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“Finian,” she gasped between rasping breaths.
“Aye, like that.” He removed his hand and, with a savage tug, lifted her hips and plunged into her. Now he pleasured her with his body, and the wave began to crash again. Her body and mind exploded into a million starry shards of sensual fulfillment, her body pounding out the rhythm.
He erupted within her, drowning his hard manhood into her until she was spread-eagled beneath him, her arms flung wide, her hips pounding up to him, mouthing his name. Swollen pink flesh shuddered around him like a tight fist, pulling him in, draining him. His explosion rocked him to the core, and he held her trapped against his chest, tripping into a well of affection he’d never known existed.
He rolled them over so she was atop again and held her, his slick, shuddering length still buried deep within her womb. His head fell back, his arms around her back. She rested her chin on his chest and closed her eyes.
For Senna, it was enough to keep breathing. Forget sense or
reason. There was only Finian.
He who knew too much of women’s bodies. He whose careless charm assured her he had dozens of women to warm his bed, none needed to warm his heart. He who was only trouble. Danger and unseen cliffs.
And she had fallen in love with him.
They lay together in silence, their limbs entwined, feeling each other breathe. Then they fell asleep.
Dawn crept stealthily over the horizon, throwing the world into the sharp, musky relief of breaking rose and misty green.
The mounted party was spread out in a thin uneven line that stretched half a mile wide. On their tunics was stitched a diving bird, a raven, descending with claws extended. Sharp knightly eyes pierced the ever-present mists from under their helms. If she was here, she would be found.
If the Irishman was with her, he would die.
Chapter 32
The next day, they crouched outside the town of Hutton’s Leap when the sun was at its highest, just inside treeline where the shadows were their shortest, and watched the steady flow of people in and out of the town.
“Do you know this town?” Senna asked quietly.
“Somewhat,” he evaded. It probably sounded like an answer. “I’ve had a few meetings here.”
“Certainly there are people here who are friendly to the Irish? Sympathetic?”
“Not friendly,” he assured her.
“But there are Irish people here,” she protested. “We’re in Ireland. Éire. These are your people, Finian. They must be sympathetic. Given sufficient,” she paused, “cause.”
He angled her a flat look. “Ye mean coin. Given sufficient coin. Senna, for most souls, money does not weigh more on the scales than their lives. And to abet me, ’twould be their life.”
She gave him a derisive look. “I do not believe money matters more than one’s life. And I do not say others think so, either. What I am saying is, I believe people can be persuaded.”
“I know exactly what ye’re saying.” He reached over and smashed a wide-brimmed hat down on her head. He’d pinched it off a rouncy pony left by his owner outside a village hut.
She adjusted it with a swift, unconsciously feminine move. “How do I look?”
He glanced down. “Ye look like a crystal, flashing fire. So keep yer head down.”
“Will do,” she whispered. “You too. You shall likely draw more attention than I. You look important. Or at least,” she eyed him, “tall.”
“Och, well, I’m training to be a king.”
She snorted.
They walked nonchalantly to the road and joined the steady stream of fair-goers entering the town. At the gates, there was a throng of people bustling in and out.
“It’s so loud,” she murmured.
Finian eyed her, satisfied with her disguise. The hat covered her face admirably. A few wipes of river mud across her cheeks, and the cloak draped around her despite the warmth of the burgeoning day, and the disguise was complete. She looked like a tall young squire.
