He grabbed hold of her shoulders and set her away. “Ye have no idea, lass, but, God help me, ye must stop. I’ll nay have ye spill me before I’ve enjoyed a wee tasting myself.” Before she could argue, he scooped her up, carried her to an inviting cradle of moss, and stretched her out beneath him. With a glint in his eyes that made her shudder, he eased her knees farther apart and softy blew, fanning her wanting into a raging blaze.
His short beard tickled up and down her inner thighs, making her ache in anticipation. “You are too slow, my love.” She rose and took hold of his head, arched to meet him, and guided his mouth downward. Then she held on tight, releasing herself to his mouth. His mastery layered the wondrous sensations until she bucked and shrieked.
He lifted his head and smiled. “Now,” he rumbled, plunging in deep as he settled on top of her. His face glistened with the wetness of her pleasure. Slow and steady, he slid out, then drove back in, all the while keeping his gaze locked with hers.
“Harder,” she ordered, unable to bear the teasing any longer. She needed him. Hard. Fast. Furious.
“As ye wish.” He gave himself over to pounding, unleashing the raw fury she needed.
She raked her nails down his back and arched to meet him thrust for thrust, slamming her body into his until his hoarse guttural roars drowned out her cries. He collapsed atop her, and she held on tight, suddenly beset with the fear that this could be the last time she would love this man. The terrible thought forced a hitching sob from her lips before she could bite it back.
“Forgive me, love,” he breathed, gasping to catch his breath as he propped himself off her. “I didna mean to crush ye, dear one.” He pressed his forehead to hers, then kissed the tip of her nose. “I love ye, Adellis. God help ye, woman, ye’ve made me love ye with a fierceness I canna explain.”
“Do not say that,” she whispered, clutching him back down atop her. She shut her eyes tight against the thought of a life without him. “Please.”
He pushed himself up again and frowned down at her. “Why do ye say that?” His eyes flexed into tighter slits the longer she took to reply. “Adellis?”
“Because we will be—”
“Constable? Uhm, m’lord?” Hendry’s hesitant call spared her from having to speak the doom looming over them.
“I will kill him,” Thorburn promised through clenched teeth. He lifted his head higher and turned toward the call. “Ye value yer life verra little, Hendry!”
“Forgive me, m’lord, but Himself has ordered ye fetched.”
The center of her chest ached, as though a gaping hole had been punched through it. Their time was done. With a gentle push, she forced out the words she didn’t want to say. “We must go to him, my love. Now.”
*
Her hand onhis arm was cold as the sea in the dead of winter. Thorburn covered it with his, willing her to believe all would be well. No hint of color brightened her fair cheeks. He feared if he didn’t hold tight to her, she would faint dead away. Halting just outside the entry hall, he slid a finger beneath her chin and gently forced her to meet his gaze. “Where is my warrior queen?” he whispered.
“She has left me, my bear. She cannot brave the pain I carry.”
“There will be no pain. I swear it.”
“Thor!” The summons shook through the keep like a roared battle cry.
With a twisting jerk, she shirked away from his touch and stepped through the doorway without him. Unsmiling. Proud. Regal. She strode up the center aisle of the great hall and came to a halt within a few feet in front of the MacDougall and his wife. After a graceful curtsy, she lowered her gaze and kept it locked on the floor. “My liege, I am Adellis Bjørnsdóttir.”
Thorburn strode across the length of the large gathering room as though it spanned less than the width of his palm. With a proud squaring of his shoulders, he took his place at Adellis’s side. After a respectful nod, he thumped a fist to his chest. “M’lord.”
Ruddy hair, flaming cheeks, and a fierce temper to match, Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, tightened his massive hands on the carved arms of his chair. “Instead of reporting to yer chief, ye choose to bed yer Norwegian whore among the trees shading my chapel?”
Protective rage flared hot and hard at the insult. “She is not a Norwegian whore,” Thorburn growled, not bothering to veil the threat dripping from his words. He took Adellis’s hand and placed it on his forearm. “She is my wife.”
The MacDougall’s face flared even redder. His wife reached across the narrow space between their chairs and rested her hand on his arm. The fair Lady Christiana had always been the soothing tonic to the chief’s volatile temper.
“Yer knave reported ye used my resources to fetch this one ye call yerwifefrom that bastard brother of hers.” The MacDougall started to rise, but his wife’s grip on his arm must have tightened because he turned and looked at her instead. After the merest dip of her head, he settled back in his chair with an irritated snort. “Since when do ye waste my men and supplies?” His furious scowl shifted to Adellis’s bowed head. “And for a Norwegian, at that. One, who I might add, I sent ye to oust from Mull?”
“My knave?” Thorburn repeated, resisting the urge to call the MacDougall a liar. While the information was true, neither Hendry nor Tasgall would ever repeat the details of a campaign without express permission. Who was this knave who had gone to the chieftain behind his back?
“Get him in here,” the MacDougall ordered.
The guard beside the dais disappeared. After a moment, he returned with the knave in tow.
Thorburn curled his fingers until his knuckles popped. Hendry was right. Wylie Dowall was indeed a devious wee shite who would do anything to lift himself up in the world. What the conniving little bastard didn’t realize was the MacDougall never tolerated a traitor—even a traitor who fed him information. Such a person could never be trusted. If they turned on one, they would turn on all.
“All I reported was true,” Wylie said, defiance ringing in his sniveling whine. When his focus shifted to the other side of the room, his eyes flared wide, and he paled.
