“Let me go,” she hissed, attempting to pull out of his hold.
White steam wafted from between her lips, dissipating in the air between them.
He grasped her other arm and lifted her clear off the ground, carrying her toward an empty stall. She kicked and flailed, her little feet striking his knees and shins, but he held fast until he’d gotten her where he wanted her. Her hat fell off, rolling away and out of sight, disheveled strands of hair slipping free of her chignon to hang around her face.
Once he’d set her back on her feet, she could not get past the stall without going through him.
“Livvie, I—”
His words broke off on a grunt when her palm cracked against his face, hard and swift. The blow smarted something awful, reminding him that she was stronger than she looked, his cheek and jaw blossoming with her hand print. He had stopped recoiling from his father’s fists years ago, and was now so big, he’d outgrown Conall. He’d become accustomed to being hit, kicked, treated like a dog. But none of his father’s beatings had ever hurt as much as this, feeling the evidence of her anger at him and seeing it written all over her face. Her eyes brimmed with tears, her chest heaving as she balled her hands up at her sides.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured feebly, uncertain what else to say.
“For what?” she spat, her voice breaking off on a choked sob. “For giving me my first kiss and then ignoring me for three years? For making me want you, and tossing me aside? For fucking maids in closets in my home as if you have no care for my feelings in the matter?”
Each of her accusations fell on him like a physical blow, and he nearly buckled under them, going to his knees to beg his princess for forgiveness. He’d hurt her, and had known very well what he was doing. Nevertheless, he’d done it for her own good. Could she not see that?
“For all of it,” he admitted. “But, ye had to ken it was for the best. Us wantin’ each other cannae lead to anythin’ good. Yer da would kill me, and ship ye off to some convent. Don’t ye get that?”
She parted her lips as if to berate him, but clamped them shut again, her eyes going wide. Seeming to struggle with herself for a moment, she eyed him as if he’d gone mad, the tight clench of her fists easing, the tension in her shoulders melting away.
“You … you want me?”
Now, it was his turn to give her an incredulous look. Had she gone mad?
“Of course I want ye,” he declared, despite his better judgment. “Why do ye think I avoided ye all these years? I kissed ye and damn near lost my mind! I knew if we didnae put a stop to it, we’d do somethin’ we couldnae take back!”
Her chin trembled, her breath quickening into harsh pants as she took a step toward him. “I don’t want to take it back.”
She was on him then, hurling herself into his arms so fast, all he could do was catch her up and crush her against his body. Her legs came around him, coat and skirts hitching up, heels digging into his lower back. Thrusting her hands into his hair, she held fast and angled her head so that her lips were aimed right at his.
Fool that he was, he could not put a stop to it. He could only cup her hips, hold her up, and accept the kiss. He could only stand there and realize that he didn’t want to take it back, either, any of it. Not the kiss, not his endless hours daydreaming about her.
He groaned against her mouth, registering the feel of her against him, familiar, yet so different. She had a woman’s body now, soft and pliant, opening to him as their lips met and parted over and over, desperate breaths of longing and desire passing between them, turning to mist on the winter air. Her hands tightened in his hair until her grasp grew painful, but he reveled in the sting as much as he did the plush press of her mouth against his and the velvety rasp of her tongue.
“Livvie,” he mumbled, backing farther into the stall and pressing her against the wall. “I’ve wanted ye since that kiss by the pond. I never stopped, not for a moment.”
She whimpered and deepened their kiss, boldly plunging her tongue into his mouth, engaging him with none of the tentative shyness she’d displayed three years ago. Had someone else been kissing her, tutoring her? Just the thought enraged him, jealousy and possessiveness bristling his spine. With a growl, he pressed her harder against the wall, forcing her legs wider, his hips falling perfectly into the cradle of her pelvis. Then, he was attacking the buttons down the front of her coat, parting it to allow him better access. He kissed her like a man possessed, his hands roaming every inch of her body he could find—cupping her breasts, skimming her waist, kneading and squeezing hips that filled his hands so perfectly, he did not think he could ever get enough of them. Between them, his cock grew and swelled, pressing with primal insistence against her quim. He shuddered at the feel of her, warm and inviting even through the layers of her clothes.
“I thought … I thought you were … disgusted with me,” she whispered once he released her mouth.
“Never,” he declared, kissing her chin, her jaw, her throat. “Ye were so young … ye still are.”
“I’m not a child,” she huffed, even as she tipped her head back to let him go on kissing her neck. “I will be eight-and-ten soon.”
“Still too young,” he argued between kisses, palming one breast and giving it a little squeeze. “Still my master’s daughter.”
“How old was Jane when you started fucking her?”
The mention of the maid doused his ardor like a frigid splash of water, and he abruptly set her on her feet, rearing away from her. Her skirts fell back around her legs, though her open coat showed how wrinkled the garment was now. Her pale neck had reddened from the abrasion of his stubble and suction of his lips.
His throat constricted as he realized she was right. Jane was two years younger than him, and before she’d started lifting her skirts for him, she’d been with at least two other grooms that he knew of. There might have been a footman, as well.
“Ye aren’t the same,” he argued, running a hand through his mussed hair. “Ye’re not her, and I dinnae want ye to be.”
“No,” she spat, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his kiss. “You only want to toy with me when it suits you.”
“Dinnae be a brat, Livvie,” he snapped, his nerves beyond frayed by now. “Ye ken better’n that.”
“Do I? I am not certain any longer, Niall. I used to think you would never hurt me. You were my knight, my friend … you were everything to me.”
“And ye think I dinnae feel the same way? I’m tryin’ t’ protect ye. Ye have a bright future ahead of ye. After school, ye’ll have yer comin’ out and yer first Season in London. Remember how ye always talked about goin’ there? The parties, the balls, the gowns ye’d wear?”
“So, I am to go off for my Season without ever having known what passion is?”
“That’s the way of it in your world,” he argued. “Ye cannae make a good match if ye keep playin’ with fire, Livvie.”
Biting her swollen lip, she edged toward him again, heat turning her eyes into dark coals that simmered with desire and promise. When had she transformed into this siren? He felt as if he would gladly dash himself upon the rocks just to taste her again. She was a danger to him, to herself.
“And you are fire, then?”
He couldn’t stop himself from touching her again, cupping her face and running his thumb lightly over her lips. “Seems so, when it comes to you.”
She placed a hand over his, keeping it against her face. “Don’t ignore me again. I can understand why we should not give in to our desires, even if I do not like it. But, I cannot bear to lose you as my friend again. Promise me, Niall.”
He should push her away and tell her to get as far from him as she could. Otherwise, he couldn’t promise not to lose his head and do something reckless. Once would be all it took to ruin her, and he would never be able to forgive himself for that. But, he’d never been able to deny her. So, how could he push her away now, especially since doing so had made them both miserable? He could be
her friend again, and he would keep his prick under control.
“I promise, Livvie,” he declared, unable to resist bending down to kiss her forehead again. “Now, go. It’s gettin’ dark, and ye need to get back into the house.”
She gazed up at him for another silent moment before nodding and moving past him. He turned to watch her go, shoulders sagging with relief once she was out of his sight. It could only be temporary, of course. Now that he’d promised not to ignore her any longer, he would be forced to endure being close to her again. It would be torture, but, hell, so had being apart from her. He could do this. He could endure being near her until she inevitably left him to go off to London and find a husband. Then, she would be taken away from him for good, only coming to visit with her family from time to time.
As he trudged from the stall, his shoulders slumped even more, his chest aching at the thought of watching her return year after year with children in tow, with a husband who would dote upon her—for what man could marry Olivia and not want to give her everything?
It would hurt, but he had always known he would lose her for good someday. Best he became accustomed to the notion now.
He stood before the open doors of the stables, having just decided to take up his vigil in the hayloft, when the sound of heavy footsteps warned him of someone’s approach. He turned just as something black came flying at his face out of nowhere.
The agony of the blow was instant and terrible, its force ripping through him from the point of impact to echo throughout his entire body. His mouth opened on a scream that never came, the sound choking off and remaining in his throat. His eyes began to water as he went down to his knees, the impact rattling his bones. Through the haze created by the tears, he spied the figure of his da looming over him, a horsewhip held in one hand and coiled at his feet.
“Ye bloody idiot,” Conall rasped, raising his hand and the whip with it once more. “Did I teach ye nothin’? What do I always tell ye?”
Niall threw himself to the ground just in time to avoid taking another blow to the face, the whip falling across his shoulders this time. It did not matter how many times Conall had done this to him—it never stopped hurting. The whip had never before struck his face, which now oozed hot, sticky blood, his eye and the corner of his mouth throbbing, making it difficult to see or think straight, let alone defend himself.
“Ye think she gives a bloody damn about you, ye lout?” he roared as Niall turned onto his side, struggling to get to his feet.
If he could only stand, he would snatch the whip away. His da was obviously drunk, and would never have been able to take him if not by surprise.
“She’ll go off to marry some fancy laird and leave ye here shovelin’ horse shite, like ye deserve!”
The whip came at him again, and Niall could only move fast enough to raise a hand in defense. The coil wrapped around his forearm, biting into the flesh and tearing at his skin. He grunted as more blood welled up to stain his shirt, the pain nothing compared to that on his face. He tried to wrestle the whip away from the old man, but Conall proved strong despite his state of inebriation.
He pulled the whip free and raised it again, poised to strike. Before it could land, a familiar voice came booming at them from the opening of the stable.
“Stop that this instant!”
Niall whirled to find Adam striding toward them, his long, wild hair framing a face carved into a mask of pure rage. His eyes blazed with golden fire, meaty hands balled into fists. Home from university for the holiday, just like Olivia, he seemed to have happened upon them at just the right time.
“M-m’laird,” Conall blustered, dropping the whip and swiftly bowing to his master’s son. “There’s nothin’ to concern yerself over here.”
“Like hell,” Adam growled, reaching out to fist the front of Conall’s shirt. “You are in my stables, mistreating one of my servants.”
Face reddening, Conall shrugged out of his hold. “None o’ this belong t’ ye until ye become the earl. Niall is my son, and don’t ye forget it!”
Adam grinned, the expression downright feral as he advanced on Conall. Having grown to match Niall in size, he stood an inch taller than Conall and had the benefit of youth on his side, as well as the fact that he hadn’t just been struck in the face with a horsewhip.
“I may not be Hartmoor yet, but I can certainly see to it that your position is given to someone more deserving.” He inclined his head at Niall, who stood, trying to stifle the bleeding with his sleeve and failing. “Someone who is already doing your job while you sit about drinking yourself to death.”
Conall sneered, issuing a derisive snort. “Ye’d defend him, even if I told ye he was in that stall kissin’ and pawin’ at yer sister?”
Niall winced when Adam turned his head to look at him, eyes narrowing. “Is that true?”
He’d never lied to his friend, and did not intend to begin now. “Aye.”
Clenching his jaw, Adam turned back to Conall. “That hardly warrants horsewhipping. Go home. Sleep it off, and pray I don’t tell my father what you’ve done. I have the power to see you sacked, and we both know it.”
Niall’s da looked as if he wished to say something, to hurl the epithets obviously causing his upper lip to curl. Instead, he spat at Adam’s feet and turned to leave, his whip forgotten.
“This isnae over,” he growled before barreling out into the night.
Niall swayed on his feet, dizzy from the pain, his vision beginning to swim. Adam rushed forward to catch him up just as his knees buckled, bracing one of Niall’s arms over his shoulders, one hand strong around his waist.
“Damn it, Niall,” he grunted, half carrying him out of the stable. “He split your face open something awful. Probably a good thing, too … good for me. Now, I’m the pretty one.”
Despite the pain, Niall laughed, relieved that his friend could still jest with him at a time like this.
“The lasses love scars, ye know. I’ll still snatch them right from under ye.”
Adam chuckled. “Aye, I don’t doubt you will. Now, come. I’ll put you in my chambers and send for the doctor. That face wound will need to be stitched.”
Casting a glance at his friend from the corner of his eye, Niall frowned. “Ye aren’t mad about Livvie?”
Adam sighed, gaze focused ahead of them. “Have you ruined her?”
“No. I’ve only ever kissed her.”
Adam nodded, tightening his hold as they neared the house. “Then, no, I’m not angry. If a man is going to kiss my sister, it ought to be someone I trust.”
Relief caused him to relax, and he let the pain take him. Closing his eyes, he relinquished his hold on consciousness.
When he awakened some time later, he found himself in Adam’s bed, surrounded by all the finery his father would insist he was not entitled to. He’d been dressed in what he had to assume was one of Adam’s nightshirts, and a clean bandage had been wrapped around the wound in his forearm. His face still throbbed like the devil, but now itched, as well. He supposed the physician had stitched him up while he’d been unconscious. He lay on his side, facing the slight form of Olivia seated on the chair beside him. A shawl draped her shoulders, and a messy braid hung down her back. It made her look younger and more innocent than ever.
When she realized he had opened his eyes, she began to weep, reaching out to grasp his hand. A cursory glance at what parts of the room he could see revealed they were alone.
“Niall,” she croaked, raising his hand to her mouth to kiss his knuckles. “Oh, Niall …”
He attempted to move closer to her, but the tight pull of stitches in his back stilled him. It made sense that he’d been laid upon his side.
“Dinnae cry for me,” he muttered, pulling their hands closer to him so that he could return her kiss. “I’m all right, Livvie. It’s all right.”
Shaking her head, she moved to sit on the edge of the bed, tears now streaming down her face. “It is not all right. He did this to you b
ecause of me … because of us.”
“Aye. And yer da might do worse if he catches wind of this.”
“Adam will not allow that, and neither will I.”
“Still. Do ye ken now why we cannae do it ever again? Ye shouldnae even be here now. If yer da catches ye—”
“I do not care,” she insisted, reaching out to stroke his hair, the caress sending warmth through his entire being. “I will not leave you like this, Niall. Do not try to convince me otherwise.”
Her presence was comforting, her fingers stroking his hair so bloody good that he forgot about caution. Closing his eyes, he allowed her to fuss over him, checking his bandages to ensure they were still clean, helping him sit up so he could eat, mopping his face with a damp, warm cloth. He reveled in her attentiveness, having missed this sort of thing, something his mother might have done for him were she still living.
True to her word, Olivia remained at his side in the days it took for him to feel strong enough to leave Adam’s bed. His friend had taken a guest chamber, but spent as much time with him and Olivia as possible, ensuring no one disturbed his rest.
When Niall emerged from the room to resume his duties, he was called into the earl’s study and informed that Conall had been let go, sent away from Dunvar. He was now Stablemaster.
Days later, Adam informed Niall that he’d been the one to convince the earl that Conall should be let go.
“It was the notion that your father’s drunkenness made him a liability that did the trick,” Adam had told him. “That he might get in his cups and set that temper of his on other servants couldn’t be countenanced. Besides, everyone knows you were doing his job as well as your own. Now, you’ll earn his wages, as well.”
Niall spent what remained of Olivia and Adam’s holiday with them, when his duties allowed. He took care to ensure Adam was nearby more often than not, as the few times he found himself alone with Olivia, he had the devil of a time keeping his hands to himself. Their rare moments of solitude inevitably led to more kissing, more secret caresses in hidden corners, more warnings from him that went unheeded. The girl was determined to flirt with danger, and while his da had been sent away, he remained ever aware of the earl and the consequences of being found out.
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