The Irish Warrior Part 19

Rardove exploded. He bent his knees and upended the huge oaken table with a roar. A jug of wine and half a dozen scrolled parchments careened into the air, held a moment, then came crashing back down into the rushes Rardove was now stomping across, hurling curses and objects through the air as he went. The jug smashed, and pottery shards skittered everywhere. The table came crashing back to the ground, too heavy to be overturned completely. It trembled on all four legs.

"G.o.d's b.l.o.o.d.y bones! bones!" Rardove punched the door of a wardrobe that held parchment and inks and wax for seals. It bounded open, the iron lock cranking wildly. He spun back and tried to yank the door off its hinges, then flung himself away, stalking across the room.

"G.o.dd.a.m.ned wh.o.r.e! wh.o.r.e!" He picked up one of the fallen earthenware jugs and threw it back onto the ground. It shattered into a hundred pieces. "She will kneel at my feet and beg beg-" He smashed his hand into a tallow candle hanging on the wall. It fell, still aflame. Pentony put out a toe and quietly extinguished it. "She will bend that G.o.dforsaken head and-"

Rardove went still and spun to the soldiers. "They were going downstream?"

The soldiers, now utterly pale and huddled together like ducklings, nodded energetically. "Downstream, indeed. Far downstream."

"Just so, milord. Downstream."

Rardove looked sharply at Pentony. "South. They're going south."

Pentony nodded.

"But, why?" His voice quieted, as if on some inward journey. He felt for the edge of the bench and sat. "Why south? O'Fail is to the north. What is O'Melaghlin up to?"

A few candles sputtered in their holders on the walls, casting pale, angular wedges of light across the room. One still huddled on the table, plunged deep enough in a puddle of tallow to have withstood the earlier quake. Its small, wavering light was almost depressing; it had no chance against the surrounding darkness.

Rardove stared at it, then cursed quietly.

"He's going to meet with the spy Red." His voice was hushed, perhaps in awe. "O'Melaghlin's taken over the mission. G.o.d's teeth. But...where? Where were they to meet? South. What lies south? Near enough for a foot journey, safe enough for the Irishry near my borders?"

His forearms were laid flat across the width of the huge oak table, a foot apart. The candle flame sucked and sputtered a few feet away as he sat, deep in thought. Then he lifted his head with a smile.

"Is not the abbess at Hutton's Leap an Irishwoman?"

But they both already knew the answer to that.

Rardove actually threw back his head and laughed. Another candle flickered out. Only one burned now, a fat tallow one, guttering in its iron holder on the wall.

Rardove called for one of his captains and gave his orders. "Any guests of the abbey, be they cleric or lay, round them up. Question them, break them. Find out if one is the elusive Red. Then bring him to me. Be quick about it. I expect you back by s.e.xt on the morrow."

The guard nodded and spun on his wooden heel. Turning back, Rardove sailed a brief look over the young, derelict soldiers. "Return the armor and find another lord."

Their mouths dropped open. "But sir-"

Rardove turned on them. "You were not at your posts. You were playing at shuttlec.o.c.ks, jacking off while an escaped prisoner sailed by your stupid faces. You do not know Finian fycking fycking O'Melaghlin when he's standing right in front of you. You are of no use to me. Begone. Or stay," he added, turning away, "and if either of you are here by O'Melaghlin when he's standing right in front of you. You are of no use to me. Begone. Or stay," he added, turning away, "and if either of you are here by couvre-feu, couvre-feu, it shall be your last." it shall be your last."

Pentony watched as they made their dazed way out, escorted by one of Rardove's faceless helmed guards. The baron had taken to keeping his personal guard with him at all times, even about the castle. Perhaps that was wise. There might be need for such caution. Especially if Balffe succeeded in bringing Lady Senna back.

Rardove reached for the candle on the wall and pinched it out.

Chapter 25.

"Why is it so dark?" Senna mumbled under her breath as she tripped over yet another tree root. But darkness wasn't the problem. It was her body.

Finian had healed her fingers, but the rest of her felt as if it had undergone a beating. Her hand was at the small of her back, cradling it as they scrambled up yet another hill. Her hips felt like they'd been stretched on a rack, or at least what she imagined such a torture would feel like. Her thighs actually burned, as if hot coals were ablaze under her skin. And her back...best not even to think of it.

"I believe I am somewhat the worse for wear," she said.

This time Finian replied, which he had not been doing for the last hour of hiking. Still, though, he was exceedingly curt, which he had been ever since the river.

"Ye'll be better off by tomorrow," he said. Curtly. "Three days is the charm. Yer body will get used to this manner of traveling."

"Ha." She flung knotted curls over her shoulder, spitting a tendril of hair out of her mouth.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Ye did fine back there."

Still curt, but communicative. She did not take her eyes off the treacherous, root-strewn ground below. "So did you. I had no notion you could mimic a man from Shropshire."

"I don't often find the need."

"No," she agreed ruefully. "I expect not."

He grunted. Senna scowled. Back to that, were they?

They walked for a long time, and Senna soon found that ignoring her painful muscles was one thing, but ignoring her growling stomach was quite another. By sunset her belly was reprimanding her at regular intervals.

She hadn't filched half enough food for them. She'd planned a quick trip to Dublin, not this trek across the marchlands. Cheese and dried meat were good, but they were almost gone, and she was hungry for real food, and above all, fresh meat.

He turned back regularly to watch for her welfare. Once he pulled her up the other side of a steep stream embankment, another time pushed her away from a deep creva.s.se she was about to blunder into.

"Sooth, woman," he growled from a few feet ahead after one such incident. "Can ye not keep your eyes open?"

"Sooth, woman," She mimicked his impatient tone, then stumbled and stubbed her toe. She hopped around on one foot, muttering. She mimicked his impatient tone, then stumbled and stubbed her toe. She hopped around on one foot, muttering.

He didn't look back and he didn't stop walking, but he said over his shoulder, "'Tis yer penalty for being contrary."

She glared at him. "'Tis, is it?"

"Aye."

Too weary to summon the strength for a good inhalation, she certainly could not come up with a good, biting retort. She yanked a tree branch out of her way then let it go. It slapped her bent backside as she walked under. She rubbed her nose and blundered on, each step a leaden effort, eyeing his back with an evil glare.

Long dark hair swung down past his shoulders. His chin was up, his shoulders back, and his gaze moved in a constant sweep of the land. The plated muscles of his thighs worked tirelessly, eating up the miles between them and a modic.u.m of safety. He hopped over a downed tree trunk and, pushing lightly on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, leapt the width of a small creek. Landing without a sound in the thick, fecund earth on the far side, he turned and extended a hand for her.

Accursed Irish.

She glared at his upright figure across the creek. Her spine was curved in an endless, creaking bend. Her feet were screaming, her thighs burning, and if he did anything else agile or energetic, she would cuff him. Simply reach out and smack him on the back of the head.

She crawled over the greening stump, her nose pressed into the moss. Disdaining his help, she leapt over the creek, tripped as she took off, and landed smack in the center of the babbling stream, wetting herself to the knee.

Cursed Irish. Irish.

He said nothing as she slogged up beside him, squishing and squeaking. Slanting evening light sliced between the tree branches and lit up the contours of his impa.s.sive face, but as soon as she opened her mouth, he shook his head and turned away.

Some time later, he finally halted them. "We'll camp here for a meal," he announced curtly.

All in all, he was being very curt, which she considered highly unfair. She was the rejected party. Curtness was hers.

She sat down beside the pit as he gathered wood. Sleep would solve a few of her problems. For a little while.

But when Finian sat down nearby, even sleep became a lost cause. "Let me see yer fingers," he said. Again, curtly. He extended his hand.

She retracted hers, holding it to her chest. "They are hale."

He regarded her with a disheartening mixture of disgust and perceptiveness. "Senna-"

"Grand."

Had her teeth just gritted?

"What was that?" he said, looking around.

She glanced over her shoulder, as if seeking the source of the strange, creaking noise. "Perhaps another bird. Some are ground dwelling, build their nests in rocks and such."

His gaze swung back around slowly. He pinned her with a long look, then got to his feet. "I'll have us some food before we hike out tonight."

"Tonight?" Her voice curved up high with incredulity. Horror. "We walk more this night?"

He paused in the act of bending to sweep up the bow he'd set on the ground. "Ye had a different plan?"

"Sleep?"

He cradled the smooth curving wood of the bow in hand. "Not ours yet. Just a few more hours." He turned away.

"Where are you going?"

"Hunting." He started out of the clearing, into the woods beyond.

"Wait. I can help," she called, furious to be so expendable, to be treated in such an offhand manner. To be so...left behind.

He drew to a halt, his wide shoulders almost, if she was seeing correctly, slumping. He turned around slowly. "What did ye say?"

"I can help." She gestured toward his bow. "Hunt."

His glittering eyes held hers. "Is that so?" he said, in such a low, feral tone it didn't sound like a question at all. It didn't even sound like he was the least bit pleased. "Then by all means, come."

He extended his hand in a mockery of politeness, allowing her to go first.

She swept haughtily by. "I've no notion what this mood is about, Finian, but I do wish you'd scratch whatever itch is causing it, for your mood is most foul."

Before she could finish the L in foul, foul, he had her arm locked in his grip and her body backed up against a tree. he had her arm locked in his grip and her body backed up against a tree.

"Scratch my itch, is it?" His eyes glittered dangerously, and Senna recalled he was a warrior first.

Then he spoke again, and in the onrush of deep, tempting fear, she understood he was a man first and last. A prime specimen of raw masculinity, virile, potent, hunting.

"Ye're my itch, Senna. I want to scratch my itch, Senna. I want to scratch ye. ye. No notion?" He stepped closer, his fingers gripping her arm like a vise. "Shall I give ye a notion? Shall I give ye some small inking of what I want to do to ye?" No notion?" He stepped closer, his fingers gripping her arm like a vise. "Shall I give ye a notion? Shall I give ye some small inking of what I want to do to ye?"

And like that, she was panting, her head spinning. One of his hands was on her arm, the other fisted against the tree over her head. In the dimming light, he was all solid, dark outline, his body taut, looming over her, closing in on her, dark, male energy about to consume.

He bent close to her ear. "Shall I tell ye, Senna, what I want?"

She whimpered something. Was it yes yes? Please Please? Whatever it was, he mustn't stop. She would die from the want of him.

"I want to run my hands up your side, take ye in my mouth. I'll start wherever ye want. I'll kneel down before yer body and worship ye."

Her knees weakened. He caught her and his hand moved just as he'd said, up her ribs, so tightly she felt he was lashing her with rope. His powerful thighs bunched and he pressed forward.

"I want to taste ye. Can I do that, Senna? Will ye let me do that?"

"Oh, Jesu," she whispered.

"Can I slide my hand up yer leg? Can I feel how wet ye are? Can I be inside ye? I want to be inside ye. Hard." His voice was like dark, perfect fury. He pushed his hand across her belly. "Do ye want me inside ye?"

"Aye," she said in a hot whisper. She threw her head back and banged the tree. His thighs were hot on hers, then his erection pressed against her belly. She pushed back urgently, recklessly, one wrist hooked around his neck, her body moving of its own accord, her breath coming out in hard, sharp pants. she said in a hot whisper. She threw her head back and banged the tree. His thighs were hot on hers, then his erection pressed against her belly. She pushed back urgently, recklessly, one wrist hooked around his neck, her body moving of its own accord, her breath coming out in hard, sharp pants.

"Do ye have a notion now, Senna?" he growled, his voice thumped by the rocking of her hips.

"Aye."

"Do ye want more?"

"Aye."

He slid his hands under her b.u.t.tocks and lifted her, so she was sitting on his hips, her thighs parted, dangling over his.

Trapped between the tree and his hot, sculpted body, she went senseless. Dimly, she heard herself whimper. The long, hard length of him pushed up between them, sliding over everything that throbbed in her body. Her hips pumped forward and he shoved into her, so every inch of them touched from hips to chest. Then he growled in her ear, "Do not move."

She went still. Every toned muscle of his body was rigid against hers. He shuddered slightly, and they stood absolutely still for half a minute. All she could hear was his ragged breath and the blood thudding inside her skull. Then he bent his head, his mouth by her ear, his words a dark, sensual threat. "I'll watch ye come, la.s.s."

Rampant shuddering chills jammed down her body as his mouth claimed hers in a deep and savage kiss. She returned every plunge of his tongue with one of her own, her fingers twisting into his hair. Her tongue, her teeth, her lips, he claimed everything, relentless in his pursuit, drawing senseless gasps and whimpers from her body until he finally came up for air, and dragged his lips along her neck and shoulder, leaving behind an amoral trail of heat.

He yanked down the collar of her tunic, revealing the tops of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She leaned her shoulders back to allow him access, her fingers in his hair, inviting him to do more, much more.

His eyes held hers, level and unreadable, as he pushed his hand up under her tunic, over her hot skin. Then his thumb brushed roughly over her breast. She closed her eyes, arching up. With a muted curse, he shoved her tunic up as high as he could, bent slightly to the side, and closed his hot mouth over her nipple.

Her breath came exploding out. He locked his hands around her hips, his mouth claiming her breast with confident, damaging skill. Dark hair fell down over his face as he licked her and, gripping her hips with both hands now, holding her immobilized, he tilted his hips, sliding his erection in a long, slow skate against her leggings and the shuddering, quivering, questing flesh beneath.

Her world exploded. Hot, rippling undulations rode through her muscles, fast and greedy. Her head dropped forward, then back, as she cried out, stunned. Nothing like the explosive power of this man had ever entered her life before. Nothing so potent, nothing so vital, not in her fettered life.