His eyes were filled with the image of her bare legs. They didn’t seem to stop. He watched her muscles flex as she gripped the horse’s flanks. For the first time in his life, Conor wished he were a horse. The state of arousal that had plagued him all night intensified. The need to snatch from her horse overwhelmed him. He fought the desire by gaining his mount and pounding out of the gate.
Erika followed, leaning over Tempest’s mane, unable to hold back her laughter. It felt so good to be free of the dun, galloping through the meadow with a breeze bringing her the crisp fragrance of the night. She passed Conor with a peal of laughter, her hair slipping free of its elaborate design and streaming behind her.
When they came upon a crystal lake, she halted Tempest with a soft word. She slid to the ground, turning in a slow circle as she righted her clothing. The lake was in its own private glen. The full moon shone through the ring of trees, bathing its surface with a silver glow. Tiny pale night flowers danced in a gentle breeze. It was a place of magic.
Perhaps it was the moon. Perhaps it was the wine. It may have even been the heady fragrance of the night, or the man watching her. Whatever caused the emotion to rise within her she gave in to it.
Trilling in delight, she spun in a circle, her arms flung wide. Her laughter pealed like silver bells as she danced about the lake, with the pure unadulterated happiness of being outside.
Conor had forgotten how to breathe. Moonlight caught the Valkyrie’s pale hair and the silver cords threaded through her dress, causing her to sparkle from head to toe. She seemed like a vision out of faerie, the moon goddess come to commune at her sacred pond. Something inside Conor, buried long ago, began to awaken, brought from slumber by the sound of Erika’s joy.
She stumbled to a stop before him, and he steadied her with hands to her waist. Her smile of gratitude was like sunshine breaking through rainclouds. He felt grateful that he had done something to bring this gaiety forth. He couldn’t help but smile in return, though the muscles strained with disuse.
By Asgard! Conor became a different man when he smiled. He didn’t seem nearly so devilish. In fact, he seemed downright appealing. Did he realize the moon caught the silver flecks in his eyes, making them glow?
Guided by impulse, Erika leaned towards him, placing her hand against his scarred cheek. The touch sent a jolt running through her. The way his eyes widened and he caught his breath, she knew Conor felt it as well.
“You should smile more,” she whispered, not wanting to break the spell of this place. “You are pleasing when you smile.”
He wanted to laugh at that, the idea that his pillaged face could be anything but wretched to gaze upon. The wonder in her regard stopped him.
His eyes never leaving hers, Conor reached up and covered her hand with his own. Her skin was soft, despite the calluses on her fingers. Heat radiated from her palm down the length of him, stoking the fires of desire.
“You make me smile,” he whispered in return, reaching out to caress her cheek. He was afraid she would bolt, but she only closed her eyes, leaning against his palm. “But I fear you have imbibed too much wine, if you find this battered face pleasing.”
Sooty lashes swept up as she regarded him again. “My head is clear, and so are my eyes. I know my own mind, and I think you are handsome.”
“Do you not see this scar?” His voice hoarse with demand, he pushed his dark locks back, exposing his blemish to the moonlight and her gaze.
Because he seemed to want it, Erika examined the flaw in his otherwise perfect features. It was a pale, angry mark, vicious and deep, that began at his hairline, running into the edge of his eyebrow and narrowly missing his eye. It coursed through his cheek, splitting his beard and ending beneath his jaw.
“I see it.”
“Do you know why my wife marked me? She wanted to blind me, because a blind man cannot rule.”
Why? The question danced on her lips, but she refused to give voice to it. She did not want to know the answer, and doubted he would tell her.
Reaching out, she touched her fingertips to the start of the scar. Conor flinched but otherwise remained silent and still. Her touch light, she trailed her fingers along the path of the gash until she reached its end. “It is a badge of honor and courage,” she finally said. “You should be proud.”
Proud? Honor and courage? The Angel was mad. That was the sole reason, Conor knew, why she could look at him, could touch him there of all places. And her madness was contagious, for he reveled in her touch, the feel of her hand upon his cheek.
“Are you mad or do you mock me?” His voice sounded foreign to him, stone grinding stone. “There is no honor or courage in what happened, and there is naught to be proud of.”
Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight. “You are wrong.”
He barked out a stark semblance of a laugh. “Now I know you are mad. No one but you would dare to tell the Devil of Dunlough he is wrong.”
Her hands gripped his shoulders as she leaned into him. “I have told you my tale. Do you believe my dispatch of Gunthar to be lacking in honor?”
Just the mention of her half brother’s name was enough to cause him to growl. “No. You did what you had to do. There is no dishonor in that.”
“Do you believe what I did took courage?”
Was she now seeking compliments? “I have never thought you lacking in courage, Angel.”
“I have survived and persevered, despite Gunthar’s wishes to the contrary. That is something to be proud of, do you not agree?”
“You should be called the Angel of Confusion, for ’tis certain I cannot divine your meaning,” he said, feeling a frown lowering his brow. “Speak plain, that I may understand.”
She smiled up at him. “I have courage for facing Gunthar and honor for having bested him. I am proud that I have survived. The lash marks he gave me remind me of that. They are a badge of honor.”
Her hand returned to his cheek. “Despite your wife’s perfidy, you still rule. You have survived and your people have prospered. You have emerged victorious. Like my lash marks, your scar is a badge of honor and you should be proud.”
She could not be real. There could be no other explanation. No one dared speak to him of Aislingh and her betrayal, and even if they did, they never would have told him the scar was a badge of honor. Of all people, this woman, this foreign woman who tried to kill him, understood and gave succor to his soul.
Still she smiled at him. The strokes of her hand against his cheek caused him to burn. He would swear he could smell moonlight in her hair, and her eyes were as dark as the pool behind them. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t speak. There was only one thing left to do.
The kiss was so feather soft, it took Erika unawares. Like butterfly wings, his lips danced across hers. The tingling sensation she had felt when she touched him became a torrent. One small part of her made a token protest, but she had been waiting for this kiss for days. She pressed against him, her hands snaking into his hair.
Perhaps it was the magic of this place, perhaps it was simply the time, perhaps it was the man, but Erika was suddenly filled with longing such as she had never known. She wanted to know what there was between a man and a woman that could make them forget anyone else was in the room with them. Perhaps Conor could teach her.
Someone groaned, and Conor realized it was himself. Her lips were blessed soft, and when he deepened the kiss and coaxed them open, she complied, eager. She moaned and melted against him as he explored the sweetness of her mouth with his tongue.
Leaning against him was like leaning against a rock, a living, breathing, scalding rock. As a warrior, Erika had never liked soft men, even when she took their coin. Conor was anything but soft. The entire length of him was hard muscle, and the calluses on his hands testified to the frequent use of his weapons. She ran her hands over his shoulders, his chest and his back, feeling the muscles beneath.
Suddenly, she found herself on the grass, Conor leaning over her. She reached for
him, ravenous for the taste of his mouth. He gave her a demanding kiss that left her spiraling, as dizzying as her dance around the pond. Like a burning cinder, his kiss tumbled from her mouth to her neck, trailing across the edge of her bodice. When his hand found her breast, she knew joy. When he stroked the rosy nipple, she knew bliss. And when he took the bud between his lips, she knew ecstasy.
Reduced to instinct, she arched against him, moaning his name. Her exuberant response robbed Conor of breath. He throbbed with the need to have her. His hand found its way beneath her skirts, his fingertips blazing towards her molten center.
Without warning, Tempest neighed, breaking the spell of passion. Erika and Conor both rolled to their feet in seconds, both reaching for the daggers at their waists. But there was no band of outlaws. Just a band of wolfhounds.
Erika stepped in front of him, her dagger at the ready. Another time, he might have laughed at the idea of being protected by a woman. This time, angered at being interrupted, he jerked her behind him, commanding the pack to heel. The five dogs dropped to their haunches, awaiting their master’s next command.
Conor forced himself to count to ten and took his time doing it. He was furious for losing control of himself. A minute later and he would not have been able to stop himself from taking her then and there. Where had his blighted honor fled?
He turned to Erika, who was soothing her horse, no doubt calming herself in the process. She would probably mock him now, and rightly so. He had taken advantage of her and the ale she had consumed at supper, and behaved like a dishonorable simpleton. He went to apologize.
“Stand up,” Conor ordered brusquely.
She straightened, turning to face Conor. “Did I do something wrong?”
“You’re falling out of your dress,” Conor growled. “Fix it before I dishonor you again.”
She complied, not even turning away. Conor had to, muttering an oath as he did so. “I am not dishonored,” she told him.
“You should be.”
“Why?”
He couldn’t bear her nonchalance. “Do you know what almost took place here?” he bellowed. The horses snorted and a few of the dogs whuffed excitedly.
Erika had a good idea, but didn’t know for sure. She folded her arms. “So?”
Conor didn’t smother his oath then. “Are you telling me that this happens to you often?”
Had she lied, she would have been free—at least of marriage. The thought never came to her. “No. But I do not understand—”
“Your brother would have my head if he knew what I’ve done.” He shook his head as he paced. “Damnation, he’ll have my head anyway, if he can feel your stronger emotions as you say he can. I shouldn’t touch you again until we’re wed.”
Confusion drove the last vestiges of passion from her mind. “But you liked it,” she pointed out. “Didn’t you?”
“Of course I liked it!”
“Then why can we not continue?”
“Why?” He stalked towards her, a ravening beast barely held in check. Grabbing her hand, he pressed it against his pulsating erection. “Because to continue would be to put this inside you. And that I will not do until we are in our marriage-bed.”
Mortified, Erika snatched her hand away. She was amazed at his control even as she was grateful for it. Yet something in her could not resist goading him, arguing with him. “Why would it be necessary to be married? We are not married now.”
“It is a manner of honor,” Conor barked. “You will be my wife before I have you fully. ’Tis your honor I’m thinking of.”
She didn’t appreciate the gesture. Not when she was on the verge of discovering what so many other women on her travels giggled about. “But surely men do not marry women just for that? I’ve even met some women who say they get paid to please a man.”
The idea of Erika spreading her thighs for any brute who gave her hack silver set his blood to boiling. “If you even begin to entertain such an idea, I will beat you,” he said, a growl tightening his tone. “When we are wed, you will be queen of Dunlough. You will remain above reproach.”
“What makes you so sure we are going to be married?”
Pushed beyond his limits, Conor crushed her to him and gave her a bruising kiss. When he released her, she sagged against him, her strength and mettle gone.
“You burn for me,” Conor breathed against her ear. “If I were to reach under your skirts, I’d find you hot and wet and ready to receive me. ’Tis pleasure you’re seeking and pleasure I can give. That I promise you.”
He had the audacity to grin. “The last thing on your mind right now is fighting me.”
That was true. All she could think of was the stunning, mysterious hardness she had felt through his leine. She was bursting with curiosity, but she could no more resist the barbs he threw at her than he could hers. “I will fight you, Conor,” she told him, her voice weak, desperate.
He didn’t smile, but his eyes were viciously alight. “I hope you do. When you yield to me, it will be that much the sweeter.”
Unable to think of a fitting reply, Erika allowed Conor to lift her to her horse and lead her back to the dun. Handing their horses into a servant’s care, he led her into the hall and to her chamber.
Each step nearer that door caused Erika’s heart to flutter. Conor’s hardness was still imprinted on her palm. Even as she had argued with him, she recalled its size, its shape, its hardness. She had difficulty believing that something so large could fit inside her.
“Cease.”
Her thoughts scattered by the harshness of his voice, Erika slowly raised her eyes to his. His features were as chiseled as the stone behind them, as if it took every ounce of his will to hold himself in check. If he were Thor incarnate, lightning would be dancing a frenzied turn about the hall. “Cease what?”
“Looking at me.”
“Why should I?” she demanded crossly.
“Your eyes are inviting me to kiss you and more.”
“Oh.” She blinked, then focused on him again. “Then why do you not?”
His lips twitched briefly in what others would have called a grimace, but she had come to recognize as a smile. “What a woman you are,” he admitted, leaning closer. “Unlike any person I have ever met.”
This time when he kissed her, she was ready with the offering of her lips. Erika felt the same thrill as he pulled her closer, his hands running through the silken strands of her hair.
With a moan she melted against him, hungry for something she could not name. His lips grew demanding, slanting over hers again and again in a sensual onslaught that made her spirit seize. She returned to him what she received, hungrily melding her mouth to his, her arms tight about his neck, her fingers caught in the dark fall of his hair.
Abruptly he broke the kiss, setting her at arm’s length. It was a long moment before she could remember how to open her eyes. Her body shivered as the air did after a lightning strike.
“You can end this torment,” he whispered, his voice rough as she’d never heard it, his eyes a wolf-like gleam. “One word, and I will send for the priest. We can dispense of this petty duel and make our chamber ours in truth.”
“No.” The word seemed to come from someplace deep within her, the place where sanity still reigned. Whether she was refusing to leave go the duel or the wait for the priest, she did not know.
He stepped away from her, the forbidding mask in place once more. She was immediately bereft, unable to staunch the moan that escaped her.
His breathing was loud and harsh as a horse pushed too hard. “There will come a day, my Angel, when you will forget how to say no.”
He opened the chamber door, ushering her inside. “Goodnight, my lady. Find pleasure in your dreams. If you can.”
Chapter Thirteen
A shadow fell across Gwynna as she knelt in her herb garden, startling her. “May I speak with you?”
Olan. She groaned in dismay. She was on her hands and knees in the mist-drenched soi
l, wearing a faded and oft-mended tunic, with dirt covering every inch of her frame. Not the image she wanted Olan to have of her.
She glanced up, as far as his thighs, then dropped her gaze. She had seen far too much of the man to be proper, even for a widow. And even for a widow, the memories made her blush.
“Can it wait a time?” Time to put on another dress, scrub the dirt from my face, dip my fingers in ruam…
“You have avoided me long enough,” the blond giant said. He reached down a hand to pull her up. Instinct had her flinching, raising her arm in a defensive gesture.
The large hand withdrew as he stepped back. “Do you think I would hurt you?”
Horrified at her involuntary movement, Gwynna scrambled to her feet. “Olan, I am sorry!”
“So am I.” His face became closed. His voice seemed so wounded it caused her to wince. “You fled the dinner table that night as if for your very life. You have avoided me for nearly a week. I have frightened and offended you, yet I shall do so no longer.” He turned away.
“No!” Desperate, Gwynna reached for him, catching her hand on his elbow. “Please, wait!”
The huge man stopped, his eyes cast to the ground. “I am sorry, Gwynna. It is wrong of me to attempt to offer you what I cannot give.”
Her heart leapt into her throat, then dropped to her abdomen. “What?”
She watched him shove his hands through his thick blond mane, hands that had never risen against her with deliberate intent. He had never hurt her, except in his delirium. She fixed upon that thought, resisting the urge to run away.
Every move measured, Olan guided her to the bench. “When I was wounded, I thought the Valkyries were coming for me. But you stood between life and death, and brought me back.”
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