The Irish Warrior (16 page)

Battered, weary, and waterlogged from crossing yet another river—“Stream, whichever,” she'd snapped when Finian tried explaining the difference—Senna would have praised him as a god, if it were required, when he halted them after another two hours of hiking. She was literally stumbling from exhaustion.

They came to a small clearing, he stopped moving forward, and her knees slowly buckled. She looked up at him.

“We're done for the night, Senna.” His tone was gentle.

She half smiled, rubbed her shoulders wearily, then threw her bag on the ground and slumped on top of it. She cried out briefly as her fingers took some of the impact, then was asleep before she could finish the cry.

Finian watched her, curled around the satchel—a pack full of knobbly objects and sharp edges—like a nestling cat. Her knees were by her chin, her arms clutched around the bag, hair tugging free from the braid and spilling over her face until only the profile of a small, delicate chin could be seen.

Turning on his heel, he walked to a small rise in the land and began his watch.

The moon rose to its heights and a small wind blew by in gentle gusts, pulling the soft, wet scent of loamy earth and growing things behind. He ran his hand through his hair, drew a deep breath, and began a slow reconnoitering around the perimeter of the clearing. In the center of his sweeping circle, Senna slept.

Nothing moved in the dark world. Years of practice made him move soundlessly through the sticks and leaves covering the ground. One circuit, two.

An owl hooted.

He froze.

In the treetops to the west, the rapid beat of wings shuddered briefly, then a bird shot out of the dark greenery, squawking.

Moving swiftly and soundlessly, he pushed his spine up against a tree trunk. Another small sound far to his left disturbed the night silence. His body was frozen but for his hand that swung to his sword hilt.

Again it came. Shuffling, heavy hooves. Far away but far too close. The murmur of a voice speaking in hushed tones, racing through the night air. Creaking leather, jangling spurs.

Soldiers.

Bending low, he slid his sword free and crept back through the trees, moving from shadow to shadow, making no more noise than a bat winging overhead. When he reached Senna, he crouched down, mouth by her ear.

“Up, lass. We've company.”

Her eyes shot open. Her startled, bright eyes were inches from his.

“Unwelcome guests. I've need of yer talents with a blade,” he whispered, rising and pointing to a far tree, indicating where to position herself.

She scrambled to her feet, feeling in the sheath lashed around her waist, pulling out the knife. Her other hand briefly touched a second blade strapped to her leg, then she slunk across the shadowy glen to where he had pointed, bending low.

The sound of hooves crunching on sticks suddenly stopped. Every muscle in Finian's body rippled in readiness. He threw his head back, his mouth slightly parted, every sense alert to scent, sound, motion. At his side, his sword hung still. The dull silver plane of steel shone in the slatted moonlight.

A nicker broke the tense silence, then a muffled snort. Two voices, speaking in thick, almost unintelligible English accents, prickled the hair along the back of his neck.

Sweeping his sword up, he crept closer, moving from tree trunk to tree trunk like a slinking shadow. His blood welled thick and sluggish in his veins, an icy, solid feeling. Planting the heel of his hand on the gnarled bark of one tree, he edged his head around and squinted, trying to pierce the darkness.

The night was too thick, the woods too dense. He couldn't see anything. Behind, he heard the uneven whisper of Senna's breathing.

The soft clop of hooves began again, moving slowly away. An exchanged curse or word occasionally floated back to him. He let another moment pass. Then, to comfort Senna in her fear and ensure her continued silence, he turned to her, a finger at his lips.

Astonishment dropped his hand to his side. Was this not the woman he'd awoken two minutes ago from a dead slumber, telling her their lives were about to be shortened? Nay, it could not be. She did not look in the least afraid.

To the contrary, she radiated power and energy, and she was marvelous. Having nailed her lithe torso against the trunk of the tree, she peered around with one chestnut eye, her cheek pasted to the rough bark. Curving and tense, her body was finely tuned, her head thrown back. Masses of tangled dark curls slipped over her shoulder and along her arms. The blade hung deceptively still by her thigh, dripping from her fingertips.

The taut lines of muscles in her arm were defined by the filtered moonlight. Broken fingers did not seem in any way a hindrance. Her eyes glittered as she met his startled gaze, and she flashed him a bold, intrepid smile.

“We are alive yet,” she whispered with an exultant look.

Partner. He had a partner. Sweet Jésu, when last had he such a thing?

Never. Never, and always sought it.

He forced his gaze back to the woods. The sound of the soldiers was farther away and continued to grow more distant. Motioning for Senna to stay where she was, he crept after them.

Half a mile of stealthy hunting assured him they were indeed headed away, and would trouble them no more. He turned back. Upon reached the clearing, he saw Senna had done as he bid, waiting motionless by the tree.

“They are gone,” he whispered.

Her body was trembling with repressed excitement. He could scarcely fathom it. This was a dangerous world, and she was a small woman in its merciless midst. The crown of her head barely topped his shoulder, although the fuzz of untended hair added a good half inch, and he could nearly wrap his fingers twice around her slender wrist. With a twist, he could snap it. She was defenseless, really.

With weapons or without, she was no match for a soldier, no match for him. And she could have been killed a moment ago.

But she was smiling, God save him, with an untamed, fearless grin that smashed through the base of an untended wall of his heart and entered in.

He kept expecting Senna to be a simple matter: a smart, sensuous woman with some surprising, engaging traits. But that all lay in the dust of the past. In the damp, impressionable here and now, she was coming together as a human being in such startling and unexpected ways he was quite helpless before it.

He couldn't think of a single thing to say. The moon was setting.

“Were they searching for us?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “No way to know. I doubt it. That is a rarely used path between two towns.”

“Is it safe to stay here?”

“I don't want to chance it. Can ye walk some more?”

She nodded. No semblance of a braid anymore, she was a sea of wild red-brown curls he could dive into. “All night, if we must. But, the moon has set,” she pointed out. “It will be ever dark.”

“I can see us through. Yer hand?” he asked, gesturing.

She looked at it as if surprised, then grinned. “I do not feel a thing.”

They were very quiet as they shouldered their packs and started off. They hiked until the sun rose, when russet light fell like rain through the emerald tree branches. Scented with pine needles and forest resin, the triangulated rays of gold and dusty red drifted between the branches, humming faint light.

They passed through this furred illumination, their bodies alternately light and shadow, chilled to the bone and alive. It would be another glorious day.

They stopped twice—once to rest for a deep, hard sleep at midday, and one other time for a quick scrub in a stream.

But mostly they walked. And talked, although not of the nights before. Finian told her about his extended foster family and his love of music, and she might have mentioned something about a few be-knighted daydreams of her youth.

And he watched her. Endlessly.

Every time she bent her body, he followed the curve. When she laughed, he watched her mouth stretch up into that bewitching grin. When she looked up to ask him a question, he was already watching her with a slow regard that brought a blush to her cheeks.

At which point he would jerk his gaze away. The feeling was indescribable, akin to being stoked by fires that had been long banked. Something like coming home.

When evening finally turned honest eyes unreadable, she brought up their brush with the soldiers.

“Have you ever felt that way before, so alive when you are so close to dying?” Her voice was so low it barely disturbed the air. She could have been talking to herself.

He nodded silently, a bit alarmed by the feelings coursing through him. It brought life to her blood, did it? That pleased him. He knew the feeling well: the waterfalling sensation, the tumbling exhilaration of facing death alongside the inner certainty,
‘This moment is mine.'

There were few enough people who had such a response, with hearts who liked to live near the edge of unseen cliffs and fling themselves over the side,
knowing
they could fly.

Maybe
pleased
wasn't the right word.

He'd stood within inches of her body when it had come alive, when he'd told her their lives might be about to be shortened. Peered into her eyes when they'd sparked with fire. He'd known exactly how excitement pounded through her body, made her shimmer like a warrior-sprite. It left him breathless.

She was like some creature from a mythical land, and she did not even realize it, how uncommon she was.

No, he corrected himself. She seemed to know quite well she did not belong anywhere. What she had no idea of, was how perfectly she fit into the echoing, empty spaces of his heart.

Senna stayed awake long after Finian had fallen asleep. Too much excitement, excitement that ought to be scaring her witless. Instead, she felt…excited. Alive. Reckless.

She rummaged about in her pack and came out with one of the flasks. She took a great draught and glanced at Finian. He was dead to the world. She regarded such peaceful repose glumly, then took another swig. His dark head was resting on the pack, his fingers interlaced over his broad chest. A steady, low rhythm lifted and lowered his hands. One knee was bent and resting against a small sapling.

She took another swallow, then corked it, still looking at Finian.

Devouring him, she admitted, since no one was inside her head to witness the admission.

She did like this whisky.

She was contemplating some rash, risky things just now, but for what reason urge herself to caution? She'd been dying inside for half her life, and Finian was the only thing that had ever made her even want to be renewed. Did one just toss that aside? She'd gone beyond the Pale in every way since coming to Ireland. She was hungry in a way she'd never been before. Sore in a way she'd never been before.

Alive in a way she'd never been before.

She set the flask down and crawled closer. All she wanted was to touch him. Not even to have him touch her. Just to feel his body. Touch. Be touching.

Not be alone.

She knelt beside him, her feet tucked beneath her. Planting a palm on each side of his chest, she leaned low and inhaled.

Finian opened his eyes to find her leaning over him, her hair tickling his arms. The curve of her body was clear as anything, the rise of her breasts just inches from his nose.

“What are ye doing, Senna?” he asked carefully.

She didn't leap back, as he'd expected. Instead she straightened and knelt, knees tucked under. So prim and proper, her stance. An instinctive seductress, to the tips of her dirty fingernails. And she was smiling. He frowned.

“Ye're a'right?”

“Finian, I wanted to ask you something.”

She sounded shy. He closed his eyes and said a brief prayer. “Aye?”

“Do you remember what happened? Before?”

“Before, when?” he asked warily.

“Before,” she waved her hand. “Before we hunted, before. After the boat ride, before.” Her words slowed. “Against the tree, before.”

He groaned and wiped his hand over his face, his shaft already hard.

“Do you?”

“Jésu, woman,” he rasped. “Do ye expect me to forget?”

“I was thinking.”

“Stop, then.”

She leaned down a little closer. Her hair tickled against his neck. “I was thinking, that thing that happened to me,” he groaned, “I don't think that happened to you, too.”

He gave a muffled curse and threw his arms up, over his face, bent at the elbows. “Senna,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Did it?”

“Nay,” he grated. “What's got into ye, woman? I can't take this, ye know.”

“I know,” she crooned, then bent to his ear. “'Tis the whisky.”

“Not the whisky,” he said grimly.

“The yarrow, then.” Warm feminine curves pressed onto his inner arms, his cheek. Her breath came into his ear. “Finian, I would like that thing to happen to you. I would like to watch it happen to you. Like you watched me.”

There was absolutely no defense against this. Her lips fluttered over his arms, and he let his elbows drop to the earth. With her hair a curtain around them, she kissed him in the moonlight, slow, light kisses over his cheeks and nose and chin, and finally, his lips.

And although he wanted to descend upon her, grasp the back of her neck and pillage her rampant femininity, he held himself in check, letting her hesitant, testing kisses inflame him to the point of pain. All he did was bend his arm and rest his palm against the curve of her hip, not guiding her, not caressing her, just holding on.

She knelt facing into him and slid her lips down his neck, her mouth leaving soft butterfly kisses behind, then to his collarbone. She glanced up, eyebrows arched in query, and tugged on the edge of his tunic.

“If you're cold…”

He ripped it off in a quick second, and listened to her slow exhale as her gaze traveled across his body. She bent low and breathed deep, then her tongue slipped out and licked across the smooth side of his rib cage.

“Senna,” he managed between gritted teeth.

“My turn, so hush,” she whispered. Then she licked his nipple.

He suppressed a growl and ran his palm up the curve of her buttocks. She froze, except for her breath. It came out in a hot rush over everything she'd just licked wet.

“Don't stop,” he murmured thickly.

She opened her mouth and flicked her tongue. She slid one hand up his bent leg, ankle to knee, then down his thigh, to his groin. Unable to resist, he clamped his hand over hers and held her to his erection. Her slender fingers closed around the length of him, her mouth hot and panting on his nipple. He made her squeeze him tighter. He slid his other hand up and over her bottom. Then he floated his fingers slightly down the seam between.

“Oh,” she exhaled hotly, all over him.

“Off,” he growled, tugging on her leggings.

She was already pulling on the ties, and he was fumbling, too, propped up on an elbow, and then they were free. He slid them down to her knees, so her bottom was exposed, pushing up to the sky as she bent back to him.

She slid her mouth down the center of his belly then, fast and wet, kissing and nipping and licking, until he was so hard he thought he'd explode. He slid his hand across her belly and up between her thighs. She was wet. Slippery, hot. He pushed one finger high, searching for the crest of her.

She threw her head back, gasping. Hot, wet, damaging, good, this angel was everything he'd never hoped for. He folded his finger and slid it forward, over the slippery folds, pushing until he felt the circular bud. Another shocked, gasping whimper shot out of her. He fluttered his finger again, and she dropped her face into his chest, moaning. Hard, hot, churning lust pounded through him. He could barely see straight. He wanted this woman like no other, ever, not even in erotic dreams.

He tipped his wrist and pushed hard with the heel of his palm, pressing against her pulsing wet heat. She threw her head back and exhaled in hot, gasping moans, rocking back and forth on his hand.

She started trying to untie his leggings. Cursing, he did it for her, his one slippery hand still working on her, her rocking becoming more frenzied, her head dropping lower, until she was on her elbows, her face inches from his erection. Together, one hand each, they pushed open the ties of his leggings, just exposing him. Her shadowed face, curtained by windswept hair, turned to him as he was furiously grappling to slide his wet hand back up between her thighs. He was practically light-headed. More heat, more sex, more Senna.

“I don't know quite what to do,” she whispered, her voice a mingling of panting arousal and blushing embarrassment.

In a heartbeat, he was on his knees, flipping her onto her back. He rested his forearms beside her hips, his face between her thighs.

“Like this, love,” he rasped, and bent his face to everything hot and wet between her legs. He flicked his tongue once, snapping it lightly against her. Her hips instinctively rocked up into him.

“Oh, please,” she cried, tossing her head.

A slow, charging, explosive descent into the pits of passion. Finian could barely hear her, he was so violently aroused. He sent his tongue in another long sweep up. Wet, hot honey.

“Spread yer legs. Farther,” he demanded hoarsely.

She whimpered and did, until her heels were planted in the earth and she had her fingers entwined in his hair, restlessly tugging. He took two fingers and slowly spread her slippery wet folds wide, exposing the hard, slick nub to the cool moonlit night. With his thumb he brushed it, then followed with his tongue, fast and hard.

She gasped and froze, her fingers locked in his hair, her hips pushed up. At once he changed his pace, to slow and languorous, taking long, slow sweeps of her. His head was starting to spin, she tasted so good. So ready, so wet. His thumbs spread her flesh apart and he sunk his tongue deep inside her. One thumb circled her swirled nub lightly, then pressed in hard.

“Oh, no,” she breathed, long-pitched and smoky.

“Oh, aye,” he whispered, and rose to his knees.

She grabbed for him but he caught up her wrists and trapped them on the ground over her head.

Kneeling, his leggings unlaced but still around his waist, he straddled one of her restlessly bobbing legs. He pushed his hand hard up between her legs and without pausing, slid two fingers inside her.

Crying out, she arched her shoulders into the air, her pelvis down low, so Finian had to reach down to keep his fingers inside her, to keep prodding her, which drove him mad, to be so stretched out over her body, one hand trapping her wrists high above her head, the other plunged deep inside her. Her knee came up between his legs in a restless motion, and he rocked his hips, sliding his erection along her thigh. She pushed back, hips up, a rippling, undulating curve of flesh in the moonlight, heedless and reckless, whimpering and tossing her head, making her hair spill out all around her head so it looked like she was floating underwater.

He drove her hard, his fingers confident and sure, his thumb hot amid her folds. She pushed against him, feminine curves thrumming with the pounding sexual rhythm he was playing on her body.

“Do ye like this, Senna?” he whispered roughly.

“Oh,” she exhaled, pushing up on her elbows, trying to kiss him.

“Do ye like what I'm doing to ye?”

“Aye, aye. I want more.”

He bent to her ear. “What more, Senna?”

“You,” she panted, lifting her hips in a wild, bucking motion. “I want you. Inside me.”

His head was spinning. “No,” he rasped, shaking his head. “I'll not take yer maidenhood.”

She gave a shaky explosion of laughter. “Oh, Finian. I'm not a virgin.”

He lay low over her body and rasped in her ear, “What?”

“I'm not an innocent. And I cannot have children. Finian, please.”

That was all he needed. Another time for the mind. Now was all about the need.

“I'll devour ye, angel,” he growled in a ragged whisper, bending his mouth to her skin. “Ye'll never know what's run through ye.”

Senna's blood throbbed, molten iron churning through her veins. He covered her with his body in one simple movement. The curling hair of his thigh scratched against her inner thighs. She could feel his bunched muscles nudging her apart for him. Invading her. She lifted one leg and hooked it around his hip.

“Now,” she panted, her hands sliding over his back, gentle against the scars but still feeling every vertebra, every curve of muscle sliding beneath his warm skin. She slid farther under him, the ground solid and cool beneath, Finian demanding above, solid and hot.

Dark hair fell around the planes of his face, fixed in determination as he reached down to position himself. She felt the edge of his hand, hard and hot, brushing against her wetness as he grasped his erection and slid it to her. The rounded wide tip of him pushed in. She closed her eyes, her hands clasped at the back of his neck, an ankle at the small of his back.

Holding himself on one knee, Finian thrust himself into her waiting heat, feeling her hot passage constrict around him, yielding, slippery, tight. He sank in a little deeper, his gaze locked on their union, watching himself disappear inside her. He wrenched his eyes away, determined to hold himself in check, and looked up. Senna's eyes were open, watching him.

“Ye're a'right, lass?”

“'Tis good,” she said, half laugh, half cry, her words shaky.

Using every fragment of self-control he'd ever possessed, he stopped his long, slow penetration. With soft whispers, he kissed her nose, her chin, each flushed cheek and her forehead, until she was soft and sighing again.

“Did Rardove…?”

“Nay,” she whispered. “He never even tried. I think I scared him.”

“Ye terrify me,” he murmured and moved inside her again, holding back, filling her in long, slow strokes so she could grow used to the feel of him. It was exquisite torture. Wet and tight, her flesh was hot, swelling, sweet womanly depths. The muscles of his back and legs were taut with restraint. Her small heel pressed into the flesh beside his spine, almost hurting, and he wouldn't have asked her to move it if it meant an extra dozen years of life.

He pushed his hips forward again. She sighed, a breathy, wanton thing. The small, aching whimper pounded lust through his blood. He growled and shifted his hips, nudging in farther.

“Oh, that feels good.” Her voice came up like a sigh, and she lifted her hips, widening his entryway.

She was a hot, swelling cradle of tight perfection and he could do nothing but throw his head back and roar as he plunged into her again and again. The earth started to spin beneath his knees and palms, his breath coming in short, raspy breaths.

Senna lifted her hips in howling, bucking thrusts, and Finian's penetration grew more firm and long, each time filling her more fully, sheathing himself deeper in her hot, shuddering wetness. He dropped his head onto her neck, his palms splayed on the earth beside her, his hair swaying beside his face as his hips moved in an ancient, throbbing rhythm.

Each perfect move he made sent a fresh wave of pleasure shuddering through Senna. Her skin was humming, her blood roiling. Her hands were greedy in their touches, wanting to be everywhere, wrapped around his shoulders, sliding down the muscles of his back, brushing aside his hair so she could watch as passion closed his eyes and made him throw back his head.

His hand suddenly swept down to the small of her back and fitted her rocking hips tightly against his. Bolts of thudding, intense pleasure skidded across her belly and somehow her legs were wrapped around his hips and no part of her touched the ground. It was all masterful touches and the hot, sweaty, sculpted body of Finian.