He broke the kiss, and whispered the words that had never rung more true. “Sibh ar mèinn, moileen.”
He pressed heated kisses to her ear, then to her neck, as he drew her skirts up above her knees. With every pore of his body, he wanted to be inside her, to become one with the only woman who would ever dwell in his heart.
She slid her leg ’round one of his, and he opened his trews, then lifted her, quickly finding the split in her drawers. With one swift move, he was inside.
Their climax overtook them all at once, and they soared to that place where his filmy essence blended with hers, creating a pleasure that shuddered through their bràths as well as their physical bodies. He felt her quake against him, and heard her sighs of satisfaction. And when it was over, he did not withdraw, but kept them joined as he looked into her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Jenny…I shouldna—”
She touched her fingers to his lips and closed her eyes, then touched his cheek as though she were committing every detail of his face to her memory. He bent down to touch his forehead to hers, then gently lowered her to the ground. She stepped away and righted her clothes while Matthew fastened his trews. In the dim light, he noticed that the shelves behind the counter were empty now. He looked over the counter and saw that the tobacconist’s wares lay all over the floor.
“We should get away from here,” Jenny said quietly, her voice distracting him from their surroundings. Rising up onto her toes, she looked out the window. “It’s not so bad now.”
He came up behind her and saw that she was right. There were some stragglers, but the mob had passed by. And here they were inside a locked shop, which was surely not permissible.
Stealing one more kiss, he took Jenny’s hand and let them out of the shop, correcting the disarray behind him, for he was certain the shelves had been intact when they’d come inside. He had no explanation for what had happened to all the pouches and boxes, but could only imagine it had something to do with the intensity of their joining. A similar mishap had occurred every time he’d made love to Jenny in the Gypsy caravan…
They entered the street and saw that they were still unable to pass in the direction of the Queen’s Hotel. They headed back toward Mrs. Welby’s house, giving a wide berth to the straggling groups that remained in the street.
They were nearly at the Welby house when a mean-looking giant who was armed with a long stick grabbed Jenny. “Ye’re one o’ them from King’s Street, ain’t ye, now?”
“No! I’m a visitor—”
The man pulled Jenny off her feet, and Matthew reacted. Without touching him, Matthew shoved the giant off his feet. The man released Jenny as he flew across the brick pavement, crashing into a number of his cohorts.
“Come on!” Matthew shouted. He grabbed Jenny again, half lifting her off her feet, and ran all the way back to the Welby house. When they were safely inside, she turned to him with astonishment in her eyes. “What happened back there? What did you do to that man?”
Chapter 9
“Naught, Jenny. He just lost his footing and fell.”
That was the most likely explanation, but she’d seen Matthew raise one hand and make an odd gesture, then suddenly her attacker was lying on the far side of the street. His explanation was the only reasonable one, but yet…
After all that had happened in the past hour, Jenny could not comprehend one more thing. She should never have allowed that fast, intense coupling inside the darkened shop, but their joining had felt impossibly right. She’d wanted him with more passion than she had experienced before.
She stood with her back against the wall in Mrs. Welby’s entryway, with Matthew looming over her as he leaned on the arm he’d extended to the wall beside her head. He touched her gently with his other hand. “Are you all right, moileen?”
She should have felt embarrassed to look into his eyes after behaving like such a wanton, but he’d felt the same driving need. They’d been perfectly matched.
“Yes. I-I’m fine.” Except for the red-haired woman in his past.
Mrs. Welby came into the entryway, carrying a lamp and looking worried. “Such a commotion out there.”
Matthew pushed away from the wall, and Jenny’s heart finally started to slow. “A huge, angry crowd gathered—”
“Oh aye,” said Mrs. Welby. “The Irish and Scots weavers. Complaining about their wages. She bolted the door and went to peek through the shutters of the first-floor windows. “They’ll need to call out the militia. Their leaders ought to be put into the House of Corrections this time.”
“They looked verra poor,” said Matthew. “What can we do?”
“Do? For those ruffians?”
“Aye. Their bairns looked half starved.”
Jenny had noticed the same thing and felt pity for the small ones, but since she barely had enough to keep herself from starvation, she did not know what she could do. She felt a surge of warmth for Matthew and his concern for the children.
“They should go back where they came from, so our own good English weavers can get enough work to keep them,” Mrs. Welby said as she retreated to her sitting room. They heard her locking the shutters of the rest of the windows.
Jenny and Matthew climbed the stairs and went to their own room, but she no longer had any appetite. The evening had been fraught with upheaval, and she did not know what to think or what she should do about Matthew.
He opened his pack and took out the food they’d brought from the Gypsy camp, bidding Jenny to sit in the chair by the fire. He laid the food on the table and sat down at her feet.
“I’m not hungry anymore, Matthew.”
He ignored her and handed her a thick slice of bread and some cheese. “Try just a few bites, moileen.”
Jenny had to resist the urge to sink down beside him and slip her fingers into his hair. She craved the flavor of his lips and the intimate slide of his hands on her shoulders and neck, around her waist and hips.
She wanted more than the quick coupling they’d experienced in the tobacconist’s shop.
Perhaps the red-haired woman was not his wife, but merely someone Matthew had known before he’d been injured. Possibly a sister. Or the wife of a friend. Maybe she shouldn’t have jumped to the worst possible conclusion.
Or maybe she was deluding herself.
Her troubled thoughts fled her mind when he took one of her shoes in hand and unbuttoned it. He removed it and rubbed her cold foot through her wet stocking.
“Take it off, Jenny,” he said quietly.
“Matthew…”
“Or I will.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she reached under her skirt and rolled down both stockings, so that when he removed her other shoe, he was not impeded by her hose. He rubbed her feet with his big hands, returning the warmth and circulation to them, reducing her bones to putty at the same time.
Jenny closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, her emotions painfully unsettled, but unable to resist his touch.
“You’ve bonny wee feet, moileen,” he said quietly, his voice easing any misgivings she had.
After only a few minutes, her feet were warm and her body languid. Her mind grew complacent and irresponsible. Matthew’s touch was all that mattered.
He skimmed a finger lightly up her leg, from her ankle to her knee. Then his hand circled behind it, searing the sensitive skin with his touch. Pushing her skirts aside, he pressed a light kiss to her thigh, then treated the other leg to the same sweet torture. Jenny’s body hummed with arousal.
“So soft,” he murmured, looking up at her, “like silk.” He stood and took her by the hand, drawing her to her feet, leading her to the bed. Jenny could not deny him—or herself—the pleasure she knew would follow.
They undressed each other slowly, taking time to kiss and caress the skin they bared, while Jenny forced thoughts of tomorrow from her mind.
Standing naked together in the small room with only the dim light from the hearth, Matthew pressed a gentle ki
ss to her lips. “My bonny Jenny,” he whispered, then laid her on the bed.
Jenny slid her fingers through his hair as he touched a kiss to her jaw, then another to her neck. He moved down and took one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making her quiver with a yearning that she felt through to her soul.
His breath feathered lightly over her belly, then the hollows between her hipbones. He slipped his hands under her hips and pulled her close as he pressed kisses to her soft skin. Easing one finger inside her, he flicked the sensitive nub with his tongue.
As Jenny came close to shattering, he drew his mouth slowly away and moved up, kissing the indentation of her navel, then her breast. She took a deep, shuddering breath and shifted position, so that she was beside him, facing him.
Inching her hand down the length of his body, she was gratified by his growl of arousal when she encircled his manhood and ran her thumb over the tip. He jerked as if in pain, but Jenny knew her touch pleased him. She kissed his broad chest, then ran her tongue over one taut brown nipple as her hands stroked him, exploring him, learning all she needed to know from his gasps and moans.
“Jenny…mo oirg.” His words were a mere gasp.
He rolled to his back, pulling her with him, then positioning her on top. Jenny’s hair was a wild mass of light curls around her face, dropping over her shoulders. Matthew reached up to brush it behind her, then cupped her breasts in his hands as he slid inside her.
“Matthew,” she moaned as she arched her back, giving him more, wanting more.
“Aye, lass. Move on me,” he whispered. “Any way you want…”
Jenny found a rhythm, her movements pleasing them both.
“Ainchis!” he groaned, and though she did not understand the word, she knew he was consumed by the same fire that drove her.
The tempo increased and Matthew began to move, too, sliding in and out of her, finally slamming his body into hers as they met in a tumultuous climax, shuddering their release at once. They came together in the otherworldly fog, their inner selves transparent as they slid into one another, becoming one.
At length, they returned to their bodies. Jenny raised her head and looked into his eyes, wishing she could see into his mind and help him retrieve his lost memories. She would give anything to be certain the woman in the galss ball was not his wife.
The sound of glass shattering somewhere outside broke the mood of the moment, and Matthew stood and quickly extinguished the lamp beside the bed. Then he went to the window and looked down.
“Stay back, Jenny,” he said when she started to rise from the bed. “They are moving this way again, and I doona trust that crowd. They are desperate.”
The Isle of Coruain, 981
Ana’s cousins had been gone nearly a week, and Eilinora’s assault had not abated. Ana could barely move. Her bones were nearly healed, but the pressure in her chest was likely to kill her if it did not stop soon. She was weakening by the hour.
Several of the elders had gathered ’round the pallet on which she lay inside the great hall of Coruain House, adding their strength to her resistance against the Odhar. ’Twas only their combined assistance that kept Eilinora from succeeding in killing her, just as the she-deamhan had killed Kieran.
“No, witch, I doona give you access to my mind!” she whispered, her voice a harsh rasp that barely scraped past her dry throat.
“Then I will have your life, little gurach!”
Ana wasted no energy on a response to the words that only she could hear, but kept her full attention on bolstering the shielding swathe that encircled the isles.
“Shall I take one of your pathetic elders and destroy her?”
A terrible, hot wind burst through the ceiling, shattering wood and glass, and the elders scrambled to close the gap in the shield. Before it could be done, a horrible cry sounded in Ana’s ears. The elders gasped, then called out in horror. With intense effort, Ana turned her head and saw the tortured form of Nessa, burning to cinders as they watched. The fire burned her horribly from within, and there was naught that any of them could do to prevent it.
Sickened by the terrible assault, Ana felt more vulnerable than she had since her cousins’ departure. With supreme effort, she pushed up onto one elbow and shot a fatal blast of lòchran back through the shield, and though Eilinora escaped it, Ana saw two of her Odhar fall. Ana focused her energy on another attack, but saw the witch raise the Druzai rod of gold, the chieftain’s scepter.
“Tighten it! Reinforce the shield now!” she cried as her own powers surged forth to protect them. “She wields…the chieftain’s scepter…”
Cianán acted immediately, his horror and fear etched upon his face, and with good reason. Eilinora was using the scepter to burst through the shields that were their only protection without the blood stones.
“It gives her more power than we can withstand!”
Liam fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. Ana tried again to demolish Eilinora, taking the witch by surprise with the strength of her assault. “Begone, deamhan!”
Eilinora suddenly released Liam from the invisible claws that held him, and he crawled to his knees, struggling in pain, gasping for breath.
“How can she do this?” cried Cianán as the others helped the elder to his feet. “Not even the scepter should give her such power! Will she destroy all of us, one by one?”
“We can hold her until Brogan and Merrick return!” Ana whispered with vehemence. She fought the weakness brought by the strain of defending Coruain and the pain of her mending bones. “Be strong!”
Carlisle, March 1826
The mob moved away from the Welby house, but as much as Matthew wanted to remain in the bed with Jenny, he felt he needed to keep watch until the unruly mass of people dispersed. The house would not provide much protection if the crowd decided to break windows and press inside.
He crouched beside the bed and reached over to push a stray curl gently from Jenny’s forehead. Doubt had replaced the passion in her eyes, and there was naught he could do to dispel it. At least not yet. She’d experienced the same joining of souls as he had, and would soon come to understand what it meant.
Matthew stood and pulled on his trews, then moved the chair over to the window where he could see beyond the curtain. Taking a seat, he propped his feet on the end of the bed.
“Do you think they’ll come back?” Jenny asked. They could still hear the raucous voices shouting in the direction of the town center.
“’Tis doubtful. Those constable men will soon disperse them, I’m sure.”
“And the militia. Mrs. Welby mentioned that.”
She said it as though he should understand the word, but it meant little to him. Wherever he came from, they had no such thing as a militia. But the memory of fighting men, warriors, men who trained and fought to ensure peace and security, came to him. “Do you mean the ulhabar?”
“Ulhabar?”
Matthew heard her turn over to lie on her side, facing him in the dark. He would much rather climb in with her and curl his body ’round hers, keeping them both warm through the night, and ponder his vague inklings of ulhabar.
But the danger from the encroaching mob was very real. He wanted to be ready to take Jenny away in case the crowd got any uglier.
“Is it a Gaelic word?”
“I suppose,” Matthew replied, although he was not so sure of it. The word “Gaelic” itself was not as familiar as it should be if it were his native tongue. ’Twas so puzzling. There were many aspects of this place that seemed wholly unfamiliar. And yet much that he knew.
“Jenny, can you tell the rest of Malory’s tale without having to read it?” ’Twas a way to keep their connection, even though they were not touching. And mayhap something else would sound familiar.
“Of course. The tale has long been my favorite. I memorized it years ago, and only brought out the book last night so the Moffat children could see the illustrations.”
She began to
recite it, and Matthew listened to her voice as she described events he vaguely remembered. Yet he had an awareness that her recounting of the ancient king’s history was not quite accurate.
“Arthwyr had a temper,” he said suddenly.
“Arthwyr?”
Matthew shrugged in the near darkness. “’Twas how he was called. He didna care for anyone to cross him, either.”
“According to Malory, he was a fair and just king who—”
“Aye, but sometimes his temper was unreasonable. Unfair.”
“Perhaps,” said Jenny. “Do you want to hear the rest?”
“Aye. I’ll…Go ahead.”
He felt more confused now than he’d been ever since his injury. He could not understand why he would feel so certain about this legendary king who’d been dead for centuries. He could picture the man in his mind, and could see his red-gold hair and thick, red brows. He clearly recalled Arthwyr’s fiery temper and had tested his skill with a sword.
“Tell me more about Merlin.”
She yawned, her voice soft and drowsy. “He was an old wizard with white hair and a long, grizzled beard.”
Matthew felt his forehead tighten. “What was his role in Arthwyr’s court?”
“Matthew, is the tale familiar?”
“Aye, lass.”
His eyes had adjusted to the shadows of the room, and he could see that she’d propped her head on her hand. “Do you recall where you heard it?”
He did not think he’d heard it, but lived it. How else could he picture it so vividly? “No, I canna recall exactly. Only that…” Feeling surprisingly irritated, he knew that Malory had gotten it wrong. There’d been no affair between Gwyn and Lancelot. And Merlin was no wizened old man.
Matthew was Merlin.
He stood abruptly.
“What is it? Are they coming back?” Jenny asked, alarmed. She sat up in the bed.
“Ach no, moileen,” he replied, realizing her alarm was about the dangerous crowd and not his ominous memory. “Lie back down.”
“Then what—”
“Naught. You should try to sleep now.”
Temptation of the Warrior Page 16
