Ruth Langan - Rory

Temper met temper as their lips mated with the heat of the moment. The effect was so potent he felt as if he’d taken a blow from an enemy’s broadsword. He. reared back, lifting his head to study her as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was feeling. Even now his head was spinning, and the blood was roaring in his temples.

AnnaClaire was so startled she was frozen into momentary silence. It wasn’t only the rush of heat from his bold kiss. That would have been unsettling enough. But this man was naked to the waist, and the feel of his flesh against her palms had her thoughts scrambling, her fingertips tingling. It was one thing to touch him when he was unconscious and burning with fever. It was quite another to touch a man whose flesh rippled with muscle, and who burned with heat from a very different source.

When she’d gathered her thoughts, she pushed against him. “How dare you, Rory O’Neil! Unhand me at once.”

He thought about it. Briefly. Then just as quickly decided to ignore her protest. In that one stunning moment all the anger had drained from him. In its place was something very different. Desire curled hotly through his loins.

He felt the warmth of her breath against his cheek. Saw the way her eyes darkened with the gathering storm. Breathed in the fragrance of roses that drifted around her.

He lowered his face and claimed her mouth again. This time his hands softened, as did his lips. But though the kiss was less savage, it was no less potent. The taste of her was unlike anything he’d ever sampled. Sweet as a summer garden. As gentle as rain. Innocent. Untouched. And yet, he sensed in her a slumbering passion. A passion that excited him.

He kissed her with a thoroughness that had her heart pounding, her palms sweating as they slipped around his waist and pressed against his lower back. She wasn’t even aware that she was clutching him frantically, holding on for fear of falling.

AnnaClaire had been kissed before. There had been many a lad who had hoped to stake a claim on the daughter of the wealthy, powerful Lord Thompson. And many more, like Dunstan, who thought their title and privilege gave them the right to take liberties with the women at Court. But AnnaClaire had been equally adept at avoiding all entanglements of the heart. Until now.

The feelings being awakened by this man were unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The hands that held her were so strong they could easily break her in two. Yet their touch was so unexpectedly gentle, she couldn’t help but melt against him. His lips, so warm, so firm and practiced, moved over hers with a gentleness that did strange things to her heart, causing it to pound inside her chest until she feared he would surely hear.

Rory loved the way she became lost in the kiss. A soft sigh escaped her lips and her arms lifted, encircling his neck. He slid his hands down her arms, along her sides, until his thumbs encountered the soft swell of her breasts. When she started to pull away he moved his hands across her back, soothing, calming, while his lips continued to feast:

She was a delightful surprise. Innocent yet sultry. Both shy and bold. Despite her hesitance, there was an underlying strength of will that Rory found deeply arousing.

Desire, swift and fierce, caught him by surprise. The thought of taking her, here and now, had the blood pulsing hotly through his veins. He knew if he didn’t soon end this, he would find himself stepping over the line of reason. Still he lingered over the kiss, loving the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms.

When at last he gathered the courage to lift his head, he was rewarded by her little moan of frustration.

“Just doing your bidding, my lady.” He shot her a wicked smile. “You did tell me to unhand you.”

“I did.” The words nearly stuck in her throat. She took a step back, breaking contact. Still, the taste of him, dark, mysterious, remained on her tongue. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. She had to swallow several times before she managed to say, “And since you’re well enough to force yourself on me, Rory O’Neil, I suggest you’re well enough to take your leave of my home at once.”

“Aye, my lady. As you wish.” His smile widened. “But if you wish to be perfectly honest, you’ll have to admit that it required no force on my part to involve you in that kiss.”

She felt her cheeks flame as his words found their mark. It was true. She had been more than willing to shamelessly indulge herself. For if truth be told, ever since that first kiss in his room, she had wanted him to kiss her again. And the feel of his lips on hers had been every bit as wondrous as the first time.

She turned away to hide her shame. “I’ll expect you to be gone before the first light. That way there will be no chance of the servants spotting you.”

She expected some sort of argument. Relished the thought of another duel of words.

When he didn’t respond she turned back, eager to attack.

Rory was gripping the edge of a table. His face had lost all its color. Blood was seeping from his wounded shoulder to snake along his back in a thin line of dark red.

Rushing to his side she examined his wound, then draped his arm around her shoulder and began to lead him toward the stairs. “Now look what you’ve done.” Anger was a much safer emotion than what she’d been feeling just moments before. With anger there would be no guilt, no recriminations. With anger she could force herself into immediate action.

“Where…are you taking me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Up to bed.”

“You just ordered me to go.”

“That was before. Now, I’ll have to tend that wound again.”

He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He’d just been given a reprieve of sorts. But as he moved along beside her up the stairs, he wasn’t certain whether to curse the Fates or bless them.

“You wish to break your fast in your chambers again, my lady?” Glinna was looking at AnnaClaire in a strange way as she moved around the room. “Could it be something you ate at Lady Thornly’s last night?”

“Of course not. I’m not ill, Glinna. Just a bit tired. Leave the tray now, and go help Bridget below stairs.”

“Aye, my lady.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, AnnaClaire bounded out of bed and completed her toilette,, slipping into the clothes Glinna had laid out. Then, balancing the covered tray in her hands, she climbed the cramped stairs to the little attic room. No doubt, she thought with a sigh, the little maid was still fretting over what might have caused this sudden malaise.

In truth, AnnaClaire would have gladly remained in her room rather than face Rory O’Neil this morning. She’d had enough of him throughout the long night. Even after she’d dressed his wound and put him to sleep with one of Bridget’s opiates, he had remained with her. Dark thoughts and images of him holding her, kissing her, had tormented her, robbing her of precious sleep. The handsome rogue had her thinking of things that were better left alone.

She sighed. Another day or two and he would be out of her life. As she nudged the door open and swept inside, she wondered why that knowledge didn’t cheer her. In fact, it only added another layer of tension.

“Good morrow, Rory O’Neil.” She set the tray on the night table with a flourish, then turned.

His features were ashen. He was holding his left hand firmly against his right shoulder.

She was beside him instantly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t…make this damnable arm work.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than the strain of the fresh wound.”

“Nay. My sword slipped from my grasp during the night. I couldn’t retrieve it.”