The Storming Read online

  Giric knew better. He knew if he dared to taste her, if he dared slake his thirst, it would be his undoing. Yet her own reckless abandon, her wantonness, her encouragement, compelled him onward. So, despite dire misgivings, he knelt to savor her ambrosia on his starving tongue.

  “Aye. Oh, aye,” she groaned, firing his blood till he shook with an ecstasy of longing.

  Her breast’s twin was just as succulent, and she moaned softly as he took his pleasure there as well, laving the supple flesh to a stiff peak.

  She tangled her fingers in his unruly locks, holding him to her, accepting him, and his heart soared even as his braies swelled to bursting.

  “Oh, God.” Her sigh ruffled his hair. “Please…”

  It was as if she spoke directly to that appendage between his legs, for it responded as if it knew for what she begged.

  But here he had to intervene. Here he had to curb his animal desires and muster strength to prevent them both.

  “We mustn’t…”

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “But my lady, I fear…”

  Her fingers found his lips. “Do not fear. Do not speak. Only…please…”

  His groan was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Lord—Hilaire didn’t even know the words to ask for what she desired. She didn’t even know her passion’s name.

  But that didn’t stop her from demanding satisfaction. Or begging for it. She dropped to her knees before him and caught his shirt in her fist. “Please.”

  He had to draw the words from the depths of his mortal soul, from the heart of his chivalry, and they were dragged from him as harshly as an arrow from a wound. “I…cannot.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Because ye’re an innocent,” he murmured. “And I am a knight, under a vow to protect—”

  “Damn your vow.”

  He desired nothing more. But Hilaire spoke from that innocence. She had no idea what she demanded of him.

  “What have we to lose?” she asked. “What more horrible destiny awaits us if we act on our desires rather than denyin’ them?”

  He felt her gaze in the dark, and he knew, for all her youth and innocence, she was right. They were bound to die anyway. And no act could further stain his already scarred soul.

  “Please,” she entreated, reaching up one hand to stroke his cheek. “I would taste love just once ere I die.”

  His heart melted at that, and he swallowed hard. Then he nodded, and she collapsed gratefully into his arms.

  “It may not be as ye expect,” he murmured against her hair.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I don’t wish to hurt ye.”

  She toyed with the laces of his shirt. “Does not a new-made knight endure the accolade o’ his lord’s fist?” Her fingertip traced the outline of his mouth. “What is a rite o’ passage without pain?”

  He nipped at her finger, calmed the beast in his braies, and considered carefully what he was about to do.

  Hilaire was his betrothed. She was to have been his. Their wedding would not, it appeared, come to pass. They had no lifetime together then, not years or months or even days.

  But they had this moment, now. And perhaps in this small sliver of time, he could grant her just one precious gift—the gift of his body, the gift of his love.

  Hilaire would have been lying if she said she was not apprehensive. But as soon as Giric gently began removing her garments, assuring her with constant touches that he was there for her, her fears vanished like mist. Before long, she stood naked before him in the dark, listening while he disrobed as well.

  He lay her tenderly atop the hard earth floor, cushioned by their garments. For a long while he did nothing but run his hands over her, like a potter shaping clay, and by the quickening of his breath, she could tell he approved of her form.

  She explored his contours as well, the magnificent breadth of his shoulders, the hard ridges of his stomach, the powerful cut of his arms. He was beautiful, this man who was to be her husband, who was her husband, and she let her hands roam lower, eager to know everything about him.

  He grunted as she enclosed the warm, firm length of him in her palm. For all the crisp nest of curls at his base, his skin was amazingly soft, and he stiffened in her hand like a steel sword sheathed in velvet.

  “Lady,” he rasped, guiding her hand away, “ye will undo me. Have patience.”

  She lay back then, surrendering to his pace, and he brought her a feast of delights. He left little of her untouched, stroking her reverently from the crown of her head to the sensitive soles of her feet. He kissed her belly, and she arched to meet his mouth. He ran his tongue along the back of her knee, and she squirmed in pleasure. He sucked on her fingers, licking the delicate webbing between, and she gasped in unexpected delight.

  But all the while an ache grew deep inside her, a carnal hunger between her thighs, and this was the one spot he would not touch, no matter how her body silently begged. She moaned for him, rocking her head to and fro, lost in dreamy languor as he tormented her.

  “Shh,” he admonished. “Hush. ’Twill come.”

  At long last he slung one heavy thigh over hers, pinning her, and slipped one stealthy hand down between her breasts, over her belly, and into the thick of her woman’s curls. She arched upward, mewling, willing him to touch her…there. And when he finally did, when the moist tips of his fingers parted the petals of her maiden’s flower and touched the treasure within, she had to bite her lip to still her cry of relief.

  He circled over her flesh then, sliding his hand across her again and again. And he kissed her—on the mouth, on her eyelids, beneath her ear, atop her breast—branding her with his lips till it seemed he possessed every inch of her. For a long while she languished in an agony of ecstasy, and then he murmured in her ear.

  “Are ye ready for me?”

  His rough voice tugged at her passions, and she answered him breathlessly. “Aye. Oh aye.”

  Then she felt him move over her, felt the weight of him above her, and she stiffened. But he didn’t press down upon her yet. Instead, he moved his fingers with more purpose over and over the aching nubbin at her core. With his other hand, he played gently with her breasts, awakening such pleasure that she felt afire with it. And then, when she thought she could feel no higher joy, a curious current began to build within her veins, amassing emotion and sensation into one swirling cloud of pure rapture.

  For one glorious moment, she floated high above the ground, free of care, free of fate, free of her body.

  All at once, with a brilliant flash like a thousand bolts of lightning, she cried out her passion on his name, plummeting across the sky and earthward on the wings of a comet.

  Giric pressed into her as swiftly and mercifully as he could, but his focus had been irrevocably shattered by her victorious cry.

  Giric.

  She’d called him Giric.

  She knew.

  She couldn’t possibly understand what redemption she offered him when she spoke his name, but he felt suddenly as if he could burst through walls of solid rock for her.

  He filled her completely now, and he sighed at the utter bliss of woman’s flesh surrounding him. She made not a murmur of protest while he waited for her burning to ease and her body to relax.

  “Oh, Hilaire.” He wanted to say a hundred things to her, to apologize, to thank her, to vow his undying devotion. But she moved against him, and all his thoughts were lost as desire surged in his veins like a swollen river.

  A mere score of thrusts, and his long-idle member nigh exploded with relief, spilling its bounty into her hot womb. He shuddered, torn apart mentally and physically by the wondrous woman beneath him. Moved past speech, grateful beyond expression, he simply groaned her name over and over, kissing her face, her hair, her mouth until she giggled with delight.

  Hilaire had never felt anything so wondrous. His breaching of her maidenhead had been like the splitting of a chrysalis, birthing a new and
brilliant butterfly. She felt beautiful and precious and alive.

  This was the magic of lovemaking, she realized. Not only the heady desire and the fierce explosion of passion, but this enveloping glow afterward. He still filled her, and it seemed he belonged there, deep inside, as if she’d always been waiting for him, as if he were a part of her.

  She nuzzled his neck, where his pulse yet throbbed warm against her cheek, and, for one miraculous moment, forgot about everything but the two of them.

  “I love ye,” she whispered recklessly, blushing at her own confession, but knowing she’d follow him anywhere now, whether he journeyed to heaven or hell.

  He squeezed her tighter, and his chuckle sounded almost like a sob. “God curse me for a doomed fool, but I love ye as well.”

  And then, laughing together in the somber face of death, they slowly drifted to sleep, their limbs entwined, their hearts entangled.

  They’d thrown down a gauntlet, challenged fate, braved despair, and defeated heartache. Now, whether they stormed the gates of heaven or were damned to the fires of hell, The Dire Dragan and his Lady Hilaire were destined to spend eternity together.

  A trickle of dust awakened Giric. He opened his eyes.

  Where was he?

  He tried to remember, but his thoughts were sluggish to form.

  He blinked.

  Slowly, he recalled. There had been a landslide. He’d been trapped underground. And the lass who was to be his wife had been trapped with him.

  How much time had passed?

  An hour?

  A day?

  Two?

  The air was so stale he could scarcely breathe, his mind so confused he couldn’t comprehend the bright white line that appeared to cut the world in half.

  He heard voices. Faint, growing stronger.

  His captain.

  A woman.

  Somebody else.

  Squinting, he realized the line was a beam of sunlight.

  Rescue. It was rescue.

  Campbell had found them. His men and the lady’s, from the sound of it, were breaking through the wall of rubble.

  His heart leaped in his breast. He turned to jostle Hilaire awake, to tell her the miraculous news.

  “Hilaire!” he croaked, his throat as dry as dust. He shook her by the shoulder. “Hilaire!”

  The light was dim, yet bright enough now to make out her features. Her hair was dark and lush, and her face, though smudged with dirt, was as lovely as an angel’s. Her lashes fell thick upon her pale cheek, and her mouth possessed a natural upward curve, even in sleep, as if she dreamt only of happy things. Lord—his betrothed was beautiful.

  “Hilaire! Wake up!” He shook her more roughly. “Hilaire!” But she wouldn’t budge. “Hil—”

  Mother of God.

  Nay.

  It couldn’t be.

  His face crumpled, and his heart knifed painfully in his chest.

  It couldn’t be. God could not be so cruel, could he? She couldn’t be…dead. Not now. Not after all they’d been through.

  Yet how else had it ever been for The Dire Dragan? Had he really believed he could break the curse? Had he truly expected salvation?

  Anguish seeped into his veins like bitter poison. He smoothed the tresses back from his angel’s forehead and clasped her limp hand. Her image blurred in his tearing eyes, and he cursed the cruel Fates that had let her die without taking him as well.

  A warm, wet drop fell upon Hilaire’s cheek, and her eyes fluttered open.

  Where was she?

  The light was gray, and a stranger bent over her, his face concealed by a fall of dark, unruly hair.

  She frowned.

  The poor man was weeping. Horrible sobs racked his chest and slumped his shoulders.

  Her heart went out to him instantly. Though her throat felt thick with sleep, she managed a whisper. “Good sir, what’s wrong?”

  His gaze flew to her with such intensity that for an instant she was petrified. But in the next heartbeat, she remembered everything—the siege, The Dragan, the passion they’d shared.

  This must be Giric mac Leod.

  Her betrothed.

  The man she’d vowed to marry.

  This—dear God—devastatingly handsome man with sad eyes and a tousled mane, an expressive mouth and a bristled jaw, was her husband-to-be.

  She could see him. Every bit of his watery gaze, battered face, dazzling smile, and bare body. Which meant there was light in the tunnel.

  “Sweet Mary,” she croaked, struggling to her elbows. “We’re goin’ to get out, aren’t we?”

  “We are.”

  The curse of The Dire Dragan was broken at last.

  And she was going to be the wife of…

  Lord—he was breathtaking when he looked at her like that.

  She flashed him a shy smile, and his eyes twinkled in return. But it was all the exchange they had time for.

  By the Rood—here they sat, as naked as newborns, and already Hilaire heard her father commanding Giric’s men to make haste with the tunnel.

  Epilogue

  Giric tucked his infant son deeper into the crook of his arm, shielding wee Morgan from the icy spray drenching the deck of the ship. Hilaire laughed again in delight, reveling in the mist, shivering as the sea rose up to spit playfully at the vessel rollicking across its bosom.

  “Ye’ll be soaked by the time we reach port!” Giric warned.

  “I don’t care!” she cried, grinning with excitement just before a wayward splash careened off the bow and doused her, plastering her hair to her head. She shrieked in alarm, but refused to give ground. Instead, she raked her hair back from her face, gripped the rail, and braced herself for another onslaught.

  Riding the sea was the most exhilarating, thrilling, heart-tripping sensation she’d ever…

  Nay, she thought. There was one thing more rousing. She glanced sideways at her husband, who stared at her with an expression of such adoration that it took her breath away. Abandoning her play, she swallowed hard and ambled toward him.

  “Ye know,” she murmured, running a finger along his arm, “if ye don’t stop lookin’ at me like that, I might have to pleasure ye here on the deck in plain view o’ the other passengers.”

  His reply was part chuckle, part groan.

  She took the babe from him, careful not to drip on wee Morgan’s sweet, slumbering face, and nestled back into her husband’s protective arms. He made no protest as she rested her wet head against his broad shoulder.

  The ocean was just as he’d described, wide and open and endless. It shimmered azure under the cloudless sky, shifting and folding like liquid samite, winking at her where the sun tickled its crests. The crisp breeze whipped at the ship’s sails and left its briny flavor in her hair and on her lips.

  Wood and ropes and chains creaked in complaint as the ship rocked with the current, but Giric assured her they’d make the journey to France in one piece. And from there, who could say where they’d go? After their harrowing escape from beneath the earth, neither of them desired to be confined again.

  Now that peace had been made between their two kingdoms—at least for now—Giric was eager to show Hilaire the world and all the open sea she could endure.

  It sounded marvelous, voyaging to exotic places, breathing the air of foreign climes, sailing at the whim of the wind. But Hilaire rather enjoyed being the wife of The Dragan and the lady of her own keep. Giric had given her a new harp as a wedding gift, and she had regaled his vassals with many songs extolling the virtues of her husband. Nay, Hilaire had all of the world she desired beside her.

  The babe fussed in his sleep, and she bent to him, hushing him with a tender promise. Then she pressed her chilled ear against her husband’s warm chest, listening for his steady, strong heartbeat. He sighed in pleasure, and his contentment rumbled all through her.

  This—this was all she needed. All she’d ever need.

  Her Giric. Once cursed, now blessed. And the precious son
born of their love, the son who would one day find his own lady love among the illustrious warrior daughters of Rivenloch.

  Hilaire turned her back on the ocean and burrowed into Giric’s welcome embrace. Her love for him was as free and enormous and eternal as the sea.

  THE END

  Coming in 2018…

  The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch

  Meanwhile, you can get up to speed with The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch. A sneak peek of LADY DANGER, Book 1, appears at the end of this ebook.

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  More Books by Glynnis Campbell

  The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

  The Shipwreck (novella)

  A Yuletide Kiss (short story)

  Lady Danger

  Captive Heart

  Knight’s Prize