Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9)

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Or as Arabella pleased.

  Before he could speak, she dropped the sewing and ran to him, her lips fusing with his as she threw her arms around his neck. Brend responded instantly, his muscular arms around her, his lips on hers, kissing her so hard that he drove her soft lip into her teeth. He could taste the blood.

  But still, he kissed her harder. There was finality in his touch, knowing this stolen moment could very well be the last time he ever tasted her. There might never be another opportunity like this and given he was heading to Ireland and battle, it could be the last time. Ever. That had never really occurred to him until now and that very real possibility drove his passion to the next level.

  Arabella was in his arms and he lifted her effortlessly, sitting her on the potting table. There was so much fire to their touch that it was raging out of control. Arabella began to weep softly as he kissed her, his hands moving to her body, touching her through the fine dress she wore, feeling her warm flesh beneath the fabric. It was freedom he’d never had, now with absolutely no restraint. When he brushed over her right breast, she took hold of his hand and put it squarely over her breast.

  “Touch me,” she murmured against his lips. “Take me as your own, Brend. Mayhap we will never know this moment again and I want to remember every part of you as the only man who was ever meant to be my husband. In my heart, you have been my husband since we were children. That has never changed. But if I am to lose you to battle, please let me feel your love as it was meant to be.”

  His breathing was ragged. “Bella,” he said. “I cannot…”

  She cut him off. “Please,” she begged, her hands on his face. “Do not deny me what has always been my heart’s desire. Has it not been yours?”

  Reluctantly, he nodded. “With every breath I take.”

  “Then take me.”

  Brend didn’t need to be told twice. He should have slowed his actions at the very least, taking his time with her, but he found that he couldn’t. He’d restrained himself from touching her for so long that now that he had her where he wanted her, he couldn’t control himself.

  He was on fire.

  As his seeking mouth moved to her neck, he loosened the fastens on the surcoat, sliding the shift and dress off her shoulders, enough so that he could expose her small but firm breasts. When he took a warm nipple in his mouth, suckling ravenously, Arabella held his head to her breast as if he were nursing against her. Nursing him as she would nurse their children, God willing. As she held him tightly, his hands snaked underneath her skirts, hiking them up, revealing her delicate and virgin core.

  Pushing her back on the table, Brend nursed hungrily at her breasts as his hands, far more gently, caressed her buttocks and torso underneath her skirts. Such forbidden, delicious delight. When he gently stroked the pale fluff of curls between her legs, she started with uncertainty, but he stilled her with tender words. He bunched her skirts up around her waist to gently kiss her lower belly.

  With her properly relaxed, Brend slipped a finger into her tight, wet sheath, listening to her gasp at the sensual intrusion. She was hot and slick, her body prepared for his invasion, and he refused to wait. He had never imagined they would know this moment any time soon and even now as they were on the precipice, he knew they shouldn’t. He knew he should stop.

  But he couldn’t.

  He’d never wanted anything so much in his entire life.

  Unfastening his breeches, he let them fall to his ankles and he put the tip of his throbbing phallus against her tender core. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he looked her in the eyes.

  “I love you, Arabella de Winter,” he murmured. “What I do now, I do for no other reason than that. You are my love, my life, the very air I breath. I will never love anyone else as much as I love you. You are, forever and always, the very heart that beats within me.”

  With that, he thrust into her, listening to her gasp with pain as he ruptured her maidenhood. Arabella gasped again as he thrust over and over, seating himself, feeling her wetness close in around him. It was passion and desire such as he had never experienced. Once fully seated, he held her buttocks against his pelvis and began to thrust into her.

  Arabella clung to him, feeling his manhood deep inside her, filling her as she could have never imagined. With every thrust, his pelvis rubbed against hers and she could feel something deep inside her spark every time their bodies met. It was overwhelming, something she could have never imagined in all of the dreams she and Brend had ever shared.

  This went beyond physicality.

  It went beyond love into the heady world of needfulness.

  She needed him.

  “I want your son,” she breathed, daring to reach down and touch herself where their bodies were joined. She could feel his smooth phallus against her fingers as he entered her, again and again. “Fill me with your seed so that I may bear a proud son of MacRohan. Give me what I was destined for – having your child. Please do not deny me, Brend.”

  Brend gasped heavily as he heard her words, sending lust firing through him stronger than anything he’d ever known. He was the eldest MacRohan, expected to carry on the family line, and there was no finer mother for his son in the world than Arabella.

  God, it was wrong. It was wrong in so many ways, but he found himself hoping that he would impregnate her, a son that would bear his handsome looks and her intelligent mind. If she became pregnant with his child, then Denys could not deny their marriage. He would have to send them to France so they could be together forever. When her fingers brushed his phallus again, he couldn’t hold back and he released himself deep into her body, feeling her own release as she milked at him, her nubile body begging for his seed.

  He was happy to comply.

  Gasping and sweating, Brend gathered her up into his arms, holding her tightly with her legs still wrapped around his hips, still embedded in her body, as his arousal died away. He was relishing the feel of her against him, tucking it deep into his heart for the times to come that would see them separated. He didn’t want to let her go, but he knew he had to. Every moment they remained together like this was another moment that someone could happen upon them.

  He hated that he had to think of that and not linger in the afterglow of Arabella’s love.

  Such was the curse of their love.

  “I must go,” he whispered. “Your father is expecting me and I do not want him to send someone looking for me.”

  Arabella pulled her head from the crook of his neck, looking up at him. Her eyes were welling with tears again.

  “You do not regret this?” she murmured.

  He shook his head, smiling gently. “Never,” he whispered. “Even if your father were to walk in on us at this moment, I would not regret it. It was… it was the greatest moment of my life.”

  Arabella smiled, tenderly touching his face. “And mine,” she said. “I love you, Brend MacRohan. In this life and beyond, I will always love you.”

  He smiled in return, kissing her hand and finally releasing her from his embrace. He bent over, pulling his breeches up and tying them off as Arabella pushed her skirts down. Hopping off the table, she pulled her bodice up, covering her breasts and trying to straighten her clothing out. When Brend caught sight of what she was doing, he helped her, brushing the dirt from the table off her skirt.

  “Wait for a few minutes after I leave before you follow,” he said. “That way, if anyone happens to be watching, they will not see us leave together.”

  She nodded seriously, bending down to pick her sewing up from where she had dropped it. “I will wait,” she said. “And I will see you tonight at sup.”

  He shrugged. “Mayhap,” he said. “Unless your father decides to keep us all barricaded in his solar with this Irish rebellion mess.”

  “Then I will see you when I can.”

  “You know that you will.” He paused a moment, looking her over, reaching out to smooth the blonde hair that was mussed in the heat of passion. L
eaning over, he kissed her gently on the lips. “Give me a smile. Let me keep that tucked into my memory until the next time I see you.”

  She smiled at him and he winked at her, heading out of the small room and leaving her with her half-finished sewing in-hand. She’d just spent the most wonderful afternoon with the man she loved, but the reality of their situation settled deep. With war in Ireland looming on the horizon, she wondered what tribulations they would be forced to face from now on. She couldn’t even hazard a guess. Now that she’d had the man, she never wanted to let him go.

  For certain, life had changed for all of them on this day.

  Whatever the future held was frightening.

  PART TWO

  IRELAND

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Six weeks later

  The Irish Sea

  They were nearing Dundalk.

  The sea was calm, with very little wind, which had made their crossing from Blackpool slow but relatively pleasant. The sea was a color of green, like a cat’s eye, with swirls of deep blue when the winds would shift.

  Cort was standing on the bow of the ship, watching the waves roll by, the whitecaps kicked up by the ship plowing through the brine. Since entering shallower waters yesterday, the dolphins had appeared, riding the waves and escorting the ships to the harbor. Even now, Cort watched them as they frolicked in the wake of the bow. They had been an entertainment on a journey that had seen little levity.

  Little joy.

  He was greatly missing Dera.

  She was on another ship, one called the Stella Maris, and he could see it off the starboard bow, her sails billowing in the breeze. But Cort was on a de Winter vessel called The Lordship, the biggest vessel of the seven that were sailing for Dundalk harbor. Dillon, Brend, and Dera were on the Stella Maris with five hundred de Winter troops and two more de Winter vessels, the Bloody Cross and the Forkhill, carried another eight hundred men between them, including the Earl of East Anglia, Damon de Winter.

  Damon de Winter was a cousin to Denys and not particularly congenial because he didn’t want to come to Ireland. Family obligations forced him to, however, and he brought three hundred men along with two knights, men who were much friendlier than their liege. Sir Elias de la Rosa and Sir Arvid de Mandeville were excellent knights, men that Dillon and Brend had served with before.

  Cort found himself on The Lordship with about eight hundred de Russe troops, while the remaining three vessels – the Mary’s Lament, the Dromena, and the Lucan, all belonging to the House of de Cleveley, split the remaining de Russe, Wellesbourne, and Shrewsbury men between them.

  In all, there were almost three thousand men sailing for Ireland, a significant fighting force with which to regain Mount Wrath, which also included several high-powered knights from the de Russe and Wellesbourne armies.

  Along with Cort, his eldest brother and his father’s heir, Trenton de Russe, Earl of Westbury, had come. He had command of both the de Russe and Wellesbourne army, but he’d brought younger brothers, Boden and Gage, with him, and Wellesbourne had sent along William Wellesbourne, the youngest and wildest Wellesbourne son. He was an irreverent rascal who both charmed and annoyed far worse that Cort ever could. But in the heat of battle, he settled down admirably and was an excellent knight. He was very much looking forward to battle in Ireland.

  They’d been at sea nine days, hoping to dock in Dundalk Harbor at the mouth of the Castletown River. From there, it would be a short march to Mount Wrath. But all Cort cared about was taking Dera in his arms again and telling her how much he missed her. Spending nine days away from her had been torture.

  “We should be in sight of their outlooks soon enough.”

  Shaken from his train of thought by a familiar voice, Cort looked over his shoulder at Trenton, who came up to stand with him on the rail. As big as Cort was, Trenton was positively enormous. He had their father’s size and coloring, looking very much like the man had at his age. He was a straightforward, no-nonsense knight and Cort adored him.

  “Are we that close?” he asked.

  Trenton shielded his eyes from the sun setting in the west. “Our lookouts above have sighted land,” he said. “We should be seeing it imminently ourselves.”

  “And we’ll dock in Dundalk?”

  Trenton nodded. “According to the captain, we’ll dock at the mouth of the river and secure the vessels. But as we enter the harbor, we’ll be sighted at Black Cove.” He looked pointedly at his brother. “The rebels will know we have arrived.”

  Cort grunted. “That means word will spread quickly,” he said. “Mount Wrath will be prepared for us.”

  Trenton leaned against the rail, looking at the sea beyond. “That is why we must move quickly,” he said. “Any delay will give those at Mount Wrath more time to dig in and prepare. We must move before they have that opportunity.”

  “Did you discuss that with Dillon before we departed Blackpool?”

  “I did. He is in agreement.”

  Cort grinned. “He is going to do anything you tell him to do, whether or not he agrees,” he said. “Being commanded by Trenton de Russe is like being commanded by God Himself. By the way, is Baron Delvin going to meet us when we dock?”

  Trenton nodded. “Word has been sent ahead to Richard Nugent, so he and his army should be waiting for us. We will require his expertise on the situation.”

  They were speaking of one of the prominent English lords in Ireland, major landholders who had spent generations fighting the Irish. The capture of Mount Wrath meant a good deal to the Irish-bound English lords as their hold on the country continued to slip, so the arrival of a big army was a welcome event to them.

  It seemed as if everything had been taken care of and all that was left was to arrive in Ireland and carry out the strategies they’d concocted those weeks ago in Denys de Winter’s solar. Denys, the master planner, had created the battle plans and sent all of the documentation with Cort and Dillon so that when they met up with the de Russe and Wellesbourne troops, all they had to do was turn them over to Trenton. He was about to reply to his brother’s statement when a commotion caught his attention.

  Boden and Gage de Russe, followed by William Wellesbourne, were squabbling about something, which wasn’t unusual with those three. They were the youngest of great warring families, fully fledged and capable knights, but something happened when the three of them came together.

  They turned into naughty seven year olds again.

  Even now, William had something in his hand that Gage was trying to grab from him. He went straight to the railing and tossed it overboard. Cort and Trenton watched curiously as the small object, flat and thin, floated down into the surf.

  “And that’s for cheating, you dimwit,” William said to Gage. “You always cheat when we play card games and I always catch you. When will you learn?”

  In reply, Gage charged him and tried to throw him overboard. He might have been successful had Trenton and Cort not broken up the squabble.

  “My God,” Trenton said, slapping Gage on the back of the head when he refused to surrender quickly enough. “I have been breaking up these fights between you two my entire life and I am sick to death of this. Next time, I throw you both overboard and tell your fathers that you were lost at sea. Do you understand me?”

  William shook his head. “I can swim,” he said flatly. “I will swim home and tell my father what you’ve done.”

  “He would applaud me.”

  “Then I’ll tell my sister. Your wife would not let you get off so easily.”

  Trenton rolled his eyes. It was the unfortunate fact of life that he was married to William’s oldest sister, Lysabel, making William his family, too.

  “I do not care,” he said. “I am not afraid of that threat in the least. You will have to do better.”

  William grinned, a toothy grin that was incredibly annoying. “I am going to tell your wife that you said that.”

  “Do it and I will cut your tongue out.”
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  William snorted, grabbing Gage by the arm and dragging him back the way they had come. Boden lingered behind; he was more mature than Gage and William, although he could easily get caught up in their foolery. He found himself looking over the sea.

  “I heard that we should be sighting land soon,” he said. “Have you seen anything?”

  Cort shook his head, turning to look at the endless sea but managing to catch sight of the Stella Maris again.

  “Not yet,” he said, his gaze lingering on the distant ship. “But you can start spreading the word among the men. We want them ready to disembark once we enter the harbor. Make sure the horses are ready, too. We will need to get off this vessel quickly.”

  Boden grunted. “Not quickly enough,” he said. “I hate sailing to Ireland. I feel as if I am still at sea for two days afterwards.”

  Cort laughed softly. “That is why we are not sailors, my fine lad,” he said. “Go on with you, now. There is much to do.”

  Boden was off, heading towards midships. Cort watched him go before turning to Trenton. “Are you planning on regrouping with Dillon and Brend before we march on?”

  Trenton nodded. “Most definitely,” he said. “We cannot go anywhere until we hear from Nugent, so we will have plenty of time to finalize our approach.”

  Cort simply nodded, leaning on the rail, all but forgetting Trenton as his focus settled on the Stella Maris permanently. In his mind, he was on the ship with Dera, gazing into her pale blue eyes as the sea breeze blew through her long hair.

  But as he thought on her, he was coming to wonder what, exactly, awaited them in Ireland. Disembarking the ships into the wild green lands was like entering an island of wild animals, all of them out to kill him. He wondered if Dera would even be safe. The rebels didn’t think enough of her loyalty to leave Mount Wrath in peace, so he wondered if they somehow viewed her as a traitor, too, because she’d been sent off to England.