The Irish Warrior Part 23

"Oh," she exhaled hotly, all over him.

"Off," he growled, tugging on her leggings.

She was already pulling on the ties, and he was fumbling, too, propped up on an elbow, and then they were free. He slid them down to her knees, so her bottom was exposed, pus.h.i.+ng up to the sky as she bent back to him.

She slid her mouth down the center of his belly then, fast and wet, kissing and nipping and licking, until he was so hard he thought he'd explode. He slid his hand across her belly and up between her thighs. She was wet. Slippery, hot. He pushed one finger high, searching for the crest of her.

She threw her head back, gasping. Hot, wet, damaging, good, this angel was everything he'd never hoped for. He folded his finger and slid it forward, over the slippery folds, pus.h.i.+ng until he felt the circular bud. Another shocked, gasping whimper shot out of her. He fluttered his finger again, and she dropped her face into his chest, moaning. Hard, hot, churning l.u.s.t pounded through him. He could barely see straight. He wanted this woman like no other, ever, not even in erotic dreams.

He tipped his wrist and pushed hard with the heel of his palm, pressing against her pulsing wet heat. She threw her head back and exhaled in hot, gasping moans, rocking back and forth on his hand.

She started trying to untie his leggings. Cursing, he did it for her, his one slippery hand still working on her, her rocking becoming more frenzied, her head dropping lower, until she was on her elbows, her face inches from his erection. Together, one hand each, they pushed open the ties of his leggings, just exposing him. Her shadowed face, curtained by windswept hair, turned to him as he was furiously grappling to slide his wet hand back up between her thighs. He was practically light-headed. More heat, more s.e.x, more Senna.

"I don't know quite what to do," she whispered, her voice a mingling of panting arousal and blus.h.i.+ng embarra.s.sment.

In a heartbeat, he was on his knees, flipping her onto her back. He rested his forearms beside her hips, his face between her thighs.

"Like this, love," he rasped, and bent his face to everything hot and wet between her legs. He flicked his tongue once, snapping it lightly against her. Her hips instinctively rocked up into him.

"Oh, please," she cried, tossing her head.

A slow, charging, explosive descent into the pits of pa.s.sion. Finian could barely hear her, he was so violently aroused. He sent his tongue in another long sweep up. Wet, hot honey.

"Spread yer legs. Farther," he demanded hoa.r.s.ely.

She whimpered and did, until her heels were planted in the earth and she had her fingers entwined in his hair, restlessly tugging. He took two fingers and slowly spread her slippery wet folds wide, exposing the hard, slick nub to the cool moonlit night. With his thumb he brushed it, then followed with his tongue, fast and hard.

She gasped and froze, her fingers locked in his hair, her hips pushed up. At once he changed his pace, to slow and languorous, taking long, slow sweeps of her. His head was starting to spin, she tasted so good. So ready, so wet. His thumbs spread her flesh apart and he sunk his tongue deep inside her. One thumb circled her swirled nub lightly, then pressed in hard.

"Oh, no," she breathed, long-pitched and smoky.

"Oh, aye," he whispered, and rose to his knees.

She grabbed for him but he caught up her wrists and trapped them on the ground over her head.

Kneeling, his leggings unlaced but still around his waist, he straddled one of her restlessly bobbing legs. He pushed his hand hard up between her legs and without pausing, slid two fingers inside her.

Crying out, she arched her shoulders into the air, her pelvis down low, so Finian had to reach down to keep his fingers inside her, to keep prodding her, which drove him mad, to be so stretched out over her body, one hand trapping her wrists high above her head, the other plunged deep inside her. Her knee came up between his legs in a restless motion, and he rocked his hips, sliding his erection along her thigh. She pushed back, hips up, a rippling, undulating curve of flesh in the moonlight, heedless and reckless, whimpering and tossing her head, making her hair spill out all around her head so it looked like she was floating underwater.

He drove her hard, his fingers confident and sure, his thumb hot amid her folds. She pushed against him, feminine curves thrumming with the pounding s.e.xual rhythm he was playing on her body.

"Do ye like this, Senna?" he whispered roughly.

"Oh," she exhaled, pus.h.i.+ng up on her elbows, trying to kiss him.

"Do ye like what I'm doing to ye?"

"Aye, aye. I want more."

He bent to her ear. "What more, Senna?"

"You," she panted, lifting her hips in a wild, bucking motion. "I want you. Inside me."

His head was spinning. "No," he rasped, shaking his head. "I'll not take yer maidenhood."

She gave a shaky explosion of laughter. "Oh, Finian. I'm not a virgin."

He lay low over her body and rasped in her ear, "What?"

"I'm not an innocent. And I cannot have children. Finian, please."

That was all he needed. Another time for the mind. Now was all about the need.

"I'll devour ye, angel," he growled in a ragged whisper, bending his mouth to her skin. "Ye'll never know what's run through ye."

Senna's blood throbbed, molten iron churning through her veins. He covered her with his body in one simple movement. The curling hair of his thigh scratched against her inner thighs. She could feel his bunched muscles nudging her apart for him. Invading her. She lifted one leg and hooked it around his hip.

"Now," she panted, her hands sliding over his back, gentle against the scars but still feeling every vertebra, every curve of muscle sliding beneath his warm skin. She slid farther under him, the ground solid and cool beneath, Finian demanding above, solid and hot.

Dark hair fell around the planes of his face, fixed in determination as he reached down to position himself. She felt the edge of his hand, hard and hot, brus.h.i.+ng against her wetness as he grasped his erection and slid it to her. The rounded wide tip of him pushed in. She closed her eyes, her hands clasped at the back of his neck, an ankle at the small of his back.

Holding himself on one knee, Finian thrust himself into her waiting heat, feeling her hot pa.s.sage constrict around him, yielding, slippery, tight. He sank in a little deeper, his gaze locked on their union, watching himself disappear inside her. He wrenched his eyes away, determined to hold himself in check, and looked up. Senna's eyes were open, watching him.

"Ye're a'right, la.s.s?"

"'Tis good," she said, half laugh, half cry, her words shaky.

Using every fragment of self-control he'd ever possessed, he stopped his long, slow penetration. With soft whispers, he kissed her nose, her chin, each flushed cheek and her forehead, until she was soft and sighing again.

"Did Rardove...?"

"Nay," she whispered. "He never even tried. I think I scared him."

"Ye terrify me," he murmured and moved inside her again, holding back, filling her in long, slow strokes so she could grow used to the feel of him. It was exquisite torture. Wet and tight, her flesh was hot, swelling, sweet womanly depths. The muscles of his back and legs were taut with restraint. Her small heel pressed into the flesh beside his spine, almost hurting, and he wouldn't have asked her to move it if it meant an extra dozen years of life.

He pushed his hips forward again. She sighed, a breathy, wanton thing. The small, aching whimper pounded l.u.s.t through his blood. He growled and s.h.i.+fted his hips, nudging in farther.

"Oh, that feels good." Her voice came up like a sigh, and she lifted her hips, widening his entryway.

She was a hot, swelling cradle of tight perfection and he could do nothing but throw his head back and roar as he plunged into her again and again. The earth started to spin beneath his knees and palms, his breath coming in short, raspy breaths.

Senna lifted her hips in howling, bucking thrusts, and Finian's penetration grew more firm and long, each time filling her more fully, sheathing himself deeper in her hot, shuddering wetness. He dropped his head onto her neck, his palms splayed on the earth beside her, his hair swaying beside his face as his hips moved in an ancient, throbbing rhythm.

Each perfect move he made sent a fresh wave of pleasure shuddering through Senna. Her skin was humming, her blood roiling. Her hands were greedy in their touches, wanting to be everywhere, wrapped around his shoulders, sliding down the muscles of his back, brus.h.i.+ng aside his hair so she could watch as pa.s.sion closed his eyes and made him throw back his head.

His hand suddenly swept down to the small of her back and fitted her rocking hips tightly against his. Bolts of thudding, intense pleasure skidded across her belly and somehow her legs were wrapped around his hips and no part of her touched the ground. It was all masterful touches and the hot, sweaty, sculpted body of Finian.

With a m.u.f.fled curse, he clamped his arm around her waist and hoisted her up, swinging them over so she sat astride him, his torso supported on a sharp rise of gra.s.sy earth. He looped cords of her hair around his palm and pulled her face down to his.

"Spread yer legs," he said in her ear, his free hand spread possessively across her back. She did as he bid and he sank in farther, pus.h.i.+ng hard. "I've only got so much more," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"Getting tired?" she asked, her voice just as ragged as his, but laced with laughter.

"No. Getting close to coming inside ye. Ye'll like it."

She dropped her head back, rocking her hips in rhythm on top of him. When he spoke so, she felt like her body could do all the things he promised from the pleasure of his words alone.

Plunge, thrust, retreat, plunge. Her head spun and her body sang. Senna gripped his shoulders and leaned into him, her chin by his forehead, her knees digging into the earth. Their pa.s.sion hammered to a violent crescendo.

Her eyes flew open. "Oh," she whispered, startled. Another thrust of Finian's hips, another perfect, thick penetration. She threw her head back and moved her body in unbridled lunges, her lower lip locked between her teeth.

"Don't stop," she whispered. A wickedly carnal undulation of pleasure vibrated through her pulsing body. Up along her back, down her legs, along her neck rippled the Finian magic. Another...quite something...stretching...quiver. Her body lurched to a halt, yanked to the edge. Her face contorted.

He grinned crookedly.

"What is it?" came her wild whisper.

"Let it be," he coaxed, holding her hips into the rocking rhythm.

"Oh, please, oh please, don't stop."

"Never. I will never stop," came his ragged reply.

She tipped toward some inevitable precipice. Hesitating at the edge, he surged into her again and touched some mad, spiraling pleasure point deep inside her. A wave of shuddering wetness crashed through her body, flaming white heat and long, undulating quivers. She leapt off the cliff and flew, throbbing and shuddering and now now alive. alive.

Finian felt her release ripple along him and his hands flexed around her hips as he plunged into her one last time, exploding into his own quaking, rocking fulfillment. He held her shuddering in his arms-copper hair, parted lips, and burning spirit-and felt his heart s.h.i.+ft.

The moment lasted forever. She mewed his name in helpless repet.i.tion, each whimpering cry accented by a shudder of warm flesh along his quivering length. He held himself deep inside her, spent, satisfied, and shocked.

Chapter 30.

"Shocked?"

Pentony, seated at the table, nodded.

Rardove groaned. His eyes were red rimmed, and the small beard he usually kept so carefully trimmed was rough edged and uneven. "That's what he says?" he asked Pentony, who was reading from the scrolled missive which had just arrived, pressed with red wax in the image of a sword-wielding, helmed horseman that marked King Edward's seal. "Shocked?" "Shocked?"

"And displeased," Pentony added.

"Displeased."

Pentony nodded without looking over again. No need to witness the deterioration with every sense. Hearing it was quite enough for now.

Rardove cursed and reached for the jug of wine and poured. Just what was required: more drink.

All the nights since Senna left had been filled with sleeplessness, fury, and flagons of wine, evidenced by the roars that exploded from Rardove's bedchamber and sent maidservants scurrying. This morning had not brought much different, except that his rage seemed muted by a monstrous hangover. Even now, by candlelight, his eyeb.a.l.l.s were obviously swollen and red rimmed, his nose mottled with little red spots, his cheeks ruddy red. He was a study in crimson.

Mayhap he would kill himself with drink. Today.

Pentony turned back to the royal missive in his hands. "The king is on the Welsh border, waiting for a good wind. When he gets it, he'll sail for Ireland and march here. He's sending Wogan the justiciar, governor of Ireland, on ahead to speak with you. When the weather cooperates, he will come himself."

Rardove swept up a mug of wine and drank the dregs, then simply dropped the cup. It clattered to the ground. "Good," he snapped. "The royal hound will learn how difficult it truly is, guarding his marches against the accursed Irish."

"He will also learn you made the Wishme dyes without telling him."

Rardove scowled, but it was bravado, and Pentony knew it. Rardove had cause to fear. The king of England, Edward Longshanks, Hammer of the Scots, had an uncanny way of finding out who was inciting rebellion in his lands. It was the reason there was was so little rebellion in his lands. Aside from the spy Red, that is, who must be mad to court the fury of this royal will. Edward was a terrifying enemy. Acquisitive, determined, brutal. so little rebellion in his lands. Aside from the spy Red, that is, who must be mad to court the fury of this royal will. Edward was a terrifying enemy. Acquisitive, determined, brutal.

And he seemed to have found out that Rardove was trying to make the legendary dyes behind his back.

No, shocked and disappointed were probably pale versions of what Edward Longshanks was feeling. Enraged. Murderous. These were more the thing.

Especially when he learned Rardove knew the legend of the dyes to be legend no longer, but fact. Rardove had samples to prove it, made by the only dye witch who'd been able to produce the coveted dyes in the last five hundred years: Elisabeth de Valery.

Senna, her daughter, was Rardove's last chance to make them again.

A long shot, by all accounts, Senna was like a single arrow winged over the ramparts from a hundred yards away, but there you had it. She was whelped from a long, ancient line of dyers, and while she claimed she had not been trained, that might not matter: legend said it was a talent carried in the blood.

The mother had it, for certes. She'd rediscovered the ancient recipe, written it all down, then run away.

That, at least, ran in the blood, Pentony thought. Mother and daughter, both had the wits to flee as soon as they were able. Unlike Senna, though, Elisabeth had taken the secret of the dyes with her.

Also unlike the daughter, Elisabeth had been married, to a wool merchant. Gerald de Valery, a man she apparently loved to great depths-deeper than Rardove. Love triangles were never good things.

But then, Pentony suspected Elisabeth had never been triangulated whatsoever. All her love had been for de Valery. Why she'd come for the dyes still baffled him.

But come she had. After she was wed, after there were children whelped and homes to keep, Elisabeth left Gerald de Valery and came to Rardove. To the Indigo Beaches. The promise of crafting the legendary dyes apparently proved a greater temptation than heart and home.

Temptation, pa.s.sion, craving. Fatal weaknesses for the family. The mother: dye making. The father: gambling. Senna appeared to be the strongest branch on that family tree.

A shadow suddenly appeared at the door. The baron didn't look up. The soldier peered nervously between Pentony and Rardove. Pentony waved him in.

Armored from heel to neck in plate and mail, he glittered dully in the flickering candlelight. He strode to the front of the table where Rardove slouched, his gaze riveted to some invisible spot on the far wall.

"My lord, we found a man who may be Red."

Rardove's spine unbent as he sat up, looking at the soldier, then behind him. No six-foot Irishman lurked in the shadows. His gaze came back to the fore. "Where is he?"

The soldier stared intently at the wall directly above Rardove's head. "At the abbey."

"What? What is he doing there, and not here?"

"She...kicked us out."