Irish Moon (11 page)

The broth traced a path of warmth down his
gullet into his raw stomach. He prayed to keep it down and thanked
God for sending him an angel of mercy in his darkest hour yet.
Ashlon closed his eyes and repeated words of thanks until he
noticed that the drink was working.

When he opened his eyes he found her sitting
before him, apprehension showed on her delicate features. Bow
shaped lips pressed together. Wide but dainty eyebrows furrowed
together making a crease in between them.

“Are you feeling the effects then?” she asked
him.

Ashlon could only nod. He opened his mouth to
speak but she shoved a chunk of bread into it before he formed the
words. His mouth salivated painfully upon tasting the soft morsel
and he slowly chewed it and swallowed. Her eyes appeared a dark
brown but he suspected they were much lighter than the dimness
appreciated. The color of honey. Honey, sweet and golden.

A strange buzzing feeling formed in him. A
reaction to her beauty or a result of the broth, he didn’t care.
The sensation was miles away from the retched misery she’d saved
him from. She continued to feed him and he continued to stare.

Her hair was a coppery tinged blonde and the
strands that escaped her braid curled into little ringlets. The tip
of her braid rested and swathed her hip. His gaze traced the
outline of her hip delineated by shadow and light. Ashlon reached
out a hand to touch it with his index finger but his hand fell away
weakly before hitting target.

Breanne looked down wondering what he’d been
attempting, what fascinated him so. Finding no more than the drape
of clothing, she dismissed it as the pleasant haze of her
concoction.

“More,” she said firmly. Obediently, he
opened his mouth for her. Breanne stifled a laugh at how readily he
obeyed. The lazy smile on his face made her belly flip over. When
his eyes locked with hers, it flipped again.

“I don’t know what you were thinking, leaving
the cave as you did. You may not realize, but your life is in
danger and you canno’ be moving about as all that,” she said,
placing another piece of meat between his lips. The color returned
to them and she wished it had not. She couldn’t seem to take her
eyes off of his lips.

“Apologies,” he said, a mumble. A crumb of
food spit forth when he spoke.

Breanne stifled a laugh. He was better than
drunk and wouldn’t be wandering again for a few good hours now. She
touched his forehead to ascertain his ill health. Feeling cool skin
under her palm, Breanne nodded pertly and set about making a
fire.

“Who are you?” the man asked, sounding so
inspired that she returned to his side and touched his cheek.

“Shhh. Rest now. You have a long journey
ahead of you.” Then she bent forward and kissed his forehead,
giving in to an urge to feel how soft his skin was. Part of her
knew she shouldn’t be so intimate, tender. It took advantage of his
vulnerability and compromised trust. A healer walked the fine line
of trust with any charge.

But, she didn’t regret it when her lips
pressed his skin, warm, moist with sweat. His hand covered hers on
his cheek and then touched her cheek. His fingers trembled. Breanne
inched back and lowered her gaze to his. What she saw there
startled her. Never before had she seen such intensity, such heat
in another’s eyes.

Breanne leaned her cheek into his palm and
searched his eyes. His hot gaze trapped her, spellbound and unable
to retreat or progress. She needed to do neither, as he did for
her.

His hand slid back and into her hair. She
covered his hand with hers, her touch intrigued by the change from
stubble to smooth texture. He pulled her gently. His lips caressed
hers, a whisper of touch, and his eyes closed. Breanne’s closed as
well and the feel of his lips on hers magnified. A dizzying hunger
for more took root in Breanne and she pressed her lips onto his,
opening her mouth. The hunger grew, spreading through her limbs,
down her belly, between her thighs.

A shockwave tingled there when his tongue met
hers, soft and warm. He tasted sweet. His lips on hers were so firm
but pliant. She gripped his hand and leaned in for more. His tongue
swept into her mouth, jolting her with pleasure.

She reveled in this new experience and grew
bold. All thought beyond the feel of it, of him, escaped her. She
matched his sweep with her own, suckling his lower lip, letting her
teeth drag against it, savoring the plump feel.

The tingle warmed, changed, into an ache
unlike any she'd ever known. It made her heart beat harder, her
breathing feel desperate. She needed something more, craved a
satisfaction she could not name but sensed it there in his lips
pressing hers, his tongue twining and tormenting her mouth.

His hand stroked her jaw and explored lower,
brushing her throat, tickling her collarbone and all the while
taking Breanne's hand with it. She couldn't let go and as it drew
farther and farther down, a strange, wonderful beating of
anticipation built in her.

Ashlon groaned from deep in his belly as an
all-consuming want drowned what little rationale the concoction
left him with. Somewhere he knew no good could come of it but he
couldn’t seem to stop. His body awoke, his attraction hardening
with powerful swiftness. He fought the urge to allow his hands
exploration of her breasts, close as they may be, sensing she might
not be aware of how well her kisses and soft panting undid him. Yet
he did not stop either. She felt so good, so lush and vibrant
until, like a slap to the face with icy water, she broke away.

He opened his eyes and saw shock and fear and
confusion take turns expressing in her eyes. Her parted lips
glistened, were red, from their kiss. Damn his body but it wanted
more. He wanted to return his mouth to her, to taste her more
deeply, to touch the flesh.... He felt a catch in his chest as she
withdrew another inch.

He reached for her, an entreaty. But she
jerked back. Ashlon dropped his head back and rolled his eyes
heavenward. What had he done? He was no scoundrel, but the kiss
proved such a vigorous endeavor it left him no strength to move
after her. She retreated and stood.

“Apologies,” he mumbled again and bore his
eyes into hers. “Won’t happen ‘gain.” Ashlon closed his eyes and
his last remarkable thought was that he’d just offended an angel.
Then he succumbed to sleep.

Breanne exhaled loudly. He slept. She
couldn’t keep drugging him so, or he’d never be awake long enough
to give her answers let alone be on his way from here.

She ran a hand over her brow and sat in the
nearest rickety chair. He’d kissed her. Or had she kissed him?
Both, she decided. And what a kiss it was. Sweet St. Bridget that
experience placed her only other kiss in stark relief. The
difference amazed her. This man’s lips were like a charm, spinning
into her body, caressing depths she didn’t know existed.

Compared to it, Quinlan’s kiss became sloppy,
rigid, and forced. How could a stranger’s mouth, one he was barely
aware of due to the herbs’ effects, feel so natural and yet surreal
all at once? So startling and magickal?

She didn’t have an answer and didn’t soon
want one. Any man having such an effect over her was dangerous.
With a touch he’d make her witless and vulnerable to his very whim.
She didn’t trust it, or him.

The remainder of the week was all she’d give
him. If he wasn’t well and off within this very week, she’d be
forced to give him over to Niall. She’d have protected him well
enough, as Heremon’s sight had seen her to, and she refused to feel
guilty. He was not her responsibility after all. Heremon was. Once
he gave clarification, assuming he saw nothing and caused nothing,
regained good health, what was left to protect?

Breanne opened the closet door, apparently
unfound by Niall’s men, and dragged the man into it. She couldn’t
manage getting him onto the table, so moved the long narrow piece
to the far wall. His belongings sat in a pile, undisturbed since
the last she spied them.

Jutting rectangular emeralds on his sword’s
hilt glowed in the candlelight. Breanne touched her fingertip to
one. It was a finely wrought weapon. It’s seams were flawless, the
design equally strong and elegant. Unusual to place the emeralds in
such a way, as though they stood rather than lay on the
metalwork.

The man’s breathing became a snore. Breanne
chuckled, watching him. In sleep, his face showed an innocence that
reminded her of Danny, young and impetuous. But, she couldn’t
recall a trace of innocence in his awaked countenance. Signs of the
boy in the man, she supposed and brushed a wavy lock off his
forehead.

“What have you done here?” she asked him but
wasn’t sure which one of them she referred to.

She left the sack of food, the skin, blankets
retrieved from the cave, and closed the door. Before leaving, she
wrote him a brief note and slipped it under the disguised door.

Four more days and she could return her
attention to the normalcies of life. Spinning, learning, husband
hunting. Breanne sighed but it didn’t help alleviate the new
heaviness in her heart. She looked back at the stone cottage and
walked away.

Chapter Seven

“Please, Breanne, be seated,” Niall said when
she knocked on the open door. He closed the door and took the chair
across from her, the one her mother had mutely sat in only three
days ago.

“May I ask the reason for this summons, my
lord?” she asked, coming straight to the heart of her worry.

“With Heremon’s death and burial, my time has
been consumed.”

“As has all of ours, my lord,” she said,
trying to sound understanding, docile, but needing to move from
chitchat.

He placed a hand up, stopping her from
further interruption. “I intended to speak with you sooner.
Regardless, we have much to discuss and I ask that you hold your
tongue until I finish,” he said in a scolding tone.

Breanne lowered her gaze but her chin raised
a notch. She doubted she wanted to hear anything else from this
man. In mere days, he’d turned her world inside out with his
demands. First, forcing her to choose a husband, then protracting a
solemn swear of secrecy. Now what?

“It should first be known by you that Shane
MacSweeney proclaimed intention of pursuing your hand in marriage.
When Ula and I spoke with you previously, I failed to mention his
name and I only do so now so that you may appreciate the
seriousness of which I called you here for.” His large belly forced
his thighs to sit wide and bulged when he leaned forward.

Breanne frowned. She didn’t comprehend what
the man was attempting to tell her, but she kept silent, as he
wished. Prodding his temper would make her request all the more
difficult to ask.

“MacSweeney met with me this morning and
begged off.” Niall paused and pierced her with a severe look of
disapproval.

“My lord, I—“

His hand shot up again, quieting her. “Better
that he did. A fine gallowglass he may be but a fine husband, I
can’t imagine. As to his sudden change of mind, I asked, concerned
for your future, our departed friend’s past, and mild curiosity,
too, I propose.”

Please, come to the point
of this diatribe.
Breanne bit her lips and
counted for patience. The knots in her belly tightened.

“An’ he did so mighty fast, I’ll say. Not
five days ago, he asked for you with stars in his eyes, eagerness
in his words. And just this morn, a gruff and muttered inquiry as
to yourself and then simply retracted the aforementioned
intention.” Niall shook his head and stroked his full beard. “So I
put the question to him, to have the answers. You’ve not much time
after all, to be choosing and of all things, he can’t answer me.”
He swept his hand out in front of her like displaying the words
before her.

Breanne tilted her head, confused and biting
back interruptions. She crossed her legs and shook her foot
rhythmically to the count in her head.

Niall stood, leaving a deep impression behind
in the red velvet cushion. Breanne wanted to stand, as well, to
pace as he did. But, she couldn’t. She sat, foot-shaking, lip
biting for an eternity while Niall meandered through to reach his
conclusion.

“He does not speak a word to me. He offers no
explanation nor apology. Had you not agreed already to choosing
five weeks hence, had I informed you of his intentions, I’d have
held him to them. But as I’ve said, I don’t.” He paused to estimate
her with his gaze. Then with a florid gesture and bow he produced a
dagger in his palm.

Breanne recognized the weapon instantly. “My
dagger. Where did you find it?” She reached for it, happy to have
it returned.

Niall snatched it away. “I’ll be doing the
asking, Miss O’Donnell.” His voice held such menace. He’d never
regarded her so before. Always, since the day she and Ula walked
into his home as wards, he’d called her Breanne.

Breanne’s brain began to scramble for
answers. Shane MacSweeney brought him the dagger? Where had he
found it? How? More of import, why would locating it end his desire
to wed her? She swallowed hard against her throat’s hard
beating.

“You’ve left out important information
surrounding your lucky discovery of Heremon. I’ll have it now.”

“My lord, I canno’ give what I do not have. I
am perplexed and feel as though I did not hear you correctly.” Her
voice lilted up. “I left that very blade on the ground quite a good
distance south of Heremon’s home. I last saw it there, hours before
I found him in peril.” The small part of her relieved at Shane’s
decision now felt betrayed, as though the man had set her up to
take some fall.

Had he been following her that day? How else
could he have found her blade? Niall watched her fixedly. Breanne
squirmed inside but met his gaze steadily.