Haunting Warrior (36 page)

Since Rory was already sitting and wasn’t quite sure he could stand if he wanted to, he agreed without argument.

“Who are all those men down there?” he asked, pointing to the shapes that were slowly rousing.

Tiarnan spun and looked down as well, cursing under his breath as his gaze darted from one form to another. The first glimmer of sunrise poked up from the horizon and sparkled through the trees, illuminating more of the sleeping shapes.

“When did they get here?” he asked Liam.

“I don’t know,” Liam said truthfully. “I never saw them.”

Rory frowned. “You mean to tell me you don’t know who they are?”

“The fish in the ocean,” the last brother—Michael, Rory remembered—said.

“The what?”

“Friends,” Saraid answered, still hovering beside him. “We were told more would come—like fish in the ocean. But we didn’t expect that it would be so soon.”

Tiarnan and the others ducked into the cave and a few moments later came out leading the horses. They’d taken the time to grab their weapons, and each had a long sword and several short knives. Tiarnan wore an axe in a leather holster at his hip. Rory didn’t imagine he meant to go out and chop down some trees.

Cautiously they made their way down to the stream, intersecting with their visitors. The strangers bowed deferentially as the brothers went by. If they’d expected a confrontation, her brothers didn’t get one.

Saraid moved closer and put a tentative hand against his forehead. Her touch was cool and soothing and instantly took his mind off anything but her. This close he could smell the sweet warmth of her skin as she bent close.

“How do y’ feel this morning?” she asked.

“Like someone put me through a meat grinder.”

“Well, it was as close to that as ye’ll be wanting to come,” she answered. “Y’ are lucky that Michael was able to stitch y’ up. He’s a skilled healer.”

Rory was surprised. He’d assumed it was she who’d done the fancy needlework on his shoulder.

It seemed she read his thoughts because she gave a defensive shrug and said, “I’ve not the knack for healing.”

“What do you have the knack for?” he asked softly.

She considered this for a long time, and he watched as emotions flickered across her face. Frustration, confusion, embarrassment. Fascinated, he wondered which would win. At last she shook her head with a look of resignation and said, “Nothing of value, that is for sure.”

“I find that hard to believe.” When she shot him a questioning glance, he said, “You’re hell on wheels with a rock.”

A ghost of a grin tugged at her mouth, but she hid it before it could go further. Rory was disappointed. He wanted to see her smile again.

She began to fuss at his shoulder, holding herself stiff and proud, as if she expected him to argue with her right to examine his wounds. She was such a feisty thing, with those snapping dark eyes, and for the hundredth time since coming here, he wanted to hold her, kiss her, touch that passion that sparked with every move she made.

As if hearing him, she looked up suddenly. Her gaze snagged on his and held for a long, charged moment while color flooded her face. He felt the heat rising from her, but he didn’t let her look away, letting his eyes tell her exactly what he was picturing in his mind.

“You have a knack for other things, too,” he said softly.

“As do y’,” she murmured, her voice so low he thought he imagined it.

She was good and ruffled now, and he couldn’t help but feel empowered by it. She’d become the center of his universe, and he wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t want to think he meant something to her as well. Her eyes darkened, and his blood pressure rose a couple more notches.

With a telling sigh, she dropped her gaze. “Are you hungry?”

He nodded. “Starving.”

Her eyes snapped back up as her face turned red.

“I meant, that is, I mean—”

He smiled and smoothed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I know what you mean,” he said, turning down the testosterone. “Yes, I am hungry. But I’d still trade a good meal for a toothbrush.”

“What is it? Toothbrush?”

He used his finger to demonstrate, and her face brightened. She spun and hurried into the cave, returning moments later with a twig in her hand. Looking proud, she thrust it at him. At his blank expression, she broke off a piece of it, peeled the ends back so it looked like a crude paintbrush, and rubbed it against her teeth.

With reservations, Rory followed her lead and found that the twig tasted minty—in a wild way. Not like the stuff that came out of the tube, but sharper, more pungent. No matter, it was a vast improvement over his morning breath. Before too long, the brothers returned from below and disappeared into the cave without a word. Giving Rory a troubled glance, Saraid followed, but she was back just as he finished with the makeshift toothbrush. He wanted to ask her about the pow-wow that had taken place but held his questions for the moment.

“What’s that?” he asked instead when she handed him a fat hunk of bread wrapped around a chunk of cold meat that looked like chicken but probably wasn’t. A random image of Fred Flintstone howling
Yabba-dabba-do
flashed through his head.

“It is food.”

He kept his
duh
to himself as he took a bite of the brontosaurus sandwich—tasted like chicken—and gave Saraid a thumbs-up. She smiled, but turned away.

“Don’t go,” he said, catching her hand. “Talk to me.”

She tilted her head, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. There was curiosity in that look and something that went deeper than mere inquisitiveness. “Talk to y’ about what?”

About you
, he wanted to say.
About how you feel, what you’re thinking, what you want . . . what I can give you . . .

He shrugged. “I barely remember getting here.”

“Well ye’d lost a bit of blood and y’ were barely conscious by the time we arrived. We wouldn’t have made it at all if y’ hadn’t called the horses. If y’ hadn’t spoken to them and convinced them to come back.”

He frowned, shaking his head, as he set down the sandwich. He took a drink of water, swallowed and said, “I don’t speak horse, princess.”

She sniffed and looked away, bending to prod at his shoulder again, a look of absolute concentration on her face. “I know what I saw,” she said, under her breath.

He caught her hand once more, startling her as he pulled her around so she stood between his knees.

“Thank you, Saraid,” he said.

“And what is it y’ think I’ve done to deserve yer thanks?”

“You could have left me to die. If you hadn’t stopped them, your brothers would have finished me off.”

He circled her wrists with his hands, loving the way she felt in his grip, small boned and utterly feminine. He trailed his fingers up her arms, watching her eyes go big and round, drowning in the warmth and mystery of them. It seemed she leaned closer, and once again his thoughts spiraled down to the basest part of him, remembering the sweet passion when she’d kissed him in the forest and later, after they’d fought and defeated Cathán’s men. She’d turned to him, gone willingly into his arms.

The softest tug and her hands came up to his chest and he knew she meant to push him away, but he couldn’t let her do that. It would hurt worse than all his pains combined. Then, unbelievably, her hands moved to his shoulders and her mouth was only inches away. He had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to touch his lips to hers right then, right now.

For a moment her breath mingled with his, sweet and pure as the morning air, and then her lips were clinging to his, her mouth soft and lush and hot as the furnace burning inside him. He cupped her head with his hands, holding her as he brushed her mouth with his, teased her lips open. It was only a kiss, and yet it quaked through him, the feel of her in his hands, the taste of her on his tongue. It was like holding the wind, filled with sensation and seduction that he wanted to capture but could only hope to still for just the moment.

He slid one hand down her back, urging her closer still, uncaring that her brothers were just a shout away, knowing only this second with Saraid in his arms. She’d made him feel whole, and he wanted,
needed
to show her what that meant. What she meant to him.

His other hand went to her throat where her pulse beat beneath his fingers. He reveled in the frantic rhythm, the ragged rise and fall of her chest. He moved the flat of his palm down, over delicate bones and satin skin, every inch of her enticing him to want more. His hand closed over the swell of her breast and the softness, the weight of it nearly brought him to his knees. She made a sound deep in her throat that was absolutely the sexiest thing he’d ever heard.

Behind them in the cave, her brothers began to argue, and he cursed them, praying she’d ignore them, knowing she wouldn’t. Then another voice joined theirs, a woman, crying.
Mauri
, he thought with one part of his mind while the rest drowned in the sensations of every touch, every breath.

Gently, lovingly, he brushed his thumb over the hard nipple in his hand, and Saraid’s fingers at his shoulder flexed, unconsciously clenching as he deepened the kiss while he caressed her breast. Her grip dug hard into his bandaged wound, and sharp pain sliced through him, jarring loose a groan he couldn’t stifle.

With a soft gasp she pulled back. “I hurt y’,” she said, horrified.

“No, it’s nothing.” And he tried to bring her back into the circle of his arms, but she squirmed away and stood looking at his shoulder with wide, guilty eyes.

“Saraid, it’s nothing.”

“You lie,” she accused. “I’ve made it bleed again.”

She looked so ashamed, so undone that he knew any hope of distracting her was lost. With a sigh he glanced at the shoulder. She was right, it was bleeding again, and a lot. He didn’t care. He’d gladly bleed to death if he could do it in her arms. Once again, he let his eyes do the talking as they traveled over her flushed face, the round of her shoulder, the lush curves below.

And incredibly, he coaxed a smile to her lips. With a scowl she was beautiful, but smiling she was breathtaking.

Before he could tell her, the voices in the cave rose again. Mauri was wide awake now and definitely not happy.

“Do not touch me,” she shouted, her words hitching with emotion. “Y’ are a monster, Tiarnan. Y’ tried to kill me.”

“No, love, it wasn’t like that,” Tiarnan soothed, but Mauri was having none of it.

“What happened?” Rory asked.

Saraid bit her lip and shook her head. “It is a long story that will have to wait. I must go and help,” she said. “Put pressure on yer shoulder. It will stop the bleeding.”

He nodded reluctantly. “I thought you didn’t have the knack for healing?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but she didn’t bite back. Instead she surprised him by pressing a lingering kiss to his lips before she hurried into the cave.

Feeling ridiculously happy considering he’d been skewered like a pig and was now probably losing the last quart of blood in his body, he leaned against the stone wall and listened, slowly piecing together what had happened. Christ, he was glad he’d missed that one.

Mauri had worked herself into hysterics, and Saraid was the only one she’d allow near her. While she sobbed and accused, and Tiarnan pleaded and beseeched, Rory turned his attention back to the little dog who still waited in the foliage by the cave. It took only a nudge to bring the puppy out and onto Rory’s lap. He shared the rest of his sandwich with it while the fighting inside the cave went on. When they’d finished eating, the puppy gave an aggrieved sigh, but let Rory stroke its head, and despite the ranting and raving from the cave, it fell asleep.

Tiarnan fought the good fight, but at last he gave up and stormed out of the cave. He was pale and shaken and Rory guessed as close to tears as a man ever wanted to be. He shot Rory a poisonous glare and then strode angrily down to where the men below waited.

Behind him came Michael and Liam. The younger shuffled hesitantly, looking from brother to brother, his alliances torn. From the cave, Eamonn’s voice joined Saraid’s in a soothing cadence. For some reason, the tone of it jangled Rory’s nerves. Tiarnan was pretty much an asshole, but Rory saw that he tried to do the right thing. Michael seemed levelheaded enough, and the kid—well, he was a boy trying to be a man. It was impossible not to sympathize with him. But Eamonn . . . something about him didn’t sit right with Rory.

Liam stood indecisive for another moment more. As Michael shook his head and moved away, Liam made his choice and followed Tiarnan like a well-trained dog.

Problems in the ranks.
Not a good sign
, Rory thought. But he was smart enough not to say it. He would’ve liked to ask for more information, find out exactly what Mauri meant when she accused Tiarnan of trying to kill her, but that didn’t seem like the smartest thing to do, either.

Michael glanced his way as if noticing him for the first time. When he saw the puppy in Rory’s lap, he did a double take. “And where did y’ get that wee thing yer holding?”

“Found him,” Rory said.

“Well he looks like he lost the same fight as yerself.”

“We haven’t lost yet.”

That elicited a crooked smile. “No, I don’t suppose y’ have.” He squatted down beside Rory and gently touched the puppy’s head. The pup whimpered and licked him. “My sister tells us yer a changed man. What do y’ have to say about that?”

“I know better than to argue with your sister.”

He got a laugh with that one. Feeling better, Rory asked, “What else did she tell you?”

“Only that y’ died right before her eyes, but then there y’ were alive and well again. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she’d lost her senses.”