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She extended her hand. “Come away from the window. There is nothing there for us out there. The snow is falling; let it fall. Night is coming; let it come. We have each other; I am not afraid. Come to me.”
He pushed off the wall. It was a lazy push, and his stride as he crossed the room was that of a predator, his regard distant and appraising. And then, for the time, she felt a little afraid.
He stopped beside her. Her skin prickled, but he said nothing, just leaned to the side and trailed his fingertips over the top of the steaming bathwater. A long, narrow V formed in his wake, tiny ripples furrowing across the surface. She stared at the little swells, strangely breathless. He pushed one of the folded rags into the water.
It made the faintest splash.
She gasped softly, her chin tipped up, her lips parted.
A corner of his mouth curved up. It was not a smile so much as an acknowledgment of his effect on her. He could rip her apart from the inside out, simply by sending ripples across water.
If he wished it, she could be doomed in every way. She was entirely at his mercy, and they both knew it.
“Tadhg,” she whispered.
He reached in for the rag, held it dripping in his hand and picked up the scented soap that sat in little plate on the rim of the tub. Slowly he rolled the warm, wet cloth around the slippery soap, kneading it, then let the soap slip out. Her breath came in unsteady little beats as he draped the washcloth across his large hand and stepped behind her.
“I have done bad things, Maggie,” he murmured, pushing her hair to
the side.
“Why are you saying this?” she whispered.
“Because it is true.”
“Many things are true. You are not saying them all.”
Without warning, the warm, soapy rag stroked down the center of her back. Trails of wetness spilled down her bottom and legs, leaving long hot ribbons of shivery heat in their wake. Another gasp broke the silence of their room.
He rested his mouth on her shoulder. “You should not believe in me,” he murmured, soft like a lover.
“And yet I do.”
He nipped the sensitive flesh where her shoulder met her neck, and a starburst of pleasure radiated out through her body. “That is unwise.”
Chills raced down her body.
He skimmed the rag across her skin again, this time along her shoulders, his hand moving in a swirling massage as he soaped across her shoulder blades, then up the nape of her neck. “I am dangerous,” he whispered in her ear.
“I know who you are.”
His hard hand, swathed in soft linen and fragrant soap, kneaded the muscles of her back. Drops of warm water streaked down her thighs. She felt each one like a like a lightning bolt, a burning wet ribbon of pleasure.
“I will tell you who I am, Maggie. Those men are my brothers in all but blood. We left Ireland when were but boys, and the battles had all been lost, battles of sword and drink and diplomacy. We sailed to England on broken ships, and became criminals within hours of landing.” He lifted her arm and soaped up to her armpit, slow and languorous. “Upon a time, though, they were noble. Lords and princes of Ireland. Great men. I was never so great as they. Tighearna láib agus ba, they called me. Lord of Mud and Cows.”
She was being reduced to pants and gasps, her body trying to acclimate to the entirety of passion he sent coursing through her body, while her mind attended his dark words.
He lifted her other arm and did the same. “They are exiles now. Brigands. Stark naughts. They hire themselves out to any man, for any deed, so long as he can pay the price. And ’tis a high one. They do very bad things, and they are very well paid.”
He dunked the rag again and washed down her sides, sliding slowly over each rib, until she was slippery-wet and covered in chills, yet as hot as the fire burning in the grate.
He put his mouth to her ear. “I was one of them.”
“But are no longer,” she whispered.
He pressed his palm against her belly and brought her back a step, until her wet body pressed up against the front of his clothed one. His erection, trapped beneath his hose, bumped against her bare bottom. He reached down and dipped the rag again.
She held her breath as he reached around and closed his hand softly around her throat, and soaped with slow, erotic strokes, his fingers and thumb squeezing ever so softly, the pressure both threat and passion.
