Battle Eagle

by Jayne Castel

  “Come here, lass.” There was a tremor in Donnel’s voice that she had never heard before, and an aching tenderness. Donnel pulled her gently into his embrace and wrapped his arms around her. Eithni felt him kiss the crown of her head, before he kept his lips there and buried his face in her hair. “I will keep the night demons at bay, m'eudail.”

  Eithni relaxed against the warmth of his body and felt that heat soak into her own. She was suddenly aware that Donnel was naked to the waist. It was usual to sleep naked, although while Donnel and Eithni lived together, they had both taken to sleeping partially clothed. As such, Donnel wore plaid breeches.

  Melting into him Eithni breathed in the clean scent of his skin mixed with a male musk that made excitement curl in the pit of her belly. She loved that smell. Tentatively she reached out and wrapped her arms around his muscular torso.

  Donnel inhaled sharply in response. He breathed her name, and the tattoo of his heart against her cheek increased in tempo. He was no longer merely comforting her; something between them had subtly shifted.

  Eithni drew back and looked up. Their faces were just inches apart, and in the dim light his grey eyes looked almost black. She drank him in; he was so beautiful it hurt her to breathe. She raised a trembling hand, her fingertips tracing the lines of his finely drawn mouth. All the while he watched her, his breathing growing shallow and his body becoming still.

  “Eithni,” he groaned her name. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

  She shook her head. It was the truth. When it came to Donnel, she had no idea how he really felt about her. He was shrouded by layers of armor. It was difficult at times to reach the man beneath.

  She wanted to understand him. This was the closest she had ever come to doing so.

  Their gazes held for long drawn-out heartbeats. Eithni did not speak, for she did not want to shatter this moment. However, she ceased breathing when he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

  The kiss started gently, heartbreakingly so. It was as if he was afraid she would shatter in his arms. Yet the feel of his lips on hers, the taste of his mouth, had the opposite effect. The last of the night demons fled, and with a gasp she moved her arms up to link around Donnel’s neck and kissed him back.

  A growl rose up in Donnel's chest. He pulled her hard against him, his hands sliding down the length of her back over the thin tunic she wore to sleep, to finally cup her bottom. A moment later he pulled her onto his lap. Her tunic rode up as she moved to sit astride him, but Eithni paid it no mind.

  She was lost in this kiss. She did not understand why it felt so good, only that she never wanted it to end. Just a short while earlier she had been in the throes of a nightmare, suffering the touch of a man who had left deep scars upon her. Yet in the arms of this warrior, she felt unleashed. She was no longer the timid mouse Forcus had reduced her to. Instead she was a goddess.

  Donnel’s hands tangled in her unbound hair as he deepened the kiss. His mouth was not gentle anymore; it was hungry and demanding. Eithni felt the hardness of his shaft pressing against her lower belly, and a sensation leapt within her—an odd blend of excitement and fear.

  He wanted her.

  Donnel broke away then, breathing hard. He stared down at her, his high cheekbones flushed, his lips bee-stung, and his eyes shining. “I shouldn't be doing this,” he said, his voice rough. “I shouldn’t be touching you now … especially after that dream.”

  Eithni shook her head. She did not want him thinking that. She had to make him understand that his touch healed her. “I want you, Donnel,” she whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

  His eyes widened, and he stared down at her. Perhaps he had expected her to shrink back from him, fear and repulsion in her eyes. Yet it was taking all Eithni’s self-control not to throw herself at him. Watching Donnel—her heart hammering against her ribs—she waited for his desire to cool, for his shields to go up as they had the day when she had brought him that feast in the forest. She would not blame him for it although she was not sure she could suffer the agony of disappointment. The agony of not having his hands on her body.

  “There is nothing wrong with this,” she whispered finally, her chest aching from need. “Whatever the wounds of the past. I’m a woman, you’re a man … and we want each other. There’s nothing more natural—”

  Donnel’s mouth came down hard on hers, cutting off the things Eithni had been about to say. She had only just begun to open her heart to him; she had been ready to get down on her knees and beg him to touch her.

  However, it seemed that Donnel mac Muin was not made of stone after all.

  His kisses were wild now, and Eithni matched him. It did not even feel as if her body, her will, belonged to her any more. She was not sure who this woman was who raked her fingers down his back, who tangled her tongue with his. She liked this woman though—for this was how Eithni had dreamed of being.

  Once, when she had shared her hut with Lucrezia, she had confided to her friend about her past. There had been great sadness in her that day, for she had seen the burgeoning passion between Tarl and Lucrezia and had believed she would never experience the same herself.

  Breathing hard, she pulled back from Donnel and yanked her tunic over her head, exposing herself to him. His gaze was hot as it raked over her. He then lifted her to her knees and pulled her close so that he could touch her. Eithni sighed, closing her eyes and giving herself up to sensation. He ran his hands over the length of her body, before his mouth fastened upon her breasts.

  She gasped and looked down to see he was suckling one. Her breasts were small and peaked. She had always lamented her lack of bust—comparing herself unfavorably to Tea. She had thought men would not find her attractive, yet now Donnel worshipped her breasts.

  “Perfect,” he mumbled, releasing one swollen nipple before he fastened on its twin.

  Eithni groaned, closed her eyes, and gave herself up to sensation once more. Her knees were starting to wobble under her.

  Donnel reared back and started to unlace his breeches. Watching him, Eithni stifled a gasp.

  The Mother and the Maiden save me. Could there be a man alive more beautiful than this one?

  Naked he was more breathtaking than she had imagined. Even his shaft—a part of the male body she had deliberately avoided thinking about—was magnificent. It was swollen and hard, straining against his belly.

  “You can touch me … if you want, Eithni,” Donnel said. The rasp in his voice excited her beyond measure. Her lower belly felt molten, and a strange ache pulsed between her thighs.

  Nervously she reached out, her fingertips trailing up the hard length of him. “Your skin is so soft,” she whispered. “But you’re so hot … so hard.”

  Her words inflamed him. With a growl he pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply. They fell back on the furs, Eithni beneath him, and she moaned at the velvet feel of his skin sliding over hers. Without even realizing she was doing so, she parted her thighs for him, wrapping her legs around his hips.

  A heartbeat later she felt the tip of him pressing against her core.

  And for a moment the shadows of the past intruded, dimming the passion that had made her fearless. Eithni’s body went rigid under Donnel’s.

  He stilled, propping himself up on his elbows so he could look down at her. “I would never hurt you,” he whispered. “If you wish it … I will stop.”

  “No, don’t,” she gasped. The memories faded, and she was with him again. “It was just a surprise that’s all.”

  He smiled down at her, before reaching out and stroking her face. “Let me make it a good surprise then.”

  Donnel entered her slowly. He was large, and she was still tense, so he took his time allowing her to get used to his size—to stretch around him.

  Eithni forced herself to breathe, to relax her body, and to her surprise it did not hurt at all. Instead she felt a wondrous aching fullness. When he was buried deep inside her, Donnel moved his hips in a circular
motion, and a shaft of pleasure arrowed through Eithni’s lower belly.

  She gasped, and when he did it again, she gave a soft cry of pleasure.

  “Is that good, mo leannan?” he murmured.

  My lover. His words caressed her, like his hands that had returned to her breasts, like his shaft that was now buried to the root within her.

  “Aye,” she groaned. “Please … don’t stop.”

  He reared back, withdrawing from her slightly while he lifted her legs, placing them over his shoulders. Then he began to rock back and forth, sliding deeper into her with each movement.

  Exquisite pleasure rippled out from her core.

  Each movement of his hips lifted her higher and higher toward some nameless goal. Eithni let out a choked gasp and whispered his name. She opened her eyes, gazing up at him under heavy lids. Donnel towered above her, his naked skin gleaming with sweat in the dying light of the embers.

  She noted the tension in his shoulders, the fierce expression on his face, and realized that he was reining himself in. He was going slowly and gently on her account. A feeling of safety settled over Eithni at the sight. This powerful, passionate man was afraid of hurting her. He was holding back for her pleasure.

  “Please,” Eithni breathed. “I need more, Donnel … I need you.”

  His face twisted, a nerve flickering in his cheek. “I can’t,” he ground out. “I don’t want to—”

  “I want it,” she cried as the pressure mounted within her.

  With a curse he parted her legs wide and thrust deep between them.

  Eithni cried out, shivering as excitement mounted within her and uncontrollable tremors began radiating out from her loins. She arched back against the deerskin and dug her fingers into his broad shoulders as he rode her.

  He was her rock in a harsh cruel world.

  Donnel’s self-control snapped then, unraveling like a ball of yarn cast down a hill. He plunged deep, and Eithni felt him release inside her as she climaxed once again, her cries splitting the night.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Making Things Right

  EITHNI LAY UPON her back, breathing hard, and waited for the world to stop spinning. Her body felt weak and boneless, her loins still ached with pleasure. She felt completely undone—it was as if Donnel had slowly taken her to pieces and put her back together again. He had shown her what it should be like between a man and a woman. No fear, shame, or pain—just abandon.

  Raising a trembling hand, she pushed her damp hair out of her eyes and glanced over at where Donnel lay sprawled on his back next to her. He too was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling fast. His eyes were closed now, with his lashes long and dark against his cheeks.

  A wave of tenderness rose up within Eithni. She reached out and placed her palm upon his chest. Donnel’s eyes flickered open, and he covered her hand with his. Then he turned his head to look at her.

  His expression was still tender, but his gaze was haunted. Eithni had not one regret about what had just transpired between them. How could she regret the most magical experience of life? However, gazing into Donnel’s eyes, she realized he did not feel the same way.

  “I lost control,” he said huskily. “Sorry about that.”

  He was so serious that she had to smile. “I’m glad you did,” she replied, her cheeks warming under the intensity of his gaze. “This has been growing between us for a while … I’m glad we gave into it. Tea once told me that desire isn’t like other emotions. You can’t wish it away, for it only gets worse if you do.”

  Donnel huffed a laugh. “I suppose she should know—she and Galan had a rocky start.” His expression grew serious once more. “I’ve really made a mess of things … haven’t I?”

  Eithni favored him with a soft smile. “No … not of everything.”

  She slid over to him and propped herself up on one elbow, gazing down at him. He looked up at her, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You’re quite a woman. You surprised me.”

  “I feel safe with you,” she replied, meaning it. “You make me feel … as if I can be myself.”

  A shadow moved in his eyes, and she saw his jaw tense. Once again he was at war with himself; she could sense it.

  “I can’t give you my heart, Eithni,” he said after a moment. “I don’t have one left to give.”

  Eithni’s chest constricted, and the blanket of wellbeing their lovemaking had wrapped her in slipped away, making a chill feather across her skin. She had wanted to think what had just happened between them had changed his world the way it had hers. However, he still carried his wife’s ghost with him.

  She did not blame him for it either, but the sting of disappointment this realization brought punctured her happiness. She had heard that Luana had been an incredible woman—beautiful, kind, and strong. Such a ghost would be hard to leave behind.

  Perhaps sensing her change in mood, Donnel reached up, his fingertips tracing the lines of her face. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured. “Like a maid of the Fair Folk … not of this world.”

  Eithni heaved in a breath. A few moments earlier she would have welcomed those words, would have basked in them. Now they just made her feel lonely. She had not lain with Donnel expecting him to profess his love for her, yet his words seemed empty after what they had just shared.

  Foolish girl, you know nothing of the world, she chided herself, pulling back from him. You play with fire and then are surprised when you burn your fingers.

  Without another word Eithni moved away from Donnel and reached for her tunic.

  The grey dawn light filtered into the hut, drawing Donnel out of a deep sleep. Yawning, he stretched, awaking slowly. A sense of wellbeing filled him this morning; his limbs felt loose, his muscles relaxed, and his mind clear.

  He opened his eyes to find himself lying naked upon the pile of ferns. There was an indentation on the deerskin where Eithni had lain during the night, yet there was no sign of her now.

  Donnel sat up and stretched once more. Gods, he had not slept that well in a long while. Rising to his feet he retrieved his clothing from the floor and quickly dressed. It was cold inside the hut, for the embers had died overnight. When he emerged outdoors, he saw a mantle of ominous grey cloud looming overhead. The air was damp and charged with the promise of rain.

  He found Eithni before the fire outside, warming her hands over the low flames. She had not seen him emerge from the hut and had her back to him. At a glance he saw she was tense. There was a rigidity in her back, and her shoulders were slightly rounded.

  Watching her, self-recrimination twisted Donnel’s gut. What was wrong with him? Last night he had crooned endearments in her ear and made love to her as if she were the only woman alive—and then afterward he had informed her he could never love her.

  What insensitive bastard does a thing like that?

  Him, it seemed. The words had been out before he could stop them, but that was no excuse. He could not use Luana as a justification either—she was not to blame for anything. He had poisoned his own heart with his bitterness and anger; Eithni did not deserve that. She was worth so much more. She had a good heart, a kind soul, and a passion that had surprised and delighted him.

  Yet as he watched her, he wondered at the wisdom of giving into his desire for her. They had done nothing wrong—what had happened between them was as natural as breathing—but it could not lead anywhere.

  Not while he felt as he did about the world.

  Eithni heard him approach and turned. His chest constricted when he saw her eyes were glistening and her cheeks were damp. She’d been crying.

  “Lass … I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head. “For what?” she replied, injecting a brightness to her voice that her eyes belied. “I’m fine. It’s just the smoke from the fire.”

  Donnel crossed to Eithni, pulling her close. He folded his arms around her, noting how stiff she was in his embrace. So different to how she had been the night before. The lass was plucky and
brave, yet she was also vulnerable and fragile. He should not have lain with her unless he had been prepared to give her his heart. But he could not take the words back now. Like an arrow loosed from a bow, he could only stand back and watch it find its mark.

  “Forgive me, Eithni,” he murmured against her hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I can see I have.”

  She drew away, raising her tear-streaked face to meet his eye. “I’m just being a goose,” she replied huskily. “I don’t know … what I expected. I’m a foolish woman.”

  Donnel shook his head, reached down, and brushed away a tear that trickled down her cheek. “You’re neither of those things. You’re a beautiful woman, and you deserve better than the likes of me.”

  He had messed up yet again. He knew it the moment the words were out. A shadow moved in those large hazel eyes, and she stepped back from him, out of his embrace.

  The Reaper take him, he had never had such problems with women. It seemed that every time he spoke he dug a deeper hole for himself. He blundered about like a rampant boar in a flower bed, trampling everything.

  They broke their fast together before the fire, while the clouds grew darker overhead. In the distance, thunder rumbled. It was a tense meal, and Donnel did not enjoy his smoked meat.

  “Doesn’t look like a day for hunting,” Donnel observed, glancing up as the first fat drops of rain fell. “I’d better see to Reothadh. He’s not fond of storms.”

  Eithni nodded. “I’ll get a fire lit inside.”

  A short while later, Eithni and Donnel sat at opposite sides of the glowing hearth while the rain hissed down on the sod roof and thunder boomed overhead.

  Perched upon a wooden stump, Eithni sewed together pieces of deerskin to make clothing for the winter, while Donnel carved at a large lump of wood with a knife. He was fashioning a bowl so that Eithni could use it for cooking.