Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

He felt both respect and admiration in equal and sufficient measure to rattle the cold armor around his heart.

It had been an aberration, an error. A weakness. He would not repeat it. No matter how she surprised him. Aroused him. Impressed him.

Muttering another curse, he looked down. She was still flat on her back, recovering her breath.

At the sound of his curse, she rolled her head toward him, crunching the pine needles under her head, releasing their sharp, spicy fresh scent.

“What is happening?” she asked softly. “What is this all about? What did my father take from you?”

He looked into the trees. “My sword.”

She gave a broken, amazed laugh. “A sword? All this over a sword? Dear God, why did you not simply fight in the mêlée and win a sword? Come, we shall return at once. I will pay your entry fee myself. You can—”

“It is my father’s sword.”

The vehemence of his reply silenced her.

He stared down at his open palms, scratched and calloused from years of wielding weapons. Years of never touching women who wore silk. He closed and opened them, feeling the absence of the sword. The absence of hope.

For if he lost his father’s sword, he could never go home.

It was part of the oath.

“It is Moralltach,” he said to his cut and broken hands. “Sword of Fury. A claíomh mór, over three feet long, with a black pearl in the hilt. It was my father’s sword, and my father’s father’s, back unto Aengus, and it does not belong in the hands of a nGall.”

Her panting stopped abruptly. She opened her eyes, then pushed up on her elbows. “A…what?”

“Foreigner.”

“No.” She shook her head impatiently. “Did you say a black pearl?”

He looked up. “Aye.”

A waterfall of blonde hair fell around her face and shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed with color and she was still faintly panting. The movement lifted and lowered her breasts, which he knew from experience were full and heavy. Strands of hair were pasted across her neck and throat as she swallowed, but her eyes never left his.

Spirit, she was, a ban sidhe, from the top of her tousled head to the bottom of her silk-slippered feet and the bright brown eyes staring into his.

“I know where this thing you seek lies.”

Chapter 16

He held motionless for one second, then burst off the ground, pulling her with him. He lifted them to their feet, but kept an arm around her back, holding her close.

“Where?” he demanded.

“Back at Rose Citadel.”

Back in the castle? Back in the godforsaken castle?

His arm tightened around her spine. “Is this a trick?”

“No.” It was more whisper than word. “I swear it.”

He smiled faintly. Bitterly. He was not in the habit of trusting people or believing in any oaths except the one he’d pledged to his dying father. But he had few options, and this woman may hold the key to his success.

But that did not mean he had to make it easy on her. And he surely did not trust her. She was her father’s daughter, and that meant treachery.

He slid his hand to the back of her head. “Now ’tis my turn to tutor you in having an Irish conversation.”