Part 10 (1/2)

”Have ye had yer kiss, Senna?”

”Have you?” she murmured against his ear.

The breath shot out of Finian's lungs as if chased by a demon. No, he had not had his kiss.

Gently, he ran his fingers up her back, breathing steadily in her ear, the tip of his tongue teasing the skin just below. She s.h.i.+vered and clasped her hands hesitantly behind his head. Heaven, these sweet womanly curves, this arching spine, this feminine breath grown ragged.

He entangled his fingers in the braided knot at the base of her skull and with a few swift tugs, pulled it loose. Her hair tumbled over his hands and wrists. He groaned at the softness sliding between his fingertips and buried his face in it, murmuring sweet, approving words. He slid his other hand ever downward, to the dip in her spine, pulling her closer, until her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against him, and he bent to her mouth.

When her lips parted, her tongue met his, and the sigh she surrendered shot another bolt of desire through his groin.

His kiss intensified, his tongue no longer slow and dancing, merely coaxing her to flirt with danger. Now he demanded, laid claim. He pushed her for more, hotter, deeper kisses, using his carnal knowledge against her innocence, until she gave him his response; she whimpered and pressed up to him, offering her curving body, her mouth open wide, her tongue wet and hot in his mouth. And he took. His hands roamed her back, her ribs, coming close but never touching the soft rounded b.r.e.a.s.t.s so close to his thumbs. She s.h.i.+fted and s.h.i.+mmied, wanting the touch.

l.u.s.t churned through him, dark and purposeful. He slid his hands down in a bold move and cupped her bottom, his hands spread wide, almost lifting her.

”Oh,” she whispered into his mouth, moving with reckless, wanton little pushes. He molded a hand down the back of one thigh and exerted a small pressure, urging her to lift her leg for him. She did, bending her knee into his hand, s.h.i.+fting so his erection pushed against her, long and thick.

She threw her head back and bit off a cry.

Finian knew the feel of surrender, felt the bending of her spine and, battling the roar of l.u.s.t surging through his blood, he pulled away. She was completely untutored in her body, that was obvious. The only thing more obvious in all the world was that if the sun rose, it also set, and until tonight, Senna de Valery had known nothing of the shuddering glories her body was created for.

She'd just been awakened.

With no choice in the matter. No real choice. She hadn't known what was coming. And he couldn't imagine anything more despicable than doing, with the best of intentions, what he suspected so many others had done with the worst: use her as a means to his own ends.

He let her go.

She stumbled backward, her cheeks flushed, her hair in wild, glinting disarray, her fingers reaching up, touching her face, as if amazed to find herself still there.

He bent over, hands on his thighs, and stared at the ground. ”We'll not have any more of that,” he said to the dirt.

”No,” she gasped. ”Certainly not.”

He looked up, palms still pressed on his thighs. Even through the darkness he could see her lips were slightly swollen from his kisses. Her hair was mussed and looked like a dim halo, loose sprays of red star-tails around her nose and cheeks. Her chest was fluttering up and down, her breath unsteady, rapid. Aroused.

He straightened. ”Let's be off.”

”But, what of Dubli-Bathy Clee,” she whispered, trying to p.r.o.nounce the Irish word.

”Whether we're going to Dublin or h.e.l.l, Senna, we first have to go up that hill.” He jerked his head in its direction. ”Travel near the highway is unsafe. So,” he added when she opened her mouth, ”is talk.”

”Oh?” she retorted, unconsciously gathering a collar she didn't possess closer to her neck, in a protective feminine gesture. ”But kissing is allowed?”

”I don't know, Senna. That'll be up to yerself. Is kissing allowed?”

Without waiting to see if she replied, followed, or began ripping her clothes off, a fairly slim likelihood, Finian admitted, he started off, deep into the Irish woods.

Chapter 15.

They walked throughout the night, weaving their way deeper into the countryside. Finian kept watch, gently correcting her when she was about to tread into a tree or a hole, but otherwise said little, unless she asked a question, usually shrilly, usually about a sound.

”What was that?” she whispered once, huddling close to his back as they trekked swiftly up an exposed hill.

”A nightjar.” He looked down. ”A bird, Senna.”

A few moments later she threw her hand over her heart when they entered a clearing and an owl hooted loudly, swis.h.i.+ng overhead. She ducked.

”Ye've owls in England, haven't ye, Senna?” He knew he sounded irritable, which he wasn't. Not with her. But he was highly irritated with the way his body behaved every time she pressed near.

”I wouldn't know,” she retorted, sounding just as irritated. ”I'm hardly out walking at night a great deal, now, am I?”

He just lifted an eyebrow and kept going. They reached the edge of the clearing and ducked beneath the trees. A flutter of wings and brush exploded beneath their noses. A covey of birds shot into the air. Senna tripped backward and landed on her b.u.t.tocks.

”And that?” she demanded in a whisper.

”Birds, Senna. Some are ground-dwelling, build their nests in leaves and rocks and such. We disturbed them.”

She scrambled back to her feet and brushed her bottom off with her uninjured hand, grimacing. ”I suppose we did.”

Grayness was slowly overtaking the black of night. Even beneath the forest canopy the darkness was lightening. He pointed to a wall of long-clawed brambles just ahead. Some of the thorns were as long as a toe. Senna studied them.

”You jest.”

He started forward. ”I never jest about things that bite.”

They pushed through slowly, Finian holding aside the worst offenders with his mailed forearm and sword. The brush crowded back into place behind them with eager rustlings and clickings. They finally emerged, slightly scratched and breathing heavily, on a meadow near the crest of a ridge.

”We rest here,” he said shortly. ”We have until twilight.”

A fervent orange glow pulsed along the edge of the horizon, bringing light and heat to their chilled fingers. Finian threw himself on the ground, absorbing the respite for all it was worth. He closed his eyes and flung out his legs and arms, letting the fresh air and morning dawn flow over him like water.

”When you look like that, Finian, I can see you as a boy.”

He opened his eyes and stared at the dark blue-black sky overhead, still p.r.i.c.ked by a few stars, then s.h.i.+fted his gaze down. Senna sat, arms hooked around her knees, considering him.

He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. ”Is that so? A lad? In what manner?”

She smiled. ”In the stubborn sort of manner.”

He snorted. ”We're two of a kind, then.”

Her smile faded. ”No.” She shook her head. ”Not so much.” He watched from beneath his lids as she got to her feet and stumbled, head down, to the edge of the ridge, one hand pressed to her spine as if for support.

Small birds trilled and chirped. Fresh pine scents filled the air. The weak but fiery sunlight warmed his bruised legs as he lay, arms crossed under his head. Sleep crept in, dragging his eyelids shut.

The sudden sound of pebbles kicking out snapped them open again, but it was just Senna. Although now her body stance was entirely different than a few minutes ago. Her chin was up, her shoulders back.