The Crimson Lady (19 page)

When he pulled back, she was startled for a moment, until she realized that he was only awaiting her next command. He stood there, unmoving, watching her, his cape thrown back and his muscular arms and torso revealed in sheer relief by the sodden folds of his shirt. Glints of sunlight streaked through the still seeping clouds, illuminating the diamondlike drops misting over them. She soaked in the sight of him, his hair brushed back wetly, the angled, handsome lines of his face stark with unrestrained passion.

“Here,” she whispered, never breaking her gaze with his as she loosed the laces of her bodice to bare her shoulder. “I’d like you to kiss me here now.”

“It will be my pleasure,” he answered, the look in his eyes nearly undoing her, even before she felt his lips against the smooth, damp expanse of her skin. The light rain sprinkling around them felt cool, the heat of his mouth providing a seductive contrast that left her breathless. And when he used the tip of his tongue to make delicate swirls as he kissed along her shoulder and the tender flesh leading to the column of her throat, Fiona couldn’t stop from moaning aloud, feeling as if her knees might buckle from the incredible sweep of moist-hot desire that spilled through her in response.

“What next, lady?” he murmured against her, his lips moving over her as he spoke. “Tell me what you wish of me. I long only to please you…to see your bidding done.”

She lifted her face to the gently falling shower, closing her eyes and feeling the beauty of being with Braedan like this. What was happening here was good and pure, sprung from the exact opposite of the deliberate possession she’d experienced with the man who’d purchased her innocence. And she wanted more, she realized. She wanted to feel Braedan with every part of her, to absorb him into her.

He was still kissing her neck, moving slowly up to just beneath her ear; it was challenging to focus her mind enough to voice her next request of him. Her head tilted to the side, her hair damp from the storm, its weight heavy on a neck suddenly gone boneless under the thick and swirling desire coursing through her. She gripped his shoulders tightly as he kissed her, needing that anchor to remain standing, and now she used his strength to pull herself straight again, her palms finding his face, bringing his mouth away from her to gaze into the passion-heated depths of his eyes.

She sucked in her breath at the yearning she saw there, wanting to meet it with action of her own.
But not yet,
she told herself.
There
was
still time
. She would go slowly, wait for just the right moment. Until then, Braedan was waiting for another directive from her.

“I want to begin anew,” she told him, her voice low and husky. “To be washed clean here with you in this green-and-gold forest. I want to stand in the rain with you, Braedan, with absolutely nothing between us but the truth of our feelings.”

Braedan’s expression hadn’t changed from the intensity he’d shown from the moment she’d pulled away. Only a renewed burst of desire in his eyes, followed by a flickering shadow, revealed the instant of surprise he felt. “Are you sure, Fiona? It is what you truly want?”

“Aye,” she whispered, bold in the knowledge of exactly what she was asking of him.

“Then it will be as you command, lady,” he answered, his voice caressing her much as his lips had moments earlier. “With a most eager heart, I do your bidding.”

He continued to look at her—only at her—as he untied the laces to his cloak and swung it off of himself, spreading it like a blanket next to them on the rain-dampened mosses of the forest floor. Her pulse raced at the look in his eyes as he continued, untying and then pulling his tunic and shirt off over his head, baring his chest. She paused at the sight of the gash on his arm, already crusting over with dried blood, but he shook his head to assuage her worry, moving on to the laces of his breeches, loosening them enough to reveal the flat, muscled planes of his lower abdomen before he ceased the action and reached down to remove his boots.

She couldn’t help that her gaze drifted to the teasing shadows beneath the unlaced breeches, until he slid them off at last and added them to the pile of his clothing; then he straightened, naked and beautiful, his powerful arms hanging loosely at his sides. He paused, not seeming the least bit uncomfortable standing so before her; his chest heaved, and the rain slicking over his skin made him look even more the sleek predator than when she’d first seen him unclothed near the pond weeks ago. In truth, he was magnificent. Her heart raced as she
watched him blink the wetness from his eyes, lifting his hands to rake the hair back from his face again, all the while staring at her with a heat that made her feel as if she was aflame even in the cool damp of this woodland.

“Shall I help you with your clothing, Fiona?” His voice echoed low, but he smiled as he raised his hands to the sun-laced shower, letting the drops splash onto his palms. “I would have you know the pleasure of this, too.”

“Aye,” she managed to say through the dryness in her throat, astounded at the depth of need she felt to be near him, to be with him, in ways she’d thought taken from her forever by Draven’s cruelty. With her answer, Braedan stepped silently closer, his movement causing a brush of air against her that was somehow more erotic than the most intimate caress she’d ever experienced. The feather-light weight of his touch came soon after, sending rippling paths of awareness from each point of contact his hands made with her skin as he helped her to disrobe.

Soon she was as naked as he, consumed with unexpected shyness, until he threaded his fingers through hers and lifted her hands with his own, raising their arms to the cloud-swirled sky. She tipped her head back along with him, reveling in the sensation as the rain washed over her. Standing so with Braedan brought with it a feeling of freedom—of rightness—unlike anything Fiona had ever known, and she couldn’t help but laugh aloud with the joy of it.

He, too, must have felt something of the same, for she heard his chuckle reverberating with her own. After a moment, the weight of his arms tugged her hands down, though he still kept his fingers laced with hers. He pulled
her slowly and gently closer to him then, pressing her full-length against him, and the feel of his naked, wet body, so hot and insistent against hers, drew a gasp of surprised pleasure from her.

Loosing one of her hands, he lifted his palm to her cheek, gazing at her with laughter still dancing in his eyes but mixed now with the unmistakable intensity of passion. “Ah, Fiona Byrne,” he murmured, his gaze caressing her, “do you know how beautiful you are to me? I never knew such depth of soul could exist in a woman until I found you.”

She felt herself flushing and tried to look away, but he wouldn’t let her, holding her still. “Nay, Fiona, you must hear this.” He looked at her for another breathless minute, adding at last in a halting, husky tone that sent another surge of honeyed warmth spiraling through her, “You are everything I never knew I was missing in my life. I don’t deserve the gift of you now, but I’ll take it, by God, and be grateful for every moment I have with you.”

Her throat closed with tears, but she fought them back, a smile blooming through the heady emotions. “It is you who are the gift, Braedan,” she whispered, reaching up to stroke the rain from his face and letting her fingers glide back into the thick wetness of his hair. “I don’t think I will ever be able to thank you enough for all you have done for me.”

She lifted her face and kissed him then—kissed him freely and openly, the first time she could ever remember initiating such an act without either instruction or coercion. It was wonderful, so she kept kissing him, tasting him and reveling in the unbelievable sweetness of his response, her senses drinking him in like the ground soaking up the rain.

His scent was masculine and fresh, unmasked by any artfully concocted fragrance; he surrounded her, filling her with yearning. She slid her palms up his arms, feeling the hard muscles beneath the slick coating of rain. Still kissing him, she kneaded the tautness of his shoulders, relishing the guttural groan that came from him as she let her touch stroke down his back to his hips and buttocks.

“God, Fiona, I want you,” he murmured against her mouth, his hands traveling their own heated trail across her back. His fingers stroked over her in a mesmerizing rhythm, drawing a moan from deep inside her even as his lips moved to her throat again. Her head tipped back, her body afire with the need to feel the part of him that was jutting so hot and hard against her belly buried deep inside her, to share with him something that for the first time in her life would be an act of loving passion rather than finely orchestrated lust.

She writhed against him, the friction of their wet bodies tantalizing and the pooling, silken heat between her legs burgeoning into an ache of unbearable need. The pleasure only intensified as her nipples rasped across his chest, the fullness of her breasts cushioned against his hard contours; his muscles shifted and flexed as he moved his arms, stroking his hands from the top of her back down to cup her buttocks before traveling in a sensual path upward once more.

She moaned again, finally managing to voice in a gasping whisper, “Ah, Braedan…are you still willing to be ruled by me?”

“Aye, lady, command me to your bidding,” he answered hoarsely.

She felt the sting of grateful tears welling again, silent tears that spilled down her cheeks this time to mix with
the rain. She went still, and her voice choked with emotion as she made one last request of this beautiful man who was so carefully and selflessly pulling her from the depths of her emptiness. “Then make love to me, Braedan, here and now…Oh, please—banish him forever with the power of your touch upon me.”

Braedan pulled back to look at her, his hands coming up to cradle her face in the strength of his palms. His own eyes glistened with unspent feeling, and he said huskily, “Aye, Fiona. If it is in my ability, it will be done. You deserve no less than all that I can give you.”

A tremulous smile worked through her tears, and she nodded, the tenderness and understanding he was showing nearly undoing her. Using exquisite care, Braedan slid his hands once more down the length of her back, stopping at the curve of her buttocks. In the same, smooth motion he lifted her almost effortlessly, her thighs spreading around him as he raised her to just above his waist, pausing there for one, heart-pounding moment as he stared straight into her eyes. She met his gaze, feeling her lips trembling and her eyes stinging again at the expression of giving—of love—on his face.

“Keep looking at me, Fiona,” he murmured. “Do not close your eyes. Know that it is me and no one else here with you like this. Only me…”

Her breath caught, and the world seemed to slow as he began to lower her tenderly, steadily onto the hard length of his erection. She felt herself sliding over him, inch by glorious inch, and her fingers clenched into his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as tremors of pleasure took hold and began to build from that point of delicious fullness.

She kept her gaze locked with Braedan’s, seeing his re
straint and the toll it took on him, feeling his remarkable consideration for her; she wanted to cry out with the love she felt for him, but she schooled herself to silence, simply absorbing the sensations spreading through her. When she was completely impaled on the magnificent length of him, he paused, his breath coming shallow.

“Are you all right, lady? Shall I go on?”

His words came out in a half growl, half groan, and she could feel the muscles in his arms twitching against her with the effort it took him to remain still. But she didn’t want him to, the creamy fullness at the juncture of her thighs demanding the same completion he so clearly yearned to know.

“Oh, don’t stop,” she managed to gasp, her hands tangling in the thick, damp waves of hair at the back of his neck. “Please don’t stop…” As she spoke she squirmed against him, desperate for him to continue, and he groaned again, this time deep and full-voiced, throwing his head back as he clenched her buttocks tighter and began to move her, sliding her up and down on his jutting heat until she thought she would scream from the pleasure of it.

“My God, Fiona, you feel incredible,” he said through gritted teeth, his face a study of passion. “Like heaven in my arms…”

She did cry out then, the wordless, throaty sound coming from somewhere inside of her not governed by logic and sense. It was pure feeling, and she felt herself going over the edge to the splintering beauty of orgasm. As the shudders of fulfillment began to take over her body, her head tipped forward, exquisite sensations rocking through her with power enough to send a sweep of black spots before her vision.

She gasped and sobbed out her bliss against the salty warmth of Braedan’s shoulder, taking all he could give and giving it back to him, stroke for stroke. It was what she’d been seeking all along, the healing force of Braedan’s love driving out the darkness and dissolving its power over her, bringing her to a place of peace, calm, and perfect love that she never dreamed she’d deserve, no less claim as her own.

Braedan’s climax followed soon after, his thrusts deepening with her writhing and the clenching of her slickly heated sheath around him. Groaning her name, he jerked his hips once more, and she felt the flood of his seed spreading hot and deep through her—a gift that for all of her experience with Draven, for all her sinful training as the Crimson Lady, she’d been denied ever knowing before except as a completion of lust…

Her last remaining innocence given over willingly, completely to the one man who with the awesome power of his love had finally broken the barriers that had imprisoned her heart for nearly half a lifetime.

B
raedan’s knees buckled in the aftermath of their climax, but dimly, Fiona was aware that he’d managed to lower her to the softness of his cape before collapsing over her, holding his weight up by locking his elbows. They held still like that with chests heaving, his face tilted down as if he was trying to gather his senses again after their explosive release. Their legs were still tangled together from the position they’d taken as they made love, and now Fiona tried to ease away, thinking to make him more comfortable. But he reached out one hand to stop her, his eyes closed as he sought to catch his breath.

“Nay, love,” he murmured. “Stay near to me.”

Her heart contracted at the sweetness of hearing that endearment from his lips, and she drew in her breath. She couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat, so she simply swallowed and concentrated on trying to stem the
cursedly familiar tightness there. If she didn’t cease having this reaction with Braedan at every turn, he would begin to think that all she could do was cry. Clearing her throat, she willed the raspy feeling to recede, determined to speak normally as soon as she could gather her wits to explain what she was feeling for him.

But before she could give voice to anything, the breeze picked up again, chilly now that the rain had passed, and an involuntary shiver swept over her; Braedan cursed under his breath, sliding into place beside her and tossing their clothing over them to use as a blanket, before finally tucking the edges of his cloak around them for added warmth. Then with a sigh of contentment he tugged her closer to him, cradling her against his shoulder as he closed his eyes again. After a few moments spent absorbing the pleasure of nestling so beside him, Fiona shifted to look up at his face, studying every line and shadow, feeling her heart sing at his fierce, almost primal beauty.

He must have felt the weight of her stare on him, for he opened his eyes. Lifting his arm from her waist, he brushed his fingers along a damp tendril on her cheek, pushing it back. “What is it, Fiona? Are you regretting what happened between us?”

She bit back a laugh, thinking that might be an insensitive reaction for her to give him so soon after their lovemaking. “Nay, Braedan, I am not sorry about it,” she admitted. “It was wonderful.”

“What, then?”

“There is nothing wrong. Truly there isn’t,” she said, wanting to convince him while still fighting her own confusing display of teary emotion. Swiping her hand over her eyes, she tried to banish the damning signs, but
for every tear she wiped away, another followed, until she was both laughing and groaning at the futility of her attempt. Finally giving him a watery grin, she said, “I know it’s difficult to believe, but I am simply so happy that I can’t seem to avoid crying about it.”

Braedan laughed with her then, relief filling him as he hugged her close. Thank God. For a moment there, he’d thought that he’d failed her—that her demons had risen up to claim her again. “You are an amazing and complicated woman,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and holding her close against him. “But as for your penchant, lately, for crying,” he added looking down at her with a devilish grin, “I think you should go ahead and indulge all you want. It isn’t like we aren’t already soaked to the skin anyway.”

She gave him a good-natured shove at that, laughing and wiping at her eyes again. But rather than settling back against him as he’d hoped, she began to squirm and shift, seeming as uncomfortable as if they were lying on a bed of nails.

“What is the matter now?” he asked, still chuckling.

“It just feels as if something is beneath me, digging into my side.” She eased herself up onto one elbow, her face a picture of consternation.

He rolled back a bit while she groped for the offending object, stiffening when she pulled it from beneath her and raised it to the light. It was a bit of oval-shaped metal attached to a linked chain.
The miniature of Julia
. It must have slipped out of the fold in his cloak, damn it to everlasting hell. A stream of colorful curses followed that thought in Braedan’s mind, but he gave it no voice, simply reaching out in an effort to take the portrait from Fiona’s grip. She wouldn’t relinquish it right away,
though, peering at it as it swung and twirled on the end of the chain.

“Why, it’s a tiny painting,” she murmured incredulously, sitting up with the chain still wound in her fingers. His shirt happened to be the garment he’d first thrown atop her in his haste to warm her, and she clutched it to her breasts now, he noted, not quite succeeding in covering up her voluptuous curves.

“She looks like a noblewoman,” Fiona said in a soft voice, seeming to calculate not only the expense of the art itself but also the costliness of the garments worn by the subject.

“She was—I mean she
is
,” he corrected himself, having to work even harder this time to stem the new string of curses that rose to his lips. “She comes from a family of minor nobility, long respected for their good works.”

“How do you know her?”

“Her sire shared a bond of friendship with my father.”

Fiona looked from the miniature to Braedan and back again, an O of understanding rounding her pinkened, well-kissed mouth. Her brows came together in a most endearing way as she perused the fine, patrician features and glossy tresses he knew were portrayed so well in the tiny painting. “I can see why you’ve been so worried about her,” she murmured, bringing her stare back to him in utter innocence. “If this likeness is apt, it’s clear that Elizabeth would have attracted Draven’s notice.”

This time Braedan did groan aloud, following it up with one of the milder curses he’d been entertaining in his mind.

“That isn’t a portrait of Elizabeth,” he admitted at last, his mouth tightening. He sat up next to Fiona, fi
nally retrieving the blasted miniature from her hand and jamming it under his side of the cape. He didn’t speak further, half-hoping that she would choose to leave well enough alone.

It was an exercise in wishful thinking.

“If it isn’t your foster sister, then who is she?” Fiona’s frown had intensified, except now that expression was directed right at him.

“Her name is Julia Whitlowe.”

“Julia…?” Fiona breathed, and Braedan did his best not to grimace at the stricken expression that swept over her face.

“I heard Draven mention that name to you,” Fiona said, her expression still vulnerable. “Who is she to you that you would carry her portrait?” Her question was couched in an almost-nonchalant tone, he noticed, but he could see the wounded shadows hiding in her eyes.

An odd twisting began around Braedan’s heart, but he knew he couldn’t avoid the truth in this. It was bound to come out between them sooner or later…he just wished it had been much later. “Julia was my betrothed,” he said grimly at last. “Our union was agreed upon before I went to fight abroad.”

“Oh…” Fiona’s voice sounded high and far away. “I am sorry. I didn’t realize…”

“It’s of no matter. Her family broke the contract between us once I was named an outlaw to the crown.” Startled, he paused, realizing that for the first time since the day he’d lost Julia, that knowledge no longer had the power to wound him. He reached for Fiona’s hand, wanting to reassure her of his very real and compelling feelings for her; but she wouldn’t let him take it, tucking it instead into the folds of shirt she was using as a blanket.

“It must have been devastating for you,” she said quietly. She shifted her gaze to him again, somber and calm. “And you must love her very much to still carry her likeness close to your heart.”

“Nay—I mean, aye, I did care for her, and I was upset at the time that our union was dissolved, but it isn’t what you’re thinking,” he argued. Though she didn’t move a muscle, he felt her pulling away from him, and panic began to wind its way into his heart; struggling for the words to make her understand, he continued helplessly, “By the Rood, Fiona, she was going to be my wife. In truth I had prepared for most of my adult years to marry her, but it seems like a lifetime ago now, and I—”

“There is no need to explain, Braedan,” she said, shaking her head, that expressionless mask he’d come to hate slipping over her delicate features again. “I understand. And do not fear. You will not face any further expectations on my part now that this has happened between us; I have always known my place in such things.” She gave him what he supposed was to be a cheering smile, but he saw that it didn’t reach her eyes. Then she scooted back a little, apparently looking to retrieve her clothing from the jumble of garments both over and surrounding them.

“Fiona, I think we should talk about this more. I—”

“Nay, it is fine. Truly,” she broke in, hurriedly pulling on first her
chainsil
chemise, then the blue kirtle again. Her skin was alabaster perfection but for the heated spots on her cheeks. “We can speak of it again another time, if you like,” she murmured, “but right now I really think we should get back.”

He sat still for an instant longer. She didn’t understand, dammit. But it appeared that helping her to do so
would just have to wait. “All right,” he said at last, jaw tight, “I will comply with your wishes, as long as you agree to discuss this later.” At her nod, he pushed himself up to stand, quickly beginning to don his damp clothes alongside her.

But as he pulled on his boots and fastened his cape, which smelled faintly of crushed grasses and sweet vanilla, he couldn’t stop from feeling as if he’d lost something of great importance just now—something above and beyond what he feared he’d lost to Fiona weeks ago…

The entirety of his careworn, battered heart.

They entered the outlaw settlement again near dusk, having stopped on their way to see if Will, Rufus, or the fallen men were anywhere to be found. The spot where they’d left them had been deserted, with nothing to mark the day’s events other than the trampled bracken and churned-up mud of the road. Braedan had remained silent, for the most part, on the short remainder of the journey, wanting to respect Fiona’s wishes concerning the further discussion of Julia, and yet feeling as though what had been left unsaid hung between them like a weight.

Once they arrived, any chance of further talk vanished; the settlement was abuzz with activity, some unexpected visitors having arrived in their absence. Fiona jerked to a halt, and, even without looking, Braedan felt the way she tightened up at the sight of the newcomers who sat around the fires in the clearing, drinking, talking loudly, and gesturing. His own hackles rose from pure instinct, something about the half dozen or so men setting off a warning jangle inside of him.

Someone spotted them, it seemed, for the conversation ebbed, then fell silent. Naught but the sound of mourning rose at a distance from the clearing, where the bodies of Henry, Tom, and Jepthas were being prepared for burial. Fiona stood quietly beside him, looking at the strangers. But before Braedan could ask her anything about who they were and what they might be doing at the encampment, she pursed her lips, and an odd expression—whether annoyance or anger, he couldn’t tell—sharpened her delicate features. She stalked forward again, in a direct line to Will, who sat, with his shoulder bandaged, looking pale but none the worse for wear, next to the largest and most central fire.

Braedan followed behind. At Fiona’s approach, the man who was sitting next to Will stood up. He was compact and muscular, with dark blond hair that hung to his shoulders. Green eyes gazed out at them from beneath golden brows, and a smile flirted over lips that looked as if they were used to sneering. And when he spoke, Braedan’s sense of antipathy edged several notches higher.

“Greetings, lady…it is good to see you again.” The words were murmured like a caress, the man’s oddly cultured tone and inflection startling Braedan. He frowned at him from across the slight distance, noting his fine, stylish clothing. What kind of man, he wondered, would be educated enough to speak in a manner worthy of Edward’s own court, yet still seem completely at ease out here in an outlaw’s settlement?

“Clinton,” Fiona answered, giving the stranger a curt nod. Her attention shifted to her brother, her glance indicating his bandaged shoulder. “Does it pain you much, Will? I can prepare a poultice if you’d like.”

“Ah, sister, I’m glad to see your husband has finally
brought you home,” he said, his words a bit slurred, likely from whatever he was imbibing.

Braedan noticed how Clinton stiffened at the mention of the word
husband
, his gaze slashing into Braedan before shifting to Fiona again. Obviously unmindful of the tension, Will raised his pouch of drink to them to continue, “But I am happy to say that this fine sack has taken care of the worst of my aches, so, though your offer is appreciated, sister, I’ll not be needin’ any of your herbs right now.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Clinton and his men arrived an hour past, and I was just relayin’ the details of what’s happened. ’Tis only meet that they know to watch for Draven in their own work, now that he seems to have taken to the road for sport, the bastard.”

Will swallowed convulsively and tipped the pouch to drink deep again, the firelight glittering on his reddened eyes. Braedan’s jaw clenched in sympathy, knowing all too well himself the pain of losing men and recognizing what Will was trying to hide now with his bravado. But he was forced to leave off those thoughts as Clinton spoke again.

“Care you to sit down, Giselle?” Clinton gestured to a place beside him, still ignoring Braedan, and glaring at his outlaw friend, who was already sitting in that spot until he shifted over with a grunt. “We were just beginning to discuss our plans for handling Draven’s latest action. Perhaps it would interest you.”

“I think I’ll remain standing, thank you,” Fiona answered evenly. “I’ll be going to help the other women with the burial preparations shortly.”

Braedan watched her face, for the first time feeling a swell of satisfaction in her ability to maintain a facade of complete composure—as long as it was directed toward
this brute and not him. He decided that perhaps it was time to step forward and force Clinton, whoever he was, to acknowledge him. He took a position next to Fiona, resting his hand on the small of her back; after the awkwardness over Julia, he wasn’t sure how she would react, but she didn’t flinch from the contact. If anything, she seemed to lean into him as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to do.