And what of you, Hagan? Are you so noble? If not for the robber band that had come trudging through the woods, you, too, would have lain with the daughter of Eaton.
“Damn it all to bloody hell,” he growled under his breath as he reached Sorcha’s chamber and pounded on her door. “ ’Tis time for dinner, savior,” he said, his voice riddled with sarcasm.
She threw the door open and stood imperiously before him. Her raven hair was braided loosely, allowing a few black curls to escape, and her gown was of some fine silver silk that rustled and caught the light as she moved.
His throat closed in on itself as he gazed at her beauty. With eyes as blue as a summer sky and lips so soft he wanted nothing more than to taste them, she tossed her hair over one shoulder and started to breeze past him.
His hand reached out and he clamped it over her elbow. “Together,” he said, and she didn’t respond, just inched her fine chin up a notch and waited for her next command. “You’re angry with me.”
“Me? Angry?” She let out a taunting laugh. “Is it any wonder when you treat me as a child?”
He felt the corner of his mouth twist into a cruel smile and his gaze slid from her face to the pulse throbbing at the base of her throat and lower still, to the sweet bosom that lifted with each of her sparse breaths. “I assure you, Lady Sorcha, the last thing I consider you is a child.?
?
Scarlet invaded her face as they walked toward the stairs. Her heart hammered loudly and she remembered all too vividly how wanton she’d been. As they descended the time-worn steps, she felt a hundred pairs of eyes following her every movement. Everyone else had been seated, including Darton, Lady Anne, and, some distance away, Leah. Sorcha’s stomach twisted into knots as she felt the stares, some curious, some kind, others condemning. There were whispers, of course, and she heard a few of the phrases, much as she’d heard before. Holding her head high, she took her place near Hagan and told herself she would only have to endure the curious stares of the common folk and servants of Erbyn one more day, for tonight she would leave the castle forever. And that thought tore her apart inside.
Beneath the sweep of her dark lashes she cast a glance in Hagan’s direction and found him gazing at her, as if she were a great puzzle he had yet to solve.
Nervous at the thought of defying Hagan, she barely tasted the venison with spiced corn or suckling pig stuffed with forcemeat. The food seemed flavorless, and she felt as if she might be ill.
When the minstrels began their music, Hagan again took Sorcha’s arm. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t in the mood to dance, that she had no interest in pretending to be friendly to him, and yet she couldn’t. For if her plan was to work, she had to act as if nothing were wrong. Gritting her teeth, she forced a smile and followed him to the main floor as tables were hauled out of the way.
Soon they were dancing with other couples, twirling in the light of the yule candle, avoiding the children playing games near the stairs.
At first Sorcha was stiff and unyielding in his arms, dancing as if her legs were made of wood, but soon she could not help herself and her bones seemed to melt against him. He held her as if she were a priceless possession that he wouldn’t give up, and through her clothes she felt his heat.
He didn’t say a word, and yet, when his gaze touched hers, she heard a stirring deep in her soul, and in her mind she saw him as he had been in the forest.
Her breathing became difficult. When he took her by the arm and led her away from the great hall and through the door to the bailey, she didn’t protest, didn’t make a sound.
Outside, the night was clear, and the moon cast thin silver shadows upon the ground. Her breath fogged in the air as they hurried to a corner near the chapel.
He stopped near the silversmith’s hut and turned her in to his arms. She lifted her face to the moon, and he pressed hot, anxious lips to hers. His hands spanned her small waist, dragging her close, forcing her hips against the swelling that was so ripe in his.
She opened her mouth and felt his tongue touch and quiver against hers, and all her doubts seemed to flee into the darkness. She kissed him hungrily and felt his hands move upward to hold her breast and rub long fingers over the silky fabric of her dress.
“What kind of woman are you?” he asked when he finally lifted his head. “A lady? A girl? Or a savior?”
She laughed at the question. “What kind of man are you? Baron? Friend? Or enemy?” Her eyes shined in the pale light of the moon. “We are all many things, Hagan, and those things change.”
“So now you’re a prophet?” He kissed her again and sighed loudly. “I have told myself that I should lock you in your room, bar the door, and let you sit there until I deal with your brother.”
She nearly gasped. Not now! Not after all her plans were in place.
“But instead I find ways to be alone with you, and I cannot seem to stop myself.”
“Nor can I,” she admitted when he kissed her again, and his hands slipped the buttons of her dress open and cool air drifted across her skin.
His lips found hers again as he shoved the dress over her shoulder. Bending lower, he kissed her milky white skin, the back of her nape, his tongue rimming the damned birthmark.
“Ooh,” she groaned as his mouth slid lower, over the mound of her breast … searching. Deep inside she began to ache and throb for the want of him. She sucked in her breath as he took her nipple into his mouth and teased the bud. Her fingers cradled his head, holding him close, and she bowed her back so that he could take more of her into his sensual mouth. Lips teased and nipped, teeth scraped, and he growled against her, his hands twining in the thick curls of her hair.
“Hagan?” Anne’s voice swept across the night.
Sorcha froze. Hagan groaned deep in his throat.
“Are you out here?” Again the horridly sweet voice.