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He inhaled slowly, forcing himself to calm. They stood like this for a moment, her body pinned between Aodh and the wall. He supposed she could still kick his shins, but she’d impact against his greaves, and it would hurt her far more than him.
She seemed to agree. At least, she didn’t move.
He pulled back a few inches, let her feet drop to the ground, and peered down at her. Breathing fast, she flung her head, spraying hair across her face. It was pale and beautiful, with slim, dark brows arcing over what appeared to be intelligent brown eyes. A shocking discovery.
“If you were a man, I would kill you right now,” he said in a low voice.
He waited for her response—everything now was a test, every moment a potential tipping point. Would she recoil? Be wise and retreat, apologize, surrender, run scared?
Would she be like everyone else?
She shifted the only thing he didn’t have restrained, her left hand, and laid what turned out to be the cold edge of a blade against the side of his throat.
“If I were a man, sir,” she whispered back, “you would already be dead.”
Goddammit.
It was his dagger, one of many strapped to his body. In the mêlée, she’d succeeded in getting it free. In the distraction of staring into her eyes, trying to ascertain if she were mad, she’d succeeded in lifting it to his throat.
A rush went through him, hot and intense. “You are left-handed,” he observed grimly.
“When necessary.”
A humming filled his stomach, deep and low. He’d come for battle, and that this slim audacious woman had given it to him, undefended, in a hopeless situation, outmatched and overpowered, bespoke great boldness. Of a kind he’d not seen in a long time. Either that, or idiocy.
She did not appear idiotic. Of course, she’d not appeared reckless either, out in the bailey. She’d seemed calm, clever, pale, and beautiful. Then she’d launched her body into his and turned into a bold, roaring-mad hellcat.
Perhaps everything in her was latent. Who knew, idiocy might rear its head at any moment. Or more boldness.
Although it was difficult to see how she could become more bold than she was at the moment.
Small wisps of hair brushed beside her mouth. Aodh knew battle and fights; her lips ought to be dry with fear, parched and tight. But they were wet. Parted and wet, her chin up, her cheeks a sort of hot red. Her slim body was pressed hard against his, female curves barely detectable through his armor. But the vivid flush of her was clear. Her mad, energizing, fearless self was the clearest thing on his mind.
That and the blade pressed against his neck.
He laughed low in his throat. It had been a long time since he’d felt this hum inside him, this energized, this vital. He leaned closer until his mouth was an inch from hers, until he felt the honed edge of his own blade indent the flesh of his throat.
“Do it, lass,” he whispered. “Or drop it. Now.”
Chapter Five
MAD IRISHRY.
The thought pounded through her brain with each beat of her heart. Her insides rattled like a winter leaf. This moment was constructed of madness. A pit of madness.
The sensible voice inside her, the one she relied upon to restrain her from acts of recklessness just such as this, had utterly failed her. She was alone with the bright fire of passion. It had taken over like an ember tossed back onto a dry forest bed.
“Do not push me,” she warned in a shaky voice.
“Oh, but I will.” He shifted on his booted feet, pushed his hips harder against hers, until she felt a part of the wall. A part of him. “You lifted a blade to me, Katarina. I’m going to push you hard.”
Fear spiked through her. “That is unwise.”
“Wisdom has never been my strongest trait. Tell me, how do you foresee this ending? Shall I help you think it through?”
She jerked her head in an abbreviated shake. “Stop.”
“You will either kill me or be very sorry you tried. Neither ends well for you, as my men have taken over the castle.”
