Becca St.John (5 page)

“Seonaid,” Padraig dared to speak. “Are you certain you don’t want to go back?”

She skewered him with a glance.

“For the lad?”

She rolled her eyes.

“You trust living with the English more than you’d trust your own clan with your boy?”

She pulled up on her reins, looking over another valley below. They’d seen too many hillocks, mountain sides, valleys. Skirted a share of bogs.

“Will we ever reach the Kyle of Minth?” she asked.

“Aye, but it’s a long way.”

She lifted her chin in acknowledgement and moved on. “You’re just trying to stop me.”

Oh, aye, he was, but he wouldn’t lie to do it. “It’s a long ride. Boat would have been better.”

She stopped again. “And who would have put me on their boat? And if they had, the whole of the clan would know my business.”

“Aye, and what’s wrong with that, if you’re not doin’ anything wrong?”

Another skewering look and she jerked her horse around, urged him forward. “I’m not wrong.”

She was, and she knew it. Giving up on her people and for what? Did she expect to arrive in England, dressed as a man and with a son—no husband or brother or father or uncle to protect her? Did she expect to be accepted by them?

It would never work.

And she wasn’t a healer.

“Jaysus!” he snapped, and heeled Tarvos. Deian had ridden further than he thought. He moved to catch-up with him.

“I’ve never belonged to the clan, to a family,” Seonaid shouted after him.

He turned, but didn’t stop. Deian was too far ahead of them.

“Even among my friends, I was separate,” she called, as she spurred Peregrine to catch up as well. “The healers are neither English nor French nor Scottish, nor anything but women who heal.”

“You aren’t a healer,” he shouted back.

Peregrine caught up to him, “They need someone to keep them safe. I will do that.”

He snorted.

Riding Peregrine, Seonaid cut Deian off, forcing him to stop, speaking to Padraig as she dismounted, lifted the boy from the saddle. “What? Do you think they don’t need a guard?” She smoothed Deian’s hair. The boy pulled away.

“There’s been talk of the Women of the Woods since I was a boy.” Padraig dismounted, clapped Deian on the back. “Good riding, lad, you knew your mount needed water—” he’d gotten them to a river bank, “—but you mustn’t go beyond us.”

Approvals done, he faced Seonaid. “Those women have survived lifetimes; no doubt they will continue to survive.”

Seonaid put her hands on her hips. “And kingships last lifetimes, too, but not without a guard.” She reached over and pulled Deian to stand in front of her.

Padraig took Deian’s shoulder, aiming him toward care of his horse. “Not by a single woman, they don’t. They have armies, armies of men.”

Seonaid took Deian’s other shoulder. “You must be thirstin’. Take your mount down and both of you get some water.” At Padraig’s strangled glare, she told him. “He’s my son, not yours. He does what I ask, not you.”

“And if we run into danger, you both better listen to me!”

“No,” Seonaid squared on him. “This is my adventure. You best be listening to me.” And she stormed off down to the water, leaving him to flounder in his own temper.

CHAPTER 5  ~  BOGGY PLACES

Water seeped up through her pallet, but she’d not complain. Padraig suggested they go up another rise but she’d been up enough rises to refuse.

“We’re fine here,” she’d snapped, and he hadn’t argued. Bully for him. Let him get wet through as well. Too late to change anything now.

She shivered. Turned to see Deian sleeping soundly, warmed by the fire they’d made beneath an outcropping of rock that formed as near as a cave as they could find. Deian between stone and the fire. To the left of him and across from her, Padraig. They formed a triangle, with her at the lowest point. She’d insisted, certain that, should Deian wake in the night, he’d head downhill.

Padraig took the first watch, her turn now. Just as well, she’d not sleep anyway.

Rising from where she sat on her thoroughly damp bed, she crossed to the fire. The rocks Padraig lined it with were still warm. Hopefully, with some readjusting, she could get her own bedding dry. Despite being as quiet as possible, she turned to see Padraig watching her.

Damn him for knowing what he was talking about. For befriending her son. She wanted her son to herself, for a change. Needed to build that bond.

And she’d wanted Padraig’s friendship for herself, horrid, foolish woman that she was.

Lord knows Deian needed more masculine influence than he’d had, being raised in a household of women. Except she wasn’t much of a woman, taking the role of the man, protector, seeing to the farm while her friends raised her son.

“Are you moving it or beating it?” Padraig asked, nodding toward the bedding she fought to adjust around the remains of the fire.

As far as sarcasm went, it was mild enough. No reason for her to react as she did, but on the cusp of a sleepless night, and busy as she was feeling sorry for herself, his words burned like a poker to a bruise. She sniffed against emotion, swallowed a hiccupping sob once, twice, before they broke through.

Out of his bedding at the first sound of tears, Padraig pulled her into his arms. She tried to stop him, waved her hands at his approach, pushed ineffectively at his massive shoulders.

She tried, so glad when he didn’t relent. When he held her against his warmth, cradled her head in his hand. All warm, solid man, holding her like a cherished child, rocking her, shushing her, swallowing her up in his embrace as he’d done after the attack, when she fought to control her tears.

Not now, on this dark, wet night. She let them fly.

How long had it been since anyone cared? She sobbed for the gentleness. Bereft of all the lost, lonely years. Sobbed harder for the chance to ease, to feel the tender stroke along her back, the soft kisses to the crown of her head, the curve of her cheek.

Tears fell like rain, watered a blossom hidden deep within. Heat steamed, petals unfolded, revealing an unfamiliar, reckless want, fierce enough to wipe out fear or sorrow or loneliness.

She wanted him.

Her hunger voracious beyond his gentle touches.

She cupped his face with her hands, lifted her lips, pressed them to his. He stilled, but she would not let him, took advantage of his wariness to press him back onto the ground as she tried, in all her naiveté, to ignite his passion.

Her strength no match for his.

With one roll, he had her flat on her back, raised himself over her.

“Do you know what you are asking for? Do you know where you are leading me?”

She nodded, licked at dry lips, shivered with emotions too powerful to check.

“I’ll not take advantage.” He eased away, rubbed his hand down his face.

Incensed, she rose on her knees. “Do you know what you’re denying me?” Harsh, yet quiet, she demanded.

He’d turned his back on her, but she’d not have that. He chose to be here, let him face what it did to her. She pulled at his shoulder, urged him to look at her. If she were to confess, she’d not do it to a man’s back.

“Do you know you’re the only man I’ve ever kissed?”
Ah, yes, she’d stunned him with that
. “Oh, aye, Lochlan taught violation, the cruel, crude invasion of a woman.”

“Did you think he wanted kisses? After bloodying my lips with his fist?” Ah, it was too hard to speak to his face, to admit to the shame. More than expected.

She shifted away, spoke in a whisper as though to herself. “Do you think he could ever provoke want?” She shook her head. The pure, clean moment of desire now tainted. “Never mind.” She shrugged his hand from her shoulder.

Too late, too, too late.

“Come here.” He lifted her clear off the ground, taking them both around a boulder, out of sight of the fire, of Deian. She fought against the pain of rejection. He’d not wanted her before, he couldn’t have her now.

“Stop,” he ordered, sitting down, his back to the rock, her in his lap.

“Stop.” He took both of her hands in one of his. “Just let me hold you.”

Startled, she looked up, shadow hiding his thoughts from her.

“Just let me hold you.” It sounded like a plea, but why would he beg? She was the one who needed the comfort, needed his touch. “Please.”

Stiffly, she curled into him, no longer deep enough into her sorrow for her mind to release its hold. Only moments ago, her body led. Now thoughts reprimanded. He pitied her. Benevolent kindliness for a poor, weak soul.

She was a fool. Pulled away. He caught her close, adjusted her in his lap and she felt it, through his trews, her trews.

He desired her.

Again, from nowhere, heat scorched a path through her.

It didn’t mean he cared. Men desired anything that stood still long enough. Her brother told her that. Didn’t matter if it was a woman, a child, a sister, or even an animal, desire raged in the other sex.

Arms held her tight, his cheek rested on her head. “I’ve wanted you the whole of my life.” She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Words fought within her. Sharp, bitter words. Sighs of longing. Equally matched. “I want to woo you, not slide in on your sorrow.”

Woo her? Win her? She was headed for England. He would go back to Glen Toric. No future to entice her to.

Men could lie.

She’d never heard him lie.

He kissed her temple.

Simple brush of lips spurring heat, fire. Passion.

“I’ve never wanted before.” In that, she was pure, untouched. She could give him that.

He groaned. “I’m a fool,” he muttered, and she realized she’d won, if she wanted to.

And she did.

Turning in his arms, once again she framed his face in her hands. “I’ve never felt like this before. May never again in my life. Don’t make me beg.”

She had never begged for anything in her life. She did not change her ways to beg for friendship when others thought her odd. When others whispered about her, suspected she loved Talorc the Bold, she did not demand to be listened to. She allowed false judgment rather than beg.

So, as Padraig looked to the sky, the cords in his neck knotted tight, when he turned to the side rather than to her, she crumpled inside. Unable to gather her bravado in anger, too tired anymore for false facades, her hands slipped from his face and she bowed her head.

Shame, she was shame and filth and unworthy and…

“No,” he grated. “Don’t think that, don’t be thinkin’ I don’t want you.” He grabbed her hands, put them back, her palms to his jaw, against a beard grown from sharp to soft in the past days. She dared to lift her eyes, to look into his, to see the battle he fought against hunger.

Timid, still unsure of herself, she threaded her fingers through the coarse curl of beard, watched her actions, amazed, for she had never felt a man’s beard before. She touched, leaned in, her lips brushing against his, the tickle of the facial hair. So aware of each, every sensation, every touch, every tingle. She lifted her eyes from her exploration to find intense, dark longing.

“Please,” she whispered, her hard edge washed away by tears.

Ever so gently his fingers traced her face, her eyes, the length of her nose, her lips, gaze on every move, until he growled, “Lord, forgive me.” Then he took her lips with his, pressed the advantage she’d tried so hard to win and rolled them both to the ground.

His weight shocked her to stillness and, as quickly, slipped her back in time to a weight forcing her down, choking her, pressing, pressing, pressing, jerked her to fight.

He lifted away. She rolled, panting with the fear infecting her thoughts.

She didn’t want that either, didn’t know what she wanted, what she didn’t want.

“Shhhh.” He calmed her agitation. “Shhh, let’s slow this down.” Pulled them both to their sides, his hand stroking the length of their bodies. “I’ll not trap you with my body,” he promised, letting her know he understood what she only just realized.

Raped, entrapped, no freedom, no say.

Desperate to get past this, she pushed him over, sat astride him. “Aye, you’ll not.” Still breathing heavy, the whole change, the freedom of how she sat above him, the control. He looked like a child, cornered with the promise of a sweetie. Her laughter bubbled up, surprising them both. She laughed, for she could, for she could do—or not do—whatever she wanted.

And she wanted.

She grabbed his hair in either hand, a fierce hold, as she kissed him, squirming against his support, the solid long length of him a buffer to the hard ground. The thrill of him, as his large coarse hands cupped her backside, urged her against his hardness.

They rolled again, over and over until he was atop her once more, but this time it felt good, wonderful. She laughed. The shock of her desire, spinning her into joy.
Yes, please, press into me, put your weight on me, share with me.

A woman, a real, whole woman, reeking with passion. Nothing could stop her now.

“Maammmaaa!”

She pushed Padraig away even as he pulled off of her.

“Maaammmaaa!”

“Deian!” she shouted, scrambling to get up, running to the dead fire, to her son’s pallet, but he wasn’t there and the night was dark.

“Deian! Where are you?” she screamed, as Padraig lit a torch he’d kept close at hand in case of predators.

“Here, Mama!” Deian’s panic fired her own until Padraig put his hand on her arm and called out. “Deian, stay still, don’t move. We’re coming for you.” His authority calmed even as his words revealed the problem. Bogs. Soggy earth that could pull a man in.

They could not rush to him, or risk stepping in one, as Deian probably had, sinking into the black muck.

“Can’t get out.” His fear turned to anger now that he knew rescue was at hand.

Aye, he was her son
.

“How deep are you?” She’d keep him talking, to ease his worry, but only heard a sniffle in return.

“Where to?” she whispered, her skin crawling with the need to move, to reach her son.

“Deian?”

“Here.” Padraig lifted the torch, as they found a path out, away from the camp.