Anger drove him once again. He had forbid Oria to leave and she had defied him. She would learn that was something he wouldn’t tolerate.
He caught up with her and it took only a few moments to adjust to her pace and another moment to determine timing and then—he threw himself off his horse to land directly behind his wife. His left arm hooked her around the waist to yank her snugly against him while his right hand took hold of the reins and brought the horse under his control. He worked the reins to slow the mare’s pace. Fergus’s horse slowed on his own accord to a trot before circling back to join him.
Oria struggled against him to no avail. She didn’t recall him being that strong or his muscles that taut. His muscles seemed as hard as the metal anvil the smithies pounded their hammers against. She shivered, realizing it was impossible and useless to defend herself against him.
She was glad when he brought the horse to a halt, though not when he dismounted and hooking her waist once again, he swung her off after his feet had barely touched the ground. She stumbled against him, hitting his hard chest before his hand took tight hold of her arm and shook her.
“Where are your senses, woman?” he berated.
“You have no right to dictate to me,” she accused, her chest heaving from her heavy breaths.
“That right became mine when we exchanged vows,” he reminded. “You will obey my word. I’ll have it no other way.”
“Then you’ll be disappointed.”
His anger had him wanting to thrash her into submission, but he had never raised a hand to her and he never would. Only cowards hit women and he was far from a coward.
He yanked Oria against him and dropped his head so their noses almost touched. “Listen well, woman, you will heed my word.”
Oria pressed her nose against his. “Or what?”
Something happened at that moment. She didn’t know how, what, or why and she didn’t care. She only knew that by some small shred of hope or some miracle she spied the man she loved in Royden and it was like the shattered pieces of her heart began to piece together.
“Royden,” she whispered and pressed her lips to his.
Her kiss was like a shock to his soul, it slammed through him battering anything that stood in its way until it hit him deep. He couldn’t resist if he wanted to and he didn’t want to. He had dreamt endlessly of her lips and how they would feel again and they didn’t disappoint.
Her lips were gentle, curious, and aching for more as she urged his lips to respond. If he did, he feared he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let her go. He warned himself to be careful, take it slow, but the unquenched ache he had had for her all those years rose up and took control.
His hand went to the back of her neck, his fingers digging up through her hair to grip the back of her head as his lips took control of hers.
Never had Royden kissed her with such possessiveness. Never had she known such a kiss possible. His lips held such strength and his tongue such purpose as it delved into her mouth and while forceful, by no means did he force her. She responded with equal enthusiasm. Her passion ignited so rapidly that it sent darts of pleasure poking at the most intimate of places. It caught her so unaware it robbed her of her breath and he must have realized it, since to her great disappointment, his lips left hers. She was relieved—her moan—evidence of it when he nibbled along her bottom lip, plump with passion and down along her neck, nipping at her tender flesh with his teeth and lips and sending gooseflesh prickling her skin.
Good Lord, she had missed this man.
His lips returned to hers, his kiss bruising, demanding as if he couldn’t get enough, but then either could she. It was as though they tried to make up for the wasted years that had separated them.
Her body ached for him as it had done when he was gone. She had had the memories but they had been torture, recalling his kiss, his touch, and she had berated herself for not having made love with him, for having waited for a wedding night that never came.
His hand left the back of her head and to her surprise he grabbed her hand and reached down with it to slip under his plaid and lay against his hard manhood. He kept his hand over hers, not letting her move it. His shaft swelled against her palm—already so thick she wondered how it could grow any bigger—and seemed to pulse with a life of its own. It was velvet soft and she instinctively squeezed it, and Royden groaned.