The Irish Warrior Part 17

"But there it is," she replied. Was that a smile underlying her words? Was the clerical virgin from the English Midlands teasing him?

No, he thought gloomily. The sharp-witted G.o.ddess who'd freed him from prison was teasing him.

"Don't, Senna," he said in a warning tone.

"But...why not?"

"Ye're playing with fire."

"Maybe I want to play with fire."

"Then ye'll get burned."

"What if I kissed you?" she asked in that low, sultry voice.

As far as he could tell, Senna was no maven. She did not use her body for much beyond getting her quill-holding fingers from one contract to another. Surely, she did not negotiate negotiate with it. When she spoke in this husky-throated manner, she was probably just being innocently aroused, and discreet. with it. When she spoke in this husky-throated manner, she was probably just being innocently aroused, and discreet.

It sounded like she was sending him s.e.x on her tongue.

"If ye kissed me, Senna," he ground out, "I'd lay ye out on the gra.s.s and have ye howling to the sky, if all the soldiers in Ireland were riding for us."

She blinked. Her mouth rounded into an 'O.' 'O.' Then she said it. "Oh." She sat back at the other end of the boat. Then she said it. "Oh." She sat back at the other end of the boat.

"Are ye still feeling reckless?" he asked with grim satisfaction.

She stared out at the sh.o.r.eline, at the pa.s.sing trees and meadows. She shook her head.

"No. Yes. I mean, yes. I'm feeling highly reckless, but recklessness has not served me well." He held his silence, thinking she'd probably never acted reckless in her entire life. "It doesn't seem the best of plans, does it, to go about being reckless?"

He disagreed. He thought it a fine, fine idea, perhaps the best in years. But all he said was, "Then see ye don't toy with me, Senna. I'm not a boy."

"I didn't think I was toying."

He started paddling. "Now ye know."

"Now I know."

The autumn sun was feisty, hot and bright. It was like a golden stage. It shone behind her so brightly it was as if she were floating in gold, was was gold. She turned to him and he felt desire pulsing off her, onto him. gold. She turned to him and he felt desire pulsing off her, onto him.

"And yet, Finian, I feel quite quite reckless." reckless."

He set down his paddle very deliberately. How was a man to fight this knowing innocence?

"Really?" he ground out. Her face flushed. His heart slowed into a hot-rushing, sluggish beat. "I wonder."

"What?" Her voice was unsteady, but her eyes were locked in his: she wanted what he had.

He went hard like he hadn't in a dozen years. It was the waiting. The torment of wanting her all this time and not being able to have her. (It hasn't been fully three days some dim recess of his mind pointed out.) There was nothing special about her or the arousal she conjured, he a.s.sured himself. Just a woman with a staggering mind, a blade-sharp wit, and a body men would lick dirt to touch. some dim recess of his mind pointed out.) There was nothing special about her or the arousal she conjured, he a.s.sured himself. Just a woman with a staggering mind, a blade-sharp wit, and a body men would lick dirt to touch.

"If I asked ye to do something," he said in a low voice, "would ye do it?"

"Aye," she exhaled.

"Run yer hand up yer leg."

A hot whimper trailed out of her. She looked down at the hand she had draped over one knee. So did he. Her fingers fluttered, then she trailed them up her inner thigh so slowly he could count to ten. It was the only way to avoid complete embarra.s.sment, counting was. One of her feet slipped forward, and she braced it against the rib bone of the hull. He felt himself slipping into the churning vortex of l.u.s.t.

She stopped her lazy travel north just below the juncture of her legs. Her slim fingers hung there, knuckles slightly bent, in what he knew would be hot s.p.a.ce, high and tight between her thighs.

He raked his gaze up her body, which was now slouched back against the prow of the curaigh, curaigh, her forearm draped over her belly, her lips parted, her eyes waiting for him. her forearm draped over her belly, her lips parted, her eyes waiting for him.

"Now what?" she asked breathlessly.

A taunt, a test, a true question? And if he answered, then what? Take her virginity and break her heart? Because that is all he had in him. He was capable of nothing more.

He smashed his fingers through his hair and almost dropped the paddle. He grabbed it just before it fell in the water.

"Now, naught, Senna."

She struggled to sit straight. "What?"

He started paddling. "Sit back. Note the view."

"But-"

"And put them on."

"What?" Confusion marked her voice. "Put what on?"

"Every st.i.tch of clothing you've got. And possibly a few of mine as well," he added in what he hoped was a firm, no-negotiation tone. But with Senna, he was discovering, one did not necessarily get what one demanded with one's tone.

"Oh, but Finian," she protested, plucking at the damp, bedraggled rags barely reaching to midthigh. A feminine, curving midthigh he wanted to run his hand up, then his tongue. "Everything's wet, and-"

"Put them on, or I'm not going any farther." He also wasn't looking at her. How long could he do that, avoid making any sort of perusal of his companion's burning, curving, pink-tinged body? A minute? Three?

They had days days ahead of them. He groaned. ahead of them. He groaned.

With poor grace, she flung her leather tunic and leggings on, grumbling. "Is that better?" she demanded when she was done.

How would he know? He wasn't looking at her.

"'Tis just fine," he replied shortly.

She sat back in the boat and glared.

Chapter 22.

Senna's glare, set and determined though it was, did nothing to provide a solution to a single problem in her life.

She did not want to be in this boat, with Finian, not being touched. And that was madness. But something burning and insistent had been awakened inside her. She wanted him to touch her, was practically desperate for him to. That was ridiculous, and perhaps a sign of impending madness.

Rather than worrying about Rardove and his fury, or how she was going to salvage the business, or how she would ever get home again, and if she had a home to go to in any event, all her attention was focused on how to get this Irishman to touch her.

d.a.m.n the whisky.

All ensuing conversation that afternoon was desultory at best. It was getting toward late afternoon, and Senna was dying of heat. And boredom. The boat slipped effortlessly down the small river. Whenever a village appeared in the distance, Finian made her lie down flat again. Otherwise, nothing happened. Little talking, no touching.

And the heat.

"Can we pull to the side?" she suddenly asked.

He looked at her like she was mad. "Are ye mad?"

"No," she said very slowly, as if he might not understand. "I am mucky. I stink."

He sniffed. "Ye do not."

"You are mad. I've been lying in muck." are mad. I've been lying in muck."

"We're not stopping."

Dour silence ensued.

"Just the tunic," she said a few moments later.

The look he shot her was murderous. "Don't."

She threw him an equally warning glance. "I'm hot."

And it was hot. At this moment, probably the hottest it would be all day.

"Don't."

"I'm dying of the heat." She panted plaintively, to demonstrate. He looked away.

"If any of yer clothes come off, Senna, I'll roll ye into the river."

She gasped. "Just the-"

"Splash," he said ominously. She drew back. "Have ye learned to swim yet, in the last hour or so?"

"Of course not."

"Then sit back."

"I am sitting back," she retorted sourly.

"We'll be there soon."

"Not soon enough."

He snorted.

"You really do snort a lot."

"Ye complain a lot." He nailed her with a look. "Why don't ye take a rest? Lie on the packs, close yer eyes?"

And my mouth, she thought crossly. she thought crossly.

In the end, they came to an unpleasant compromise, wherein Senna perched over the side and washed her face and armpits and everything she could reach by pulling things aside but not actually disrobing, while Finian sat backward in his seat and stared the other way up the river.

"I'm all done," she sang out.

He turned in stony silence and started paddling again.

An hour later she was about to go mad. No conversation, all heat and boredom, and the only reason her belly wasn't heaving dried bread and cheese over the side was because the tributary they traveled was shallow. The boat didn't rock much, and rarely shot forward with any purpose. But still, it was not not comfortable. comfortable.

She shifted for perhaps the hundredth time, levering herself to her knees, which creaked. She groaned and put a hand to her spine. "I think my back is broken." Her leg suddenly cramped. She grabbed it and tried to pound it out.

"Do ye know much about boats, Senna?" he asked sharply.

She eyed him. The cramp was fading. "Some."

"Then ye likely know ye don't want to fling yourself about like you're in a mad carol. Or you'll tumble over the side."

"Is that so?" she said derisively.

A cool Irish gaze sailed over her. "Keep jostling and ye'll find out."

She looked at the sh.o.r.eline, sliding away. "I can help, you know."

He barely glanced at her.

"With paddling. I can take a turn."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because we're almost there."

In her excitement at the news, she tried to turn and kneel on the small wooden bench. The boat eddied around a little cove just then and hit a rock, unseen beneath the water. The boat lurched, Senna slid off the bench, her foot hit the bottom of the old boat hard, in just the right way, and went straight through into the water below.