Maids with Blades 2, page 85
“Easy, lass,” he murmured. “Soon enough.”
Then he made a trail of kisses along her jaw, down her throat, across her bosom.
She arched in anticipation as he neared the delicate crest of her breast.
When he closed his mouth over her nipple, she moaned at the lovely sensation and felt a warm wave of longing gush through her, intensifying the throbbing betwixt her thighs.
But when he moved to her other breast, he simultaneously swept his hand down, separating her curls with his fingers, to touch the swollen nubbin at the apex of her desire.
She sobbed out, grinding against his hand, demanding relief.
Then, and only then, when her body was begging for satisfaction, did he finally give it to her.
With a groan that was half command and half surrender, he parted her nether lips, sliding his shaft into her hollow. Delving into her waiting wetness. And drawing a throaty gasp from her. Not of pain this time. But of pleasure.
Together they tussled, sweating with effort, shivering with need, gliding with heavenly friction toward the ecstasy awaiting them.
This time, when her body braced for release and she felt the fuse of their union sizzle and flare with white light, she opened her eyes to gaze up at him.
His expression—of agony and rapture, triumph and despair, power and vulnerability—touched her so deeply that she soared to a place beyond anything she’d ever imagined. A place where not only their bodies—but their souls—reveled in exquisite harmony. Where, like the ores of two metals, they were forged inextricably together.
Afterward, in the soft glow of blithe discovery, Feiyan clung to him. She had no regrets. This felt right. And she sensed it was meant to be.
Aye, they’d had questionable beginnings. He’d meant to massacre her clansmen. She’d meant to assassinate him.
But she could see now that had only been fate’s way of throwing them together.
Like her cousins before her, Feiyan had found The One.
This was the man with whom she would tie her fortunes. Build a life. Make the next generation of Rivenloch warriors.
It all made sense now.
That was why she’d been curiously unwilling to kill him. Why she’d persisted in following him. Why she was driven to help him resolve the tragedy that had caused him so much pain.
She was in love with him.
They belonged together.
It was such a relief just to be able to admit that. To surrender to the truth of what her heart had been saying all along.
All she needed to do now was prove it to him.
Joining him in this glorious paradise of fulfillment was a good beginning.
Spent and sated, she drifted off to sleep in that beautiful place. Locked in his embrace. Dreaming of a destiny that included Dougal mac Darragh.
As Dougal gazed down at the wee, fey-faced goddess still slumbering in the first faint light of dawn, he felt a twinge in his chest, as if someone had taken a keen blade and scrawled “Feiyan” across his heart.
Her name would be engraved there forever, he knew. She was the most unique and fascinating lass he’d ever met. In another time, in another place, he would have clung to her forever. Held fast to the magic between them. Never let her go.
How she could ever imagine she was invisible was a mystery. She was beautiful. Bright. Soft. Strong. And aye, as she boasted, stealthy.
He would have to be even stealthier when he left.
He had to leave her. He knew that now. Now that he was sober, standing in the clear light of day. He had to go before he did any more damage.
He should not have succumbed to lust. He should have protected her against her own unwise desires. And by all that was holy, he should never have stolen her maidenhood.
Feiyan would deem him a coward for leaving. And perhaps she would be right. A better man would stay to face the consequences. Acknowledge his failing and suffer the punishment for ravishing a daughter of Rivenloch.
But more than just his life was at stake. He wasn’t just Dougal. He was mac Darragh. He might not possess the title of laird, but he was responsible for his clan.
With the king so close, with blame directed at mac Giric, with Rivenloch bearing down on his home, he couldn’t afford the luxury of surrendering himself when he was the only one who could save Darragh from harm.
It was best for Feiyan as well.
If he remained, if he admitted his crime, her honor would suffer.
She didn’t deserve that.
By his leaving, none would ever learn of their indiscretion. She could keep it a secret. Eventually she would marry—a noble and courteous knight who’d never question her virtue. A decent man who’d give her a happy life and lots of children. And she’d forget all about the Westland knave who had stolen her innocence on a warm spring night.
He let out a shuddering breath. In his bones, he knew leaving her was the right thing. But in his soul…
He would never forget her.
He would never forget the wee outlaw dangling from his snare.
The sultry Siren removing his boots.
The sly assassin wielding her knife.
The storm-tossed waif shivering against him.
The fierce warrior battling thieves.
The breathtaking angel spiriting him to heaven and shuddering back to earth in his arms.
His throat ached as he took one last look at her.
Then quietly, before she could stir, he dressed and gathered his things. He left her weapons, as he’d promised. And he placed his dagger among them. She could use the jewels to pay for lodging when she returned to Rivenloch.
He owed her much more for what he’d taken from her. But that was a debt he couldn’t repay. A wound he couldn’t repair. An injury that, once inflicted, left a permanent scar.
Fighting indecision and choking back regret, he slipped out the door.
He needed to flee the inn before the king awoke. And he needed to get to Castle Darragh before Feiyan’s clan came looking for their lost warrior.
Gradually the morning light, seeping through the crack of the shutters, beckoned Feiyan to leave her Eden of luscious bedlinens and toasty warmth. But she didn’t want to rouse yet.
Sometime in the night, Dougal had awakened and tucked her under the covers. And that was where she wanted to stay.
She smiled. Once they were wed, she’d linger in bed every morn. She snuggled closer to where the Westlander had stretched out beside her last night.
But he wasn’t there.
She was alone.
Panicked, she opened her eyes and flung off the covers.
The fire was cold. The bath was cold. And her weapons had been assembled neatly in the corner, looking as cold as the rest.
Every shred of Dougal’s presence was gone. His clothing. His boots. His satchel. Erased, as if he’d never existed.
His abandonment hit her with crushing force, caving her chest, sagging her shoulders. Desolation squeezed her heart until it burst into a thousand pieces, like a fine glass chalice shattered in a mail-clad fist.
How could he have left her?
After what they’d shared together—the intimacy, the connection, the journey to a celestial realm—how could he turn his back on that and walk away?
A sob clogged her throat. Tears blurred her vision.
Had it meant nothing to him? Had she meant nothing?
Cursing under her breath, she swiped at her wet eyes.
She shouldn’t be surprised. She was nothing. She was the kind of lass most people overlooked or ignored.
It seemed Dougal was no different. He may have made her feel special last night. But today, she’d become inconspicuous again. Easy to leave. Easy to forget.
Biting back foolish grief, she donned her clothes and hastily braided her hair. There was no point in lingering.
He obviously didn’t want her help. Or her company.
Heartbroken, she consoled herself with the fact that at least she’d gotten her weapons back. As she slipped them into the pockets of her garb, she noticed the jeweled dagger he’d left behind.
She supposed it was payment for what he’d taken.
The more she glared at the shiny blade with its gems winking up at her, the more her hurt hardened into anger.
How dared he try to buy her forgiveness?
How dared he put a price on her virginity?
Like healing fire, rage suddenly swept in to sear and seal her wounds.
She wouldn’t let him get away with that.
This matter of Kirkoswald was as much her concern as his, curse him. The Rivenloch clan had married into the mac Girics, after all.
She’d be damned if she’d be shoved away and left behind.
If Dougal mac Darragh thought paying her off would somehow alleviate his guilt, drive her back home, and purge her from his mind, he was dead wrong.
She rushed down the stairs. Before flying out the door, she grabbed three oatcakes from the platter the innkeeper’s wife offered.
The woman clucked her tongue and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Ye just missed him.”
“I’ll catch up to him,” Feiyan bit out, “and when I do, I’ll pummel him so fiercely, his ears will ring for a sennight.”
The woman gasped. “The king?”
“What?”
“I mean…” The woman seemed flustered. “Nothin’. Ye didn’t hear it from me. Just…take care with the pummelin’.”
Feiyan’s puzzled glance sent the woman scurrying back to her cauldron of frumenty.
Armed with all her weapons again, when she strode down the path, Feiyan began to feel like her old self. Strong. Confident. Capable.
She picked up Dougal’s crack-heeled trail easily. But either the innkeeper’s wife was mistaken about his recent departure, or he was tearing along the path, because she followed his tracks for half the day before she spotted him.
He’d stopped to sit on a moss-covered rock. Chewing on a hunk of cheat bread, he didn’t hear her as she stole slowly through the elm branches above him.
She’d planned this encounter for hours now. Practiced what she would say. Imagined what she would do.
First, she meant to disparage him with vile curses. Call him ignoble. Dishonorable. Disgusting. The spawn of Satan. Lucifer’s bastard. A minion of the Devil.
If he flinched from her onslaught, she’d spit on him and name him a coward.
If he fought back, she’d teach him a lesson. Clout him. Plow her fist into his noble nose. Split his lip. Blacken his eye. Leave him moaning in the dust.
That was what she’d planned. It seemed just, considering he’d betrayed and deserted her.
But now that she saw him, she knew she couldn’t carry it out.
He looked so despondent. So dispirited.
She glanced at the hands holding the chunk of bread and remembered how his fingertips felt on her skin.
When a lock of ebony hair fell over his brow, she recalled how thick and silky it felt to her touch.
When he opened his mouth for a bite, she was reminded of the way his lips tasted. Warm. Sweet. Demanding.
And the sight of his legs—stretched out, knees wide—did strange things to her insides as she remembered how his thighs had hugged her hips, holding her in delicious confinement as he spilled his seed into her.
Her heart softened. Her resolve faltered.
Still, she wasn’t about to forgive and forget. He owed her an explanation.
She palmed his jeweled dagger and, with a flick of her wrist, sent it flying. It thumped into the ground beside him, two inches from his boot.
He tumbled off the rock with a startled yelp.
Then she leaped down from the branch, landing before him. She glared down at him with her arms crossed and her expression crosser.
“You forgot something.”
They both knew she wasn’t talking about the dagger.
She expected a lie. A cruel challenge. Vicious words of rejection.
Instead, his face fell, and his expression was tormented by remorse. Caught in the act and at her mercy, he sagged on his elbows, looked up at her, and told her the truth.
“I could ne’er forget ye. Ye’re the most magnificent, beautiful, brilliant woman I’ve e’er known.”
A lump lodged in her throat. Did he mean that?
She was suddenly grateful for her mask and hood so he couldn’t see how her eyes shimmered with foolish hope.
“I had to leave, m’lady,” he continued. “Don’t ye see?”
She didn’t see at all. But she supposed he deserved a chance to explain. “I’m listening,” she choked out.
He sat up, placing his arms atop his knees. “I couldn’t let ye suffer the consequences o’ my recklessness. ’Twas my fault, I know. I should have reined in my urges. I shouldn’t have led ye into temptation. But I failed. And after what I did,” he said, shaking his head, “how could I allow ye to pay the price for—”
“Wait,” she said, her hurt vanishing like mist. “After what you did?” A humorless bark escaped her. “Spare me.”
She hunkered down before him, wrenching his dagger from the dirt.
“You’re a cocky Westlander,” she spat, flipping the weapon in her hand, “always trying to take credit for my deeds.” She tapped the point of the dagger against her chest. “Last night was my idea. Whatever conceited notions you have that you somehow forced me—me, a warrior maid of Rivenloch—to do your bidding, I assure you you’re wrong. No one tells me what to do.”
Mac Darragh looked so stunned, Feiyan thought she could probably knock him over with a puff of air.
Chapter 23
Dougal hadn’t realized until this moment just how much he adored the swaggering warrior lass.
Of course she would insist the idea was all hers.
Of course she would claim, not that he had seduced her, but that she’d manipulated him into doing her will.
Was it true? Did it matter? What was done was done. The only thing that mattered now was the consequences of their actions.
“What will ye do now?” he asked.
“We’ll finish what we started. Find out what happened at Kirkoswald. Chase down and punish the devils who did this.”
We. She’d said we. When he left the inn, Dougal thought he’d never see her again. He’d never realized how alone he’d feel without her by his side.
Miserable, racked with guilt, riddled with shame, forlorn, and unforgiven, he’d swallowed up the ground, hoping the distance would lessen his pain.
But from the moment he’d left, he’d missed her company. Not just the warm comfort of her body, but her bright eyes and mind. Not only her tempting lips, but her prickly, wicked tongue. He missed her refreshing candor. Her clever deception. Her quicksilver emotions. The way she made the journey swifter with her prying questions. And how a coy wink from her could make his heart sing with joy.
He thought he might be in love with her.
He wouldn’t tell her that, of course. She might laugh in his face.
His world had shifted last night, made him hunger for more lasting companionship. But for her, it may have only been a pleasant evening’s diversion.
Before he could ask her what her intentions were, she straightened and offered him her hand, saying, “I want your word on one thing.”
“Aye?”
“The Rivenloch forces live by a creed. Leave no clan warrior behind,” she said. “Swear you won’t leave me behind again.”
He gazed into her dove gray eyes and somberly took her hand. “I swear.” But even as made that vow, he knew he’d break it.
“Good,” she said, hauling him to his feet. “Now enough chatter,” she decided. “We have a crime to solve. And I have a new suspicion.”
She returned his dagger, and soon they were striding down the path again, as if nothing had changed. But in Dougal’s heart, everything was different.
He no longer thought of Feiyan as the enemy, a hostage, a wayward outlaw, an assassin. Now she was his to protect. All he cared about was keeping her safe.
Not that she needed his help. Though her weapons were hidden from view, he was certain she was armed now with her full deadly arsenal. He, on the other hand, had one jeweled dagger with which to defend her.
“There’s an inn not far from the castle,” he said. “We can stay there tonight.”
He was already formulating a plan to keep Feiyan out of harm’s way.
He didn’t want her anywhere near the castle.
Though Dougal no longer intended to use her as a hostage, he couldn’t say the same for his brother. If Gaufrid discovered the niece of the Laird of Rivenloch was within his reach, he might decide that ransoming her was a good way to refill the mac Darragh coffers.
So he absolutely intended to leave her behind. At the Ayr Arms. Where he knew she’d be safe. But until then, he’d go along with her plans.
“So what’s this new suspicion o’ yours?” he asked.
“First, I need to hear again about the two men who reported the fire.”
“What more do ye need to know?”
“Say it all over. From the beginning. No detail left out.”
“They staggered into the courtyard, covered in blood and ashes, sayin’ there was an attack at Kirkoswald.”
“They claimed they had just come from the village?”
He blinked. “How else would they know about the fire?”
“Right. And they’re your brother’s men?”
“Aye.”
She rubbed a pensive finger across her lips. “Loyal to the laird?”
“O’ course.”
“What are their names?”
“Their names? I don’t see how—”
“Indulge me.”
“Fergus and Morris Fortanach.”
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Are they brothers?”
“Aye.”
“Hmm.”
“‘Hmm’ what?”
“They didn’t say anything about the attackers?” she asked. “How many there were? Two? Six? A dozen? Whether they were mounted or not?”
“There wasn’t time.”
“And these are the same men who brought you the mac Giric clan badge?”
