Page 71 of Crown of Roses
“Rowan?” She stole a glance up at him and tried to be as casual as possible. “Have you heard of the will ó wisp?”
He jerked to a stop beside her, snatched both of her shoulders, and hauled her against him. Her breath hitched in her chest, as he crushed his body against hers, but his gaze darted around the forest’s edge, to where any manner of fae or creatures lurked and laid in wait.
“Do not speak of her,” he whispered. His breath was hot against her skin, and his words were laced with warning. “It is far too dangerous to search out such a particular fae, even for you, Princess.”
“But, Lir said she was an option since…” She pressed her lips together and looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Since you left us.”
His palms coasted up and down her lace sleeves. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but we’re no closer to finding the goddess’s soul. And you said you could track it. It’s why we were sent here in the first place.” Frustration was getting the better of her. She sucked in a breath, and Rowan caught her by the chin.
“I can track it.” His reassurance did nothing for her. He’d yet to prove anything to her, with the exception of being a marvelous kisser. “And I will.”
Maeve stared at him. Expectant.
“There are other things that take precedence.”
“Like Parisa?” Maeve countered. “And your loyalty to the Spring Court?”
Rowan’s face shuttered, the hurt palpable. “Yes. Like Parisa. Finding the soul was never meant to be a quick and easy process. It requires…things.”
“What kinds of things?” she countered.
“Things like asking specific questions without raising suspicions. Things like calling in favors I’ve held onto for years.” He rolled up his sleeve and put his bicep on display. Wrapping around the tanned muscle were three Strands; one navy blue, one silver, one black. “And I’ll do it. I’ll call them in, for you. But if some other fae finds out it is the soul you seek, there is no guarantee they’ll be as generous as Tiernan.”
Maeve’s nose crinkled. “I’d hardly call Tiernan generous.”
Rowan’s face darkened. “Then you have not met many fae.”
Maeve wasn’t so sure she believed him anymore. She wanted to believe all of his promises, all of his whispers, all of his truths. But in her heart, she knew it was impossible. He was fae. Gifted in the art of deceit. Talented. Skillful. And only looked out for himself. But damn it, she enjoyed his company far too much to think such awful things of him. Either way, he’d brought her to the Autumn Court, and she had every intention of using her time there wisely. She would hunt the will ó wisp on her own. She would figure out if the blessing of the anam ó Danua had been snatched from the bloodline of Spring and presented to the bloodline of Winter. And she would do whatever necessary to save Kells.
“Okay.” She would let him believe she was submitting. But she would not be so easily deterred.
“Okay,” he agreed, and planted an absentminded kiss on her temple. Her toes curled and her heart leapt. “Now, remember the rules?”
“Yes.” Maeve blew an errant curl out of her face. “No food. No drinks. No fun.”
His dark brows arched in amusement. “I didn’t say that.”
“You may as well have.” She entwined her fingers with his own.
“I swear it, Princess. You’ll be the death of me.” Another kiss, this time on the corner of her mouth. “Just keep your mask on. Always.”
“Of course.”
They were only a few yards away and already Maeve could hear the call of music, a melody which pounded in the depths of her soul. It caused stirring. Longing. Laughter and voices carried on around them, and as soon as they got closer to the rise of smoke and flames, the thick, musty scent of sex slammed into her. Moans of pleasure echoed in her ears. Casimir had been right. It was absolutely a giant orgy.
Maeve clung to Rowan’s side, wanting nothing more than to take interest in the sodden leaves at her feet, but finding she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the provocative activities encircling them. Everywhere she looked there were beautiful, albeit nearly naked fae, dancing, laughing, and celebrating. The males were all tall with broad shoulders and muscular chests that glistened with a healthy sheen of sweat. Loose pants hung on their narrow waists and they wore necklaces of autumn leaves, wooden beads, and knotted leather. They donned detailed headdresses made of feathers, sticks, furs, and even stones. Some were wrapped in cloaks and capes, and every one of them wore a mask of some nature.
The females were just as breathtaking and Maeve’s chest burned with envy. They were all blessed with slender bodies and perfect curves. Such painstaking beauty wasn’t even fair to witness. But Maeve supposed those were the perks to being immortal. Beads and tiny ribbons of silk barely covered their skin and much of their flesh was streaked with glittering paints. They danced in short skirts made of fur, and streamers of cloth twirled around them. Their arms were jeweled and their masks were far more ornate and embellished than those of the male fae.
Blood heated her cheeks as she watched a female ride a male in a thatch of leaves while other fae danced around them—feral and attune to the music, and completely ignoring the mating occurring on the ground. Two males pleasured a female while she writhed beneath them both. One of them took her from behind, his hips jutting into her over and over, while the other filled her mouth with the hardened length of his cock. Maeve gaped, fascinated, if not slightly intrigued. Rowan instantly filled her mind as she imagined him gripping her hips, pounding himself into her. Delicious heat spread between her legs.
Flames ignited around another bonfire, illuminating two males locked in a passionate kiss, and sun and sky, Maeve couldn’t tear her gaze away from any of them. They were mesmerizing. The way they moved with reckless abandon. The way they danced as though they cared nothing for anyone who might watch. Or in Maeve’s case, stare. The outward display of sexual desire, of primitive mating, of freeing provocation spread low in her belly and pooled in her core, causing ripe arousal.
Rowan bent down close to her, his mouth near her ear. “Is that you?”
She shuddered into him, her hand clutched in his grasp. “Is…is what me?”
