King's Warrior (Renegade Lords Book 1) Page 11

  He unbent Maggie, straightened her spine. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright in the shadows between the close-set buildings.

  “Well.” Her exclamation was more a gasp than anything. “I think that went well, don’t you?” She sounded exultant.

  Tadhg was almost apoplectic. “You could have got hurt,” he responded hoarsely, gripping her face.

  “Oui.” Noses almost touching, she smiled at him. “But we did not.”

  Her point did not convince. Peril and mortal danger were the ever-present cliff edge in Tadhg’s life. They barely impressed themselves anymore. But Maggie in danger? Christ’s mercy, his heart was hammering so hard he felt the blood pound through his veins on each beat. Strangely breathless, he cupped her face.

  Excitement had heightened the tips of her words, fore and aft, so they were like little ships, bobbing on sharp waves. Her eyes were bright from excitement. She was enthused, filled with vigor and elation, so much so she practically emitted light.

  But then, she did not understand how dark Tadhg’s task truly was, how dark the forces that pursued him. She did not know the evil deeds men like Sherwood wished to enact with the dagger of King Richard, nor the black saga of the dagger itself.

  None of it was worthy of a minstrel’s lay, for none of it held romance, although it surrounded the king who was the epitome of all the romantic chansons ever written.

  The tale was dark. Dark and fell. The whole world was dark. All was dark.

  All but Maggie.

  He forced his hands away from her face, but only to take her hand in his. He felt as if he could not let go. But he would have to, very soon.

  “Writs or no, we won’t be making it onto a boat today,” he said gently. “Not with Sherwood here.”

  She nodded in understanding. “What then? Hide?”

  He shook his head. In a town this small, they’d only be found. “We go to the last place they’d think to look.”

  Her brows pulled in confusion.

  “Back where we came from. Come, lass, let’s be quick about it.”

  Hugging alleys whenever they could, moving through the crowds when they had no choice, he guided them to the gates. Swiftly, as the sun tipped from noon and sank into a low bank of clouds coming up in the west, he lead her out of town, just as soft snowflakes started to fall.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  HE TOOK THEM INTO a forest that seemed untouched by human feet since Roman times. Snow fell on them as they went. Tadhg did not speak at all and Maggie did not ask him to. It felt, after everything, silence was in order. It was enough that they were safe, alone together in this vast, wide world.

  The wood was at least as dangerous as Sherwood, but out here, in the clean, fresh air, the wilderness did not seem half so dangerous as the world of men.

  The sound of their flight seemed magnified in the great, waiting silence of the wood. Trees towered overhead, ancient denizens looking down at their little figures, fleeing through this untouchable, white and green vastness.

  It was comforting, in a strange way, to realize the troubles that so plagued her life were not very large after all, in the scheme of time.

  Here in the forest, Sherwood’s cunning was not so important, nor the mayor’s corruptions, nor the greed that plagued every corner of her life. Money and timetables and shipping schedules and unpaid bills, they all meant nothing in this vast, silent, snowy wood. The silence was enormous, broken only by the tiny scraping sound of snowflakes hitting dead leaves. The air was fresh, the trees endless, and there was only one thing to do: walk.

  The clarity was almost blinding.

  Tadhg never let go of her hand.

  Eventually, sometime late afternoon, they emerged in a wide, snow-covered clearing, bounded on all sides by the deep green forest. Fat snowflakes floated lazily down. A line of ramshackle cotters’ huts rimmed its edge, thatch roofs heavy with snow. Some old village, abandoned years ago. A few wintertime birds flitted from tree to tree, and at the edge of the clearing, two deer picked up their heads, then went back to nibbling tree limbs.

  “That one,” he said softly, pointing to one of the huts.

  She pushed open the door and ducked inside.

  When they first came in out of the brightness of the white, snow-encased world, Magdalena stumbled in the darkness, but her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim interior of the cotters hut. There was no window, just what light came from the fire and the venthole above.

  The space was a good ten paces by ten, solidly built of sod, with a softly worn, dry earthen floor and a low partition wall to separate where the animals would have been kept. It was clean, if a bit close, and clearly unused for a long time.

  Using a small hand-ax from the many weapons on his belt, Tadhg broke up the larger pieces of wood they’d collected outside, while Magdalena laid spider-thin twigs and desiccated leaves at the bottom of the small fire pit. Then he crouched in front and struck his flint stone. Almost immediately, a flame caught, clicking and snapping as it ate up the smallest twigs.

  He slowly fed tiny sticks into the pit of hungry little flames, like baby birds clambering to be fed. Slow and patient, he added larger ones. Soon the fire crackled strong and bright, pushing back the darkness.

  He rose and stared down silently into the flames. Heat spread in an invisible circle, radiating onto Magdalena’s knees and shins as she watched him tug off his gloves and spread his hands over the flames.

  Those same competent, calloused hands had owned her body last night, alighting fires that still ached in her groin. That stern slash of a mouth had followed after, teasing and suckling and licking until her body arched—

  She swayed on her feet. The erotic fantasies, the cessation of all activity after such sustained activity, the expanding warmth, the snap and crackle of the fire, all conspired to lull her into an almost otherworldly state. It was she and Tadhg and the fire, all alone in the world.

  He glanced at her, then wordlessly began piling up hay discovered at the far end of the hut, where the animals would have been kept. He mounded it into a soft pile and laid a blanket from his pack atop, then held out his hand.

  “Lay down, lass.”

  She knelt on the crunchy, yielding pile of hay and stretched out. Her head sunk in, making a warm little pocket. She sighed. Her eyes closed.

  Something heavy and warm dropped onto her. Her eyes flitted open. His cloak, a heavy, fur-lined mantle. She snuggled under it. Later, from the heavy depths of sleep, she became aware of the sound of scraping. Dragging her eyes open, she saw Tadhg, sitting on the ground, surrounded by a circle of steel blades, a flat stone in hand.

  She fell asleep to the sound of him sharpening his sword.

  MAGDALENA AWOKE ABRUPTLY and completely.

  A low fire burned on a bed of red-hot coals, pumping heat into the room, which was dark but for a spear of wintery light from the opened front door, lancing through the warm dimness.

  Tadhg stood at the door, his back to her, holding it open a crack, peering out. His hair was damp—he must have washed—and he’d divested himself of his mail, and wore only a tunic, carelessly laced, and a pair of fresh, dark hose. They must have been pulled from the pack he’d carried.

  Rising, she wrapped the cloak around her and went to the door. She stood behind him and looked over his shoulder. . It was nighttime, but bright moonlight bounced against silvery clouds. Half a foot of snow had fallen. More was coming down.

  “Oh no,” she whispered.

  “Oh, aye,” he agreed, not turning.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  He shrugged. “Hours.”

  “We are not going anywhere.”

  “Nay.” He stood, motionless, looking out at the snow.

  She was tempted to point out that Sherwood would likewise not be going anywhere, but didn’t know if this would please him or not. He seemed remote, distant, hard.

  But then, hardness was the story of Tadhg, from the line of his jaw to his dark eyes. And then th
ere was his armor and weapons. And the ruthlessness.

  What would drive a man to such deeds as his? Criminality; it was the simplest of stories. But ‘criminal’ did not come close to describing Tadhg Nessan Cenn Nuallán O’Malley. There was more to this story, to this man. A man with such lethal potential, who did not kill the men who were hunting him.

  A warrior who could read letters written to apprentices, before dropping large bags of coin atop those letters, leaving money for a woman who he had only one use for.

  A man who had told her to save himself.

  Why that dagger? Why his flight? Why Sherwood’s dogged pursuit?

  Why the way her heart felt as if it was laced in gold whenever he looked at her?

  Magdalena had been fooled by hope before, but never by a man. She knew precisely what sort of man her husband was from the moment she’d met him. She knew who Baselard the blacksmith was, who the mayor and Gustave and Edwin were; she saw men for exactly what they were. It had always been hope that had wrecked her, not men.

  But none of these men had ever made her feel the way Tadhg did. And this had nothing to do with hope, for there was none with Tadhg. His mission, his future, surely his life, were just about the most hopeless things in all the world.

  What Magdalena felt about him was entirely due to the sort of man he was. The hidden truth at the center of him. And how it strummed against the hidden center of her.

  “How much did you leave her?” she asked softly.

  He turned.

  Wintery light spilled across his face and she saw, in shock, that he’d shaved. Only the faintest dusting of hair now darkened a strong, sculpted jaw. She inhaled, startled by his hard male beauty, but why? Why be surprised, when everything about him struck her like the wind?

  “Who?” he asked, his voice rough from disuse.

  “My apprentice, how much money did you leave her?”

  He regarded her a moment in silence, then said gruffly, “It was not for her. ’Twas for you.”

  “How much?”

  He shrugged. “All of it.”

  She felt breathless. “You left me all your coin?”

  To that, he made no reply.

  A spiral of heated chills swept her body. She took a step toward him. “And why did you not kill them, the soldiers in my shop?”

  He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. “Is this an examination?”

  “Why did you not kill them?” She took another step. “They were surely going to kill you.”

  He looked away, out to the snowy grey world, and shrugged. “I made certain they could not follow after.”

  “That is not what I asked.”

  “I am weary of killing,” he said shortly.

  “Have you done so much of it?”

  “So much.”

  A hard, unyielding answer, from a hard, unyielding man, for all his humor.

  It was an oft-fine line between the good and the bad, and a steep cliff to tumble down once you crossed it. Tadhg had certainly tumbled; he’d just admitted as much. Magdalena saw now she had an edge looming before her as well.

  Tadhg was her cliff of decision.

  It was surely a fine line, in the dimness of the hut, amid the depths of darkness and the peril of flight. Easy to trip over, heedless, and afterward claim you had not even seen the edge.

  But Magdalena did not trip over unseen edges. Of late, she stepped away from them, very sensibly, her eyes wide open.

  Of long-ago, though, and upon a time, she’d run at them headlong, flung herself over their edges, arms out wide.

  A low hum started in her body. She began unlacing the ribbons at the sides of her tunic.

  His eyes dropped to the sight. “Maggie,” he said, a low warning tone.

  She let the ribbons hang down her sides as she took a step back, deeper into the hut. She lifted her arms and dragged the heavy weight of the gown over her head, then let it fall.

  He watched her, motionless and silent.

  She took another step back, melting into the firelit shadows of the room. Moving slowly, she pulled the yellow undertunic over her head and let it fall to the ground too. She was clad now only in her chemise. It fell past her knees, undyed, thin as breath.

  He pushed off the doorjamb.

  “Take down your hair,” he said, his voice low.

  She did, slowly, languid in the heat of the fire and his gaze, unpinning and untwisting the ribbands that held the silk sheath around her hair, and let it go. Her hair swung free, falling to her knees.

  He shut the door. The single stab of snowy light that had cut across the cottage winked out, plunging the room back into darkness and firelight…and Tadhg.

  He reached her in three strides. Wordlessly they tore at his clothes as they’d done to hers only the night before—how could that be? How could so much have changed in a single night, when years of her life had passed with nothing different, nothing new, nothing meaningful? Tunic, doe-soft leggings, even his boots, they disrobed him until he stood before her, naked.

  He was glorious. There was no other word to describe the unforgiving male beauty of him. He was a specimen of masculinity, taut with musculature, his nipples dark discs against his pale skin, a firm chest, dark with hair that narrowed to a thin cord over the flatness of his belly, down to his groin. And across him, a map of scratches and gouges and long, jagged scars, the remnants of fights and battles, triumphs and near-misses. And then his erection, thrusting up, thick and silky hard, curving back almost to touch his belly. At its tip, a tiny drop of male seed glistened.

  She tipped her head back, shaken by desire. She’d never wanted anything the way she wanted this man. Everything else could pass away, and she would be satisfied with only this.

  She reached out and brushed her finger over the head of his erection, skimming the drop of seed across her fingertip.

  He hissed through his teeth and reached for her, cupped her face. Their mouths met in a long, hot, open-mouthed kiss, his hardness thrust up between them. It was a kiss that slowed down as it went, a great, long adoring kiss, Tadhg slanting his mouth first to one side, then the other, drowning her in the unyielding, unstoppable claiming of his kiss.

  He skimmed down her neck and shoulders, his fingertips trailing. Her nipples hardened with anticipation, and she rubbed against him impatiently. He finally cupped her breasts in his hard hands, hot through the thin chemise, and stroked his thumbs, abrading her nipples, and still the kiss went on, deep and adoring.

  With a gasp, she finally broke free and moved her mouth down the column of his neck, tasting the heat of him, her hands open and greedy as they moved down the muscled plane of his chest and flat stomach. Then she bent her knees and followed the touch of her hands with her mouth.

  Ripples of restraint disturbed the hard flesh under her lips. “Lass,” he said hoarsely, reaching for her.

  “Let me do this,” she murmured, almost humming as she lowered herself to her knees. “I want this, with you.”

  He gave a low groan and let her go.

  His erection curved up in front of her face. Inhaling his musky, male scent, she flicked her tongue, ever so lightly, against him. He sucked in a breath. She did it again, tasting the salty seed of him, and he plunged his fingers into her hair, a gentle fist of restraint. Reveling in her power, she ran her tongue up the length of his shaft, along the underside, from root to tip. A shudder rocked his body and the hand in her hair tightened.

  “Do you still want more?” he rasped.

  She was so excited she was trembling. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Take it in your mouth.”

  The air left her lungs. Trembling jolts of excitement arced through her. Deep inside, long-forgotten muscles were awakening, tightening and releasing in little, erratic bursts. He fisted one hand around the base of his erection, and when she opened her mouth, he guided it in.

  Hard and thick and hot, he filled her. She loved the feel of him, the taste of him, thick
and taut, but silky smooth, pushing into her mouth.

  He kept one hand loose around his shaft, the other almost motionless on the side of her head, and his hips barely rocked, back and forth, as she suckled him, sometimes with small, testing, teasing strokes, no more than a flick of her tongue, then with sudden, long, open-mouthed descents, taking him in deep.

  “Jésu, lass, more of that,” he muttered, his voice low, uneven. The hand in her hair tightened, holding her head steady, then his hips thrust forward with a hard jerk.

  Shaking, she took him in as deep as she could, one hand pressed to his hewn thigh for support, the other gripped under Tadhg’s hand, circling the root of his shaft. Together they pumped him in long, rhythmic, shockingly hard strokes. Her hair fell in a curtain around her face, down his legs. He lifted a length of it, held it over his palm, so he could watch her suck him in. He made a low sound, almost a growl. She felt burned by his potency, his hard intent for her.

  Their pace quickened sharply, quickly, then the muscles in his legs stiffened and his fingers tightened in her hair. Breathing hard, he tugged her mouth away and a moment later, thick and slippery, his hot seed burst out across his stomach and streamed down their joined hands.

  Her breath came so fast her head spun. Her knees barely felt capable of holding her up, were trembling as if she’d run for miles. She leaned forward almost in a trance to taste the thick, slick, still-shuddering length of him, but he hissed the moment her breath touched him.

  With a hand on her elbow, he lifted her to her feet, twined their fingers together, and said softly, “Now, lass, I will see to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  HER BODY THRILLED.

  Holding her hand lightly, he used a rag from their packs to wipe her hand and his belly, then flung it aside and took a step back, keeping their hands entwined, stretching their arms out like a bridge until their fingertips barely touched. His gaze raked down her body, to her bare shins, then came back up. It glittered with desire; he was not even close to done.