by Nora Roberts
Waves of pleasure swamped her so it took a moment to realize she now stood naked.
“Not a warrior.” He took the hand she instinctively lifted to cover herself. “But a warrior’s body. One I want. One you’ll give me.”
His free hand glided over her breast, rough palm over tender flesh. “Do you wish fast or slow, mo bandia?”
“I don’t care.” As long as he kept touching her. “I don’t care,” she repeated, and chained her arms around his neck, fused her mouth to his.
She willed his clothes away, heard his laugh when his sword clattered to the floor. “You forgot the boots,” he told her, and took care of them himself as he laid her back on the bed.
“My first magickal undressing.” She ran her hands over his back, over iron muscles. A warrior’s body, she thought. A warrior. A man who wanted her.
Then she thought no more as his hands moved over her.
He found soft skin, firm muscles, lovely curves, fascinating angles. He felt her pulse beat in hammer strikes as he learned her body. So easy, he realized, to discover what pleased her, what excited.
He’d wondered and wondered how she would feel under his hands, how her body would move under his, and now he knew and wanted hours of her, days of her, nights of her.
How avid her mouth in seeking his; how greedy her hands as they roamed him.
He knew her breath would catch an instant before it caught. Her quiet moan sounded in his mind before she loosed it. When his fingers, his lips made her tremble, he lingered there until tremble became shudder.
She gave herself so willingly, without pretense or guile. Showed him, so openly, she wanted him, with hands that grew more demanding, with hips that pressed her center to his until he wanted nothing but to give her all and more.
So long since she’d been touched, and never, never like this. Rough hands destroying her, and still somehow making her feel precious. The scruff of beard on his face scoring over her skin lit impossible little fires inside her.
She’d forgotten any shyness and self-doubts in the glorious, craving thirst for more.
Nothing about him was smooth or pampered or polished. And everything about him excited. When his hand skimmed over her center, the glorious shock whipped through her, ripped through her until her body quaked.
She cried out on the unbearable release, and still he didn’t stop. Helpless, she wrapped her arms around him, held on, held on.
Let go.
“God. God. Keegan. Wait.”
“You’re strong,” he murmured. His voice, thick, breathless, had her opening dazed eyes. “Take more. Take me.”
He slipped inside her, slowly, almost gently at first.
She saw lights whirl around the room, saw them reflected in his eyes.
“Strong,” he said again. “Soft. And, gods, the heat of you.”
He began to move, and she came again, a flash of orgasm that arched her body, had her hand flying up to grip his shoulder.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
“All the gods couldn’t stop me. Ride with me now. Ride with me.”
She rode, a hard gallop now, reckless and desperate and thrilling. The light pulsed, faster, still faster as the bed rocked under the flurry of speed.
They blurred, everything blurred but him as for one brilliant moment his face, so close to hers, came into sharp focus.
And all the lights spun into one, in the room, in her, in him.
As his body collapsed on hers, he buried his face in her hair. She’d gone beyond soft, like wax melted in the sun, and still her heartbeat echoed the thunder of his.
In the room, now quiet, he heard the crackle of the fire, the easy music of the wind, and Breen’s long, long sigh.
“I’m heavy,” he mumbled, with no intention of moving yet. “But you’re strong.”
He felt her hands in his hair, felt her fingers run along his tribal braid. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Then you weren’t paying attention, were you? This is a flaw you should fix.”
She sighed again. “I didn’t think you liked me, especially. Considering how often you kill me, or insult me, or curse me.”
“I don’t like you on the training field because I’m to train you, so I kill, insult, and curse because you need it.” He lifted his head, looked down at her, at the riot of fire curls spread over the pillow. “I like you otherwise.”
“I guess that’s fair, because I don’t like you on the training field either, where you’re a bully. But I like you otherwise.”
She glanced toward the fire, where Bollocks curled on his bed, sleeping.
“Bollocks slept through it.”
“A wise dog, as this was no business of his.”
She smiled, looked back at Keegan. “I’m not used to this.”
“To what?”
“Lying under a world leader, to start with.”
“You lie under a man who wants you. Why should the rest matter?”
“I could also say I’m not used to being naked with someone so . . .built. Fit,” she qualified. “Hard-bodied.”
She amused him, allured him. The combination struck him as unique as she herself. “Did you choose soft, weak men for lovers?”
“Comparatively.” To please herself, she pressed a hand to his chest. Yes indeed, hard-bodied. “This has been a strange and wonderful day. A red-letter day.”
“I’m fond of red, it seems.” He wound a lock of her hair around his finger, unwound it. “So then, can there still be pizza?”
She laughed, then hugged him in such a free and friendly way his heart tipped.
“Absolutely, because I’m starving.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Though he hadn’t intended to, Keegan stayed through the night. When you stayed and slept after mating, you added import and risk, but he stayed.
And in the morning, before the sun broke the night, they mated again. After, there was coffee—something he had only on his rare visits to the other side.
She scrambled eggs, piled them on toast, and he found it more than good enough, breaking their fast outside at the table in the weak sunlight with the dog splashing happily in the bay.
He had no complaints when he went back to his world and his duties, and she remained—for the morning—in hers.
Still, he continued hard on her in training—her life could depend on it after all. And he resisted going to her bed the next two nights, telling himself to keep some distance, and using the need to join the night patrol as a reason.
The third night he cast a circle. He worked a spell he’d devised to see through the portal, through the locks he had helped make. Odran’s scouts and spies continued to push through cracks, and some, he knew, had slipped through.
If he could see through to the black castle, if he could link just enough to read the plots and plans in the black god’s mind, he could better defend Talamh, and all in it.
But though the power of the spell was great, so great it all but burned in his blood, he could see only shifting shadows in the dark, only hear mutters and murmurs, and once the horrible cry of the tortured and damned.
It weighed on him as he unwound the spell, as he closed the circle.
If he couldn’t penetrate the dark, if this remained out of his reach, he’d have to risk more spies of his own.
And not all came back.
He called his dragon, intending to fly out over the water and let the remnants of the spell still echoing inside him quiet.
Instead, he flew through the portal, then high over the trees to the cottage, to Breen.
Enough distance, he thought. He’d burn off the spell and his failure inside her, and sleep.
Only a single light burned in the window, one below her bedchamber, when he landed. He told himself to leave her be, to let her sleep. But he walked through the fluttering pixies and opened the locks and the door with a wave of his hand.
He stepped through, glanced back at Cróga. “Go rest where you wil
l, mo dheartháir. I’ll make my own way back.”
The minute he closed the door, he felt her.
Sleeping yes, but with visions that brought fear and pain.
Tossing light ahead of him, he raced for the stairs and up. He found her shuddering in bed, her eyes wide and glazed. The dog stood on the bed beside her, and whined in distress as he licked her face.
“I’ve got her now, friend. I’ve got her. But bloody hell, she has to go through it. Visions come for reasons.”
He knelt on the bed beside her, smoothed back her hair. “But you’re not alone now, mo bandia.” He reached for her hand so she’d find comfort when she came through it.
And found himself ripped into the vision with her.
The world, his world, the heartbreaking green of hills and fields burnt to black, with the smoke rising so thick it blocked the sun and sky.
Gray, all gray, and the stench of it like death.
Lightning, black as pitch, ripped through the smoke to turn the house of the farm entrusted to him, to his family, to smoldering rubble.
Through the blasts and roars, he heard the screams of the dying, the keening wails of the grieving. Bodies—men, women, children, animals—littered the ground with pools of their blood seeping into the scorched earth.
It ripped his heart, ripped it into pieces that would never, never be mended.
He drew his sword, pulled up his power, a power now so fueled by rage and grief, the steel in his hand pulsed red. He sliced through a demon dog who’d stopped to feast on what had been a young faerie.
Pushing himself through the smoke, he cut down a dozen with blade and fire and rage. And still they came. He fought his way to his sister’s house, where even the flicker of hope died. Nothing remained but a tumble of blackened stone.
He stood, a man of power, a man of duty, and screamed out in fury that would never cool, in grief that would never rest.
Still, he could feel dim flashes of light as others fought with what they had left in them. He called his dragon, but already knew Cróga would never come to him again.
The severed bond, another grief, another fury.
Cróga was gone, as the farm was gone.
Without horse or dragon, he’d never reach the Capital, and his mother, in time to launch a defense. Even if the Capital still existed.
He pushed his way back. If Marg lived, if he could find Breen, they could join power and find a way, there had to be a way, to save what was left.
He nearly stumbled over an old couple, elves, grievously wounded, curled in each other’s arms.
He tried to heal the woman first, but even as he spread his light through her, her eyes dimmed and died. When he turned to the man, the old elf shook his head.
“No. My life mate has gone to the gods. I choose to go with her. They came so fast, and the dark with them. Go, go and fight, Taoiseach. Save us.”
He ran, sword slashing, power sweeping.
And hope flickered again. Though the gardens had withered black, Mairghread’s cottage stood.
“Breen!” He shouted for her as he ran toward the cottage, and she stumbled out of the smoke.
Blood coated her hands, streaked her face.
“No!” She threw power at him, weakly, so weakly. “I saw you fall, I saw you die. It’s just another trick. You, Nan, Morena, everyone’s dead. They killed Bollocks. They killed everything.”
“It’s not a trick. I’m here.”
As he started toward her, Odran dropped down at her back. He wrapped his arms around her, smiled at Keegan.
“You’ve lost, boy. This world is mine now. She is mine now.”
“She will never be. Talamh will never be. Move away from him, Breen.” He couldn’t lash out, not with power, not with sword, or he’d harm her as well.
“I couldn’t stop them.”
Odran spoke close to her ear. “You’re not enough. You’ll never be enough.”
“I wasn’t enough,” she said dully. “I’ve never been enough.”
“Lies.” All of this a lie, Keegan realized. Spun into visions by the dark god. “Go back to your hell. Your illusion’s done.”
“Soon it will be truth.”
“Wake,” Keegan ordered, and though enough of Odran seeped into the vision to singe along his skin, he reached out to grip Breen’s hand. “Come with me, and wake.”
He dragged her back, dragged both of them back.
“Dead, everyone dead.”
When her head lolled, he shook her.
“No, a deception, an illusion. Cast it aside.”
“He struck you down while I watched. Your blood on my hands. I wasn’t strong enough to stop it.”
“Lies. I’m here, aren’t I?” He shook her again. “Look!”
When she did, the shuddering started. “Is this real? Are you real?”
“Aye, this is real, as I am. The rest was lies.”
“They came so fast, so many. The screams, the fires, the smoke. I couldn’t stop it. I wasn’t enough.”
“More lies. You let him see your weakness, and he used it to wind the vision. Mine as well,” he admitted. “As when I joined you there, I believed. Here now, you’ve frightened the dog.”
“Bollocks.” She shifted to wrap her arms around the dog and weep. “He killed him. He just flicked his fingers and set Bollocks on fire. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save anyone.”
“Stop.” Keegan pulled her back. “He wants you weak, afraid, full of doubt. Will you give him what he wants so readily?”
“It felt real, all of it. What if it was a vision of what’s coming?”
He didn’t know, couldn’t know, but gave her what she needed.
“It wasn’t, and when I saw through the lies, his power broke. But you’re bringing it with you now, and you mustn’t. You need a potion. Where do you keep them?”
“No. I need to see.”
She pushed away, ran to the window, flung it open.
“And do you see? The moon, the pixies, the shadow of the hills, how the trees move and whisper in the night?”
She nodded, and when he stepped behind her, turned her, she leaned against him. “He said everyone would die unless I went with him. He said he’d make me a queen, and I could choose the world I wanted to rule.”
“More lies.” He stroked her hair, but thought of the pixies who’d sent no warning.
“He found a way to close it in. I didn’t feel any of his darkness until I came inside. He found a way, so we’ll find a way to counter.”
“I didn’t use a charm or rosemary. I thought if I had a vision, a dream, something, I might learn something.”
Brave of her, he thought. Maybe foolish as well, but brave. “And sure you did, and I did as well. He fears you.”
She’d have laughed at that if she had a laugh left in her. “That’s not what I learned.”
“Then, once more, you don’t pay attention, do you now? He used his powers to try to make you feel weak, then blame yourself for it. He does this because he knows you’re strong, but you have doubts. Your mother did much the same near the whole of your life because she fears you.”
“She—what?”
“Think.” So she’d look at him, see the truth as he believed it, he snapped her back. “She fears what you are, what you have. Her fears of you may come from fears for you—I don’t know what’s in her heart. But she does the same, makes you feel weak, feel less than you are and could be so you forget the power she fears, so it’s buried so deep you can’t find it, use it. He does this to weaken you, to damage your spirit.”
After he let her go, to settle himself, he paced a moment. “If you won’t have a potion, will you have wine?”
She shook her head.
“Well, I will.” He put in his mind where she’d gotten the bottle, the glasses, and because he didn’t want to leave her alone, brought a glass of wine to his hand.
“I could use some water.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. Coddling would
n’t help her. “See it, will it, bring it.”
She sighed, closed her eyes. No point in telling him her head throbbed like a bad tooth. He’d just tell her to fix it.
When she opened her eyes again, she held a glass. An empty one.
“I got it half right.”
She assumed she must have looked as bad as she felt, because he lifted a hand, tipped it down, and filled the glass with water.
“Just water?”
“Only water.”
He paced, drank wine while she sat and sipped water.
“Not through the protection,” he muttered. “Not through the pixies or the charms. Through you.”
He stopped, studied her. “So it was only here, inside, as you were inside. Aye, this is how it’s done. You said he felt you, perhaps saw you when you had the vision of the black castle. And sure, oh, aye, he devised this spell—Yseult—and he’s been waiting for you to open enough to let him in with it.”
“How do I stop it? Do I just use charms to block dreams and visions?”
“You could, but no.” More canniness, more calculation needed here, he thought. “You’ll leave a window open when you sleep, and when you’re alone here altogether. It won’t stop the visions, but there’ll be a warning. As for the rest, denying him the control of them, I’ve some ideas on it. I’ll work on it.”
“We’ll work on it, please.”
“All right then.” He nodded. “You’ve a right on it. But now, you’re weary, so back to bed with you.”
She didn’t argue, not with her head throbbing and her body hollowed out.
When he took off his sword, she wanted to weep again. In relief. “You’re staying.”
“Not for mating. For sleep.” Then he stopped, stared at her. “Are you thinking I’d leave you alone after you’ve had such a time of it?”
Avoiding the simple yes that popped into her head, she climbed into bed. “I’m too tired to think at all.”
“Then sleep.” The minute her head hit the pillow, he put her under. “For quiet rest,” he began, and started to soothe her mind. “Ah, bugger it, why didn’t you tell me you have pain?”
He soothed the headache, then sat to take off his boots. “She’s a puzzle to me, friend,” he said to the dog, who watched and waited. “Women are often puzzles to a man, but she’s more puzzling than most to my way of thinking.”
