Haunting Desire (8 page)

Cursing under his breath, he knelt and removed the tatters of his shirt from her feet before shifting to the cold fire and adding kindling. He struck his flint and in moments had a blaze going.

“You said
were
,” she murmured. “You said there
were
nearly a hundred. How many are there now?”

“Twenty-six,” he replied through the tightness in his chest.

He didn’t turn around to see the shock on her face. He didn’t have to.

“Most died in the first few weeks,” he went on. “Before we found this islet. We lived on the run and we were too vulnerable.”

His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

“Some simply gave up. They could not cope with the terrors of Inis Brandubh. They quit trying to survive.”

He heard the leather straps of the bed creak and glanced over his shoulder. She pinned him with that stormy gaze, thunderclouds moving in the midnight shades.

“That’s not your fault, Tiarnan. You can’t save everyone, especially if they don’t want to be saved.”

He swallowed, fighting to keep his tone level, his emotions deep below the surface. “I didn’t say it was.”

“You didn’t have to. You know what I thought the first moment I saw you? Before you even came out of the darkness?”

Dry-mouthed, he shook his head. He braced for what she would say, told himself it wouldn’t matter if she saw the failings that were as much a part of him as the scars on his hands and the wounds in his heart.

“I thought you looked like you had the weight of the world on your shoulders. Atlas, I remember thinking. But you looked strong enough to carry it.”

He could not speak. The flickering flames played against her ivory skin, bathing her in gold and shadow. She looked lovely, so earnest. So wrong about him.

“No one should have to carry that much, though,” she continued. “That kind of burden will destroy you. And you can’t blame yourself because those people gave up, or feel guilty because you didn’t save the ones who didn’t give up and died trying. I might have died today.”

He couldn’t stop his knee-jerk reaction to that, but she went on, oblivious to the pain she caused.

“Liam might have died, too. But it wouldn’t have been your fault, even if we both did. I’ve only been here a day, but even I can see that there’s no way to control what happens here. People live and people die, Tiarnan. It’s the way of the world.”

He opened his mouth to disagree, to tell her that the way of the world did not apply to Inis Brandubh, but she stopped him.

“
Any
world, Tiarnan.”

It felt as if something deep inside him cracked open at her words, and he reached out, bracing himself against the edge of the fire pit. In her face he saw understanding and he realized that she, too, carried a weight too heavy to bear, one she thought she deserved to carry. He saw loss and guilt, and he wondered, what had been snatched from Shealy O’Leary that had left those shadows in her eyes?

She met his gaze, and the directness of his stare seemed to unsettle her. She lifted a shaking hand to her hair, combed it forward to cover the side of her face in a gesture he’d seen many times that day. It was the scars she tried to hide, but there was more to it. He wanted to ask, but didn’t.

The less he knew about her, the better.

Because the more he learned, the more he wanted to know.

“Quit staring at me,” she said defensively. “I know I probably look like a sea monster, but it’s been a rough day.”

He
was
staring, but not for the reasons she seemed to think. Bruises on her cheek appeared as darker shadows in the murk, dirt smudged her face, and her hair lay tangled around her shoulders. But it was the flashing storm in her eyes that captivated him and made him unable to look away.

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and rubbed her chilled flesh. Silently he stood and pulled a warm fur from the bed. He settled it over her shoulders, tucking it around her, letting his fingers linger against the soft skin of her throat. A slashing crescent-shaped scar hooked up from her throat to curl around her damaged ear, a wound that looked like it should have killed her. It merged with the smaller web of puckered white skin beneath her chin.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Without making her rise, he grabbed the base of Liam’s bed and hauled it closer to the warm flames. She gripped the sides, holding on as her center of balance shifted. As soon as she stilled, Tiarnan moved away and crouched on the other side of the fire again, watching her.

“Are y’ hungry, lass?” he asked.

When she nodded, he went to the shelves where he stored bread and dried venison. He filled a cup with cool water and brought it to her along with a plate of food before making his own. A simple meal, but they both ate it without complaint.

Finished, she asked, “Who is Maggie?”

He frowned, caught off guard by the question.

“Jamie asked if I was Maggie when he first caught sight of me.”

“Oh. Just a woman.”

“Your woman, Tiarnan?”

“I told y’. I do not have a woman.”

She caught her lip at that and gave him a look from beneath her lashes that made his entire body feel suddenly tight and hot.

“Y’ should sleep now,” he said, standing quickly and taking a few steps away. “We both should.”

Exhaustion sawed at his bones, yet he feared he would never manage to sleep with Shealy so close, when it felt as if every part of him was tuned to her every move.

She took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. I’m so tired.”

She slid between the furs on Liam’s bed, watching him as he banked the fire and then climbed into his own. In the silence, he heard the soft sound of her breath, thought he could smell the sweet perfume of her scent.

Her silence had the weight of piled stones upon his chest. Then softly, her voice husky with fatigue and fear and something else that he dared not identify, she said, “Thank you for saving me, Tiarnan. Thank you for protecting me.”

The gift of gratitude twisted inside him. She shouldn’t thank him. If she did in fact remain on Inis Brandubh, she would learn that soon enough, and Tiarnan knew it would kill him to watch the disappointing knowledge fill those mist-and-cloud eyes.

For a little while there was quiet, but he lay tense, aware of the woman so close. Aware of her fear, her need to feel safe. He could give that to her, but at what cost? He might have saved her today, but what about tomorrow or the next day or the next? He’d seen too many die to allow himself to care for this woman.

She shifted again in the rough bed of furs. From the corner of his eye, he saw her sit up and turn to peer at him through the dark.

He braced himself not to stir or show any sign of wakefulness, but he waited, knowing what she would do. Feeling the pull of her need. Feeling the desire to give her what she wanted pulsing with his own heart.

Her movements were tentative, her breaths short and soft. She climbed from Liam’s bed and hesitated at the side of his for just a moment. Then she pulled back his furs and slid her soft, feminine body next to his. He couldn’t have stopped the groan in his throat if his life had depended on it.

It had been so, so long . . .

She settled next to him, and resigned to his torment, he pulled her into the bend of his body, molding her curves into his angles, her back snug to his chest as he sheltered her with his strong arms. She fit like she’d been made for him, and his hands gentled over her, caressing as they crossed her chest and held her. She smelled sweet and
good
, her beguiling female scent light and enthralling. All of it wrapped around him and made him feel something he hadn’t for so many years.

Vital. Needed. Strong.

The tension in her vibrated against him, and he knew she felt the weight of his arousal pressing at her back. He willed her to fall asleep, to leave him alone in this purgatory of emotion.

But he prayed she would not.

T
HE heat of Tiarnan’s body blazed down Shealy’s back, silken and hot through the thin fabric of her dress. He was aroused. She felt the weight and pressure of his erection against her, knew instinctively that he held on to his self-control by a very thin thread.

They’d both almost died last night . . . or today . . . or last year, if Tiarnan could be believed—and she thought he could. On a very visceral level, she sensed that Tiarnan was a man of truth and honor. If he said the sky was yellow, then yellow it would be. But right now, he wasn’t saying anything. His breathing was strained, coming in short, hot bursts against her ear. The muscles in his arms bunched tight, but his hands were gentle where they held her, almost apologetic as they stroked.

Shealy didn’t let herself dwell on anything that tried to crowd into her overloaded brain. At that moment, she needed to
feel
. She needed to know that however terrifying this place was, she, at least, was real.

Before she could change her mind, she turned in his arms, feeling him resist for just an instant as he tried to hold her still. Then she pressed against him, her dress twisted at her hips, her face level with his. For a long moment they stared at one another, searching the shadows that concealed their expressions, each seeking mercy, absolution perhaps.

He spoke with a deep murmur. “I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” she said against his mouth.

She caught a glimpse of pain in his golden brown eyes and for a panicked moment she thought he might reject her and pressed closer, letting him feel her body.

“Don’t think, Tiarnan.”

She ran her hands up his bare chest, reveling in the feel of him. He was hard, slabbed muscle beneath hot, silken skin. Every inch of him, strong and hewn. Her fingers slid up the column of his throat then back to tangle in his dark brown hair, twisting in it to bring his lips closer to hers. He made a sound in his throat that lit a fire deep inside her and then he pulled her tight against him with a groan, and that, too, fanned the inferno, as if her having him against his will made the forbidden moment that much sweeter.

His reluctance didn’t extend to his body though, and he rolled, pulling her beneath the satisfying weight of him, crushing her in a way that screamed sex through every nerve ending. One massive thigh slid between her legs, and she arched up, rubbing against it, thrilling in the friction. He brushed his lips against hers, the kiss soft, and she opened to him, letting him know he was welcome wherever he might want to venture. The feel of his tongue, so hot and velvet, so foreign and somehow exotic in her mouth, made her moan and her fingers clench in his hair.

She kicked back the furs as her temperature spiked and she shivered at the quick breath of cold before his hands began to roam over her body, thumbs brushing against her nipples, dipping down her ribs to close over her hips, pulling her up and into the hard thrust of his pelvis. He caught the hem of her dress and yanked it up with an impatience that thrilled her. The zipper at her back thwarted his efforts, and she sat, turning so he could pull it down. For a moment he seemed distracted by the simple thing but then the two halves of her dress opened and he pushed them off her shoulders and bared her back to his hot mouth. When she turned again and he caught sight of her lacy bra, his mouth opened and his eyes glazed in a way that made her feel powerful, beautiful.

Then she was naked, beneath him once more, and the realization cut through the heat like a sharp blade, adding a new dimension to the blind groping, the desperate clinging. Tiarnan propped himself on his elbows, looking down the length of her body, gaze hot on her breasts, hungry on the rippled stretch of her ribs as they heaved with each heavy breath she sucked in.

She felt the stroking glance like a caress as it moved down to the place where their bodies pressed together. He stared at that point of flesh upon flesh and then his gaze moved to her face again. In those whiskey depths she saw something that spoke of wonder . . . and he smiled. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips parted to show white teeth, slightly crooked in a way that made that smile all the more sexy.

Shealy felt to her soul that she saw something rare, something as intimate as the touch of his hands on the softness of her breasts. That smile was a crack in his armor, a gift of his pleasure, and she answered it with a smile of her own, dragging her fingertips down the hard planes of his chest, over the rigid lines of his abdomen to that soft and vulnerable place just beneath his belly button. He had to lift his hips so she could tug at the laces that held his pants shut and he sucked in to give her access, never looking away from her face, never even glancing at the scars that marred the right side, the sickle-shaped wound on her throat, or the misshapen shell of her ear. It was as if he didn’t see them . . . or more importantly, as if they were too inconsequential to matter.

Her fingers slipped under the loosened waist and she pushed his pants over his hips, feeling him sway from one side to the other so she could maneuver them past the hard arousal that sprang free and rested, velvety and heavy, on her stomach. The feel of it there, the knowledge of its purpose, of her own intent—all of it gathered like a hot, molten pool deep inside her body.

At last she closed her eyes, arching against him as she shut out that carnal male spark in his gaze. His mouth covered hers in a kiss that no longer felt gentle, no longer giving. It demanded, it took, and it punished in a way that Shealy craved. He didn’t hurt her—it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about dominance or pain. It was about forgetting every single thing but the texture, taste, and friction of their mouths as they moved against one another. They used teeth and tongues and lips to narrow the moment into just this, only this. The need to relinquish control and simply
feel
governed them both. His rough and scarred palms rasped against her throat, her breasts, squeezing, stroking, waking every erogenous zone she had.