Confusion narrowed his eyes to slits. “’Tis not the same thing. I thought you were dead.”
“I thought I was about to be eaten alive,” she countered.
His hand lifted to caress her cheek, his dark eyes reflecting regret. “I am sorry. ’Twill not happen again.”
If she’d been standing on Eire’s rich earth, her knees would have buckled. As it was, she barely managed to keep her chin above water. Men didn’t apologize for their actions. Or if they did, they used it as a means to obtain concessions in return.
But the pain in Strongheart’s eyes revealed that his apology was sincerely offered. That such a strong man was capable of gentleness set her stomach trembling anew.
The least she could do was match his magnificent gesture. “I, too, acted without thinking and am sorry for the worry I caused.”
Although her limbs felt numbed by the icy cold of the water, the intense focus of his gaze on her face heated her to the core. She pointed to the flat rock in the sun, her original destination before he’d so suddenly appeared. “I’ll race you.”
Without waiting for his answer, she lunged forward, her legs kicking, her arms turning over swiftly. She watched him draw ahead in three strokes, then wait for her as if afraid to let her too far from sight. They may have finished the race together, but it was clearly due to his holding back, making sure she had the stamina to finish safely.
He pulled himself onto the rock, not even breathing heavily. Then he turned and squatted, offered his hand, and hauled her to him. His hands around hers were gentle and warm. His broad chest glistened with water droplets in the bright sunlight, sculpting the corded muscles of his torso. For a moment she thought he intended to draw her into his arms and enfold her in his heat. And despite all her promises to resist, she would have yielded, but he determinedly set her on her feet and let his hands drop to his sides.
She dropped to the flat rock and lay on the sun-warmed stone, her thoughts whirring in gossamer. He lay beside her on his back, hands clasped behind his head, staring into the forest greens.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, her curiosity as natural as the water trickling endlessly over the rocks.
He turned on his side and rested his head in his palm. “I wondered why you almost fainted when earlier I asked if you would drown me.” He gazed at her warily, as if expecting her to fall prey to another spot of dizziness.
While the memories still haunted her, she carried them so close to her heart that speaking of them was difficult. Yet Strongheart had spoken of losing his brother, so perhaps he would understand.
“When I was ten, I had a half-sister, Eva. While my father spent time with her mother, I often took Eva for long walks. She became very dear to me.”
As if guessing of the disaster that she would impart, Strongheart squeezed her hand, lending her strength. “You were too young to be the sole charge of a child.”
His understanding lent her more courage, and she closed her eyes, the memories of that day replaying like a vision. A tightness gripped her chest, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. “A group of raiders slipped past our border patrols. Eva and I were playing a game of conceal and seek. I’d hidden myself deep in a hay bale. When I heard Eva’s shrieks, I clawed my way out.”
Strongheart drew her against his side, but even his body heat did not still her trembling. Gently he ran his fingers through her hair, and the soothing sensation calmed her breathing.
His husky voice resounded in her ears. “A ten-year-old girl could not have fought off a raiding party.”
“I should have run for help,” she said the words aloud that she’d carried with her for years. “But I didn’t. I watched them drown my sister from the safety of the hay. Later, the villagers thought I had drowned Eva in a fit of jealous rage.”
His tone was tender. “When I teased you about wanting to drown me, I had no idea.”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand and then continued, now anxious to finish the tale. “Within the hour, the raiders burned a village. Everyone exonerated me of guilt.”
“But the memory haunts you?”
The pain of losing her sister still clawed at her like a fresh wound. A shudder racked her body and twisted her stomach. “’Tis the reason I learned to use a dirk. I never again wanted to stand helpless and watch someone I loved die.” Her fingers gripped his so tightly, the knuckles turned pale. “I hate the fighting. Why can we not live in peace?”
As if to punctuate her words, a flock of Wexford-coast terns dipped and circled the pond, but sensing their presence, they soared aloft with loud caws of protest.
His eyes bored into hers as if sensing she had yet to tell him the entire story. “You still feel responsible for Eva’s death?”
She choked over her words. “How could you know?”
He flinched but held her gaze. “Remember the cat that caused my brother’s death?”
“Yes.”
“It was my fault the tabby was there.”
Confused, she let out her pent-up breath with a hiss. “But you said she followed you.”
He paused and clenched his jaw. “I lied.”
Chapter Nine
STRONGHEART rubbed his squared jaw, a subdued look of deep pain and maybe anger on his face. “Oh, in the beginning the tabby followed us, but I fed her scraps, and when she tired, I secretly carried her in my pack.”
Dara absorbed the warmth of the rock beneath her, yet a shiver trembled through her. “Did your brother know?”
“Yes, but I was the one who enjoyed her furry warmth next to me during the cold, lonely nights of the long campaign.”
She reached out and skimmed her fingers over his shoulder, taking in his damp skin, warmed by the sun. “Your brother’s death was no more your fault than Eva’s was mine.”
Strongheart shook his head, showering water droplets about them, his shoulders rigid. “There was nothing you could have done to save Eva. Hiding probably saved your life. But I . . . I directly contributed to my brother’s death.”
“You were just a lad,” she protested, the anguish in the depths of his gaze causing her stomach to contract. That cat must have given the little boy he’d once been the love and warmth he’d missed after his mother died.
His palm splayed across the water drops on the rock, smearing the dampness thin. He lifted his head to look at her, raising lashes spiked with droplets of water that dripped onto the hard line of his jaw. “I was old enough to know better.”
Suddenly she understood what drove him to become so proficient with his sword, imagined the sacrifices he’d made, all because of guilt. “And after your brother’s death, did you turn yourself into the warrior your father always wanted?”
His head came up sharply, his eyes piercing. “How did you guess?”
She sighed, remembering the aching, hollow emptiness, the obdurate need to demonstrate her worthiness to herself and others. “After Eva’s death, I thought our people doubted my loyalty, so I proved my worth by taking on the responsibilities of the lady of the castle. As penance, I’d guess you took your brother’s place in your father’s eyes, forcing yourself to become the son, the warrior, your father demanded.”
As he became lost in memories, his gaze softened, seemingly losing focus, and the sharp edges around his eyes eased. “I was more interested in stories and music than my brother. I remember sneaking into a gypsy encampment to listen to their strange, haunting music. When my father caught me, he beat me for the adventure, but I never regretted my escapade.”
She pushed a lock of wet hair behind her ear and sighed at the harsh way he’d been forced to grow up. “Have you ever wondered how different you’d be if you’d had other parents?”
“No.” He cocked his head to one side with a questioning look on his face.
She twisted her fing
ers in the hem of her damp tunic, almost afraid to look at him. “If anyone but Conor, King of Leinster, was my father, I could choose a husband without thought to politics.”
“If anyone but Conor was your father, you might not have been given a choice,” he countered.
“My choices are few. My people will not accept a common villager as their laird. And ’twould change the balance of power in Eire for me to wed another king. Most likely I’ll marry a minor prince.”
“You’re wrong, Princess. You’ll marry me.”
His eyes turned smoky, and her heart paused before resuming a frenetic pace. The day was sultry, yet gooseflesh tingled over her. His gaze focused on her once more, and suddenly she was conscious of the wet tunic molding her every curve, the rock pressing her hip, the sunlight beating down on her skin. As she breathed in the clean scent of the woods, her chest expanded, and her breasts had never seemed so sensitive.
Drawing her hand from his, she tucked her fingers beneath the material at the shoulder of her tunic, unsuccessfully attempting to tug the damp cloth from her flesh. Strongheart’s gaze followed her movement, and as the corner of his mouth turned in a small smile, she sucked in her breath.
She told herself she responded to him only because his story had touched her, yet deep in her heart she wondered if they were kindred spirits. The bards spoke of soul mates, but she’d never put much credence to their fantastical tales of love. But she couldn’t deny that, without a word or a touch, the air around them was charged, like the stillness before a storm.
Slowly, he leaned toward her. So slowly she could easily have avoided his kiss, but her languid limbs refused to follow the orders she gave them to shove him away. His head came within inches of hers, his handsome face blocking the sun, his swarthy features searing her with an intensity that sent a wracking shudder through her. His eyes became mysterious pools, his cheekbones knife-sharp. And yet for all his intensity, she sensed a vulnerability inside him that drew her like goldenrod to the sun.
She yearned to place her arms around his neck and yank him closer but could not bring herself to welcome him. Responding to him was a terrible risk. To lie placidly and wait was not the same as encouraging this madness.
As she took in his musky scent and their breaths mingled, she wondered what about him she found so appealing. He didn’t give her time to consider the answer before nuzzling the tender skin in the hollow of her neck, and she exhaled a soft whoosh of air in pure pleasure. His fingers dug into her hair, lifting her head, and his lips nibbled a path over the pulse throbbing crazily in her neck, to another tender place behind her ear. Her back arched and she writhed, her hands guiding his lips to hers.
“Tell me you want me to kiss you,” he demanded.
She bit her lower lip and refrained from answering. His lips nipped her brow, her cheeks, her chin, driving her wild.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Please what? Please go away? Please continue?”
She tugged on his hair, but he ignored her attempt to draw him closer.
“Tell me, Princess.”
She groaned. “Kiss me.”
His hand cupped her chin, and he stared deep into her eyes, letting her see his banked fire. “I want to please you.”
She tossed her head from side to side, filled with wanting. One kiss, his body held close, and then she’d have to let him go.
“Then please me. Kiss me, Norman.”
He turned on his side and cradled her head in the crook of his elbow, like a parent holding a babe. But there was nothing fatherly about the tension cording the muscles in his chest or the desire simmering in his eyes.
His lips came down upon hers, kindling the heat inside her into flame. His free hand dipped from her face to the hollow between her breasts, dancing in tune to the beat of her reeling pulse. The hunger of his kiss shattered her control into a thousand shards. Her back arched and she turned toward him, grinding her hips against him, throwing her leg over his, hooking her knee on his thigh to draw him closer.
Her whole body shook, and yet she’d never been so aware. A trickle of water plopped from his hair to his chest to her breast, and gently he massaged the droplet, arousing a raging torrent of desire that tingled from her nipple to her nape, down her spine, and over the backs of her thighs, settling in her core.
With little urging from him, her mouth parted, and her thoughts whirled in a maelstrom. He tasted of fresh bread and wine and pure male need. She wrapped her arms around him, needing to be closer.
When he pulled back, she bit back disappointment and held in a soft sob. He drew in a ragged breath and raked a hand through his hair, staring down at her with a power that crashed her spinning senses to a halt.
“What?” she asked softly.
“I’m checking to see if your fear has returned.”
What was he talking about? “What fear?”
“Each time, after you experience desire, you push me away. Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”
Damnation! Why was he doing this to her? She didn’t want to think or explain. She just wanted him to hold her in his arms and kiss her some more. But as her whirring thoughts slowly settled into a semblance of order, she considered what she could possibly say. While Strongheart might deserve the truth, he could use her fears against her to break down her determination. Without understanding her dilemma, he’d already done more to undermine her resistance than any man of Eire.
Although, to her chagrin, he was the one who’d pulled back—not she. He’d breached her self-imposed control with barely a murmured objection from her. Despite her years of discipline, of learning to fight, of running a household, despite years of running the day-to-day activities at Castle Ferns, she had learned everything except how to suppress her hot-blooded nature.
Would her worst fears come to pass? Would she respond to any man that offered a gentle touch or tender kiss, losing her self-respect and her virtue along the way? She shuddered at the thought of her secret nightmare turning to actuality.
Instead of weakening, the pull to let him take her grew stronger each time he held her. Even now, she wished to dispose of her flimsy tunic, untie his leather breeches, and make love with the sun kissing their bare flesh.
The thought of exploring his magnificent body and finding the places he would enjoy made her squash a burning curiosity that would lead to the darker, uncontrollable side of her nature. Shocked by her overwhelming need for his kiss and the erotic nature of her thoughts, she squeezed her eyes shut. But she didn’t have to see him to recall every detail of his face—the pupils that dilated with desire, the haunting smile, the cocky angle he tilted his head.
She was not afraid he would hurt her, but of how her unfettered feelings could hurt her people. Resisting this male had to be her priority. Her carnal feelings must be disregarded.
Just because he was a virile male animal that pulled at her feminine core, she couldn’t forget her responsibilities. Passion could not sway her into believing she could have this Norman—not unless she wanted every king in Eire to invade Leinster. As a man of war, the Norman thought he could hold this land, but even if he somehow succeeded, what would be the cost?
She’d already lost Eva to border raiders. Losing a child, a son or daughter, to more violence was more than she could bear.
“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” Strongheart repeated his question, drawing her from her thoughts.
“No.” Not physically. But on another level he could rip her to shreds.
“Are you afraid I will not stop if you ask that of me?”
“No.” She might be the one who couldn’t stop.
“Must I guess for all eternity? What is it?”
“’Tis not you, but me.” At his impatience, she opened her eyes. Why did men always believe they were the root of the universe? If only women ruled
the world, she was sure there would be fewer wars. Although her heart pounded at the heretical thought, she couldn’t help feeling convinced that few women, by choice, would send their fathers, husbands, and sons to war.
Strongheart shifted his weight, his tone husky. “’Tis understandable you doubt our feelings. Give us time.”
Knowing him better had naught to do with her problems. She let the sarcasm she couldn’t hold back enter her voice. “You think if I know you better, then O’Rourke and MacLugh will dance a jig at our wedding?”
“Will you let your enemies decide your fate?” he argued.
His words stunned her. Is that what she was doing? Sacrificing herself to make up for . . . No, he was twisting and manipulating her thoughts, making her forget duty and honor. Her insides, like her options, tightened like a fist, squeezing her, pressuring her, and her anger exploded into angry words.
Rolling away from him, she stood. “Did not your enemies decide your fate? You lost your lands. I do not wish to do the same. Leinster is O’Dwyre land. My grandfather was king and his father before him. My son shall grow up here, and he, too, shall be king.”
At her fury, his face clouded, his lips tightened. A muscle throbbing in the taut tendons of his neck indicated his rage, but she truly knew the extent of his anger by the deadly soft precision of his words. “I don’t live my life cowering in fear at what others think. I seize what I want.”
If there were only herself, she might risk all, even Leinster, for the right love. But she dared not gamble her people’s security for her own happiness. Taking a chance on him was exactly what she could not afford—too many lives depended on her making the correct decision.
“That is where you and I differ.” She dived into the water, letting the cool wetness calm her stormy heart. Without waiting to see if Strongheart followed, she climbed out of the pool, gathered Fionn’s reins, and leapt onto his back, heading to Ferns.
Conquer the Mist Page 13
