Never, she thought, ignoring him to train her eyes upon the ceiling, determined to think of something, anything other than this ordeal. Mentally, she began to recite the alphabet.
Pagan reached for her again, his hands tenderly surrounding the inlet of her ankle. A for ankle.
She clenched her teeth against the sensation. B for bastard, she thought. And beast. And…
Bliss.
For somehow, despite his…C for calluses, his hands were incredibly gentle as they eased the tiny muscles between the sensitive pads of her toes.
She lost her focus for a moment, then frowned to get it back. D for damn him. Devil. Demon.
Desire.
Nay, not desire.
E for escape and evade and elude.
F for…for…
“Don’t fight me, Deirdre. Don’t fight your own pleasure.” His deft fingers seemed to knead the very will from her.
Fight.
Flounder.
Fail.
Her eyelids dipped as he moved to her other foot and began working his wizardry on it as well.
G… She could think of nothing. She couldn’t think at all. No one had ever touched her like this, in a way that sent waves of warmth up the entire length of her leg.
His hands moved up her calf then, squeezing the sore muscles there. But the slight pain was soothing, as if his touch served to heal her.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
She scowled. Nay. It was…heavenly, H. But she wouldn’t tell him that.
It was amazing how he could gauge the exact amount of strength to use, enough to send sparks of current along her skin, yet not enough to inflict hurt.
When he finished with her calves, he worked his way to her thighs, pressing the heels of his hands slowly up the long muscles until they seemed to melt under his steady pressure. Again and again, he stroked upwards, and though his touch left her limp, it was also strangely energizing.
Only when he ceased did she realize her eyes had been half-closed. She opened them wide.
He caught one of her hands then, and she started to pull it back defensively.
“Don’t resist me,” he reminded her.
She reluctantly let him take it again, centering her stare once more on the ceiling. Where was she? G? H? I…I…
Aye. Somehow his fingertips managed to delve into the crevices between her knuckles, into pockets of strain she didn’t know she possessed.
“You display your emotions here, your tension,” he told her. “Your fists betray you.”
That was nonsense, she thought. She’d had years of practice at concealing her emotions.
But when he pressed into the meat of her hand between the thumb and first finger, she sucked in a quick breath as pain shot up her arm. He lightened his touch, circling the area gently until the ache subsided.
“You see?”
She didn’t want to see. As he slowly worked his way up her arms and across her shoulders, she sensed he was doing more than merely loosening her muscles. He was weakening her armor. And as glorious as it felt, as pleasurable as his touch was, she dared not let him crumble her defenses, dared not let him rob her of her control. She was a Scot, she reminded herself, tough and strong and hardy, not some spoiled Norman with a perfumed horse.
Steeling herself against the divine sensation as his fingers pressed along the stiff cords of her shoulders, she bit out, “Are you almost finished?”
Chapter 10
Pagan paused in his labors. Any other man might have been wounded by her tart question. Finished?
But he knew better. Women loved his caresses. They moaned at his strength and sighed over his gentle touch. Deirdre couldn’t help but enjoy what he was doing.
But then she was unlike any other woman he’d known. Deirdre was a warrior. A combatant. It was unlikely any man had ever presumed to lay a hand on her, tender or otherwise. To have to succumb to such handling, no matter how pleasurable, probably sent her into a defensive panic.
Almost finished?
“Nay,” he assured her, determined that patience would win out the day. “I’ve only begun.”
Of course, that patience meant that he’d have to curb his own mounting desires, not an easy task, given the eager ache in his loins. Indeed, he was astounded by the depth of his desire. Not since his first coupling had he felt so perilously close to losing control. The mere sight of his bride had roused his cock as surely as a rooster to sunrise. Touching her silken flesh had heated that passion till it simmered in his veins. And now, hovering close to her lithe, ripe, perfect body, a body that rightfully belonged to him alone, for aye… Faith, it was enough to make him mad with craving.
But if her will was strong, his was stronger. He was a seasoned lover. She was a novice. If he could last the distance, he’d win the day.
He wove his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head, turning it so she was forced to look at him. The truth resided in her eyes. The smoke of desire veiled her gaze, no matter how her speech denied it, and the knowledge that he’d made her feel that emotion sent a tide of raw, unadulterated pride through his body.
“Kiss me,” he whispered.
“N—”
To her credit, she didn’t finish the word, but panic flared nonetheless in her eyes. She knew her vulnerabilities. She’d enjoyed their last kiss. And he threatened to make her enjoy the next.
Lowering his gaze to her mouth, he moved in slowly, close enough to feel her breath upon his face like moth’s wings. “Kiss me.”
She was unresponsive at first, but he’d already tasted the fruit of her lips in the chapel. He knew her capacity for passion.
It didn’t take long. Slanting his mouth over hers and coaxing her with his tongue, he parted her lips to access the delicious recesses within. He held her still for his gentle intrusion, making languid thrusts of his tongue to mimic the mating to come. But though she yielded readily enough to him, relaxing her jaw, closing her eyes, moaning softly in her throat, still a part of her resisted him. Her fists pressed against his shoulders as she tried in vain to escape.
Calmly, carefully, without stopping their kiss, he clasped one of her wrists and drew her arm up until it rested on the bolster above her head. While she mewled in half-protest, he dragged the other arm up to join it, securing them both beneath one hand. She might have sworn not to resist, but for what he was about to do, she couldn’t be held accountable for her instinct to escape.
With his free hand, he smoothed her fretful brow and caressed her velvety cheek. He clasped her narrow throat, feeling the increase in her pulse beneath his thumb and finger, and let his hand drift downward, pausing over the silver Thor’s hammer. Her chest rose and fell more rapidly now as she sensed his intent.
Reluctantly, he withdrew his lips and nudged her face to the side to whisper in her ear. “You know you want this. You know you crave my touch. Your flesh longs for the brush of my hand.”
She gasped, and while he breathed softly against her ear, he traced her collarbone, then let his palm course over the swell of one breast, circling her tender nipple with his middle finger. It stiffened at once in response, fueling his own lust, and he stole a glance at the perfect bud, golden pink in the candlelight. Sweet Mary, was there anything as seductive as the silhouette of a woman’s aroused nipple? Aye, he thought—the knowledge that it was he who had caused it.
Try as she might, Deirdre couldn’t will her body not to respond. Pagan’s warm breath and dire promises wound their way into the secret hollow of her ear, sending a shudder of simultaneous horror and delight through her. As his hand grazed her bosom, she arched reflexively, all but thrusting her breast into his palm. And when he caught her sensitive nipple gently between his fingers, sending a jolt of heat through her like lightning, it took every ounce of self-control not to make a sound.
“Oh, aye, my lady,” he murmured against her cheek, “see how you answer to my touch?”
Nay, she wanted to scream, but that would have been a lie. And when
his hand strayed to her other breast, she could barely breathe with the anticipation of that contact.
But he stopped short.
“Look,” he whispered.
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. It was humiliating enough that her body thwarted her. She didn’t want to see how his hand covered her breast as if it was his possession.
“Watch,” he coaxed.
He needn’t remind her she’d given her word not to resist him. She was honorable enough to remind herself. But it was the hardest thing she’d ever done to pry open her eyes and watch her own body’s betrayal, and her face flushed hot with shame.
His fingers looked enormous and dark and rough against her pale skin. It was a miracle he didn’t maul her with his great paws. But as she watched by the flickering light, his thumb circled her nipple as tenderly as a wet nurse coaxing a babe to suckle, and with one light flick, he brought it to life.
She gasped, and for one terrifying instant, their eyes met. Then Deirdre buried her head against her shoulder, too incensed and mortified to look at him.
“Aye, sweetheart, you see what I can do to you,” he rasped out. “Now feel what you’ve done to me.” He pressed close against her until the linen of his shirt draped her thigh. Through the linen, she felt the searing length of his cock, full and hard and menacing.
Instinctively, she tried to wrest loose from his hold on her wrists, but his grip was firm.
“Admit it. You’re helpless against desire.”
His words piqued her ire. No one called Deirdre helpless. It was honor that held her here, not desire.
As if to test that resolve, he said, “You fight me. Do you wish to withdraw your offer? Is the price too steep for your sister’s freedom?”
She turned her most withering glare upon him then, a look that sent most men scurrying for cover. “Never.”
A strange, almost pitying smile graced his features then, and he eased forward until he reclined on the bed beside her, throwing an anchoring leg over hers. The linen felt perilously thin between them, and she could feel the well-muscled contours of his chest and thighs and…and that obscene dagger with which he wished to impale her.
But not yet. Apparently he had other depravities in mind first. He drew a finger slowly down the center of her throat, into the hollow where her pulse throbbed, then lower, between her breasts. But this time he didn’t stop there. Turning his hand, he continued down her belly, dipping briefly into her navel, then past, till his fingers grazed the place where her woman’s hair began.
He nuzzled at her ear again. “There is an ache between your thighs, isn’t there?”
“Nay,” she lied.
“Oh, aye, ’tis there,” he assured her, his fingers teasing along the edge of her curls.
She silently cursed him for knowing what he did to her.
Then he nudged her head, angling his own to capture her mouth. This time his kiss was sweet and tender, like that first kiss in the chapel, and despite her determination to remain impassive, she found herself answering him.
But like a hunter luring a stag, as he wooed her with light kisses, his hand stole stealthily over her woman’s mound. Not until his fingers boldly spread her nether lips did she realize how much he’d dared. But he was ready for her rebellion. He caught her shocked gasp between his lips, and his other hand tightened on her bound wrists.
His heavy leg held her immobile while he continued his perversions, stroking and squeezing and circling the place between her thighs until she thought she’d scream into his plundering mouth. And then he touched her where she most wished he wouldn’t, for it made her body arch upwards of its own will, out of control.
“There,” he murmured against her mouth. “Aye, there.”
Once he found it, he wouldn’t leave it be. While her body writhed in bittersweet torment, he stroked her again and again, sliding wet, warm fingertips along the sleek folds of her most secret place.
“And here,” he breathed, slipping a thick finger partially inside her while his thumb danced expertly over the center of her need.
As she squirmed beneath his ministrations, a sheer mist seemed to gather about her, a soft cloud of nameless, growing pleasure that obscured her vision and thoughts and resistance. Suddenly she felt no struggle, no memory, no will of her own. There was only this point, this feeling, increasing, evolving, focusing. All else receded into a vague haze.
“Aye, my lady. That’s it. Aye.”
His voice pierced the fog just enough to make her remember. But now it was too late. She’d stepped into his snare. She was beyond help. To her horror, she could resist no longer. As if some devil wind picked her up and cast her through the air, she was flung to a heavenly plateau where she could do nothing but hold on for dear life and cry out in amazement.
Wave after wave of ecstasy buffeted her, robbing her of her senses and her control, and she trembled with the power of it, thrashing so violently upon the bed that she feared she might lurch free of the very world.
A surge of primitive need coursed through Pagan’s veins as he watched Deirdre arch and howl and shudder in the throes of her release, her fists clenched within his, her face contorted with wondrous agony. God, he wanted her now! While she writhed in climax. While she screamed in pleasure. Before she finished and drifted back to earth.
It was excruciating to wait.
But wait he would. He was a man of his word. So he languished in unspent lust while she lay panting in the aftermath of her ordeal.
At long last, he nuzzled her throat and wheezed, “You didn’t resist. You kept your word. I honor you for that.” Sweat beaded his brow as he spoke the words he must. “Now I must keep mine.” He reached up to tuck a damp curl behind her ear. “I vowed to your sister I wouldn’t take you against your will.” He rested the backs of his knuckles alongside her neck, where her pulse raced. “If, in your heart, you do not wish this union, speak the words now. For I warn you, my lady, nothing else will douse the flames of my desire.”
Deirdre was mortified. Completely mortified. And embarrassed. And ashamed. And appalled. And a million other shades of humiliation she’d never before endured. Aye, she’d been bested in the past, on the field of battle, but not in her own chamber and never by her own machinations. Against her most formidable foe, her own body had utterly betrayed her. She’d completely lost control.
The worst of it was she still, still felt a fierce, inexplicable, unrequited hunger for the conniving brute who called himself her husband. Her cursed loins still quivered with need. Her breasts craved his touch. And her lips felt absurdly naked, deprived of his kiss.
Even as she lay loathing him, her flesh burned for want of his caress.
But she couldn’t yield to that longing. Deirdre of Rivenloch never yielded. It was a lesson learned hard from long days in the tiltyard. Pagan had relinquished his sword and held his hand out to her to put an end to combat, offering his own surrender. By God, she’d seize it.
Her heart pounded harder than an armorer’s hammer. But she rallied the courage to stare into his desire-glazed eyes, to say what her body wished she would not. “Know this, sirrah.” Her voice cracked. “I do not resist, because I have given my word. But I will not lie willingly with you this night or any other.”
His lids grew flat, and it seemed as if chips of ice slowly crystallized in his eyes. But his wintry glare was deceptive, for in his jaw, a muscle tightened and released, and behind the silvery thunderheads of his eyes, a violent summer storm brewed.
“As you wish,” he snarled quietly.
He released her then and backed away. She should have been relieved. But she didn’t trust the silent fury in his countenance. Carefully, she reached down for the linens and dragged them up to her chin, feeling uncomfortable with her own nakedness for the first time in her life.
He turned toward the fire, where red coals shimmered on the hearth, mirroring his dangerous mood. She saw by the rise and fall of his shoulders that he fought to gain contr
ol of his breathing. And perhaps his temper.
After a pregnant silence, he turned to face her again, his expression inscrutable. Then he reached down and pulled his linen shirt off over his head.
For one awful instant, she thought he’d changed his mind and meant to break his vow, to force himself upon her. But it was resignation, not vengeance, that dulled his eyes.
And in the next moment, she found her gaze roaming involuntarily over the magnificent contours of his nude body. The golden glow from the candles accentuated each formidable muscle, and Deirdre saw he possessed a more powerful frame than any of Rivenloch’s knights. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick, his chest massive. It was little wonder he’d been able to subdue her so easily. And lower, before she hastily averted her eyes, she glimpsed his still aroused shaft emerging from its nest of dark hair.
Her skin grew warm, and the breath caught in her throat. Sweet Saints, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Against her wishes, the prickling began again between her legs. Bloody hell! Despite reason, despite her good intentions, God help her, she was…moved by the sight of Pagan.
It couldn’t be!
Maybe he’d cast some enchantment upon her, binding the two of them. Or perhaps it was only a temporary affliction that would fade with each passing moment. But in this moment, curse her weak soul, she wanted him again.
He cast the shirt brusquely aside. As if she were not there, he snatched the linens from off the bed. She drew her knees up defensively. And then he did the oddest thing. With a grunt and a violent tug, he tore the bandage from his chest, exposing and opening the wound she’d dealt him. Fresh blood seeped from the cut. With a casual sniff, he let it well up, then wiped across the wound with the bed linens.
Virgin’s blood. Of course. It would look as if they’d consummated their marriage. Deirdre felt a pang of guilt as she glanced at Pagan’s reopened wound. That was a chivalrous thing to do. She would have expected him to prick her finger for the blood, or from the silent wrath in his eyes, maybe slash her throat.
But he neither touched her nor spoke to her again. After he circled the chamber, forcefully blowing out all the candles, he climbed in beside her, hauled up the coverlet, and flounced over on his side, facing away from her.
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