Taming the Barbarian (29 page)

“Evil,” Killian said, his mind spurred back to old wounds, old nightmares. “The Master was evil, and thus he cast an evil curse. But now I wonder…” The spaniel bounded after a hare, and Fleurette bent to gather a bouquet of roses. Lifting them to her nose, she shaded her eyes with the edge of her hand and smiled up at his window. “Might not love be the stronger force?”

“What’s that?” O’Banyon asked.

Killian did his best to quell the rush of feelings in his chest, but there was no hope for it. Happiness rocked his very soul, overwhelmed him, undid him. He turned toward the Irishman with brusque nonchalance, as if his heart was not swelling within the tight confines of his chest. “Her touch is surely as strong a magic as any the Master could concoct.”

“Ye think ‘twas she what woke ye from the blackness?”

“I felt her presence when all was darkness,” Killian said. “I felt her force like the sun upon me face.”

“God’s breath!” O’Banyon said, and sadly shook his head. “I did na think I would live to see the day when the Celt spouted poetry like a milk-fed farm boy.”

Killian scowled, but his gaze was once again drawn to the lass in the garden. “We shall see how cavalier ye be when ye are touched by joy itself.”

O’Banyon snorted, but when he spoke he could not completely quell the edge of wistfulness in his tone. “I dunna think that path be for me, old man.”

The sadness was there again, hidden but visible beneath the Irishman’s golden veneer.

“Ye dunna know that for certain,” Killian said, turning regretfully from the window. “Indeed, there is much we cannot foresee.”

“Mayhap,” said the other, and shifted his gaze away. In the garden below, Fleurette was laughing with her maid, and when Killian turned to the Irishman, he saw that the other’s eyes glistened. “Well…” He rose abruptly to his feet and turned toward the door. “I shall leave ye to her coddling then.”

“O’Banyon,” Killian said.

The Irishman turned back.

“Mayhap there is more good in the world than ever we knew.”

A smile flickered across the Irishman’s face, but it was weary and old, as ancient as the earth itself. “Mayhap,” he said, and disappeared through the doorway.

Fleurette appeared a moment later. Killian could sense her presence long before he could hear her approach, and turned breathlessly from the window. She was framed in the doorway, her expression soft, her tender body lit from behind.

“All is well?” she asked.

She looked as bonny as springtime, and when she smiled at him, his heart felt young and hopeful in his chest, unimpaired by wounds and ancient worries. Aye, he had fallen back into the darkness, had been contained by the stone, and there he had lain until the Celt had felt the warm brush of her tears. ” ‘Tis now,” he said, and felt hope bloom like Highland roses in his heart.

Her eyes gleamed. Glancing down the hall, she stepped silently inside and closed the door behind her.

Killian’s arousal reared like a restive stallion as she paced toward him.

“Are you tired?”

He lowered his brows and eyed her askance. It was true that he knew little of this time and place, but he must assume there were some moral boundaries, and he had no wish to compromise her. Indeed, he had not meant to do so the first time, but circumstances and her own vibrant beauty had contrived against him. Still, he would not let it happen again. “Nay,” he ventured cautiously.

She cleared her throat. “Weak?”

He raised a brow. “As I’ve told ye before, lass, I’ll na have others gossip about ye.”

She sat down beside him on the bed. Her hip brushed his thigh, and the foolish barrier of the blanket made no difference, for his skin burned as if they were flesh to flesh.

“Killian,” she said, and placed a gentle hand against his bare chest. “I do not think you need worry what the
ton
will gossip about.”

He stared at her.

“You dress in tartan skirts,” she explained, “and—”

“I dunna mean to start a bullirag, lass, but me ancestral plaid be hardly a skirt.”

Her lips twitched. “You speak as though you’ve just arrived from a forgotten century and—”

“There is naught amiss with me speech.”

Her smile peeked at him as she lifted her hand to settle one tender finger upon his lips.

“And you basically rose from the dead. I think, perhaps, we have already given the gossipmongers some grist for the mill,” she said, and, skimming her fingers over his chin, ran a fiery trail down his throat to his chest.

He swallowed and held on to his resolve. He was a knight, for God’s sake, tested in battle, trained in fire. Surely he could fend off one small maid.

“Besides,” she murmured, “if I do na disremember…” She smiled at her own antiquated speech. “I have already been compromised.”

He cleared his throat and tried not to squirm. “I was na thinking properly then.”

She slid her hand across his chest. He hissed air between his teeth and held himself rigid.

“Perhaps you’re not thinking properly now,” she said, her eyes all innocence. “After all, we are to be married.”

“Aye, well…” He gritted his teeth against the sweet spark of feelings. “We shall wait upon the nuptials.”

Her smile was like the light of the sun. “Shall we?” she asked and bumped her fingers across his nipple and over his rippling abs.

He caught her wrist in a trembling grip. “Lass…” he croaked.

“Yes, my love?” she whispered, and leaned close so that her lips were inches from his. “What can I do for you?”

” ‘Tis bad enough that ye have taken me into yer house without chaperone. I’ll not have people know ye were closeted alone in me chambers with me.”

“I won’t tell them,” she murmured, and kissed the corner of his mouth, “if you—”

“Lass…” Good God, was he panting? “I am a knight of the realm. When I make a decision, the decision stands. ‘Tis best ye ken this at the outset if we are to be wed.”

She drew back slightly, eyes dancing. “Oh aye,” she murmured, picking up his brogue with perfect aplomb. “And I would na dare to gainsay ye.” She tugged her arm from his grip and he let her go, lest she feel the tremble in his fingers. “Unless I have an excellent reason. And this…” she began, and suddenly her hand had disappeared below the blankets. It felt soft and firm as it curled about his throbbing member. He gritted a groan, and before he could stop her she was stretched out against him, her eyes suddenly somber. “This be an excellent reason.”

“Please, lass…” Damn it all, and now he was pleading. “I’ve na wish to see ye shunned by others.”

“And I’ve no wish to wait to share my love with you.”

Their gazes caught and smoldered. He shook his head, trying to breathe. “I dunna deserve ye, lass.”

She smiled, and the sun, as bright as a promise, shone with sparkling glory on the garden below their window, warming the dark Celt that stood watch below.

“On the contrary,” she breathed, and kissed him. “I think I may be exactly what you deserve.”

^