He dipped his head, his mouth finding hers, and Sorcha thought she might be sick.
“Nay, Lord Hagan, do not—”
But her words were silenced by the power of his lips moving sensually against her own. Hard and warm, they slanted over hers in a kiss that claimed and overpowered, that caused her mind to swim senselessly.
She tried to turn away. “Please, I beg—”
But his mouth found hers again, and his tongue, wet and slick, rimmed her lips and touched the edges of her teeth. “Beg, Bliss,” he whispered into her mouth.
“You son of Lucifer!” she said, and she felt him tense, saw a gleam of sinewy muscles as he ripped her tunic from her body, stripping her of the dirty garment and baring her breasts to his dark eyes. His gaze settled on her necklace.
“The devil, am I? Well, Sorcha—that is still your name, is it not…?”
“Aye.”
“Then perhaps you want to bargain with the devil?”
Fear ripped down her spine. “Bargain?”
To her horror, he lowered his head and touched the tip of his tongue to her nipple. Desire mingled with loathing but ran hot in her blood.
“No!” she screamed, struggling.
But the tongue continued its hot, wet assault, causing her nipple to stiffen and her back to arch against her wishes. Her mind was turned against him, but her body was a traitor, a heartless piece of flesh that began to tingle and heat as he ran his callused fingers down her side. He touched each of her ribs, before he held the weight of her breast in his palm while kissing the other dark-peaked globe.
“You will die for this mistake,” she warned, her voice low and raspy. “My father will see to it.”
“Your father is the silversmith, and he would be pleased to know that you pleasure me.”
As she felt his tongue against her skin, she tried to think clearly, to find a way out of this mess. “You said a bargain.”
“Would you not lie with me willingly for the safety of your sister?” he asked, eyeing her with an arrogance that bespoke of his authority.
“You jest—”
“Nay, Bliss—er, Sorcha,” he replied, obviously enjoying toying with her. “ ’Tis a simple request: your sister’s life for one night in my bed?”
Heat burned up her neck.
“You are already here,” he pointed out.
“My virtue—”
He snorted. “Ahh, Bliss. Methinks your virtue is no longer in question. You need not worry of that.”
Why did he seem so amused? “ ’Tis not what you think,” she yelled in vexation.
“Is it not?” he teased, gently running his hand lower, beneath the curve of her spine to cup one of her buttocks. His breathing was shallow and short as he said, “Tell me now, oh savior of all that is Prydd. What will it be? Your virtue or your sister’s life?”
Four
orcha had no choice. She could not let her sister die. “I will do anything to save Le
ah’s life,” Sorcha said, though she thought of the other dagger, the one still tucked in her boot—her only means of escape. Could she go through the disgrace of lying with this cur, or would she, when the time was right, shove her blade into his soulless heart?
’Twould be simple enough to kill him, and yet when she stared up at his rugged features, saw the firelight playing upon the rough planes of his face, she knew she could not take his life.
“You are a strange one, Savior,” he whispered, fingering the tiny bundle of sticks that hung at her neck. “Very strange indeed.” His mouth found hers again. He kissed her, and she didn’t move, just lay waiting, hoping that she could somehow find a way out of his bed, but his fingers, already touching her buttocks, pushed down the clothing that was the only frail barrier between them. His feet worked on her boots, and with a sinking heart she felt the leather stripped from her foot and heard her dagger clatter to the floor.