by Jayne Castel
In response, Talor groaned a curse against her mouth.
Reaching up, he began to unlace her leather vest. The movements were deft and efficient—and then the vest fell away.
Tearing her mouth from his, Mor leaned back, reached down, and caught the hem of the tunic she wore underneath. She pulled it up over her head, leaving the top half of her body naked to his hungry gaze. Glancing down, she saw that her breasts thrust toward him. They felt swollen and ached for his touch, his hot mouth. She had heavy breasts—an annoyance for a warrior woman, for she had to bind them carefully before battle lest they got in the way when she was fighting.
But Talor was not looking at them as if they were anything but beautiful.
His gaze gleamed, his lips parting. Then he leaned forward and captured a hard pink nipple in his mouth, suckling greedily.
The sensation made Mor gasp, and when he continued to suckle her, drawing her nipple deep into his mouth, she let out a soft whimper. The pleasure was exquisite—almost to the edge of pain. And when he gave her other breast the same treatment, Mor let her head fall back, a long, deep moan escaping her.
She was vaguely aware that if she made a noise, the two guards still stationed outside the tent, for her own safety now, might grow suspicious. But suddenly she did not care. All that mattered was that Talor did not stop what he was doing. She wanted to be naked with him here on the furs. She wanted him deep inside her.
“I need you,” she groaned, digging her fingers into his scalp as she urged him on. “Now, Talor … I can’t wait.”
He released her swollen nipple and drew back, his smile full of wicked promise. “Then I need to teach you some patience.”
With that, he reached down and started to unlace her breeches.
With trembling hands, Mor undid his vest, pushing it off him to reveal the hard-muscled torso beneath. Bruises mottled his skin, many of them turning yellow as they faded; yet the healing injuries did not detract from the beauty of his body. The ache between Mor’s thighs started to pulse.
She was not sure she could be patient. Tonight, she wanted to be greedy, to take whatever she wanted.
They wrestled out of the rest of their clothes, kicking their boots off, before Talor shoved Mor back on the furs and climbed over her.
Heart slamming against her ribs, Mor stared up at him and let her gaze travel boldly down the length of his body to where his rod thrust up from a matt of soft, dark hair toward her.
She reached down and stroked its length, feeling it grow harder still, pulsing under her grip.
Talor gasped, grabbed her wrists, and pulled her arms above her head, pinning them back against the furs. “Patience, mo leannan,” he growled. “Keep that up, my lover, and things are going to be over too fast.”
Mor let out a moan of frustration, her body arching up under him.
Releasing Mor’s wrists, Talor started to kiss and lick his way down her body. He captured her swollen breasts once more, suckling them until her breathing came in short, panting gasps—and then he sat back on his heels, parted her thighs, and gazed down at the open heart of her.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
Gazing up at Talor, Mor saw that his high cheekbones were now flushed, his gaze was hooded, and his breathing came fast and shallow. Despite his teasing words, she could see that he was holding his control by a tight leash.
Spreading her legs wider still, he started to stroke her between them. He watched Mor’s face as he did so, hungry for her reaction. He knew how to touch her too, arrowing the pad of his thumb over the most sensitive spot so that within moments Mor was whimpering and gasping under his touch.
“Talor,” she moaned, shuddering as a wave of pleasure crested and washed over her. “Oh Gods … please.”
He gave a soft laugh but did not stop, and when he slid a finger deep inside her, Mor was so highly sensitized that she cried out, arching up against him.
Eyes flickering open, she saw that he still watched her, his face taut with a feral hunger that caused something dark and wild to stir inside her.
“Take me!” she gasped. “Don’t be gentle. Plow me so hard that I scream.”
Her words made his breathing still for a heartbeat. Talor let out a filthy curse and shifted back from between her thighs. Grasping hold of her hips he flipped Mor over, raising her up on all fours.
Excitement caught fire in Mor’s loins. She could feel his hot gaze raking over her naked buttocks. His hand stroked the curve of them, before he nudged her thighs farther apart with his knee.
And then she felt it—the tip of his shaft—hot and hard against her.
Without any warning, Talor slid into her, sheathing himself to the hilt in one deep, claiming thrust.
Mor’s cry filled the tent, aching pleasure slamming into her. Her body trembled and convulsed from the force of it. If his hands had not been grasping her hips, her legs would have given way under her. As he took her, Talor reached forward and grasped her hair. He tangled his fingers in it, drawing her head back so that her body stretched, taut as a drawn bow-string. It was a dominant gesture, and it excited Mor beyond measure.
It was too much. She had told him to plow her hard, but she was not sure if she could take any more pleasure than this.
“Talor,” she gasped, curling her fingertips into the furs. “I don’t know if—”
Another deep thrust choked the words out of her—and another, and another. He took her hard, sliding deeper into her each time. He was doing as she had bid, and Mor gripped the furs now, anchoring herself as pleasure crashed over her, flattening her. Being taken like this was incredible; he touched places inside her she had never known existed.
She cried out—the sound raw—and then there was nothing but her sobbing gasps, Talor’s ragged breathing, and the slap of their flesh meeting with each powerful thrust.
Talor plowed her hard, reducing Mor to a trembling wreck. Tears of pleasure trickled down her face, and she gave herself up to it, let herself fly like a loosed arrow. And when he gave one last deep thrust, his body going rigid against hers, she heard Talor’s loud groan of pleasure, felt the tremors that went through his body—and he collapsed against her, spent.
Chapter Twenty-six
Repaid in Blood
“YOU’VE RUINED ME for other women,” Talor murmured into Mor’s ear. He held her close, spooning against her, their legs entwined. “You do realize that?”
She gave a soft, sensual laugh. “You’re not a stranger to the pleasures of the furs, are you, Talor?”
He huffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly that.” Her voice was soft, sleepy, and laced with amusement. “Something tells me you’ve never been short of female attention.”
“I can’t help it if women throw themselves at me.”
Mor sighed. “The Reaper’s cods, you’re arrogant. Lucky for you, I like cocky men.”
A grin spread across Talor’s face. “And I like warrior women who turn into wolves in the furs,” he murmured in her ear. He felt a shiver pass through her at these words, and his grin widened.
He loved how responsive Mor was. How his touch turned her wild. She had insinuated that he knew his way around a woman’s body—and he did—but a woman like this brought out the best in a man. Mor had given herself entirely to him, had encouraged him with groans, cries, and lusty words. She had no inhibitions. There was something incredibly sensual about a woman who owned her own pleasure, who knew what she wanted from a man and was not afraid to take it.
He had not been lying. How could he ever couple with another woman? Any other would be but a pale shadow in comparison to this fire-haired beauty. Over the years, he had suspected that some of the women he had lain with found him a little ‘too much’. He had a large appetite for sensual pleasure, and one or two of his lovers had been exhausted by it.
Not Mor though—he had the sense that they had only scratched the surface when it came to what was possible between them.
Tonight was special. Tonight, Mor had been given leave to fight alongside her former enemy for a day. But when Dun Ringill fell, everything would change. Since Cathal had not surrendered, the warriors of the united tribes would not treat any survivors of the siege kindly. Talor had seen what could happen after battle. Warriors were capable of anything when their blood was up. There would be rape, torture, and more killing.
What will happen to Mor?
A fierce wave of protection swept over Talor then, causing him to tighten his grip around his lover. The chieftains had given Mor her freedom; after the battle ended she would be able to make a new life for herself here. But Talor knew how deep the hate went for the people of The Serpent. It did not matter what promises had been made, Mor would not be safe after the siege ended.
He already knew that he would not let anyone touch Mor. She was capable of defending herself, but if any of the chieftains decided that she was no longer welcome among them, he would not hesitate to stand at her side.
Talor’s pulse quickened at the thought.
He had never felt like this before. Aye, he was highly protective of his own kin, but this instinct to look after Mor caught him off guard. She had teased him earlier, told him he was honey-tongued when he had complimented her—and yet he had meant every word.
Somehow, she had changed him. She had helped free him of a prison of his own making. She had done something that he would never have—she had gone to the enemy and put her own neck on the line in the pursuit of peace.
Only, it had all gone wrong for her. He was sorry about that. Sorry that she would have to see her own people fall the following day.
Leaning forward, Talor placed a tender kiss on Mor’s neck. She murmured softly, on the verge of falling asleep. He did not want to wake her, and so he enfolded Mor in his arms and buried his face in her neck. She smelled sweet, and the scent of rosemary wafted up, enfolding him.
Usually, after taking a woman so vigorously, fatigue would crash over him, and he would sleep deeply.
Not so tonight. It grew late now, and outdoors the camp slumbered. But sleep eluded Talor. Many warriors had again set a watch around the perimeter, and if Talor had not been here with Mor, he would have joined them. But he would not leave his lover’s side, would not break the enchantment of this moment.
The silence drew out, and Mor’s breathing deepened. Yet Talor remained awake, holding her tight until the first glimmer of dawn filtered into the tent.
Cathal mac Calum emerged from the broch, his gaze traveling east to where the sun was rising.
The snow, which had been their ally over the past days, had stopped now. The clear sky to the east warned him that the enemy would have the advantage now. There was little warmth in the sun, and it would take a while for the snow to thaw. Nevertheless, it tipped the scales even further toward the besiegers.
Cathal heaved in a deep breath before exhaling slowly.
He had barely slept all night, wrestling with the hardest decision of his life. But in the end, he had made up his mind.
The birth last night had awoken him to how much he loved his people. He had lost his wife and children, but he still had many men, women, and children within these walls who would follow him unquestioningly anywhere.
If the siege continued today, all of them would die. He knew it in his bones.
Descending the steps, The Serpent chieftain cast a gaze over the crowd of men and women awaiting him. Tall and proud, they watched him approach, awaiting his instruction. Cathal saw the wariness upon their faces and wondered if Tormud had already spoken to some of them. However, the wariness could also be because all of them knew that today they would fight their last.
They were brave and loyal—but they would not charge toward death without a flicker of hesitation.
This realization made Cathal clench his jaw, resolve filtering over him.
Walking into their midst, he swept his gaze over the surrounding crowd. There were barely a hundred and fifty of them left now. The enemy archers had been skilled; they had taken more of his warriors down from the walls than he had anticipated.
“The time has come,” Cathal spoke, his gruff voice ringing across the frozen yard between the broch and the high wall that protected them from the outside world. “We stand on the edge of a great gulf.”
No one answered him. Instead, they watched their chieftain, a tense silence falling over the crowd.
“You have followed me across the seas,” Cathal continued, raising his voice so that even those at the back could hear every word. He did not want any of them to miss this. He would not say it twice. “You have fought at my side through countless campaigns. There are no warriors braver than those who stand before me. None with bigger hearts.”
Cathal’s throat thickened then. He did not know what was wrong with him.
Maybe it was Mor’s betrayal. Being stripped of everything had left him vulnerable. His family had been his shield; he had not needed anyone’s approval, just as long as his sons and daughter fought at his side.
But all had turned to ashes now.
He stood alone—these warriors before him were all he had left. Of course, he had Artair. But his brother was crippled from his injuries and would wait out the battle from inside the broch. The pair of them had always fought together until now, often side by side, as they hacked their way through a battlefield.
That day would never come again.
“You have stood with me, and I have repaid you in blood,” Cathal said finally, his voice roughening. It was difficult to admit this to his people, and yet he had to say it, he had to be honest with them. “But this morning it all ends. I will go now before the chieftains of the united tribes—I will kneel before them and ask that they spare what is left of my people.”
Cathal’s gaze swept over their faces once more, taking in the shock, the anger, and the grief he saw there. Most wore worried expressions, while one or two looked visibly relieved. “Many of you will not understand this decision,” he continued, “but know that I am doing this for you all. This is the only way to ensure that the people of The Serpent have a chance at survival.”
Cathal shifted his attention to the cluster of warriors who stood before the walls. “Unbar the gates,” he ordered. “I will go out to them … on foot and alone.”
A moment of stunned silence passed and then, after exchanging glances, the warriors moved aside.
The clunk and grate of iron against wood filled the chill morning air. Around Cathal, no one spoke. All the same, he could feel their gazes upon him. Ignoring the crowd now, The Serpent chieftain moved toward the gates. They would only need to open one a few feet for him to be able to slip through. Cathal walked toward the rapidly widening gap. He carried no weapons this morning, and felt naked without his heavy sword at his hip and his shield slung across his back.
But he had to go before the enemy unarmed. He could not kneel before them bearing weapons.
A white world appeared before him through the gap, the dawn light sparkling.
Cathal was only two paces away from the gate when something hit him hard between the shoulder-blades.
He grunted, his breath gusting out of him, and staggered forward. Pain sledge-hammered into him, exploding across his upper back—and then something hit him again. The wet ripping sound of iron against flesh split the morning’s stillness.
Gods … I’ve been stabbed.
Cathal staggered again and went down on his knees. Agony ripped across his chest and then, suddenly, he retched up blood.
His vision darkened as he coughed and choked, before a pair of bulky boots and thick leather clad legs stepped in front of him. A rough hand grabbed hold of his hair and yanked his head up.
Cathal craned his neck, his gaze meeting Tormud mac Alec’s.
> The Boar’s face was twisted in a rictus of hate, while around him the world had gone still. No one rushed to their chieftain’s aid; no one tried to intercept Tormud.
“Did you really think I’d let you surrender?” Tormud snarled, giving Cathal’s head a shake as if he was a dog he was teaching a lesson.
Cathal did not reply. Instead, he hacked up a mouthful of blood. He could not breathe. His ears were starting to ring; Tormud’s voice sounded as if it reached him from the end of a long tunnel.
Rage swept through Cathal, raking its vicious claws across his heart. He was furious at himself for not anticipating this move from Tormud.
Old Murdina had spoken of a traitor, that someone in his inner circle would betray him. He had thought it was Mor, but as Tormud let go of his hair and he fell forward onto the blood-splattered snow, he realized he had been wrong.
The one who would turn on him was the man he had trusted like his own brother over the years. Tormud wanted control of this tribe as much as he wanted control of Dun Ringill—and Cathal had been too blind to see it.
Cold, slushy snow crushed against his face, and Cathal’s eyes fluttered shut as darkness took him.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Twisting the Blade
MOR CLIMBED THE ladder, following Talor, Muin, and other warriors up onto the wall. She had just reached the top when the gates gave way with a screech of rending iron. A great shout went up outside the walls, the cries of men and women echoing into the clear noon sky.
The attack had recommenced shortly after dawn—and although her father’s warriors had done their best to hold back the tide, the inevitable had occurred. They had broken through.
Mor’s pulse hammered in her ears as she joined Talor. Together the pair of them looked back at the gates, at where warriors now surged in to meet those defending the fort.
