The Irish Warrior

“I came only to make sure ye were settled,” he replied gruffly. “Stay here in the room. Ye’ll hear people going into the hall. There’s a feast tonight, but I’d rather ye stay here.”

“A feast—?”

“Lassar will see ye’ve got a pretty skirt or two, and clean things, and she’ll look out for ye. We leave in the morning.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not ye.” Finian yanked on the other boot and rose. Swiftly he tugged on the dark red léine and belted it.

“Pardon?” she asked.

“We’re going to war.” He knew his speech was clipped and brusque, and it was the only way.

“Oh, no,” he heard her whisper behind him.

“I leave first thing in the morn.” He grated the words out, glanced at her briefly, then turned for the door. “I may not—. I will not see ye before I go.”

“Oh.”

That brought him swinging back around, shocked at the fury she’d conjured with such a simple word and all its complicated implications. “I am doing my duty, Senna.” He had to smash the words out through his clenched jaw. “My duty. There is nothing else, do ye not see that? Have I not made that clear?”

She lifted her chin. “To the contrary, you’ve made several things abundantly clear. One, you are capable of great stupidity. Two—”

His jaw dropped.

“You have obviously been spoiled terribly,

to have the arrogance to don clean clothes over that dirty body. Thirdly, you demonstrate a streak of stubbornness I had not—”

He started for the door. “Stay here.”

He made it to the threshold before he felt her light touch on his arm. “Do not leave me in this manner.”

It could have been a plea. But it wasn’t. It was clear and fierce and bright and exactly what he wanted from her, and it made him turn, when what he ought to do was smash through the door and never stop going.

He had no choice. Clear and fierce and bright would get her killed. She would be noticed. Already the murmuring was beginning, that she’d started a war. Things could go badly. Quickly. So he met her gaze dead-on, cold and challenging, ignoring the urge to lose himself in her feminine strength.

“Listen to me, Senna,” he said coldly. “Stay in the room. If it pleases ye more, I will try to see ye before I leave.”

He pulled open the door but she appeared in front of him, blocking his path. He could plow her over, of course, but she was small and—God save him, was that a blade in her hand?

“Jesus, woman,” he snarled, but he snarled it while frozen. The blade tip hovered just beneath his chin.

“Try to see me?” she echoed his words, rather coldly, he admitted. There was a glint in her eye that harkened to violence. Fortunately, much as she might throw a blade with skill, she was inexperienced with combat and far too furious to be effective. Or focused.

He snapped his hand up and clamped his fingers around her wrist, then yanked down. He gave a fierce shake and the knife broke loose, clattering to the floor. Still holding her wrist, he propelled her backward. When she hit the wall, he bent to her face.

“Do not ever raise a weapon to me.”

“Do not ever abandon me.” She was breathing fast, her face flushed, but her words came out slow and precise.

The wrist trapped in his grip was delicate—he could snap it with a twist—but she was staring at him with ferocity, and she seemed, as she always seemed to him, magnificent as the sun.

With a muted curse, he dropped her wrist and threaded his fingers violently through her long, damp tresses. His hands caught on knots, but he simply fisted them into handfuls and dragged them up, beside her jaw. He did not want to talk to her, answer her questions, feel anything at all. Senna’s every fiber quivered for connection, and he did not want it. He was going to war. All he could manage of Senna de Valery right now was her body.

But that—that he suddenly needed with a desperation he’d never known before.

Before she could utter another maddening word, he plowed her mouth open beneath a kiss and backed her up to the low bedstead. She sat down hard on the mattress. Standing before her, he pushed her legs apart with a knee and stood between them, shoving aside the robe covering her damp body. She already had one hand on his head, pulling him down to her. He bent his hips, but remained standing. She scraped her other hand up his chest, her tongue hot in his mouth as soon as he was close enough. They were like mad things, touching each other, each feel of skin wanted and insufficient, left behind as they reached for the next.