The Irish Warrior

He clamped her hips and dragged her to the edge of the bed, sliding her naked body over the furs, stretched out like a gift—a river of damp hair across the furs, her slightly rounded abdomen, long, muscular legs, and the tangle of reddish blond curls between her legs. He dragged a single callused fingertip between her breasts, down her belly, to the curls, raising throaty whimpers.

She flung herself up and impatiently fumbled with the folds of his léine, fingers trembling. He watched, motionless, letting her fumble with the unfamiliar layers, then he loosed the belt and stepped between her thighs. He cupped her cheek and pushed her back to lie flat on the bed, while he stood before her.

“Raise yer knees,” he ordered.

She lifted one, but before she could get it fully bent, he had his palm under it, pulling up. Her chest fluttered in unsteady panting as she tried to reach around to the curve of his buttocks to pull him forward. He bent enough to plant his free hand onto the mattress beside her head. Eyes locked, he entered her in one slow, relentless thrust. Her lips parted in a low keen.

No more questions, no more wondering on the future or the meaning of things. There was only this one perfect moment, where she would mouth his name and let him rule her. He rocked his hips forward in long, relentless thrusts. She met each one with furious abandon, her mouth open, her eyes locked on his, every shadow of her lit for him.

Her surrender came on every level, and a wave of respect corded with guilt rose inside him. She had given herself over completely to this thing with him. It felt as if he were being drowned in her; there was no breath that was not Senna-filled. She was his, to do with as he would.

He plunged again, feeling her hot, throbbing passage constrict around him. “’Tis good,” he muttered against her swollen lips. His.

He straightened and reached for her other knee, holding it as he did the first. Standing between her thighs, her knees dangling from his upturned palms, he threw back his head and closed his eyes, centering on the feeling of being deep inside her, of loving her without words. His penetrations became rocking, furious, powerful thrusts, and she stopped even trying to meet him at the crest. She took each one with a deep-throated moan of pleasure, eyes pressed shut, neck arched, arms stretched on the bed above her head, twisting through the furs.

The muscles of his neck and arms strained, each sinewy fiber outlined and bulging as he pounded fiercely into her wet heat, hips against hips, a groan for each mewling cry, as he drove her riotously into a savage, unbridled climax.

It came quickly. She staggered over the edge and fell headlong into her shuddering orgasm, crying his name. Finian roared as he found his own cliff and tipped over it, into her, kissing her, losing himself in this brave, unexpected woman.

There was nothing he was more afraid of. Weakness followed directly from this sort of thing.

They disentangled their sweaty bodies far enough for him to fall on the mattress beside her. She smiled tiredly, but the look in her eyes closed his. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the smoke-blackened beams bisecting the ceiling.

Senna wielded some warped, shining notion about him as a man, what he was capable of, and she believed in it the way others believed in God or the power of rain. That would never do. He was built to lead his people, then self-destruct.

There was still time to make her understand there was nothing else inside him, nothing at all.

He pushed away the furs and propped himself on an elbow, then ran the back of his knuckles down her cheek in one gentle stroke.

“Ye oughn’t to ever have let me touch ye, Senna,” he said quietly. “I’ll ruin ye.”

She rolled toward his soft, warning words. “No.”

“There’s naught to be done, lass,” he said and, pressing a kiss to her forehead, rolled off the bed and threw on his léine.

“Finian—!”

“No more, Senna. I haven’t any more.” She’d begun to rise, but stilled at his words. Her face looked shocked. Not even to sadness yet. He turned away. “Stay here in the room.”

He turned, grabbed his weapons, and swung out of the room.

Loud shouts erupted in the bailey. Finian paused, then clattered down the stairs and flung open the door just as a page appeared at the bottom of the tower, looking up, hands cupping his mouth, his face flushed red with exertion.

“A runner,” he shouted. “A runner has come! The king wants his council. Now!”

The cry was echoed through every corner of the bailey. Boots thumped and buckles clanged as men everywhere swung away from whatever task they were engaged in and made for the keep. Finian stood frozen for half a second, then swung inside and launched himself up the stairs, four at a time. He flung the chamber door open.

Senna, half-draped in furs at the window, spun, her eyes wide, her face washed white.

“Do as I said, lass,” he ordered swiftly. “Stay in the room, lock the door. And keep yer blade to hand.”

Then he was gone, striding out of the chamber without looking back. Something cold folded over Senna’s collarbone and shoulders like a frozen cape.

Two things warred for her attention. The realization that Finian might have just admitted he would fail her. And the certainty that he was afraid. For her.

Balffe drew rein. The line of soldiers beside him halted in unison. It had been hours since the sun had set, but Balffe had pressed on despite the darkness and cold. A hunter in these regions for nigh on thirty years, Balffe knew the Irish well. Knew O’Melaghlin well.

Of course O’Melaghlin would come here, dragging the de Valery whore behind. Straight to The O’Fáil, the man who’d first dragged O’Melaghlin out of the muck years ago, when his whore of a mother killed herself.