Chapter Twenty-Three

Bridget’s knees melted right out from under her. She should be fighting him, condemning him. Instead, she clutched desperately at him, silently begging him to kiss her and no one else.

He wore one of those thick quilted gambesons that provided no purchase, so her hands scrabbled wildly. His arms caught her round the waist, holding her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. But she didn’t need air to breathe. His kiss was sustenance enough.

That scratchy, salty, voracious conquering of her mouth that she’d been yearning so desperately for, since that first morning. It fed her, nourished her. She wanted more. But he left her mouth too soon, swiping a damp trail with his tongue over her jaw and back to her ear, where his hot breath scalded and aroused.

He flicked at the opening of her ear, weakening her legs even more. Everywhere, her skin tingled as if embers were sparking into fire. Her head fell back, and his greedy lips tumbled their way down her neck. He lifted her high to reach where he needed.

The manliest part of him, fiery like a branding iron, dug into her hip, so close to her woman’s core. The knowledge that she’d done that to him thrilled her. She had been around enough animals to know males became aroused when they were sexually interested. And to know he was sexually interested in her—

Do not lose yourself in baser needs, a voice within her cautioned, too entrenched to be forgotten. He will only hurt you.

Her air clogged in her throat.

Aislinn loves him, the voice cautioned, too strong to be ignored.

His mouth was in her hair. The tips of her breasts flamed with want. She could feel the hard points of them pushing through her gown. At least his thick gambeson prevented him from knowing the shameful fact.

“Wait,” she whispered, battling to catch her wits, pushing against his arms. “Wait. This, I know will frighten Aislinn.”

“But it doesn’t frighten you,” he whispered in her ear.

Her mind went still. ’Twas true, he didn’t frighten her. This didn’t frighten her. She liked it. She liked him, trusted him. And she wanted to know just where this…activity…could lead.

But it mattered not how she felt about it. She was supposed to be showing him how to kiss Aislinn.

“I feel your desire,” he said, his breath rasping at her temple. “Your breasts yearn for my touch.”

Her skin almost exploded from her bones. She wanted to be mortified that her body reacted without her will, but she wasn’t. Still, this was going too far. She pushed at him again, though her fingers instinctively clasped those granite, virile arms at the same time. If only they were hers to hold her forever…

“You cannot say that to Aislinn. Or do this sort of thing. You must show more restraint with her.”

“I like that I don’t have to show restraint with you.” He tugged her back to him, his hands round her waist, his fingers dangerously close to the undersides of her breasts. Then, as he kissed her lips, his warm palm covered a soft mound, and his thumb brushed one desperate tip.

A moan escaped her as her body constricted with longing.

With monumental effort, she shoved at him. “If you don’t curb this wickedness, ’twill be a long time ere she goes to you willingly.”

As if someone had splashed a bucket of cold water over them both, he stilled, dragging his lips from her, slackening his embrace. His eyes were almost black, his chest heaving as he stared down at her.

The enormity of what had just happened, what she’d discovered—about him…about herself—hit her. She feared that her wantonness, this aching want in her marrow, could not be stopped with all the prayers in the world. She should be ashamed. But instead of horror, what she’d felt when his thick rod prodded her, seeking her, was excitement and…hope.

Merciful saints, would the Martyred Virgins still accept her?

She stepped back from him. That he let her go so willingly sent her heart plummeting to her toes. Why did he not reach for her again? A look of anger masked his face like a mummer’s costume. Did shame besiege him, too?

But then—something snagged his attention over her shoulder. His face changed to utter sobriety. He put a hand on her upper arm, gently, and stepped round her. She turned about.

His man, Albert, was riding toward them. Behind him rose the barren, high swell of Dead Viking Fell and the ancient dirt road snaking up the face of it. Shyleburgh Keep towered at the summit.

Sir Albert shouted as he drew near. “Sedgeburn Heath is under attack.”

“Black Hand?” FitzHenri asked, exchanging a quick glance with her.

“Very likely,” Albert said.

Bridget’s heart leaped to her throat. Sedgeburn Heath was just on the other side of the fell. Too close!

FitzHenri jumped upon his mount and leaned down, reaching toward her. “We need haste. You must ride with me.”

“Buttermilk!”

“Albert will bring her. We must get you to safety.”

He cut off her next words by lifting her into the air and draping her none too gently over his lap. He set his spurs to Phoenix, and away they bolted, across the footbridge and up the face of the hill. The fiery arousal she’d been feeling drained away. Terror had taken its place.