Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  His lips finally skimmed hers, creating a whirlwind of torrential sensations, his touch airy as a blanket of dew across the lush grasses on a mist-laden dawn. Her blood coursed irresistibly faster, almost overwhelming her.

  “Please,” she whispered. “I will never love a man who does not seek peace.”

  “I would give you peace if I could.”

  His words were enough. Unable to hold back, she flung herself against him, and the hard muscles of his chest seemed the perfect foil for the softness of her breasts. His hips cradled hers, providing tangible evidence of a need matching her own.

  In eager welcome, she wound her hands around his corded neck and into his thick hair, her fingers threading their way to his scalp, her actions an unvoiced craving for him to deepen their kiss. He complied with a soft groan, and shivers of tantalizing delight skittered over her.

  Hungrily, she kissed him, giving herself freely to the heady sensation of his taste, his scent, his touch. As she inhaled the intoxicating aroma of his masculine essence mixed with the fragrance of leather, she relished the hot, tangy taste of his mouth. And she was swept away on a tidal wave of delight that was yet to crest when suddenly she was no longer in his embrace.

  It was the Norman who had pulled away, his irises so smoky she expected them to burst into flames. “I need to check for signs of pursuit. Then you should eat.”

  Food would not satisfy the hunger he’d whetted, but she turned away so he wouldn’t see the disappointment and confusion in her gaze. How could he kiss her, make every bone in her body ache for more—and then simply stop? Did he have any idea she felt like she’d gone to the edge of a precipice, lost her balance, and only been hauled back at the very last instant?

  After he left the safety of the cave, she watched his progress from the entrance. He moved upstream with the supple grace of a wolf, his smooth, lithe movements those of a predator on a hunt.

  She lost sight of him for a few minutes, and then he returned to the pool, the same spot her father had dared her to swim in so long ago. Strongheart lay his sword down within reach, yanked off his shirt, and began to remove his breeches. He must have felt as grimy as she did because he intended a quick dip in the mountain stream.

  She grinned, thinking if he had time for a bath, then so did she. Hurrying back into the cave, she removed soap from her pack. While the water in the pool inside the cave was only up to her knees, it was more than sufficient for a bath.

  She bit her tongue to refrain from squealing at the frigid temperature, but the icy water invigorated her. Deciding at the last moment her hair needed a washing, she dunked her head under, the water so cold it stole her breath. She gritted her teeth to endure another good soaking to remove the suds, and when she finally climbed from the pool, her teeth chattered.

  Hearing footsteps, she scrambled to dry herself. “Do not enter yet.”

  “Take your time, Princess,” he told her, his voice soft and tender. “I found signs of MacLugh’s men passing north of here over an hour ago. Even if they circle back, this cave is too well hidden for them to find us.”

  Standing naked in the cave while she spoke to him brought a strange tightness to her chest, a pucker to her nipples. She ran the drying cloth over her arms and legs with a vigorous swipe. Although he could not see her, a wantonness heated her, and she hurriedly plucked a clean chemise and tunic from the pack.

  Slipping the garments over her head, she wondered why he’d pulled away from her when she’d been so close to giving him what he wanted during their kiss. Where she found the courage, she knew not, but the question burned inside her. “When you kissed me before, why did you pull back?”

  “Disappointed?”

  The tensing of her jaw betrayed her deep frustration. “Tell me why, Norman. ’Tis important to me.”

  “You were not ready.”

  She chewed her bottom lip. What did he mean, she was not ready? Did he sense the battle inside her, the war between her convictions and desire? She lost the courage to ask such a question. Indeed, she hoped he would not guess why she must reject him. In truth, marriage to any man was risky. Marriage to a man this skilled at seduction was an exceptionally dangerous proposition.

  Dara clenched and unclenched her fists and took several calming breaths. She would not be enslaved by her passions.

  “You can come in now.”

  Once more determined to resist him, she thought herself well prepared until he entered the cave with an armload of kindling and a large gutted and cleaned salmon. As he strode under a beam of sunlight, his dark hair, still wet from his bath, glistened. Dark lashes sparkled with water droplets, and she caught herself staring.

  He hadn’t bothered to replace his shirt, and as he bent to set down his burden, the muscles in his arms bulged, reminding her how vulnerable she was. With strength such as his, he could take by force whatever he wanted. And he’d made no secret he wanted her.

  Swallowing hard, she accepted the fish and searched for his skillet to cook the salmon. Concentrating on the task at hand, she sought to keep her mind from wandering into dangerous areas.

  As she fumbled through their packs, she asked through stiff lips, “What of the smoke? Do you think ’tis safe to start a fire?”

  He didn’t look up from his task. “I shall keep the flame small. MacLugh will not find us since the smoke will disperse through the many openings overhead.”

  While Strongheart knelt and started a fire, she removed a few precious spices from her traveling pouch and sprinkled the fish. Soon the aroma of cooked salmon had her mouth watering.

  She sipped some water, then broke her bread into little pieces, topped it with cheese, and chewed nervously. Silence descended between them. She wished she could ask him to don his shirt, but her request would reveal too much. With renewed determination, she kept her eyes averted.

  They could have easily been husband and wife, married many years, with little to discuss between them. Only this silence had a honed edge that made nibbling easier than eating.

  When their fish was cooked, Strongheart gave her a flaky portion, perfectly done. Was there anything he could not do well? Most of the time he seemed so self-sufficient he appeared complete unto himself. But then his expression heated, his eyes smoked, and his gaze upon her made her tremble.

  To break the awkward silence and distract herself from her thoughts, she asked, “When will we leave?”

  He gave her a calm, thorough look. “In a day or two.”

  She bit back a gasp. The thought of spending two days in the cave alone with him seemed so much more dangerous than an open camp where they had to be instantly ready to defend themselves.

  She bit into her fish, barely tasting her food, her mind fluttering with anxiety. “What of my father?”

  “We will meet him once ’tis clear.” He spoke with quiet assurance. “Let MacLugh search the forests and bogs from Dublin to Ferns while we remain hidden and safe.”

  She didn’t feel safe, not when he looked at her like a hungry man intent on devouring his supper. How could she escape her feelings when forced to share such close quarters? Their lives depended on one another. For the next day or so they would eat together, sleep together, and have no one to talk to but each other.

  And her father had given his permission for them to wed.

  The more frantic the pace of her thoughts, the more at ease Strongheart appeared. In fact, he looked contented, almost happy for the first time since they’d met. Did he enjoy having her at his mercy? Was this all a game to him?

  When he stood and walked to their blankets, Dara’s hands twisted in her tunic. As soon as she realized her actions, she forced her hands to her sides. He flipped open his blanket, laid it beside the fire, and unsheathed his sword. When he turned to spear her with a look, she jerked.

  But his voice was tender. “I nee
d sleep, and you must be tired, too. Care to join me?”

  He had been up all night. Maybe he did intend to sleep. So then why was her heart pounding so hard she couldn’t draw breath? Wishing she could blame her reaction on her own lack of sleep, she looked down and stared at the cave floor as if she found the dirt utterly fascinating.

  He noticed her hesitation, and the corner of his mouth turned in a wry grin. “I promise not to attack you.”

  She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Do you always keep your word?”

  As if the question was beneath him, he didn’t deign to reply. Instead, he opened her blanket beside his, kicked off his boots, and lay down, leaving the choice to her. She thought of removing her blanket to the other side of the fire, but then he would think she feared him.

  But it was not him she feared. By now she knew he was a man of his word. He would never force himself on her. It was her own banked desires she feared.

  Still, she did not want him to think her vulnerable, so she lay casually beside him, careful not to touch him. Once he fell asleep, she would feel safer, and it did not take long before his soft, even breathing assured her he slept. The realization he had not made one untoward move relaxed her, and she closed her eyes.

  She slept far longer than a short nap. When she awakened on her side, warm and cozy, the sky, seen through the holes in the cave’s roof, had blackened, and the flames had burned down to red embers. While she’d slept, Strongheart had fed a few logs to the fire, brought in grass for the horses, and smoked the leftover fish.

  At first she thought the warmth was from the fire or the blanket. In her drowsy state she didn’t analyze the source of her snug contentment. But then she awakened fully and realized she lay on her side, her head pillowed on the Norman’s arm, her hair caught between them, pinning her in place.

  If that weren’t enough to alarm her, her tunic had bunched at her waist. Strongheart’s chest pressed to her back, his leg flung over her bare thighs, and his hand had slipped under her tunic and intimately cupped her breast. She held still despite the exquisite sensations streaming through her, listening and hearing only his even breathing. She tried to scoot away, but in sleep, his arms tightened, and his arousal pressed gently against the curve of her bottom.

  Escaping from his clutches without waking him would probably be impossible. She had two choices: roll away, yank out her hair, and chance waking him; or hold still and hope he released her on his own accord. While she mulled over the decision, his lips nuzzled her ear, and while his hand fondled her breast, his fingers plucked at her nipple as skillfully as the blind bard strummed his harp. Music so sweet she almost cried out with the pleasure of it, sent chords of trilling vibration straight from her breast to her very core.

  Surely he could not still be sleeping? And yet he did not move one inch, except his thumb endlessly caressing her nipple. Every sensation in her body kindled into flames from his touch, all of her concentration lingering on the movement of his thumb. When she could no longer bear it, she attempted to yank away, uncaring if she woke him.

  She was on the verge of losing control, and if her body didn’t find escape from his bittersweet torture, she would give in. Every point of her skin felt invigorated, the potency of his touch pressuring her like pelting rain on a windy day. And yet she ached to revel in the feeling, let desire have its way. Come what may, she wanted to dance in the rain and wash away her past and her fears.

  She no longer wanted to think. She only wanted to feel and could no longer suppress the elemental need that compelled her to turn and welcome his kiss. Even finding him awake, his irises reflecting burning embers, could not make her pull back. He had only to dip his other hand beneath her tunic and touch her other breast and nipple, and she was ready to offer herself up to him. Lose herself, become a woman.

  He stopped kissing her only long enough to pull her tunic over her head. The cool air whisked her bare skin, and then his warm hands found her breasts, heating her, making her long for more. Her senses came alive as if awakening from a trance. Her sight sharpened, and she’d never seen anything so beautiful as his dark hair and the seductive slant of his smile in the flickering firelight before he kissed her again. She returned his kiss, taking in the scent of the fresh grasses he’d brought in for the horses, the tangy oak burning in the fire, and his musky aroma. Something else, a sweet, flowery smell she couldn’t identify, mixed with the others.

  The night was as still as a cairn. And she had nothing on. She wriggled closer, longing to memorize the delicious feel of his bare chest, rough and hard, against hers. She couldn’t get enough of him. Her hands explored the contours of his back, his warm flesh over sleek muscles, and she pulled him closer, his kiss singing in her veins.

  The way he held her made her feel like fragile glass. Like an artist discovering every nuance of shape and shadow, he caressed her skin, delving into the hollows between her breasts. He set her on fire with wanting him. Her pulse raced. The blood heated in her veins.

  She knew no shyness, no hesitancy, no awkwardness, as if destiny had saved a perfect moment for them.

  “I want you,” she gasped, aching deep down in her loins, shifting her hips to tempt him.

  “You shall have everything you want—and more,” he promised, his voice hoarse with desire, his teasing tone sending a ripple of excitement through her.

  Reaching over their heads, he retrieved a branch of honeysuckle that hadn’t been there when she fell asleep. He positioned her on her back on the blanket. Immediately she reached for him.

  “Not yet,” he murmured.

  When he tickled her cheekbones with the soft petals, she blew him a playful kiss. But then he skimmed a path down her neck to her breasts, and her pulse raced wildly. The light petals whispered across her breasts like the flutter of butterfly wings, and she inhaled sharply, never having imagined anything could feel so delightful.

  Again she reached for him.

  “Patience, Princess.”

  As he traced a trail over her skin, the downy blossoms stoked a sensuous fire, and her nipples tightened. Her heartbeat skittered like a newborn colt’s. Drugged by the scent of the flowers, she quivered under his seductive gaze.

  She’d never known her skin to be so responsive, and she marveled at the sensations the slightest change in pressure caused. But it was the waiting that caused her to grow wild. Not knowing where he would touch her next or for how long kept her strung taut as a bow ready to launch an arrow into an unknown domain.

  He swirled the fluffy buds over her belly, then teasingly down her thighs. She parted her legs, closed them, then parted them again when she could no longer resist the heavy ache pooling there. The fever of her responses became disorienting. Her head spun. Her heart went mad. Everything in her world, even her next breath, seemed geared to the ultimate destination of his hand and the silky softness of the honeysuckle petals. Finally he reached her center, but the petals only inflamed the fires he’d kindled, and she ached for something more.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Please what? Please stop? Please continue?”

  “I want you now.”

  Finally he tossed the honeysuckle aside and with his hands began an exploration of her flesh. She sucked in her breath at the exquisite sensations rippling along her like fine silk. When his thumbs flicked the sensitized tips of her nipples, she couldn’t suppress a soft moan.

  “You like that?”

  “I feel so . . .” Words failed her.

  A wet tongue replaced his thumb.

  She gasped, and her hands dug into the muscles of his shoulders. There was no one but the Norman. Nothing but feeling. Sensation. And pleasure.

  Gathering her into his arms, he held her snugly. She wanted more. She had to remove his breeches. Her hand reached down the flat length of his stomach, but he stopped her from reaching
farther. “No, not yet,” he whispered into her hair.

  She understood he wished to prolong their desire, but she felt ready to burst. He took her hands and placed them on the blanket pillowed beneath her head.

  “Do not let go.”

  At last he removed his breeches, and she bit her bottom lip at the sight of him—so gorgeously different from her own body. She ached to skim her hands along his flesh, explore the hard muscles of his chest and stomach. She glanced lower and gasped. Could he possibly fit inside her?

  Scooting down between her parted thighs, he caressed, aroused, gave pleasure. She gasped again as his lips traced the sensory path he’d traveled with the honeysuckle, from her breasts to her stomach, and lower. Surely he did not intend to kiss her there?

  He did.

  She squeezed the blanket with her hands. Lust burned in her, branding her with a fiery hunger she hadn’t known could be so potent, so powerful. Her feet arched. She never dreamed he could feel this warm, this gentle, this sizzling. Need made her cry out. Her hips gyrated.

  Suddenly he kissed her hungrily, and she gave herself freely. He smothered her lips with demanding mastery, and hedonistic wanton that she was, she savored every moment.

  When her breath came raw in her mouth and tiny little groans vented from the back of her throat, she released the blanket and dragged him to her with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed.

  “Now. I want you, now.”

  He positioned himself between her thighs, and she welcomed the moist tip of his sex. Slowly, he eased into her tightness, hesitated, and spoke through gritted teeth. “I do not want to hurt you.”

  In a frenzy of need, her hands clasped his buttocks. Thrusting her hips upward, she forced his hard shaft deep within her, the ripping of the tiny barrier of no consequence to her pleasure.

  She needed flesh into flesh, heat into heat, man into woman.

  Her breasts tingled against his hair-roughened chest, her impatience growing to eruptive proportions. She dug her nails into the length of his back, urging him to thrust harder, deeper, but he resisted, easing into her, then withdrawing. Slowly.