Taming the Barbarian (24 page)

“Aye, well, here’s the truth then, the gelding is a hapless nag with na more spirit than balls.”

“And maybe that’s what I want.”

He stared at her for a moment, but finally he shook his head. “Nay, lass. Ye want a mate whose strength matches yer own.”

“Do I?”

“Aye,” he said. ” ‘Tis just that ye dunna want his strength set against ye.”

“Do you think strength is determined simply by the muscle in your arm?” she asked. “For ‘tis not true. A man can be as strong as Hercules and still be weak. There is such a thing as character, you see. Such a thing as—” He laughed. “So ye think the cut of a man’s coat determines that character?” he growled. “More so than how far he can toss a…” She searched for the proper word, gesturing wildly.

“Whatever it is you foolish Scotsmen toss about.”

“Ye’ve na idea how to judge a man’s character.”

“Oh?” She was all but panting into his face.

“And pray tell, barbarian, how does one go about such a thing then?”

” ‘Tis what’s in his heart,” he said, and curled his hand into a fist. ” ‘Tis the strength of his will.”

“Lord Lessenton has a good heart.”

“Does he, lass?” he asked, and took a single stride forward so that he had to bend his neck to look down at her.

“Yes,” she breathed. “He loves me.”

Killian snorted and let his gaze skim down her delicate form. In the moonlight, her gown was all but translucent. “Any fool with eyes and half a mind would love ye, lass. But will he set ye ablaze?” He watched her eyes flare with emotion, watched her lips move. “Yes.”

“Me thinks ye lie,” he said and stepped forward again. She retreated, skittering sideways along the

Celt’s towering form. “You’re wrong.”

“Verra well then. Ye find him irresistible. But will he protect ye, lass? Will he stand beside ye when ye need a hand? Before ye when ye need a shield?”

A dozen images stormed through her mind—his firelit expression as he lifted her from the blazing stall and onto his charger. The rumble of his voice when he sent Kendrick fleeing. The tenderness in his hand when he touched her.

“Behind ye,” he said, “when ye need naught but adoration.”

She blinked, breathing hard, struggling for the strength that had abandoned her at the first sight of him. “Yes,” she said, but the single word was no more than a whisper.

“Then where is he now? Polishing his boots? Berating his tailor?”

“How would I know?”

“If ye were mine, I would na waste time on footwear and clothiers,” he vowed. “And ye surely would na be here with another, looking up at him as if…” He gritted his teeth against her nearness.

“As if what?”

“As if ye long to be touched.”

She huffed a laugh. “Is that what you think, barbarian? That you have some sort of allure that I can’t resist? Some sort of—”

But at that moment his control burst. He snatched her against his chest and kissed her. She pressed her hands against him, pushing hard, and though it took all his force of will to release her, he did so.

She stumbled back, her eyes bright in the darkness. Her breath came hard and fast. Her lips were parted, but suddenly she leapt toward him, and in an instant, she was crushed against him once again. Her fingers curled like talons in his tunic.

“Damn you!” she swore, and kissed him. Her fingers were fast and warm against his belly. His belt loosened, but he caught her hands in his. She moaned something, but he kissed her again, slowly this time, deeply.

He loosed her hands. They fell away, and he bent to lift her into his arms. She felt like heaven against his chest, like golden magic. Striding down the darkened path, he found a bed of moss where the fragile scents of teasel and poppy caressed the night air. Bending reverently, he laid her there. She reached up, but even as she did so she shook her head as if defying her own wishes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must n—” she began, but he kissed her again. She trembled against him, and he slipped his fingers down her ivory throat and onto her arm.

“Killian.” She breathed his name. “I’ve lost my mind. I’m sorry. I’m not a wanton. Truly. I don’t usually—”

Reaching down, he pulled his tunic over his head. He heard her soft hiss in the darkness as her gaze settled on him, then she reached out, tentatively touching his aching chest. Feelings licked him like living flames. He cocked his head back, reveling in her velvet touch.

Her fingers skimmed a scar. He moaned at the burning feelings, but her hand was still moving, bumping over his nipple.

He jerked beneath her touch, breathing hard, wanting desperately. She slipped her hand downward, rippling over the battle-hardened expanse of his belly. But he caught her fingers before he lost control and burst forth like a loosed trebuchet.

Her gaze met his in the darkness. “You are beautiful,” she breathed.

He breathed a laugh of sorts. “Lass, I fear—”

“Nothing,” she murmured. “I think you are as fearless as the ancient Celt himself.”

But he shook his head.

“Then tell me, Scotsman,” she said, and eased his belt loose. “What is it that frightens you?”

He could barely breathe. Could certainly not think. “I’m scairt ye’ll change yer course,” he admitted, skimming his knuckles along her arm, “and leave me here alone. Aching and desperate to feel ye around me,” he said, and let his plaid fall away.

Her eyes lowered and widened.

His cock blushed and danced against his belly. Reaching tentatively forward, she skimmed her fingers over its head.

“Please—” He caught her hand again and shivered like a weakling lad.

“What’s wrong?”

“Naught.” He shook his head. “Naught is wrong.” He tried to relax, to think, but there was little hope for either. “All is right. ‘Tis simply that…” He tried to draw an even breath. “It has been a long while for me.”

“As it has for me,” she said, and reached for him again, but he shook his head and drew her arms up over her head.

“I fear ye may not know the meaning of the words, lass,” he said, and, leaning down, kissed her lips. She moaned beneath the caress. He moved lower, kissing her jaw, her throat, the elegant sweep of her shoulder, then drew her gown lower, exposing more satiny flesh. She shivered, and he eased reverently against her, warming her with his burning heat. Their lips met again. He reached for the hem of her gown and she bent her knees, then lifted her hips to assist him.

In a moment she was naked. The moonlight gilded her like a golden halo, shining on her glorious skin, gleaming on her tumbled hair.

Reaching out reverently, he smoothed his palm over her breast. She tilted her head back. Moonlight licked her throat. He slipped his fingers over her nipple and watched her shiver in response. His body quaked in unison. He parted his fingers, letting her nipple peak between them, and there was nothing he could do but kiss it.

She bucked against him. He lapped his tongue across her and heard her hiss of need, then drew her gently into his mouth.

Her gasp of pleasure trilled through him like fine wine. She arched against him, and now there was nothing he could do but lay himself against her, to reach around her luscious body and grasp her buttocks in his hand.

Cocking against her, he eased inside.

They hissed in unison. But age-old memories burned him like a living flame.

He froze, remembering the endless darkness of betrayal. But in that moment she pressed against him with a low moan of desire. He quivered on the edge of control.

“Killian.” His name was a raspy entreaty. Her succulent lips parted, and ‘twas that entreaty that pushed him past the edge of caution. He jerked into her. She gasped and froze.

Too hard. Too…

He gritted his teeth against the aching desire and pulled out, but her eyes were wide as if she were horrified.

“No. Please,” she rasped.

He rolled to his side and though he told himself to withdraw, to save himself, he pulled her atop him.

She straddled him, her thighs strong and slim, her bottom wet and warm. And it was easy, so damned easy to slip inside.

She jerked her head back, hissing as she did so, and he froze. ‘Twas she who moved first. She who rocked against him. He gritted his teeth against his aching impatience and tried to go slowly, but she was building the tempo, riding him astride, pressing around him.

She gripped his biceps and he clasped her thighs. Her head was thrown back, and her hair, a wild tangle of golden curls, flowed like spun gold across her outthrust breasts, just revealing the pebbled nubs of her rosy nipples.

He growled as he drove in harder, and she snarled back, arching into him, driving ferociously, reaching ravenously.

They exploded together, reaching the pinnacle with a groan and a hiss.

She fell against his heaving chest. Her hair felt like satin against his bare skin. Her fingers curled loosely against his biceps. His muscles twitched, battle-weary, sated.

Reaching weakly to the side, he pulled her night rail over her body, protecting her from the mists. She slipped to the side, one gloriously long leg thrown over his, one arm soft and limp against his chest.

And it was there, in the shadow of the Black Celt, that she fell into dreamless sleep.

F
leurette awoke with a long, heavy sigh. For the first time in some nights, no nightmares had assailed her. Indeed, she felt rested and strangely content. She smiled and stretched, then froze.

Jerking upright, she tried to separate fact from fantasy, but sharp memories were already crowding in. Memories of bulging muscles, of whispered words, and…

“Dear God.” Her heart hammered like a gong in her chest. “Dear God,” she hissed again, but one glance around assured her she was in her own chamber, in her own bed. Her night rail felt warm and soft against her legs. The laces were tied neatly at her throat. Indeed, nothing was out of place. All was well. It was just a dream. Just…

But reality would not be denied. There was no forgetting the raging passion, the soaring emotions, the muscles, hard and straining against her.

She closed her eyes to the thought. Damn it all. She’d cuckolded her betrothed. She’d broken her vow to Stanford even before it was spoken, she thought, and buried her face in her hands.

She had no idea how she had arrived in her own bedroom. In fact, she shuddered to think. Had Killian brought her there? Had he carried her up the stairs? Had he still been naked?

The idea stirred something hot and liquid deep inside her. Good God, he was built like a god, like an ancient statue, as hard as stone, as alluring as the very Celt that graced her garden. Like a—

Leaping out of bed, she paced wildly.

She’d lost her mind. That was it.

After all, she was engaged to be married. Engaged! She covered her mouth with a trembling hand and stared at nothing.

There was only one thing to do, only one possibility; she would go to Stanford. She would tell him everything. After all, it wasn’t as if he had been completely pure since his wife’s death. Perhaps he would understand. Perhaps he would forgive. And if he did, then she would know he was the man she had always thought him to be, the man whom she should marry.

She drew her hand slowly away from her face and drew a deep, even breath.

Yes, that was what she must do, and there was no time like the present.

“My lady.” Stanford entered his parlor. He wore no jacket, but his stock was perfectly tied, his hands tender when he lifted hers and kissed her cheek. “My dear, I had hoped to see you, thus I stopped by your place of business, but you were not there.”

Fleurette felt pale and weak. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course not. I can meet with my tailor anytime.”

Killian’s words about footwear and tailors came storming back to her. She pushed them irritably aside. “Commissioning a new coat?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I wish it were so simple. ‘Tis a garment I had sewn weeks ago. At some expense, I might add. But the cut was not quite right.”

She almost winced.

“But I doubt you’ve come all this way to talk about my wardrobe, fascinating as it is.” He gave her a smile, then sobered handsomely. “Is something amiss, Fleurette?”

“No. I… No,” she repeated, then cleared her throat.

An unknown housemaid entered the room, bearing a platter of biscuits and a silver tea set. And though she was gone in a minute, Fleur fidgeted and glanced toward the hall.

“Would you mind if we walked for a bit in the garden?” she asked. Uncertainty gnawed at her like a hungry hound, but the guilt was just as ravenous, and she would not let it consume her. Not when the truth could make her free.

Stanford glanced outside. The clouds were gray and heavy with rain, but he acquiesced easily. “Of course not, my love. Let me fetch a jacket.”

He was back in a moment, the garment firmly buttoned in place.

His gardens smelled of lavender and violets.

They walked side by side for a spell, both quiet. Stanford clasped his hands behind his back. He looked thoughtful and sober in profile, but he turned to her finally.

“Have you come about our engagement?” he asked.

She felt sick to her stomach, weak and foolish. “No. I mean, well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”

He was silent a moment, then, “If you’ve changed your mind, you needn’t worry, Fleurette. You can tell me.”

“No. It’s not that…‘Tis simply…” She stopped to face him, then wrung her hands and forced herself to meet his eyes. “You’re such a good man, Stanford. In fact, I fear you may be far too good for me.”

He smiled. “I’ve not known you to drink to excess before, my dear.”

“I mean it, Stanford. I don’t deserve you.”

His smile turned wistful. “My dearest Fleurette,” he said, and gently took her hand in his. “Could it be that you do not yet comprehend the depths of my feelings for you?”

“I know—”

“I don’t think you do,” he said. “For there is nothing you could say that would make me change my mind about our impending union.”

She swallowed and closed her eyes against the gnawing guilt. “I believe you are wrong,” she whispered.