Wild Roses (24 page)

"I care not. No one will take you from me.
No one
."

Duncan waved Reginald Montfort away before Maire could
utter another word, yet she doubted she could have spoken for how tight her
throat had grown. It seemed all else had faded around her as she was carried
across the courtyard, her eyes straining solely for Duncan though he had
disappeared into a tower leading to the battlements.

***

Long hours later, Maire dozed fitfully, the fire in the
hearth burned to no more than glowing embers as, once more, she opened her eyes
with a start and looked around the bedchamber.

She knew Duncan hadn't returned. She would have sensed
him, even if asleep in the next room. So where might he be? Saints help her,
had any more well-aimed arrows
come
flying out of the
night from Ronan's bow?

Fresh anxiety seizing her, she nonetheless tried to
quiet her fears by telling herself that if anything was amiss, someone would
surely have come to tell her. That thought had sustained her, too, through the
first harrowing hour when she'd been unable to tear herself from the window,
the commotion in the courtyard gradually settling into a watchful state of
tension.

She'd stood there until her legs had fallen numb, still
straining for any sight of Duncan, and she imagined she had glimpsed him a few
times along the battlements though she couldn't be sure. It had seemed her eyes
were forever clouded by tears, and finally she'd retreated from the window and
prepared herself for bed, grateful for any task to occupy her.

It had amazed her that no matter the uproar in the
castle, the servants had still come with a basin of hot water for her to bathe
and a tray of food that had gone untouched. The young freckled serving maid
whose name Maire learned was Ona had been one of them. Maire was deeply touched
that the girl said she'd been so frightened for her. Ona had seen the Norman
drag her down the tower steps.

Maire closed her eyes and rolled onto her side, a sick
feeling welling inside her as she remembered the knifepoint pressed to her
breast.

She wouldn't have been able to step foot in these rooms
if Reginald Montfort and several guards he'd called to accompany him hadn't
searched them thoroughly; the knight had grimly said as much would be done
throughout the entire castle for any other intruders who might have secreted
themselves among the tenants who'd fled there that day. One of Walter de Lacy's
men, Reginald had cursed him. And to think the Norman had been lying in wait
for Duncan . . .

A shudder shook Maire, and she tried to force the
terrible memories away. It brought her some comfort that a guard had been
stationed at the top of the tower steps, but she so wished Duncan was here. She
so wished to know that he was safe—

"Enough, man, take
yourself
away and get some rest."

Duncan's voice carrying to her from outside his
apartment, Maire felt her heart jump just to hear its husky timbre. Yet she lay
still, too, and pretended sleep, suddenly nervous that they would once more be
sharing such close quarters . . . especially now that so much had changed
between them.

Or had anything really changed? The warmth spreading
out from her stomach as she heard him quietly enter the bedchamber was much as
she had experienced whenever they were together from almost the first moment
she'd seen him.

She was glad her hands were tucked beneath the pillow,
for how he might see them trembling; she wasn't surprised he had come close to
stand beside the bed even as she was sure he might hear the furious beating of
her heart. Somehow she made herself breathe evenly no matter she felt as if she
couldn't draw breath at all. Yet when he reached out to touch her cheek, his
fingers barely grazing her, she was certain she'd given herself away for the
tiny sigh that escaped her.

He sighed too, but heavily, and she discerned his
sudden tension even though he hadn't moved. She sensed so clearly he was
thinking about the Norman, and she remembered with a pang how ashen his face
had been, his deep brown eyes as stricken at that moment as filled with
helpless fury. If Ronan's arrow hadn't struck her enraged captor, would
Duncan's sword have been wielded in time to save her?

As if sharing her thoughts, Duncan swore fiercely under
his breath and strode from the bed. Maire dared to open her eyes to see him
disappear down the passageway to the other room. To his cot? Longing and keen
disappointment filled her, and she found herself wishing she hadn't feigned
sleep if only to ask him if all was well.

She doubted he would have returned to the tower to rest
if he still expected an imminent attack, and she wondered what the morning
would bring. Would he and his knights ride out at daybreak to search the
distant woods? She knew Ronan and her clansmen would not be found, their
stealth in hiding giving her some comfort that he and Duncan would not come
face-to-face. And she must see somehow that they never did, aye, truly!

Maire sighed heavily, too, such anguish overwhelming
her at the thoughts roiling in her mind that moments later she scarcely heard
footsteps once more enter the room. Not until she heard a low splashing of
water did she glance in surprise over her shoulder, and she froze to see that
Duncan had stripped to the waist and stood before the basin set upon a table
near the dying fire.

She lost breath altogether. His back was so broad and
powerful that she could not look away or even think to as he bathed quietly and
quickly, no doubt because the water was cold. It seemed so intimate a thing to
watch him, and she flushed to her toes when he ran his hands under his muscled
arms and down his chest. Her fingers twisted in her linen sleeping gown an
instant later when he bent to splash his face and then straightened to thrust
his fingers through his dark hair.

She saw him look down at himself, and she followed his
gaze to his calf-length breeches, thoroughly dampened now and stuck to his
lower body like a second skin. She did not have to wonder long at his thoughts.
Her heart truly began to pound when he suddenly peeled off the soaked garment
to stand naked at the basin and still she could not, would not, tear her eyes
from him.

She'd never known her face to be so warm when he cupped
his hands to draw water that streamed down the front of his body to pool at his
feet, cupped more water to stream down his
back
and
muscled flanks. The fire was not so low that she couldn't see his skin wet and
glistening, and she sucked in her breath when he grabbed up the towel she'd
used to dry herself.

It made him turn suddenly to look at her, and Maire was
caught, staring.

She didn't move, didn't blink as he dropped the towel
to the floor and came toward her, Maire feeling his eyes upon her as blatantly
as hers were yet upon him. Even now she could not look away, though she began
to tremble at the aroused state of his powerful body; she knew then that this
night would be different from any others.

And she knew desperately she wanted it to be so even
before he reached her. Maire gave herself to him with her eyes even as he
climbed into bed beside her and pulled her fiercely into his arms. In an
instant her sleeping gown was as soaked as his skin, the pounding of his heart
against her breast the most stirring sensation she had ever known.

"Woman . . ."

His voice hoarse and almost breaking, Maire didn't need
to hear more, all the terrible emotion they'd known that night captured in one word.
He kept silent for a long breathless moment, merely holding her, his arms hard
and strong and warm, and Maire knew she would have been content just with that.
But she knew, too, shivering suddenly at the vehement whisper at her ear, that
Duncan had no intention to stop there.

"No one will take you from me, woman, do you
hear?"

She nodded, while Duncan pulled her all the closer.

"After this night, you will be my wife in all ways
save the blessing of the Church . . . and that will come soon enough, I swear
it. I swear it!"

He said no more. Maire buried her face against his
chest even as she felt his hand tug her sleeping gown above her thigh, her hip,
only to cup her bottom and pull her against him. She so wanted to believe they
could have a chance for happiness, even for a night, dear God, even for one
night. As his lips found hers and he rolled her onto her back, his naked body
blanketing her, she pushed any lingering thoughts of Ronan, of her clan, of the
fearful chasm that separated her from the man she knew
she
so desperately loved, and gave herself over to his kiss.

Already Duncan was shaking, his desire as wild and
unleashed as her own as his lips ravaged hers, his tongue sweeping
hot
and deep into her mouth. If he had meant to be slow and
gentle, Maire knew innately at the heat exploding inside her that they were far
beyond such leisure now, and she wound her arms around his neck to welcome the
incredible onslaught of his passion.

She could never have imagined the wonder of desiring to
be one with a man, to belong to him, and she shook, too, with the force of her
own need. Distantly she heard a ripping sound, her sleeping gown torn
impatiently from her body so she lay naked now and trembling beneath him while
he poised himself above her, her legs thrust apart by his knee, his lower body
pressing heavily against her. Yet suddenly he tore his mouth from hers and
stared into her eyes, his breathing deep and ragged.

"Woman, you must tell me if you wish . . . this.
You must tell me—"

"Aye, Duncan, aye," Maire said in a voice she
scarcely recognized as her own, full of pleading and so hoarse it was more a
whisper. Yet she thought no more as he groaned and spread her legs wider, his
aroused flesh hard and insistent at the heart of her thighs for the briefest,
most agonizing instant before he drove himself into her, claiming her,
possessing her as his own even as Maire cried out beneath him.

She knew piercing pain, but his kiss, the weight of
him, the driving force of his hips made her soon forget even that and she gave
herself over to the wildness of it, the pure wonder of it, an incredible
pressure building where their bodies were wet and burning and joined as one. It
was both madness and ecstasy, this heretofore unknown thing that made her hold
onto him as fiercely as he held her, her fingers clutching at his back.

She scarcely knew at what point her trembling ceased
and a wrenching cry burst from her throat, her body arching to the pleasure
spilling over her, through her, while Duncan drove himself into her one final
time and stiffened, a deep, full throbbing felt at the very heart of her. His
mouth against hers, he drew her all the harder against him, his impassioned
whisper almost lost to the clamor of their breathing.

"Ah, God, Rose . . . sweet Rose. Now they cannot
take you from me. They cannot!"

Maire felt tears suddenly burn her eyes, but even her
false name upon his lips this night, this one precious night, she would not
allow to distress her. Saints help her, she would not!

As his mouth possessed hers, she kissed him back with
all the depth and truth of her love, abandoning herself to him even as she felt
his body grow hard and urgent inside her once more.

Chapter 23

Maire knew without opening her eyes that Duncan would
not be there. The disheveled bed was empty beside her.

She distantly remembered his whisper in her ear that he
would return by midday, his last caresses, his tender kisses more a dream than
conscious memory,
she'd
been sleeping so soundly.
Still with her eyes closed, she brought her fingers to her lips, by touching
them able to conjure his presence as if his mouth were warm and insistent upon
hers. It made her draw in her breath, the wonder of the night they'd spent
together rushing back to fill her completely.

She belonged to him. Utterly. She felt her face begin
to burn at the fierceness of their lovemaking, only the last time
so
gentle as he'd rolled her, dazed and near satiated, onto
her side, his fingers bringing her to aching fulfillment while he took her
slowly, oh, so slowly. Even now she shuddered just as they both had shuddered
together and then finally fallen asleep, their bodies still joined.

Maire drifted open her eyes, the hazy sunlight
streaming through the narrow windows doing little to dispel the sense of
possession that clung to her. And she didn't want it to leave her. Not yet.

She wanted to steep in the memories and impress them
indelibly on her heart. It warmed her that she still smelled of him, the
masculine scent of his body on her skin, in her tangled hair, her woman's flesh
still wet from him. Did he carry with him the scent of her, too?

That thought brought a stab of pain as jarring as if
she'd been struck. Maire moaned to herself, helpless to stop the memories from
fading as cold reality suddenly came crashing upon her.

She knew as surely as Duncan was gone that he'd ridden
out with a phalanx of knights to search high and low around Longford Castle for
whoever had fired the arrow. When he found no vengeful clan arrayed to fight
against him or marching forth from the trees to demand her immediate release,
would he guess then the truth and return to confront her? Her only hope lay now
in that he believed mayhap the O'Melaghlins—

"Ah, still abed, I see."

Maire rose in surprise on one elbow, clutching the
blanket to her breasts as Adele glided imperiously into the room. Garbed in a
silken gown as icy blue as her eyes, the woman didn't stop until she stood at
the foot of the bed, where she glared down her patrician nose at Maire.

"And how the air reeks of sex. I can imagine
Duncan has used you well—"