The Stolen Brides 02 -His Forbidden Touch (38 page)

She relaxed her grip on his shoulders and
smiled up at him, beyond words, sighing in pleasure to reassure him
he had not hurt her. Never had she known a sensation like this,
this feeling of fullness, of sweet, intense completion that was so
deeply satisfying.

Threading her fingers through his hair, she
pulled his head down to hers. Groaning, he kissed her, his tongue
parting her lips even as that male part of him parted her
below.

And then he began to move, withdrawing and
then thrusting forward. Silky, sliding, probing the depths of her
body.

She trembled at this new sensation, moaning
into his mouth, caressing his tongue with hers. Sharing his breath,
his body, his soul. Wanting to feel this complete, this cherished
all the rest of her life.

And then without conscious thought, she
began to move beneath him, instinctively seeking and matching his
rhythm in a passionate dance. Her hips rose to meet his long
strokes, drawing a muffled growl from deep in his throat. Enjoying
his response, she did it again, moving her hips in a slow,
deliberate circle this time.

He lifted his mouth from hers, shutting his
eyes, clenching his teeth. “Ciara, be care—”

“Mmmm …” Lost in the feeling, she repeated
the interesting, provocative motion once more.

And felt his entire body convulse as if
whipped by a lash. He choked out a curse, pressing his forehead
against her shoulder as he exploded within her, throbbing, pumping
deep inside her for a long, endless moment, his seed and a muted
roar of release pouring from him.

Seized by spasms that she could feel
rippling through his muscles, he collapsed atop her, pressing her
back into the furs. She wrapped her arms around him with a smile,
welcoming his weight, holding him tight, stroking his back, his
hair. It was over rather sooner than she had expected, but that did
not lessen her soul-deep joy and satisfaction.

After his breathing returned to normal a
long moment later, a different sound rumbled in his throat. He
lifted his head, looking down at her from beneath his tousled black
hair, those dark eyes glazed with passion and an unexpected spark
of amusement.

“There is simply no stopping you, is there,
my little one?”

She blinked up at him. “Did I do some—”

“Nay,” he assured her quickly, dropping
kisses on her nose, her lips, her chin. “Nay, you did naught wrong.
God’s breath, you are the most … I have never …” He gave up
trying to express what he felt in words. “It is only that I had
planned to take longer,” he whispered in her ear, “and take you
with me.”

“Oh.” With a relieved smile, she nuzzled her
cheek against his, secretly pleased in a thoroughly female way that
she had made him lose control. “My apologies, milord,” she
teased.

Chuckling, he kissed her, long and slowly,
before he eased himself from her body, despite her moan of protest.
The instant he was gone from her, she felt a loss, an emptiness. As
if she had lost part of herself.

But he only moved to her side to take the
soft kirtle from beneath her, and she saw the spots of scarlet, the
stain of her lost maidenhood. He tenderly pressed the wisp of
cotton against her, removing any mark from her, from him. When he
moved away from her again, it was to place the garment in the
fire.

She felt many emotions, none of them regret.
The strongest was her love for him, her joy at what they had
shared. And a sense of contentment and pride and pleasure that she
was no longer a maiden, but a woman—his woman.

“Now, milady,” he whispered huskily,
returning to her side, kneeling on the fur. “This time I mean to
make good on my promise.”

Her heart pounded with excitement as she saw
that he was already aroused again, as she realized that their night
of loving had just begun. She smiled at him in surprise and wonder
and anticipation. Reaching up, she thought to draw him down to her,
her breath quickening at the thought of his muscled body covering
and claiming hers once more.

But when he caught her hands, he instead
pulled her up until she was kneeling before him. Sitting back on
his heels, he gazed at her with sparkling eyes and a wicked smile,
tugging her forward. She did not understand at first.

But then he showed her what he wanted, using
his hands and a few instructive whispers. With a little sound of
curiosity and arousal, she moved until she was astride him, her
knees parted wide, the silken core of her body hovering just above
his hard length. She trembled, feeling very vulnerable and
open.

Until he arched his hips and pressed her
downward, and the blunt tip gently invaded her. The sound of her
groan matched his as she lowered herself over him, astonished at
how deeply she could take him in this position. How utterly he
filled her.

His hands slid up and down her back,
clasping her to him as he began to move, and they renewed their
dance of ecstasy. It took only an instant for her to discover that
she was perfectly positioned in another way—for him to lavish
kisses on her lips, her neck, her breasts. He suckled and teased as
she arched her body, as she sheathed that steely part of him within
her softness.

The tension whirled tight within her, faster
and stronger this time, a wildness she could feel building even
more powerfully than before. Caught in its grasp, she surrendered,
clinging to his shoulders and meeting every stroke as he thrust
deeper, harder.

He drew her mouth down to his for a kiss,
and when she lifted her head to gasp for breath, opening her eyes,
she could
see
as well as feel what it meant to have him
inside her. Staring down, she saw their bodies joined as one,
bathed by the golden light of the fire.

She watched in fevered fascination as he
withdrew from her, letting her see that hard male part of him
glistening with her body’s dew. He pulled out all the way, then
rubbed against her, sleek and wet over the swollen bud of her own
desire, pleasuring her while she watched.

Uttering soft, sharp cries, she shifted
against him, recapturing him, feeling the storm so close to
breaking. He slid inside her, deeply but slowly, so very slowly.
She felt him shuddering as much as she was, every rock-hard muscle
of his body beginning to tremble.

Moving urgently, rising and falling as one,
they strained upward into the hot, bright, dazzling lightning.
Faster now, they raced higher, soaring, reaching for it, wildly.
Together.

And then in the span of a single heartbeat
they found it, plunged to the heights of a scorching shower of
ecstasy that burst inside them both at once, ripping through them
in a rain and thunder of power and pleasure. He held her fiercely
as she felt him inside her, around her, shattering at the same time
she did, his seed pumping deeply into the core of her being.

Spent, moaning, collapsing together, they
fell back onto the fur, Ciara tumbling atop him, and their lips met
in long, slow, hungry kisses.

He caught handfuls of her hair, loving her
mouth as he had just loved her body. Passionately, deeply.
Tenderly. And this time he did not leave her, remained joined to
her.

And a few minutes later, when she felt his
body stir within her, when he rolled her onto her back and pressed
her down into the fur once more, she welcomed him with whispers of
love.

***

It was more than an hour later that she
stood near the closed window, wrapped only in a sheet, watching him
dress.

Watching as he donned the black leggings and
tunic, the gloves, the boots. He had already blackened his face
with soot from the hearth.

She blinked away the moisture in her eyes.
Refused to think of the dangers he was facing.
Nine days
,
she told herself stubbornly. She would see him again in nine days.
Until then …

Dear God and all the heavens, she was not
sure she could survive so long without him. Did not know how she
was going to conceal her feelings for him during his absence.

How could anyone look at her and not know
that she had spent this magical night being thoroughly ravished in
the arms of the man she loved? Saints’ breath, her body still
burned from his touch. She felt certain she must glow like the
sun.

She would spend as much of the time as
possible in her chamber, she decided, fearing that someone would
notice her passion-bruised lips, a certain lambent look in her
eyes. Now that her mission as a rebel spy was ended, there was no
need for her to spend her time elsewhere. She would stay here.

And pray for him.

Picking up his ropes and equipment, he
turned toward her, and she felt tears pooling in her eyes. Once
again, she had to say farewell to this man she loved like no
other.

But she could not say it this time.

“Come back to me,” she said lightly, smiling
up at him. “And do try to be a bit cleaner next time, my sooty
baron.”

His grin shone white. “I shall do my best,
milady.” He reached out and cupped her cheek with one hand, the
leather of his gauntlet soft against her skin. “I will return in
time for the wedding,” he whispered. “
Our
wedding.”

“Do not be late.”

“I promise” He brushed his thumb across her
lower lip. “Farew—”

She stopped the word with her fingertips,
not allowing him to say it. “Until I see you again,” she corrected,
her gaze burning into his. “Until I see you again.”

C
iara stood at the
entrance to the cathedral, desperately wishing that someone would
awaken her from this nightmare.

Dressed in her gold silk wedding gown, the
long train trailing behind her, she stared down the aisle toward
the priest.

And her groom.

Prince Daemon stared back at her, his gaze
colder than usual, his sneering upper lip drawn into a tight
smile—which was purely for the benefit of the scores of nobles
assembled in the pews.

She had delayed as long as she dared. He was
already furious with her for keeping everyone waiting all morn.
Numb with fear and denial, she stepped forward, into the vast
sanctuary made of gray stone and brilliantly colored glass, into
the smell of incense and the chanting of the choir Daemon had
brought in from Avignon.

And she prayed that she would awaken. Now.
Before this nightmare could go any further.
Awaken … awaken
… awaken …

But she was not asleep. It was all horribly,
inescapably real. As real as the heavy royal robes she wore, the
jeweled crown on her head, the lords and ladies garbed in velvet
and silk who had been awaiting her arrival for two hours.

As real as the nine days that had passed,
and the tears she had cried last night and this morn.

Not blinking, not even breathing, she walked
down the smooth, stone-paved aisle toward the altar. Toward her
inescapable fate.

With each step, the horrifying images filled
her mind, the ones that had torn at her heart for days: of a black
mountain too difficult to climb, of ropes shredded by glassy stone,
of Royce pushing himself too hard and losing his footing, falling
to the bottom of a cliff …

She did not know what had happened to him.
All she knew was that something had gone terribly wrong. Miriam had
received no word from the men.

It was as if the rebels had gone into the
Ruadhans and vanished. Swallowed up by the greedy maw of the
Gunlaug.
The Maker of Widows.

She blinked hard and the red-and-gold
banners that swathed the cathedral danced in her vision. Even as
she moved closer to the altar, conscious of all eyes upon her, she
kept hoping. Waiting. Thinking that Royce would burst in through
the church doors. Rescue her as he had so many times before. Carry
her away from this place. This moment. This man.

But he did not come.

She was alone.

Not even Miriam had been allowed to attend
the ceremony. There was no place at his wedding for servants,
Daemon had scoffed.

She was within a few paces of the altar when
she noticed Hadwyn and Jarek, standing at the front of the twin
lines of guardsmen that streamed down either side of the church.
The guards were all dressed in silks, each holding a halberd, a
tall pole weapon with a curving, axlike blade at one end—their
presence clearly intended to impress everyone with Daemon’s
power.

Jarek’s eyes met hers, but she subtly shook
her head. If they made any move against the prince, it would cost
them their lives. Too much blood had already been spilled. She
could not let them try to interfere.

She had but one choice now: to do her duty,
fulfill the betrothal agreement, protect her people.

When she reached the altar at last, Daemon
grabbed her hand. Though his wolfish smile was wide, even
triumphant, his grip was bruising, as if to let her know he was
displeased that she had kept him waiting.

No doubt he would show her just how
displeased in less subtle ways, later when they were alone.

A numbing buzz filled her head as the choir
ended its chanting and the priest began speaking in Latin. She was
only remotely aware of the words. Could think of naught but a
single phrase that kept repeating over and over in her mind until
it became a certainty.

Royce is dead
.

It hit her like a blow to the center of her
body, but somehow she remained standing. Somehow her heart kept
beating. But her strength, her breath, her soul all seemed to flow
out of her, taking with them the last of her courage. And her
hope.

The priest reached the place in the ceremony
when she must make her vows, asking in somber tones whether she
would take this man as her husband.

She looked up at Daemon, one last spark of
spirit igniting within her.
Nay, not this man. Not him. Not
Daemon. Nay, she could not.