BlackWind (56 page)

Not giving herself time to rationalize whether what she was doing was right, she grabbed her trench coat and the flashlight she kept on her desk, and left the apartment. A light mist was blowing across the parking lot as she took the trail to the lake. Pulling the hood over her hair, she switched on the light and directed its beam along the gravel pathway.

The air was cooler than she had anticipated, but the chill of it washing over her face, accompanied by the soft prickle of mist, felt good.

He was standing with his back to her, looking out across the midnight waters of Rock Creek Lake. His hands were still jammed into his jean pockets, but his shoulders no longer looked so rigid. There was a sense of defeat about the way he stood. Ralph, hunkering on the ground at his feet, turned his big head to look at her as she came toward them.

Bronwyn tripped over an unseen root. When her arm rose, the flashlight beam traveled up to catch Cree's eyes as he turned. She gasped at the chatoyant glow that came from his wolf-like amber eyes, and would have fallen had he not rushed forward, catching her easily in his arms.

“Woman, what the hell are you doing out here this time of night?” His tone was more exasperated than angry. He steadied her, then moved away, putting distance between them.

“Making a fool of myself, apparently,” she mumbled. Being this close to the water, there was enough sky-glow to see, so she switched off the flashlight and stuck it in her coat pocket.

“You shouldn't be traipsing around in the dark.”

“I saw you coming here. You looked like you needed some company.”

“You know me that well, do you?”

She looked up at him, then blinked. “You shaved your goatee!” She made a grunting sound of disbelief. “And cut your hair!”

He tugged at the thick curls spiraling at his nape. “It's not all that short.”

“But why?”

“On my world, it is a ritual of mourning to shorn the hair.”

Bronwyn felt a tug at her heart. “You did it for Dorrie.”

He moved to the large rock everyone used as a bench. He sat and drew his spread knees into the perimeter of his arms, one hand clasping the opposite wrist. “I cared for her.”

There was enough room for her to join him and she did. Her hip touched his as she sat and she thought he tensed at the contact.

“Did you ever go see her with Brian?”

“Sometimes. I hated that place, so I didn't go often.”

“I'm sure she enjoyed your visits.”

He looked at her. “She enjoyed yours. She would talk about them for days afterward.”

Bronwyn lowered her head, tears gathering in her eyes. “I really cared for her, too.”

“She knew you did.” He returned his attention to the calm lake. “She called you her daughter-in-law. Did you know that?”

Bronwyn squeezed her eyes closed. “In my heart, I was.”

Cree made no comment. He continued to stare at the glistening dark waters, seemingly content to keep the silence that had settled over them. When Bronwyn leaned her head against his shoulder, he lowered his legs, shifted his right arm around her, and pulled her head to his chest. He held her as his body absorbed her sobs, then laid his cheek against the top of her head and began crooning, rocking her, as he would have a child in need of comfort.

When she had cried out her misery, she eased away from him, fishing in the pocket of her coat for a tissue.

“Here,” he said, handing her his handkerchief.

“I came here to comfort you,” she apologized and wiped at her eyes.

“You did.”

“Is Brian all right?” she asked, blowing her nose.

“He's probably puking up his guts right now.” He chuckled. “And cursing me for all I'm not worth in his eyes.”

“Why? He was the one who wanted to go drinking.”

“It has nothing to do with the drinking. He knows you're out here with me and he'll give me hell about it when I go back.”

“Do you care?”

“Not especially.”

“He'll lecture me, too. I'll listen; he'll preach. I'll ignore his warnings; he'll threaten dire consequences if I do. I'll remind him I'm a grown woman; he'll remind me you are not the man for me.”

“I'm not.”

“That's for me to decide, don't you think?”

Another deep silence spread over them and lasted longer than the one before. It was Cree who finally broke the stillness.

“Maybe it's time to talk about him, now.”

Bronwyn drew in a shaky breath and pulled her coat closer around her shoulders. “Maybe so.”

He drew up his knees again in what she had come to realize was a defensive posture. “What do you want to know?”

“Sometimes I can hardly remember what he looked like. Every year, his face grows less vivid in my mind. I hear his words less clearly. The memories seem to be fading. They are still there, but they are not as sharp.”

“That's to be expected. Time heals all wounds, they say. If the wound stays fresh and painful it's hard to move on.”

“I think it's time for me to move on. I've resisted doing so for nearly ten years, but lately I feel as though he's trying to tell me to let him go, to find someone to spend my life with and not be alone anymore.”

Cree took a deep breath and looked out across the shoreline. “But something is stopping you.”

She slid off the rock and walked to the water's edge. Wrapping her arms around her, she waited for him to join her, knowing he would, before she answered. When he came to stand behind her and enclosed her in his strong embrace, she leaned her head back on his chest.

“I've never asked Brian,” she said. “I've tried a couple of times, but I never could seem to get out the words. It hurt too much.”

“What, dearling?” he asked, his breath soft against her ear.

“I need to know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I have to know where he's buried, Aidan. I want to go there and say goodbye. I
need
to do that.”

His arms tightened around her for a moment, then he released her. He turned her around to face him, put his hands on her cheeks, and locked his gaze with hers. “There is no burial place, Bronwyn. When he was taken back to Fuilgaoth, he was cremated and his ashes cast to the wind. He would not have wanted to be caged in the earth for all eternity.”

Bronwyn pressed against him, her cheek to his powerful chest and her arms around his waist. She reveled in the feel of him, the strength of his arms as he held her. The cinnamon smell of his cologne was heady, driving straight through her defenses to stroke the fire of her passion.

“Tell me you don't want to be with me,” she said, “and I'll do what Brian says. I'll leave you alone.”

He was silent for so long, she pulled away and looked up at him.

“Aidan?” she questioned.

He shook his head. “I can't tell you because I would be lying.”

Her heartbeat quickened. She threw caution to the wind. “Come home with me. Stay with me tonight.”

Cree stared into her eyes, as if searching for answers to questions he needed settled. When she touched his cheek, then stood on tiptoes to place a light kiss on his mouth, the growl from deep in his throat excited her.

“The hell with Brian and his warnings,” he snarled, taking her hand.

Ralph trotted behind the human and her Reaper as they hurried back to the condo. He stopped only once to lift his leg against a bush before rushing to catch up with his master.

Ralph trotted over to Brownie's wicker dog bed, sniffed the corduroy cover, then wedged his big body inside. He turned around and around until finally content he was positioned where he could see both the front door as well as the hallway down which his master and his master's lady had hurried. He settled with a grunt of pleasure, dropped his head to the rim of the bed, and snorted. His eyes shifted across the room, taking in every shadow the lights did not reach. His ears were pricked for any sound that was out of the ordinary and his nostrils twitched, taking in the scents that seemed normal to him. No bad odor permeated the room, so the chances of the Amazeen slut being nearby were slim. Snorting again, Ralph licked his chops and—satisfied all was as it should be—closed his eyes with another groan and went to sleep.

Bronwyn led Cree into her bedroom, his hand clutched in hers. She turned on the bedside lamp, casting the room in a warm, aureate glow.

Cree looked at the coverlet and matching pillows shams. “Sage green gingham and mauve roses. It suits you.”

“I've always loved gingham.”

“I remember,” he said and could have bitten his tongue when she gave him a quizzical look. He covered his blunder. “Dorrie mentioned it.”

He hooked his finger under her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. “Don't be afraid, little one.”

“I'm not,” she said, her lips quirking. “I've waited for this a lifetime.”

The Viraidan part of him winced, for that part desired her as much as the renegade who shared his body and was jealous of the one straining to break free and overshadow him. Keeping a tight rein on Sean Cullen was proving to be more difficult than he could have imagined.

Taking a deep breath, Cree lifted his hands and cupped Bronwyn's cheeks. She covered his hands with hers and smiled. Lowering his head, he kissed her as gently as a feather floating on the wind—his mouth no more insistent than that ephemeral weight—then pulled back to search her eyes.

“Help me to go slowly, Milady. It has been centuries since this warrior has lain with a woman. I could hurt you if we're not careful.”

Without speaking, Bronwyn moved against him and put her cheek on his chest. So loud and strong was his heartbeat, he was certain it drowned out all other sound in her ears as she slid her arms around his waist and held him.

Cree closed his eyes, willing the steel of his erection not to ruin the moment. His arms were tight around her back and hips, molding her to him. He hurt as he had not hurt in many years, and the tumescence that strained against his jeans was a force he had not reckoned with for a long time. Not even Ski'Ah's intrusion into his shower had brought about such a need.

How long they stood there, he would never know. Time did not lessen his hardness nor, from what he sensed, decrease the desire building within her. When he could not bear the torment any longer, he moved back.

Driving his hand down his shirt, he palmed the medallion around his neck, pulled it over his head, and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. He yanked the black T-shirt from his jeans, crossed his arms over his chest, and peeled the garment from his body as though it were a second skin, tossing it to the foot of the bed. He was breathing so raggedly now, his chest heaved. When Bronwyn's eyes lowered to his bare flesh, he groaned.

Bronwyn's gaze lifted to his as she reached for the buttons of her blouse. He pushed her hands aside, tugged the silken fabric from the waistband of her skirt, and made slow work of the buttons, taking great delight as each one came free of its buttonhole. When the last button was undone, he slipped his hands under the fabric at her shoulder and folded it away from her body, allowing the blouse to fall behind her.

The décolletage revealed in the deep V of her white lace bra mesmerized him. With trembling hands, he ran the backs of his fingers along the soft swell of her breasts. Then he turned his hands and gently, reverently, pressed his palms against the mounds.

Bronwyn drew in a breath, her knees threatening to buckle. It had been years since Sean had touched her—the only man to do so—and she had longed for this wondrous feeling for so long, believing she would never again know the excitement and passion that was flooding her lower body. Her lips parted so she could draw breath easier, unaware of what her soft panting was doing to the man standing before her.

She was on fire with a need that was building at a faster rate than she could control. She longed for his muscular thighs to part her legs, to wedge his strong body against her. She ached to feel the weight of his body pressing her down to the bed, the hardness of his manhood seated deep within her, his hungry mouth devouring hers. She needed the thrust of him, the flow of his juices, the total possession of his ride as he took her with him to a place she had once shared with Sean so long ago.

“Please!” she whispered.

He smiled, then reached behind her to unbutton and unzip her skirt. The gray gabardine fell in a pool at her feet. He eased her back, picked up the garment, and draped it on the footboard of her brass bed.

“You're going to drive me crazy,” she said.

Cree did not answer. He simply put his hands on her hips and—bending his knees as he went—began lowering her half-slip to her ankles, his palms sliding sensuously over the bare flesh of her legs. He wrapped his hot hands around her left ankle, lifted her foot, removed her shoe, then moved over to her other foot. As he hunkered there, massaging her instep, he looked up at her, his gaze as hot as the depths of a molten fire.

She threaded her fingers through his thick black hair and drew his head to her. As he slid his hands up her back and pressed his cheek against her belly, she released a long, contented sigh, reveling in the warmth of his breath against the waistband of her silk panties.

“You smell like cinnamon,” she said.

“You smell like gardenias,” he replied, pressing a kiss on her navel.

When his tongue darted into the deep indention, a shudder went through Bronwyn's body. “Much more of that and we won't need the bed.”

“I realize that,” he replied huskily, climbing to his feet. His hands went to the front hook of her bra and parted it, giving neither of them a chance to say another word.

Bronwyn heard his long exhalation and watched as he stared avidly at her unbound bosom. She wanted nothing more than to have him lower his mouth to either of the turgid nipples that strained toward him and was only partly appeased as he covered each breast with his palms.

“Beautiful,” he said in a low, throaty tone as he plied her flesh, lifting, molding, and lightly kneading the swollen mounds. “So soft. As soft as silk.”

She wanted to scream at him, to demand he touch her nipples, and even as her need manifested itself in her mind, she knew he had heard her silent wishes, for his thumbs moved over the sensitive nubs.