Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (38 page)

"I have found him." Her eyes were dark and limpid in the shadows. "But he does not want me. Or us."

"He does," he growled. She was a lodestone, and he was iron, and he could not, for all his strength of will, keep from kissing her. He pulled her to him, his mouth over hers.

She slid her arms around his waist and pressed herself against him, curves cushioning the hard contours of his body. The feel of her was warm and sensual even through layers of wool and serge. Her lips were pliant and giving beneath his, her hands soothing on his back. He felt himself sinking, spinning.

He slipped his hands into her hair, and the thick braid loosened its hold, spilling in a wild mass. He took a handful to pull her head back gently, ending the kiss to look at her.

"For all my pride," he whispered, "for all my ambition, I have never wanted any dream as much as I want you."

She moaned, the sound deep. He took her mouth again, and felt her falter where she stood. Circling his hands around her slim waist, he lifted her to sit on the edge of the sandstone slab. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her knees to his waist. He sought her mouth again, stirring a thirst that only grew greater and demanded to be slaked.

His blood simmered in his veins, his body throbbed. With his lips and hands, he explored her, cajoled her, while she bent and moaned like a willow in the wind. She was strength and grace and passion come to life, and she was finer to touch than any woman he had ever held.

He should cease, he thought; this would only lead them into a further entanglement, a plaiting of love and pride that would never come undone. But he could not cease, savoring her lushness and her bright spirit and wanting more. He wondered how he could ever leave her, wondered how he could exist without her.

When she twined her arms around him and her hair tumbled around her like a cloud, he surrendered the will of his pride to the wisdom of his heart. Just for now, he thought; just this, and no more. Yet each touch, each kiss brought more delight, another step deeper into a garden that fascinated him, lured him, nurtured and soothed him.

Smoothing his hands over the curves of her body, he drank from her lips as if she were a fountain of all that he needed to sustain him. The pulsing desire within him grew so urgent that he could not think past it, so strong that it buckled his own knees even as he stood and lent her his strength to lean upon.

More of his resolve was lost to her seeking lips, her touch strong and soothing on his shoulders. Though her gown was bunched between them, she drew him closer, pressing her leg to his, as she sat and he stood before her. He skimmed his hands along her back, feeling the fine-boned planes, the deep curve of her waist. He shaped her breasts, his fingers forming a delicate cage.

She gasped softly into his mouth and twisted in his arms as he trailed his fingers over the firmly pearled nipples thrusting beneath the wool of her gown. He caressed there, and her mouth met his, her hands fervent on his back, on his waist.

The slightest touch, the whisper of her breath, drew him deeper into the eddy of sensation, suspending thought. He glided his lips over hers, over her jaw, her throat, the ridges of her breastbone. His fingers sought the neckline of her gown, found the placket, the loose chemise beneath, and slipped inside.

He dipped his head to kiss the upper mound of a breast, feeling the heat reflected within the fabric, sensing the beat of her heart. Her breast filled his hand, and her nipple tightened as he shaped and swept it. She leaned back against the upper incline of the slab. He braced a knee beside her, there, and within the space of kiss, a caress, he lay beside her.

A turn of her head made a sweet arc of her throat. He trailed his lips over the curve, his heart pounding. He wondered what sort of fool he was to pursue this temptation, what sort of fool he was to lead her with him.

The tip of his tongue opened her lips, and the motion of his hands over her body seemed to open her, shift her more fully toward him. She was willing, warm, languid. He groaned silently as her lips traced along his jaw and found the lobe of his ear, sucking lightly. As his body grew hotter, harder, he cupped her hips and pulled her toward him, the draped cloth separating them.

With one hand he rucked the generous folds of the woolen gown and lighter chemise higher until he felt the warm silk of her lifted leg. He traced his fingers along her bare thigh, slipping deeper under her clothing to caress her taut abdomen, where her breath quickened.

Her hands trailed over him, tender and persuasive, the rhythm of her breath as urgent as his own. Strong, deliberate, quick, her hands plucked at his surcoat and the tunic beneath and pulled them higher, found the gathered waist of his
braies
and drew it down. When her fingers slid over the flat, warm plane of his lower belly, his heart bounded and flesh and spirit leaped.

He angled away from her touch, wanting to savor her, his mouth over hers, swirling his tongue within. Gliding his hand lower, he found the silken tuft and the cleft below, warm and damp. He slipped a gentle finger inside, and she sucked in a breath and tilted toward him, a moan low in her throat.

Stroking, caressing, he coaxed her with his fingers. Her body moved like waves from ocean to shore. She tensed and cried out, a small, tender sound that spun through his own aching body. He closed his eyes against a rush of ecstasy and anguish, took her in his arms, and held her.

He wanted her fiercely. His body strained, fevered and swollen, for release. Every element of his blood and flesh urged him to ease himself in her. But as he hesitated, he felt a pull, as if the strands of his soul grew taut.

She might have felt it too, for she groaned in protest as he paused, and tucked her head into the lee of his shoulder. He dipped to kiss the silken skin of her neck, his breath ragged.

"I promised courtesy," he murmured. It seemed ages ago, that promise, and he regretted it, yet it had been made.

"I do not want your courtesy," she breathed. "I want you." She turned to kiss his mouth, open and deep, wringing a low groan from him. He dragged his lips from hers.

"If we continue," he said, "we fix the vows forever."

"It can be undone if you need it." She kissed him. "It can be undone, by our custom."

He was not so sure; the custom was hers, not his own.

Her hand came up to cup his face. "It is the eve of Christmas. Listen to your heart. We will find a way. We want this, you and I. We need this." She drew his head down toward hers to kiss him again. He groaned deep.

"Alainna—"

"What you feel, I feel." Her voice was low, soft, but he sensed the fire in it. "What you want—truly want, in your heart—I want. We are alike, we. I know that now."

He knew it, too, and could not have said why, but he surrendered to the truth the instant that she whispered it. She touched her mouth to his, and pressed her body against his, her hands pulling at his clothing, while he drew fabric away from her. The first full touch of his bare flesh to hers, warm and silken, was like a close flame. He sighed deeply, and went onward.

Thought left him, reason left him, and blood and breath took him over; he could not have stopped now. Not now, as he delved his tongue into her mouth, as he slipped his fingers over her legs and into the willing space that opened for him. He caressed her honeyed warmth again, and felt her languid moan in his mouth.

He lowered his head to kiss her breasts, warm and damp with sweat, carrying the fragrance of heather and lavender and woman, a scent that took him deeper. Cradling her hips in his hands, he drew her close. The soft plaids beneath them slid over cold stone as she moved, as she took him in her hand and guided.

In silent accord, he pressed forward and she opened, and he felt himself tremble at the cleft and sink inward, cautiously, firm and waiting for the catch of her breath, for the pain he did not want to cause her.

That passed quickly, and weaving his breath with hers, he felt a tremor run through her, felt a force stream through him. The current took him faster, harder, deeper into the whirlpool than he had ever gone, toward an exquisite fire of the spirit. He knew the spark passed through her, and then faded, and he sank into her, and felt her sink with him.

He lay wrapped in silence with her, aware that more than lust had swept him away.
Dear God,
he thought, as new clarity came into his mind. He loved her.

The realization took the breath from him.

He held her for so long, silent and rocking, thinking, that he was not aware at first that she had drifted into sleep. He smiled ruefully into her hair, knowing how exhausted she had been before the handfasting had even begun.

He slipped away from her and stepped back into the shadows. Stone crunched quietly beneath his boots as he took up the plaid he had worn for a cloak and went to the door. The wind was high and whipping, and he could still hear the strains of music and laughter from the tower in the bailey. Golden light leaked around the door frame and the small, square window. He turned and began to walk the perimeter of the yard.

A thick branch lay in his path, lost from one of the pine boughs that had been carried to the hall. He picked it up as he went, using it first as a walking stick. Then he swiped it at the wind. He turned, stopped, and whipped it again.

He stripped off the thinner branches, releasing the piney tang from the wood. Setting his feet square in the yard, he balanced his weight from one foot to the other. Holding it with two hands, like the claymore that he had recently included in his practices, he cut through the air with the stout branch, sheered into the wind, turned, lunged, whirled.

And then he flung the stick high and far, watched it sail out over the palisade wall. He stood, heart beating, like a pillar while the wind beat at him.

He had surrendered to his heart and his blood, had ignored reason and caution and ambition. Love had swept through his life, fast and powerful, from a direction he had never anticipated. And all of his goals would have to change.

He himself had changed. The knowledge of that spun him, staggered him. He was not sure what to do, how to proceed. He was not the man he had been, and he was not yet sure who he was.

He looked up at the sky, midnight deep and dusted with diamonds. The eve of Christmas had stirred a miracle, and he was not sure what to do with it.

He was not a man who welcomed change easily. He breathed out, hard and fast, a pale, frosted cloud, and looked at the workshop. A thin golden light edged the shuttered window. The candle was still burning. He walked forward and eased open the door.

She lay on the sandstone slab, curled like a child. He looked down at her while she slept, and brushed back her hair. Then he took off his plaid and folded it into a pillow, sliding it under her head.

She lay inside a carved framework of endless knots, the braiding that determined the path of the soul through life. The thread of his soul had been drawn into the weave of hers now. Only cutting, only the destruction of the chain, would free them from the design, if either wanted to be free of the other.

He circled to the other side of the slab and stretched out beside her on the cold, hard bed. He drew her plaid-bundled, softly breathing form into his arms, set his cheek upon her head, and let himself drift to sleep.

Chapter 24

Smoke and flames rose from the bonfire at the head of the loch, swirling into a gray column that obscured the pale sky. Sebastien stepped back, feeling the intense heat of the blaze despite the icy wind. He looked at those who stood in a ring around the fire, their bright faces smiling at one another, smiling at him.

Christmas Day had dawned silvery and cold. Father Padruig had left the fortress that morning, accompanied by several of the Highlanders and the knights, including Alainna and Sebastien, who had then attended Padruig's early Christmas Mass at the church of Saint Brighid. Those who had not walked the distance had ridden tough, surefooted garrons out over the hills, for the thin coating of snow had frozen overnight.

Upon their return, the clan members had set the bonfire, the branches and logs having been piled high the day before. Now they gathered around the huge, hot fire to sing traditional Gaelic songs and charms, and to burn the Yule log. Highland Yuletide customs were few and simple, Sebastien had learned; the holy day was celebrated on a more subdued note than he had seen in England and France, while the new year, he had been told, was welcomed with rousing good cheer.