The Beast of Blades

by Winchester, Rosamund

  He watched her as she bit her lip, sucking the plump bottom lip into her mouth. Lord, she was going to kill him if he couldn’t get a hold on his own damned body.

  “How long were you on your own?” he asked, hoping it was a safe question.

  “More years that I was with either of my parents,” she answered, hedging.

  “And when did you begin picking pockets?” Give me something, Whelp!

  She sighed, leaning forward which allowed her coat to droop once again. He hated how relieved and yet disappointed he was.

  “It was not what I had hoped to do with my life,” she began, and he waited. “I suppose I have been stealing to survive since I was…nine.” Her soft honey gaze seemed to dull, as though she was thinking of something far away…or long ago.

  Taking his opportunity to slide past her defenses, he leaned in, dropping his voice.

  “And how long ago was that?” If she answered, she would be offering him something that he could use to outright prove she was not a child. If she admitted her true age, he would be one step closer to her revealing what she really was.

  Rio hummed, her eyes still hazy. “Thirteen years now,” she murmured.

  Thirteen! That would make her twenty-two. Good God! She was even older than he thought she was. He assumed, from her slight build, that she was no older than eighteen.

  Twenty-two. Damn!

  He shot to his feet, his thoughts running. If she was twenty-two there was no way she did not have a lover waiting for her in Calais—several lovers. Men who knew her far better than he ever would.

  Like hell!

  A growl erupted from his throat, and Rio’s gaze sharpened, bringing her back into the room from wherever it was she went in her own thoughts.

  His focus on her, he watched as realization slowly dawned. Her face paled, her eyes widened to the size of plates, and her lips pursed.

  “So,” he drawled, moving to sit beside her on the bed. Close enough that he could smell the strawberry of her soap. Damn. He should have given her the cardamom soap. “You are twenty-two years old.”

  She swallowed, her jaw clenching. “Oui,” she answered, her voice stronger than he expected. “I am twenty-two, so what of it?” She lifted her chin, crossing her arms over her chest in an air of offense.

  Oh, no you do not!

  “Take no offense, Whelp,” he intoned, raising his hands palms out. “I am just curious.” He leaned in until their faces were only a foot apart.

  Her gaze dropped to his lips, and he grinned wolfishly.

  “Curious about what?” Her voice, less strong now, was husky. Thick with desire. He drew closer, nearly growling when her tiny, pink tongue flicked out to lick her lips. His nostrils flared, his blood roaring.

  “Curious how a twenty-two-year-old man has such smooth skin,” he inquired, raising his finger to slide it along the line of her chin, from her temple to her bottom lip.

  As if under the same spell as him, she tilted her face into his touch, but then flinched, pulling back. Spell broken.

  “My mother said I would never grow hair on my face, that my father and his father were all bald-faced.”

  He choked off a laugh, covering his humor with a cough. Bald-face…liars!

  Rio narrowed her eyes, lifting her chin higher.

  “You laugh, but you have no idea,” she snapped, moving to stand and retreat.

  He let her.

  A knock at the door made her start, but he was expecting it. Along with dinner—that he’d ordered to be delivered several hours from now, knowing there would be little eating—of food—in the next few hours, he’d also ordered something else.

  Rising, he walked to the door, opening it and moving out of the way to let the parade of maids and grooms haul in the bronze hip tub and bucket after bucket of steaming water. By the time the parade had gone, Rio was standing in the corner of the room, her arms wrapped around her middle, as if holding herself together.

  For a moment—and a moment only—he felt guilt about what he was about to do, but then, the beast he held at bay for over a week reared, roaring for release.

  “What is this?” she asked, shakily.

  He planted his hands on his hips, eyeing her with feigned annoyance.

  “It looks like a bath, does it not?”

  “Oui, but you cannot mean for me to bathe again. I bathed just yesterday.” And she had, on his orders. All that sweaty work on deck had made her smell sour, and he only ever wanted his Rio to smell sweet.

  “No, you are right. I do not mean for you to bathe again,” he answered, moving his hands to the waist of his breeches, where he began pulling up the hem of his shirt. Her relief was short-lived as her eyes finally took in what he was doing.

  He chuckled. “This bath is for me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Rio held her breath, wondering if she had heard correctly, if the man she had been hungering for actually planned to disrobe before her.

  Desperately trying to retain some focus, she blurted, “Then I will leave you alone—”

  He shook his head, his gaze boring into her, seeking out the fleshy bits he could devour.

  “Oh, no, Whelp. As my cabin boy, you must assist me. It is part of your duties, after all,” he drawled, a slow, decadent drawl that made her blood race.

  Grabbing the bottom of his shirt, he crossed his arms and easily lifted the shirt up, slowly, achingly exposing miles and miles of tanned, taut skin. As he moved, the muscles in his belly flexed, and when he finally had the shirt up over his head, Rio couldn’t tear her eyes away from all the hard muscles on display.

  She’d known that he was a well-built man, a true beast in size and strength. But never in her wildest imaginings could she have pictured such savage beauty.

  Tossing the shirt to the floor, Brendan planted his hands on his hips, and Rio watched as the slabs of muscles in his chest flexed, lifting and moving like a well-rehearsed dance.

  Rio dragged her eyes from his body to glance at his face.

  Mistake.

  His smile was part animal, part man.

  “What is it, Whelp? Do not tell me that you have never seen a real man’s body before,” he taunted.

  She sniffed haughtily, trying to regain some of the fortitude she’d lost when he’d lost his shirt. “Of course I have seen a man’s body—I have seen my own reflection.”

  He barked a laugh, making her flinch. “You have a man’s body, Whelp?” he sneered, drawing closer to her, closing the distance between his naked chest and her curious hands.

  “Of course,” she snapped.

  Then he was standing before her, towering over her. His hands moved to the laces holding his breeches together and he tugged. Her eyes moved of their own accord, following his slow, deliberate movements. The beast wanted her to watch. To see.

  “You have a man’s body…so that means you have seen one of these before…” His voice died off as his breeches pulled open, revealing a line of dark hair that descended further, meeting with a thatch of hair. His breeches were tight, so tight that she could easily see the outline of his manhood through the fabric. It was what was hidden there in that dark nest of wiry hairs.

  Unthinkingly, she nodded, having forgotten what he’d asked.

  “But I—I have never helped a man bathe before,” she fretted, her hands clasping her elbows in an attempt to make herself smaller, to make her rising desire halt in its tracks. Hell, that didn’t work. It was impossible to not desire the man before her.

  “You still persist, eh?” he murmured under his breath before speaking louder. “Do you remember that first bath I gave you on the Torriwr?”

  She furrowed her brows, remembering it easily. “Oui. The one where you tossed me overboard and I nearly died.”

  “Aye, that one.” Brendan’s fingers found the first button on her coat, pushing it through the fastener. She couldn’t stop him. Didn’t know if she even wanted to. “Do you know who saved you?”

  “You did,” s
he whispered. “Callet told me it was you.”

  “Aye.” He pushed another button free. “And do you know what happened in the water after I dove in to save you?”

  She shook her head. He freed another button. The last button. Now her coat hung loose over her. Brendan raised his hands, gripping each side of the coat and slowly pulling it away from her body.

  “I pulled your body into mine, expecting to feel the firm, wiry body of a lad.”

  Oh no…oh no!

  “To my surprise, Whelp,” he drawled. The coat now hanging open, Brendan was able to ease his hands inside. She could feel the heat of his palms oh so near her flesh. “I found a curvy, lush, ripe, little body instead.” His hands closed over her breasts, and lights burst behind her eyes.

  Brendan cupped her breasts, groaning.

  “I felt these perfect breasts sliding against me, and I knew I had to touch them, to see them. To taste them.”

  “I-I,” she stuttered, incapable of conjuring any excuse that would work, especially since his hands were now kneading her aching breasts.

  “Come now, Whelp. You could not possibly think to keep it a secret, not aboard a ship as small as the Torriwr.”

  She shrugged stubbornly. “I have kept it secret for thirteen years. It is possible to have kept it many years more.”

  He shook his head, his expression one of provoking mockery. “Impossible. You kept it secret for so long because you never let anyone get close enough to see the truth. To feel it pressed into his palm.”

  Damn. He was correct. Her brothers knew her truth, but since she had no direct contact with those she targeted, and because she avoided all people as though they were plague-ridden, it was easy enough to keep her sex hidden.

  “I can see from the look on your face that you agree with me,” Brendan drawled, flicking a nipple with his thumb. She refused to step back, to give him the satisfaction of thinking her overwhelmed. “And you must know that I cannot let this go unpunished.”

  Gasping, she had little time to register that his hands had taken hold of the ties holding her breeches closed.

  “You mean to punish me by making me bathe with you?” she rasped, immediately hating the desire in her voice.

  His lips curled, flashing a long, pointed tooth, like a wolf grinning at its supper.

  “Nay, Whelp. I plan to punish you by making you moan against me as I pleasure you.”

  Heat bloomed over her skin. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “Pleasure me?” Her lips suddenly dry as well, she licked them.

  His gaze followed the path of her tongue, darkening as a sky before a storm.

  “Pleasure you? Oh, aye,” the beast snarled, just before smashing his mouth against hers, taking her mouth, her breath, her every thought.

  She’d never experienced this depth of longing and need before; her womanhood seemed to beat in time with her heart, pulsing as though begging for his touch. And she wanted his touch—all over.

  In this moment, as never before, she felt like a true woman, a living, breathing ball of feminine fire, roaring to her inevitable explosion.

  But she’d never done anything like this before, and that fear stole a fraction of her pleasure. She tore her mouth from his, panting. And he was panting, too. His broad chest heaving with his breaths.

  Meeting his heavy-lidden, desire-laden gaze, she stammered, “Please, Brendan…I do—I do not kn-know what to do. I have never…”

  “I know, fy harddwch. I will be a gentle, thorough teacher,” he murmured before taking her mouth once more. His hand reached up, cupping her breast, his thumb sliding over her erect nipple.

  Stunned, dizzy from the sensations rioting through her, Rio mewled, the only sound she could make as Brendan ravaged her lips.

  The thick bands of iron holding her to him, loosened, laying her back on the bed behind her. He followed her down, kissing her lips, her face, her neck, exploring nearly every inch of flesh within his reach.

  Delirious, she did not notice when he’d divested her of her garments. She only realized she was wholly naked when she felt his rough, hard, hot skin pressed directly against hers.

  He continued his kissing, his hands sliding over her nakedness, stroking her and stoking her desire until she felt ready to combust.

  “I will take it slow, fy harddwch,” he murmured into her chest just before taking an aching nipple between his lips. He suckled and she arched into it, her body both heavy and feather light at once.

  “Brendan,” she cried out, opening her legs as his large hand slid in between them.

  “I will make it good,” he breathed, his frame shuddering over her as she clasped the thick, hard globes of his taut arse.

  They lay there, kissing, touching, exploring one another, adding breath and blood to fuel the fire burning between them. Finally, Brendan settled over her, his arms holding her tightly, and she knew this would change everything.

  And with a slow, slick thrust, he entered her, and she welcomed him, her body no longer her own.

  Rising from the bed—dragging himself away, really—he strode to where Rio’s coat lay in a heap on the floor. They’d shown little care for her clothes once the kissing had begun, but now he needed to make sure that what was inside the coat had made the journey unharmed. Finding the envelope in the inside pocket, Brendan walked back to the bed, uncaring for his nakedness.

  Sliding back under the covers, in beside a soft, supple, slumbering beauty, he began kissing her anew, skimming her cream-colored shoulder, as smooth as silk, he kissed over her flesh, grinning as gooseflesh appeared where he’d already lavished attention.

  Rio groaned, and his body responded, eager to make her groan again.

  Nay, there will be time for that later.

  “Wake up, fy harddwch, I am in need of my interpreter,” Brendan murmured into her neck. She trembled, groaning again, this time it was a complaint groan as she tried to slap him away.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, sleepily, her flushed cheeks making her all the more delectable.

  “What? Fy harddwch?”

  “Oui.”

  “It means ‘my beauty’.” He placed another kiss just beneath her ear, and she groaned again, the skin of her neck turning a lush, deep pink.

  “Wake up,” he said, giving her earlobe a nip.

  “I cannot rub two thoughts together, how am I to translate?” she muttered, her eyes fluttering open to glare at him adorably.

  He chuckled. “While I am thrilled that my prowess has rendered you senseless, I must insist.” With a swat to her back side, Rio squealed, lurching up to nearly tumble from the other side of the bed. Righting herself, the blankets tucked up under her chin to hide her glorious nakedness from his voracious gaze, she glowered at him.

  “That was not necessary, la Bete!” she snapped, whipping her hair out of her face with a huff.

  Brendan chuckled again. “Here.” He tossed the envelope at her, watching as she glared at the thing where it landed in her lap.

  “How did you even know I still had it? I could have left it in Calais,” she taunted, her chin raised daringly.

  “I suppose I trusted the whelp who seemed so adamant about leaving Calais to find his fortune and return to rescue his brothers. It would not make sense to break your end of the deal, not when I could just kill you.”

  She huffed again, her face flushing. “You could have lost the letter when you threw me overboard, I could have had it on my person.”

  He rolled his eyes before throwing himself back on the bed, raising his arms over his head and locking his hands behind his neck. Like this, he knew he was offering Rio a truly magnificent sight. His bare chest, his taut belly, rippling with ridged muscles, tapering to his waist. He was on full display before her and, as her gaze devoured him, his body responded.

  She gasped at the evidence of his arousal before snatching the letter off her lap and tearing through the envelope like it owed her money.

  Laughter bubbled up his throat,
something that was happening with more frequency of late.

  “I knew the letter was safe. You forget, I am a thief as well, though on a much larger scale. I think, somewhat, like you do. I figured that as soon as you were settled aboard, you would find someplace to stash what was most important to you, away from prying eyes and…groping hands.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows, making her blush right to the roots of her hair.

  Rio tugged the letter out of the envelope, pursed her lips, and unfolded the letter. He couldn’t take his eyes from her openly expressive face. Her brows furrowed and she sucked her lips into her mouth, which only served to make him all the more aware of his state.

  Rolling on to his side, he asked, “What is it?”

  She swore under her breath before tossing the letter to him. “I cannot help you,” she ground out, crossing her arms. Frustration made her movements jerky.

  Picking up the letter he looked it over. It was written in neatly scrawled French.

  “You do speak French—” then he remembered; she could speak French, but she could not read. “Wait…I will read it aloud as best I can, and you interpret my poor attempts at French into much better English.”

  She stared at him, her gaze unwavering, before nodding.

  “Remember,” he began, “My first language is Welsh, so if I butcher this letter like a wolf does a pig, do not think less of me.” He was teasing, he wanted to make her smile again. He could spend the rest of his life making her smile.

  That thought made his heart come to a screaming halt.

  Rest of his life. With the whelp.

  It was right. It felt right.

  Clearing his throat of the emotion that clogged it, he began to read the letter aloud the best he could. There were a few times were she would snort at his terrible accent, but once he was done, she tapped her finger against her chin. He could see her thoughts through her eyes, as she tried to make sense of what she heard.