Page 65 of Bride of Mist
As Dougal tenderly touched her face, she held her breath. At this proximity, she could see flecks of indigo in his woad blue eyes. The small curve at the corner of his mouth that marked a history of smiles. The tips of his white teeth between his parted lips. The furrow between his brows. Every strand of his ebony hair.
“Ye were right,” he murmured.
“Right about what?” Her voice was rough.
“Ye should carry your sword.”
She smiled.
He shook his head in wonder. “I’ve ne’er seen a fighter—lad or lass—who had such skill with a blade.”
Men she’d fought had praised Feiyan’s swordsmanship most of her life. She’d trained hard for years. And as a warrior daughter of Rivenloch, she was expected to be a fine fighter.
But somehow Dougal’s admiration meant more than a lifetime’s worth of commendation from her clan. And now she was doubly glad she’d spared the outlaws. She glowed with pride as he continued.
“God’s eyes! The way ye were able to disarm the fellow with the dagger, ’twas truly amazin’. I almost felt sorry for him.”
Her grin widened. She winced as it tugged at the slash on her cheek.
He gave her a one-sided smile. “No wonder our borders are safe, with lasses like ye guardin’ them.”
Whether it was his words of acclaim, the heat of battle, his gentle touch, or his closeness to her, Feiyan’s veins suddenly surged with a molten current of pleasure.
He caught her gaze then, and his fingers paused against her cheek. She saw her own evolving emotions reflected in his eyes. Warmth. Fellowship. Respect. Affection. Desire.
Then she lowered her gaze to his mouth—his wry, exquisite, enticing mouth, where the traces of a smile lingered—and she couldn’t resist the call of adventure.
Feiyan had split, bruised, smashed, and swollen men’s lips. She’d never once kissed them. She’d never before had the desire.
But now she was hot from battle. Flush with victory. Every nerve was alive and singing. A kiss seemed the perfect celebration of their triumph.
On instinct, she snagged the front of his gambeson and pulled him toward her. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.
His mouth was softer than she imagined. Warm and yielding. Full and supple.
He put up no resistance as she discovered each new sensation with tentative care, like a child trying blancmange for the first time.
As she tasted more and more of him, a glaze of pleasure drizzled over her like honey. Her breath quickened. Her flesh tingled. Her head vibrated.
She began feasting on him, like a starving waif at a banquet. With a fierce need. Unable to cease. Unable to slow herself. Unable to get enough.
And then he responded.
Chapter 17
From the time he could grow fuzz above his lip, Dougal had been kissing lasses. Tall. Short. Plump. Thin. Ugly. Beautiful. As long as they’d been willing, he’d indulged in the pleasant habit. As often as possible.
But never had a woman so stunned him into submission. Whirled him into dizziness. Knocked him on his heels.
Maybe it was owing to the dregs of excitement from his recent battle.
Or the memory of her body pressed close to his all night.
Or the intriguing seduction of watching her wield a sword.
Whatever afflicted him, it caused him to cast aside all caution and return her kiss with equal fervor. Even knowing it was a hunger impossible to satisfy. A passion both desirable and dangerous.
Her lips—innocent in their exploration, tenuous in their pressure—drove him to seduction so swiftly, it took his breath away.
