Moonglow

by Kristen Callihan

  Worse didn’t begin to cover the damage. His expressive lips were torn open, exposing his teeth in a gruesome grin. His eyes were swollen shut and blackened. Gore, blood, and dirt matted his hair, covered every inch of him. How? How could he heal from this?

  Talent bustled around the chamber, pulling out a pot of the same concoction Tuttle had used on Daisy before and a stack of thick towels. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Her fingers laced with Northrup’s. “He said to keep touching him and so I shall.” She glared at the hostile young man before her. “And if you say one more word about it, I’ll thrash you.”

  Talent scowled, and Tuttle chuckled as she poured water over Northrup’s face and hair. “I suspect you would at that, lass.”

  Despite Daisy’s doubts, the water was working. Before her eyes, the edges of his gaping flesh slowly began coming together. As the flesh grew, blood ran from the wounds. A gruesome sight, and yet he appeared to ease just a bit more. Daisy caressed the backs of his fingers with her thumb, soothing him in the only way she could. She hated the way his brow pinched in an expression of deep pain, and the way the corners of his mouth twitched as if repressing a scream. Part of her wanted to shake him for accepting such torture. The other wanted to crawl into the tub with him, curl around him, and cry.

  She did not let him go when Talent took him from the tub, dried him off, and began rubbing the ointment into his skin. The fresh scent of chamomile and lavender, with an underlying bite of tea tree, filled the air. “Soothes his nerves,” Talent muttered reluctantly to Daisy. “Eases the itching that comes with new skin.” Skin that was covered now not with deep rents but with lumpy pink slashes that wept a clear liquid.

  Daisy kept her eyes firmly on Northrup’s face. She would not dishonor his sacrifice by looking upon him in his vulnerability. “Will he heal completely?” It would not matter; her regard for him wouldn’t change if he remained in this scarred state. Only Northrup was a bit vain about his good looks, and it hurt her to think of him suffering for the loss of them.

  “Of course he will,” Talent said. “His age and his blood will see to that. He’s a Ranulf. Purest blood a lycan can have.” His hands worked rhythmically against Northrup’s skin. “Makes him strong, where an ordinary lycan would have succumbed.”

  “But his father…”

  “Was burned,” Talent said emphatically. “Fire destroys flesh. Eats it, if you will. Cuts merely separate the flesh. Much easier to heal from that.”

  “This was why you did not worry?” she asked.

  Talent set the pot of ointment aside and wiped his hands on a towel before looking at her. His green eyes were hard in the flickering lamplight. “I didn’t worry because worrying doesn’t change a damn thing.” He pulled the sheet over his master. “Fate is fate.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Hours passed and day gave way to night. Daisy watched in fascination as Northrup slowly healed. First, only pink lines marked where he’d been abused, and then the slashes across his face faded. Presently, he was whole and breathtaking once more.

  Daisy’s hand slid along the sweeping curve of Northrup’s jaw where the skin was as smooth as a lad’s now. Down, along his strong neck, she went, and then back up, across the high plane of his brow.

  The room had grown ghostly quiet while Northrup slept, with only the occasional crack and hiss behind the grate to punctuate the silence.

  Before leaving them, Talent had carried his master into the bedchamber and tucked him into the massive tester bed that dominated the room. Though young, and mouthy, and surly, the valet cared for his master with a loyalty that required respect. He’d left her standing by Northrup’s prone form with the brusque instructions to “make herself useful and rub some ointment on his lordship’s face now and then.”

  “Blighter,” she muttered as she picked up the jar and dipped her fingers into the slightly greasy ointment again. The substance went on cool, but as she worked it into Northrup’s skin, it began to warm. It was the same ointment that Tuttle had given her days ago, when Daisy had been bitten. Whatever the concoction was, its healing properties were beyond the pale. Tuttle had insisted that Daisy use it again on her stinging, swollen cheek. Within minutes, the pain had gone. She hadn’t looked in a mirror, but suspected the swelling had subsided as well.

  Northrup did not move as she worked on him, but the tightness around his mouth eased with each pass of Daisy’s fingers until finally it was gone. The bedside lamp had been turned low, and its light played over the crests and hollows of his countenance. He would never appear soft, not even in sleep. His features were too sharp, the angle of his dark brows etched into a permanent slant of concentration. Knowing he slept soundly at last, she released the tight rein she’d kept on her gaze and let it wander downward.

  Daisy’s breath caught as she took an unabashed look at Northrup’s uncovered chest. He was gorgeous. Perfectly balanced between sheer strength and elegant economy. Lean, flat muscles defined the dips and planes of his torso and rose and swelled along his wide shoulders and long arms. Golden ivory in the low lamplight, his skin was a smooth canvas that highlighted all his glorious definition. Were it not for the gentle rise and fall of his chest, she’d think him a sculpture. Endymion lying in wait for Selene.

  Indeed, he might have been a sculpture save for the dusting of copper and bronze hair scattered along his upper chest. Hair that lovingly surrounded little flat nipples of light brown. On his left pectoral muscle was a fist-sized tattoo. Daisy had heard of such things but had never seen one up close before. Northrup’s was of a black wolf’s head with DEI DONO SUM QUOD SUM inscribed around it in bold script. Rusty memories of her Latin primer came to the fore.

  “By the grace of God I am what I am,” she whispered. He’d shouted it earlier, and she had to smile at how very fitting the motto was. The tattoo appeared to move as he breathed with the even cadence of sleep.

  Her mouth went dry, her fingers curling into a fist. She would not touch it.

  Ye gods but the sheet was too low around his waist, stopping at a line of dark auburn hair that peeked out a little bit farther with each exhale of Northrup’s breath. The muscles beneath his belly button lay flat like a plate of armor above the narrow plane of his hips, the skin stretched so tightly over them that the veins stood out, one of them leading a path down below the sheet.

  Flush with heat, she bit her lip hard. She wanted to trace that path with her tongue and pull the sheet away to reveal the rather large bulge hiding beneath it. A delicious image, ripped in two as he tensed on a sharp breath, his eyes snapping open and his hand shooting out to grasp her wrist. She yelped as he wrenched her toward him.

  Daisy fell upon his chest with an undignified “Oomph!”

  Northrup blinked once, then immediately his eyes cleared, and he relaxed his hold. “Are you well?” His voice was a rasp of sandpaper, but strong.

  Stiffly she nodded, the shock of his sudden movement still upon her. “You?”

  He scowled as if taking stock, his eyes darting over her face. “I feel as though I’ve been used to fill a mincemeat pie.”

  “How vivid,” she croaked and, unable to hold up the weight of the night any longer, she let her head fall to his shoulder with a thud. He felt as warm and solid as he looked.

  Beneath her, his chest shook with a small laugh. “That bad?”

  Her deep, shuddering breath was the only answer she felt capable to give. He smelled too good. Of ointment and Northrup. She burrowed her nose deeper, searching for the pure scent of him alone.

  His fingers combed through her hair, parting the tangled curls that tumbled free now. A gentle stroke designed to comfort. “He hurt you. For that, he will pay.”

  Her cheek worked against his skin as she swallowed. “It is over now.”

  Northrup made a sound of disagreement but did not stop his explorations. “You did well, Daisy-girl. You stayed quiet and demure… mostly.”

  Daisy pinched at his side, and he yelp
ed. “Of course I did,” she said.

  His body moved as he shook his head. “I should not have fought them when they came for us.” Carefully, he touched her cheek. “It gave Conall the knowledge to use you.”

  “You chose the best course with what you were given, and I’ll hear no more about it.” Her breath stirred the hair upon his chest, and his nipple hardened. Her finger crept closer to the little nub. “Who is Lena?”

  Beneath her palm, his heart pounded. “An ally at one time.” His voice was careful, quiet. “Now it seems I have none.”

  You have me. She almost said it when she felt him move and could have sworn he was smiling. His voice drifted down, and there was a definite lilt of amusement in it. “Did I detect a note of jealousy in your voice just then, Daisy-Meg?”

  Yes. “You detected curiosity, you arrogant sot.”

  He grunted. “Of course. A thousand pardons, madam.” He did not sound conciliatory in the least.

  She relaxed her hand, and her fingers moved a fraction, the very tip of her nail touching the flat edge of his areola. Northrup stilled, and her muscles tensed, her skin heating. She wanted to pet him, to feel the strength of his musculature and the silk of his skin. She forced herself to speak instead.

  “What did Lena have to say to Conall?”

  Northrup’s free hand fell to her waist. He had a big hand, and it was warm as it smoothed slowly up her side, stopping short of her breast before easing back down to her hip. She closed her eyes and almost purred in pleasure.

  “Nothing to Conall,” he answered somewhat roughly. Again came that slow, easing caress that held nearly all her attention. His hand stopped. “She wants me to take him from the throne.”

  “To challenge him and become the king?”

  Northrup’s grip tightened at her waist. “She thinks I’ll be a better leader. But I’ve no interest in the role.”

  “Why not? Is it not your birthright?” She touched one curling auburn hair upon his chest. A light touch that perhaps he wouldn’t notice. But his breath caught, before he let it out slowly.

  “I don’t want to be a lycan.” He said it so softly she almost didn’t catch it. “I want to live as a normal man.” His fingertips traced the seam at the side of her bodice. “Live a normal life.”

  Normal. After what she had seen and done this night, she could see the vast appeal of normalcy. And yet when she thought of Northrup living and acting as every other man, she found herself frowning.

  “I should think I would find you rather dull, Northrup, were you a normal man.”

  The heartbeat beneath her ear grew to a rapid tattoo as he tensed. His fingers threaded through her hair to cup the back of her head. Gently, he held her against him. “Thank you.”

  The whisper stroked along her skin. He said no more as he continued to play with her hair. They sat as such for a long moment, until her side hurt from the pinch of her corset and she made to rise.

  He stopped her with a touch to her cheek. Ensnared, she blinked down at him, aware that her mouth parted with her quickening breath, and that her skin suddenly felt too hot. The thumb at her cheek moved in a halting stroke that had her trembling.

  “I didn’t let you go,” she blurted out inanely.

  He stilled. “No,” he said. “No, you didn’t.”

  A smile wavered at the corners of his mouth as his gaze grew unguarded. The heat and yearning there took her breath. Suddenly, he wasn’t smiling anymore. His voice cracked between them. “Daisy, let me…”

  He pulled her down as he rose up.

  They met in a melding of lips and tongues, slow and decadent, and it sent a sigh of sweet relief through her.

  On a breath, he lifted her up and beside him to lay her down upon her back. His lips never left hers as he slid against her, holding her close before cupping her neck with a strong hand. Her legs were in a hopeless tangle with her skirts, her arm trapped against the wall of his chest, but her lips were in perfect accord with his. She licked inside his mouth, a warm wet glide that uncoiled something hot and thick within her. Ian made a sound of contentment within his throat as he kissed her and then pulled away to look at her beneath sleepy lids.

  “This,” he whispered thickly, “this is what I thought of when they had me. Touching you.” He kissed her again, again. “Tasting you.” He touched her cheek, his mouth brushing over hers. “You were my safe harbor.”

  She traced the silken path of his brow with a shaking finger, then pulled him close. He was so very strong, warm, present. Holding him close, she could acknowledge how afraid she had been for him. How much she wanted him.

  They explored each other slowly, deeply, nipping and sucking, their hands bumping as they reached for each other and held each other steady. The languid sensation made her head spin, and her body grow heavy. His hand glided up her ribs to cup her breast. She arched into the touch, her belly pressing against the hard length of his cock bunting up between them. They both whimpered at the contact, their kiss shifting its intensity.

  “I love this gown,” he murmured, licking a path across the low line of the bodice. The touch was fire along her skin.

  “A strumpet’s gown,” she answered breathlessly.

  “Precisely.” He kissed the swell of her left breast. “You should have one in every color.”

  Suckling the tender skin at the base of her throat, Ian rolled onto her, his hands at her waist, hips, rubbing, urging her on. The hard press of his body, the smooth shift of his muscles against her palm felt so good that she shook with the need for more, to rub skin to skin, to lick a path down his chest and take him in her mouth.

  His shoulders were granite under silk. She could write a sonnet on the beauty of his shoulders, a symphony about the bulge of his biceps. She sank her teeth into one, testing its hardness, and he groaned.

  “Ian.” She took his lips in a greedy kiss that explored his taste.

  He broke off with a smile. “Ian,” he repeated, nipping her lower lip. “Finally, you call me Ian.” Their eyes met, and a bolt of tenderness hit her with unexpected intensity. “Took you long enough,” he whispered, his hand smoothing back a curl at her cheek.

  He was alive, and whole, and looking down at her with heat and affection in his eyes. When had he become so necessary? She could not afford necessary. Suddenly she couldn’t draw a proper breath. A spike of pain shot down the side of her skull with enough force to make her gasp.

  Ian’s brows knitted. “Daisy?” He touched the curve of her temple with a finger.

  She blinked, trying to ease the feeling away, but a film settled over her eyes, all at once too bright yet wavering. She closed her eyes against it. “I…” A sharp breath left her as another bolt of pain attacked her head. “My eyes.”

  He eased off of her. “Your eyes?” Another gentle touch. “What, love? Where does it hurt?”

  Daisy let out a frustrated breath and flung her legs over the side of the bed, an altogether undignified move as she was too far away and had to slide along the mattress. “I’m sorry. I can’t… I cannot do this.”

  Ian held her shoulder as she made to leave the bed. “Daisy, calm yourself.” His hand lay warm and heavy, a comfort. She tried to ease it off but he wouldn’t be budged. “Tell me what is the matter.”

  Fighting tears, she pressed a shaking hand hard against her eyes. “I can’t see properly. There is this blur and”—she waved a helpless hand��“lights…”

  “A migraine?” he said softly. At times she forgot that he was a physician. He was very near, his arm steadying her shoulder, and she let herself rest her head on his bare shoulder. The action made her brain slosh within its bed of pain, and she hissed.

  “Yes,” she said on a breath. “They come when I’m…” She didn’t want to talk. The pain behind her skull made her feel brittle, capable of shattering with one wrong move.

  Ian’s arms came around her, and he pulled her close, holding her as if she were a hollow eggshell. “When you are under great stress.” He
cupped the back of her head with his palm. “Christ, you should not have seen what occurred this night. It is my fault.”

  Tension rode over her shoulders, building with force until she found herself pushing at his chest with clenched fists. “It is!” she cried in a low voice. “Of course it is, you…” Her fists rubbed over his chest, half a caress, half grinding into his flesh as if to imprint herself there. “Don’t you ever—” She broke off when he gathered her nearer, his lips grazing her temple.

  She gave his shoulder a light punch. “No. Don’t kiss me! Don’t you ever do that again.”

  “Kiss you?” he teased softly, and doing just that.

  She turned away, tears leaking out of her eyes like little traitors to her will. “Let them hurt you like that.” She glared up at him but could see only a sparkling blur of his face as if viewing him through thick bottle glass. “You fight, damn you! Damn me too, if it comes to that.” And then she was sobbing, burrowing her head in the shelter of his chest. “They tore you apart.”

  “Och now.” His callused palm cupped her cheek. “Did ye fear I’d lose me pretty face?” he said, drawing out his brogue as though he knew she liked to hear it.

  “Of course.” She nudged his ribs with her fist. “What else is there to admire about you?” When he bent his head down to peer at her, she rested her forehead against his. “Certainly n-not your inane conversations.” Her fingers curled about his shoulders as he peppered her face with soft kisses. “Or your r-ridiculous jests.”

  He gathered her tightly once more and soothed her with gentle strokes as she cried. His chest was a fortress, his arms battlements. Her cheek pressed against the warmth of his pectoral muscle and she heard the steady drum of his heart.

  “Come.” A tug on her bodice made her stiffen, and he uttered a short laugh. “If you think I intend to offer you anything more than comfort at this moment, I fear ye’ve greatly underestimated my sense of honor, lass.”