Page 31 of Leila’s Legacy

“Once my cock isna aching, I’ll be back.” Alban’s upper lip curled up, revealing his sharp, white teeth. “It may be while ye sleep. It may be while ye are idly passing the time in this empty room. It may while ye’re curled in fear in the corner awaiting my arrival, but I will come back for ye. And I mean to have ye again, and again, and again.”

He opened the door and flung the kirtle to the ground. “Get dressed before I order the men to cut yer clothes off ye and leave ye naked.” He spat upon the wool, leaving a puddle of bubbled spit on the costly fabric.

The door slammed shut behind him and the click of the lock sliding into place told her he was gone. For now. Leila waited for the thumping of his feet to descend down the stairs before she gave way to the weakness of her knees and let herself slowly sink to the floor beside the kirtle.

Eager for a distraction, she ran her fingertips along the soft crimson wool. She used the hem of her ruined shirt to wipe away his spittle and took the kirtle to the far corner of the room to dress with hands that would not cease their shaking. He would be back, of course. He had promised he would be, and she knew it to be so.

Daylight faded to dusk and then to night and still Alban did not come for her. The maid who had been in her room before arrived with a meal and eyed her like some horrible monster. Regardless, the girl had done up her kirtle in the back, scant protection from Alban that it was.

Through the day and on into the night, Leila’s gaze continued to drive toward the door in anticipation of the springing of the lock, the groaning of the hinges. She hated the weakness of her fear and how very much she dreaded his arrival. For she knew she would not always be so lucky to escape.

Bewitched. The word echoed in Niall’s head throughout the day and well into the night. He had kept from Lady Leila’s room of confinement to prove to himself he was not indeed bewitched.

Except he might truly be.

His mind wandered back to her often, conjuring up images of her, sampling memories of her, teasing himself with fantasies of her. By the time he’d retired to his room, his body was hard and aching for a release that was not fully sated with the grip of his palm. He’d gone to bed with his thoughts firmly settled on Lady Leila, first in admiration and then as the heat of his body rose, once more in lust.

The door to his chamber opened. A shadow in his doorway revealed a feminine shape with a slender waist and long, shapely legs. His mouth went dry. He knew that figure. He meant to ask how she’d escaped from the tower, how she’d known which room was his, what she meant to do…but all questions slipped away like wisps of smoke as she sauntered into his room. Her hips swayed with sensuality; her intent proclaimed.

He swallowed as she approached his bed, now naked—beautifully, gloriously naked—and crawled across the length of the mattress to him. Her sweet, clean scent of dried herbs swirled around him like a spell. She put a hand to his chest and drew one naked leg over his hips, cradling his arousal with the cleft between her thighs. She was wet and warm where she pressed herself against his shaft. He wanted to grab her hips, shift himself into her and thrust until they were both crying out with passion.

As if reading his thoughts, she shook her head and leaned forward to press her lips to his. Their tongues met and she left the sweetness of honey where she licked inside his mouth. His fingers skimmed over her body, warm and silky. He groaned aloud, a sound which grated in his own ears and made the image shimmer.

He shook his head and groaned once more, louder this time. The image shattered and left him panting in the darkness, alone and reeling from the dream. What devilry was this? Was her bewitchment now entering his dreams as well? Haunting his night as she had haunted his day?

He whipped the blankets off and pushed up from the bed, spurred on by the flare of rage. The cold winter chill of the room greeted his blazing blood but did not cool it. This bewitchment would end tonight.

He pulled on clothing, a mantle and soft leather shoes, and left his chamber, his pace quick as though she might anticipate him coming. As surely as he had only recently imagined her naked over him, he now pictured her muttering incantations under her breath to send him such fevered dreams. His fingers worked through the keys as he walked, plucking their icy stems for the correct one to her chamber.

The two guards standing before the stairs leading to her room cast him side glances as he passed them but did not move to stop him. His leather soles were silent upon the stone stairs. Silent as the sin in the witch’s heart, he slid the key in the lock, opened the door and froze.

Lady Leila was bundled beneath the covers, her face turned toward the door, lit by the moonlight seeping in through the shutters. Her expression was relaxed with sleep, serene and exquisitely beautiful.

He watched her form and noted the rise and fall of her breathing from beneath the furs bundled over the top of her. The rhythm was not slow and deep as one sleeps but quickened. She was awake, mayhap hiding her misdeeds under the pretense of slumber.

She would not enter his dreams again. She would torture him no longer.

He locked the door behind him as silently as was possible and strode across the room to her bed. He opened his mouth in preparation to speak, but never got a single word out. For before he had the chance, she flew out of the bed like a banshee and lunged at him. He reeled back in surprise, but her hand came down, fisted over something sharp and wicked.

The thing hit his chest, puncturing slightly before it splintered apart and her hand jerked to the side awkwardly. She growled in a savage show of frustration, tensing to strike at him again, this time with her fists. He grasped her wrists in his hands to still her movements, though it did little good.

She writhed in his grasp, her legs flailing, torso wriggling, arms churning back and forth in a feral attempt to free herself. Her foot came up and kicked at his thigh, the blow powerful with intent. He winced but held tight to her.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled.

“Cease this at once,” Niall said.

She ignored his order and slammed a shoulder backward, so it smacked into his chest like a punch. “I’ll kill you.” With that, she redoubled her efforts to escape, as wild as the wind before a squall and just as hard to trap on one’s hands.

“Leila.” He said her name firmly and without her formal address. “’Tis me, Niall. The Lion.”

She went still in his arms. “Release me.”

“Will ye continue to attack me?” Even as he asked the question, he eased his grip on her.

“Nay,” she said weakly.

He released her as asked. She turned and regarded him, her brows pinched with confusion. “Why have you come here at such an hour?”