Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (47 page)

“Aodh,” she whispered. “Oh dear God.”
 

His face had been beaten. Dried blood formed a crusted river down his cheek and jaw and neck, stuck to his clothes. His booted legs were stretched out, half-bent, boot heels dug into the earth. His head hung to the side, as if he was unconscious. Or…dead.
 

 
Her body, which had been flushed hot from tension and excitement and endless movement for days now, went cold, full cold, from her fingertips to her toes, and all the way to her heart.
 

Her heart managed to thud out two sodden beats, then, choking slightly, she dropped to her knees at his side, her knife out. What sort of beast would do this to a helpless man…

His body suddenly twisted up and over in a shocking move, knocked her off-balance. His boot came up and kicked the blade out of her hand. It tumbled away, flashing, and before she could open her mouth, he had kicked her over onto her side and wrapped his legs around her, her arms and torso trapped in the grip of his powerful thighs. His hands were still tied behind his back, the blade three feet away.
 

So much for “helpless.”

“Aodh,” she breathed against the hard press of his legs.

His eyes, one of which was almost swollen shut, opened. “Katy?” his voice scraped hoarsely.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “What happened?”

“Bertrand,” he said, releasing her.

“I will kill him,” she vowed, shaking with fury and fear. She knelt beside him as he rolled to his side, presenting his bound hands.
 

“How…get here?” he croaked. Outside the tent, the argument raged, the shadows of people pressed onto the walls of the tent.

“Ré and Cormac,” she whispered, gesturing to the bodies and now-raging argument, and swiftly sliced through the ropes.
 

In a flash, he took the knife and cut the away bindings trapping his ankles, and staggered to his feet.

He swayed at once, stumbling sideways. She caught him, her arms tight around his ribs as they stumbled together for a moment. His breathing was harsh. She leaned them gently against the center pole and, fumbling with a hand, tugged a flask off her belt.

He downed half of it, trickles of it wetting the beard now covering his face. She looked over her shoulder. The shouts were ever-present, and by the shadows, it appeared a few punches had been thrown, so the fight was escalating apace, but the shadows of bodies were all clustered around the tent flap. Slipping out undetected would be impossible.
 

Aodh handed the flask back, wiping his chin with his forearm. “Whisky,” he said thickly. “Gave me…whisky.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, why did you drink it?,” she whispered fumbling for another flask. “I thought it was water.”

“Was perfect.” He pulled her to him, kissed her with his swollen, torn-open mouth, then spun her to the back of the tent. “Under,” he ordered in a rasp.

Aodh crouched and slit the bottom edge of the tent with the knife, then tugged it up enough for her to roll under. He came after, then they were off, his arm slung around her shoulder for support, hurrying behind the row of tents, into the darkness, into the night.

Chapter Forty-Four

THEY MADE IT to the cave hidden on the western edge of the coast, and crept inside. Katarina propped Aodh against the wall and swiftly removed her gown then laid it on the hard ground. Aodh fell onto it as if he were already dead. He went down first to his knees, then toppled over. He grabbed her hand as he went, pulling her down beside him.

“Give a lady a moment,” she whispered as she pulled her cloak over him.
 

“Never needed moment…before…to remove gown…for me.” His voice was a hoarse, barely guttural rasp, but that he had made a jest at all filled her heart with hope.
 

“On account of such arrogance,” she whispered as she tucked the cape up to his neck, then pulled the satchel with salves and unguents in it toward her, “I shall make you wait a full hour before my gown is removed next time we are in the bedchamber.”

“Who waits…for bed…?” A slow, harsh breath. “Ré? ’Mac?”

“Will be here soon,” she whispered. She decided not to mention Bran just yet.

“Fools, all.” His words, already misshapen due to the bruises covering his battered mouth, were getting softer, more mumbled.
 

“Reckless,” she whispered, brushing back blood-sticky hair from his temple.

“Owe you…life.”

“Nothing, Aodh,” she whispered. “You owe us nothing. We do but return the favors you have done for each of us.”
 

The hard hand clasping her tightened momentarily, but his words had disappeared into breath before they were fully out, for he had fallen asleep.
 

She stared at his beaten and bloody body, and since no one was there, and it was dark, she allowed herself the indulgence of one good cry, done quietly and quite wetly, as she knelt beside him and tended his wounds.

They looked worse than they were, mostly cuts, and one that needed stitches, but Aodh barely stirred as she put them in. Then she washed what needed washing, bandaged what needed bandaging, shifted him gently, and resting his head on her legs, she stroked his head, watching him sleep and breathe, giving thanks her rebel was still alive.
 

*

AODH AWOKE as the linen-white light of dawn glowed around the corner of the cave and illuminated the far wall. As soon as he saw the wall, he knew where he was.
 

Renegades Cove.

Black rock glowed wetly in the pale pearly light, the delicate veins of white and faint shadings of rose and pale green within almost translucent in the dawn glow. And all across the rock, like some granite tapestry, the faintest hint of etchings, silent, visual diaries left by marauders and outlaws and lost souls through the ages.

He remembered the wall well. In fact, if he were to rise now, he would find his own etchings made, sixteen years earlier, on that hellish, stormy night when he’d landed in England and Ré had dragged him out of the sea. The years had not dimmed the memories much. Landing on a shipwrecked boat, crawling up on land on his hands and knees, spitting ups seawater, intent on one thing: crawling to the Queen of England to resurrect Rardove.

Now, to this moment, crawling
away
from the queen, beaten and battered.

One had to admire the symmetry of it all, Aodh thought grimly. The patterns repeating ever after, like the angles of a shoreline or the peaks of a mountain range. He and his father. Katy and hers.

Sacrifice bore its costs. As did love.
 

He looked down at Katarina’s sleeping form, curled up beside him. The cycles, ever repeating. Until broken.

He’d spent his entire life fighting battles selected by others. Until Katarina. He’d lied—he had every intention of winning her, it had been his single goal—but she was the only thing, in all his world, that had been worth fighting for. And he’d won her.

And now she’d sacrificed herself for him.

If that did not fire a man’s blood, nothing could. This woman, so hard to win, had now transferred her loyalties to him, completely and utterly. He didn’t know if he was worthy, but it hardly mattered, for the deed was done. She was his. Under his protection, at his command—
occasionally
, he amended in a spasm of honesty— his in every way, from here on.

As for that here on… They had some decisions to make.
 

Katy was not going to be happy about his.

But that was for later. Her body shifted in sleep, and he dropped beside her and slid his hand along the warm curve of her body. Everything else was for later, because if there was one thing Aodh had learned in all his years of hard living, it was to seize what you wanted, the moment you saw it, ere it was snatched away forever.

He slid his hand lower.

*

AT DAWN, Aodh was up, awake and seemingly hale, which seemed impossible, except that he was touching her.

At first, she thought it was a dream. A dream he was uninjured and hardy and virile. Slowly, she roused out of the heady, clouding state of slumber and found him most definitely injured, not quite well, but very hardy,
exceptionally
virile, and most definitely touching her, his hand working its way masterfully down her body, seemingly none the worse for wear. Her hips rose up to meet his hand, her knees falling apart at the merest coaxing touch.
 

“I thought I’d lost you,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat as she threaded her fingers though his hair.
 

“You will find I am exceptionally hard to lose.” His words rose up, muffled, from under her cloak. Then he poked his head out. “But then, you came and found me, did you not?”
 

His mouth was entirely swollen on one side, as was one eye. Four days’ growth of facial hair lessened the evidence of his battering, but even through the dark fuzz, green and blue bruises could be seen. One side of his brow was out farther than the other.
 

“Oh, Aodh.” She touched his face with her fingertips.

He leaned down and brushed his cheek by hers. “Kissing will have to wait.”

“Kissing? Of course it must wait… All this,” she waved at her body and tried to struggle up, “must wait. You need rest. You cannot be ready for such…exertions.”
 

He held her down with a gentle pressure on her belly, his smile lopsided and lumpy. “I am quite ready for
exertions
, Katy. Have you not learned, ’tis a mistake to wait? If a thing matters, and it is there, you take it.” His words grew more intent as their eyes met, and his hands flattened on her belly, stroking her lightly. “That is how we shall do it.”

She let herself be drawn back down, her arms going around his neck. “If you insist.”
 

He lowered his head under the cloak again. She tipped her head back and curled her fingers, very gently, into his hair. He shifted about, laid his chest between her thighs, and pushed her leg to the side with an elbow.

“Och, maybe a little kissing is in order.”
 

She closed her eyes.

 
The morning, if morning it was, passed slowly, languidly, pale daylight rolling timeless and golden around the corner of the cave, casting just enough light for Katarina to see everything Aodh was doing to her.

*

THEY SLEPT again. Aodh was awakened by the sound of boots at the cave entrance.
 

Aodh swung to his feet, sword in hand, grimacing in silent pain, his muscles taut and screaming. He swayed slightly as three caped figures rounded the corner of the cave and loomed blackly amid the sunlight pouring down the tunnel entrance, all height and width, no depth.

Behind him, Katy got to her feet as well. He heard the low hiss of her sword being drawn.
 

Och, he did love this woman.

“Jesus God, you look like hell,” said Ré softly, and a hot breath of relief rushed out of Aodh. He lowered his sword and limped toward them.

“Did I not tell you to stay in the keep, son?” he said hoarsely when he saw Bran. cupping the back of his squire’s neck and shaking gently. Bran’s eyes were red and wet, so he could not answer.

“I made him come,” Katarina explained quietly. “He fought me tooth and nail, but I insisted.”
 

Aodh squeezed the back of Bran’s head. “Well, then, you’ve learned an important lesson: always listen to the ladies.”

“Unless it’s the queen,” Bran quipped, his eyes still red but a smile cracking the tension of the last few days, now that his champion was returned to him.
 

Aodh’s hand fell away. “Ah. Well, there you bring us to the matter at hand,” he said as Ré clasped his arm swiftly and tightly. One could have been forgiven for thinking it was a perfunctory thing, if one had not seen how tightly it was done, or how tautly Ré’s jaw was clenched, or how he blinked repeatedly as he stepped back.
 

 
Cormac gave Aodh a hearty embrace that made him groan in pain, then the Scotsman stepped back with a grin.