by Kris Kennedy
He laughed and her gaze slid up.
“You think I cannot?”
He merely smiled, which made her flush. She was so vibrant, so filled with constantly shifting colors: the pinks and purples of her silken gown; her blonde hair catching glints of firelight; her pale cheeks touched with an amber glow. It almost hurt the eye to look at her.
“And you are a dangerous man, Sir Rogue,” she added.
“That I am.”
“Of course, everyone is perilous in their own fashion,” she went on thoughtfully. “For instance,” she made her move, sliding her queen over a space, “my father is a powerful sword fighter. He has beaten everyone he has met in the ring for the past decade.”
“Not me,” Máel pointed out.
That gained him a level look. “You did not beat him. He beat himself,” she said thoughtfully. “And I have no idea why.”
He shuttered his surprise, but he felt it inside, an arrow bolt skidding down his stomach.
“And yet,” she said, “here we sit, two creatures of God, their lives compromised by him. Nay, one whose life is imperiled.”
She reached for the flask and took another small, dainty sip. He watched her mouth form a circle, watched the rim touch her lips, press against the pink flesh… Just as he wished to do.
Her throat worked as she swallowed the dainty sip and lowered the flask. He slid his gaze from her mouth to her eyes, which were fixed on him.
For the first time in a very long time, he felt a twinge in his chest. He knew what it was: an ashen, long-extinguished emotion that had existed before his heart had burned itself out in a fiery path of hate and fury.
He did not want those things rekindled.
He did not want emotion.
He wanted retribution and his father’s sword.
But he did not want this woman frightened.
And he had no idea why. He generally wanted everyone frightened.
At the perimeter of his vision were her hands, small and pale, with curving fingers. Fingers that had held his whittled lion to her cheek in delight.
He ground his jaw, then tightened it, but the words came out anyhow. “My payment depends on your safety,” he said tautly. “You are in no danger from me.” He looked up. “You've my word.”
She gave a dismissive little shrug. “But you do not have mine, Sir Rogue. I might do anything. You've no idea.”
This time there was no shuttering his surprise. He stared, then burst out laughing.
The corners of her mouth tipped up, her eyes all but sparkling at him.
The bite came again. Tugged out by some cord that seemed to connect them, a weave that was almost physical. He felt it in the air, tightening every time she smiled at him.
Lust, he assured himself, which made everything simpler.
He reached forward and slid the flask out of her fingertips. Their hands brushed. Her body froze. He took a swig and, as she was still frozen in position, slid the flask neatly back into her hand and tapped it a few times, to push it in deeper between her still-curled fingers.
“Then you believe me,” he said simply.
She seemed to have to shake herself to bring her back to the conversation. “Believe you? That my father took something of yours? Of course I believe it. This is a thing he does. He is a gambler. A foolish one. Much like you.” She eyed her whittled wooden chess piece and held it up. “What is this? A dog?”
He stared at her face. “Did you call me foolish?”
She nodded, still examining the piece. “I think it is a dog,” she decided, and set it down to consider her move.
He glanced at the chess piece. “It is a deer. A roe.”
“Of course. Yes, I see it now. And yes, I did call you foolish. You are. This is.”
He lowered his forearm, so it rested beside the board. She glanced at it, then away. “What is foolish?”
She waved her hand at the tent. “This. Staying here. One might even call it stupid.”
“Stupid,” he repeated softly. “What do you know of your father’s plans?”
Her face inched up. “Naught. My father never shares his plans with me.”
He believed her, which was good…for her. And he had no intention of staying here—he was only waiting for darkness to fall, then he would take her and leave. But as he did not think she would react well to that news, he did not speak on it.
“All I am saying is it is never wise to trust him,” she murmured.
“I do not trust him.”
She made a little sound in her throat.
“You wish to go somewhere else?”
She looked at him sternly. “But of course. There is a feast occurring in the castle, if you recall. There are knights, great and mighty lords and—”
“Aye, I know. Your suitor,” he interrupted, oddly irritated. “He is wealthy and handsome and has glorious polished armor. The epitome of every maiden's dreams.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. He stared at it.
“I do not know about 'dreams’,” she mused, “but they are indeed handsome and chivalrous—”
His ears pricked at the unexpected word. “They?”
“Yes. I have six suitors.”
He felt taken aback. “Six?”
She looked up slowly. “You doubt six men would vie for my hand?”
“Six,” was all he said, then added, “How will you ever decide?”
She frowned. “I will not. They are fighting for my hand. A joust, on Friday morning. And they have paid a great deal of coin for the privilege.”
“Paid, did they?” He slid his rook forward. “If you’re dealing in coin, lass, that’s not a suitor. That’s a customer.”
Waves of fury practically rode across the table and knocked him back. He met the onslaught with a raised brow.
She glared. “You disapprove? You, who has engineered this entire ridiculous situation for coin?”
They stared at each other across the board. “Move,” he said shortly.
She leaned forward, her fingertips dangling overtop the carven chess pieces, as if deciding which to touch. “I meant only that it is foolish to trust my father.”
His gaze slid up. “That's twice you've called me foolish.”
“And thrice you’ve called me arrogant.”
“’Tis the truth.”
She tossed her head, a spark of battle flaring in her eyes.
He ought not want that, yet he kept maneuvering to unleash it.
“Only a rogue would think such a thing,” she snapped.
“Only a rogue would say it. Any man would think it.”
Her eyes narrowed the littlest bit. “So you mean you are an honest man.”
He made a small gesture with his hand.
“Pah, you are not so honest.” She moved her king. “You lied when you told me you had never played chess.”
“I did not say I had never played it.”
“Had heard of it, then,” she said sharply.
“I have heard of it.” He moved his knight and looked up with a smile. “Check.”
Chapter 10
Blood coursed down Cassia’s chest and across her face, hot streaks of heat as she stared at the board.
She never lost at chess.
She recklessly moved her knight—forward two, left one, to guard her king—and narrowed her eyes at the beast. “Neither did you seem so honest when you were speaking with me on the lists. You pretended to be...enamored.”
“Did I?” he said slowly, the faint smile now not a flash, but a lingering, honey-slow smile, which was worse than the other sort, for it made her body grow hot.
“I knew it, of course,” she added swiftly. “The moment you sat down, I knew you were a rogue.”
“Aye? Then why did you keep speaking to me?”
Her gaze flew to his. “I— I was... You had...”
“Strawberries?” he suggested.
“Yes, that is it.”
He slowly shook his head. “That is not it
.”
Her skin felt slightly singed. “What do you mean? I adore berries.”
He made a noncommittal sound that drew her attention to his throat and the strong column of his neck. She yanked her eyes away.
“Mayhap,” he went on in an idle tone. “But there was more to it.”
She told herself not to pursue this line of conversation. Unfortunately, her mind did not communicate with her mouth.
“What is this, 'more'?”
His eyes drifted up from her recklessly-placed knight, sitting directly in front of his queen. “You like men, Cassia. You like their attention.”
Her eyes widened.
“You liked what we were doing. You...wanted it.” Without taking his eyes off her, he slid his queen forward and took the knight.
Heat surged through her cheeks. “Wanted what?”
He smiled but said nothing.
She touched her fingertips gently to her chest, the picture of innocence. “I do not know of what you speak.”
He smiled. “You lie very prettily.”
Her jaw fell. She'd never been spoken to the way this man spoke to her. He was bold, uncouth, impolite, improper…and beating her at chess.
Intolerable.
He was not a courtier, a troubadour, a safe or admiring man. He was the rogue, the summer storm. He conjured excitement, and was nothing like the chivalrous knights from the lays the troubadours sang. Those passions were chaste, pure, exalted. She was certain his would be hard-pushed, wild, untamed.
And it made her body hum.
A sad commentary on her noble, well-trained life.
Well. He was not the only one who could be bold and impolite.
Whisky running through her blood, she set her elbow on the table and looked at him through the flickering firelight and the sultry heat of the summer night.
“I have been thinking, Irishman. And I have questions about this whole thing.”
Chapter 11
Máel felt the shifted energy of her as if a fire had suddenly burst into flame.
“Uh oh,” he murmured.
“Yes, you see the dilemma.”
“What kind of questions?” he said carefully. He hadn’t expected questions.
“Why would Sir No One do such a reckless thing? Why walk into a tournament where he clearly does not belong, and confront my father, a man far more powerful than he? What would motivate such boldness? Moreover, why would my father allow such a thing? Why not call the hue and cry at once? Is that not a good question?”
“’Tis a question,” he allowed.
“And then, of course, I answer.”
“Of course you do,” he murmured.
She shifted on the bench. “You say he took something that did not belong to him, but debt collection does not usually involve armed combat at tournaments. So why did this one? Is it because there is something more?” Her words slowed. “More than money, something that goes deeper in the heart, which is quite a feat, to go deeper than coin into my father’s heart. Maybe into yours as well.” She was looking directly into his eyes. “But what is more powerful than money?”
“Chivalry would say ‘love,’” he said.
“Would you?”
“Never.”
“Of course not,” she agreed softly. “Nor would I. Not for my father, and not for you.”
For a moment they were aligned, comrades in their disbelief in the power of love for men like her father.
Men like Máel.
She tipped her head to the side, considering him. “But all this begs the question: why is my father mixed up with an outlaw to begin with?”
“And how do you answer?” His body was readying for passion, but his mind had been snared by the sharpness of hers.
He was curious to see where she would take this. How far.
“Clearly, he hired you,” she answered, her voice pitched low. “But why? The Lord of Ware has many messengers and servants. Why not use one of them for this deed? I can only think of one reason. Is this not clever of me?”
“I’m in shock.”
She tipped closer. “Because it is a secret. Something too dangerous to do himself, yet something that must be done, and must remain secret. Something that would ruin him if it were discovered.”
Not her father’s daughter at all. Too clever by far.
Her eyes were little sparks as she watched him. “Mayhap ruin you, too, Irishman,” she said softly.
“It will not ruin me.”
“Oh, but it might. For if you are involved in this thing with my father, and if it fails, it will indeed wreak havoc on you too. And if you are discovered with me, it will raise all manner of questions. Questions I suspect you would not want to answer.”
Hearing his own words cast back at him was akin to being splashed with cold water.
“That sounds like a threat, lass,” he murmured. “Are you threatening me?”
She leaned closer yet. “I am not threatening you. The last thing I want is anyone to know I was held by an Irish rogue, for then I would never get my knight.”
His gaze slid over her face. “Aye. Your chivalrous knight.”
Her eyes, heretofore direct, faltered. “Yes. Him.”
“Then you should take care, Cassia, how and where you spin your theories.”
“Pah.” She made an impatient gesture and shook her head fiercely. A few strands of hair, precariously perched in pins for the past hours, came sliding down. “No,” she retorted, staring at him through the amber-lit, shifting shadows. “I have ‘taken care’ my entire life, and you see what it has achieved me? Abandoned by my father, hostaged to an outlaw, drinking this—” She gave the flask a little shake, then tipped it to her mouth and tossed back a rather large swig.
Máel’s mouth twitched.
“No,” she said almost proudly, “I am done with care. I am no longer its keeper. Now tell me…” She pushed the mussed hair away from her face. “What say you to my spinning?”
“Naught.”
“You have no thoughts?”
“Oh, I’ve thoughts,” he drawled.
Her eyebrows arched. “Tell me.”
In that moment, he decided to aim for battle, as it was what she seemed to want. And by all the gods he no longer believed in, he wanted it too.
“I’m thinking about making a mistake,” he murmured.
“A mistake?”
“A mistake with you.”
“What sort of mistake?”
“The sort where I kiss you.”
Chapter 12
Fire and chills burned through Cassia’s body, as if she were no longer made of flesh, but air and flame. There was a strange slowing down of time, and through it, their eyes never left each others.
“Kiss me?” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said in his slow way, as if there was nothing to hurry for. Nothing to worry on. That he had the entire matter in hand. “And touch you.”
Her body glowed. The tent seemed to be illuminated with the incandescent heat of her desire.
Where? How? Please.
“Y-you must think me a fool.”
His eyes never left hers. “I think you reckless. And bored. And untried. And I think you know tonight is your last chance.”
Her skin prickled in long, ribbony waves. “For what?”
“The forbidden.”
How had he known?
She delicately cleared her throat. “How do I know a kiss from you would meet those conditions, outlaw?”
“Stop calling me outlaw,” he said quietly.
“What should I call you instead? Rogue, harborer of evil—”
“Máel.”
“Máel.” She repeated it slowly. “Well, Máel, how do I know a kiss from you would be worthwhile?”
A slow smile spread across his face. “We could test the matter.”
“How?”
“You kiss me. Then I…kiss you.”
Fire through her blood, fissures of heat breaking open, revealin
g roiling down below. Something essential to him, his carelessness of the rules and propriety, pulled at her the way fresh air pulls at a flame.
Madness, to do such a thing with this man.
Madness more, the way her body moved toward him.
She wished to believe what happened next was because of the whisky. Because she was wholly out of her senses.
But it was because she was wholly in them. The world had slowed down and everything slipped away.
There was no more coin or hunger or fear. There was no propriety or impropriety. There was no disapproval or desperate maneuvering or silent hoping and fruitless waiting. There was only now.
Nothing but now, with this man’s gaze on her, wanting her.
Nothing but her.
She pushed up and across the table, knocking chess pieces over as if winning did not matter, and she didn't stop until her mouth was directly before his, until she felt the heat of his breath wafting over her lips.
“Like this?” she whispered, and pressed her mouth to his.
Male.
Her first impression was of his overwhelming masculinity, the musky scent of him and…
Heat. He was alive with heat.
Rough. A day’s growth of beard scraped the skin around her mouth.
Soft. His mouth was supple as she touched her lips to his.
She felt dizzy at her boldness. At the press of the table under her ribs as she stretched across a table. At the power of him, hard and holding back.Head spinning, she began to pull away.
He moved suddenly, curling a hand around the back of her neck and held her in position.
“No, lass. Like this.”
He shoved to his feet, lifting her with him until they stood on each side of the table. He leaned across the table, bringing her forward too, then he kissed her.
His kiss was entirely different from hers. Hers had been a brushing glance, a kiss of peace on the mouth rather than the cheek.
His was a sword stroke of passion and it cleaved her open.
The moment his lips touched hers, he began testing her. His mouth crossed hers sideways, head tipped to the side, which urged her to do the same. One kiss, two…then his tongue brushed the seam of her lips.
