Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

It was a single, awful word, and she thought of what he must have seen, to drive him from his home and the enchanted forest he clearly loved so well.

“You will go back,” she said softly. Firmly. She reached for a few sticks of kindling and threw them on the little flames.

“Not without my sword I won’t.”

“Why does that matter?’

He stared into the new fire, his arm hooked over his knee. “I swore an oath to my father, as he lay dying, when men like your father came over and took our lands.”

“What did you swear?”

“To defeat our enemies.” He lifted his gaze. “I am to ruin you.” He shoved to his feet and pointed at the hare spitted over the fire. “Turn it.”

She blinked. “How?”

He stared at her, then lifted his hand and moved it in a turning motion.

“I see.” She pushed her hair back with a regal motion and, bending her hips at an extreme angle, began to turn the spit.

Her face

grew hot but she kept turning, feeling a sense of accomplishment as the meat began to roast. It gave off a rich, oily aroma. Her mouth watered. She went down to her knees and kept turning, eyeing it from various angles to ensure it was cooking properly.

“It is done, lass,” he finally said.

Her eyes felt slightly singed as she turned to him. “Are you certain? I could turn a bit more—”

“You’ve done good.”

A flush of pleasure moved through her. She unbent her knees and straightened, then put a hand to her spine with a soft groan.

“Dear God, what has happened?” she cried.

He grinned. “You were bent over too long. Standing like a witch over her cauldron.”

“I have more respect for witches then.”

She ate heartily, her fingers greasy from the food. Afterward, they washed, then he threw down the blankets and reclined on them.

They both knew what was coming. It was simply a matter of when. She felt cobwebbed by fiery silken threads, sensitive to every move he made. She wondered how long she could tolerate it. How long he could.

He held up a hand. “Come here.”

Not very long then.

She went to him and he drew her down to his lap, facing him. Down to his heat, to the feel of his hands on her waist, to hell and beyond, she went to him exactly as he asked with his mouth and his hands.

He would not be gentle or chivalrous tonight.

Thank God.

She sat astride him as he tipped his head and kissed her neck, his hand spread across her back, and she felt the tug of a ribbon being unlaced.

“Máel?” she whispered.

His head dropped. He muttered one of those Irish curses. Head still hanging, he said, “Will you be wanting to talk about something, Cassia?”

“Yes.” She shifted her knees, settling in more comfortably. He groaned and his head dropped farther.