“She’s not interested in you,” Sir Reven taunted. “Not any more than your mother was interested in your father.”
Sir Pembroke swung his arms up under Sir Reven’s, knocking him loose. “I told you to stop making empty claims and say what you think you know about my mother.” He threw Sir Reven back against a wall.
“You heard me the first time,” Sir Reven growled. “Your father stole her from my grandfather, just like your brother stole my father’s bride before killing him.”
Sorcha lifted a brow. The fight was obviously a continuation of some earlier one, probably the one that got Sir Pembroke thrown out of the tavern. The mention of Sir Pembroke’s mother was interesting. He must have been lying about her being dead.
She watched him take a fist to the jaw and return one to Sir Reven’s. Eventually, the chaos died down as the liquored up men tired. Sir Pembroke gave the final blow, sending Sir Reven to the warped wood floor. He left him there for others to help and walked a straight line toward her, showing how the fight had sobered him.
“Now what brings you to a rough place like this, pretty one?” he asked.
“I grew up in a place like this,” she replied. With everyone moving away, she saw her knife and bent to retrieve it. “I heard Sir Reven say your brother killed his father. Does that mean you are not Sir Ware Pembroke?”
“I, my fair lady, am Sir Henry Pembroke, the youngest and best looking of the Pembroke brothers.” He lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Grew up in a place like this, you say? Then you are not the daughter of a Lord. How encouraging for me.”
“How so?”
“You’ll not be as offended by my request of a kiss as a reward.” He grinned.
“A reward? For what?”
“Saving you from the evil hands of Sir Reven.” He leaned forward, puckered for action.
It wasn’t a twitter of humor or a chortle of amusement he let out, when she drew away. He bellowed as if she had said the funniest thing he had ever heard. Moreover, he grabbed her by the back of the head and pulled her forward. His mouth hit hers on the side. A slight twist and he was as securely against her lips as anyone could ever get.
The tart flavor of ale hung in the brief, crushing kiss.
His brazen ego fueled her already sour disposition. “No one kisses me without permission.” She jerked out of his hold and swung her fist, hitting him square in the jaw.
Caught off-guard, Sir Henry reeled back against the bar. He came forward faster than she could move. Fear swept through her at the thought he’d strike her.
“Why you. . . you. . . ” Seething mad, he wafted out more aroma of the potent ale he had consumed.
When his hand lifted, she prepared for his retaliation. If she was going to fight her dragon against any man, she had to show them she could stand equal against them in any situation.
“If you weren’t a woman, I’d thrash you within an inch of your life.” He waggled his index finger in her face.
She swallowed hard. Her knuckles felt broken, but her pride remained intact. She saw him in a new light—an honorable one. He hadn’t hit her. Her attraction to him moved up a notch.
“Take her down, Sir Henry,” someone shouted.
“Yeah, you bested Tulane, you can’t let that little dove get the better of you,” another commented.
Laugher fluttered about the room, and there she found the flaw in her actions. She had embarrassed him. The hint of scarlet flared up Sir Henry’s neck to his cheeks. Forcing him to face shame wasn’t going to get her a place in the tournament. He had the look of a man ready to extract revenge.
“Now let’s be civil,” she suggested holding one hand up as he came toward her.
His chest, firm, muscled, and beating with a rapid heartbeat, butted her palm.
“And what makes you think civility is to be had in this place?” His hands fastened to his narrow hips.
Sorcha gulped. “You kissed me,” she charged in the face of her mortality.
“A reward well earned.” He leaned forward, bowing his head slightly so their faces were inches apart.
“You should apologize,” she whispered, feeling the heat of his breath.
“Me?” he exclaimed, expressing shock.
Then a smile began curving up the corners of his mouth.
“There you go again,” she muttered, annoyed he didn’t just kiss her again. “Is there no teaching you manners? Shall I hit you again to put you in your place?”
“Is that why you hauled off and hit me?” His dark brown brow arched.
“Someone has to instill common courtesy in you. As a knight, you must have a code to abide by.”
“Oh, little dove, you have come to the wrong place to peddle refinement. However, my lovely, I do believe I can teach you what you can sell to men.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He grabbed her wrist, and as if she were a sack of feathers, he hoisted her onto his shoulder.
“Let me down, I say. I demand you release your hold.” She hit his back, vexed by his appalling behavior.
Out of the uproar of hysterically amused men, no one stepped forward to assist her. After seeing how the patrons helped Sir Reven trap her, she didn’t expect help from them with Sir Henry either.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, dangling over his thick, hard shoulder.
“To a room in the back.”
Twisting to look ahead, she saw a storage room. Sir Henry kicked the door open, marched inside and tossed her on a narrow cot meant for the tavern owner’s naps.
“You can’t possibly mean to bed me. . . here?” she shrieked, more out of humiliation and anger than fear.
“After you agree, of course.”
“Never.” Her heart beat a thousand times faster than normal.
“I think I can change your mind.”
“I’ll kill you.” Blood raced like wildfire through her veins.
“You’d not be the first to try, dear one.” He booted the door closed and mopped back his hair with both his hands. The tousled wavy locks remained askew, framing his face. Green eyes, sparkling like the emerald pastures of Mansfield surrounding this village she had come to, captured her attention. His lingering gaze made her tremble. His swaggering, cocky approach jarred her from the brief glance at his mouth.
He put a knee on the straw stuffed mattress and leaned over her. She threw her hands up to ward him off, but he grabbed them both and pushed them over her head, pinning them down on the thin, dingy pillow.
Mesmerized by his hesitancy, she waited. She anticipated the feel of his lips, the taste of his ale flavored tongue sliding over hers. Why was she not struggling to get up?
His body blocked out the daylight filtering through cracks in windowless room, but she could see his face coming closer.
She stared into his eyes, reading desire. To control her rapid breathing, she had to part her lips, and she inhaled his breath. It took on a sweeter flavor, intoxicatingly warm.
“I want to kiss you,” he murmured softly.
His gentle request surprised her into responding with a soft, “yes.” Sorcha didn’t care that she had surrendered. All she wanted was to disappear from her life for a moment into his kiss.
Then he chuckled.
She growled with contempt, infuriated by her misplaced excitement. She turned forcefully sideways, never expecting Sir Henry to tumble off and hit the floor as he did.
A slew of wicked curses circled the air. Every one of them he directed at himself. They eased her concerns that she was in danger of his wrath.
“It’s your own fault.” She rolled to her side and looked over the edge of the cot.
“How about we not start that argument again?” His eyes closed.
She wondered if he’d passed out. Drunks usually did. She watched him lie unmoving, vulnerable to her inspection. His chest moved up and down evenly, proving he wasn’t feeling any pain.
She tried to calculate how long it had been
since he shaved off the scruff from his face. Could he be even more handsome beneath the dark whiskers?
She shucked off her cape and crawled down to the floor next to him.
“I’ll let you bed me if. . . . ” She tried to move back from his swift grasp.
His dark lashes lifted and he eyed her curiously. “If?”
“Yes.” She stared back, determined to make the situation work for her.
He slid his hand into her hair, rubbing it between his fingers, giving a satisfied hum as if she needed his reassurance that the strands were clean and silky. Her instincts warned her to move away. However, her ever-scheming mind pushed her to lower herself, and give him a sample of her affection. It seemed the best approach to making him agree. Besides, she’d reap certain benefits, too.
Sir Henry turned her head, and his mouth pressed her cheek. She trembled at the caressing sweep of his lips scorching her flesh with a line of kisses around her jaw, to her neck, and then to her earlobe. He traveled gently, undemanding, unrushed. He was not the kind of man she had given herself to before.
The glide of his tongue along the outer rim of her ear tickled a shiver from her. His warm breath funneled into the canal. “I want you, pretty one.”
Sweetness had never meant much to her. Men often used it to get what they wanted. Yet, Sir Henry’s words teemed with heartfelt emotion, and she wanted to surrender. But not without gaining something.
His hand folded behind her head, his expression remained serious. “Remember, I said if you were agreeable.”
Was she? Would he give in and promise what she wanted? It seemed wrong to barter when he looked at her with such genuine affection. His innocence overwhelmed and shamed her. Yet how did she turn her back on the deal she needed to make? She couldn’t let her sudden weakness to Sir Henry’s kisses ruin her chances.
* * * * *
The flame-haired, green-eyed beauty blinked rapidly. That fluttering of her lashes seemed damn close to a complete surrender. Henry pressed his mouth to hers, sucking her lips to feel the softness meld completely with his. She gasped a small sound of surprise. Quickly, he drew back the breath she tried to inhale. Women equaled pleasure. They provided relief from a tedious day. Their skills eased tension in a man’s tired body. Sorcha caught him unaware by drawing out of him an odd, unexplainable emotion he’d never felt before—one he dared not try to name.
“Sorcha,” he murmured, liking the way the sound of her name tightened the air in his lungs.
“Yes,” she paused.
Her lips remained poised for another kiss.
“I want you,” he said, unable to stop himself from confessing his desire again.
“I know you do, Sir Henry.” Her breath whispered a soft caress over his face as she turned her head away. “I said you can have me. . . .if you accept my challenge.”
“What challenge?”
“To go up against me in a dragon fight.” She lifted her head.
Henry looked at her with incredulous shock. “You’re jesting, right?”
“I’m serious. I need a dragon rider to accept my challenge so I can compete. It’s the only way non members of the Dragon Fighter’s Society can participate in an exhibition or tournament.”
“Yes, but that’s meant for men with a dragon. Not women.”
“I have a dragon, several of them.”
“But you’re a woman.” He stroked her face. “A very beautiful one, too.”
“I read the rules. They say ‘anyone.’”
“An oversight.”
“Regardless, I want to take advantage of that oversight. Will you accept?”
He pulled her head down again. It would be a small price for her virtue. He never cared who he went up against in the dragon games. He’d certainly be able to win against her. And just as she had mentioned taking advantage, he decided to do so now.
She did nothing to prevent him from enfolding her in his arms. He kissed her deeply, taking what he could get.
“So does this mean you shall accept my challenge?” she asked when their mouths broke free.
“Regrettably, I cannot.” He relinquished his hold.
“Are you certain you want to refuse me?” A sly grin curved her mouth.
What was she up to? He eyed her curiously, carefully waiting for her to spring some trap.
He never guessed her next move.
Her arms folded around his neck and her lips pressed his. Instead of disappointment, she showed tenacity with a cleverly performed, age-old form of bribery. She kissed him. Not a simple peck to the cheek, or brush of her lips against his, no, she flat out pressed her mouth hard to his and delved deeper than he had ever experienced before. From twisting their bodies closer to tongue flicking and lip nibbling, she exhibited her clear determination. He had to admit, she expressed herself well without words. Her exuberant moans came close to trapping him into agreeing.
“Now tell me you cannot.” She pulled back, dropping her arms to her sides.
Passion burned in the sparkle of her violet eyes. He rubbed her shoulders, enjoying the feel of her smooth neck. If lying were in him, he’d have told her anything she wanted to hear. However, as she had pointed out earlier, he was a noble knight who lived by the code of the Dragon Fighter’s Society. And as a man, he took pride in having a good character.
“Women don’t have any business dragon fighting.” He got up, afraid that under her persistent wantonness, he’d yield.
“Why not? Because we’re weak, not as intelligent or agile?”
He took in her darkening eyes. The firm set of her jaw and the sternness of her voice shifted the situation from an enjoyable pleasantness to a regretful outcome. There was no bedding a woman with a single-minded purpose. Unless—
“What if I say I shall give it some thought?” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, finding the velvety texture addictive.
“Really?” Her tone gave away her distrust.
“Show me what spirit you have and I swear I will consider it.” He knew he tested the bounds of chivalry when he added, “In certain circumstances, any man can be persuaded.”
When her brow rose, a twinkle of understanding shone from her beautiful eyes. It was obvious she was not fooled.
“I can be very persuasive.” She pushed him toward the narrow bed.
“I’m sure you can.” He dropped back, going along with her plans for the moment.
Her intoxicating smile heated his insides. She leaned forward, tugged loose the string holding his shirt closed, and shoved it open. Her hot fingers glided around his chest, circling his nipples. She scratched lightly over them with her nails, and then raked a path down to his abdomen.
He rose on his elbows to watch her performance, but then had second thoughts. This wasn’t how he wanted any woman. Trickery, deceit, it wasn’t his style. Besides, Sorcha was different then other women he knew. Yes, she was strong-willed and tenacious. Yes, she was beautiful and willing. Yet, there was a refined quality beneath her outward semblance of a woman with a hardened soul.
She unfastened his trousers.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this?” he said, giving her a chance to change her mind and save face.
She rubbed the hair fringing his groin. A scorching heat rushed from his belly over his chest, up his neck and inflamed his cheeks.
“Why Sir Henry, you’re not a virgin, are you?” She turned her hand and her knuckles brushed his hardening cock.
“I have the required experience.” He laughed, trying to shake off the unsettling way he felt embarrassed for his actions—for what Sorcha thought of him. “And you?”
The crudeness of his question coupled with the fact that he didn’t want to know about her sexual activities with other men made him cringe inside. His enjoyment of a saucy wench was no different from the next man’s, so he tried to relax and forget how he wanted to shield her from debauchery.
“I am not new to sexual foreplay, Sir Henry.” Her fingers folded around his erection.
In her fisted grasp, she stroked him. Up and down, she pumped his thickening cock. The caressing friction heated his shaft. Then she squeezed harder, yanking on his sensitive skin. He reached back and grasped the smooth timber of the bed frame for support.
This was a woman with the clear intention of getting her way. Had he misread her true character? Was she nothing more than a run of the mill tavern wench, bedded by dozens of men? That thought saddened him, though he didn’t know why.
Her hand settled at the root of his erection, ringing the base and coming to rest in the mat of hair. “How does this make you feel, Sir Henry?”
All she need do was ask, and he would agree to do anything as long as she continued.
“Good,” he answered, his voice shaky.
“Are you giving my challenge thought?” Her massaging swept over his swollen cock-head.
“Yes,” he moaned the lie. He’d try not to regret the untruth later when his head was clear.
She rubbed a sensitive nerve that sent shivers through him.
Hurry, he wanted to beg.
“How long can you hold out?” Her breathy laugh tickled his hot erection.
He anticipated her lips slipping over the end and her wet mouth engulfing as much of his aching cock as she could take.
“Tell me, Sir Henry, will you accept my challenge?” Her serious tone and cool gaze snapped him from his waiting rapture.
“You are persistent,” he said.
“You have not answered me.” She let go of his cock.
The nippy air, combined with the chill in Sorcha’s demeanor, shrank his arousal.
“I have not gained all my senses back.” He grinned, attempting to lighten the mood. “I never conduct business with a muddled brain.”
“I am more skilled than half the knights in the Dragon Fighter Society.” She wiggled out of his hold and sat up. “You were half drunk when you brought me in here for your needs. I saw no slowness in thought then.”
“Ale does not interfere with lust, my pretty.” He got to his feet and tucked his genitals back into his britches. “I believe it enhances desire.”
A Tavern Wench to Bed Page 2
