The Ground She Walks Upon (31 page)

She shook her head, her expression taut with fear and disbelief. "I wouldn't harm anyone like this. It's not my way."

He kissed her mouth, his lips warm and tender. She wondered if it weren't almost for O'Malley's benefit. "Then I'll run with you, away from this danger. On the other side of the hill, take me by the hand and leave the road."

"I—I will but—"

He looked down at her and began to lead her farther along the road. "But what, my love?"

"But how can you know to trust me? I could very well be luring you into a trap. You know I know both Malachi and Sean..." Her voice turned low and full of despair, "and at times, you know, I've taken their point of view."

"If you lead me to my death, then I would rather find it holding your hand than not."

She swallowed the lump of terror in her throat. It went against all reason to care for this man. He was difficult, arrogant, and sometimes, as now, she suspected he was just plain mad. But then, as now, he could touch her emotions as could no one else. For all he knew, she could promise to help him and lead him straight to a pistol. He was an intelligent man, and he'd been rough with her these past days. He knew full well the animosity she held for him, and he knew who her friends were. But he now placed his life into her small hands.

Fighting the urge to look back at O'Malley, she allowed Trevallyan to calmly lead her along the road, her arm in his, until they disappeared from O'Malley's view on the other side of the hill. As soon as they were out of sight, she ran with him down the hill and leapt across a rain-filled embankment. The woods were deep and thick on this side of the road, and they left no trail as they might have if they had fled through a dense field of rye.

"Has he seen us?" she cried, forcing herself to muffle her voice.

"Perhaps, but perhaps not. Just keep going."

She took his hand and pulled him deeper into the woods. The elms grew close and tangled, casting the forest floor into darkness. They ran until they broke into a field of scrub hazel. Finally, they came upon a stone wall that had turned green with moss and bracken.

"Is this where you've brought me? To a dead end?" With a strange light in his eyes, he grabbed her waist and pulled her to him.

"Where should we run?" she asked, panting from their flight, wildly looking about.

" 'Tis for you to say." He gazed to the west. The setting sun flooded the fields in liquid gold. A patch of blooming rapeseed was so yellow it hurt to look upon it. "But the day grows late," he added. "Wherever we go, we may need to tarry there overnight."

"There's a building in those woods to the north. Can you see the roof?" She pointed.

"Lead the way."

He looked down at her and her heart skipped a beat at the wariness in his eyes. She could be taking him to an ambush, and well he knew it. Even in the morning, he must have been struck by a premonition of things to come. She had noticed him placing a pistol into the interior of his frock coat. Now she wondered if he was glad he had it.

"Perhaps it's a strong-farm," she said, referring to the old medieval hierarchy of farms. "We may get some help there."

He said nothing. He only stared at her and held out his hand, waiting for her to take it.

They crossed through another copse of trees and quickly found the building they had seen in the meadow. To Ravenna's disappointment, it was not a strong-house, but an old abandoned barn that had not been used since the last century.

"Is this where your friends await, or is this where we may safely stay the night?" Trevallyan leaned against the moldering stone walls of the barn and crossed his arms.

She tossed him an irritated look.

He almost smiled. "Does this mean you want me to go in first?"

She nodded.

"Shall I see you again?"

An innocuous question, but she knew what he meant. He wanted to know if he was going to step inside an empty barn, or meet his Maker by the barrel of a rebel's gun. Watching him, she decided he was either a terrible fool or a very brave man. Or perhaps both.

"I'll be right behind you," she whispered.

He gave neither approval nor condemnation. He merely nodded and accepted her words. Taking her hand in his sure, hard grasp, he kicked open the batten door that was almost off its hinge.

Though she knew there was no trap, a tingle of fear crawled down her spine. It was possible that Sean O'Malley could have somehow followed. He and his cronies, perhaps even Malachi, could be waiting in the dark corners....

Trevallyan walked inside.

There was nothing. Merely a tall pile of dried straw and ramshackle farm tools, broken and left behind. Above, the thatched roof had given partway. Half the barn was protected, the other half open to the velvet evening sky.

Niall turned to her. She couldn't stop herself from releasing a giggle of relief.

"I told you I wasn't with them." She squeezed his hand.

All at once he picked her up off the ground. She gasped in surprise at his laughter while he spun her around. Finally, he let her slip to the ground, her chest crushed against his, her waist locked within his arms.

He stared at her; she couldn't have looked away if her life depended upon it. He entranced her. Smiling, he appeared young and handsome, so much so, she hardly recognized him. He seemed another man altogether—a youth really—a youth she could see herself falling in love with.

"My beautiful girl, don't ever disappoint me," he whispered.

"You speak as if it's my duty to please you." There was playfulness in her voice, but disillusionment too. She'd yet to know where she stood with him. Did he view her as an equal, or as a whore? As a companion, or as chattel? It hurt to ponder it.

"No, it's my duty to please you. But my curse is that I have yet to figure out what will please you." His eyes darkened. She was trapped by the intensity of the emotion hidden there. "So what will please you, Ravenna? What can I do to win you?"

"I don't know." She believed he hated her answer more than she did, but she had to utter it, for it was the truth. She didn't know how he could win her. He couldn't force her feelings. They either bloomed or they perished on their own.

"Perhaps that's the wrong course to take with you." A smile graced his hard lips. Deviltry sparked in his eyes. "Perhaps I shouldn't ask what will please you. Rather, I should ask what displeases you. For example..." He bent low toward her face. His breath was warm upon her cheek. "Does this displease you?" His lips caressed hers in a feather-light kiss.

He straightened and studied her.

Blushing, she shook her head.

"Are you telling me to stop, or are you telling me that my kiss does not displease you?" He caressed her lips with his thumb.

"It does not displease me." She could feel her cheeks turn to fire. The evening darkness was quickly becoming a blessing.

"And this?" He bent his head and kissed the hollow of her throat.

Her pulse quickened. His moist, hot tongue burned along her vulnerable skin. She ached for him to continue, but all too soon he broke away.

He whispered, "Tell me truly. Does it displease you?" He waited for her answer with all the
patience
of Job.

Slowly, she shook her head, unable to lie.

His hands slipped beneath the wool cloak and found the bodice of her borrowed dress, a heavy silk woven with gaudy Dutch irises. He found the hooks at the back as if he were well versed in removing women's clothing. He'd sworn that his wife had never worn the clothes in the trunk he'd brought, but the experienced manner in which he released each hook made her wonder if he had lied.

"No—please—you must stop—" She grabbed his forearms. Her fingers dug into his flesh.

"Does our lovemaking displease you?"

His question was pointed, but yet much too simple to answer. She struggled
with
it, but it was like trying to wrench a rope off a whale.

"No...." she moaned. She shuddered, more from vulnerability than the cold. "But the answer is 'yes,' as well."

He stepped behind her, resting his hands upon her shoulders. Slowly he bent his head to her nape. His lips trailed down her sensitive skin. She shivered while he warmed her ear with his quickened breath. "Which is it? Yes or no? It cannot be both."

"It does not displease me." Her voice came out low and husky. Afraid.

He turned her around. Slowly his hand lifted her jaw. "Then let me please you as a man pleases a woman."

She did nothing, and again inaction became her affliction. He released a low, animal groan and bent to kiss her. All she had to do was tilt her head away and she knew he would have stopped. Instead, to her shock and dismay, she rose to meet him. His lips crushed against her all-too-eager ones and the conquest was complete.

The last time she had made love to him in a daze of sensation, but this time she felt everything with razor keenness. His scent rubbed against her mouth until it became more a taste than a smell. The soft purple wool of her cloak scratched at her back as he lay her down in a bed of straw. Her silk gown rustled like falling autumn leaves as he unhooked her; the pale pink undergarments fell away like rose petals.

She told herself she wanted to stop. Good sense lectured her that she was weak and wanton. But it didn't make her quit. Lord Niall Trevallyan wove a spell around her that was as tight as any warlock's, and soon she found him atop her, naked, warm, hard; kissing her with all the matching fervor in her own wicked soul. His mouth covered her nipples, her belly, the dark mound of her womanliness. Nothing shamed him; and therefore, nothing shamed her.

He laid her back by twisting his hands worshipfully in her hair, reveling in her raven-black tresses. He licked her skin as if it were warm cream and he a starving man. He wanted her. Desperately. She could see it in the tautness of his expression. In the fire in his eyes.

Without a protest, she let him part her thighs.

"When you think of me, think of this moment." He stared down at her, his emotions roiling in his darkened aqua gaze. Slowly he took her hand. He laid a burning kiss deep into her palm, then ran it across the ruddy alabaster of his Celtic fair complexion. "Think of the man you hold in your small hands, Ravenna. And I beg you, have mercy on him."

He entered her with one greedy push. She tossed her head back in the straw, sensation rendering her incapable of comprehending his words. In pagan rhythm, he made his magic. The stars above the fallen thatch roof began to dance and shoot across the sky. Pressure built within her loins with every rock of his body.

The stars took some time to return to normal. But finally, when at last Ravenna's breath came slow and satisfied, she looked overhead and saw the heavens as she knew them; the stars placidly twinkling like crystals from a shattered vase.

Without a word, Niall rose and gathered his trousers and shirt. She hated the cold that rushed over her. If his warmth was sin, she wanted sin, not the cold hell of his abandonment.

Wrapped in her cloak, she watched him pull on his boots, his expression unreadable.

Harshly, he announced, "The evening grows cold. We'll stay here for the night and walk to Cinaeth Castle in the morning. I'll build a fire."

She nodded, not even bothering to fumble with her dress that lay next to her. It was only her second experience, and yet she already wondered how a man and a woman could be in the throes of wild intimacy one minute, only to grope through the perdition of awkwardness the next.

Unable to think of a way to cast aside the sudden chill between them, she mutely watched him work, confounded by her own tangled emotions.

Soon he had built a small blaze at one end of the barn. The smoke trailed up thirty feet to the roofline, sucked into the open sky where the thatch had fallen through.

In the firelight, she watched him. The flames licked up between them, casting his features into evil relief. His slanted eyebrows, his piercing gaze made her think of druids, Celtic warriors, and kings long dead. Men of myth. Men who weren't supposed to be found in this modern age, especially building fires in barns, and wearing black leather boots and trousers of bottle-green corduroy.

"If I had a pot I could at least make us some nettle soup for our dinner. We've enough of those," she commented, desperately hoping that he would talk.

He looked up at her. Ruefully, she lowered her gaze to the nettles caught in her cloak's hemline.

"Nettle soup? Is that something witches eat?" The expression in his eyes lightened. He quirked his mouth in a way that made her want to smile.

"Nay, we only eat
bairi'n breac,"
she said, mischief dancing in her eyes as she referred to the bread eaten on Hallowe'en, "... and little children, of course."

"Of course." He nodded his head as if they were merely two old acquaintances conversing over tea.