The Rose and The Warrior (20 page)

Pleasure shot through Melantha in a fiery streak. She plunged her fingers into Roarke's black hair, holding him at her breast as liquid heat poured through her. He worshipped the taut peak of her breast with hungry reverence, then shifted his attention to the other, drawing it deep into the hot recesses of his mouth and sucking long and hard, until she felt she would melt from the exquisite sensations radiating through her. She was vaguely aware of Roarke freeing her shirt from her leggings as he continued to taste her, and then the rumpled fabric was skimming over her head and she was naked to the waist, with the dark fall of her hair caressing her bare skin in a silky veil. A long, pink scar snaked down her left arm from her shoulder to her elbow. Roarke paused to trace his finger along its ragged trail, feeling anger surge through him at the thought of anyone attempting to harm her. The injury was not old, perhaps two months at best, and had probably been inflicted during one of her raids as the Falcon. He dared not ask about it, for fear of shattering the bond between them, and so he simply caressed it, his manner void of judgment or pity. He had seen thousands of scars in his life, for no warrior could live for long without acquiring at least a few, but he was unaccustomed to seeing them on a woman. Dismissing this intrusive reminder of her life as an outlaw, Roarke cupped his hands around her breasts and pressed his face between them, inhaling deeply of her, and then he began to kiss the cool flesh beneath. His hands abandoned her breasts to learn the contours of her waist, her hips, her thighs, his touch insistent and possessive as his palms roamed over her. He fell to his knees so he could better revere the flat plane of her belly, grazing his lips across the milky skin, and then the soft wool of her leggings was peeled away and his face was pressed into the dark triangle between her thighs. Melantha gasped in horror and tried to push him away, but Roarke shackled her wrists in the powerful grip of his hands and bound them to her sides, pinning her helplessly against the wall as his tongue slid into her most intimate place.

Pure pleasure ignited inside Melantha, forbidden and frightening and wonderful, rendering her silent and still. Roarke tasted her lightly at first, his tongue flitting into the honeyed wetness of her in a teasing, rhythmic cadence. Melantha stood unmoving, no longer fighting him, but unable to release her breath or ease the rigid set of her body. And then Roarke drove his tongue into her with a searching stroke, and she cried out and fought to free her wrists. Roarke responded by tasting her deeply once more, gradually releasing his grip on her as he continued to lap at her slick heat. A low groan of masculine arousal rose from his chest as he felt her fingers thread urgently into his hair. In and out his tongue swirled, learning every intimate fold of her, tasting her and caressing her and exploring her. Melantha could not bear it an instant longer, she was certain of it, and yet she stood there and endured his shamefully exquisite caresses, feeling a dark excitement at the sight of him kneeling before her, pleasuring her with such carnal abandon.

A tight bud of intense sensation began to bloom within her, making her breaths come in shallow little pants and her flesh feel as if it were afire. Any inhibitions she might have had were overwhelmed by the swell of pleasure now pulsing within her. Roarke cupped her breast as he continued to devour her, holding her steady before him with nothing but the silvery web of throbbing need he had woven over her. Melantha opened her thighs slightly and held his head at her wet womanly heat, knowing he would surely think her wanton, and not caring, finding herself unable to care about anything except the sweet prison of rough, cool stones at her back and Roarke's mouth on her heated body and the silky feel of his hair in her hands as he forced her to breathe faster, shallower, harder, leaning into him and over him and focusing with fervent concentration on the exquisite sensations mounting throughout every fiber of her body. A dull ache was stretching within her, a previously unknown void buried deep inside, and a moan spilled from her lips. Roarke's finger eased into her as he continued to stroke her with his tongue, filling the aching hollow, stretching her and caressing her until she felt she would surely go mad from such magnificent torment. Her hands gripped his granite-hard shoulders, needing to hold on to him for support now, and small, desperate gasps escaped her throat. Suddenly the sensations within her melded into one, keen and shimmering and white hot, and Roarke tasted her with swift, hard caresses as he buried his finger inside her, until it was more than she could bear, and she felt herself begin to shatter in a golden burst of liquid fire. She strained against him, every muscle and bone in her body taut, and then she cried out and collapsed, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and her head buried against the hard pounding of his chest.

Cradling her with one arm, Roarke swiftly unwrapped his plaid and dropped it in a rumpled pool upon the floor, then eased Melantha back against its warmth. An amber spill from the torch bathed her skin in apricot light, illuminating her pale beauty in velvety shadows. He stripped away her boots and fallen breeches and rapidly removed his own shirt and boots. Then he spread himself over her, his body hard and aching with need. Her creamy skin was like silk against him, still warm and flushed with desire. He wanted to bury himself within her, to lose himself to her softness and heat, but he knew she was inexperienced and would require gentle care. He inhaled a steadying breath, forcing himself to gain control. Melantha stared up at him, passion still smoldering in the luminous depths of her eyes, smoky and profoundly stirring. He bent his head and kissed her with rough tenderness, wanting her to the point of madness. If he were able he would wash away the pain she had endured, would cleanse her mind of all she had witnessed that terrible night her beloved father had been slain, and all the suffering that had followed. But all he could offer her was the refuge of his touch, with the warmth of his plaid and the heat of his desire shielding her from the coolness of the torchlit passage, and the unforgiving world that awaited them in the morning.

He kissed her deeply as his hands skimmed over her, rousing her sated flesh once more. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, then set her hands free to explore the marble contours of his chest and shoulders and back, lingering at the thick cord of scarred tissue upon his shoulder, and the ragged scar that had severed the muscles of his back. Her fingers felt soft against his ravaged body, but any soothing effect they might have had was eradicated by the incredibly erotic effect of her tentative touch. Roarke plundered her mouth as his fingers slipped into the hot slickness between her thighs, stroking and probing until she was rising against his caresses once more. Knowing she was ready he positioned himself between the slender columns of her legs and entered her, just a little, shackling his need to a wall of self-control, so determined was he not to hurt her. He kissed the wine-stained tip of her breast as her body adjusted to him, distracting her with his suckling, and when she sighed and arched her back he entered her farther, slowly, carefully, giving her the time she needed to open herself to him. It was agonizing to hold himself over her so, caught between ecstasy and torture, every muscle in his body straining for release. He turned his attention to her other breast, vaguely wondering if he were trying to divert himself more than her, feeling the taut thread of his control stretched to its limit as Melantha shifted restlessly against him, her hands still roving the sinewy contours of his shoulders and back. He withdrew slightly, fighting to regain his control. Melantha murmured a ragged protest and grabbed hold of his buttocks, suddenly pulling him into her as she raised herself up to him, enveloping him in the hot, tight clasp of her magnificent body.

Roarke groaned, struggling with the incredible sensations surging through him. After a moment he raised his eyes to look at her. She seemed more startled than frightened, but her body had gone utterly rigid.

“Easy, Melantha,” he murmured hoarsely. “The discomfort will pass—I promise.”

He bent his head and began to kiss the silky skin of her throat as his hand moved down to where they were now joined. He caressed her lightly while his lips found hers and tasted the ripe sweetness of her mouth. She sighed and opened her legs a little wider, releasing the tension that had gripped her a moment earlier. He began to move within her, slowly, gently, stroking her and kissing her as he made her his, whispering gentle words of praise and reassurance as she began to pulse in rhythm with him. Over and over he sank himself into her, losing a little of himself with each aching thrust, trying to bind her to him as he filled her and covered her and worshipped her, and knowing it was futile. Melantha was strong and courageous and untamed, and she would never belong to anyone.

He kissed her fiercely, almost angrily, searching out the deepest secrets of her mouth, her silky cheek, the elegant curve of her neck, all the while burying himself into her again and again, holding her and tasting her and stroking her, wanting her to be his, not just in this passion-filled moment but always. It was madness, he realized that, for there was no escaping who and what he was, and she would never forgive him for it. Deeper and deeper he drove into her, pleasure and despondency melding into one as her arms wrapped tightly around him and she rose to meet every stroke, soft little moans unfurling in her throat, her body holding him in its hot, wet embrace, until he no longer knew where he ended and she began. He wanted it never to end, wanted never to be separated from her, wanted never to leave the shadowed confines of this torchlit passage. And suddenly he could feel himself slipping over the precipice of ecstasy, and he cried out, a cry of pleasure mingled with unbearable regret. He pushed himself into her as far as he could and kissed her fervently, spilling himself into her, losing the last vestiges of himself to the incredible beauty and heat of her, and feeling as if he were suddenly, irretrievably lost.

They lay together a long moment, their hearts pounding in frantic unison, their bodies still intimately joined. Melantha clung to Roarke tightly, unable to comprehend the vortex of emotions churning within her. She wanted Roarke to hold her and keep her safe, to whisper gentle, calming words into her ear and keep her warm beneath the muscled cover of his body. But shame was already gnawing at the pit of her, dousing her desire and rendering her cold. He was a MacTier warrior, part of the clan that had so brutally attacked her people and murdered her father. The fact that he might not have been part of that raid scarcely mattered—had he been ordered to be there, he would have enthusiastically taken part. And more, he had been sent by Laird MacTier to kill her band and capture her so that she could be executed before his people. For all she knew he still intended to do so, given the opportunity. She shifted and pushed against him, wanting his unbearable weight off her before she was crushed.

Roarke sensed the change in her instantly, even before her once-gentle hands shoved against his shoulders. Profound sadness seeped into him, stripping away the last of his desire. He wanted to talk to her, to somehow convince her that what had passed between them was not wrong, or something she should regret. But it was already too late, he could see it in the dull glint of loathing in her eyes, could feel it in the angry stiffening of her body and the cooling of her flesh. Whatever madness had burned so brightly between them was now extinguished.

Feeling hollow and alone, he rolled off her and began to dress.

Melantha clumsily donned her shirt, leggings, and boots. Shame gripped her in a suffocating wave, eradicating the pleasure she had felt in Roarke's arms. She could not begin to imagine what darkness had possessed her to behave in such a thoroughly wanton manner. She had not only disgraced herself but she had dishonored the memory of her darling da, and all those other brave, fine men who had died while fighting Roarke's clan. She had vowed to spend the rest of her life hating all MacTiers to the depths of her being, and to doing whatever she could to punish them for destroying her life. This was what sustained her, this and her overwhelming devotion to her brothers and her people. By giving herself willingly to Roarke, she had shaken the foundation of hatred that nourished her. Appalled by her conduct, she forced herself to adopt an air of cool indifference in a desperate bid to restore some shred of formality between them.

Sorrow tore through Roarke as he watched Melantha struggle with her emotions.

“I presume you wish to escort me back to my dungeon?” he asked, his tone flat.

She nodded warily, uncertain what he intended to do next.

“Very well.”

They walked together in awkward silence through the dim passage, which suddenly seemed frigid and bleak. Gelfrid still snored comfortably by the door to the storeroom, blissfully unaware that one of his prisoners was missing. Melantha produced the key and nervously opened the door. Roarke did not know if their passion had made her uneasy, or the very real possibility that he might suddenly take her prisoner and free his men, using her as a hostage to escape the confines of this castle. For a moment he seriously entertained the thought, feeling weary and longing for nothing other than to be home. But there were still a few more days of work to oversee, and although the MacKillons were making progress with their training, they were not ready to meet an invading force. Guilt and an innate sense of responsibility forced him to enter his chamber. He turned to face her before she could close the door.

“Melantha.”

She raised her eyes to his. Uncertainty shimmered in their depths, uncertainty and confusion. And shame. She was fighting desperately to hide it from him, but he could see it, as clearly as if it were branded across the milky skin of her forehead. He longed to reach out to her, to brush the dark silk of her hair that had fallen against her cheek, to enfold her trembling form in his arms and draw her close, protecting her from the MacTiers and her memories and the torment that was punishing her so cruelly. Instead he remained where he was, knowing the wall between them had risen once again, and not having any idea how to scale it.