Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“What?”

He was so close she smelled the lingering scents of smoke, leather, and the earth all mingling together and causing her pulse to pound. “The wanting.”

“Wanting?” she repeated, feeling silly.

“The wanting between a man and woman.” His breath

fanned her face and she felt his heat through his fingers—hot, hungry, pounding.

Her skin prickled in anticipation, though she could not give in to the wanton thoughts that heated her blood. True, she’d thought fleetingly of seducing him, of finding a way, any way, to have her marriage annulled, but she couldn’t so callously cast away her virtue to this … this criminal. “I want you not,” she lied, trying to deny that which had caused her so much pain. “I’m married—”

“Aye, to mine enemy.” His eyes were a dark blue, the color of the sea at midnight, and his face, handsome though it had once been, showed the ravages of battle, a scar that cleaved one eyebrow, a nick on his ear that was visible when the wind tossed the hair from his face. The Wolf, they called him, and so like that frightening beast he was.

“I—I cannot.”

“But you will,” he said, as if the knowledge had been with him since her capture, as if he’d planned to bed her before she could even lie with her husband. She swallowed hard and his gaze drifted to the circle of bones at the base of her throat. “You’re a sweet liar, Megan of Dwyrain, but your eyes give you away.” One callused hand reached forward, twining in the thick strands of her hair to brush her nape. “You need the wind in your hair, the song of the falcon in your ears, the power of a steed beneath you.” His hand slid lower to surround her throat in a grip that was as powerful as it was gentle. “You need a man who can tame your wild spirit, a man whose black heart is a match for your own.”

“Nay,” she whispered, but her lips trembled and her skin, where he touched her throat, throbbed. “Please,” she said, then cleared her throat. “Unhand me.”

“Oh, I will, little one, but not before you admit it. Say the words.”

“I cannot.”

“You want me.”

“Nay,” she cried again as he drew her near. His lips were close enough to hers that she could fairly taste him.

His smile was that of a devil. “Then prove me a liar,” he ordered before drawing her body to his and claiming her mouth with a hard, savage kiss that seared through her blood and pierced her very soul.

She wilted against him, her body having a will all its own. His hands splayed over her back and beneath her clothes, her skin tingled, ready and anxious. She didn’t cry out when he pushed her against the trunk of a tree and fit his body intimately to hers. She felt his heat, his need, the soft throb of desire that ran from his veins to hers.

His tongue tickled the seam of her mouth and she opened to him, thrilling as he groaned and rubbed against her. Wild, hot, and decidedly sinful thoughts ran through her mind as his fingers slid lower to cup her buttocks and hook around her leg, jerking forward so that her thigh surrounded his.

“Megan,” he growled as he lifted his head and let out a long, quivering breath. “God in heaven, you are a temptress.” His eyes glazed as he dropped her leg and gasped for breath. She nearly stumbled, but he caught her. “Come, this is madness!”

“I cannot, will not—”

“I’ll not hurt you, little one, if that’s what you fear.”

“But—”

“Trust me,” he whispered, and she wanted to—oh, how she wanted to believe. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself staying here with this man, envisioned what life would be without the comforts of the castle, the warmth of her family. He kissed her again, so soundly she could barely breathe.

When he lifted his head, he stared at her long and hard. “Mother of Moses,” he whispered.

She expected him to take her in his arms again, but he stepped away, holding only her hand. Disappointment welled in her heart, and her legs were as strong as Cook’s pudding when she tried to walk. He half dragged her back to the chapel and she couldn’t stop her heart from racing at the thought of the night alone with him, the night stretching ahead. Not that she could kiss him again, not that she would let him touch her, not that she would … At the bend of her thoughts, she bit her lip and followed him through the door, across the cold stones, and then gasped as he pulled her down on the pallet with him.

“I’ll not sleep with you—”

“You have no choice.”

“Nay. I’m married—”

“An excuse, m’lady.”

“Wolf, I cannot—” But her protests were silenced by a kiss that burned through her body.

When he lifted his head, she felt him shudder. “Sweet Jesus,” he said, as much a prayer as a blasphemy. “Now, Megan, do not move. Just lie in one spot. I will lie here with you and I will hold you close so that you do not escape, but I will not touch you in a way you do not wish, and we will sleep. Within days I will send a messenger with a ransom demand and soon you will be home to face your father or your husband.”