Lord of the Isle (11 page)

Her good vision picked out the flat expanse of Hugh’s belly just before his leg disrupted the sheeting.

“Round one to you, lady. Sit up and take this drink from my hand. You’re going to need every drop of it. Don’t tell me on the morrow you weren’t given fair opportunity to have a night of peace, or that I didn’t behave as a gentleman up until this point. I am claiming round two, and the balance of this night’s excesses and pleasures, with no quarter given. Prepare for a prolonged siege, lady.”

M
organa scooted backward, mashing a pillow at the small of her back. Her shoulder blades contacted the deeply carved headboard. She could just barely make out the rim of the glass in his hand. The smell of liquor swam pungently in her nostrils now, as it had done earlier. She swallowed dryly, asking herself whether she dared throw the glass’s contents at him, or onto the floor or the bed.

It wouldn’t be the first time she’d opted for the coward’s way out.

Almost as if he knew what she was thinking, Hugh threw the corked bottle on the mattress between them. Morgana mentally refused to pick up that gauntlet. She held onto her glass, and didn’t spill a drop as the bed shifted, taking his weight.

Hugh O’Neill eased into a relaxed pose beside her, his knee propped and supporting his arm and his glass of whiskey. Morgana had no trouble whatsoever defining his purposeful leisure as the greatest threat she’d faced from a man yet. She racked her brain, seeking some kind of advice from Grace O’Malley to get her past the bubbling tension in her belly.

“Tell me,” Hugh said, much too easily, to Morgana’s way of thinking, “do you prefer having a candle burning or the dark? Both suit me, though I will admit I enjoying watching a woman take her pleasure.”

“I would find candlelight limiting.” Morgana answered.
Not to mention humiliating and degrading. This proves he thinks I am a whore.

Now that the bed was still and there was no danger of spilling the liquid on the sheets, she brought the glass to her mouth. The very last thing she needed was more spirits. Her reaction to the whiskey was no act. Wine she might have some tolerance to, but not this potent brew. Maybe, she thought, it would be better if she was drunk.

At that thought, she drank deeply.

Hugh matched her, keeping the rim of his glass to his lips as long as she did hers. “For the record, I must insist that you keep up with me, lady. Drink for drink. Kiss for kiss. Touch for touch.” His hand touched hers, taking the glass away. “You may stand up and take off the kirtle. You’ll want something to cover you decently when you leave in the morning. There’s a peg on the upper right-hand side of the dresser that you can hang it from. It will have fewer wrinkles if you put it there. You may suit yourself in that regard. It’s your dignity that’s at risk.”

“How generous of you to mention dignity. Since you brought up the subject, isn’t this the appropriate moment to request that you unlock your door and let me leave? That way, you will have the silence and sleep you asked for.”

“It’s too late for that, Morgana. I don’t like being manipulated. You’ve roused the demon. You’ll stay till you’ve satisfied him. And you’ll come back and appease him in all our future dealings.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. As she left the bed, groping her way to the dresser, she considered her chances of finding that key, of scaling the wall to the trap in the ceiling, of throwing herself on his mercy. Her fingers gathered silk into handfuls, bunching it, lifting the gown up and over her shoulders.

She wasn’t frightened, not really.

It wasn’t as if she were saving herself for some future husband who would love and cherish her above all else in
this world, save God. No, no. Sooner or later, her luck was going to run out. Lord Grey had stated his demands in perfectly blunt and clear terms. She could service his entire army, for all he cared. He wanted only her moneys and properties. That was only one of the reasons she was on the run.

At least here, in this room, the man she was going to allow to bed her granted her some choice. She found the peg and hooked the gown over it.

“Is there a hairbrush here?” she asked, tugging at the few pins that remained in her hair.

“You’ll have to feel for it.” Hugh answered. “Last time I saw it, it was on the second shelf up from the counter, next to my porcelain shaving mug. Does that help?”

“Yes, thank you.” Morgana patted her way across the shelf, taking care not to tumble things over onto the cluttered counter. “You ought to have a wardrobe brought in. The one down in the solar is practically empty, and obviously rarely used by anyone. It’s not so tall or wide that it couldn’t be brought up the stairs.”

“That won’t make the task any less difficult.”

“Agreed.” Morgana found the brush. She pulled her braids over her shoulder, feeling for the ends and the threads she tied around each braid to secure it. She used her fingers to comb through the braids and open them, then closed her right hand over the handle of the brush, and, as quickly as her hand allowed, smoothed her hair into one smooth fall. She dropped the brush twice.

“Your hand still hurts. Come here, and I’ll brush your hair for you.”

“Are you certain you want to do that? I’ve got an awful lot of hair.”

“The more the better,” Hugh responded. He tucked their glasses on a ledge in the headboard and turned to the side of the bed. She put the brush in his hand and gave him her back, standing before him. Hugh opened his legs, drawing her hips between the grip of his knees.

He gathered the sheet of sweet-smelling hair into his hands, marveling at the weight and silky texture of it, regretting the lack of light that would have allowed him to fully appreciate with all his senses the pleasure of brushing her hair.

Each crackling stroke of the brush sent a maddening tumble of silk into his lap and onto his thighs. He was hard as a rock. She nestled back against him, the cleft of her bottom so very close to his stiffened manhood that he ached, because he could feel her heat.

Still, he was in no hurry to take her. Years of studying the night sky had taught him that his best times were always those to come in the wee hours of the morning, before dawn. It was not yet gone two o’clock. The night was his to savor.

“Have you ever cut your hair, Morgana?”

“My mother used to trim it a little bit, if she thought the ends were too dry.”

“You like it this long, then?”

“I know how to work with it, to make it look pleasing for those who have to look at me.”

“My sisters cut theirs quite short, to my way of thinking.”

“Inghinn Dubh’s hair looked quite long. It’s a very nice color, black. Rich-looking. Red isn’t very appealing.”

“Do you know what Inghinn Dubh means in Gaelic?”

“No.”

“Dark daughter. She was Sorely Boy Mac Donnell’s second wife’s pride and joy.”

“That’s a curious way to state a fact. How many wives does he have?”

“The usual Celtic three.”

“Why do you say the usual three? Are Celtic men all bigamists?”

“Nay.” Hugh laughed easily. “There’s an old tale that says a man’s first wife is chosen by his father for her properties and dowry. His mother chooses the second to guarantee production of a son and heir. The son chooses his
third for companionship, while his parents pray that she will outlive them all.”

“There must be a meaning there I’m missing…about the third.”

Hugh tossed the brush across the room. It clattered onto the dresser, knocking something else that dropped loudly to the floor. His hands swept around Morgana’s waist, turning her to face him, pulling her body onto his as he lay back on the bed.

“Aye, there’s a moral lingering in the tale. It means by the time a man gets round to picking the third, he’s so old he needs a nurse’s care—and the same for his parents.”

Her breasts and belly flattened on his. Fingers splayed across his chest, tangling in dark, curling hair.

“And where are you in that astounding process, Hugh O’Neill?”

“I am stuck in limbo. My mother has already died, so there’s no one about to choose wife number two.”

“You’re married?” Morgana said with some shock.

“I was. Though it wasn’t my father who chose the bride. Queen Elizabeth did that. Margaret died three years ago, from the usual complication of marriage, childbirth. Both she and the child succumbed to fever shortly after my son’s birth.”

“How dreadful for you.” Morgana murmured sincerely.

“In truth, I regret that I never knew Margaret very well. It was a marriage of state, forced on the both of us. I was ordered to play a certain part, and so I did. Beyond leaving me with a great feeling of emptiness, it’s all behind me now.”

Morgana could see that they had much in common in that regard, though she was not free to openly sympathize. He’d opened a road into her compassion, making her ask, “How old are you, Hugh O’Neill?”

“Five-and-twenty. Decrepit and ancient. Tottering into my dotage.” His hand spread across the back of her head, drawing her mouth down to his.

“That’s hardly old at all,” she replied.

“Sometimes it feels as though I’ve existed for ten lifetimes and never lived one.”

Morgana shivered as his lips bloomed over hers. His heat invaded and enveloped her. Wonderfully strong arms clasped her to him, with every inch of her torso from throat to belly in contact with him. His shaft prodded her softness, hard, hot and huge. She couldn’t comprehend how anything so big would fit inside her, but knew from experience that mystery was one of the most lasting pleasures of good loving.

She wanted to give away neither her ignorance nor her experience. So she concentrated on meeting the demands of his mouth and feeling his smooth lips gliding over hers. They were alternately soft and then hard, rough and gentle. His shaved whiskers teased and burned and scratched her lips, making them all the more sensitive and aware of each nuance of his mouth’s touch upon hers.

Marriage had told her that men liked putting their tongues in a woman’s mouth during mating. Her sister-in-law, Grace O’Malley, claimed the way they used their tongues separated the lovers from the rutters. Morgana had never known there was a difference until Hugh O’Neill sent a probe spiraling past her parted lips. She clasped her fingers to his shoulders and yielded, thrilled by sensations she hadn’t dreamed existed.

All at once she was overwhelmed by his flavors and textures; whiskey and salt, the astringent he splashed on his cheeks after he shaved. She loved the rough feel of his whiskers against her tongue, the hardness of his teeth, the stab of his tongue delving deep into her mouth, the teasing flick as he skittered across her gums and ran circles around her tongue.

She could have spent hours and hours going no further than just kissing, but Morgana wasn’t directing this play. Hugh O’Neill was in complete control. His right hand slid down her hip to grasp the back of her knee, drawing that
soft inner flesh high over his hair-roughened thigh. His left arm tightened across her back, and he rolled her over, pinning her underneath him.

His rod bucked against the opening of her portal. Nothing else could possibly have made her more acutely aware of the drastic change that had taken place in her body while she was lost completely in the artful joy of kissing. A seeping wetness drenched her nether lips. Deep inside her belly, something pulsed, driving her to madness, urging her to rock her hips hard against his.

His teeth nipped at her throat. His tongue laid a hot trail across her jaw and circled her ear, racking her with delicious shudders of purest pleasure. She thought she was going to die when he drew completely away from her, grasped her body under her arms and lifted her higher across the bed. She didn’t understand how he could leave her for even that short moment.

His hands cupped her breasts, forming them as suited him, and then his mouth closed over one, suckling her nipple deep, deeper inside his mouth than seemed possible. His tongue worked against the hard palate at the roof of his mouth, driving her over the edge into utter abandoned ecstasy.

She tried to stifle her moans of pleasure, to keep her cries to some sort of ladylike demeanor, but that was impossible. She caught his head between her hands, trying to draw him off, but only succeeded in accomplishing a transfer to her other breast. He made her throb and ache and writhe beneath him, begging for more, for everything that he could give her.

Hugh caught hold of her hands, restraining them as he moved deliberately down her belly. He tasted her curls and bit the plump mound of Venus, deliberately leaving the marks of his mouth upon each quadrant of her belly. Then he made his tongue into that hard, tormenting probe that had teased and toyed with her mouth. He wedged her thighs wide apart with his broad shoulders and tasted her.

His tongue entered her, tickled her, tormented and teased her, preparing her for the entrance of his shaft inside her. Morgana arched and strained against him, struggling to free her hands from his containment, to somehow reach that impossible place he was so ruthlessly determined to drive her to. Her whole body tensed, every muscle drawing tight as a bowstring pulled to its farthermost limit.

Then his tongue scraped across some infinitesimal pleasure spot that only he seemed to know of, and everything shattered. Morgana’s scream went on and on, as unstoppable as the climax rushing through her. Hugh moved up her body, lifting her legs as he brought his mouth back to hers.

His tongue flicked across her lips, bringing the taste of herself to his flavor and imprinting both on her tongue.

His hands plowed into her hair, drawing it back from her face.

“Now, lady—” his voice was fierce, husky, possessive “—you belong to me, and no other. From this moment forward, you are mine, my consort, my queen, my woman.”

He drove his shaft downward into her, his mouth covering hers, taking her scream of surprise inside him. Shockingly aching need drew Morgana’s body back into that taut, aching, tension she’d felt only moments before.

This lesson in true lovemaking was complete. She knew exactly where he was taking her now. No guilt-ridden shame at enjoying such a union completely was going to hold her back.

The fullness his shaft caused matched the growing ache for more that ran rampant inside her. She would never get enough of him, taste enough, feel enough. Not of this. She wrapped her legs tight around his back, bringing him down to her, asking for all of him, in the only way she knew, letting their bodies become the only necessary instrument of communication between them.