by Kris Kennedy
She lowered her head. A moment later she gulped. Then she sneezed.
He pushed to his feet and crossed to her side of the fire. Sitting down, he put his spine against the log and patted his chest, then the ground between his bent knees.
“Come, rest.”
She looked at his chest, then the ground, then away, very quickly. “I do not think—”
“Good. You do too much of that.”
He folded his arms over his chest, closed his eyes, and waited.
She was a wild creature right now. Scared, in unfamiliar surroundings, hostaged to someone she did not know for reasons she did not understand.
One did not hunt wild things. One lured them.
He half-closed his eyes and watched her. Firelight lit the front of her face as she sat motionlessly. Then, very slowly, she shuffled around and situated herself between his knees.
She sat stiffly, as far as could be from his body.
He reached out and closed his hands around her hips and slid her back, bringing her up, rather firmly, against his chest.
Shock froze her in position.
“Now sleep,” he murmured, removing his hands from her waist and resting his forearms on his bent knees.
She held herself stiff as a piece of wood. “I have never slept like this,” she announced.
“I’d tip you over and lay us down if I did not think you’d scream bloody murder.”
“Oh, do you think anyone would hear?” she asked, sounding hopeful.
“There’s not a soul for miles, lass. Settle in.”
She leaned back hesitantly, still stiff, but at least partially reclined. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the feel of her body pressed against his.
“Talk to me,” she whispered.
“About what?”
“I do not care. I do not want the silence.”
He wracked his mind for something from his dark and dirty life that might interest this woman of privilege.
“Tell me about your home,” she suggested when the silence continued.
“I have no home.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Yes, you do. Your enchanted forest.”
He leaned his head back against the log and closed his eyes. “I haven’t been there for a hundred years.”
“Your sword…it is part of your home?”
“Aye.”
“Tell me about it, and this Aengus fellow.”
He smiled a little. “The sword is Moralltach. Legend says it leaves no stroke or blow unfinished at the first trial. Aengus was its owner.”
“Was Aengus a king?”
“He was son of The Dadga.”
“Who were the Dagda?”
“The Dagda,” he corrected. “Just the one. He was one of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
Her body turned toward him slightly. “And who is he?”
“They. They dwell in the Otherworld. They are the people of the goddess Danu. Gods.”
She tilted her face up, as if truly interested. He didn’t recall the last time someone had shown any interest in Ireland. Or in him.
But then, he’d barely spoken to a soul in years, let alone to speak of Ireland. He spoke to share information, take orders, deliver goods and threats. Never to…connect.
He told himself he was only sharing all this to keep her panic at bay.
Shifting against the log, he tugged the blanket up around her, covering her shoulders more.
“Then your sword is descended from a god?” she asked.
He nodded.
“And it has been passed, father to son, all this time?”
He nodded again.
She shifted further, facing him, her body less like ice, more like the sensual woman who’d bent her body for him in the tent. “That means you are descended from a god.”
He shrugged. “’Tis legend, lass.”
“Máel,” she said dreamily. “The god of outlaws. Perhaps rogues as well.”
He laughed. She turned fully to the side and rested her head on his shoulder, then tucked her hands under her chin and curled her body against his.
Jésu. She would be the death of him.
Chapter 24
They spoke no more. Cassia stared into the fire for what felt like hours, trying to ignore the feel of his hard body behind hers.
Sadly, though, she could not even ignore the memory of him kissing her. The feel of his hard hands sliding up her ribs and then down her legs.
What had he been going to do down there?
She wanted to know so much, her body began to throb. Her breath hitched. Then she felt him, behind her, his hardness growing, against her back.
How like a man, she thought unsteadily, to become aroused in his sleep.
He stretched his legs out, hands resting on his thighs. Otherwise, naught.
Her inhalations were patched around pockets of held breath, all her attention focused on the length and width of the powerful erection. How she wanted, ever so much, to move against him. To push back.
How like a woman.
She was terrified. Of herself.
His breathing kept on with the slow, regular rhythm of sleep, but his erection was fully blooded now, a thick, hot shaft against her back.
And in that heartbeat, the strangeness of her life stopped being a thing odd and alien, and became a thing of…opportunity.
If she did move against him, if she shifted her body ever so slightly to feel more of his magnificence, who would know?
No one but Cassia and her aching, never-touched body.
Oh, how she wanted to be touched. By Máel.
She was untried in anything but poverty and how to hold up appearances. She was a child when it came to passion. And if all went as planned, if her long-held dreams were realized, she would be wed to a man who would care nothing for her, who lighted no fires inside her, certes nothing like the hot, burning flame that lit whenever Máel simply looked at her.
She would gain her heart’s desire: safety…and never feel this way again.
Whatever magic moved through this warrior and into her, she would never experience its like again.
Her life would be spent playing at chaste, meaningless passion with troubadours on lutes. She would be bedded by a man she did not love, repeatedly, and she would never know the raw, real power of this man again.
Forbidden, indeed. And the strongest thing she’d ever felt in her life. Stronger even than her fear.
Opening her mouth, she tipped her head a little farther back, curved her spine, and pushed her hips into his erection.
She froze, feeling giddy and lightheaded. Her fingertips were warm from the fire, but cold from excitement.
Máel had not moved. His breathing had not changed. His erection was pressed against her pelvis bone and curved up the small of her back, teasingly light.
Her breathing grew ragged as she moved again, a soft, almost imperceptible rock against him. She stared down at his large hand, resting on his thigh.
Slowly, an inch at a time, she moved her leg, so the outside of her thigh touched the inside of his. A hot gasp slid from her. His leg was hard and warm.
Closing her mouth only to swallow, she arched her back and pushed the heel of her foot into the ground, then leaned back into the length of his erection.
This time, he moved.
His hands encircled her waist, a hot band of restraint.
His mouth, close to her ear, still breathed slow and steady, but he was surely awake now, and she was terrified.
And aroused beyond measure.
“Be sure,” was all he said.
Fire scorched across her breasts. She tipped her head into his collarbone and arched her spine again, telling him with her body rather than her words that she was very, very sure.
It took no more than that to unleash him. But it happened very, very slowly.
His knees came up. At a languid pace, he slid one hand into the tangle of her hair and roped the long, knotted length of it aro
und his wrist. Gently, inexorably, he tugged her head back.
The pressure unleashed a wave of chills through her body. He guided her head to the side, her face tilted up for him, and held her there.
In the moonlight, his eyes were obsidian black. She was drowning in them.
“Aye?” he said.
“Oh, aye.”
His mouth closed over hers, slow this time. Not like the kiss of the tent, which had been all test and challenge. This kiss was exploration and…possession.
He tasted her with deliberate slowness, taking her mouth deeper, forcing her wider, his tongue lashing her straight into carnal madness. And she gloried in it.
His hand slid up under the warm cloak. He cupped her breast through the tunic; his tunic. She arched for him, giving him access, wanting more.
And finally, finally chivalrous, he gave it to her. His other hand came up and cupped her other breast. His thumbs swept over the hard nubs of her nipples, a decisive, confident stroke.
Her head jerked back.
“Aye.”
One hand continued to caress her breast, but the other…oh, it slid down, down her ribs, down her belly, and pushed it between her thighs.
She trembled as he guided her legs out, spreading them for him.
She was awash in shivery ribbons of desire, unfurling from their source: a pounding, beautiful ache down low in her body.
He circled his hand around her inner thigh and slid it up, dragging the chemise as he went, exposing her bare legs to the cool air and his scorching sensual confidence. He knew precisely where he wished to go; straight into the slippery hot apex of her. His hand slid into the wetness.
A sharp cry burst from her body, breaking the stillness of the night.
He pushed further, his long finger coasting into the slickness. With two fingers he spread her folds and with a third he circled her, deliciously, deliberately slow, as if seeking something. As if he was waiting for something. She felt as if she was waiting.
She released staggered, stuttered breaths.
He skimmed higher yet and traced a fingertip across the nub that was the source of the pounding, beautiful ache.
Her body jerked as if yanked on a string. Her head fell back with a ragged gasp.
“Aye,” he said. It was a harsh, beautiful male sound of approval and conquest.
He stroked again, and again, skating through her slick heat, a controlled, debilitating caress. Pleasure snapped through her like a whip being cracked. Her spine arched, pushing her breasts up. He cupped the offering with one hand while he continued his sensual torment below.
“Bend your knees. And spread your legs further,” he said in her ear.
Trembling, she followed the command. But it was not enough for him, for he scooped a hand under her leg and hooked her knee overtop his, then spread his legs farther apart, forcing her wide.
“Please,” she whispered, not knowing what she was pleading for.
But he did. He slid his hand a little lower and, with maddening slowness, breached her with a curled finger, pushing up inside her.
She sobbed from the perfect touch. He pushed in further, pumping deep, his wrist rubbing in her folds, sliding along the pressure point that would send her mad. She wanted to be mad.
She lifted her arms and bent her elbows, reaching over her shoulders, clumsily trying to encircle his neck.
He flexed his body, lifting his hips off the ground, carrying her with him, suspending her on his hips and thighs. He buried his face in her neck and sucked the flesh into his mouth.
He did it again, his mouth tugging on her neck, his teeth a beautiful threat, all the while, rocking his hips in the air, his erection hard against her bottom as he worked her with his fingers. She threw her head back with a broken cry.
“Tá tú thar barr,” he rasped, his face buried in her neck. Then without warning, he tumbled her over onto the blankets.
Propping himself above her with one hand, he pulled at her tangled chemise with the other hand, his fingers slippery from having been inside her. His eyes were as fierce as she’d ever seen them, but now she wanted his fierceness. Ached for it.
“Take it off, lass,” he rasped. “I want to see you.”
She sobbed with pleasure and lifted her chemise for him, until her breasts were bared.
His gaze dragged down her moonlit body, then swept up. Eyes locked on hers, he slid a finger back inside her, a long, slow push.
“Máel,” she almost wept.
He dropped to an elbow and lowered his head and kissed his way down her body. Down her neck. Over the line of her throat. Down the valley between her breasts, then over to claim one. His mouth closed over the hard nipple. Hot, slippery, pressure, pulsing, rolling…then the sting of his teeth.
She sobbed, arching her spine, pushing to get closer to him and his touch, to experience more of whatever he was offering. He slid his arm under the bridge of her back and continued his mission to destroy her.
She had no thoughts, no mind, no reason. She was an instrument of his doing, plucked and made to sing, to vibrate, however he pleased.
It pleased him to nudge her knee out farther with his forearm. Cords of pleasure tightened through her body as he kissed down father, over her belly, even further, until the rough scratch of facial hair scraped the untouched skin of her inner thighs.
She flung her arm over her panting mouth.
“Nay, Cassia, I want to hear you.” He reached up and took hold of her hand and moved it down…down, then folded her fingers in his hair.
World tilting, body humming, she peered down the length of her body at him.
“Show me how you wish it done,” he commanded in a low voice.
She stared into his glittering eyes. “How I wish…what?”
He smiled a demon smile and bent his head. She curled her fingers in his hair and held on.
He scooped his hands under her bottom and lifted. With his thumbs, he spread her folds wide. Eyes half-closed, he looked at what he’d exposed: the most vulnerable, hidden part of her body, the most secret, protected part of her.
Being so bared for his perusal, for his approval, broke her. Her body clenched with a vicious, perfect pulse. Desire hammered on her. More. More. More.
Then he leaned forward and touched his tongue to her.
She cried from the forbidden pleasure of it.
He teased her with his mouth as he had done with his hand. Fluttering soft almost-touches, followed by long, slow drags. He lapped her as if she were a meal, then flicked his tongue as if she were being punished, unleashing hard, snapping jolts through her body. He alternated between them so she never knew what he would do next, until she was quite mad. And somehow, she was showing him how, tugging on his hair, making him do more of this, less of that.
Then he entered her again, slid a finger up inside her—no, two—and pushed.
Her hips arched and her fingers tightened in his hair. “Oh…please...yes.”
“More of that, then,” he murmured, his mouth still against her.
Her head fell back to the earth and she sobbed a broken gasp of pleasure.
She was heedless, her head rolling, her hips bouncing in a hard, swift rhythm, aching for more of everything. Teasing, testing, taunting, he built her pleasure like a fire, until the hot, red-gold center of her body expanded to become her entire being.
She was the fire. Máel had lit her.
She jerked as her body exploded. Shuddering waves rocked through her, crashing out in every direction, and she cried, her neck arched, lost in him.
He pushed up from between her legs and held her while her body spasmed. He kissed her cheeks, her mouth, her neck. She followed his every move, tethered to him by desire. He inhaled; she exhaled. He shifted; she moved with him, her body still shaking in little bursts and flashes.
He finally rolled onto his back, his arm behind her neck, her body nestled between the heat of him and the heat of the fire.
He pulled her toward him, ro
lling her so her head rested on his shoulder, her arm flung weakly over his stomach.
“I did not know,” she whispered. Her voice was ragged, barely audible.
“Neither did I.”
A moment later, his hand came down and draped over her forearm, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for their bodies to be entwined.
She finally slept, as the moon began to sink in the sky.
Chapter 25
Máel was up before the sun rose. He slid away from the warmth of the blanket and her body, and sat on the downed tree, watching her.
He should have known she would wreck him. He watched her sleeping. Wearing his tunic, wrapped in his cloak, her hair drying in frizzes. Low hips, long legs, a hot, curving body and banked passion that he’d flared into life. Passion that had stunned him with its power.
All the desire welled up again, along with respect…and affection.
That was the true wreck and ruin. For it betokened even more emotions behind it, like a door kicked ajar by a boot and held open for light to shine through.
He did not want light in the darkness of his heart. There were too many awful things lurking there, and he did not wish to see them.
But truth, however awful, was a thing he respected, and he could not avoid this dangerous truth: Cassia might wear silk, but it was sheathing fire.
She was magnificent.
Tempestuous. Full of spirit. And not one of those men at the tourney, or anywhere in her life, knew what she was made of. None of them could hold her. None of them could light her.
He could.
But they could give her what he could not: a home.
Cassia awoke with a start.
She stared uncomprehendingly into a misty world that was slowly taking shape in gray and misted pinks. Dawn moved through the air in fog and color, damp and slippery sweet as her dreams had been.
Dreams of Máel.
Be sure.
Oh, she’d been very, very sure.
Madness.
She realized his body was not beside her. He was gone. A bolt of fear shot through her. She sat up fast. Layers of blankets spilled to her lap. She shoved a tangle of hair off her face and looked around. “Máel?”