She felt strung up on the strands of a dozen conflicting emotions, some of which were due entirely to the fact that, for the first time in their many complicated, high-passion encounters, Aodh had never looked at her as he was right now.
As if she could not be trusted.
“Never again,” he said, and turned to walk out.
Pressure whirled in Katarina’s body like a tempest, a storm comprised of shame and fury and desire and something so frightening it could not be named.
But Aodh Mac Con suffered none of these things. If he wanted a thing, he took it; if he was angry, he smashed things: walls, houses, lives. His confidence was his armor. His right to pass through the world was assured, mayhap not safely, but as he wished. Oh, men were mirrors of one another. They took what they wanted, and left ashes in their wake.
“Are you going to lock me in again?” She flung the words at his back.
He kept going.
“Anytime things do not go as you will them, you stamp on whatever stands against you? I swear to you, we shall have a troubled time if that is how it is to go. Arrogant, mule headed amadán.”
“I see you learned a few foul Irish words too,” he commented, swinging the door open.
“May
hap I was wrong, but you are too. Loscadh is dó ort!”
He slammed the door shut and came back around.
She met him this time, her boots planted. “You think it all yours to take. You think of nothing but taking, of winning. I think of our people. I think to save their homes, and our crops—yes, our crops, for how else do you think we will winter next year? I am thinking to save them a few of the horrors that you and I”—she pushed her fingertips to his chest—“have had to go through. Have you ever had your home burned to the ground? Have you ever watched loved ones die in flames? I did, last winter, when the fire raged. It was awful.” She pushed at him again.
He caught up her hands, bent them to her chest, and pulled her to him. “I have had my home burned thrice. I watched my mother die when I was nine in a fire set a’purpose by Englishmen. I well know the horrors.”
“I did not know,” she whispered.
“No, you would not. I do not want you to know. I do not want to know of it. What I am telling you, Katy, is your path is laid, and it is my path. Our path. And battle is coming, whether you wish it or no. So knowing that, you stand fast. And Jesus God”—his voice broke—“you do not let them lure you.”
His hands gripped her elbows so hard, his knuckles were almost white. His face was taut, his voice rasping, the eyes staring into hers so filled with emotion, it almost broke her heart.
He was afraid for her.
They stared at each other, then, as one, their mouths met in a violent kiss.
They staggered back to the bed, grappling at clothes as they went. Her skirts were hiked up before she hit the mattress. He knelt between her thighs and tore at her bodice as she fumbled with his hose. His erection sprang out, full and hard. He pushed her knees apart and entered her in a single thrust.
She flung her head but did not look away. This union was about a different thing from all their others, and it did not require kisses, which was just as well, for there were none. It required intense, unceasing contact of body and gaze.
Fierce and relentless, he took her, holding himself up on one palm, the other hand gripping her knee to his side, spreading her, allowing him to sink in with urgent, rolling thrusts. She lifted her hips with each surge, put her elbows on the bed and pushed to meet him, battling to take every hard plunge.
Then suddenly, he gave a curse. “Jesus, Katy,” he muttered, and rolled them so she was on top. Her hair fell down around them. His body, still fully armed, lay beneath her.
“Go on,” he said hoarsely. “Take me. Say whatever you mean to say.”
It was an amen. Her eyes filled with…were those tears? Her voice, when she replied, was thick.
“I mean to say…”
She looked down at this man who’d defied every rule, ascended every summit, overcome every obstacle, accomplished every outrageous goal ever set for him. Councilor to a queen. Pirate and lace-sketcher. Courtier and conqueror. Captured a castle, locked her in a tower, and never touched her without her permission.
He’d had a vow imposed upon him, to come claim his ancestral lands, his skin pierced by the promise they’d demanded of him.
And he had done it.
Against all odds, against all the world’s desires, he had done this thing.