by Kris Kennedy
She pulled it as far as her knees, trembling.
“Come closer.”
She did, at once stunned and stupefied. Her body felt as if it would float right up out of the window. He took her fingers, kissed her knuckles. “Lie down.”
She started to lie on the bed, but he stopped her. He patted his thighs. “On me. On your belly, lass. Right here.”
Fire flared across her cheeks. “Oh, Aodh.”
He took her hand and made her bend her knees, drop to the floor, then tugged her forward to lay her body over his thighs.
Thundering heart, whirling head, blood firing in hot pulses. The room all but spun. Hard-muscled thighs pushed against her breasts. She stared ahead at the wall, the tiny decorations of swirling patterns, hearts and clubs. He rested one palm gently on her bottom. Through the thin linen shift, it was an imprint of heat. She made a tiny sound.
“Pull it up.”
Her body jolted. She reached down for the thin fabric and tugged the chemise the rest of the way up, baring herself to the hips. “Don’t hurt me,” she whispered.
“Och, I’m going to hurt you, lass.” He skidded his palm gently over the cool curve of her bottom. “But I think I’ll make you like it.”
He lifted his hand, and brought it down hard.
Her body jerked as if lightning had surged through it, a shocking, hard shudder of…pleasure. Her head flung up, her mouth rounded around a silent cry.
He bent by her ear. “Did you like that?”
Oh, the devil he was. He knew.
He did it again, a hard slap, first one side of her bottom, then, swift and red-hot, the other. She jerked with a panted cry, her hands still fisted around the hem of her chemise, holding it up for him to do as he would with her.
“You look fine, laying there for me, Katy.”
Her face flamed, but her legs parted when his hand slid between them. For a moment, he didn’t move, and she knew he was staring down at her, spread wide for him. The backs of her legs were cool from the air, the front of her hot from Aodh. Her bottom flamed. And ached for more.
He brought his flattened palm down on her again, hard and swift.
Her body shuddered and her head dropped, so her hair spilled across the floor. Her hips rose up to take the next one.
“Tell me you’re sorry.”
A sob broke from her. “I am sorry.”
“Good.” His hand came down again. “Say it again.”
“I am sorry.”
He spanked her again, then again, and again, first one cheek, then the other. Hot, hard, stinging pleasure. Occasionally, his hand would drop lower, smack against her upper thighs. Each time she rose to meet him, shocked breathless by the sword thrusts of pleasure it sent slicing through her body. Each time, she gasped, each time her head dropped farther, but her hands hung on to her chemise, holding it up for him.
“Now, lass,” he said, and this time, when he struck, it was oh so softly. “I don’t want to have to worry about you every time I turn my back.”
“No,” she agreed in a ragged whisper.
“Nor every time I take a drink.” He brought his hand down again, soft, on the other cheek, then his fingers skimmed into the wetness coating her inner thighs.
She could barely gasp, her body was so lightning saturated, so ready to fall.
“We understand one another?” His hand gently circled her bottom. Again, his fingers detoured to press into her swollen folds.
“Oh yes,” she whispered.
His fingers pushed up inside her. “I think you like this, Katy.” He slid out again and traced her swollen entryway. “Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
The tip of his finger pushed back in, skimmed up to her bottom. “Should I stop?”
“Please…don’t stop.”
Immediately, he lifted her off his legs and slid her to the cool sheets of the bed, then laid her on her belly, where she collapsed. He tore his clothes off and dragged her back up to her hands and knees. She swayed as if drunk.
He knelt behind her, his thighs hard, the hair scratching the soft skin of the back of her thighs. He rested a hand on her hip, and then, for a moment, simply held them like this, unmoving.
She dragged her head around and peered over her shoulder. His body, ranging behind hers, rose up like a mountain. His dark eyes pinned her.
“Aodh,” she whispered raggedly, reaching back. “Please don’t stop.”
“Katy,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “There’ll be no stopping, ever again.”
He gripped her sweaty hips and breached her with no prelude and no gentleness, all push, no stopping, just as he’d said, a single, long, thrusting penetration, until he was buried in her to the hilt.
She screamed from the pleasure.
He pulled back and entered her again, slowly and unstoppably, a long stroke. Her arms began to shake. His pace grew more intent, more driven, as he kneeled up high, one hand light on her hip. She sprawled, bottom in the air, elbows out, gasping from the mad, unspeakable pleasure.
Her knees weakened, slid out, and she dropped to the bed.
“Good, lass?” The dark query came beside her ear, his body burning and slick with sweat above hers.
Pleasure flattened her. He dragged her back up to her knees, and she cried from the pleasure of that too. Then, hands on her hips, forcing her to stay up, he pulled her back to him as he surged forward, and she climaxed, a bright, hot, explosion that rocked her in shaking shudders, and rent her heart open.
His voice came by her ear, a fierce whisper. “Now, you are mine.”
Weak and dizzy, she nodded. “I am yours.”
He kissed her, and thrust inside her again and climaxed in a surge of male heat and seed and driven intention, and she was, truly, his.
Now the trouble would begin.
*
“MY,” THE QUEEN SAID, as she stood in the rain-soaked courtyard, hood pulled far forward over her face. “What a lot of letters from Ireland these days. How lively it has become.”
She turned to the man who towered beside her, Sir Charles Ludthorpe, captain of the force she was sending to acquaint Aodh Mac Con with her displeasure. “A bit too lively, wouldn’t you say?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty.”
“This most recent message is from Bermingham, Baron Athelrye. He reports Aodh Mac Con is well ensconced in the castle, and the lady of Rardove has acquiesced to him.”
“So he says,” was the noncommittal reply.
“You will find out for certain.”
“I will.”
“No negotiations.”
He nodded.
“We shall call Aodh’s bluff, if bluff it be. If he wishes for a fight, then a fight he shall have. And when he is captured… If it is as we think…bring him back to me. If it is worse…” She averted her gaze. “See to it there.”
He nodded.
She was quiet a moment, then said briskly, “The message to Katarina has gone off, telling her of my displeasure. Aodh Mac Con will see it as well, they will all see it, but that is quite the point. She will do what she must, or I will destroy her. This is her last chance.”
“Perhaps she does not have a choice,” Ludthorpe suggested gently. “Her castle has been overtaken, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, and how?” the queen retorted. “After all these years, now it falls? One would almost think she opened the gates to the man.” She tapped her chin with the note, then gave a brisk nod. “Very well, Ludthorpe, see to this matter however you will. Give her a chance to prove her loyalty. If indeed she has turned on us, then turn on her. If she has not…” The queen waved her hand in a vague fluttering. “Perhaps you can use her as bait, for if Bermingham speaks true, a tendresse has developed between her and Aodh.” Her jaw tightened, then smoothed again. “But if there is the least question of her loyalty…”
And of course there had to be the least question, didn’t there? If only because there been no word from Katarina. No news of inhabitants fleeing, of disposse
ssed ladies seeking refuge at loyalist castles.
If only because Aodh, reckless, charismatic Aodh, was at the center of this thing.
Ludthorpe nodded his inscrutable nod. “Very good, my lady. I shall manage the matter of Mistress Katarina and Aodh Mac Con.”
It was an unfortunate pairing of names, and she spun sharply to the servant who stood behind her. “Well, after all, where is he?” she snapped.
“Lord Bertrand is en route, my lady. Another day at most. The rains, you know…”
She whirled back and stood in silence for a long time, then addressed her captain. “You used to know Mac Con, did you not?”
Ludthorpe’s armor was a perfect reflection of the cloudy skies and the gray rain starting to spit down on them. Still, Elizabeth did not retreat indoors. Ludthorpe, being a seasoned soldier, had no compunction about standing in the rain until the sun came out again, and merely nodded as water ran in rivulets down his helm.
“He served under me, Your Majesty, years ago.”
She nodded, tapping the most recent message from Ireland on her bottom lip. “What did you think of him?”
“A rogue,” he said at once. “Charming, dangerous, and looking for trouble.” Ludthorpe paused. “But not a rebel.”
She lowered the paper. “And yet he is precisely that, is he not?”
He nodded, his gaze sliding away.
“Is he not?” she said again, sharply. “He has taken a castle of mine and holds it even now, against my wishes. What else could he be but a rebel?”
Ludthorpe’s gaze came back. “He is whatever you say he is, Your Majesty.”
She stared blankly ahead, then a moment later, shook her head, as if responding to some inner conversation.
“No. I cannot have Ireland come at me from behind. Not even for Aodh.”
Chapter Thirty-One
KATARINA WAS UP the next morning as soon as the first ray of sun hit her eyelids.
The first thing she noticed was that the door stood ajar.
She flung herself out of the bed, grabbing for her gown as she went, then her boot, far too excited, considering she’d just wedged herself deeper into a bond with a rebel. But for now, all she felt was…buoyant. The sun was shining and Aodh was out there, waiting for her.
She tugged on her boot as she hopped across the room to where the other lay, on the floor beneath the table. She bent for it, putting her nose a bare inch from the table, so for a moment, she didn’t realize what she was seeing, lying there on its surface.
A half-curled roll of parchment, covered in ink. At the bottom was Aodh’s signature, large, scrawling, and red.
It was the betrothal agreement.
It had been torn in half.
She stared, her heartbeat speeding up, then she straightened with a snap and flew out of the room, snatching up her veil and pinning it on as she went.
She found him in the training yard, clad in armor and sweat. Engaged with one of his men in swordplay, puffs of dirt rose from under the men’s feet as they circled each other. Their tunics were unlaced, hems hanging down to muscular thighs clad in hose and boots. At the far end of the bailey, another set of men worked on the target field, shooting arrows. The stables bustled with men leading horses in and out, and from over the wall came the faint ring of gunshot; men were training beyond the walls, too.
She leaned her shoulder against the wall, content to wait to be seen. He caught sight of her when their circling brought him around, and he smiled even as he slashed his sword.
She smiled back.
His opponent knocked the blade out of Aodh’s hands, then danced backward, astonishment on his face, but laughing in triumph.
The rest of the soldiers who’d been leaning against the walls roared in laughter too, to see their commander beaten. Aodh swept up his blade, and the group enjoyed a few moments of enthusiastic revilement of Aodh’s abilities—or lack thereof—until he dipped his head Katarina’s direction.
They all snapped to attention, then flushed and apologized and nodded and bowed and very quickly drifted off. Aodh came to her side.
“Did I do that?” she asked apologetically. “Make you lose your sword?”
“Aye.” He wiped sweat off his brow with his forearm, then hooked his arm behind her back and hauled her to him. “Entirely your fault. Mayhap I should punish you.”
He kissed her, a swift, possessive kiss, showing her he recalled all the things she’d taught him about what she liked, then he released her, setting her down on wobbly feet, her face flaming. “Good morning.”
“And good morning to you, sir,” she said breathlessly, straightening the veil he’d pushed askew.
He snatched a skin of water off the ground and drank deeply before he poured a good portion over his sweaty face and neck, and wiped it off with his tunic.
“Did you like my gift?” he asked, without looking at her.
So, he was unsure of himself. Or perhaps of her.
She was very, very sure. “You mean the betrothal papers?”
“Aye.” He slammed the cork back into the skin opening.
“The one torn into pieces?”
He dropped the skin on the ground. “Aye.”
“Oh yes, Aodh,” she assured him softly. “Very, very much.”
His gaze swept to hers, then he kissed her again. She took the kiss until, her eyes opened dazedly and she saw the crowded bailey had ground to an almost complete halt. People stopped and stared as Katarina, who’d been trapped in a tower, stood with their new lord, getting properly kissed.
She pushed him away and tried to catch her breath. “But why?” she asked, ducking her head, keeping her voice low. “Why did you tear it up?”
He shrugged. “I was wrong. I’ll have you willing or not at all. Nothing else will do.”
This was the sort of thing that could make a woman not care who was watching. She pushed up on her toes and touched her lips to his. “That, sir, is almost enough to make a lady consider being reckless.”
His hands closed around her before she could step away. “This pleases you? This tearing up of things?”
She nodded. “Greatly.”
“Then I shall begin tearing up things immediately. Papers, trenchers of bread.” His hands interlaced at the small of her back, not letting her retreat. Which was quite his way. “I’ll rip the tapestries to shreds.”
Katarina laughed and rested her head on his chest for a moment, not caring who was watching or what they thought. Her skin was awash in chills comprised of laughter and passion and…yes, happiness. When had she last been happy?
She could not count the years. Life was not made for such things. Happiness was nonessential, but oh, how it pleased.
Again—and again, and again—how Aodh pleased.
“And I believe, sir,” she said, looking up at him, “that as you going to tear things up on my behalf, I will…stand down my men on yours.”
“Ah,” he said slowly, then bent his head and kissed her again.
They walked to the keep together after they’d released the garrison. He slung his arm over her shoulder and they strode through the bailey. She walked close at his side, discussing what she wanted to speak to Cook about for the evening meal.
He barely listened. It was enough she was here, chattering happily, her slim body curving up to his. The hum was back, the emptiness filled.
Miniature reunions erupted all across the bailey as her household drew close to speak to Katarina, to hug her, to ask questions or advice on various small matters. Clearly they did not need her opinion on whether to boil the chicken or purchase additional lye for the laundry, they just wanted to be near her, to touch her hand, to bring her sprigs of spring wildflowers—Dickon shoved them into her hands and rushed off before she could catch him—so it was almost an hour before they were back inside the keep.
He took her directly to their chambers. He had no specific plans, but a great many general ones.
They spent the rest of the day there
. They left only for the evening meal, when the household finally pounded on the door for Aodh. And for Katarina.
*
“WEAR THIS.”
Katarina was in their chambers, rummaging through the wardrobe, casting aside all the gowns that would not do for such a night as this. But they would all not do.
Her muscles were gloriously sore and well worked. Muscles she had not known she possessed were still sensitive and trembling. She felt aglow.
And she had nothing to wear.
She turned at the sound of Aodh’s voice, and almost caught her breath.
He stood in the doorway, his hair damp from a bath, fresh and windblown and smelling of vitality and spring and maleness. And wearing…velvet.
His broad shoulders filled out a black tunic, studded with rivets across the front. His dark hair fell down over it, melding with the darkness of the fabric. Black hose completed the ensemble, down to polished knee-high boots. He looked like danger incarnate. In fact, the only hint of color was his ice-blue eyes.
Magnificent indeed, a beast in his prime. And he knew it.
Over his arm hung…the red fabric from the tower. “The servants made it into a gown for you,” he said.
“Tandy,” Katarina said fondly. “She is a master seamstress.”
“She had helpers. You’ve a talented staff.”
Katarina touched the rich reds and pale yellows of the fabric. “They have had to be, for I am not.”
On his arms, in addition to the gown, lay a pale shift, with lace along the edges, and silk stockings, with silky threads falling from them, and a long girdle with hammered silver links, not hers. A gift, then.
“Wait outside,” she said softly. “I will change.”
He handed everything over and backed out.
She could have called for Susanna, or one of the others, but she did not want to share this moment. Aodh could help her finish. The silken gown fell in skirts of pale yellow and red, with wide, flowing sleeves edged in lace. It became a tumble of yellow and dark red, one color overfalling the other, a frothy concoction of bright sun and red shadow. It had an open, darted bodice, the tight yellow tunic showing through the red silk ribbons like a sun. The tops of her breasts rose up above.
