The Golden Key Legacy

by AJ Nuest

  “Don’t.” The gravel-laden timbre of his voice sent a thrill skating over her skin, as did the soft press of his lips upon the ticklish spot beneath her ear. “Sleep.”

  She covered his hand with hers, twining their fingers together. His soft murmur of contentment fluttered her hair. His knees slid across the sleeping pallet, nestling behind hers as if the two of them were spoons in a drawer.

  Indeed, she could have happily succumbed to his request to remain abed. The slumber she’d enjoyed wrapped within his arms had been that of such deep repose, not one hint of Gaelleod’s hauntings had invaded her dreams. How extraordinary one night in Rhys’ chambers, falling asleep with her cheek cradled upon his chest, had offered her such a long-awaited reprieve.

  Unfortunately, whether she chose to leave his arms or linger a moment longer was not her decision to make. “I need to use the privy.”

  He grumbled his displeasure, curling his entire body around hers in a blanketing embrace. “Across the room by the sink. It’s the only door in the place.” A tender nibble of her ear, and he grudgingly released her. “Come right back.”

  Amusement quirked her lips as she crawled from beneath the blankets. The man spoke as if not only her, but the entirety of the Austiere Kingdom were his to command. He would be well advised to remember the only crown she’d sworn to obey decorated that of her father’s dark brow…and fulfilling even his commands stretched the limits of her exasperation.

  After making use of the facilities, she stopped at the basin to splash a few handfuls of water upon her cheeks and comb her fingers through the unruly mop of her hair. A peek at Rhys through a crack in the door, and she swung the handle wide, stealing across the floor to the end of his bed.

  He was not asleep, though the way he’d tossed one muscled arm over his eyes and the deep rhythm of his breathing was undoubtedly meant for her to believe as much.

  She tipped her head to better scrutinize the series of elaborate, black runes that had been etched into the underside of his arm. How odd he would mark his body in such a way, though perchance their meaning held some significance she could not determine. They were a language she’d not yet encountered in her studies.

  Shaking her head, she propped her hands on her hips. Confidence radiated from the relaxed sprawl of his limbs—one leg bent, his left arm lying crosswise atop her pillow, as if waiting to pull her close the moment of her return…as if her desire to do as much was a foregone conclusion. The masculine scent of youth and virility wafted off his skin in a hypnotic appeal that nearly had her rushing to do his bidding.

  She lifted a brow in shrewd deliberation of reclaiming her spot at his side. Certainly, his request had been innocuous enough. Quite right, joining him for a heated tousle beneath the sheets bespoke a temptation she was loathe to ignore. Yet ʼtwould be unwise to allow their relationship to commence as if one utterance from him and she would scurry to grant his every wish.

  Whisking her red sweater over her head, she stripped to her lacy chemise and fitted blue breeches, and spun from the end of his sleeping pallet for the training mats occupying the corner of his vaulted chambers.

  Eight years had passed since she’d enlisted in the Royal Guard. Eight years of striving to fulfill her duty, obeying each order without hesitation in her quest to earn a small measure of respect.

  She sat cross-legged on the training mats and closed her eyes. She was not a child to be ordered about. Her arrival in this realm confirmed she’d left those days behind her. And she had not disregarded her father’s warnings…she would not bear the punishment for her insubordination by turning straight around and charging headlong into a coupling where she was not afforded her own sway.

  Filling her lungs, she placed her hands on her knees and slowly exhaled.

  If Rhys McEleod wanted her in his bed, he’d best just come and get her.

  “What…are you doing?”

  She peeked at him with one eye—propped on his elbow, head braced in his hand, the thin material of his sleeveless shirt stretched tight over the beveled planes of his chest. No effort was needed to imagine the resistance those hard muscles would demonstrate pressed against her breasts. He’d presented her the opportunity the moment he’d yanked her onto his lap and a thrill had left her breathless beneath his searing kiss.

  A shiver stole through her body, and she gritted her teeth as an answering echo quivered her core. “I’m about my morning meditations, sir. Now shush.”

  Closing her eye, she struggled to clear her mind of his enticing distractions. Though how such a task was to be accomplished while the intensity of his gaze heated her skin remained a mystery.

  She drew another deep breath and slowly exhaled, directing her thoughts to the dilemma at hand—the missing details behind her purpose in this place, her search for Gaelleod and the meaning hidden inside her fitful dreams. Pressing her hands to the floor, she upended into a handstand, her hair whispering down her back as she uncurled her legs into the air.

  While beautiful, Rhys’ portraits of her did not convey the answers she’d hoped to ascertain from her detailed examination. They supplied no clues to her next prudent course other than confirming that which she already knew.

  He’d somehow honed into the facets of her life, only to recreate those same moments in his.

  The question which plagued her still, was how? What connection had permitted him such a deep understanding of her existence? And, more importantly, why his unending compulsion to draw her at all? What purpose did such a thing serve? If not to lure her here in order to gain access to the key, why had the goddesses dispensed him such a curious fate?

  Frustration prickled the ends of her nerves and she flipped to her feet, utilizing her momentum to perform a repeated back handspring toward the far corner of the mat. Thrusting the heel of one hand high at a forty-five degree angle, the other a hard fist near her breast, she lunged forward and held, breathing through the turbulent chaos of her thoughts.

  Clearly, the fault lay with her. She was not astute enough to untangle the threads of such a perplexing web. The rustle of blankets disrupted the still morning air, and her chin instinctively tipped to the right. Or perchance the fault lay in her fascination with Rhys McEleod. ʼTwas a labor in futility trying to concentrate with him near.

  Each stroke of the kohl he’d wrought upon the page the previous evening had been like a caress to her skin. Every time he’d peered at her with his commanding eyes, she’d had to struggle to locate her breath.

  And when he’d swept her into his arms…when he’d squeezed her close as if nothing or no one could ever part their souls, a glimmer of hope had flared in her heart that, at long last, she’d found her true home.

  A spin on her toe and she raced for the opposite wall. Three steps up and she wrenched back, arms extended. Her hands met the mat and she pushed off, careening through the air in a high arc. A whirl as she landed, and she punched her fist forward…and connected with the firm barricade of Rhys McEleod’s chest.

  A smarting pain shot down her arm, but if that same sting reverberated through the unyielding tower of his body, the stubborn set of his jaw gave not the slightest indication she’d dispensed any harm.

  He gripped her wrist, forcing her knuckles deeper into thick muscle as he strode forward. She retreated the same distance to reclaim some space. Matching her pace for pace, he held firm, the tempo of their steps a dangerous dance relaying a fierce contest of wills.

  Her back slammed the wall and he closed in, smacking his palms to the wooden planks on either side of her head. “Where did you learn to move like that?” She lowered her lashes to avoid his inspection, but he dodged low, keeping their gazes locked. “And spare me the half-truths, Faedrah. You and I both know lying to me is a waste of time.”

  Dipping her knees, she tried to escape the prison of his arms yet he moved with her, trapping her in place with the rigid tension in his thighs. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me in. Dammit, I can’t protect you unless you
tell me what you’re hiding.”

  Frustration tightened her jaw, and she fisted the fabric of his shirt. If she confessed, if she allowed the slightest indication of her leap through the veil, he would undoubtedly think her deranged.

  Her uncles had warned her. Magic did not exist in this place. To risk that Rhys’ admiration for her would disintegrate to disgust, to exchange the lust in his gaze for pity… Goddesses wept, she would rather disengage from her quest altogether than to have him peer upon her as if her wits had fled.

  “Why won’t you trust me?” His hands left the wall for her cheeks. The calloused tips of his thumbs swept the thin skin beneath her lashes. “I swear to God, whoever put that fear in your eyes is a dead man.”

  She could not reason with him so close. All thought except banishing the sharp fury from his gaze was lost beneath the heady musk of his skin, the invitation of his lips hovering a breath from hers.

  A whimper scuffed her throat as she ran her palm up his biceps, along his shoulder to scrape her nails through the short hair at his nape. His brow twitched. Arousal darkened his jade irises to the mystery of a shadowed forest, and he squinted.

  “Do not be angry with me.” Rising on the tips of her toes, she urged him near. She needed him to believe in her. Despite the secrets she guarded. Regardless of the uncertainties between them. His faith she could truly embody the woman in his paintings was the one thing to hold her steady and sure amid the unforeseeable tempest she faced. “For all my duplicity, I do not think I could bear it.”

  “Oh, baby.” He sighed, shook his head, and dropped his lips to hers.

  His taste burst across her palate with the intensity of lightning strike. Potent, demanding, filled with longing and the sweet realization of dreams brought to life.

  The tip of his tongue swept a daring swirl around hers. He angled her head and brushed the curves of his mouth over hers before delving deep, matching her needs, stroke for stroke.

  A resonating shudder unfurled in the pit of her stomach, warm and inviting. Her sex spasmed and sparks ricocheted down her legs to the soles of her feet.

  Her uncles had been wrong. Magic did exist in this place. It sizzled in the air around them. Tingled in the tips of her fingers and moistened the aching emptiness between her thighs.

  Rhys’ hold on her cheeks disappeared. He slid his hands along her ribcage and she gasped as he hoisted her onto his hips. The taut muscles of his waist heated her inner thighs. She crossed her ankles in the small of his back and a moan left her chest as the head of his erection prodded her tender folds. Flashpoints exploded behind her closed eyelids. He was hot against her. The bunched tension in his shoulders hard and strong. A tremor quaked through her limbs as he rolled his hips, adding sweet friction to the fiery licks of his kiss. Moisture surged. He growled and thrust deeper, easing his palms down to the backs of her thighs.

  The straining tendons in his arms, the flutter of his fingers along the seam of her ass flooded her body with ecstasy, her mind with lust. No perfunctory readings from her biology tomes came close to the searing desire racing through her veins. The gentle explanations from her mother and giggling admissions of her handmaidens were but a grain of sand upon the shore of this bliss.

  He broke from their kiss and she arched against him, elbows bent, fingers plying the back of his neck. A dip of his head and he flicked his tongue, wetting her nipple through her silky chemise. Arousal pooled in her belly. He drew her into the warm cavern of his mouth, the edges of his teeth grazed her sensitive flesh and her hips bucked. Goddesses wept, he nearly had her undone.

  A mechanical buzz shimmied his cellular device across the table. She frowned and tightened her thighs about his waist. No, no, he could not leave her teetering so near the brink.

  His muscles bunched as he pumped his arms. The ridge of his shaft slid along the cleft of her sex and she writhed, trembling, cinching her ankles to press him deeper.

  The persistent drone abruptly ceased and she crushed her lips to his. His low groan coasted hot and moist over her skin. He hitched her higher on his hips, centered the head of his manhood against her and drove harder, fisting a hand in her hair, raining kisses along her shoulder and neck.

  A hiss eased from between his clenched teeth and he shook his head, eyes squeezed tight. “Christ, woman, you’re going to make me come.”

  Exhilaration shivered her belly. That she held such power over him made her confidence soar. She grabbed his cheeks and sucked his lower lip, exploring the smooth texture of his tongue, taking all that she craved and more. And if the way she rode him brought him to orgasm, so much the better. Let them fall and tumble together. Let the yearnings of their bodies fulfill that which the goddesses had blessed.

  The hum of his phone resumed its bothersome chant and Rhys hastily withdrew from her, muttering a vicious curse. He wrenched her from the wall, his determined stride bouncing her on his hips, tossed her onto his sleeping pallet and aimed a sharp finger at her face. “Stay there. I’m not done with you.”

  She rolled her lips together to suppress a smile and aimed an assessing brow at the thick bulge straining the crotch of his breeches. ʼTwould seem he was more than happy to come and get her after all.

  He stormed to the table and slapped the gadget to his ear. “This had better be a god damned emergency.”

  His shoulders snapped to attention and she pushed to sitting as the passion drained from his face…to be replaced with the ashen pallor of enraged shock.

  She froze. Something unseemly had just occurred.

  “How did you get this number?”

  An anger so cold laced his words, she shivered. Her fingers curled into the blankets, and she flinched as he jerked the full force of his attention to her.

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure that’s gonna work. For either of us. I’ll get back to you.”

  He lowered the cell phone from his cheek, his knuckles white with his grip as he thumbed the screen. Flicking his wrist, he chucked the shiny object aside. “That was my father.” He refocused on her and her heart tripped a beat at the menacing thunder in his gaze. “He heard about what happened at the gallery and has invited us to his place for dinner.”

  An uneasy wariness prickled her nerves, yet she resisted the urge to leap to any foregone conclusions. Twice now, she’d assumed the worst only to end looking the fool.

  Rhys was not Gaelleod. From the start, he’d displayed no interest in stealing the key. Due their familial tie, ʼtwould seem unlikely his father bore the traits of such malevolence as well.

  Still, she would have been blind to miss the forbidding tension simmering between them. Mayhap a rift had occurred. One which had never been healed between father and son. “And you prefer to decline?”

  Rhys’ shoulders fell and he raked a hand through is hair. “Yes. I do. My dad has never paid any attention to me or my work, and now suddenly you show up and he wants us all to be pals?” He shook his head. “No. I don’t like it. You can bet your sweet ass that means Leo’s up to no good.”

  Her brows lifted in surprise, yet she could not deny the relief which slowed her pulse to a more normal rate. Rhys had been depicting her portrait since childhood. Surely, if the slightest taint of Gaelleod’s evil lingered within his father, Leo McEleod would have taken an instant fascination in his son’s renderings of her. The similarities she bore to her mother would have ensured as much.

  No, a more perplexing dilemma was at play. She stood and approached her seething artist. A mystifying riddle in which she held a significant role. Placing one hand on his chest, she cupped the other to the rough, dark stubble covering his strong jaw. An opportunity, perchance, to be the divining force to mend past hurts between them. And, in fulfilling her duty, the goddesses would grant her grace, and finally reveal the clues to her purpose in this place. “I suspect we should attend.”

  The warmth of his calloused palm covered the back of her hand and he turned his head to bestow a heated kiss to her palm. “I don’t trust him, Fa
edrah. My God, if he ever hurt you…if he does or says anything to make you hate me, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  She smiled. She and her talented artist were alike in so many ways. Their strengths…their fears… A chuckle warmed her chest as she swept her thumb along the generous curve of his lower lip. Their propensity for keeping secrets. “I could not be so easily persuaded to depart your side.” Yet, Rhys had been wise to insist she ascertain all she could about him before their connection deepened. Learning the difficulties he shared with his father seemed a sensible place to start. “I presume this is but the first of many steps we shall take toward unraveling the mysteries of one another’s hearts.”

  Stepping inside the shelter of his arms, she lowered her cheek to his chest. He understood much about her life, had drawn the scenes with his own able hand. She longed for that same indulgence. To determine all she could about him, inside and out.

  “Now breathe easy, Sir McEleod, and speak with an apt tongue. You have my solemn vow, I shall not waver.” Tipping her head back, she smiled into the troubled light filling his gaze. “Let us start at the beginning. ’Tis time for you to catch me up.”

  * * *

  How the hell his little white-haired vixen had talked him into seeing his dad, he’d never know.

  Rhys eased his motorcycle into an empty parking spot in front of her uncles’ building, killed the engine and slipped the key from the ignition. Faedrah shifted behind him, crinkling the cellophane covering his dry-cleaned suit, and grasped his shoulder as she swung her leg to the ground. The disappearance of her warm curves in exchange for the cool breeze hitting his back pushed his sour mood from the safety of DEFCON four to the bright orange alert of DEFCON two.

  She handed over his helmet, flipped the hanger onto her shoulder with one finger and smiled. The cellophane twirled and twisted behind her, riding the same draft that toyed with the ends of her hair. The late afternoon sun cast the shadowy fringe of her long lashes onto her cheeks, but nothing on God’s green Earth could’ve shaded the playful twinkle in her eyes. “Sulking is an unattractive quality in a man, don’t you agree?”