Road Warriors (Motorcycle Club Romance Collection) (Bad Boy Collections Book 4)

by Faye, Amy

  "I missed you," she said softly. It didn't feel as if she was being honest, as if she were leaving something out. She noticed as she sat up that she was straddling him, and noticed the hardness between them. Her hips ground against it lightly on their own, and she enjoyed the look that crossed his face, a mix between pleasure and frustration.

  "I was looking for you," he answered, trying to sit up under her, but she pushed him back to the ground. She pressed her lips into his neck, tracing the line of his law, and just under it in the soft tissue of his throat.

  His hands reached to cup her bottom, pressing her against him, driving home the feeling of his hardness pressed against her, only a few pieces of fabric separating them. She wanted them off, wanted to feel him moving inside her again. She fought the urge to tell him so, because more than that, she wanted this moment to last forever.

  "Gods above," he breathed, his hips rocking into hers, sending shivers of pleasure up her spine even through their clothing. The feeling that he was holding himself back for her drove her crazy.

  She wanted him, and she wanted him to take what he wanted from her. It seemed strange for the soldier, the man who had taken so much from so many, to be afraid to take the one thing she wanted to give to him.

  She pulled back, sitting back against his thighs, and started to unbutton her dress, letting it slip forward a bit to show enough skin to suggest exactly what she wanted without giving away the entire show. Would that be enough to entice him, she wondered?

  She got her answer as he flipped her over in an instant, reminding her once again that he was trained in this, in a way that she simply wasn't. He was the one who would always come out on top, if he wanted it, and now that she was practically offering an invitation he wasted no time in taking it.

  The grass was scratchy on Deirdre's bare back, but she didn't need to worry about it for long, as he pulled the dress away roughly, giving her barely enough time to free her arms from the sleeves. She should have been embarrassed to be out like this, breasts bared, in the middle of an open field.

  A blush spread across her face as she realized exactly how open it was. This was nothing like the night that they had spent together—at night, and with only a few people around to hear, no one to see. If someone looked over at the wrong moment, they would have quite a sight to behold.

  She tried to ignore it, but the more that she thought about it the more that her face reddened. It was hard to admit, but the warmth spread below, as well, at the thought of someone seeing her. Seeing her taken by Gunnar. She shivered in anticipation.

  He pinched a sensitive nipple between his fingers, shooting a shock of pleasure straight through her. Deirdre recovered her senses and reached down between them, feeling for that hardness in his trousers. He moved to press himself into her hand at the same moment that she felt his own fingers dancing up the inside of her thigh.

  His every movement lifted her skirt just a little higher, knowing that soon her every secret place would be on display for anyone who happened by. They were taking a big risk, doing this here, and yet—Deirdre found she didn't care at all.

  No, it was more than that, she wanted it. The rush of taking the risk, of being only a few hundred paces from the working men who could never have her, was making her giddy, driving her arousal to greater and greater heights.

  Gunnar pulled himself back at the last moment, even as his fingers were teasing the upper parts of her thigh, tantalizingly close to the place she so desperately wanted him to touch. She felt a wave of disappointment as his hands withdrew, as he pulled his hardness from her exploring hands.

  Then he was lowering himself between her legs, his fingers resuming their exploration with more insistence, until he came to the place between her legs at last, and Deirdre felt relief flood through her as he finally scratched the itch that had been building inside her, letting his thumb run over her clitoris lightly and shooting pleasure through her body.

  Yet at the same time her body tightened with the feelings that she couldn't begin to explain. She needed something more, something she couldn't explain, but when she felt his beard pressing into her, felt his tongue exploring her folds, she knew that he was more aware of her needs even than she was.

  Deirdre let her head fall back, her hand pinching her nipples in an attempt to wring as much pleasure out of the moment. She was so close to the place that she needed to be, but she needed something just a little bit more, and it felt as if any moment she might find it.

  Then his fingers probed her insides as his tongue continued to trace delicious lines through her folds, and she found what she was looking for, the relief racking her body and sending her spiraling out of control, out of awareness. In her mind she could see both of them, as if she'd used her herbs for focusing.

  She imagined what it must be like for one of those men to look over. The noises that she had been making must have drawn some attention, but when she turned her head to see, the men she could see were acting as if they hadn't noticed. Were they aroused? Would they go home and fuck their wives with this memory in their minds?

  She could feel his hips between her thighs, could feel him lining himself up with her entrance, and she quivered with anticipation at what was to come. Any moment now—and then he pressed against her, entering her with one smooth thrust that sent him hilt-deep into her.

  He thrust into her, each thrust dimming her vision for a split-second, the force of his thrusts pushing her a half-inch each time. This was what she'd needed, she thought. This was what she'd wanted, what she needed, and he was giving it to her completely.

  She had given herself to him just as much, and for the second time in her life, everything felt perfect as she felt him bucking against him, the instant before he spilled his seed inside.

  Gunnar spent himself inside her and held himself there for a moment, enjoying how close he felt to her. Watching her face for any signs of distress, but Deirdre looked as contented as he'd ever seen her. He smiled for a moment and then moved off to the side, laying in the grass next to her and wrapping his arm around her.

  He had tired himself out more than he should have, given that he still had a ways to go yet. This was, after all, not just a mission to go find her and come straight back, but with her there it felt as if he'd gotten everything he wanted.

  He no longer needed to worry that she was off somewhere, being arrested or worse. She was, after all, right beside him. No longer needed to try to justify going out to look for her. And more than that, she might be able to attend to some of their wounded. He looked over at her, admiring the slope of her jaw, the roundness of her cheeks.

  Perfect, he thought. She looked absolutely perfect, and nothing that happened could possibly take that away from her, no matter how badly the next few hours, the next few days, would go. They would at least be together, and she would keep being just as perfect as she was. He stood up, offering a hand to help Deirdre to her feet.

  She seemed to suddenly recall that she was mostly-nude, as her dress fell down her hips to the ground, and her face went bright red to match her hair. Gunnar smiled, turning to watch the horizon. Nobody could challenge him now, or they would find themselves greeted by a very protective Dane.

  He handed the knife back to her a third time. It was hers, after all, and he had no place to keep it besides. Deirdre looked surprised to see it, but thanked him just the same and pulled the sheath out of a little bag that she pulled from the ground and drove it home. Gunnar appreciated the irony, after what they'd just done, but perhaps it wasn't the time for those sort of jokes.

  "Come with me," he said, and started to walk. When she didn't follow, he explained himself. "I'm supposed to be looking for English soldiers, but I found an English witch instead, you see. I was lucky."

  She rolled her eyes and worked the buttons on her dress until she was satisfied with it, and then started after him. He took the backpack from her arms and threw it around his own shoulders. "After all," he justified, "I haven't got anythin
g else to carry, have I?"

  Deirdre kept quiet for most of the way, so he took the time to explain the plan to her.

  They would make a beeline for the coast; she would join them, not as a prisoner, but as his lover, and anyone who had a problem with it would answer to him. No one would, he suspected, but he left the last part off.

  Then, when they arrived, they'd go home. He didn't bother to explain where home was; after all, it was obvious, wasn't it? She seemed to agree and understand. If she could provide some help to their wounded, of which there were a few, that would be excellent.

  "I'll need to gather medicinal herbs; I didn't bring any with me, but we can probably find something on the way," she reasoned. Already, she seemed to be lost in thought, though he couldn't venture a guess as to what had her so distracted. She was thinking about something and that was all he could say. All he would say.

  Every hundred-odd paces she would see something and move over to pick it, flowers he didn't recognize, and some that he did, though he didn't know the names of them. She didn't offer him a botany lesson and he didn't ask for it, contented to watch her very shapely bottom as she leaned over to pluck what she needed—sometimes, just the flower, and other times using her body-weight to pull up the entire plant from the root.

  It was fascinating just to watch her, to see how well she understood the craft that she was applying herself to. She seemed to know each plant intimately, seemed to have a plan that was already forming in her head and adapting it every time that she found something new, or didn't find something that she expected.

  The last leg, routing back up to the camp, Gunnar remained silent. He had promised her that there would be no trouble, but that could have been a lie. Gunnar had no illusions that when he had kept her in his tent so many times before, it had been cause for conversation.

  But at the same time, he had his doubts that they would fight him. Why would they, after all? He could have left, and every man in the party knew that. If he had chosen to go with her before, if he had chosen not to come back, then he wouldn't be there.

  His loyalty was without question, and her obedience had been demonstrated several times over. What was the harm if he wanted to keep her around, especially with her medical knowledge?'

  Surely, if Valdemar had thought her useful before he would find her useful now, and if the both of them had no objections to her presence, no one else would dare to speak up about it.

  But even still, he wondered. What was going to happen when they got to the coast, when they found a ship to take back home? Would they object to the extra mouth to feed on the journey?

  He entered the camp quietly, hoping not to draw any attention, but it was no more than a moment before Valdemar had seen them. Both of them. And as soon as he saw them, he was already moving toward them.

  Thirty-Six

  The return that she had to the Viking camp was not exactly the one that Deirdre had hoped for. Gunnar had immediately been met on his return by Valdemar, and the two of them had gone off to discuss what, only the Gods above knew.

  She was left in a camp of men, most of whom looked as if they were on their last legs, with no particular instructions. She had been asked to have a look at them, so she would. Beyond that, though, she was intensely conscious of the fact that for most of them, she had been a prisoner only a short while ago, and now when she was back, what was she supposed to be?

  The entire time that she walked around, making her first cursory examination of the men, Deirdre felt as if she were walking on eggshells. The first person whose ire she raised, even slightly, would go off and then she'd be in trouble. Gunnar said that he would step in, and if she didn't trust him to do it then she wouldn't have come here in the first place.

  But she had assumed that it would feel less strange. More than that, though, even without speaking their language she could tell that the Northmen were having an internal debate about what was going to happen next. The lines were still drawn, it seemed, that she had noticed the night before she left. And that time, they had come to blows.

  Could she afford to be here when it came to blows a second time? She didn't need to answer the question to herself—she already knew that if things got rough, she would be the one given short shrift. She was the only one, after all, who couldn't hold her own in a fight. Regardless how much blood stained her hands, regardless what she had done to protect herself and the man she'd given herself to, she was never going to be one of them.

  She was always going to be English, and always going to be a medic first and a fighter, barely at all.

  So what sort of future did she have with Gunnar? How long was he going to keep doing this, keep fighting and killing? Would it just be year after year of waiting for him to come home until one day, he didn't come back? How did she fit into that life? As someone to keep his bed warm until it was time to go killing again?

  Her shoulders slumped for a moment as the energy and confidence that had managed to carry her this far started to seep out. She took in a deep breath, pushed her shoulders back, and forced herself to keep going. There were four injured badly, and she should look at those first. Another few who required medical attention.

  Every one of them, Gunnar included, looked rough. Worn-down. But she couldn't do anything for that affliction—they would need time and rest, and that was something that she couldn't administer. It did mean, though, that they needed to get out of England. She was beginning to see why Gunnar had planned to make a bee-line for the coast.

  She knelt down beside one of them, a man who had taken a sword through the flank. From the look of things, she had to guess that it was not a fatal blow. If he were going to bleed to death, then he would have done it by now. It seemed as if it had missed any vital spots, but the risk of rot was too big to leave it be.

  Poultices took time to make, but she had been learning how to work quickly this past month. Odd, she thought as her hands worked, that she had learned as much with these Vikings as her "teachers" as she had with Brigid, it seemed. In terms of practical ability, she had more experience now than she had ever dreamed of.

  She wrapped his midsection up tight, noting how the man tried to suppress a groan as she tied it down, the knot pressing into the wound to hold the poultice tight against it. It must have hurt quite a bit, but he bore it almost silently, and she had no time for sympathy. She had patients to treat, and it might take the rest of the day for her to finish seeing to them all.

  Deirdre wiped a thin layer of sweat from her forehead, more from the effort of concentration than the heat of the sun beating down on her back. She couldn't guarantee that the second would live. He'd taken a bad hit, into the gut, and she knew that it was more than likely his wound would go septic regardless. The damage was already done.

  But what would happen if she told someone that? They might tell her to try again, or they might leave the man for dead. Perhaps they would think the sword a faster end to his pain than letting a wound go bad over days or weeks. Deirdre already knew that she couldn't accept that. So she worked, and as she worked she tried to think.

  These men were in trouble. All of them, regardless of their wounds. Their time in prison had tired them all out tremendously, and the flight from Norwich had taken its toll. Some, even those without injuries, looked as if they could barely stand up straight, and as much of a show of stoicism as they put up, she could see it in their faces. A stiff wind might blow them off their feet.

  She moved from body to body, mechanically. After two of them, she knew that Gunnar watched her, from a discreet distance. Whether he was watching her or them, she couldn't say. Nor was she certain what he watched for. But she knew that he was waiting for her to finish, so when she had finally seen to the last of the injured, she stood back up, wiped her brow, and made her way over to him.

  His lips softly brushed hers. He was showing her the affection that he felt, but in another way he was every part the commander that she had first met. He was thinking as much or more about h
is men than about her, and she understood it, even if she didn't like it.

  "What do you think?"

  "As a healer?"

  "As a healer, yes."

  Deirdre nodded. Professional was not what she was used to, but she understood the need to be direct. "They will live, most of them. One or two might be close, but—"

  "Good," he said softly.

  He let out a breath and Deirdre was reminded of how tired he must be, how long the past weeks must have been for him. While she was riding around, he was aware that his life was nearly over. It had been mere chance that her distraction had allowed them not to execute him on the spot when the Northmen made their ambush.

  "I don't think they're in any condition to fight. They're worn out, on their last legs."

  "I know. But I can't let that affect my decisions."

  "How long do we stay here?"

  "You're the expert, how soon can we leave?"

  She turned back, scanned the group, and tried to think of what she had seen.

  "They could be moving, albeit slowly, as soon as you need them to be. But be careful. They won't be moving quickly for some time. Days, weeks—I can't say."

  "Then we'll have to get them moving sooner. The sooner they are back in their homes, the sooner that they can truly rest."

  Deirdre nodded. The problem was, how would they manage it?

  The march was hard on Gunnar's legs, and he was one of the strongest. It was not lost on him that he had pushed the march hard, and that the entire camp behind him was suffering for it.

  But they couldn't afford to take the risk of pushing any less hard. They needed to be gone, and they needed to be out of this place yesterday. It was only a matter of time until the English managed to figure out which direction they had gone. The nights they had spent in the same place already were a big enough risk.

  He knew what it looked like to them, as well. He demands they wait, then he shows up with his woman the next day and then it was time to get moving in a damn hurry. Well, he could take that criticism. He knew exactly what it looked like, and he couldn't find a better answer for them. Maybe that was exactly what it was.