King's Warrior (Renegade Lords Book 1) Page 7

  And if it came to it—which it had—she realized she trusted him more than that malevolent nobleman, or her own mayor, or any of the other men who had moved through her life with such disregard, leaving despair and occasionally destruction in their wake.

  “I tell you, sir, I weary of the stench sometimes,” she confessed in a low tone. “When you live in a town, of course, one grows accustomed; it becomes your every breath. It means nothing, for there is nothing else. But when you leave it behind, go past the walls to fetch supplies or go to fair or gather flowers, then you realize.”

  He shifted on his crate. “What do you realize?”

  “What you have left behind.”

  “Safety? Food? Shelter?”

  She smiled. “Noise. The clatter, the stench, the endless, ceaseless racket…” Her voice drifted off.

  “Ah. You would rather live with the quiet, wild beasts of dell and dale?”

  She laughed. “I would rather eat regularly, so no. In any event, I am a peasant no more. I am a merchant now, tied to town. And I do not suffer for it,” she added quickly. “I have an income of my own making, food, this strong house,” she patted the wall, “and, for the most part, am my own master.”

  “But for Bayard,” he said.

  She was silent a moment. “Yes, of course. But for him. And the mayor. And….” She decided to stop mentioning all the ways corruption forced its way into her life.

  “You could become a criminal,” he suggested.

  She burst out laughing. “I had not considered that.”

  “Do,” he urged. “You’d make an excellent one. It’s in the eyes.” He pointed with two fingers, first to his eyes, then to hers.

  She laughed again as warmth flowed through her. He smiled back, a lazy, knowing smile, the smile of a man to a woman, an easy, playful, sensual look. It was then, perhaps, she had the first inkling that this may be more than just a passing thing for her heart.

  “So,” he said, kicking his boots out in a companionable way, “you go into the countryside to gather flowers, do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is hardly safe,” he scolded.

  “So I am told.”

  That earned a faint smile. “Do you oft not do as you are told?”

  She sighed. “I fear it is one of my besetting sins.”

  “Ah, a besetting sin,” he said happily. “Everyone needs a few. Or at least one fine, large one.”

  Again, laughter flowed through her. “You are alone in your assessment, sir. In any event, age has tempered my wayward nature.”

  “Ah.” His gaze trailed over her face, lingering on her mouth. “What a shame.”

  Her body became a single, hot flush. For a moment, she envied the laundresses of Acre.

  “I know well the trials of going your own way, mistress,” he said quietly. “’Tisn’t an easy path.”

  Against her better judgment—another besetting sin—she smiled at him. “I go for the lilies and violets.”

  Dark and gleaming, his eyes smiled back at her. “I’ve never heard a better reason to do a thing in all the world.” He paused. “You would fit well in Ireland.”

  “Would I?”

  “Aye. You’ve a love for the land, as the Irish do. It’s a powerful love we have.”

  “Tell me of it,” she urged.

  He set one boot atop the other and folded his hands on his lap. She glanced at his long, muscular legs, then dragged her gaze away as he began to speak.

  “The hills and mountains are made of green and gold. Hospitable things, my mountains are, not like the Alps. They invite you right up, with rivers of fish and meadows of deer, full of grass and trees and birds and game. And the rivers, Maggie, och, they run everywhere.”

  She was shocked by the affectionate name. No one called her affectionate names.

  “…deep and blue, they are, and all around the isle is the hard blue sea. When you’re near it, you can hear its ripping surf and smell the salt of it. The grasses grow rich there; ’tis good for fattening up the ponies. And if you walk right up to the edge of my lands, and point your toes toward the cliffs, the winds blow back your hair, and then you can see the Na Scealaga, islands rampant and reckless with birds and sea spray. Only the hardiest of men sail there, in their little curraghs, miniature warriors battling the sea and endless waves, and when you arrive, if you do, you must climb up and up the wet steps to the old monastery, left over from Viking times, and then you might think you’ve finally found the end of the world, but the sea is not done with you yet, Maggie. For out further, across the undying sea, lies Tir na Nog, the everlasting lands, where warriors go when they die in battle, a golden hall with life everlasting.”

  Her lips were parted, lost in the conjuring of his home; it was as if Ireland were here in her shop. He looked over, his eyes dark orbs in the dark room.

  “Tell me more,” she breathed.

  She didn’t know how long she listened, or how long he spoke, in his low, lilting voice, drawing pictures so vivid she could almost feel the Irish sun on her skin, smell the grass under her feet.

  “…and in Ireland, Maggie,” he said, making her shiver every time he called her that, “you’ve got to take care, for the fey otherworld is close to hand, so near that on some nights, you lay awake and listen to things you know cannot be real, but they are, and then you realize the world is far more wide and wonderful than ever the priests did tell.”

  They faced each other. His eyes were gleams of fading firelight.

  “It sounds a most worthy place,” she whispered.

  “I never should have left,” he agreed, regret thick in his voice. “But glory beckoned.”

  She knew that thick coating in her own throat, all too well. Impulsively, she touched her fingertips to his hand. “That is the way of it, for some of us,” she said urgently. “We leave that which we do have, to seek that which we might have. Sometimes, we stumble along the way.”

  Tadhg looked down at her hand, her fingertips barely skimming the back of his. Offering comfort, she emanated innocent desire. Her long hair spilled in glorious disarray over her shoulders, and her eyes were bright and full of fire—he greatly approved of fire in a woman, and so infrequently found it—and her lips were far too full to be only three inches away from his own, half parted, breathing on him.

  “A besetting sin, then?” he murmured.

  “That is it,” she whispered happily.

  She smelled like sunshine, and her smile punched a hole through the densest, darkest part of him, the cloud of him, the roiling, rising thunderstorm in his heart. “Lass,” he said in a thick voice, “I swear on my life, I will settle this debt to you.”

  She shook her head. “You already have.”

  He smiled grimly to himself. She had no idea what he meant. She thought he meant what had already come, and that it was all over now.

  But it was not over, and to the almost certain damnation of his soul, he was not yet done using her.

  A melodic sound penetrated the walls of her shop. Church bells, calling the faithful to midnight mass, as they would every night of these Twelfth Night revelries.

  Magdalena jerked a little, yanked out of the fairy-like cloud that had descended over her shop, almost startled to find herself still sitting behind her counter. In every way but the truth, she’d been far, far away, on the green hills of Ireland, with....

  She sat up straight. “What is your name?”

  He blew out something that sounded like a sigh. “Tadhg Nessan Cenn Nuallán O’Malley.”

  The words tumbled out swiftly, a lyrical and utterly incomprehensible combination of syllables. “My,” she laughed. “It sounds nice and noble.”

  “Oh, aye, quite. Nessan means stoat.”

  She laughed—she’d laughed more with this man in a half-day of trials and tribulations than she had in a twelve-month of calm, proper living. Or a hundred-month of it.

  “You can cal
l me Tadhg,” he said, looking at her mouth.

  Shivers moved through her. “Tie-g,” she whispered, sounding it out. “What does it mean?”

  “Poet.”

  “And are you one?”

  “I’m thinking of one now.” He looked from her lips to her eyes. “’Tis bawdy.”

  A long, wide ribbon of excitement unfurled through her as she tipped her head back and laughed. He watched her appreciatively.

  The bells finished their tolling.

  “You should go.” She forced herself off the crate, away from the ribbons of excitement and laughter. “There is only one guard at the gate at this hour, Gustave, and he is quite amenable to negotiation.”

  “So now you know the gate guards, too?” he grumbled as he got to his feet.

  She pushed gently on his shoulder. “Go.”

  Oh, how she did not want him to go.

  He did not go. For a long minute he looked down at the ground, and when he lifted his head, there was something in his eye that made her breath slow down and her heart speed up.

  “Do you need anything?” she said. “Food?”

  He shook his head.

  “Oh, your money! That you gave me on the quay.” She started to turn to where she’d hidden it, in a pouch under the counter.

  He put a hand on her arm, stilling her. “Keep it.”

  “But—”

  “Keep it.”

  His fingers were warm bands encircling her upper arm. She looked into his eyes and felt oddly, shockingly bereft. “Oh, I wish—”

  She cut the words short before they did something dangerous, like instill hope, in however small a degree.

  He lifted a hand to her cheek, brushed a bent knuckle across it. “No, you don’t,” he murmured. “You do not wish for that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Faintly he smiled, but his voice was hard. “Lass, you do not want what I have.” As if to prove it, he overturned his hand and dragged his thumb roughly across her bottom lip.

  All the breath came out of her in a hot rush. “Oh.”

  It was a gasp of arousal, of desire and pent-up wanting, as far as she could retrieve the memory from the dusty cabinet of her mind. It made her want to weep for the lost memory of it.

  He watched her with dark, unreadable eyes, then slid his thumb back again, a little harder, rolling her lip down the slightest bit.

  She tipped her head back and let her lips part under the rough caress.

  “That is a mistake,” he ground out. “You do not realize….” He shook his head once. “How much I want you.”

  She stepped to him, pressed her breasts up against him. His thighs were hard against the front of hers, the hilts of his weapons bumped against her hips and belly, and dark, dangerous desire burned in his eyes. She wanted all of it. All of him.

  “Show me.” She slid her arms around his neck. “For I have been dying to be wanted the way you do.”

  Chapter Ten

  LUST BARRELED through Tadhg in hot, charging waves, churning his every good intention like flotsam in a storm. Such a hard, throbbing fist of desire hadn’t gripped him in years, mayhap ever. It clamped down on him and yanked him forward.

  He dragged her up against him until her curving body was touching his from knees to lips, then forced her mouth open and plunged his tongue in after. No slow seduction this; it was all fierce fire, raw desire. Possessive, assaultive, demanding, he opened her up, mined her deep, made her respond, gave her no room to resist.

  She did not even try. She met every plunge of his tongue, every slanting, ravaging kiss, her arms around his neck, her breasts to his chest, kissing so hard their teeth clicked together.

  He held her face between his palms and delved in deeper yet, tipping her backward, then ripped free and worked his way down her arched neck, until she was a cauldron of gasps and whimpers, driving him onward.

  He slid his hands around to the sweet curve of her buttocks, fingers splayed wide. A rock-hard surge of lust coursed through him at the feel of her bottom in his hands, rocking for him, her breath ragged against his lips, her fingers tangled in his hair. He tightened his grip, holding her immovable, and rocked his hips forward in a fierce, salacious move, so she could feel the hard curve of his erection against her belly.

  Instead of being aghast at the bold treatment, she shifted and, equally bold, pushed her small knee between his thighs, then rocked along the top of his thigh, pressing her leg against his hard cock.

  Glorious woman. Tightening his hold, he lifted and planted her up against the wall behind them, hard, then stepped between her thighs, so her skirts dragged up on him. She flung her head back, gasping, then they froze and stared into each other’s eyes.

  “Aye?” he growled, barely a question.

  “Oh, aye,” she sighed, and leaned in to his mouth.

  His blood thundered as he lowered her down until she was half sitting on his thighs, half pressed to the wall, the length of his erection hard between them, her legs dangling on either side. Relentless, animalistic, furious, they grappled together at the ribbons banding the sides of her gown, loosening them enough for him to yank down the top and expose a pale, heavy breast.

  Time slowed. The room fell silent but for his slow breath, and her swift pants, then he scooped the heavy silken weight of breast into his calloused hand.

  Her head dropped back and her lips parted to release a long, hot pant.

  Then, like some goddess of desire, she pressed her shoulders back to the wall and arched for him, pushing her hips down into his erection, tilting her breasts up like a sacrifice, her eyes passion-bright, her lips kiss-swollen, her hair tousled around her flushed face.

  He skimmed the edge of his thumb over the dark, ruched nipple then bent and closed his mouth over it. She gave a broken gasp, and another blinding wave of lust smashed into him as her body bucked against the wall.

  “Move on me, lass,” he said in a rough voice. “Feel me.”

  She did, pulled herself away from the wall in a heavy, languid move, and holding onto his shoulders, rocked her hips. He leaned in to her neck and licked the sweaty salt off her hot skin, then nipped her, a sharp, not-at-all-gentle bite. Another hot gasp ripped through her body. Her body jerked, then she tipped her head to the side, offering for him again.

  He took her, suckled her flesh in his mouth as he leaned forward and planted a hand on the wall beside her head. He skimmed the other hand down her leg and dragged up her skirts.

  Mouth still on her neck, he spread his hand overtop her bare thigh and slid up, his thumb tracing the silken-soft skin of her inner thigh, his fingers cupping the outside, until he encountered wet heat.

  Her inner thighs were slick, drenched with feminine desire.

  He pushed his thumb down into the hot, tight space between them. Her head fell back to the wall, so only the wall and his thighs supported her. She stretched out an arm and laid a wrist limply on his shoulder, barely holding on, her lips wet and parted, her hair spilling everywhere, her eyes heavy-lidded and locked on his. He overturned his hand and, without pause, slid a finger up inside her, pushing deep into the swelling tightness.

  Her head flung back and hit the wall. “Oh, please.”

  His body surged with the urge to take her, now, hard.

  He stroked her again, two fingers this time, high and hard, and held them there while she keened, then he pumped them.

  Her body bucked, and long rays of shudders moved through her. With a muffled curse, he lowered her to the ground, sliding her down the line of his erection until her toes hit the floor. Then he dropped to his knees in front of her, pushing her gown up with the heels of his hands as he went.

  She trembled before him. He reached up for her hand, forcing her fingers to curl around the hem. Their eyes met. Hers were hectic, hot, and heavy-lidded.

  “Hold it up,” he commanded, his voice a rasp.

  Her body jerked once, her head tipped back to the wall, and she did exactly as he bid. She closed her
fingers around her gown and held it up for him.

  Body taut with restraint, his erection thick and thrusting, he brushed a testing fingertip across the glistening surface of her folds. She was slick, hot and swollen, ready for him. He skated his finger though the slipperiness in a tight, circular motion, testing her from top to bottom, her bared thighs trembling in front of him. Another sweep located what he sought, the slippery, swirling kernel at the apex of her. He pressed a fingertip to it, then skimmed away, hard and fast.

  Her body shook between him and the wall.

  Hot, slippery, musky, all female, she was perfection. He turned his face up and touched her with the tip of his tongue.

  Soft, silvery, and broken like raindrops, her cries of pleasure almost sent him over the edge. Clamping down on the almost violent urge to fling her to the floor, spread her thighs and slake his lust, he slowly, very slowly, pushed two fingers up inside her as he swept his tongue deep into her folds.

  Her body jerked with a sob and her head fell back to the wall, one hand still holding up her gown, the other now tangled in his hair. Her long hair fell all around them, spilling over the ties of her gown, in streamers over Tadhg’s shoulders. Hand pumping, blood pounding, he guided her legs further apart with a forearm, then, touching the back of her knee, bent it and hiked it up over his shoulder.

  Her hips came out from the wall and she shifted for him, rebalancing herself, spreading her legs further.

  Greedy now, he spread her apart with his thumbs and slicked his tongue across the pink, exposed flesh, circling slowly upward in sweeps, until she cried out, at which point he went more slowly yet, torturing her, brushing near the little nub but never touching it, until she was gasping more than breathing, until her gasps no longer resembled words, but were only desperate whimpers and whispers. Only then did he flick the tip of his tongue where she desired it, a hard, pressing tap.

  A sob wracked her body, a sweet, broken sound.

  As a reward, he sucked her into his mouth, grazing her with his teeth.

  She screamed in a whisper and her knees began to buckle. He forced her to stand even yet, pressed an arm up the front of her belly and held her to the wall, held her there with firm intent as he laved her with slow, devoted, merciless strokes of tongue and hand.