Page 25 of Desire's Ransom
The wet hair clinging to her face looked like ink artfully scrawled across the fair parchment of her skin. Her eyes, flashing silver like a sword blade, were fringed with thick black lashes. In his grip, her hand was strong yet delicate. And her mouth…
He wasn’t jesting when he called her mouth sweet. Despite spouting coarse words, her lips were soft and pink, as innocent as an angel’s and, at the moment, quivering with stifled laughter.
He smiled back at her, deciding he must taste that sweet mouth.
When her eyes lowered to his lips, he made his move. Releasing her wrist, he caught her head between his hands, tipping her chin up and closing his mouth on hers.
She stiffened at first. But she didn’t struggle away. And he was right. She tasted as sweet as mead. Her lips were cool from the stream, but when she parted them, letting him delve inside, a lovely heat met his tongue. Desire coursed through his veins in spite of the cold water.
He’d thought to steal a kiss from the outlaw and be on his merry way. After all, he had a bride waiting for him not far from here. But instead, he found himself drawn to the lass and held there like iron to a magnet.
Her hands rose until her fingers rested upon his chest, and she deepened the kiss, tentatively at first. But then, with a soft moan of discovery, she pressed eagerly forward.
Beneath his callused thumbs, her cheeks felt like damp velvet. Her breath was soft where it blew against his face, making him shiver with pleasure. He shut his eyes tight as a searing lightning bolt of lust streaked through his body.
For a woman who’d been ready to beat him senseless a moment ago, she was surprisingly amenable to the kiss.
He too was in no hurry to end it. The contrast of the cold stream rushing about him with the warm sunlight upon his head was invigorating. The combination of her wet tresses draping his fingers and the liquid passion of her kiss made him feel as if he’d caught a seductive water nymph bathing in the enchanting Irish stream.
Her fingers crept higher, encircling his throat and threading through the locks at the nape of his neck. As their tongues waged a lusty battle and their kiss grew more intense, more desperate, he moved one of his hands down over her back, drawing her closer.
She gasped and clung to him, arching forward until their armor ground together with a leathery squeak. Where her hips contacted his, he roused against her, groaning at the divine flood of desire.
So distracted were they that neither of them noticed they were no longer alone. Until a man pointedly cleared his throat.
“Hello!”
At the sound of Conall’s familiar voice, Temair wrenched out of the Englishman’s embrace faster than dropping a hot coal.
What had gotten into her, she didn’t know. Her head was in a daze. Her heart was pumping at an alarming rate. And she couldn’t catch her breath.
The man in the stream was like a merrow—a dangerous water sprite drawing her to her doom.
Thank god Conall had intervened. Without his interruption, she might have drowned in the deep waters of the strange knight’s power.
Yet, when she lifted her mortified gaze, she saw no trickery or triumph in the Englishman’s eyes. He appeared to be just as astounded as she.
She had no time to consider what that meant, for in the next instant, she saw Conall was not alone.
Standing on the far bank were six of the woodkerns. And they had captives with them—four very angry men with their wrists bound behind them, all dressed in matching green tabards.
After a short, awkward silence, Conall called out, “Hey there, Gray! I hope ye were tryin’ to steal more than just a kiss!”
For an instant she was flummoxed. Then she held up her empty arms and yelled back, “I was! But the bastard isn’t carryin’ any coin!”
One swift glance at the knight told her he knew she was lying. She hadn’t been trying to rob him at all. Her hands had been too busy caressing his neck.
Conall continued. “Carryin’ his coin on his horse, most likely. Their mounts are in the clearin’. I’m guessin’ their saddlebags are probably full o’ silver.”
Beside her, the knight said a foul word under his breath.
Young Fergus rubbed his hands together. “We’ll have a right proper feast tonight,” he said gleefully. “And ye’re all invited.”
It couldn’t be said that the woodkerns weren’t hospitable. It was probably owing to the chivalrous example set by the noble outlaws in the band. If their victims were good-natured and cooperative, they were always offered a hearty meal and often a night’s lodging after their purses were emptied.
The knight apparently wasn’t interested in their hospitality. “Impossible.”
His face was grim now. His brow was furrowed. His mouth was hard. Temair couldn’t believe those were the same lips that had been pressed so sweetly against hers only moments ago.
