Savage (Bad Boy Romance) (Cocky Bastards & Motorcycles Book 4)

by Faye, Amy

  As soon as the thought came it was gone, replaced with that very feeling as she lowered her own arms around him, slipping into his lap sideways. She could feel him stirring beneath her. That was what made him a man, she realized.

  As soon as she realized it, she couldn't get it out of her head. That was what she had thought about, fantasized about, imagined. What would it feel like for him to put that inside her? What would it feel like for him, when she pleased him? Would he reciprocate?

  She didn't have much time to imagine what it would feel like. He broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard, and before she knew what was happening he had pulled one of her plump breasts free of her dress, claiming the bud of her nipple between his lips and sucking hard.

  She didn't know when she had run her fingers through his hair, but now she closed her hand around his head, encouraging to take it deeper. The thought that anyone could have seen them, that they were anything but private, only seemed to drive her to greater pleasure.

  She could feel him growing still harder, pressed against one of the soft cheeks of her ass. When she pulled him away gently, letting him take one last nip at her before pulling away, she could see the need in his face.

  She knew that she had the same expression on her own face, the same arousal. But she couldn't—not right now. Not when there was so much at risk, and when she had so much to lose. Both of them did, and that was what scared her so much.

  She realized with a start that she was completely ready to give him what he wanted. Give him every part of her, deep down to her core. But now was not the time, in the back of a covered cart with a pair of delirious soldiers lying beside them. She covered herself again and took a deep breath.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "Not now," she said softly.

  "Later?"

  Deirdre saw him twitch, saw the way that his muscles had all coiled up like a mountain lion about to strike. Then she looked at the men on the ground—if they weren't unconscious, then they were very convincing fakers.

  Then she turned back. Lying, denying the obvious, seemed impossible now.

  "Absolutely later."

  It was only after Deirdre had moved away, until he had cooled off, that she started looking at him again. Not the way that Gunnar wanted to be looked at. Not the way that she had been looking at him, like a woman looking at a man.

  "What?"

  She didn't answer him, but when she stepped across the wagon again, she didn't look like she was going to do something he would like.

  She pulled away a bandage, unwrapping. His stomach didn't hurt. He hadn't realized it, caught up in the moment. In the delicious sensations that had overtaken him when she had kissed him. But he couldn't feel a thing.

  He twisted experimentally, earning him a disapproving look from Deirdre as the spot she was examining moved out of view. His side felt better than it had in days. Better than he remembered it ever feeling before.

  There was no way of knowing what had caused it, but somehow the healing that he had grown so used to had gotten unstuck. As if it had never been gone in the first place, he thought. It was strange to think of it that way, because he had hated it for so long that wanting it back felt wrong somehow.

  All the same, he couldn't deny that was exactly how he was feeling. Thankful.

  "What did you do? To bring it back? Is this some magic of yours?"

  The look she gave him was all the answer Gunnar needed. She was as surprised as he was, and he wasn't sure whether or not he had expected her to answer. She had barely caused a blip in it, and that was after four days of breathing in her herbs and thinking about it. Three straight days she had sat there and told him to his face that she didn't have an answer. That maybe there was no answer.

  Even the fourth day, with the answer she had given him it had been tentative. She was unsteady, and he could see it. But she'd managed to cause a blip, and that was more than he had ever done.

  He let out a long breath and sat back, let her poke and prod him. It felt absolutely normal—not sensitive or painful, no matter where she touched or how hard. Except when she used the point of her nail, which he squirmed away from, laughing softly.

  "What are you looking for?"

  "How is this even possible? You were nearly dead. I saw you. It kept getting worse, even."

  He shrugged. "It's a talent."

  It wasn't the answer that she wanted, but it was the only answer Gunnar had. He had thought the same as she had, and it was as surprising to him as anyone that he'd somehow kick-started his healing again.

  The thing that surprised him was that he didn't care whether it was back or not. If not, then he would be able to spend more time with Deirdre, more time excusing himself from doing what he needed to do.

  If he were healing again, then it was time to get back to work.

  Gunnar stood up and tested the strength of the ropes around his arms. They had tied him well, but with the fighting and nearly pulling his shoulders clean out of his body… they strained loudly as he pulled. With a little effort, he'd be able to get free.

  "What are you doing? You're not thinking of trying to go back now, taking over the band?"

  The smile Gunnar gave her was not in any way reassuring. She sputtered for a moment, stammering. Then she seemed to think of exactly what she wanted to say.

  "You shouldn't," she began, which earned a raised eyebrow from Gunnar. "It's too soon. They'll be raiding soon. You want to have a night on the road, when someone getting hurt won't damage the next days' raid. And—and such quick changes could certainly cause a rift in the group, between those who supported you, and who support him."

  Gunnar sucked in a deep breath and sat back down. She was right. He hadn't thought of any of that, and yet here was an outsider and a woman who was telling him the basics of his business. The giddiness of realizing that he wasn't worthless, not any more, it had driven him a bit mad with excitement.

  No, waiting was the right way to go.

  "But what about my wounds? Wouldn't they realize that I'm uninjured?" He leaned forward, so that they could speak without being heard outside. "If it were my decision, I certainly wouldn't leave myself with the prisoners. Like a wolf among sheep, no way."

  Deirdre nodded and considered it.

  "Couldn't you just lie down and pretend?"

  Gunnar's face split into a broad smile. "Not in the least! I'm terrible at pretending."

  "So… hm." She sat back, thoughtful. He watched her, entirely different thoughts on his mind. Thoughts that, he admitted, had nothing to do with pretending to be injured. Thoughts that had very little to do with retaking control of the band he had put together for this raid.

  "I could be re-injured," he offered finally, managing to pull his eyes away from her enchanting body. "If that helps."

  The look Deirdre gave told Gunnar that he hadn't been particularly helpful, but then she seemed to change her tune. She turned, reached behind her seat, and a moment later came up with a knife.

  "We take this," she said softly, "and then…"

  He took the meaning immediately, and nodded.

  "Definitely. Okay."

  He lifted his arms. When he didn't feel the knife stabbing into him he turned to her. The expression on her face was one he hadn't seen before. It seemed to happen more as he got to know her, the opposite of what he was used to seeing in women.

  They usually became easier and easier to predict, but Deirdre seemed to change and shift, so that predicting her moods was like trying to wrestle a snake.

  "I can't. What if I—"

  The knife slipped out of her hand and clattered to the ground.

  "We'll see how pretending goes, then," he said. He tried to make his smile warm and comforting, but he knew well enough that it probably hadn't worked.

  He picked the knife up, and considered for a long time whether or not to take it for himself. If he reclaimed control, then it would be meaningless to keep it. If he failed, then it would be taken from him. If
he never challenged Valdemar, then what use would it be?

  Instead he leaned past Deirdre, her smell leaving his head spinning, and found the cubby where she had hidden the blade, and dropped it point-first down. She could grab it in an instant, if she had the need, and as he sat back Gunnar decided that it was well enough hidden. Even knowing it was there, he couldn't see it from the outside.

  She looked upset, practically panicking. What was he supposed to do in these situations? Gunnar frowned, tightened his jaw. There were things he knew how to do, and things he didn't, and dealing with women's problems—like it or not—were something he had no experience with.

  "What's wrong?"

  She gave him a wide-eyed look, as angry as any she had given him, but it slipped away as she was retaken by melancholy. Gunnar thought about pressing the matter, but then he decided against it. When she was ready to talk, when she wanted him to know what she was thinking, then she would tell him.

  Until then, he'd just wait and watch the road pulling slowly away as the sun started to dip toward evening.

  Fourteen

  As soon as she saw the gleam in his eyes, Deirdre knew that she had a problem. If she were to let him run off and fight, it didn't much matter whether she won or lost. If she were freed now, alone, what would be the point?

  She pushed aside the sting of being apart from Gunnar. She had more important concerns than love. How would she get back to her little hut? How could she? She'd be alone, and this far from home, it would take a week or more… if she ran into someone on the road, what would happen to her?

  She didn't need to wonder. It wouldn't be pleasant, and there wouldn't be much avoiding it. Hitting a man over the head when his attention was divided, that was one thing. But could she really fight someone off if he were committed to hurting her?

  She knew the answer without even having to think about it. She would be a dead woman, no doubt about it.

  No, an escort would do very well. And if there was one thing that she knew, it was that if he weren't so damn obsessed with all this fighting and killing, Gunnar would have made a perfectly good escort.

  He would protect her. He'd told her that, and she was surprised to find that she believed him, but that didn't count for much if he let her go alone.

  If he won, and he didn't let her go, or even if she chose to stay, it was only a matter of time. Could she go back to his home country with him? Not a chance, she couldn't speak the language, had no place in his society. What would she do, living in some foreign land, near foreign cities?

  Raise goats? Wait for him when he went raiding, hoping that he would be able to come back to her again this year? It was a hopeless idea, and it was immediately obvious how bad it was.

  And what if he lost? That would be worse. One duel, Valdemar might let him live, might think that he could be cowed into submission. He might have mercy on the man who had led him into the position he was in now.

  But not a second time, not when he realized that Gunnar was going to be a thorn in his side forever. Could she stomach the idea of letting Gunnar get himself killed? No, none of the options that she had at her disposal would work. Not one bit.

  She let out a breath and gave it some more thought. What, then? The arguments came easily. He should bide his time, choose a better one. The night before a raid, no—but the morning before, that could work. And besides, you don't want to split the camp right before a day of fighting, do you?

  He seemed to believe her, thankfully.

  But then she had tried to stab him, to make the image work. How deep would be safe? How quickly could he recover? She had no way of knowing, never had a good idea and now it seemed to be accelerating.

  It could slow back down, it could get faster—she had no way of saying. But she knew that it was dangerous to test it. She could kill him, if she pierced his heart. Or would that kill him? She had no way to be sure, but she certainly didn't want to take the risk.

  If she didn't stab deep enough, he might heal from it long before anyone came to check on them, and make the whole thing a waste of time.

  The dangers were too numerous, and the thought of hurting him, it all added up wrong. She couldn't afford the risk, that much was sure. She dropped the knife and sat back.

  What was wrong with her? Deirdre had always been smarter than this. She thought things through, and she did what she had to do. It was all well and good that chickens were sweet little animals, but when she had to eat, she had to eat. Sweet animals be damned.

  But somehow things were different now. When she had made the decision it felt as if a weight were lifted off her chest, and she sat back down, the knife laying there between them. She sucked in a breath and watched out the back.

  If this was what it was like to care about someone, she didn't want it. She wanted back her stability, wanted to be able to think clearly. This, this inability to concentrate, and inability to do what she needed to do, it had to go.

  After a long time, well after Gunnar had hidden the knife back behind her, the sun started to set on another day and the caravan slowed to a halt. Gunnar laid down, pretending to be asleep. He was as poor an actor as he had suggested. He looked less like a passed-out, injured man than he looked like an actor pretending to play a corpse.

  So when a dark-haired Northman's head peeked inside to check on them, he took only a brief look before he turned to Deirdre with a bored look.

  "Is he alright?"

  She looked from the northerner to Gunnar and back, unsure how to respond. "He's still—"

  The Northman stepped up into the wagon and took the opposite bench. "Don't lie. He's fine, aren't you?"

  He nudged Gunnar's body with his foot, and Gunnar groaned too loudly and tried to roll away, but Deirdre could see that the illusion was broken. Everyone present knew exactly what was going on, there wouldn't be any fooling anyone.

  "He can tell you're faking, Gunnar, just get up."

  "Well," he answered gruffly. "I told you, I'm not very good at it."

  Deirdre didn't respond, because the dark-haired man was already speaking, saying something in their language that she couldn't make out. She could hear Gunnar's name at least once, and Valdemar's, but beyond that she could only guess.

  Then he turned to Deirdre. "Valdemar wants to see you. An update on how things are going with these three."

  From the way that he had reacted to seeing Gunnar unharmed, and the look she'd seen on his face when the duel had been fought, she took a guess. "Should I mention Gunnar's condition?"

  He raised his eyebrows and thought about it for a moment. "It would be bad if he realized you were lying. But worse things could happen. And besides, you never know. He might not be as fine as you think."

  He smiled a dark smile, and she could see his hand on his knife. Her eyes darted from the knife to Gunnar, deciding what he meant. Would he seriously try to hurt him, or was this another plot to keep up appearances? His voice broke her reverie.

  "You should go, she-witch. Valdemar is not the most patient man in our camp. He will appreciate if you go quickly." He bent down and loosened the loop that tied her rope to the bench support. "And don't get any ideas about running. Too many people would see you, you wouldn't get far."

  But, she was surprised to find, she didn't have any ideas about that at all. She had ideas about something else entirely.

  The field of flowers that the camp had decided to plant themselves in made a good distraction. No questions to bother with, no thoughts of what was going on when he wasn't around. No thoughts that he couldn't protect her if he couldn't see her. None of that.

  All Gunnar had to do was look out at the field of flowers and see the bright yellows and blues and reds that all mixed into the green of the grass and plants around them.

  He wasn't surprised that Leif had stayed here. He wasn't as talkative as Eirik, but he had always been prone to making his presence known when he wanted to know something, or wanted someone else to know it.

  Yet he waited
a long time for Gunnar to turn and regard him. There must have been something wrong, because he was never this quiet. Never this patient. Finally Gunnar decided he'd waited long enough.

  "What is it?"

  "You'd better not let anyone else realize you're better. I don't think he'll let you take it back. He's too ambitious. Wants it too badly."

  "You think he has the support to stop me? Or split up the men?"

  "He has his supporters."

  "But would it split them up if I challenged him?"

  "Depends on if he lived, I guess. It might."

  Gunnar leaned back against the canvas wall and considered that. He was right, of course. The only answer was to get rid of Valdemar permanently, but it wasn't something he was particularly looking forward to.

  No, he'd much rather not do that. But it had to be done. "How bad would it be to let him keep it?"

  Leif looked at him, an eyebrow cocked. "Let him keep it? You're getting old, Gunnar."

  "Not forever, or even very long. You don't think he's too dangerous, though, do you? Too arrogant?"

  "Will he get anyone killed, do you mean?"

  "That's exactly what I mean."

  "No, not so far. We'll have to see. He doesn't exactly go running off in the middle of fights, either."

  The comment stung, but he deserved it. "I don't want to leave anyone to be put at risk. He's too arrogant, too aggressive. Always looking to fight. Valdemar doesn't like to take rests, doesn't like to wait. If he could fight from now until he collapsed from exhaustion, he'd do it," Gunnar said.

  The flowers were distractingly beautiful. Haunting. They made him think. What was the point of any of this? Why was he here, why had he brought his men here? So that they could all work hard to destroy places like this?

  And yet… he shook his head softly and tried to push the thoughts away.

  "Well, if you're planning on making your move, I would suggest that you do it after tomorrow morning's raid. He can't exactly protest, can he?"

  "Are we that close? I can't see anything out of this damned cart."