Redeemed (Heroes of the Highlands) (The MacKays #2) (10 page)

She trembled and turned her head away from him. “
Yes
.”

“Then ye are ready.”

She wanted to deny it. But she didn’t. She wanted to run from it. But she couldn’t. Her body had taken complete control of her mind and the whole of it seemed to be ruled by her sex. And her sex seemed to want to be ruled…

By
him.

She unhooked the rest of her robes, until they were splayed open beneath her, baring her entire body. Her teeth were clenched, her limbs trembling. Unbidden memories and fears seemed to want to worm their way into the darkness behind her eyelids so she opened them and focused on the stone as her face still turned away from him.

“Find that moisture, Kylah, and there ye’ll find yer pleasure.”

Slowly, the fingers that rested on the quivering muscles of her belly crept lower and lower still. Through downy curls protecting that most secret part of her, and dipping into her soft, warm sex.

A sharp gasp seemed to escape them both at the same time and mingled with the gentle lapping of the grotto onto the smooth stone.

She was soft and delicately fleshy. Slick and warm and… wanting. Kylah’s hips arched and her thighs parted slightly of their own accord.

“Daroch?” she turned her face toward him as her finger brushed against something so intense, her eyes flew wide and their hot gazes collided with all the force of a physical touch.

“I’m here, lass.”

“Cover my hand,” she begged.

He did. The pressure such that his hand settled into hers. Overtook it. And yet, touched it not at all.

“I can… almost…” He caught his lip in his teeth, his eyes boring down at her, more needs and shadows in their depths than she could ever attempt to count.

She nodded, her fingers seeking out the slick moisture once more, exploring it and the sensitive flesh beneath it.

“Find that place that makes you gasp each time you touch it,” he murmured. “Circle it, caress it…” He stopped, dropped his head and seemed to be trying to gather his will.

Kylah took his advice as best she could. Pleasure stabbed at her each time her fingers delicately danced over the small bud of sensation. She’d found it. She reveled in it. She pulsed with it, and each time she found it, the pleasure seemed to bloom wider and throb until in a long and singular moment, instinct seized her, and she no longer needed the Druid’s promptings to know what it was she sought.

A rhythm of sorts found her. A circular pressure that tightened every muscle in her thighs and curled her toes. Her breaths became irregular pants. Her eyelids fluttered open, and closed, and open again. Her head tossed from side to side. Seeking him, retreating, then finding him again.

Daroch was right there with her, hovering above her ear, saying dark, wicked things to her in a language long dead, belonging to a people long forgotten. Incantations of sin and sex and possession. The timbre of his voice prompted a perturbing perception to uncurl deep in her very core, to reach out from inside her and seize upon her being.

Pleasure and demand built and competed until wretched little cries ripped from her lips. Just when she felt as though her body could take no more. Like the Fates had pulled her thread too tightly and their tools hovered to snip it into pieces, a wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy crashed through her with indescribable force.

Her thighs clamped together and she was helpless to do aught but survive the blissful shocks jolting through her. She was dimly aware of the pulsing of her glow, the pitch of her cries. It was the pleasure Daroch had promised and more. It was experiment and atonement. Bliss and blasphemy. Sin and redemption. It was completion. The realization that no one could truly know themselves until they’d known themselves in such a way. Could never truly be a lover, until they’d thus loved.

But as her sense of self seemed to gather back from whence it had shattered, she felt as though something was missing. The kiss of cold spring air on her skin. The warmth of his breath hitting the flesh she bared to him. The satisfaction of something—mutual.

She peered up at Daroch’s intense, savagely handsome face and offered him a lazy smile. Everything seemed different in this moment. What once had been cold, black stone now felt close and cozy, much like a sanctuary. What had been a dark place where the very walls had mourned now was full of wicked secrets and echoes of delight. “Now you,” she murmured. “Don’t you need to find your own… pleasure?”

His jaw locked and he abruptly rolled away from her. “Nay.”

She sat up, clutching her robes in front of her. “Why not? I’ll be here with you. I want to learn what brings you satisfaction. I want to watch—”

“Doona say that!” he whirled on her, a wild spark of something cruel igniting in his eyes. “
Never
say that to me.”

Kylah blinked, disoriented by his abrupt change. “A-all right. Tell me why.”

“Why?” Daroch pinned her with his icy stare. “
Why?
” He began pacing like a caged animal, the strips of his tunic flaring about his powerful legs. “It’s perverse and repulsive, that’s
why
.” His lip curled and caused his tattoo to bunch into a demonic shape. “It’s unnatural, and—and debasing, beneath our
human
dignity.”

“But…” Kylah proceeded very carefully. “Isn’t it what you just did with me?”

For the first time since she’d laid eyes on him, his jaw went slack. He went perfectly still but for the breath lifting his chest. His unblinking eyes discomfited her, so she levitated to a standing position and tried to modestly rearrange her robes.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she nudged gently. The warmth of her release drained from her limbs like the water of a bath, leaving her cold and trembling and searching for cover.

He plunged both hands into his bound hair, gripping it in frustration. The movement did fascinating things to the muscles in his arms, but Kylah ignored them, focusing on the unraveling man before her.

She floated toward him, reaching out, “Daroch, I’m sorry if I said something to ruin—”

“Don’t.” He held up his hand, a mask of chilly courtesy settling over his features. “You did nothing. I—have a lot of work to do.”

Her head snapped back as though he’d slapped her. “Work?” She gaped at him.

“Aye,” he turned from her and strode toward the hidden crevice. “I’ve already wasted enough time tonight.”

Dumbfounded, Kylah stared at the stone wall he just disappeared into.
Wasted time?
Anger smothered a bloom of hurt and confusion. Why would he entice her to do something so intensely intimate and then cruelly abjure it?
Perverse? Repulsive?
She wrapped her arms around her middle.

A deafening crash sounded from his lair. Then another.

Kylah prepared to plunge through the stone and see just what the bloody hell he was doing. And, while she was at it, she would give him the tongue lashing of his life. How
dare
he provoke such a lovely, intimate moment and then go and—

His angry roar preceded the unmistakable shattering of glass. Then wood. After that, a clatter of steel kept her feet planted, as it were, right where she was.

“Oh Daroch.” A tear slipped down her cheek. She suddenly understood what had just happened. This had nothing to do with her. And everything to do with his obsessive quest vengeance.

Chapter Eleven

She’d found him again. Daroch had known it was just a matter of time before her now-blue light chased away his shadow. He sat on the point of Cape Wrath in the moonless darkness, contemplating the stars through a breathtaking display of northern lights.

He’d been thinking of her. The dramatic blues and greens curtaining the sky, dancing seductively with each other just out of reach of the human scope, conjured her specter to his thoughts. Not that she hadn’t been lurking there since the previous night.

Nay. He sighed. Since he’d heard her heart-rending scream in his cave, she hadn’t left him for a moment. Like a tune tripping through one’s mind uninvited, or a desire that drove every action, there Kylah was. Unattainable and ever-present. Glowing and chattering and filling the lonely darkness.

Or reminding him of it. Every time his body hardened, remembering the glorious beauty of her pleasure, the image of her stricken astonishment while she held her robes together pricked his conscience with a thousand tiny barbed needles.

She silently settled herself on his left side, and he winced. Most people, especially women, shrank from the peculiarity of his runic tattoos. But not his Banshee. She studied them. Sometimes overtly, her rapt curiosity painfully obvious on her lovely, expressive face.

He was too much of a coward to look at her now. He’d be able to read exactly what she was thinking. And he didn’t want to know.

He knew too much. Always had.

“They’re so beautiful,” she breathed, turning her face up to watch the lights bend and snap across the sky.

There was that word. Beauty.

Kylah scooted almost imperceptibly closer to him. “My father used to say that Biera, the Queen of Winter, was a selfish and power hungry goddess. He said that she causes the storms and sea gales in January and February because she wants to prolong her reign. In ancient times the Spirit of Spring went to Bel, the Summer God, and asked for his help. In turn Bel sent the lights in March as a warning to Biera that her reign is absolutely ended. But to balance this, he also sends them in October and November to tell her that she may begin winter early in the Highlands.”

Daroch shifted, still unable to look at her, but studied his hands which were now cast in a jewel blue. “Winter doesna start until December.”

“According to legend, Crom Dubh is the powerful, carnal god of harvest and death.” Kylah repeated her father’s story with the deftness and drama of any bard. “He emerges from his underworld domain early in August and angers Bel. They compete for power and for the favor of Danu, their mistress, and goddess of all creation. Bel calls in Beira as early as he dares, hoping that winter will overshadow the debauched revelry of the harvest and send the sensual Crom Dubh back to his lonely Underworld and away from Danu’s bed.”

“Yer father told ye all this when ye were four?” Daroch chanced an irate glance at her and instantly wished he hadn’t. All he could see was her fingers disappearing into her soft mouth. Then drifting lower, obeying his commands as though they were his own hands.

He cleared his throat, smothering a groan as his cock twitched and threatened to take over the situation.

She shrugged, “He was a bawdy blacksmith, or so my mother says in the rare moments she mentions him. And I believe it. I mean, she did spend nearly three of the six years of their marriage pregnant with us.” Her voice became wistful, but he could also hear a smile in it. “I asked her once if he’d ever been disappointed that none of us had been a boy. She told me that she’d asked him that very question not long before he died, because she was pregnant with Kamdyn and was worried it was another girl. Do you know what he told her?”

Daroch shook his head, surprised by how much he wanted to know.

“He said he hoped all their children were girls so she would let him keep trying for a boy.”

He couldn’t pull back the half-hearted sound of amusement that escaped his throat. Her father sounded like someone he would have liked to know. Someone who loved his family. Took pride in his work. Cultivated a reputation for fairness and strength. A man with a life. Who knew who he was and what he wanted and worked hard for it. A man like Daroch had strived to become once. Long ago.

“Do you pray to them, the ancient gods?” she asked.

He snorted. “Hardly.”

“Why not?” She gestured to the shimmering lights flaring ever brighter in the sky. “Bal is a vengeful god. His magic is right there, closer to the earth than any other time. It is said he also holds no love for the Fae. Perhaps he would help you as you’re a Druid and all.”

Daroch looked at her then. The earnest kindness in her steady gaze shamed him, which stirred his temper. She was supposed to be angry with him, dammit. She was supposed to be here to scream and rant at him as was a woman’s way when she had been so wrongly scorned.

“Because yer father’s gods and legends are all ignorant superstitions with no basis in reality,” he challenged her.

“Oh?” she lifted one eyebrow, but also quirked the corner of her lips. “Enlighten me.”

He planned to. As soon as he could form a memory or thought that didn’t pertain to her generous mouth.

“Ah.” His eyes dropped lower, to the breasts lifted higher by her arms crossed beneath them. If he studied them very hard, he could make out the darker shade of her small pink nipples. “Um.”

“The
lights
?” she reminded, her voice warm with amusement.

He wrenched his gaze toward the sky, seeking salvation there. “These lights are actually produced by incredibly powerful winds emitted by a flare from the sun.”

“Well that makes sense,” she agreed. “Bal is the God of the sun.”

“No, no” he gestured impatiently. “The sun has nothing to do with a deity. The Sun is merely a star, a very close star burning so hot and so big that we are pulled toward it in our planetary orbit.”

She gave him a silent, skeptical look.

He threw up his hands, running into his biggest annoyance of the modern century. “How is it possible that we Druids, and Anaxagoras and Copernicus were discovering this more than a
thousand
years ago and it’s still not—” He cut of his own digression with a tight sound, rubbing at his temples. “Regardless, let me explain the lights.” He drew in a deep, slow breath. “The Earth’s core is made of molten alloy. As our planet spins around the Sun, it creates magnetic fields that emanate outward and protects us from this dangerous solar wind. When the highly charged winds flare at their mightiest, they can sometimes make their way through this magnetic field and they encounter our oxygen and nitrogen and other atmospheric elements. Thus, that interaction manifests itself in the far northern and far southern points of our world, as those are key magnetic points of opposition.”