Claiming Her

Wicked to be so trapped, to be so aroused at being so trapped, to be so worked by this man, stripped of everything but her desire.

“I am going to be inside you soon,” he growled against her lips. “You’re going to beg me.” It was a masculine promise, a fierce, beautiful threat.

“Not if we must wed,” she whispered, dizzy, ragged and broken, but certain of this one thing: she was not a traitor.

For a moment, he was utterly silent, completely motionless, except that the arm holding hers down was shaking with…fury. Then, soft and menacing, he whispered by her ear, “You want to fight, Katarina?”

His voice was silky smooth and cold, like wine laid in ice.

Oh no.

“D’accord.” He pushed up and strode away from her, across the room. “Let us fight.”

“What…?” She scrambled out of the tub, water streaming from her body, grabbing for her chemise, tugging it on. Its linen length clung to her wet curves, her hardened nipples, her trailing, knotted hair.

He grabbed her sword belt off the table, sheathed her blade into it, and tossed it over. “Put it on.”

It clattered into her hands, ropes of leather and steel. She fumbled for it. “Aodh—”

He grabbed his own belt, which he’d tossed onto the bed, and slung it around his hips. Her heart both sank and sped up, until it felt as if it was hammering a thousand beats a minute, down in the pit of her belly.

“Aodh,” she whispered.

“What?” He was curt, his head bent to buckle the belt. One of his arms was dripping wet, the cobalt sleeve sticking to his roped forearm.

“I do not think—”

“Do you not?” Oh, his Irish accent was thickening; fury was flowing. “What is the problem now, Katarina? Can you not fight openly, in the light of day? Or will you not? Only subterfuge and dark shadows for you, is that it?”

Her fingers tightened around the leather. “You know naught of the choices I have had to make.”

“I know a few.” Striding over, he dropped to his knees and, shocking her into silence, buckled her sword belt around her hips, then got back to his feet, and retreated a few steps, his hand resting at the hilt of his own sword, waiting for her to draw on him.

“Oh, Aodh,” she exhaled, helpless. Her chest felt cold, her brain frozen.

“You’ve a fire to fight, lass. Let’s burn it out.”

“Someone might get hurt,” she protested

“People are already getting hurt, and there’s a world of it to come.”

Her throat was dry, making it difficult to form words. “I mean here, in this room.”

Something flickered in his gaze. “I’ll never hurt you.”

She straightened. “I meant you.”

He laughed.

Her hand touched the hilt of her sword. “I have been trained, you know.”

“Have you?” He tapped his fingers on his belt, then shrugged. “You’ll not be as good as I, Katy, but that is not the point, is it?”

She drew her sword from its scabbard.

He smiled and drew his own.

“You might be sorry, you know,” she said, an echo of her earlier words as she began to move about the room. He turned with her.