Maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn’t safe to remain this close to him, after all. She’d only get her heart broken.
Aneeriecrybrokethrough the stillness of the night. Trahern awoke and heard Morren tossing against the fur he’d laid over her. Though he couldn’t see her face, her breathing was unsteady.
“It’s a dream,” he said gently. But his voice did nothing to break through the nightmare. Fear ripped through her voice and she cried out, “Run, Jilleen!”
Trahern sat up and tried to rouse her from sleep. Seconds later, she was in his arms. Her skin was frigid, her body shaking. He held her as close as he could, with her seated in his lap. He stroked her hair, and his own heartbeat responded to her nearness.
“Why won’t it stop?” she wept. “Why do I have to relive it, night after night?” She clung to him, her tears dampening his tunic.
“You’re stronger than that,” he assured her. “You can conquer your fear.”
She kept her hands around his neck, and in time, her body began to warm. It was torment to hold her this closely while instinctive needs pulled at him.
Trahern wanted to wrap both of them in the furs, holding her skin against his own. Somehow, Morren Ó Reilly had slipped through his defenses. She needed his protection, nearly as much as he needed her.
Her fingertips pressed against his nape, her breathing slowly growing steady. “Sleep beside me,” she begged. “Please.”
To rest beside her would drain him of any remaining restraint. He couldn’t do it. To feel her soft body pressed against his own, sleeping with her scent so close . . . it was unbearable.
But the need to comfort her was greater. He laid down beside her, keeping her in his arms. She nestled close to him, and he gritted his teeth, praying he could hold back any physical response to her nearness.
“Thank you,” she breathed. When her bottom pressed against his groin, he hardened. Damn it. He couldn’t stop the reaction, no matter how he tried.
“It’s all right,” she managed. Her voice held fear he hadn’t meant to cause, and he suppressed a curse. It had been so long since he’d been with any woman, the frustration of celibacy was starting to take its toll.
“As I said before. I won’t bother you.”
He started to pull away, but she took his hands and returned them around her waist. Snuggling against him, she said, “Stay. Please.”
He wrapped the fur around her, pulling it over both of them. But then, without warning, she rolled over to face him. Her mouth hovered near his, and the invitation to kiss her was intoxicating.
“Tell me another story, Trahern,” she pleaded.
He shut his eyes, struggling to think. They both needed the distraction before he did something he’d regret. But her mouth was so close to his, and his body was fighting against the urge to lose himself in her kiss.
“There was a warrior named Tristan who loved an Irish princess named Iseult.” He touched Morren’s hair, sliding his fingers down her cheek. “She was a woman he couldn’t have. A woman he should never have desired.”
His thumb moved down to her lips. Her breath caught, her eyes staring into his.
“But he loved her, didn’t he?” Morren whispered. “Even though it was wrong.”
“Yes.” His hand moved to her face. “He loved her.”
Morren touched her mouth to his, and the sweetness of her lips turned into desire he’d never expected. Every thought of vengeance, every memory of Ciara, seemed to dissipate. There was only Morren.
Fragile and soft, her body molded to his, her arms pulling him closer. He was careful not to rest on top of her, keeping her at his side.
The kiss turned hungrier, slashing him with the need to remove the barriers between them, to feel her skin against his own. His body ached to be inside her, to push away the loneliness.
Instinctively, his hand moved to her breast, gently cupping the weight, his thumb caressing her nipple. The tip grew erect, but when he stroked her, she moaned and pulled back.
“I’m sorry.”
She turned her back on him, curving her body with her knees up. Her shoulders caved inward, and he cursed himself for pushing her too far.
“Morren, I never meant for this to happen.” He sat up, wondering if he should leave.
“No,” she whispered. “I just thought . . . that I might be able to overcome my fear. I wanted to know what it would be like, if a good man touched me.” He heard the soft shudder of her voice, but she wasn’t weeping. There seemed to be an uneasiness, mingled with self-degradation.
