Odd to have given herself to him, surrendered to his caresses, taken him inside her body. In this breath she comprehended how unfamiliar she was about his tempers, his moods or the manner he handled people and situations. On the surface he appeared calm, relaxed. A fool might accept that. She was no fool.
RavenHawke scared her.
In her life she had dealt with Gilchrest, three brothers that were vexing but little more, a frustratingly obtuse Viking, and greedy men who sought to use her. Not once had she ever feared one as she did this man. And not a fear that bespoke a concern he might harm her. She knew gut deep this man would never hurt her, never beat her or raise a hand to her. His power was more terrifying. Damian St. Giles held the prerogative to destroy her world, and reform it to his whims, the power to crush her heart.
She had to get away from him before it was too late. “In the morn, my brothers and I shall return to Coinnleir Wood―”
“I did not grant leave, Princess. You go nowhere without it,” he snapped, steel in his voice.
The flatness of his statement disarmed her for a breath. Her stomach tightened, though she felt reasonably certain she controlled her outward reaction. “I did not ask permission, Lord RavenHawke. I am baroness―”
“My charter from Edward is for Glen Eallach. That includes Coinnleir Wood.” He smiled, but it lacked true mirth. “Since I am overlord of your holding, you need to seek my permission for all you do, Princess.” The gray-green eyes watched her, almost seeming to glow with triumph as he witnessed her struggling to rein in her temper. “You do not care for the situation. You will earn your place now.”
“My place?” Heat flooded her face and her fingers curled in fists at her sides. “And pray just what is my place, my lord?”
He remained motionless, like a big cat intent on watching its prey. “That remains for me to decide, dependent upon the truths I uncover about you, Aithinne. Mark this. You are mine to do with as I please. And at this moment I would please a lot.”
“Mayhap…we should continue this discussion another time…” The storm was worsening outside, but it was nothing compared to the one she saw in his fey eyes. Breaking away from the stare that ripped into her mind, she turned on her heels and started to leave.
“I did not dismiss you, Princess,” he called after her. When she continued walking, he threatened, “Do not make me come get you. I will.”
His tone saw her halt. She believed he would do just that, almost feared that he wanted her to force the issue. She tried to steady herself, but her heart kept up the unsteady rocking, made worse by her body’s traitorous response to him on the animalistic level. Her breasts were tight, swollen, sensitive. Oona said the child was causing some of this, her body accepting his life within her. Only, her nights with Damian St. Giles had taught her about the small changes in her due to wanting him.
At this moment, she was close to hating him. No man dared order her about like some common serving wench. She did not trust him, frightened what his presence in her life now meant, terrified of the repercussions if he discovered her deceit. That little stemmed her body’s craving for him. It took all her willpower not to go to him, put her hands on that hard belly and slide them up his chest, to take his mouth in a bruising kiss, taste him as she had every night in her dreams since she let him go.
“Aithinne, come here.”
Thought barely more than a whisper, she knew better than to defy him. Swallowing to moisten the dryness in her throat, her steps carried her back to the bed to face the arrogant man.
“Your wish be my command.” Her tone conveyed it was anything but.
The corner of his sensual mouth quirked up. “Take your clothes off, Aithinne.”
She tried to weigh his mood. Was he testing her? Did he mean it? “Go to perdition, Lord RavenHawke.”
The small muscles in his jaw flexed, rising to the challenge. “It is not just my wish, Princess, it is my command. Take…off…your…clothes.”
A tremble rippled through her. She fought to keep from slapping that smug expression off his much too beautiful face, and held tight against the part of her that wanted to do precisely as he demanded. The wanting rose in her, thrummed in her blood to where her body felt on fire. She never knew this drive existed within her before. Was not sure she liked it now. Only, the emotions were overpowering to the point she could barely think.
Simply want him.
He shifted, swinging his long legs to the floor, rising so his lean, hard body was close, too close. Aithinne’s mind screamed for her to run before it was too late. Somewhere inside her she accepted it was already too late. This man held her in thrall. He placed his hand on the flesh just below her neck, fingers splaying as he stroked up her throat. His thumb caressed her jaw, and then his palm agonizingly dragged down the expanse of skin to the edge of her bodice into the cleavage. Her breasts, already sensitive, almost strained upward to meet his touch, wanting it to go lower.
The expression in the hooded eyes said he knew her weakness, that he held the supremacy. All she could do was stand and tremble.
And want.
“Your flesh is cool, Aithinne…so soft…so very soft.”
He skimmed his hand up to her throat and then down, over and over, each time a little lower. Her breathing hitched as his hands cupped her breasts, each inhale pushing the crests up, almost offering them.
Finally, the rough fingers grazed over the pebbled peak, drawing a ragged breath from her. Arcs of lightning crashed about the tower, the fury of the storm seemed to feed off their rising passion. One finger flicked back and forth, as her body echoed the lightning within her flesh. His caress grew rougher as his finger and thumb tweaked the nipple, increasing the pressure as he saw it spiraled her need for him.
Finally, he shoved the bodice off her shoulders, exposing her breasts to the cool air. Damian sucked in a breath and held it as his burning eyes watched both his hands cup her pale flesh. Brushing his thumbs back and forth he whispered in near awe, “Tell me to stop, Aithinne.”
“Stop, my lord.”
“Tomorrow…tomorrow I will stop.”
His mouth found hers, kissing her savagely, as the tower shook from the power of the storm surrounding them, as they shook from the power of the storm within.
Chapter Thirteen
Then like iron in strong fire;
But hold me fast, let me not go,
Then you'll have your desire.
— The Ballad of Tam Lin
Damian fell crossways on the plane of the bed, Aithinne half under him. He relished the feel of pinning her with his weight, surrendered to the animalistic mating instincts surging in his blood, controlling his actions. The lightning’s white brilliance flooded the room through the narrow window, bathed Aithinne’s enchanting beauty with its eerie glow. Driving him to madness. Damian stared, ensorcelled by this pagan goddess offered up, half-naked before his hungry eyes. Her full breasts were so pale, the nipples tight and jutting. Every aspect of all his dreams conjured to life.
Now this moment was here, that he knew she was real, he was suddenly scared spitless. Only Damian St. Giles was never one to back away from a challenge.
Threads of déjà vu wove through this instant in time, echoes of dreams which had haunted his life, surfaced in his mind, overlaying each touch, each sensation. Yet it seemed more than mere visions. These feelings seemed rooted in reality, as if he had actually lain with her before. In a manner of familiarity only lovers possess, his body seemed to know hers, what touch made her gasp, what brought a sigh to her lips.
He had not intended to push the situation to this end. His mood perverse, he merely set out to provoke her, bring her to heel. The need to possess this woman, to mark her as his, was a demon riding him with spurs, driving him to treat her in a fashion not worthy of a lady highborn. Rules, manners, and expected codes of conduct, simply went to blue blazes when balanced with his primeval need to claim her. At this point, all the questions hovering around her, even conv
entions of God and king mattered little. He would do what he must to own her.
He took her mouth, gently at first, basking in the pounding she set loose in his blood, then savagely, kissing her like a drowning man…and only she could offer him salvation. He smiled in the kiss as her fingers bit into the muscles of his arms, hanging on. Precisely the reaction he wanted from her.
In the morning he would face the damnable riddles of Aithinne’s life, her lies, decide some immediate course of action. This night, he needed to be close to her, feel his flesh against hers, taste her, hold her, be inside her. Before anything else intruded upon their world, he was determined to bind Aithinne to him, insure she knew they belonged together no matter what.
Brand her so she wouldst never allow another man touch her.
He chained kisses down her neck, as his hands moved on her, pushing the kirtle down over her hips. She shivered. He felt the small frisson crawl over her skin, under his mouth. He savored it. He desperately wanted to draw this out, revel in every magical moment, only the need to mate thundered through his body, exorcising control and any hope of reason.
Her breath sucked in on a sharp inhale as he glided his hands up, cupping the weight of her breasts. His thumbs brushed circles around her sandy-colored areolas, then across the stiff peaks of her nipples, protruding more with each stroke. Her body was so quick to react. Aithinne gave herself up to him, open to all he would show her. His groin cramped in a surge of white-hot need when he took one breast into his mouth, drawing hard, laving his tongue against the tiny bud.
Pulling back to gasp for air, he muttered, “Responsive wench,” as his thumb circled the ruched nipple wet from where his mouth had been.
Her raspy sigh of delight empowered him. As she closed her eyes, he stopped toying, took the nub between his finger and thumb and gave it a light pinch, then rolled it. Her hips bucked against him, but not in pain. Too lost to the sensations vibrating in her blood, he led her along the razor-edge of desire, pushed her arousal another notch higher.
He raised up slightly to unlace the front of his breeches, then grinned as her shaking hands eagerly helped him slide them and his braies off his tensed hips. Again, the thought intruded that she was too keen, her movements too sure, though not in the practiced art of a wanton, merely in the manner of a woman who holds secret knowledge of how to pleasure her man. More questions, but one that faded when his hands took a hold of her rounded hips.
Aithinne drew a ragged breath as he glided over her body, his mouth catching the sensitive lobe of her ear. He sucked on it, his tongue swirled around it, teasing, tormenting, whilst his knee pushed between her soft thighs, opening her for his blunt invasion. Her body bowed against him, feeding the fire of wanting within him until his insides twisted. Need for this woman was devastating. Humbling.
He was claiming her, in the most elemental way. Only as he stared into the amber eyes, with the ring of green flecks, he suddenly understood it was she who was claiming his heart, his soul. The coming together was meant to be, foretold in his visions. The longing he felt for Aithinne went deeper than the flesh, reached to his timeless soul, touching him in a shattering way as no woman had before. The way no woman ever would.
Only Aithinne.
The minx was a liar, he was certain of it. A smile crossing his lips and felt every measure the predator. He would ferret out the truths from her, expose all her darkest secrets and take his own time in doing it.
He wanted to touch her. His hand snaked up the inside of her silken thigh, brushed over her soft nest of curls, nearly growling as his finger slid into the liquid heat. Her narrow channel was tight, but accepted his finger as he delved deep into that scalding heat, then her inner walls clenched around it, wanting the friction. She made a raspy sound in the back of her throat that sent a shudder through his tensed muscles.
He relished his hard body pressing her into the mattress, wanted her soft hands clutching the arch of his spine as he entered her. Later, he planned to set her over him and show her how to control the pace. He wanted inside her now.
First…the thud of his heart slammed against her thigh as he glided downward. Then his mouth moved on her—her burning core. At first her hand shoved against his shoulder as if resisting, soon her sharp nails scored his flesh as she wanted more. Incapable of thought, he drowned in the blinding pleasure, the rough lap of his tongue against her moist tissue.
Gasping to draw air, she splintered into a thousand pieces coming against his mouth. Barely able to hold back, he pushed up on his knees and then into her with a solid, sure thrust, setting her to keen loudly, until he closed his mouth over hers, catching her pleasure and making it his. His pelvis slammed against hers, over and over, in a near violent force. Some shard of him worried he might terrify her with this force, until he felt her hips lift to meet his, their bodies moving apart and coming together in a beautiful dance of passion, of love.
Lightning streaked upward through his flesh, hitting his brain, and then magnifying downward to slam into his groin. His body bucked, his seed pouring into her welcoming heat. His possession complete. She was his. Would forevermore be his.
Barely able to remain conscious, he tried to keep his weight from crushing her by rolling to the side and pulling her against him.
“Mine,” he whispered the brand against her hair, feeling a peace he had never known before.
A peace of finally finding home.
♦◊♦
Before stepping from the fortress, Aithinne paused to pull up the deep hood of her mantle about her face. A shiver crawled over her skin, though it had little to do with the heavy morning fog that blanketed the whole area. The reaction came from having the distinct sensation she was being watched. Glancing around the bailey she saw no movement. It still too early for even the servants to be up and about, as she hoped. She wanted to be halfway to Coinnleir Wood before anyone noticed her absence.
Her stomach pitched again, but she suspected it was fear, not the morning sickness, coming due to the bairn. With a sigh, she hurried her steps toward the stable at the far end of the courtyard. As she entered, she hesitated to look back across the ballium, expecting to see someone tracking her actions.
“Guilt eating at my soul,” she muttered under her breath.
Several horses murmured throaty welcomes as she silently moved down the long row in the deep shadows. They came to hang their heads over their stall doors to get pats, Aithinne touching their cool velvety noses as she passed. The last stall―the biggest one―had one of the outsider double-doors open, letting in the gray light.
A tall, young man stood brushing a magnificent black destrier, whilst speaking in low soothing tones to the restless animal. She had to blink, as the beautiful lad bore the clear stamp of Challon in his features. Same black, wavy hair, same near perfection of face. She estimated him to be the age of a squire, still too young for knighthood, but soon another Challon male to steal the hearts of unwise lasses. She smiled.
As if sensing her presence, he glanced up and then nodded in deference. “Good morrow, my lady.”
She noted the stallion was the one the Dragon had ridden yesterday. “You serve Lord Challon?”
“Aye, I am his squire, Moffet. Is there aught I may aid you with? Shall I call the stableman?” He looked around, obviously finding it peculiar she was alone at this hour.
She offered a reassuring smile to the angelic lad. “Nay, do not bother to call him. I am merely going for my morning ride. Please do not let me take you from your chores, Squire Moffet.” She started to turn, but hesitated, curiosity biting. “How do you like serving the lady of Glenrogha?”
Tamlyn MacShane was a gentle woman in most matters. Only, Aithinne wondered if the gentleness would extend to her lord husband’s squire who was very obviously his bastard son. If the situations were reversed, she was not sure how she would react to her husband having a son by another woman. Still, the lad exuded such a charming openness on his expression that she could not help but w
arm to him. It was not his fault, the nature of his birth.
“The Lady Tamlyn is patient with me, kind.” The full lips parted in a smile, showing his reply came from the heart. “She fusses at my Lord…but in a nice way…you understand? He fusses back, too, but she just says yes, Challon or no, Challon and then does what she wants. The earl does not know what to do with her ways. He grins a lot though. ’Tis good to see my lord happy again. He has been sad for too long.”
Aithinne nodded, taking the bridle for her mount off the hook. “Sounds like our Tamlyn. I would be too fearful to say yes or no to the Dragon and then ignore his wishes. He seems a more fearsome warrior. These men of Challon warm to giving orders.”
“My lady,” Once again the young man looked around, “do you not take a guard with you on your ride? Lord Challon is concerned about the men wandering the hills since the great battle at Dunbar. Troops under the standard of RavenHawke were attacked. My father would not care that you plan to go out alone―”
“No, he would not.”
Aithinne jumped at St. Giles voice. He stood holding his sword in a casual grip, though she did not mistake the negligent mien as a reflection of his mood. Wearing naught but the leathern hose and a simple white sark, which rode loosely on his square shoulders; the wavy hair was rumpled. He looked half asleep―and fully angry. In a casual movement he leaned the sword, tip down, against the wooden wall.
St. Giles came forward with slow stalking steps, halting a few paces away from her and just stared at her with those pale unearthly eyes. Eyes that saw too much. Accusing eyes. “Going somewhere, Princess?”
Aithinne swallowed hard, wanting to back up, only there was no place to go as the stall’s door was at her back. She decided to bluff it through. “I ride each morn. I find it helps me face the day and all its problems.”
“I informed you last night I did not grant you leave to return to Coinnleir Wood, Princess. You go nowhere without it,” he stated with implacable force that set Aithinne’s temper to spiraling.
RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2) Page 16
