Christine Rimmer - Dark, Devastating & Delicious! - The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction

“You have claimed me. You shall have me.”

Oh, well. All right.

But then again…

“I have an idea.” Her voice came out husky, hungry, low.

“Share it.”

“How ’bout we don’t? And just say we did.”

He only shook his head at that, his eyes so deep, his mouth swollen with kissing.

Crazy, she told herself. Way, way insane.

A leather strip held back his hair—another temptation, more of the only thing she couldn’t resist. She took that strip and pulled. It slid away. His hair fell loose around his shoulders. She let the bit of leather drop, down there to the dirt, with the scattered M&Ms. She combed her fingers through the strands—so silky, alive with the warmth of him.

“You don’t need this coat,” he said.

She didn’t argue. She let him push it from her shoulders and toss it to the pallet where his own coat lay.

He gathered her close again, enfolding her in those lean, strong arms. And he kissed her, his tongue pushing in, finding hers waiting. To welcome him.

To play…

He had her sweater by the sides. He raised it, fingers trailing over the bumpy fabric of her thermal shirt, thrilling her with the simple pressure of his touch. The kiss was interrupted as he pulled the sweater over her head. She lifted her arms straight up too fast.

A small cry of pain got away from her.

He tossed the sweater away, his brows drawing together. “Your wound…?”

“No. Nothing. It’s…”

But he was bending close again, pressing his lips to her shirt, right over the bandage that covered the place where the arrow had struck. He blew out a breath. She felt it through the layers of cloth and the bandage. It was lovely. Warm and moist. So tender. So soothing.

So right…

She cradled his head against her shoulder and stroked his hair. “Oh, Eric…”

He pulled back and took her by the arms. And he looked into her eyes, deeply. For an endless span of time.

She shook herself. Really, she had to clarify things a little. “This doesn’t mean—”

“Shh.” His finger sealed her lips again. “Explanations are for strangers. We are not strangers. We never were that.” She put her hands flat against his chest. She had a thousand things to say. But they all kept flying away. His eyes were so deep. They went down and down forever. “I assume nothing. You needn’t fear.”

He did assume. She could see it there. Shining in his spruce-green eyes.

But—right then, did she care?

Uh-uh.

He was holding her. He wanted her, and, oh, she did want him, want his hard body against hers, his strong arms around her. For this night, in her cousin’s tent, in the camp of the kvina soldars.

It was not such an easy thing, this quest of hers. Mostly it seemed she was getting nowhere—except in trouble. And in one sense, he was her adversary, keeping from her what she needed to know.

But in another, deeper way she truly did feel bound to him. Beyond being adversaries, they were also comrades. He would fight at her side if it came to that. He would willingly lay down his life for hers.

And as she looked up at him, she knew she would do the same for him.

It was a bond between them. A powerful one. Wherever this all might lead in the end, it would be an honest thing, to be with him tonight.

She felt the smile of acceptance curve her lips.

In response he whispered her name. “Brit…”

She took the sides of his shirt and gathered the soft leather, sliding it upward, fingers skimming the firm, hot flesh along his ribs, pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it in the corner with the rest of their things.

His smooth bare chest gleamed in the darkness. And there was the medallion….

The sight of it—of the twining serpent, the four mystic animal faces, the cloverleaf cross at the center—took the shivery, sexual moment and twisted it. Ruined it.

She turned her head away.

He caught her chin, guided her back. “Look. Know. It is there for you when you want it. And only then.”

She pushed at his chest—regretfully. But firmly.

He dropped his hands to his sides.

They stared at each other, inches—and now suddenly, miles—apart. They were both breathing heavily.

“I can’t do it,” she said at last. “It just wouldn’t be right.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And so, when the warrior women learn I have failed to please you, I die.”

Like she could let him get away with that one. “Oh, please. You know that is so not going to happen.”

“But I must—”

“Please me? That’s right. And you have. Thoroughly. End of problem.”

“I’d like to do more.” He looked so sincere. And so devastatingly sexy. Damn him.

She shrugged, the gesture cool—everything she wasn’t inside. “Get over it.”

“So much bravado. Strange how it suits you.”

“Bravado? This is not bravado. This is me. Trying, against all odds, to get through to you. ”

“And I have heard you. No more pleasuring. Not tonight.”

“Not tonight, not ever. ”

“Ah,” he said, as if he understood. But he didn’t. He was absolutely certain tonight had been only the beginning of the pleasuring they’d share. He didn’t believe for a moment that she meant what she said.

And how could she expect him to? She didn’t believe it herself.

She pointed at the pallet where their things were piled. “You can sleep there. I’ll take the other one.”

“I am yours to command.”

Oh, yeah, right. “Go to bed then.”

“As you wish, so shall it ever be.”

* * *

The hawk dropped from the sky. Its eyes were dragon eyes, burning red. Flames shot from its beak, searing all in its path. She put up her arms to shield her face and a single cry escaped her.

Brit woke sitting up, arms across her eyes. Slowly she lowered them.

The fire was down to a low glow of coals. Her pallet was a mess, the furs and blankets wrinkled and lumped up beneath her.

And Eric was awake, lying on his side, his head propped on a hand… watching her. The medallion hung to the side. His gorgeous chest gleamed at her. His blankets were down to his waist. She’d made a concentrated effort not to look as he got ready for bed. And now, she couldn’t help but wonder…

If those blankets slipped a little lower, would she get a view of what she’d felt against her belly earlier?

She jerked her gaze—and her thoughts—away from where they had no business going.

His eyes were waiting, way too alert, unsettlingly aware. “Bad dream?”

She grunted. It was answer enough. And then she concentrated on straightening her bedding. At first, she tried to do it without getting up. She only made things worse.

“Allow me to help you with that.”

“No, thanks.” At least she’d had the sense—unlike some people—to keep everything but her boots on when she crawled beneath the blankets. She was showing him nothing as she stumbled to her feet and tugged on the heavy pallet until it was reasonably smooth again.

She was just about to slide back in, where it was warm, when he said with infuriating good humor, “Always such an angry sleeper.”

She shot him a look. Always, he’d said. That meant he must have watched her sleep, at Asta’s house….

“Not angry. Restless.” She lifted the covers, got under them and settled them over herself. “Good night.” She shut her eyes.

“Brit?”

Outside somewhere an owl asked “Who, who, who,” as she considered not responding. But in the end, she gave in and muttered, “What?”

“The blond warrior woman, the one called Rinda…”

“What about her?”