King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

“I did it,” she whispered, exultant. Chest still in the air, she said it again. “I did it.”

She’d never done such a thing before. Never defied, never fought back. It quite stirred the blood.

She felt ten feet tall— no, twelve. Surely her heart was larger now too—it was certainly beating harder, filled with more blood than she’d ever felt before. She was flushed and hot and full of energy and vigor. Like some wild thing, fierce and unrestrained.

It was…wonderful.

She spun to the knight, who was examining his sword. “I do thank you, sir,” she breathed, her eyes shining.

As if just recalling her, he jerked his head up, then strode toward her with such intense focus she took a step back. But her heart was still hammering with excitement and power, and she did not feel fear.

He drew up in front of her and cupped her cheek with a gloved hand, then tipped her face up to the dim light of fire and oil lamps.

“Are you hurt?” he asked in a gruff voice.

“No. No, I am quite well, thank-you,” she said politely.

A smile flickered across his face. “Den scoth.” Their eyes were close, so close she could see his were as dark as the rest of him, so deep a shade of brown they were almost black.

“And you?” she stammered.

Another flicker of amusement, this time in his eyes. “I am well, thank-you.”

Their mouths were closer even than their eyes, and their whispered conversation was being held at such close quarters, she felt his breath gusting over her lips with every word. And hers skidded across his, until the air between their mouths became a small heated geyser of the warrior’s breath and her own.

“I’ve never fought off soldiers before,” she admitted in a whisper.

“One would never know it.”

She smiled, recklessly happy. “I did rather well, did I not?”

“You were magnificent,” he drawled, a low male sound, and the hand cupping her cheek tightened ever so slightly.

Then, proof she’d turned entirely to a wild creature, she grinned into those hard, enigmatic eyes and said in an exultant whisper, “We did it.”

This time, amusement appeared as a full-on, darkly handsome smile. “Enjoyed that, did you? I’ll have to see if I can’t find us a tavern brawl later.”

She laughed, and his gaze dropped to her mouth. He was still cupping her face in his powerful, shockingly gentle hand. For seconds—three, four, five—he simply stared at her mouth, and all that had been fluttery and flushed in her became a veritable river of fast-moving heat and desire.

He is going to kiss me.

The thought made a wash of chills rise through her body as if she was a vessel being filled, then he brushed the calloused pad of his thumb across the corner of her mouth. “Your lip, lass. ’Tis cut.”

As if in a trance, she lifted her fingertip to the corner of her mouth and felt the smallest of cuts. Her fingertips came away with a spot of blood.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

His thumb still rested at the corner of her mouth while his gaze made the slow climb to her eyes, and her head tipped back the barest inch.

Oh, yes, he was going to kiss her. And she was going to let him.

With a muttered curse, he dropped his hand and strode away to the center of her shop.

She stood, breathless and shaken by the power of what had just moved through her, watching as he lifted his sword and ran his finger almost lovingly down the blade, then made a soft, despairing sound.

“What is it?” she whispered.