Page 96 of The Queen's Huntsman
Gwendolyn lifted a shoulder. “I’ll think of a way,” she answered coyly, and her woman’s intuition said it was true.
A mirthful sound escaped him, but that laughter died abruptly on his lips. “I will not leave,” he promised. “But you may demand it if I tell you the truth…”
“Say it and be done,” Gwendolyn told him. Her playful tone vanished as he crossed his arms and took a step back.
“Very well. To begin with, you must know the northern tribes are much akin to the Fomorians. As it was with Balor, loyalties will go only so far.”
Fomorians?Gwendolyn blinked up at him, confused. “I thought the northern tribes were kindred to the sons of Míl?”
“They are… but… as it is with all mortals, blood ties are not always so pure. Fomorians are Danann, only mated with the sons of Míl.”
Gwendolyn lifted a brow. “So…” She blinked. “Iam part Fomorian?”
His eyes glinted against the night. “In part, their legacy makes you fearless, Gwendolyn. But lamentably, you’ll find your Prydein kin are equally so. They are not to be trifled with, and if you’ve never met one, the size and breadth of them will astound you.”
Gwendolyn blinked. How could so much of this have escaped her? “I don’t understand.” She shook her head. “My mother was Prydein. She was no taller than my father?”
“Your mother was not typical,” he said. “Why do you think Baugh took so long to offer a daughter to the southern tribes? If she had been another, your father might have denied her.” His eyes slanted sadly as he reached out to touch a finger to Gwendolyn’s cheek. “Make no mistake, Gwendolyn… Eseld was beautiful. As are you—the loveliest creature I’ve ever beheld. And despite this, you will not find your grandsire so eager to lay down arms merely because you ask.”
His revelations were all confusing—everything, from his claim of her beauty to the lessons of her bloodline. She had never considered herself to be beautiful, and it was not something she was comfortable hearing. She turned away, a thousand questions dancing on her tongue. “What should I do?” She hardened her heart against the prospect of war. “I’ll not raise my sword against my mother’s own kin and the people I hope to rally to my cause.”
“No,” said Málik. “But there’s another way…”
He pulled her close now, reaching out to mold one hand into the curve of her neck, with two fingers resting against the pulse behind her ear. The heat of his touch left Gwendolyn breathless, and for the longest moment, she could think of nothing but him—not Baugh, nor Locrinus, not the possibility of war…
There was only here, now.
“Gwendolyn,” he whispered, bending to brush his mouth against her trembling lips, grazing her tender flesh with the sharp points of his teeth…
Gods.At this instant, Gwendolyn was neither a queen, nor a warrior, simply a woman, and the warmth of his hand on her cool skin stole away her breath.
She didn’t stop him when he covered her mouth, the heat of his lips blistering hers, his hot tongue seeking entrance, his fangs nipping ever so gently. In response, Málik deepened the kiss, and Gwendolyn forgot to breathe.
She forgot to be timid or refined.
She forgot, too, that she had no experience with loving a man.
All she knew… all she understood was this undeniable hunger… and it drove her to mimic the way his lips and tongue tangled with her own. All those reasons she’d given herself for not allowing herself to form a physical bond… much having to do with the approval of others… flew from her head.
Craving more, her fingers dug into his leathers, clinging to him desperately, plundering his mouth, adoring the taste of him, wanting more… and more… and more… until…
A growl erupted from the depths of his throat, and he broke free of the kiss, extricating himself from their embrace, and then returning to rest his forehead against her own, trembling with the effort to restrain himself. Gwendolyn sensed more than saw that he closed his eyes, his long, soft lashes tickling her skin.
“If all were as it should be… I would make you a widow,” he said. “And then I would make you my own.”
As though to emphasize the truth of his words, his body hardened against her, and she could feel the length of his arousal—unmistakable despite that she had never once had the occasion to know a man’s body.
Her own body responded like a wanton, her breasts pebbling against his leathered chest, her arms aching to embrace him more fully… wanting so wretchedly, to lie down on these ramparts, in full view of everyone, including the gods… to experience the deliciousness of his weight atop her.
Desperate for this experience, Gwendolyn tried to make him kiss her again, pulling him close, begging without words, and once again, he pulled away, seizing her by the wrists, and said, “No.”
“Why?” Gwendolyn cried. “Why! It cannot be because I am wed? My heart does not belong to Loc!” And yet, despite that, even now, she could not admit that it already belonged to Málik—not when she had such a terrible, awful feeling that, despite his promise, he meant to go again.
For a moment, he ignored Gwendolyn’s question, answering another. “The way to convince Baugh to follow you, Gwendolyn, is to ask my father forClaímh Solai. That sword will burn for you, and no other. If you wield it, Baugh will not refuse you.”
Gwendolyn’s brow furrowed, focusing not on the promise ofClaímh Solai, but on theotherthing he’d said. “Your father?”
He nodded again. “The King Below.”
