Irish Moon (23 page)

Ashlon leaned back in the wooden armed chair.
He suppressed a yawn. Circles showed beneath his eyes.

“We must return. If I am discovered gone, I
will no doubt be bound to my room, mayhap even chained to my bed.
And your health will suffer if you do not rest.” She didn’t wait
for him to follow after extinguishing the fire and candles.

As she left the cottage, she sensed rather
than heard Ashlon.

“Was it wise to light a
fire
?
Will smoke
not draw attention to our visit?”

“As Niall has completed his search and none
others have reason to, I can’t see the fire as a risk, no. And I
put it out.”

The light of dawn crept in as they strode
their way back, he following her noisily. She stopped. Ashlon
bumped into her back.

“You should go another way,” Breanne said,
facing him. “If someone came upon us….”

“You should not be alone.” His hand went to
his sword hilt.

“I will be fine. I know these woods well,
have walked them a thousand times alone.”

Ashlon shook his head.

“Sir Sinclair, I insist. It is far more
dangerous to risk being seen with you than alone. One would
immediately assume we’d been on a midnight tryst and your hand
would be forced.”

“I see it otherwise. I will go with you. If
we hear someone, I will hide.”

Breanne snorted. She couldn’t help it. “You
hide? Where? And I hardly think we’ll hear anything with all the
stamping about you’re doing.” She resumed walking, faster this
time.

“I will not leave you.”

“Then at least allow some distance between
us.” She heard silence and knew he’d stopped. She refused to thank
him, or turn around. Or feel disappointed. Breanne shook her head.
Why in all the stars would she feel disappointed in his maintaining
a distance? It was the only compromise and he’d taken it. She
should feel relieved.

If she were caught with him, she would not be
choosing any husband at Beltane. She’d be standing next in line
after her mother and Niall wed. And he was the last man she wanted
standing there with her. He was a knight, distasteful or not, had
belonged to the most esteemed and well-known company of
knights.

He chose a life of
potential war and battle, not out of necessity as a man did in
Ireland. In Ireland, the men might be battle
-
ready and mayhap even
battle
-
hungry
,
but
that could be expected when their land and country was continually
coveted by others.

The snap of twigs far behind told her just
how far a lead he’d given her. She wanted to look back, but knew
better. If she looked back, she looked weak. What she should do was
let him know just how capable she was in caring for and defending
herself.

Breanne smiled as she
pictured the outraged look on his face upon seeing her weapon or
worse
,
upon being
overtaken by her. A trill of giddiness leapt in her belly. Without
a glance back, she saw her opportunity approach with a bend in the
path she’d led them to.

* * * *

“Stubborn wench,” Ashlon said to himself,
finding it hard to keep one eye on her and the other on the tangled
path she traipsed down.

He should have let her go. His being out of
the keep was just as risky, he could have let her know. Sneaking
about in the dark alone, let alone with the chieftain’s near
stepdaughter, supposedly bedridden, in tow would get him
gallows.

A branch scratched his cheek, stinging a path
through his morning stubble. He growled, slapped it back and heard
the satisfying snap. It made him grin. He’d like to break a few
limbs over his thigh right now. Anything to get his roiling
frustrations out before he gave in and screamed.

The dark green of her cloak blended too damn
well and she moved too damn lithely. The reddish gold of her braid
was the only thing he glimpsed while finding footing. Then the path
widened and broke through foliage. Ashlon moved faster to catch up
as she disappeared around a bend.

The woman had no sense of
self-preservation
,
let alone decorum. Firstly, she had cared for him under
secrecy. Secondly, she ignored his presence to the point of
outright rudeness. And now, to insist he leave her to fend for
herself in a dark wooded area when no one knew she was gone nor
where to. At the very least, a wild boar should incite some degree
of fear in a woman. He’d seen brave men quake over far
less.

Where in blasted hell had she gone? He
wouldn’t be surprised at all if she’d left the new path and trudged
through the trees and growth again just to spite him.

To hell with it. Ashlon slowed his pace. He
chose the path before him, trusting it would lead him back in time
to meet the morning sun breaching the sky. The forest was already
awake. Birds sang, leaves shuddered and dew glistened on the
ground.

Two days minimum. Ashlon hated the idea of
waiting so long. His gut told him he didn’t have so much luxury.
But without a clue as to where to begin his search, he had no
choice but to wait for her.

And to trust her.

For some reason, he did. He could see, not
just in her eyes, but in her eagerness, how forthright she felt
about the entire matter. She needn’t know he would not involve her
further once she’d done the translation. That might give her ideas
about withholding information in order to gain interest in the
task.

Heremon’s note was
vague
,
but he
readily saw how she could mistake the meaning and latch herself to
his cause, unknowing the substance or its imperiling nature. She
was more than stubborn. Plainly.

An arm snaked around Ashlon’s waist and the
unmistakable feel of metal pressed his throat. Ashlon stilled,
barely breathing lest he get cut ear to ear.

Alarm shot through his head. Where was
Breanne? Ashlon scanned the foliage and path for a catch of gold.
None.

He swallowed. The blade moved with his
throat, leaving his skin unharmed. He opened his mouth to speak and
the sharp edge pressed in and slowly slid upward to his cheek,
scraping loudly in his ears.

“You need a shave,” she said near his
ear.

Breanne! What in Heaven’s name was she
thinking? The laughter in her throaty whisper tickled his lobe. She
showed him her blade laden with his stubble. Clever girl. Ashlon
allowed a slow smile to laze onto his mouth.

Impressive. Soundless and lithe.

In a single swift motion, Ashlon swept
Breanne over his shoulder and under him, pinned to the soft
ground.

“Yes, I do need a good shave.” His smile was
almost as wicked as he felt.

Breanne gritted her teeth
and glared up at him. Ashlon laughed, enjoying the feel of her
comeuppance underneath him. Suddenly, as she panted and writhed
beneath him
,
another sort of wickedness drank his thoughts dry.

“Let me go,” Breanne said, but she’d stopped
moving and passion glazed her eyes.

Ashlon’s groin ached and grew in want of her,
nestled perfectly to fit between her thighs. The wrists he held
above her head relaxed and she dropped her blade. Her lips were wet
and plump with color. Need charged through his body. Need of
her.

He bent his head, let go of her arms and
touched her face.

Even as she shook her head, she closed her
eyes. She leaned her cheek to his hand. His mind and body flooded
with the memory of their kiss, the same fog of sensation with
it.

He pressed his mouth to
hers. She returned the pressure and opened her lips to his
exploring tongue. Ashlon groaned, tasting her warm sweetness,
feeling her body awaken under him, hips turning, thighs
tightening.

He deepened his kiss and her legs inched
open, hips arching. Her softness met his hardness, squirming
against him.

Somewhere, he recognized
that he should stop. But her arms held his head close, her fingers
laced through his hair and her pelvis reached up to feel his rigid
prick. Her full breasts teased against his chest, the nipples stiff
and probing. His mind clouded with craving. Visions of her flesh
exposed to his bare touch, to his tongue and
lips
,
filled his
mind. He would stop. He promised he would. Just one last exquisite
taste of her to last him. One more touch. A little farther. A bit
deeper.

He wanted to forge his
prick closer to her, to rub the tip against her mound. Her legs
opened further until mere fabric separated them. Layers of material
that seemed to do little good in blocking such keen
pleasure
,
he
could spill his seed. He forced himself to rein his desire for her.
She was an innocent and would certainly break the spell at any
second. He needed to make this surreal moment last.

Breanne moaned into his
mouth as he cupped a breast, teasing the hard nipple that pressed
the soft fabric. Lord
,
but they felt better than he imagined, and he had far too
often since their kiss. The vibration of her sound of pleasure
satisfied a deep part of him. Ashlon sunk the weight of his hips
downward, rocking gently onto her core. Christ, she felt
good.

Was she wetting for him?
Did her body throb as his did, begging her to chase the pleasure
and fulfillment that beckoned? Certainly she felt as he did. She
must
,
for her
small moans sounded desperate yet awed in his ears. Her hands
pulled at him, her body gyrated under his.

Her response to him was far from virtuous.
Her response was untamed. It awoke the primal part of him. The part
that wished to take her, make her his.

Her nails dug into his scalp, sending a flush
of shivers down his neck. Ashlon nipped her lower lip. The kiss
took on a frantic feel.

He should stop. Her hips squirmed, pressed. A
small turn, a quick lift of her skirt and she could be his. Hot,
wet heaven called to him. His prick pulsed, urging him.

He wanted more. He wanted
to give her more, to fill the aching void that wanting her created
deep inside of him. He wanted to watch bliss wash her features, to
know he’d given that bliss.

Ashlon wanted to feel her
naked skin against his. He wanted to part her thighs and delve his
tongue into the deepest part of her, to taste her honey as it
poured in release onto his tongue. He drew a hand from her perfect
breast, hating yet adoring her whimper, and grazed down her length.
His fingers sought the hem of her dress as he told himself one mere
touch of her silken skin and he would cease. He would stand and
leave her. But when his hands met her ankle and her hips bucked
beneath him, he nearly
—
.

His groan sounded like a growl. He pushed
away from her before he was too far gone. Her lips were swollen and
red. He imagined them on his body. Her eyes searched his face and
emotion evolved through them. Disappointment and want, then
confusion, and finally realization.

The next he expected would be anger and he
readied for a hard slap. He squinted as she sat up and righted her
gown. His body screamed with disappointment. But he did not reach
for her.

“My,” she said a bit breathlessly. “That was
a lesson well taught. Here I thought I’d show you and low and
behold, you’ve quite shown me instead.”

“I did not mean it to be a
lesson, Breanne.” Ashlon frowned
,
but a grin tugged his mouth. He swallowed, his
pulse at last slowing.

“I doubt that. Rather than allow me my
triumph, you overturned me and proved my gender’s vulnerability in
a very obvious manner.” She wiped her brow. “Though, were you truly
raping me, I promise you’d be gutted before you finished.”

She might be right on more than one count.
“The lesson was not meant to be so—.”

“Thorough?” She quirked a sardonic brow.

He laughed aloud. “I was
going to say demonstrative, but thorough well covers
it
,
I’d
say.”

“Or uncovers,” she said and righted her
bodice to cover her exposed skin. “Now, if you’ll wait a moment
here, I’ll have gained enough space to ensure our discretion.”
Breanne tossed her braid over her shoulder and a red mark sat on
her neck.

“Christ,” he said. “I’ve marked your
skin.”

“What? Where?”

She was handling their encounter far too
admirably, should be up in arms, outraged, at the very least still
wanton. But she managed to keep her voice and gaze steady while his
felt opposite.

Ashlon reached his hand out and touched her
nape. Breanne flinched and for some inane reason, he found it
reassuring. She was not so immune, then. She feared him touching
her again and losing control.

He didn’t waver and slowly
brought his fingertip to the spot. He’d kissed her neck there, too
passionately
,
and
it couldn’t easily be passed off as a bruise.

Her throat moved when she swallowed. Ashlon
watched her lips part. Her eyelids pressed closed. He let his
fingertip drag down the line of her neck, fascinated by the goose
bumps he left behind.

God, but she was heavenly. And what she made
him feel was worse than wicked. His heartbeat pumped his body like
a drum. Ashlon lowered his mouth. Time stopped and hung like fog
around them, alone on the soft mossy floor, in the early dawn
twilight.

His tongue touched the spot of redness and
traced a small circle around it. Breanne gasped and bent her head
back.