Into Thin Air (21 page)

And you have it."

Ellie gulped. "You mean"—she lifted her finger and touched the side of her mouth—"here?"

Gawan closed the small distance between them, and moved her hand away. "Nay," he said, his voice quieter, and lifted his finger to graze the other side of her mouth. "Here."

Ellie's heart slammed against her ribs so hard, she thought the bones would break. The fact that Gawan kept his finger to the corner of her mouth made her breath catch in her throat.

"Is that why I feel this ridiculous attraction to you?" she asked. "Because there's a mark on my mouth?"

"Mayhap," he answered, barely, his eyes now liquid chocolate. "Damnation, Ell ..."

Lifting her hand, she placed it on Gawan's wrist, and his muscles tensed at her touch. "The night you kissed me, I remember you especially took your time on that particular corner." God, she felt drunk, even as she moved her hand to cover his, the one still touching that crazy mark she didn't even know she had. "Why?"

Gawan didn't even have to touch her for Ellie to feel the barely restrained control he had building inside that powerful frame. He all but hummed with it, and it wrapped around her like a hot, heavy blanket, and she
liked
it.

His head lowered, slowly, but his eyes remained fixed on hers. "Because, girl"—his breathing had grown raspy, even more so as his finger traced the tiny scar beneath her bottom lip—"that night, I

—"

His words were lost as Ellie rose and kissed him.

Chapter Seventeen

Somehow, even in the heat of the most passionate kiss she'd ever experienced, Ellie knew it was a kiss to defy all kisses in the history of Best Kisses Ever. Better than Burt and Deborah's roll-in-the-surf kiss in
From Here to Eternity.
Better, even, than the sexy yet desperate kiss between George Bailey and Mary Hatch while that jerk Sam Wainwright blabbed on the phone in
It's a Wonderful
Life.
Better than the first Ross and Rachel kiss, for crying out loud. Better than Mulder and Scully's first kiss on
The X-Files.
She'd waited
forever
for that one.

Even better—dared she think it—than the famous upside-down
Spider-Man
kiss.

As Ellie pressed her mouth against Gawan's, she felt the world tilt as he took complete control. That pent-up energy she'd felt emanating from him before broke loose, and her skin all but burst into flames everywhere he touched her. And golly, did he ever touch her.

As one hand slid beneath her hair to cup the back of her neck, the other skimmed her jaw, held it in place, tilted it just so, while his mouth devoured hers. There was no hesitancy this time, no tender tasting of that funny mark on the side of her mouth. It was an all-out, you're-
mine
kind of kiss, a sort of
branding,
she thought, and Gawan left not one millimeter untouched.

Thank
God.

Her own hands first held on to his arms for dear life, but then Ellie found, with fascination, they'd crept up to Gawan's face, where she felt the rough texture of his stubbled jaw, then closer to his mouth,
their
mouths, as their passionate kiss spiraled. Finally, she fastened her hands around his neck, fingered the knot holding his queue, and then loosened his wild boyish curls.

Gawan made a deep noise in his throat or his chest—she couldn't determine which. It sounded hungry. Untamed. Feral.

Determined.

His mouth moved over hers in a way that nearly made Ellie cry out, not in pain, but in fear of him
stopping.
He was everywhere, and in one place, all at once, tasting her lips, grazing her tongue with his, as if he were an animal, and she his very last meal. Only
sexier.

Somehow, they'd moved, and Ellie found her back pressed against the rough stone of the Brooding Chamber's wall. Gawan's one hand remained close to her mouth, holding her jaw or, more likely, guarding that crazy corner of her mouth. His other hand moved possessively down her side, over her hip, and—golly, Moses!—beneath her sweater to graze her ribs.

Breathing suddenly became difficult as his callused palms skimmed the skin of her stomach, inched higher, hesitated, then came back across her side. She was pressed hard against him now, and her one hand tangled in his long hair, the other—how on earth had she found her way into his buttoned-up, tucked-in shirt?—caressing the hard muscles of his abdomen. She
felt
just how
Intended
she was for Gawan of Conwyk.

"Christ Almighty, girl," he muttered, his mouth leaving hers, only to find a new place to taste her neck.

And God, his accent, which was completely sexy, was decidedly much thicker than usual, almost to the point where she had a hard time understanding what he'd said at all. The way
girl
came out
gel ...

And then she felt it. Knew what it was as though an aura before a seizure. Quickly, she tugged his mouth back to hers and kissed him deep, took control, made him simmer down.

She opened her eyes to find his staring back, passion-filled and beautiful. Their lips still pressed together, Ellie smiled against his mouth and moved to whisper in his ear, just as his touch became less solid, and she started to feel light. She heard him swear, ever so softly, in medieval Welsh.

She kissed his earlobe. "I'll be right back."

Then she vanished into thin air.

Gawan closed his eyes, leaned against the wall, and tried to get his bloody breathing under control.

Sweet Christ, had she not vanished, he would have taken her on Tristan's Brooding Sofa. He hadn't been able to control himself, and by the bloody saints, she'd been no help, slipping her deft little hands inside his tunic. She might as well have drawn and quartered him, rather than skim his stomach with her soft fingertips. Oy, how it left him in pain.

"By the"—he pushed forcefully off the wall—"bloody ... damnation!" he shouted, then followed those useless words with a litany if Welsh curses.

Then he stopped. Froze, truth be told. A noise, a whisper, mayhap? He couldn't be sure. He strained his ears.

And then, by Christ's robes, he
frowned.

With as much stealth as he could muster, Gawan eased over to the door, flexed his fingers a time or two, and then in one fluid motion flung opened the massive oak door.

Several Dragonhawk knights tumbled through the doorway. There were more, all of them, in fact, including the Dragonhawk himself, crammed into the passageway. Along with, Gawan noted, Godfrey, Christian, and the Grimm ladies.

The only two occupants of Dreadmoor Castle missing were the lady Dragonhawk and Jameson.

Gawan stood, arms crossed,
glaring
at the witless fools trying to stand upright after falling over one another.

"Damnation, Grimm," Sir Stephen said, "ye took a fair amount of time, aye?"

"And ye still didn't tell the lass all there is to know," Sir Robert said, elbowing another out of his way. "By St. Michael's boots, you should have told her."

"Damnation, I had no chance," Gawan said, even knowing he probably did. "I tried to."

Jason, younger and usually quite a bit more light-hearted than the others, gave Gawan a stern look of disapproval. "Shame on you, sir, an Angel such as yourself, taking privileges with the lady. And her
In-Betwinxt."
The lad shook his head, then turned around and walked off.

"I couldn't bloody well help it!" Gawan said, somehow feeling put to place by a lad not yet twenty.

"Fine lot you all are, listening in at the doorway." He glared at Godfrey. "I told you to stay away."

Sir Godfrey offered a slight nod, the oversized plume in his hat bouncing forward. "Aye, ye did, in truth, but I've never been one to listen very well, I'm afraid."

"We only wanted to make sure the girl was told everything," Lady Follywolle said. " 'Tis a delicate matter at hand, you know."

"I do bloody well know," Gawan said under his breath. "Far more than you can possibly imagine."

That he said in Welsh.

Lady Follywolle gasped.

"Listen, my friend," Tristan said, placing a hand on Gawan's shoulder and leading him away from the door. "We didn't hear everything, in truth, really—just a lot of harsh breathing."

"Don't forget the
Christ Almighty
that a certain
someone
growled out," one brave knight said.

All the knights roared with laughter.

"You men, cease your mockery this instant, and allow me to have a spot of decent,
private
speech with Conwyk here."

Tristan and Gawan walked to the massive windows.

"I speak for all of us when I say we have only your—and the lady Ellie's—best interests at heart."

He shrugged. "And a bit of curiosity, as well, I suppose. 'Tisn't every day that a thousand-year-old Angel finds his Intended."

Gawan considered that. "Aye, Tristan, 'twould be quite fascinating if my Intended wasn't firstly,
In-Betwinxt
and, secondly, my
charge."
He rubbed his eyes, where a pounding headache had slowly started developing. " 'Tis hopeless, but by Christ, I can't live without her."

The Brooding Chamber, Gawan noticed, had become decidedly quiet. When he turned, several of the knights had a most ridiculous expression stuck to their faces, which they covered up rather fast by grumbling, swearing, and pushing one another out of the room quite fast. One of them belched, they all laughed, and it was then determined that the best place to hasten to would be the larder, to seek out a bit of Ben and Jerry's before the lady Dragonhawk ate it all.

Sir Godfrey gave a low bow, his plume waving. "I shall escort these fine ladies back to Grimm, young Conwyk, as I see you've things under control here." He turned to Tristan. "Dreadmoor.

Pleasure, as always."

Tristan gave a nod. "You Grimm folk are welcome here, as always."

Lady Follywolle sighed, and Lady Beauchamp giggled.

"We shall see you thusly then, Lord Dreadmoor," she said with a curtsy. "Come, Godfrey, whilst the night is still young."

Godfrey took each Grimm lady by the elbow, threw a grin over his lace-and-velvet shoulder, and the three disappeared through the wall.

Christian of Arrick-by-the-Sea remained quiet, taking everything in, standing near the hearth.

Gawan tossed him a glance. "And what say you, Chris? You're usually so bloody bold of tongue."

Christian joined Gawan and Tristan by the window.

With a slight grin, he stared out into the darkness. "You won't like what I have to say, Conwyk."

Gawan chose to ignore that and instead replied, "Had I known but a bit of mushy speech would have kept the lads away, I would have said it to begin with." Gawan stared out into the darkness, the moon slicing into pitch like a farmer's sickle.

He couldn't stand it another second. Turning, he faced his ghostly friend. "What? You might as well say it, Arrick, for I know you well enough that it won't stay bottled up inside you for long."

Tristan chuckled.

"Very well, then," Christian said, a somber grin fixed to his face. "What I think, Gawan of Conwyk, is that you should do well and true to make the very best of your situation with your Intended, such as it is. At least you'll have your mortal life to live out, even if it's not with her." He inclined his head. "And Dreadmoor here, well, he surpassed his odds, true enough. But look you what he's found after all. Over seven hundred years of roaming, and he now lives and breathes the breath of the living. He has a lovely wife, who carries his babe." He glanced back out into the darkness. "His men, as well, broke free from their curse." He shook his head and gave Gawan a nod. "Methinks you'd do best by accepting what you are given, whether that be little or bountiful. Either way," he said, fading away, " 'tis far more than a ghost shall ever endeavor to have." He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. "I'm off, mates. I've a queer feeling about my own homestead of late, of which I feel the need to investigate straightaway."

"How fairs the old caretaker?" Tristan asked. "Getting on in years, I imagine."

Christian nodded. "Aye, but full of spice, that old girl." He scratched his jaw. "But I've noticed her of late meeting with a few of her cronies up the way at her cottage, and then 'tis been nearly a sen'night now, I've not seen her at all." He shook his head. "I just feel the need to check on her." He gave another nod. "Until."

With that, he disappeared.

Gawan sighed. Put in his place once again. He did have a mortal life to look forward to—something Christian de Gaultiers of Arrick-by-the-Sea desired every waking moment of his ghostly existence, but would never have. He raked a hand through his hair and sighed again. "Mayhap he's right."

Tristan clapped him on his back. "Aye, in truth, he may very well be." He turned and started for the door. "But we've a photo to look over, and faxes to read. The storm hindered my solicitor from sending them earlier, but mayhap they've come through." He stood at the doorway. "Come, Conwyk, and we'll make an attempt to pry that iced concoction from my wife's sticky hands, gobble up what's left, and then try to figure out just what we can do to make sure you get to keep your Intended." He smiled. "As it was intended."

Gawan grabbed Tristan's forearm in a fierce shake—one of their old ways. "I thank you for your aid, truly."

Tristan returned the show of brotherhood with a fierce shake of his own. "Aye, and 'tis given without a single thought. You'd do the same for me, Conwyk, and I bloody well know it."

Dreadmoor was indeed right. Gawan thought of their unusual friendship, of how he'd already garnered Angel status by the time he first encountered the fierce knight Dragonhawk and his garrison. A mighty lot of lads, to be sure. And it had pained him to know he couldn't interfere when their murder occurred.

" 'Twas nothing you could have done, Conwyk," Tristan said. "Aye, I can read your thoughts just by looking at that somber expression on your face. Don't you see, man? 'Twas my lot in life to endure centuries of roaming, and I vow, I'd do it again. I wouldn't have my Andrea, had it gone differently."