Irish: The Irish Princess Part 19

His gaze lingered over her body before rising to meet hers. "Starved."

She pulled the platter within his reach, sampling an apricot as he slapped cheese and mutton onto bread and ate.

"Tell me what has transpired since I left."

I missed you, she thought, then smiled a bit. "Naught. Jana birthed her child, a fat, healthy boy." Her smile widened, delighting him in ways he could not describe "He arrived screaming to Coleraine. Mayhaps his father might hear him and come for her."

Gaelan glanced, the remains of the mutton halfway to his lips. "The father is not here?" That shames Jana, he remembered. None to pay the honor for the child.

She shook her head. "She was captured whilst she visited her mother in west Antrim." She sighed, slow and long, looking off. "Jana will never confess if he raped her or nay, but I could not let her stay a captive."

"You?"

She sent him an arched look. "Aye, me. And Driscoll and ten warriors."

"You just walked into the camp and took her back."

Clearly he didn't believe it possible. "Nay, I confronted him. When he chose not to release her, we stole her back."

"Without being seen?"

"Aye." She smiled to herself, privately, mysteriously. "'Twas a bit of fog that night." She stood, taking the platter away, then dipped her finger in the water. "'Tis cold, and you will wrinkle like a dried apple."

Gaelan did not think aught on his anatomy could shrink with her so close, then jolted when she poured the hot pitcher full between his knees. "You seek to ruin me, woman?" he said with a dry look, stirring the water.

Mischievous fairies possessed her then, she swore, when she peered down at the water barely covering his arousal. "Will hardly do damage, I'm thinkin'."

"A good wife would check." Hope colored his tone.

She arched a brow, the temptation daring her to call his bluff. "I'm sure you'll be risin' above the discomfort, my lord," she said, and he choked a laugh as she ladled water over his shoulder, then held out soap and a rag.

Gaelan took it, not daring to let her wash him, yet as he lathered the cloth, she spooned water over his head and soaped it. Naught in this life compared to her strong fingers in his hair, he thought, closing his eyes, feeling her body brush his back as she ma.s.saged and played with the suds. He cast a look over his shoulder and she grinned. His gaze swept up and he could see horns fashioned in stiff soap.

"Brat," he muttered, and she shoved him forward and dumped a fresh pitcher laced with cold over his head. He came up shaking like a dog and she shrieked, lurching back and nearly falling in the fire. Rising half out of the tub, Gaelan s.n.a.t.c.hed a fistful of her gown, hearing it tear as he yanked her forward. She slammed against him, knocked breathless, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

Gazes met and locked.

Suddenly he scooped her in his arms and brought her down into the tub with him.

Water splashed on the stone floor. "Oh, for the love of Michael! Husband!" She tried getting up, but he held tight.

"Look at me."

She did, shoving her hair from her eyes and trying to ignore the hard shaft wedged against her hip.

"You had this tub made for me, didn't you?" He gestured to the freshly coopered wood, large enough to fit his bulk well.

"Aye." Her lips curved playfully. "Don't want you stinking up the castle, do we now?"

"Ahh, Siobhan, I love it when you smile for me." He traced the shape of her lips with his fingertip. "When you show me the wild girl still locked inside you." She looked confused for a moment. "There is a part of you that hides, especially from me."

"Is not."

"Is too." His smile softened to a somber look that robbed her breath. "No one has ever done such for me, la.s.s." He glanced about the room, his place in it. "Not like this." He brought his gaze back to hers, his hand moving over her back.

Oh, sweet believer. The pleasure on his face was worth the effort. "'Twas naught."

But it was, for it wasn't part of the bargain, and that burrowed deep into his heart. His hand slid over her legs, dangling over the lip of the tub, and he watched her eyes glow darker. "'Tis a bit of hope that we could be civil." His hand slipped deep beneath her hem.

She covered it. "Civil, is it now?"

His smile spoke volumes as he tugged at the sopping fabric. "That gown is not fit enough for Grayfalk's back."

"Then he does not have to wear it, does he, now?"

A devilish light filled his dark eyes. "Mayhaps you should remove it?"

Bracing her hands to his chest, she heaved from the bath, but he was fast, rising, catching her about the waist and tossing her over his shoulder.

She shrieked. Water dripped. He took several steps and pitched her on the bed.

She bounced, shoving hair from her eyes. "I am not a sack of grain, husband. Cease this nonsense."

"Take it off." He stood before her, brazen bare and rampant. And destroying her composure. "My lord?" She scrambled off the opposite side of the bed, the sight of his body, his erection prepared for pleasure, arousing her into madness.

"Off." He bent a knee to the mattress. She skipped out of his reach. Gaelan stepped back, rounding the foot. Siobhan lurched past, sliding over the bed. "Come here, woman."

She had the make-me look in her eyes he was beginning to adore.

Gaelan pressed his knee to the foot of the bed and when she tried shooting past, he leapt, throwing her on her back and covering her with his body. He smiled down at her.

"Surrender."

His arousal lay heavy against her thigh, the heat of it making her squirm. "Never."

With a diabolical chuckle, he clipped her wrists in one hand above her head and slipped her dagger free. Her eyes flew wide as he rolled off her just enough to catch the blade tip in the neckline and rent the gown to her waist.

"Husband," she gasped.

"Now 'tis a rag." Gaelan tossed the blade aside, laying a long look down her body, her rapidly rising chest before he kissed her, taking her mouth ferociously. She responded with equal fervor, battling back, straining against him, and he thrust his knee between her thighs, rubbing, spreading her, trapping her with his leg to the gown and leaving her vulnerable to his touch. And he would touch, just as he knew he must control his own pa.s.sion, suppress it. Battle had taught him that, and this was a little siege he planned to savor-and win.

A whimper worked in her throat as he spread the gown and Siobhan did not know if she was struggling against him or to him. Then he touched her, his callused hand molding her flesh, diving beneath the torn gown to stroke her belly, her hip. She wanted more and nearly shouted for him to touch lower.

He left her mouth, holding her gaze as he bent to draw her nipple between his lips.

"My lord," she breathed.

"I swear I will make you say my name."

"Hah," came in a choke as his tongue circled and flicked; then he drew deeply again on the delicate peak before he paid homage fit for a sovereign to its mate. By then she was arching into him, jerking on his hold, and he released her wrists and moved lower, licking her ribs and parting the gown as he did. The rip of old fabric stirred her. Siobhan felt her insides shift and loosen, her flesh damp and aching. His moves were deep, unhurried, staggering her will, and she wanted to watch, to see his mouth on her, see his face, but pride bade her nay. She gripped his shoulders, her body slickening.

Then he tore the gown to her knees, his weight gone, and as she looked up, he quickly spread her thighs and covered her softness with his mouth. She cried out loudly, and he chuckled, parting her flesh, probing the dewy fold with his velvet tongue.

She squirmed, trying to bend her leg and ease the throbbing.

He refused her. "Say my name."

"Nay."

Falling back on his haunches, he caught the tattered fabric and yanked her to her feet, stripping off the remnants of the gown, loving that she swayed unsteadily, and before she could pull away, he caught her hips in his broad hands, tipping her to the heat of his mouth.

He licked.

"Oh, my stars." Her legs threatened to fold and she caught the bedpost, his lips and tongue giving her pleasure she never knew existed. "This is madness," she muttered, her fingers twining through his hair. Her hips rocked.

"Say it."

She looked down, the sight of him, his head between her thighs horribly arousing.

Then he drew her leg over his broad shoulder. "Say my name."

"My lord."

His tongue snaked, flicking the core of her. Her knees buckled and she reached above and held on to the bedpost.

"My name."

"PenDragon."

He smiled, smoothing his hands up the back of her thighs and dipping his fingers between. Her breathing quickened deliciously. "Say my name, Siobhan."

Tasting her still, he parted her, plunging two fingers inside her.

"Oh-oh, sweet mercy." The beat of her desire throbbed through her, quick and blazing. He could feel it, in feminine muscles flexing and pawing against his touch, in the flesh quivering with the coming peak.

She rocked.

He moaned encouragement, withdrew and plunged deeper. "My name."

"My lord," she gasped, grinding to him, shameless, unbridled in pleasure.

Siobhan accepted it, let it shower her like hot rain, her body reaching for the undiscovered rapture just on the edge. Always on the edge.

He tortured her, demanding his name again in surrender.

She refused, and his tongue circled the bud of her desire over and over. She cried out in her language. Cursing him in one long moan and still, he mastered her body.

Still, he tasted her desire.

Her pa.s.sion-slick muscles clamped and pulsed, and Gaelan lifted his gaze, watching her climax spread through her, her head tipped back, her fingers deep in his hair. Her lips parted in breathless pants, her eyes closed against the tension trying to escape.

Suddenly she inhaled, bowing from the bedpost like a silken banner caught in the wind.

He drank her ecstasy, felt it rip through him with a ruthlessness that unmanned him, fractured his control and made him spill his seed.

Her pleasure was his.

He took her to the edge and over it and when she sank boneless, Gaelan rose, gathering her in his arms and laying her gently on the bed. Her lashes swept up and he saw tears. He knelt, and she touched a trembling finger to his cheek, his jaw, then across his lips. There was no shame in her expression, only satisfaction and a bit of confusion. "Siobhan?"

"I never felt that afore."

"I know." He wanted to flex and roar just then. "You liked it, aye?"

"Me moanin' like the banshee tell you that?"

Gaelan loved how her voice rose in questioning pitch at the end of a sentence.

"Where do we go now?"

He shrugged, yet his eyes held a plea that had little to do with contracts and bargains or making love. "Wherever you like."

Chapter 15.

Siobhan stretched, arching like a cat, and Gaelan's gaze followed the slip of the sheet exposing her beautifully pale breast. b.r.e.a.s.t.s he'd the pleasure of loving last night. Along with a few other delectable parts. The memory of her abandon, her taste, made him hard and hungry to discover the rest of her.

Siobhan blinked awake and turned her head. He was on his side, elbow bent, his head propped on his list.

"Good morn, wife."

'Twas odd, she thought, to see a man in her bed after so many years. Her gaze slid over him, his thick arms and his carved chest, to the sheet pooled at his waist. "Good morn, husband."

His eyes, so dark and filled with mischief, glowed. "What else must I do to get you to say my name?"

Her face flamed to the roots of her hair. "You did not get it last eve, did you now?"

"I am most willing to try again." He reached.