The Storming

by Glynnis Campbell

  But it was the palm pressed with sudden and alarming candor upon his loins that roused him from his stupor. Demons might lay claim to his mail, but…

  “What the devil do ye—” he slurred.

  “M’lord!”

  Much to his amazement, it was Hilaire. With a startled gasp, she removed her hand.

  “I…I cannot see in the darkness,” she explained, “and I…”

  She clearly hadn’t meant to touch him there. But Giric couldn’t help but wish she would again. Already that neglected part of him roused to her brief caress.

  “Are ye unharmed?” she asked.

  “So ’twould seem.” He groaned at his bruised ribs, sitting up dizzily. “What happened? Are ye hurt?” It rankled at him, knowing he’d lain helpless while she ministered to him, unable to come to her defense.

  “I’m fine. There was another collapse. Ye were knocked breathless by a great boulder, and I used my harp to pry…” She sighed shakily. “It doesn’t matter. Ye’re safe now, and ye seem whole. Ye’ve a nasty gash on your forehead, but as for the rest, your armor must have done its duty, for I felt no broken bones.”

  He wondered just how thoroughly she’d examined him.

  “I’m grateful for your tender care, lass,” he murmured, though it was more desire than gratitude his body expressed to him now.

  He slicked his fingers briefly across his brow. Indeed, it was swollen and wet with blood, but the cut was insignificant. He’d be left with a scratch and a mottled bruise on the morrow.

  The morrow…

  Would there be another morrow for them? Was it possible the second rockslide had brought them closer to escape? Or did God mock them by doubly sealing their fate?

  He had to find out.

  He discovered at once, cracking the back of his head as he stood up, that the ground above the place he’d been digging had collapsed, narrowing the space between floor and ceiling considerably. He had to sidle halfway around the cavern before he could stand upright. Considering the wealth of debris and the fact he’d been standing directly under the slide, he was lucky indeed to be alive. He ran blistered fingers over the rubble and pricked his thumb on a long sliver of wood.

  Her harp. Or what was left of it. The thing lay in splinters, smashed beneath a great boulder.

  He frowned. What was it she’d said? A rock had knocked him senseless, and she’d used her harp to pry…

  Dear God—she’d levered this enormous rock off of him. He shuddered as he realized by the size of the boulder how close he’d come to getting his skull crushed. But, however she’d managed it, Hilaire had sacrificed her precious possession to save him.

  A new longing swelled in him, a desire he had little hope of realizing, a desire to cherish her.

  Which made it all the much harder to admit the truth. The fresh slide had blocked what had once been their most likely avenue of escape.

  Chapter 7

  Hilaire would be strong. For Sir Claw’s—Giric’s—sake, she had to be. He’d done everything in his power to save them. She wasn’t about to demean his efforts with childish whimpering. But he’d circled the chamber four times now, and she knew he only delayed giving her the inevitable bad news.

  “I’ve heard,” she said, swallowing hard, forcing her voice to remain steady, “’tis not an unpleasant way to die.” The last word cracked, and she bit her lip to halt its trembling.

  “What’s this?” he said, and she could hear his forced levity. “Have ye given up on me so soon?”

  She groped forward and contacted his upper arm. It was a good arm, a strong arm, warm now without its steel plate. It was an arm a wife could have depended upon.

  “Kind sir, I am past false hope,” she said, summoning up all the dignity and grace her station had taught her. “And I pray ye won’t think me too selfish. But I’d rather have ye here when I draw my last breath than dead from exhaustion hours before.”

  “My lady, I…”

  “Ye’ve worn your fingers ragged.”

  “I would gladly wear them to the bone for ye,” he answered, startling her with his fierce promise.

  Nonetheless, she squeezed his arm. “Nay. Stay with me. Please.” She hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt. “I cannot bear the thought o’ dyin’ alone.”

  He said nothing, but when he cleared his throat a moment later, she could tell he’d taken her words to heart.

  “In truth,” he murmured at last, “’tis said to be no more fearsome than driftin’ off to sleep.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. Though she’d known the truth, hearing it from his lips gave it brutal substance.

  “And one as young and sweet as ye,” he added, “shall doubtless be conveyed to heaven ere your flesh feels the chill o’ death.”

  “And ye’ll come with me, won’t ye?” She clasped his arm tightly now, afraid to let go.

  “Me?” His chuckle was melancholy. “I fear not, m’lady. A man such as I was not made to dwell amongst angels.”

  “Nay, say not so!” she cried, stepping close to him. “Ye’re a good man.” She clenched her fist upon his linen shirt, over his heart. “Ye gave me comfort in the dark. Ye told me about the sea and…and bandaged my hand. Ye bloodied your fingers diggin’ at the wall for me. And not once did ye lift your voice in scorn, though ye knew I fled my betrothed. God’s truth, ye’ve been as virtuous as…as a saint!”

  He laughed in sincere amusement this time, which only fueled her righteous rage.

  “Sirrah, I will drag ye through the gates o’ heaven if I have to,” she insisted, “else I will join ye in hell.”

  He clasped her wrists lightly in his battered hands, and she could feel the bittersweet warmth of his smile.

  “I believe ye would,” he said.

  He ran his thumb along the palm of her good hand, and she marveled at the way such a well-muscled fighter could gentle his warrior touch. Perhaps it was as her maid said, that a woman brought out the mildness in a man.

  But she would never know. For she would never marry.

  And that realization, more than any other, planted the seed of cruel yearning in her throat and opened the floodgates of her tears, tears she shamefully spilled all over the linen of his shirt.

  Giric melted at the sound of her weeping. Taking Hilaire in his arms was as natural as gathering his cloak about him on a winter’s eve. She fit into his embrace as if she were molded for it. Her head tucked perfectly into the hollow of his shoulder, and he could smell the womanly scent of her upon the soft cloud of hair beneath his chin. She felt so tiny, so fragile within his brawny arms that he feared to crush her, and yet she cleaved to him with amazing strength. Her body hitched as she tried to cease her sobbing, but when he brushed the back of his finger across the delicate line of her jaw, it came away wet.

  She thought him a hero. The idea was dizzying. He’d done nothing to help her. On the contrary, by his very name, he’d sentenced her to this fate. And yet she looked to him for comfort.

  Would God he could save her! But what meager hopes they’d had of escaping were dashed now by the second avalanche. More digging would only increase the risk of a deadly slide. Running out of air was a merciful passing, but to be crushed under a deluge of rock… Nay, the best he could do was to try to make her last moments as painless as possible.

  He slowly traced her backbone with his palm. She was slender, this betrothed of his, with the subtle curves of a young woman. It was a travesty she’d never see the other side of twenty.

  He gathered her hair in his other hand, brushing it back from her damp cheek. It was soft as rose petals, thick and possessed of a sleek curl that was wont to curve about his hand. How odd, he thought—he’d no notion of its color.

  “I’m sorry. I’m tryin’ to be brave.” She said it so quietly, he thought he imagined the words. “’Tis only that there were so…so many things I’d yet to do…and now…”

  She stifled her sobs as best she could.

  He cradled the back
of her head and tried to remember what it was like to be so young, like an arrow nocked for the firing, to have a lifetime of adventure stretching out its hand and the bright blue promise of the open sky above.

  Lord Giric mac Leod had had his adventure. The Dire Dragan had fought for his King, traveled abroad, won a castle, wed not once, but thrice, served his fellow man as best he could. If he lacked that one elusive hallmark of achievement, an heir to carry on his title, still it couldn’t be said he would die before he’d tasted life.

  But Hilaire…

  He enfolded his arms more tightly about her, enveloping her in all the solace he could extend. She didn’t deserve to die. Curse fate—she didn’t deserve this.

  Hilaire rested her head against Giric’s chest. His arms felt wonderful around her. Which made her all the more miserable.

  Without chainmail, his embrace this time was far more intimate. She felt the flex of his muscles as he tightened his hold and the warmth of his skin where her forehead touched his collarbone. He smelled like leather and spice, utterly masculine and irresistibly intriguing.

  She closed her eyes, soaking in the scent of him, the feel of him, memorizing his essence, longing to carry the impressions with her into eternity. For it was all she’d ever have of him, all she’d ever know of any man.

  She grieved in silence. His knuckles grazed her cheek, collecting her tears, and yet he never shrank from her. How noble he was, she thought, how chivalrous and honorable and kind.

  She rubbed her cheek against his hand. His fingers were ragged but warm with life, and on impulse, she turned her head to rest her open lips against them. Without thought, without invitation, she kissed the back of his hand, closing her lips tenderly over each skinned knuckle. A curious addiction came over her, and she found, like dining on sweetmeats, she could not stop. Again and again she pressed her mouth to his flesh, until she heard him groan.

  Lord—she hadn’t meant to injure him.

  He didn’t pull away. But he turned his hand over and stopped her, crossing his palm over her parted mouth.

  “Did I hurt ye?” she whispered against his hand.

  He sighed. “Nay.” His low chuckle confused her. “Nay. Not with those soft lips.” He brushed his thumb across her mouth, and she felt a peculiar tingling go through her body, as if he’d touched her soul.

  It left her feeling reckless and brazen and strangely giddy. There was nothing left now, she realized. No one to answer to. No one to judge her. Why not cast caution to the wind?

  “Kiss me,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “Kiss me.” Even the heat that rose in her cheeks couldn’t prevent her rash plea. “I’ve never been kissed before. Please…kiss me.”

  His breath collapsed out of him, blowing tendrils of her hair back. “Ye want me to…ye want me to…”

  “Aye, kiss me.” He was stone silent, and a shiver of worry rocked her. “Unless ye find the thought distastef—”

  His hand slipped aside, replaced so quickly by his mouth she hadn’t time to draw breath. And suddenly she floated on a wave of sensation like she’d never felt before.

  His chin was rough and foreign to the tender skin of her face, but so distracted was she by the startling softness of his mouth, she scarcely noticed. He tasted of earth and ale and desire. And the way his lips clung to hers, tugging, drawing, calling to her, she cared for nothing but responding in kind. It was heaven, this kissing, and she wished it would never end.

  Then he opened her lips with his, and the liquid heat of his tongue teased at the edges of her mouth before sliding in to brand her own tongue. As if she bore his scorching mark, she writhed against him, and a hot bolt of lust shot through her, sizzling her very bones.

  His hands cupped her face then, steadying her, thank God, for she feared she might well collapse under his onslaught. He tasted like fiery nectar, and she longed to drink and drink until she grew besotted upon his kiss.

  Her ears were still thrumming, her body vibrating like a harp string, her heart racing when he slowed his kisses and drew gradually away from her.

  She should have been sated. She knew that. He’d given her what she’d asked. Why then did she hunger for more?

  Why did she crave him as keenly as a starving man craved meat?

  Why did every nerve in her body sing with current, as if the west wind whipped up a storm in her soul?

  She had no answer, nor was it her intent to wonder long. Casting off modesty like a stifling cloak, she snagged her fingers in his shirt and hauled him back to her.

  She behaved like a wanton. She knew she did. But it didn’t matter. It was her last day on earth. Her last chance for love. And she refused to succumb to death’s sleep until she’d wrung every last drop she could from life.

  Giric had never felt so clumsy in all his years. It wasn’t the dark that crippled him, but rather the maelstrom of emotions coursing through his mind. Here he was, buried under tons of earth, both feet in the grave, no hope in sight, his miserable life near its end. Yet his spirit soared with ecstasy.

  Blood long tepid now simmered and pulsed through his veins. Desires long dormant awakened. His mouth still tingled from her kiss, the kiss he’d found nearly impossible to end. But he’d let her go, the way a falconer must let his prize tiercel fly. And, miraculous as it seemed, she’d returned to him. Now his senses centered on the delicate woman who seized him with all the strength of a knight reining in a warhorse.

  She kissed him fiercely, hungrily, and the pressure of her sweet lips sent a frisson of desire straight to his loins. Lord—she knew not in what perilous sport she engaged. It had been months since he’d lain with a woman. With the slightest bit of encouragement, he might burst like a keg of overripe ale. But the way she urged him on him now—it was akin to hefting a battle-ax at the barrel.

  Still, somewhere within his lust-fuddled brain he remembered he was a knight, a gentleman, a noble sworn to protect ladies, not seduce them. And if it killed him, he wouldn’t violate this woman’s trust.

  She explored his face now, sliding a fingertip along the crest of his brow, sweeping the bristled hollow of his cheek with her thumb, smoothing the flesh across his jaw, then plunging her hand into the curls at the base of his neck. She sighed against his lips, and her breath was the breath of life, of spring, of sunlight in the dark.

  She couldn’t know how exalted she made him feel. In the blinding black, she embraced him, accepted him as if he were that man he’d thought lost so long ago. She neither shrank from him in horror nor shook her head in pity, and for once, he reveled in blessed anonymity.

  Her fingers coursed along the strained cords of his neck, over the vein pulsing madly in his throat, and he swallowed hard beneath her touch. She nuzzled his ear, her lips nibbling at the lobe, her breath tickling the whiskers along his jaw, and he sucked a tight breath between his teeth.

  He wanted her. Urgently. Needed her. He hardened like a molten sword plunged into snow. Surely she felt him stiffen against her, felt the blatant proof of his desire. And yet she didn’t retreat. Nay, she pressed even closer, torturing him with her tender woman’s shape, letting her hands roam at will over his shoulders, his arms, his chest, so close to his heart.

  Hilaire hardly recognized the brazen woman she’d become. She was wanton, wild, and unbridled, like a mare quartered with a rutting stallion. She knew no shame, only greed. For what, she was uncertain. But she couldn’t keep her hands from roving over the masculine curves and hollows before her. And if lips followed where hands led, it was with an overwhelming thirst that found no quenching.

  He swiftly hardened against her belly like a dagger, and though her cheeks burned at the sensation, for she knew well the significance of his swelling, she felt no desire to withdraw. In truth, she longed to press even nearer his man’s body, to lose herself in his arms, in his lust, in his power.

  A vibration sang along her spine like the sounding of her harp, humming in her ears, reverberating low in her belly,
until it emerged on a moan from her throat.

  He answered at once, a groan edged with animal heat, and her passion flared like dry boughs tossed onto flame, turning her to a burning pillar of longing. She needed…needed…

  Him.

  His arms.

  His mouth.

  Closer.

  With a stranger’s hands, she clawed at his garments, willing them gone, whimpering against his mouth when they wouldn’t obey her.

  And then he caught her fists against his heaving chest, halting them, gasping as he grunted a warning. “Nay…ye must not.”

  “But I want… I need…”

  His hot breath seared her fingers. “Go now. Back away. Before I forget I am a gentleman.”

  But she was beyond caring. “Nay. I want… I want…”

  She knew what she wanted, but mere words could not express her desire. So she pulled her hands from his and rapidly began loosening the laces of her kirtle. It was a wicked thing, displaying her lust like a common tart, and yet no pang of regret afflicted her.

  When she had loosed her garment, she took his hand in both of hers and, kissing his palm, placed it where she wanted it most, upon the tingling curve of her bosom.

  He gasped as if burned, but she held his hand there, thrilling to the sensation of the rough pads of his fingers upon her untried flesh.

  “Lady, ye know not what ye do…what ye…”

  She slipped his hand further inside her bodice, sighing in pleasure at the way his fingers curved perfectly about her breast, as if they were made for just such a thing.

  “Ah, God,” he cried, and the hunger in his voice incited her to a fever pitch of longing.

  She lunged against him, and his hand moved fully over her, his fingers brushing the sensitive peak. She drew in a sharp breath, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, so aching sweet was the sensation. Nothing could possibly feel more divine, she thought.

  Until he lowered his head, tickling the flesh of her bared shoulder with his thick hair, and closed his lips over the crest of her nipple.