Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (34 page)

“Och, I’m going to hurt you, lass.” He skidded his palm gently over the cool curve of her bottom. “But I think I’ll make you like it.”
 

He lifted his hand, and brought it down hard.

Her body jerked as if lightning had surged through it, a shocking, hard shudder of…
pleasure
. Her head flung up, her mouth rounded around a silent cry.

He bent by her ear. “Did you like that?”
 

Oh, the devil he was. He
knew
.

He did it again, a hard slap, first one side of her bottom, then, swift and red-hot, the other. She jerked with a panted cry, her hands still fisted around the hem of her chemise, holding it up for him to do as he would with her.

“You look fine, laying there for me, Katy.”
 

Her face flamed, but her legs parted when his hand slid between them. For a moment, he didn’t move, and she knew he was staring down at her, spread wide for him. The backs of her legs were cool from the air, the front of her hot from Aodh. Her bottom
flamed
. And ached for more.

He brought his flattened palm down on her again, hard and swift.

Her body shuddered and her head dropped, so her hair spilled across the floor. Her hips rose up to take the next one.

“Tell me you’re sorry.”

A sob broke from her. “I am sorry.”

“Good.” His hand came down again. “Say it again.”

“I am sorry.”
 

He spanked her again, then again, and again, first one cheek, then the other. Hot, hard, stinging pleasure. Occasionally, his hand would drop lower, smack against her upper thighs. Each time she rose to meet him, shocked breathless by the sword thrusts of pleasure it sent slicing through her body. Each time, she gasped, each time her head dropped farther, but her hands hung on to her chemise, holding it up for him.
 

“Now, lass,” he said, and this time, when he struck, it was oh so softly. “I don’t want to have to worry about you every time I turn my back.”

“No,” she agreed in a ragged whisper.

“Nor every time I take a drink.” He brought his hand down again, soft, on the other cheek, then his fingers skimmed into the wetness coating her inner thighs.
 

She could barely gasp, her body was so lightning saturated, so ready to fall.

“We understand one another?” His hand gently circled her bottom. Again, his fingers detoured to press into her swollen folds.
 

“Oh yes,” she whispered.

His fingers pushed up inside her. “I think you like this, Katy.” He slid out again and traced her swollen entryway. “Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

The tip of his finger pushed back in, skimmed up to her bottom. “Should I stop?”

“Please…don’t stop.”
 

Immediately, he lifted her off his legs and slid her to the cool sheets of the bed, then laid her on her belly, where she collapsed. He tore his clothes off and dragged her back up to her hands and knees. She swayed as if drunk.
 

He knelt behind her, his thighs hard, the hair scratching the soft skin of the back of her thighs. He rested a hand on her hip, and then, for a moment, simply held them like this, unmoving.
 

She dragged her head around and peered over her shoulder. His body, ranging behind hers, rose up like a mountain. His dark eyes pinned her.

“Aodh,” she whispered raggedly, reaching back. “Please don’t stop.”
 

“Katy,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “There’ll be no stopping, ever again.”
 

He gripped her sweaty hips and breached her with no prelude and no gentleness, all push, no stopping, just as he’d said, a single, long, thrusting penetration, until he was buried in her to the hilt.
 

She screamed from the pleasure.
 

He pulled back and entered her again, slowly and unstoppably, a long stroke. Her arms began to shake. His pace grew more intent, more driven, as he kneeled up high, one hand light on her hip. She sprawled, bottom in the air, elbows out, gasping from the mad, unspeakable pleasure.
 

Her knees weakened, slid out, and she dropped to the bed.

“Good, lass?” The dark query came beside her ear, his body burning and slick with sweat above hers.

Pleasure flattened her. He dragged her back up to her knees, and she cried from the pleasure of that too. Then, hands on her hips, forcing her to stay up, he pulled her back to him as he surged forward, and she climaxed, a bright, hot, explosion that rocked her in shaking shudders, and rent her heart open.
 

His voice came by her ear, a fierce whisper. “Now, you are mine.”

Weak and dizzy, she nodded. “I am yours.”
 

He kissed her, and thrust inside her again and climaxed in a surge of male heat and seed and driven intention, and she was, truly, his.

Now the trouble would begin.

*

“MY,” THE QUEEN SAID, as she stood in the rain-soaked courtyard, hood pulled far forward over her face. “What a lot of letters from Ireland these days. How lively it has become.”
 

She turned to the man who towered beside her, Sir Charles Ludthorpe, captain of the force she was sending to acquaint Aodh Mac Con with her displeasure. “A bit too lively, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“This most recent message is from Bermingham, Baron Athelrye. He reports Aodh Mac Con is well ensconced in the castle, and the lady of Rardove has acquiesced to him.”

“So he says,” was the noncommittal reply.

“You will find out for certain.”

“I will.”

“No negotiations.”

He nodded.

“We shall call Aodh’s bluff, if bluff it be. If he wishes for a fight, then a fight he shall have. And when he is captured… If it is as we think…bring him back to me. If it is worse…” She averted her gaze. “See to it there.”

He nodded.
 

She was quiet a moment, then said briskly, “The message to Katarina has gone off, telling her of my displeasure. Aodh Mac Con will see it as well, they will all see it, but that is quite the point. She will do what she must, or I will destroy her. This is her last chance.”

“Perhaps she does not have a choice,” Ludthorpe suggested gently. “Her castle has been overtaken, Your Majesty.”

“Yes, and
how
?” the queen retorted. “After all these years,
now
it falls? One would almost think she opened the gates to the man.” She tapped her chin with the note, then gave a brisk nod. “Very well, Ludthorpe, see to this matter however you will. Give her a chance to prove her loyalty. If indeed she has turned on us, then turn on her. If she has not…” The queen waved her hand in a vague fluttering. “Perhaps you can use her as bait, for if Bermingham speaks true, a
tendresse
has developed between her and Aodh.” Her jaw tightened, then smoothed again. “But if there is the least question of her loyalty…”
 

And of course there had to be the
least
question, didn’t there? If only because there been no word from Katarina. No news of inhabitants fleeing, of dispossessed ladies seeking refuge at loyalist castles.

If only because Aodh, reckless, charismatic Aodh, was at the center of this thing.
 

Ludthorpe nodded his inscrutable nod. “Very good, my lady. I shall manage the matter of Mistress Katarina and Aodh Mac Con.”

It was an unfortunate pairing of names, and she spun sharply to the servant who stood behind her. “Well, after all, where is he?” she snapped.

“Lord Bertrand is en route, my lady. Another day at most. The rains, you know…”
 

She whirled back and stood in silence for a long time, then addressed her captain. “You used to know Mac Con, did you not?”

Ludthorpe’s armor was a perfect reflection of the cloudy skies and the gray rain starting to spit down on them. Still, Elizabeth did not retreat indoors. Ludthorpe, being a seasoned soldier, had no compunction about standing in the rain until the sun came out again, and merely nodded as water ran in rivulets down his helm.
 

“He served under me, Your Majesty, years ago.”

She nodded, tapping the most recent message from Ireland on her bottom lip. “What did you think of him?”

“A rogue,” he said at once. “Charming, dangerous, and looking for trouble.” Ludthorpe paused. “But not a rebel.”

She lowered the paper. “And yet he is precisely that, is he not?”

He nodded, his gaze sliding away.

“Is he not?” she said again, sharply. “He has taken a castle of mine and holds it even now, against my wishes. What else could he be
but
a rebel?”

Ludthorpe’s gaze came back. “He is whatever you say he is, Your Majesty.”

She stared blankly ahead, then a moment later, shook her head, as if responding to some inner conversation.
 

“No. I cannot have Ireland come at me from behind. Not even for Aodh.”

Chapter Thirty-One

KATARINA WAS UP the next morning as soon as the first ray of sun hit her eyelids.
 

The first thing she noticed was that the door stood ajar.

She flung herself out of the bed, grabbing for her gown as she went, then her boot, far too excited, considering she’d just wedged herself deeper into a bond with a rebel. But for now, all she felt was…buoyant. The sun was shining and Aodh was out there, waiting for her.

She tugged on her boot as she hopped across the room to where the other lay, on the floor beneath the table. She bent for it, putting her nose a bare inch from the table, so for a moment, she didn’t realize what she was seeing, lying there on its surface.

A half-curled roll of parchment, covered in ink. At the bottom was Aodh’s signature, large, scrawling, and red.
 

It was the betrothal agreement.

It had been torn in half.

She stared, her heartbeat speeding up, then she straightened with a snap and flew out of the room, snatching up her veil and pinning it on as she went.

 
She found him in the training yard, clad in armor and sweat. Engaged with one of his men in swordplay, puffs of dirt rose from under the men’s feet as they circled each other. Their tunics were unlaced, hems hanging down to muscular thighs clad in hose and boots. At the far end of the bailey, another set of men worked on the target field, shooting arrows. The stables bustled with men leading horses in and out, and from over the wall came the faint ring of gunshot; men were training beyond the walls, too.
 

She leaned her shoulder against the wall, content to wait to be seen. He caught sight of her when their circling brought him around, and he smiled even as he slashed his sword.

She smiled back.

His opponent knocked the blade out of Aodh’s hands, then danced backward, astonishment on his face, but laughing in triumph.

The rest of the soldiers who’d been leaning against the walls roared in laughter too, to see their commander beaten. Aodh swept up his blade, and the group enjoyed a few moments of enthusiastic revilement of Aodh’s abilities—or lack thereof—until he dipped his head Katarina’s direction.

They all snapped to attention, then flushed and apologized and nodded and bowed and very quickly drifted off. Aodh came to her side.
 

“Did I do that?” she asked apologetically. “Make you lose your sword?”

“Aye.” He wiped sweat off his brow with his forearm, then hooked his arm behind her back and hauled her to him. “Entirely your fault. Mayhap I should punish you.”
 

He kissed her, a swift, possessive kiss, showing her he recalled all the things she’d taught him about what she liked, then he released her, setting her down on wobbly feet, her face flaming. “Good morning.”

“And good morning to you, sir,” she said breathlessly, straightening the veil he’d pushed askew.

He snatched a skin of water off the ground and drank deeply before he poured a good portion over his sweaty face and neck, and wiped it off with his tunic.