by Amy Tolnitch
But she had been, she realized. She’d never known any different life. Her mother had been her best friend, truly her only friend other than perhaps Saraid and her animals. And it hadn’t mattered.
She stood, paced over to a window and opened the shutters, letting the cleansing breeze flow over her. As always, the sight, the sound, the smell of the sea comforted her, filled her with its beauty. Today, the surface of the water looked like a polished blue gemstone, painted with streaks of gold from the sun. The sea gave her more than solace. It gave her strength, a legacy from her long ago ancestor.
She braced her hands on the window ledge and closed her eyes. Within a few days, her guests would be gone and her life would return to its usual tranquil state. “That is how it should be,” she whispered. “How it must be.”
But what of those few days? Images floated through her mind, bringing with them the sensation of pure pleasure. His touch on her skin, his firm lips seizing hers, the intoxicating taste of him, his powerful body … and more. Her loins clenched in remembrance and … anticipation.
Suddenly, she turned from the window, her head tilted. A noise? A footstep? She listened closely, but heard nothing. Still … she knew. He was searching for her, coming closer to her last retreat.
Refuse him, her inner voice demanded. Simply tell him to go away.
With an unsteady hand, she poured herself a cup of wine, and sat on the cushioned bench. The herbal scent was heavier here, and she breathed it in, willing herself to calm, to remain in control.
The door flew open and Lugh MacKeir stood there, legs braced apart and a look in his eye that could only be described as predatory.
Iosobal felt like one of the fabled women sacrificed to the gods. Chained, with nothing to do but wait for the god to take her and make her his. She swallowed, unable to look away.
Lugh strode in, his hungry gaze never leaving hers. “I thought you might be hiding in here,” he said roughly.
“I am not hiding.” Dear Saint Brigid, was that her voice?
“Aye, you are.”
“Would you like some wine?”
He smoothed back his damp hair and helped himself to a cup. “What is that smell?”
“Herbs.” She couldn’t help but smile, it was so like their early conversation about Ailie.
“You are verra fond of your herbs and such.” He sat beside her and lifted one leg onto his lap, the gesture so casual that Iosobal forgot to protest. She wore no shoes, and his hand slid up her ankle in a possessive stroke.
Iosobal drank more wine. “Lugh, I …” She just stared at him as his hand moved higher, skimming over her skin and leaving a tingling feeling in his wake.
His gaze pulled her in, dark green and raw with hunger. “All day I told myself not to come to you, that I should leave you be, that soon I would return to Tunvegan.” His hand reached the juncture of her thighs, and Iosobal froze. “But I could not,” he said, palming her core.
Iosobal whimpered as sensation flooded her. “I have been telling myself much the same.”
He gave her a wry smile. “’Tis not working, is it?”
“Nay.”
“I need to see you, feel you reach your pleasure again,” he said as he stroked the entrance to her body, spreading the moisture, seemingly idly circling, but finding the one spot that pulsed for his touch. His other hand started to draw up her skirts.
“Wait,” she said. Dear Lord, she could barely talk, her body taking over and scattering her thoughts.
His gaze pinned her and he stilled.
She fluttered a hand and they were both clad in nothing but skin.
He slowly smiled. “’Tis a useful talent you have, my lady.”
Iosobal couldn’t speak. Her gaze fastened on his body, the rigid evidence of his arousal, and she licked her lips.
With a guttural groan, he pulled her onto his lap and caught her neck from behind, kissing her deeply, hungrily. She held onto his shoulders and surrendered. The man kissed like he mated, she thought, giving everything and demanding the same, all at once.
She moaned and pressed her breasts against his chest, rubbing like a cat. More, she needed more.
“God, I canna wait,” he rasped. “I need to be inside you, lass.”
Yes, she thought. Yes. But as he moved to lay her down on the bench, the image of her mother’s face slammed into her vision. Her mother, gazing out at the horizon, pressing the moonstone necklace into Iosobal’s hand with tear-filled eyes, refusing to speak of the man who had sired her.
She flipped out of Lugh’s reach and crashed to the floor. “Nay.” Intent on fleeing, she gave in to impulse and ran for the door.
She never had a chance.
He braced the door shut with one muscular arm, the heat of his body pressed against her. Iosobal panted for breath, caught between the dreaded certainty that one day her own child may have the same memories of her, and the unquenchable desire her body vibrated with at the touch of The MacKeir.
Iosobal felt his breath on the back of her neck. “Do ye mean it?” he asked softly. “’Tis your choice.”
As they stood locked together, Iosobal slowly came to a stunning realization. She could take herself far away in the blink of an eye. She could fling him from her with a mere thought. She could do much more, some of which she didn’t want to think about.
But the one thing she could not do was deny him.
He had stolen into her blood, and with a harsh ache of pain, she knew he had also stolen into her heart.
She relaxed her body into his, and he let out a long breath.
“Open your legs for me, lass.”
Blindly, helplessly, she did. She shook, quivered, and put her hands on the wall to steady herself, waiting, wondering what he would do. He felt like a blazing fire behind her, his big hands clasping her waist, the velvety hardness of him prodding and sliding, so close she couldn’t remain silent.
“Please,” she whispered.
With a hiss, he slipped into her, inch by glorious inch. Iosobal arched her back and drew small breaths. Hot, dear Saint Brigid, she was so hot.
He began to thrust, long, slow strokes that turned her body into melted butter. She pushed back against him and he laughed, moving one hand up to caress her breast.
Water spilled down the wall and over them, wetting their skin and washing over the tiled floor. Lugh’s grip on her waist tightened, and he bent her forward slightly, nudging in deeper.
Iosobal cried out, her release coming over her in a rush, sudden and sharp.
At her cry, she heard Lugh swear something in Gaelic; then he was pounding into her, driving deep, filling her again and again. Iosobal couldn’t catch her breath, could only be buffeted by the force of his desire melting into hers.
He lifted her up onto her toes, his arm wrapped around her, bracing her. Iosobal was boneless, melting, keening over and over as her pleasure built once more.
They shouted out together, everything erupting between them, within them all at once.
Iosobal collapsed. Lugh pressed a soft kiss to her back and lifted her in his arms, sloshing through the water on the floor to curl her against him on the window seat. She leaned back against his warm chest and half closed her eyes, flooded with a combination of lethargy and wonder over what she had just done.
Lugh gently stroked her arm. “I dinna intend to take you so roughly. You are all right?”
Iosobal let out a long sigh. All right? No, more like replete, wonderfully satisfied, and astoundingly … happy. “I am fine.” She turned her head to look into his eyes. A soft green now, they gazed at her with such tenderness that Iosobal’s heart hitched. She put a hand against his chest. “I liked it.”
He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “I thought so. The water?”
“I was hot.”
His smile deepened. “’Tis only the second time I have taken you, and both involved water.”
I am a sea creature, she thought, but didn’t voice the words. It was a wonder that he
would want to be with her after witnessing her strike down Tomas. If he knew the truth about her, she doubted even The MacKeir could overcome the shock of it. Instead, she gave him a playful grin. “There is a pool on the other side of the island where a waterfall splashes down.”
He lifted his brows and she felt his manhood move against her hip. “Is there, now? Sounds like an interesting place. Will you take me there?”
She wound her arms around his neck.
In the next instant, they were standing behind the waterfall. Lugh’s eyes widened, but he did not let go of her. Cool water rushed down, forming a watery veil. Other than the sound of the water, the place was hushed.
“’Tis as if we are the only two people in the world,” Lugh said.
Iosobal put a hand under the water. “Here, we are.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close. “How deep is the pool?”
“The center is several feet, but it grows shallower toward the edges.” She had barely finished explaining when he shoved her hard.
With a shriek of surprise, she fell through the waterfall and into the pool. She came up sputtering, just in time to see Lugh make a fluid leap into the water next to her.
He was laughing. The sun glinted off his wet hair, and his expression was so lighthearted that Iosobal’s throat closed up. Dear Saint Brigid, how beautiful he is, she thought.
She must have made a sound, because he caught her up against him, his gaze suddenly intense. He pressed kisses to her skin, her throat, her cheeks, her eyelids, the edges of her mouth, all the while murmuring words so softly that Iosobal couldn’t make them out, even if she were able to retain the ability to think clearly.
At last, his lips found hers, stroking and sucking, taking her once more into the mindless abyss of The MacKeir. The water lapped over them, cooling their skin and giving Iosobal a weightless feeling. She hung on to Lugh’s shoulders and wrapped her legs around him, the thick hardness of him against her belly.
He lifted his head and stared at her. “I want you again.”
And Iosobal said the words she’d sworn she’d never say to any man. “Then, take me.”
Gently, slowly, he entered her, holding her gaze with his. Iosobal sucked in a breath as he filled her, stretched her with his thick length. Out in the open, captured by his eyes, his body moving in and out of hers in slow strokes, Iosobal felt more exposed than she ever had. She tried to tighten her legs, tried to get him to move faster, to take them both to release, but his strong hands held her thighs fast.
“Lugh,” she moaned.
His jaw was tense, but his body continued to thrust slowly. “God, you’re perfect,” he groaned. “Too perfect.”
Iosobal’s legs started shaking. If not for Lugh’s grip on her thighs, she would have simply melted into the water.
He thrust deep and paused.
Her body clenched down. “Lugh, please!”
He strode through the water and braced her against the mossy edge of the pool. But still, he continued to love her in sweet, slow strokes, his eyes devouring her. Iosobal felt him look straight into her soul. A flutter began deep within her, but he kept her on the edge, giving her just enough to keep her there, yet not enough to take her over.
She dug her nails into his shoulders and panted for breath. It was too much. She felt as if she were coming apart, with no anchor but into the hunger of his gaze. Her whole body shook with need, the pulsing inside her an ache she couldn’t withstand.
“Feel me,” he said, taking her hand and drawing it below the water.
She touched him, amazed at the heat, and felt him slide beneath her fingertips. Slide into her. Heat spread up her body, flamed in her face. “I cannot take any more of this,” she whispered.
He smiled. “Oh, yes, you can. And you will.” His gaze darkened and he plunged into her, his fingers finding her center.
Iosobal gasped and closed her eyes.
“Look at me,” he hissed.
She did, unable to think, unable to do anything but hang on and ride her pleasure. It was so keen and sharp that she could only make broken cries, swept along the edge of desire. And then her release thundered through her and she cried out.
Lugh gripped her bottom and thrust deep, prolonging her pleasure. He roared her name, his features taut, and then bent his head to rest on hers.
Iosobal was fairly certain she could not move. Lugh pressed a light kiss to her mouth and took her back into the deeper water of the pool. She just laid her head on his shoulder, drawing in deep breaths.
“’Tis a rare gift you grant me,” he said softly.
No, you are the gift, she thought as she snuggled closer. Lugh held her with one arm and gently rubbed her back with the other.
“’Twill be a hard thing to leave you,” he said.
She lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. The thought of never doing so again brought such an ache to her chest that she caught her breath. “We have always known we belong in different worlds.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Aye, but ’tis hard to think about when I am holding you in my arms. Impossible to consider when you bring me more pleasure than …” His voice trailed off and he kissed her forehead.
The hole in Iosobal’s heart widened to a chasm, and tears stung the backs of her eyes. If only she could capture this moment, keep it for all time, shut out the rest of the world. But she could not, would not. “We should go back to the palace. I want to check on Ailie,” she murmured.
Lugh shifted her in his arms. “Take us back. But then you will rest a bit.”
Iosobal started to say it wasn’t necessary, but yawned instead. She nodded, and they were back in her chamber.
Lugh shook his head, his expression bemused. “I could grow accustomed to this method of travel.” He carried her over to the window seat and cradled her up against his chest. She let out a sigh and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
And like the gentle swell of the sea, the realization crept into Lugh just how easy it would be to stay in this paradise. To stay with Iosobal. To spend their days playing with Ailie in the sea, their nights just like this, skin to skin.
He’d known that taking Iosobal to bed would not be a simple thing. She was far too complex a woman to warrant an idle dalliance. I will always love Agatha, he told himself sternly. And he would. But it was no use—somehow the cool Lady of Parraba had turned to fire in his arms, and along the way, captured his heart. With the realization, his eyes widened. Dear Saint Columba, how had this happened? Love?
“Tell me of your wife,” Iosobal said.
He blinked. She wanted to talk of Agatha now? “What do you want to know?” he asked cautiously.
“What was she like?”
“She was a strong-willed woman.” He stroked her arm. “Much like you.”
He felt her smile.
“Ailie favors her. They even share the same birthmark on the back of their necks.”
With his words, Iosobal suddenly stiffened and let out a gasp.
“What is it?”
She pulled away from him and retrieved a quilt, wrapping herself tightly, her eyes huge violet pools in her face.
A sense of foreboding snaked down his spine. “What is wrong?”
“I … I saw her, Lugh.”
“Saw Agatha? How?”
“’Twas a dream.” She shook her head, her face pale. “No, not simply a dream. I knew it was real, though it was the only time I have ever had such a vision. Dear Saint Brigid, I should have known,” she murmured.
He stood and put his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me.”
She lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, her stance rigid, as if she steeled herself for a blow. “I knew how ill she was. I knew the healers could not aid her.”
Shock sizzled into him like an arrow dipped in flaming pitch. “What? No,” he said, backing away. “How?”
“I do not know.”
The sizzle turned to an icy-cold knot in hi
s belly. “Why did you not come and help her?” He could scarcely get the words out, then the true import of her words slashed through him. “Dear God, how could you let her die?” he shouted. Anguish and guilt twisted in his heart.
Iosobal lifted her chin. “I do not interfere in your world.”
“Interfere?” He paced across the room, so angry and heartsick he could not hold it in. “How could you not? Agatha was all that was good and pure. She left a daughter!” He stopped and wiped a hand over his face, the turned to face Iosobal. “Have you no heart?”
She flinched, and tightened her lips. “You do not understand,” she said calmly.
Rage tore through him and he stalked toward her. “No, by God, I do not understand.”
“I … I ventured into your world once. I was curious.” Her expression was so bleak that Lugh managed to hold his anger in check. Barely.
“What happened?” he asked.
Iosobal’s voice was flat. “I came to a village. There had been an accident—a child’s leg crushed by a knight’s carelessness with his horse. I … I stopped to help. I healed him.”
“What did the villagers do?”
She gave him a bitter smile. “They condemned me as a witch. Told me I was evil, spawned by the devil. Afore I knew what was happening, I was tied to a post with flames licking at my heels. All for helping a child.” Her smile turned hard. “Of course, the fools could not hold me.”
Lugh sucked in a breath. It was a terrible story, and explained Iosobal’s fear of fire. He tried to understand how such an experience would make Iosobal reluctant to leave Parraba again. Tried hard. But all he could think was that she could have saved dear Agatha, could have eased her suffering. All he could see was the image of Agatha struggling for breath, her eyes cloudy with pain. “We are not so superstitious at Tunvegan,” he finally managed to say.
“How was I to know?”
The pain of losing Agatha cut through him as fresh and sharp as the day it had happened. He could not believe it. Iosobal could have saved Agatha, but chose not to. Agatha need not have died. He fisted his hands and drew in a long, shuddering breath. “I thought you knew everything, Iosobal, Lady of Parraba.”
“I am sorry, Lugh.”
