Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (14 page)

“It was no more than you deserved!" Christabel exclaimed. "You scared the feathers out of us! Tade Kilcannon, you are the most arrogant, incorrigible—"

"Beware when she gets to 'blackguard,'" Reeve warned, rolling his eyes heavenward. "When Christabel last labeled me thus, I found my favorite snuffbox filled with Hungary water.''

They all laughed, and Maryssa drank in the sound as though it were some mystical potion with the power to banish the ugliness of the hour before.

And when at last Reeve drew the cart to a stop in the shelter of a hidden valley, she was certain that a drop of heaven had slipped down from the clouds, spilling into this tiny corner of Ireland the greenest greens and clearest blues in all creation.

A lake rippled like liquid sapphire in its setting of lush grass while, from beneath the edges of a dozen ruggedly carved stones, the last of summer's wildflowers winked their velvet petals at the bright-winged birds skimming overhead. Three oak trees, their branches tangling heavenward, studded the steep hillside, the tallest tree dangling a weathered swing from its gnarled arms.

"I've never seen anything so lovely!" Maryssa breathed.

"It must be the sunlight." Tade chuckled. "I don't recall your being quite so enamored of the glen when last you were here."

"Here? You mean . . ."

Tade's gaze roved in a twinkling path to the lake, then back to hers. "I must admit, I've never had such a diverting bath in my life. But perhaps if you'd care to go wading after we sup."

Heat suffused Maryssa's face as she recalled with shocking vividness every magnificent moon-gilded line of Tade's body when he had stalked naked across the shore. The image of silver rivulets of water trickling down his broad shoulders, hair-roughened chest, and the flat, rigid muscles of his stomach below burned beneath her eyelids.

She felt Tade willing her to look at him, the smoldering remembrance within his green gaze drawing her as inexorably as the pull of the tide. Mouth suddenly dry, she wheeled around, and bustled to help Christabel tug a huge split-oak basket from beneath the cart seat.

But the image of Tade wouldn't be dispelled. It teased her as she helped Christabel spread the coverlet beneath the oak. It tantalized her in every brush of Tade's fingers on her lips as he popped succulent bites of chicken into her mouth. And as he sprawled across the coverlet when the last morsel of food had been devoured, the lazy, replete smile that toyed with his mouth whispered to Maryssa of tumbled bedclothes and lazy lovemaking. She wanted to sink down beside him, nestle against his sun-warmed skin.

But she only watched him, transfixed, as a glistening droplet of sweat gathered at the base of his jaw then rolled slowly down inside the open collar of his shirt to the whorls of dark hair dusting his chest.

"Maryssa!" Reeve's sharp voice cut in.

"Y-yes?" Her gaze darted guiltily across the coverlet to where Reeve sat, heaving a martyred sigh.

"I've asked you this thrice already—please mind what I'm saying. Christa and I are going to wander through the meadows a bit. Would you and the crown prince care to join us?" He enunciated each word with the patience of schoolmaster drilling his dullest student.

Tade yawned broadly, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Nay. You two go on, Reeve. 'Ryssa and I will stay here and guard the remains of this delectable lunch. I've heard the Black Falcon has been lurking among these hills of late, and if there is one thing that brigand likes it is your cook's chick—.”

Reeve's face soured, hazel eyes snapping away from Maryssa to shoot Tade a hard, warning glare.

"If the Black Falcon is lurking about, mayhap we'd best all leave." Nervously, Maryssa fingered the stitching of her gown, seeing, instead of the delicate edging, silver-thread talons wrought upon a stark black mask.

Reeve pursed his lips in a long-suffering attitude as he levered himself to his feet. "There's nothing to fear, Maryssa. Tade is just conjuring excuses. The truth is that after facing my superior hurling skill today, the poor lad hasn't energy left to take five steps. Most likely you'll be forced to sit here and listen to him snore away until—"

"Leave me to 'snore away' in peace, then, Marlow!" Tade groaned, throwing a chicken bone at Reeve's knee. "I was wounded upon the field of honor today, and I intend to revel in the coddling I so richly deserve."

Reeve pulled a face. "If Maryssa dealt you what you deserve, you'd be such a mass of bruises, Rachel would spend the rest of her life tying poultices onto that thick head of yours." Reeve held out his hand to Christabel, helping her up from the coverlet. "Well, enjoy your lazing, you two. We shouldn't trouble you with our company for at least a turn of the clock. My wife and I intend to take full advantage of this spectacular afternoon. Milady?" He turned to Christa, offering her his elbow.

Soft powdered curls bobbed beguilingly over Christabel's shoulders as she slipped her arm through Reeve's and started up a narrow path that ribboned toward the valley's rim.

Maryssa watched them in silence, but the aura of happiness she had struggled so hard to hold in their presence seemed to drift away with them, tangled within the secret smiles of belonging that passed between the two. Reeve's head tipped toward Christabel's, his lips brushing hers.

"They love each other very much." Maryssa started at the sound of Tade's soft voice beside her. Her gaze dropped as if she had been caught stealing something precious.

"They're the kindest people I've ever known," she said. "They deserve to be happy."

"And you, Maryssa Wylder?"

She glanced down toward the dark head silhouetted against the creamy coverlet. Tade lay on his stomach, long legs stretched off into the grass beyond the coverlet's edge, his chin, resting on his knuckles as he stared meditatively into the fragile bowl of a pale rose wildflower. He plucked it, cupping it in one callused palm.

"Me?" Maryssa echoed.

"What do you think you deserve?"

"I don't know. My father says God deals us fair measure."

"And you believe that?"

"Sometimes. When I look at Reeve and Christabel, and Rachel with all her babies. But it seems so often that innocents are caught in dire straits.” Maryssa shuddered, her thoughts turning, unbidden, to the night Quentin Rath had stormed the cottage on the mountain, his grim-faced soldiers spewing into the cozy fire lit room to search for gentle, sober Devin.

When her gaze dropped to the wisp of green ribbon trailing from Tade's sleeve, Kane Kilcannon's rage-ravaged features as he faced Tade in the clearing rose in her mind. Kane's mouth had contorted in fury, yet beneath the angry flame in the older man's eyes had lurked a subtler shading: fear.

What comfort will your cursed dalliance be when Bainbridge Wylder strings you from his stable rafters?
A chill scuttled down Maryssa's spine as Kane's words echoed through her. What lengths would her father go to to destroy Tade, all the Kilcannons, if he discovered... She forced her gaze out across the wind-dappled blue of the lake, her mouth twisting in a tiny bitter smile. Discovered what? That Tade, Rachel, and Devin had committed the unpardonable sin of showing her kindness?

From the time she was a child, her father had banished all who had dared to commit such a heinous offense. The rare warmhearted housemaid, any governess who made the mistake of showing that she held anything but contempt for her charge. Maryssa closed her eyes, remembering a heart-shaped face, pale blue eyes, and an endearing eagerness to please. The year she was ten Evangeline Boucher had danced into her life like drops from a fallen rainbow, scattering laughter about Carradown's nursery for the first time Maryssa could remember. For three months, while her father had been off in Norfolk, ribbon bows, lessons in flirting behind the delicate shield of a fan, and spring-kissed outings had turned what had once been tedious days into joy.

Until Bainbridge Wylder had returned and discovered the loving Evangeline's "crimes." Maryssa could still see her father's thunderous face scowling at her, could still feel the weak trickle of childish tears down her cheeks.

"'Ryssa..."

Maryssa started at the sound of Tade's voice, the satiny petals of the wildflower still held between his fingers skimming a gentle pattern on her knuckles. Her eyes clung to the soft rose flower, as though to clutch at a reality far less terrifying than the hauntings of her mind. Yet the fear lingered as she turned her gaze down to where the thick rosewood-colored waves of Tade's hair were knotted at the nape of his neck. His gaze, tipped up at her, was crystal green with concern.

If her father would rip Evangeline Boucher from her life merely for being kind, to what depth would he not sink to drive Tade Kilcannon from her heart?

She jerked her hand away from the brush of the blossom and his fingers, stark misery roiling inside her. Her heart? When had Tade crept inside it?

Had she loved him from the moment he stood belligerently naked on the grassy lakeshore, or since the night he had stolen through her bedchamber window, his eyes snapping with a mischievous joy in life that she had never hoped to know? Or had she fallen in love with Tade Kilcannon a thousand dreams before she'd ever looked upon his face?

Fallen in love with him only to have the threat of her father's cruelty snatch him away. Desolation swept through her.

"Maryssa."

She lowered her eyes to his, her gaze skimming the arrogant strength of his jaw, the full, sensual lips, eyes as green and mysterious as a druid glen. Tears trembled on her lashes, and there was nothing she could do to stop them as they flowed free.

"Maura, don't let anything spoil the wonder of this day." His voice was velvet, magical, as he drew her down beside him and nestled her into the thick folds of the coverlet. "Not fools tending their hatred, not ghosts from yesterday." The sunlight, with its first swirls of twilight's rose, spun before her eyes, then disappeared as Tade lowered his face to hers. The warm satin of his lips blessed her tear-wet eyelids, the tiny curve of her nose, the callused tips of his fingers smoothing over her cheeks with the same delicate wonder he had accorded the wildflower. And Maryssa felt cherished, precious, for the first time in her life.

"I could not stop thinking about you," he breathed in a throaty whisper. "About touching you, watching you smile. You were everywhere I looked. In the mountains, in the pages of books . . . in my bed. I had to know you were all right. Had to see if you could possibly taste as sweet as I remembered." His voice dropped low, reverent, as his lips pressed a gossamer-light kiss upon the crest of her cheek. "You do, Maura," he murmured against her skin. "Sweeter still. I think I . . ." His lashes drifted shut, and Maryssa felt a tremor course through him.

She lifted shaking hands to his face, then trailed them in a path down the corded muscles of his throat into the crisp dark hair that fanned across his chest. He groaned as her fingertips swept the broad plane, and Maryssa could feel his body tense against hers as one strong arm looped about her waist, pulling her deep into the lean hardness of his own tall frame.

His hand threaded through the soft curls at her temple, his eyes hot, heavy with want. "Maura. So sweet. So sad. Let me give you joy."

Tade's mouth dipped down, a groan rumbling through him as his lips molded themselves to hers. She tasted of wild wind, of late summer, of sweet ripe berries bursting with warm juices, and she tasted of a despair that stole inside him, robbing him of anything but the fierce need to rid her of all pain. His tongue circled the satiny fullness of her lips, then parted them to pierce the inner sweetness of her mouth, and it was as if somehow he had lost himself inside of her.

Lost himself in the wonder of her innocent eyes, her fragile, wounded smile, the loneliness that welled up from within her like that of a banished angel.

He eased his palm up over the dainty curve of her waist and beyond, until the underside of her breast swelled against his hand. A tiny mewling sounded low in her throat, and Tade took the soft mound in his palm, the gentle wooing he had intended to soothe away the misery in her delicate features flaring into the heat of unbridled passion.

Her small hands burrowed beneath his shirt, smoothing the naked flesh of his shoulders and back, driving him almost mad with untutored caresses. And her eyes . . . their mystical depths glowed green, gold, and blue beneath lids heavy with newfound desire. He pressed her into the coverlet, cupping his body over hers with greedy longing. She was warm, soft, beautiful. So beautiful.

"Maura, I want to make love to you. Damn it, I can't."

"Tade." His name was a breath on the wind. He pulled back just a whisper as she pressed one soft palm against his chest. Her eyes locked with his, her small white teeth indenting the moist fullness of her lower lip as she took his hand in hers. He could feel her fingers shaking as she slipped the ribbon end of the gown's fastening between his fingertips. Passion and an odd, tearing hopelessness warred in her incredible eyes. "Please," she whispered, her lashes glossed with tears, "I . . . I want you to."

"Maura . . ."

"Make love to me, Tade. Now." Soft red lips sought his, and had she asked for his life, he could not have denied her. He took in their trembling curves, his own mouth hungry and demanding, the neatly tied cords of her gown tangling beneath his impatient hands as he tugged at them.

It seemed an eternity before folds of her dress, the dainty lawn underbodice, and the stiff corset fell free, baring warm flesh blushed soft as the petals of a primrose. Tade's mouth went dry, his eyes feasting on the silken arch of her bared shoulder, the delicate rose of her nipple, which pearled at the mere touch of his ragged breath upon its crest.

"Maura, I've dreamed about you. About us . . . together like this . . . until my whole body felt on fire and I'd wake up, aching." His lips dropped kisses in the hollow at the base of her throat, and down onto the soft swell below. "And now . . ." His tongue swept out, touching, just touching, the hardened bud tipping one snowy mound. She whimpered, and the sound shot white-hot flames through his loins.