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He descended into a vortex of lust. There was nothing but Katy’s hot, wet mouth. He closed his eyes and let her manage everything, just fisted his hand gently in her hair and held on.
The end came swiftly. It crested over him in a hot, thick wave. He tightened his hand in her hair and gently pulled her up just before it burst from him. He pulled her onto his lap and took her mouth as he came, and they stroked him together through the climax.
He used a linen towel to wipe himself clean, then drew her back down onto his lap. Dazedly, she sat, and he kissed her throat, intent on the next step.
“I know what we toast to next,” he said.
“I’ll get the whisky,” she gasped, fumbling for the cups.
Chapter Thirty
IT TOOK TWO HOURS, but finally, Aodh Mac Con, son of a hard-drinking Irishman, bred on peat, passed out cold from drink.
The moment his breathing was steady and low, Katarina wrapped herself in his heavy cape and hurried out the door, her body still pulsing from all their ‘toasts.’
She hurried down the stairs to Walter’s chambers and scratched at the door. Cold drafts drifted along the floor like fog. The door slowly creaked open.
Walter’s single strand of hair floated eerily in the drafts atop his otherwise bald head as he stared at her in amazement. “My lady!”
She hurried him backward into the room.
“Curse you, Walter, why did you tell Aodh to go see Bermingham?” was, inexplicably, the first thing she said.
Walter seemed equally surprised, but perhaps that was from being awakened out of a slumber in the dead of night. “Why, my lady,” he said, all innocence, “I did but offer my opinion. But what are you doing here?” He peered at the door, then back at her. “Are you freed?”
She frowned and held out the letter. “Not at present. I need you to see this delivered. It must go to the queen, or her representative, if one is already en route to Rardove.”
His bony fingers pinched the missive. “And what does it say?”
She scowled at him. “It provides directions for the army.”
She left Walter and swept to the lord’s chamber and peeked into the antechamber. As hoped, little Dickon was curled up on a cot. No Bran in sight.
She crouched beside him and shook him gently. He popped up, bleary-eyed and confused.
“’Tis I, Dickon.”
“Oh, my lady.” He scratched his head and shifted on the pallet. “What is it?”
“Dickon, I need you to get this message to the town.”
He stared at the folded parchment between her fingers.
“Can you do that?”
He nodded miserably. “My lady, are you certain—”
“I swear to you, it is to help Lord Aodh.” She patted his shoulder. “Be careful,” she whispered.
He swallowed. “I will.”
She hurried away, making her way to the barracks through the dark night. Through a barred window at the back of the building, she was able to speak to Wicker. Even touch his hand.
“Are you well?”
“They’re growing tired of watching us.”
“Yes, I suppose they are.”
