Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (32 page)

“I thought I was a bastard,” Aodh said as he stepped into the room. “As did everyone within three miles of the castle.”

She cleared her throat delicately. “I may have overstated the matter.” Then she peered pointedly over his shoulder at Bran.
 

Aodh followed her gaze, tipped his head and sent Bran on his way.
 

She stepped away from the door and drifted into the room. He followed and set the cups on the table. A moment later, a knock came, and a small pitcher was brought in.
 

Katarina smiled at her servant, Agatha, who seemed bursting with happiness to see her. She bobbed a curtsey, then brought the whisky over. “It is
excellent
, my lady.” Agatha lowered her voice a bit. “I tasted it to be sure.”
 

Katarina smiled her thanks. Agatha set it on the table with a bow, nodded to Aodh, and backed out. The door shut.

Aodh watched Katarina pour the drink into his glasses. She handed him one and said companionably, “I saw a messenger with Cunningham’s livery arrive this morning.”

He blew out a sigh and sat back with the drink. “Aye. He’ll join us if the others do. Same old story.”

“They are not so bold as you,” was her encouraging reply. “It is a matter of vision.” And she took a dainty sip of the whisky.

He took a swallow too, then pushed to the edge of his chair and crooked a finger beneath her chin, pulled her closer until their noses almost touched.

“What are you up to, lass?”

“Nothing,” she whispered.
 

His gaze fell to the drink in her hand, then he curled his fingers around hers, made her lift the cup and drink it down.

She shuddered faintly as the heat moved down her throat, into her belly like fire. “Well,” she said softly, “shall I get us another?”

His lips brushed hers, his tongue sliding into her whisky-soaked mouth, then he pulled back. “Aye.”

Drugged not from the drink but from Aodh’s careless kiss, hot and muddleheaded, she poured them two more.
 

“Come sit on my lap,” he said, reaching for her.
 

She tumbled down onto his thighs, his arm curved around her back. She leaned close and said, “I’m glad you came up.”
 

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’ve no idea why. Although I see you’ve developed a strange and sudden affection for whisky.”

She shifted on his lap. “This is Rardove whisky. Do you like it?”

“It’s quite fine.”

“Indeed it is. It produced more income than the wool last year,” she said proudly, then lifted her glass. “To Rardove whisky.” She drank and smiled at him.

He sniffed his cup with an excess of suspicion. “I thought you didn’t drink the stuff.”

“I do not. Usually. But that does not mean I am unable to.” Or that she couldn’t hold her own when asked to. Indeed, it was one of her hidden talents: she could drink anything, in great quantities, with almost no effect.
 

He hesitated, then sipped.
 

“Oh, don’t be scared of it, Aodh,” she teased.

“You think I’m scared of whisky?” He sounded indignant.

She shook her head. “No. I think you’re scared of me.”

It was difficult to be sure, but she thought his gaze looked ever so slightly unsteady. In any event, he lifted his glass. “To Rardove women. They’re a frightening bunch.”

She splashed more whisky into their cups. “What shall we toast to next?”

“Why are you trying to get me addled on the drink?” He broke gaze and took a slow visual sweep of the room, as if looking for clues.
 

Her heartbeat sped up. “Maybe I am not trying to get you addled. Maybe I am trying to get myself addled.”

He finished his perusal of the room. “To what end?”

She frowned. “Must I have an end?”

 
“You mustn’t…but you
do
.” But he seemed to be growing distracted. It was evident in his gaze, the way it kept drifting to her mouth. In the hard thrust of manhood pushing against her hip.

She smiled at him, then her focus drifted to the beautiful inkmarks visible above the collar of his tunic. “Aodh?”
 

He stretched out a leg, which shifted how she sat on him, and as she lolled on his lap, he said, “What?” very, very warily.

“Did it hurt? When they painted you.”

He hesitated. “Aye.”

“Are they Rardove dyes?”

“The legend dyes? That they are.”

“So it is not a legend.”

His eyes met hers. “Do you want to see them again, lass?”
 

“Oh, yes,” she breathed.

Aodh watched her a moment, certain she was up to some mischief, but it hardly mattered; she was sitting in his lap, breathing unevenly with desire. For the time being, at least, she was entirely his.

He leaned forward, bent his elbows, and dragged the tunic over his head.
 

Her gaze traveled greedily over his arms, his chest, her eyes growing heavy-lidded with desire.
 

Then she reached out and ran her fingertips down the inked lines. He held his breath, holding himself in check as she trailed down his arm, to the bend of his elbow, then made the small but important leap to his stomach. And then down, to the band of his breeches.

Swiftly, she unlaced him, and he let her, did nothing but say, “Let down your hair.”

She did, watching him as the hair spilled over her shoulders, then together they tugged off his hose. But when he put out a hand to draw her back into his lap, instead of taking it, she dropped to her knees between his legs.
 

He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks.
 

He would have to ensure this woman drank whisky every day.

She settled in, her palms resting atop his thighs, and stared at his body, her brow now furrowed, her fingertips trailing lightly over his chest. “Why did they do this to you?” she asked softly.

“To mark me.”

“As what?”

“A savior.”

She looked up. “Of what?”

“Rardove.”

“Oh, Aodh.” The words caught in her throat.

“I do not want to talk of Rardove,” he said harshly.

“No. No, we must not.”
 

His body almost vibrated with lust. His hair felt as if it stood on end; his blood churned. He debated, briefly, leading her to the bed, but even that much movement might blow a breath of reality on the moment and she might spark away again. In any event, he was perfectly happy to have whisky in his blood and Katy on her knees, so he sat back and let her be.

Head tipped back slightly, chin in the air, she skimmed her fingers down the length of his erection. It quivered. He hissed in a breath, and she released a little pant of desire, then tipped forward, bringing her hot mouth closer to him.

“You best be certain, Katy,” he rasped.

“I am,” she assured him, her words breathy, and curled her hand softly around the length of him and gave a little stroke. His hips jerked up.
 

She did it again, a light stroke. Her eyes, bright with excitement, lifted to his. “Like that?”

“Not quite,” he said tautly. “Harder.”

Her body trembled. “Show me.”
 

Swiftly, he curled his hand overtop hers and made her squeeze tighter, much tighter, then moved their hands in a stroke up the length of him, a long, hard pull.
 

“Oh.” She was all hot breath and pink cheeks. She was excited.

Katy would try
anything.
And love it, he thought with fierce, grateful affection. Her adventurous spirit was entirely unappreciated by any man but him, thank God.

He drew their entwined hands up the length of him again, faster this time, and his bollocks tightened.
 

“So hard,” she whispered.

“Aye. Hard. That’s how I like it.”
 

A little pant broke from her as she tried it herself, moved her fist up him, a fine, hard stroke, then looked up at him.
 

“Is that proper?” she whispered, trembling.

He smiled. “Not a’tall, lass. ’Tis quite wicked.” He moved their hands again.
 

“Wicked,” she echoed, her lips parted in a pretty, wet pant.
 

“You like wicked, Katy girl?”

Passion-heavy eyes lifted to his. “I like
your
wicked.”

“Then take me in your mouth. You look good. I want to feel you.”

Her head tipped back helplessly. Words alone could take her to a climax, he realized now. One day, he’d set himself to the task.
 

She leaned over him, and took his cock into the hot, wet cave of her mouth.
 

Every
day, the whisky.

Leaning her forearms on his thighs, she took him in, her head bobbing, her hand gripped beneath Aodh’s, circling the root of his shaft. Together they pumped him in long, rhythmic strokes, up to her mouth, then down again. Then he loosed his hand and sat back, lifting his hips ever so slightly, not wanting to frighten her, but wanting very much to have deeper carnal relations with her mouth.
 

She let him in.

He made an inarticulate sound, something between a growl and a curse and a plea. He would marry this woman, if only she would let him.

“Can you take more,
leannán sidhe
?” he murmured, coaxing. He rested his hand lightly on the side of her head and tipped his hips up. Her body trembled and she shifted on her knees and moved down on him, taking him in deeper, to her throat.

He descended into a vortex of lust. There was nothing but Katy’s hot, wet mouth. He closed his eyes and let her manage everything, just fisted his hand gently in her hair and held on.

The end came swiftly. It crested over him in a hot, thick wave. He tightened his hand in her hair and gently pulled her up just before it burst from him. He pulled her onto his lap and took her mouth as he came, and they stroked him together through the climax.

He used a linen towel to wipe himself clean, then drew her back down onto his lap. Dazedly, she sat, and he kissed her throat, intent on the next step.
 

“I know what we toast to next,” he said.

“I’ll get the whisky,” she gasped, fumbling for the cups.

Chapter Thirty

IT TOOK TWO HOURS, but finally, Aodh Mac Con, son of a hard-drinking Irishman, bred on peat, passed out cold from drink.
 

The moment his breathing was steady and low, Katarina wrapped herself in his heavy cape and hurried out the door, her body still pulsing from all their ‘toasts.’

She hurried down the stairs to Walter’s chambers and scratched at the door. Cold drafts drifted along the floor like fog. The door slowly creaked open.

Walter’s single strand of hair floated eerily in the drafts atop his otherwise bald head as he stared at her in amazement. “My lady!”
 

 
She hurried him backward into the room.

 
“Curse you, Walter, why did you tell Aodh to go see Bermingham?” was, inexplicably, the first thing she said.

Walter seemed equally surprised, but perhaps that was from being awakened out of a slumber in the dead of night. “Why, my lady,” he said, all innocence, “I did but offer my opinion. But what are you doing here?” He peered at the door, then back at her. “Are you freed?”

She frowned and held out the letter. “Not at present. I need you to see this delivered. It must go to the queen, or her representative, if one is already en route to Rardove.”

His bony fingers pinched the missive. “And what does it say?”
 

She scowled at him. “It provides directions for the army.”

She left Walter and swept to the lord’s chamber and peeked into the antechamber. As hoped, little Dickon was curled up on a cot. No Bran in sight.