, naked in body as well as in spirit.

  "Y—your clothes... Lion, I want... I want to touch you."

  He muttered something unintelligible about punishment for past sins. Then he straightened, ridding himself of the white folds of his shirt. His hair glistened silver-gold around the rigid planes of his face, his eyes like blue coals, burning, burning as he cast aside the garment. The landscape of muscle and sinew he revealed all but stole Rhiannon's breath away. She flattened her hands against the hot silk of his skin, her pulse leaping as she heard him suck in a sharp breath. His eyes drooped closed, as he instinctively attempted to hide his reaction, but that was impossible. She could feel the wild current raging between them, something so right, so perfect, so inevitable, as if this love had been waiting to be born in ages before time began.

  And she wanted him so badly, all of him, naked as she was. Her fingertips slid down, brushing the silky web of gold that spanned his chest, slipping down toward the band of his breeches. More impatient than she'd ever been in her life, she reached the fastenings, started to undo the first button.

  A guttural groan tore from Lion's mouth, and his hand clamped over hers so tightly it hurt. "No, sweetheart," he ground out. "Not this time. Even I don't have that much willpower. Despite all your efforts to reform me, I'm no saint."

  "But I want—"

  "I know." So much tenderness filled his voice, such wry humor, despite the need she knew was throbbing through him. "You promised to trust me. Trust me in this."

  Disappointed, a little chagrined, she sank back onto the pillows, uncertain what she'd done wrong, what to do next. He chuckled, low, soft. "Rhiannon, Rhiannon, you'll never know how much I want what you want."

  She started to protest—argue—impossible man. But his lids narrowed, and she saw something almost feral in his eyes before he stole every thought in her head away with a searing kiss. Her lips parted, and she let him swirl her away into a hot cavern, where everything was sensation, and every sensation more soul-shattering than the last. His tongue teased her lips, tormented them. He caught her lower lip gently between his teeth, suckled it once, then with exquisite care slipped his tongue into her mouth. He stroked every tiny, sensitive place inside it, deepening the kiss until she felt almost as if he were mating with her, making love to her with his mouth in a way she'd never dreamed possible.

  His hands skimmed down her body, setting brush-fires, returning again and again to stir them, his thumbs circling her nipples, the soft skin at the inside of her elbow, then lower, where the top of her stocking still veiled her thigh. She trembled, arching up into every caress, but nothing prepared her for the sudden stirring, like the brush of a feather, against the fragile cove where her thighs clenched together. She whimpered, raised her head in a halfhearted effort to see what he was doing to her.

  What she saw sent shafts of pure passion jolting through her. Lion's strong fingers curved around the ribbon of her garter, the wisp of green satin embroidered with tiny rosettes looking impossibly sensual in his powerful hand.

  "Pretty," he breathed, gazing down at her body with such heat she could scarce bear the pleasure of it. "So pretty." His lashes drooped, a wicked curl raising the corner of his mouth. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, my gypsy maid?"

  With excruciating tenderness, he used the end of the ribbon to trace patterns on the pale skin above her stocking, edging higher by the tiniest of increments. Maddening, intoxicating, he whisked the bit of silk against her, every fiber of her being wild with wanting, desperate to know where he'd go seeking next.

  She was half crazed, desperate with a wanton need for him to skim the ribbon higher, touch that place burning and damp with need of him. And the instant she could bear it no more, he did what she wanted so badly, whisked the ribbon across the delicate web of her feminine curls. Melting heat washed through that part of her, and she whimpered, unable to keep herself from arching against that torturous caress.

  Something shifted in his eyes, the wicked smile fading, replaced by one of almost savage hunger. Dropping the ribbon, Lion threaded his fingers through the curls. Rhiannon moaned as the warm, callused pads of his fingers skimmed slick satin petals where the wildfires he'd set all over her body suddenly seemed to have gathered.

  "L-Lion..." She gasped his name, half prayer, half plea. "I... feel so..."

  "I want it to feel that way for you," he rasped, stirring his fingers against her. "More than you'll ever know."

  She stiffened as he found a tiny, aching point she'd never suspected could hold such a wealth of sensation—pleasure so intense it was nigh agony.

  "It's all right, angel. Just trust me. Let me give this to you." He murmured the words, words of praise, a strange mix of urging and comfort as he carried her off into a world so new, so overwhelming.

  Exquisite circles, airy brushes, he moved his fingers against her, drawing the coil of pleasure tighter and tighter until she writhed against his touch, reaching for something she didn't understand.

  "Please, Lion, I c-can't bear..."

  "Hush, love. Just let yourself feel it. Know how good you feel against my fingers. Heaven, Rhiannon. Heaven. But there is more. Can I show you?" He gazed so deep into her eyes that it was as if he touched her very soul.

  "Anything, Lion. Everything."

  He kissed her, hard, drawing his hand away from her. With a whimper of protest, she shifted her body toward him, but he was already moving himself. He slid down her body, kissing her waist, her navel, her thighs. Her legs shifted, restless, her whole body aching.

  "I want to kiss you, sweetheart. Here." His thumb brushed the down between her thighs. She gasped, disbelieving, his breath stirring those curls. "Will you let me?"

  It seemed so—so decadent and wicked. But he'd asked her to trust him. Lion, who trusted so little. Who believed so little that he deserved trust. How could she deny him anything he might ask?

  She gave him a smile that trembled, then nodded. "Yes, Lion. I love you."

  With a low groan, he eased her legs apart, kissed the inside of her knee, swept his mouth upward, kissing, nipping, then soothing each spot with his tongue.

  She stiffened, bracing herself, for what, she wasn't sure. Lion curved his hands beneath her thighs, spreading them until she was wide, wide open. Then, with exquisi
te care, he closed his lips over that tiny, exquisitely burning nub. Rhiannon gasped, arched up, sensation spearing through her—hunger, stripped to its rawest form, need, pulsing so fiercely it blazed behind her eyelids. She writhed, not to escape the sweet, forbidden torment but to urge Lion on, to try to convey what magic she was feeling.

  She stroked his hair, crying out broken words of love as his tongue darted out, dipping and circling. Something was building inside her, coiling tighter, tighter, until it was the most exquisite torture, as if, after an eternity of darkness, the brightest of suns danced just beyond her reach.

  Every muscle in her body strained toward it, and then, with a flick of his tongue, he sent her hurtling, hurtling through fire-bright sensations, wild and earthy, beautiful and sacred, a breaking apart of body and soul. She shattered, bit her lip to stifle a scream as he drove her pleasure higher, farther, deeper. She gave herself up to it, glorying in his gift.

  She wasn't certain how much time passed before the world spun back into focus. Lion's pristine bedroom, everything arranged with military precision. The only thing out of place was the sword she'd carried in to defend him.

  It was the same. So familiar. Only one thing was different. Lion.

  He leaned over her, one elbow braced on the mattress, eyes still blazing with intensity and need, and yet a wry kind of tenderness, as if some sort of jest had been played upon him.

  With obvious reluctance, he grasped the edge of the coverlet and pulled it across her body, tucking it under her breasts. Innocent she might be, but she was enough a child of the wild lands to realize that something was missing in what they had just shared.

  "Lion," she said, her cheeks burning, "what about you?"

  She could feel the tension in his body, see the hard determination in his face. He was fighting back his own needs, those needs doubtless still pounding through his veins with the same ferocity with which they had pounded through hers before she reached that delicious sense of fulfillment.