“That was shameless,” she murmured when she finally regained her breath.
“Aye.” He winked as he kissed the tip of her nose. “Ye ken I am alive now, though, eh? My pretty plunder.”
“Weel, I am a wee bit more certain of it.”
“Wheesht, are ye ne’er to be satisfied?”
“Probably not,” she murmured. Then, unable to hold his intent gaze, she wriggled slightly. “The floor grows hard.”
“Not only that . . .” He grinned beneath her hand when she hastily covered his mouth with it.
Hacon chuckled softly as he gently ended the rich intimacy of their embrace. The water he had earlier set to heat on the circular central hearth was ready and he used it to bathe her, kissing each scrape and bruise that marred her fine skin. His passion already hot and fierce, she pushed it to new heights as she took the cloth from his hand and washed him. When he could stand no more he picked her up and took her to the bed. There, he loved her with a gentle ferocity born of their long separation and his fears for her safety. To his delight, she matched it with a fierce greed of her own.
“Did ye check the bed for vermin?” she asked when she could finally speak, frowning at the rope-slung bed on top of which they were so carelessly sprawled.
“Aye. I may have dreaded sleeping alone again, but that was company I was eager to forgo.” He moved to lie on his back and tugged her into his arms.
“Hacon?” She idly smoothed her hand over his chest, finding the need to keep touching him irresistible. “What happened in Ireland? Were ye hurt and left behind as the others fled?”
He sighed and idly kissed the top of her head. Their reunion was sweet, yet not all he had envisioned. Their lovemaking was more than he could ever want, yet they had shared no words of love. His urge to speak of what was in his heart was stifled by the memory of what she had said just before he rode away from Dubheilrig. The way she acted now gave him hope, yet he still faltered. How could he bare his soul, reveal his vulnerability, to someone who thought him blood-hungry? While he grew more confident that he had conquered more than her passion, he had no indication that he had gained her respect. How could he offer his heart to a woman who did not seem to understand what he was,allthat he was—manandknight?
That was what he wished to talk about, not Ireland, not Balreaves. He wanted to delve into what she felt, what she thought, yet he admitted to cowardice. While he felt a need to know, he feared the knowledge. Soon, he promised himself even as he cursed his own timidity. Soon I will take the bit between my teeth and have done with it. All could continue as it was for a while longer, but he knew that the questions and doubts, if left unsettled, would begin to destroy what they shared.
Now, however, she waited with increasing impatience to hear what had happened in Ireland. The story would worry her, frighten her. Briefly, but only briefly, he considered lying. One lie was all his conscience could bear.
“Aye, Dugald and I were wounded and left behind, but ’twas not the Irish who laid us low.”
Jennet shivered and huddled closer to him. “Balreaves,” she guessed.
Combing his fingers through her thick hair, he replied, “Aye, Balreaves. The men who attacked us didnae wear his colors, but I ken they were his hirelings. They certainly werenae Irish. And when they thought we would ne’er see another dawn, they boasted of being Balreaves’s assassins.”
“He used the confusion of a lost battle and retreat to hide his treachery. ’Twas most clever of him.”
“Verra clever. Dugald and I should be as dead as young Alan. We were badly wounded.”
Tracing the new scar along his left rib cage, Jennet nodded. “Ye could have bled to death.”
“’Twas what Balreaves’s hirelings prayed for. ’Twas our good fortune that the enemy was so close upon our heels. Those murderers didnae take time to make sure they had succeeded. Once Dugald and I fell, they paused only to steal what could be easily grasped and ran. We roused enough to drag ourselves into a ditch to hide from the Irish. I fear the rosary beads with which ye gifted me were lost.”
“Nay. They were returned to me as proof that ye were dead. Somehow Sir Niall gained hold of them and sent them to me at Dubheilrig. He himself called it a fanciful gesture.”
“Sir Niall has a reputation for such. Just as one decides he is all he appears—a sour, mean-spirited youth—he does something admirably chivalrous, something indisputably kind. Then he returns to grumbling and sneering. A strange lad.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead, “Ye have many a bruise, lass. Are ye certain he did naught to harm you?”
“Naught worthy of trouble. He didnae recognize me at first and we had a brief tussle.”
“I think ye arenae telling me the whole of it, but I willnae press you.”
“Good, for all turned out weel. Now, finish your tale. How did ye escape? Was Dugald less injured than you and able to help?”
“Nay, Dugald was worse. He courted death more assiduously than I. We were fortunate. A godly mon discovered us. He cared nothing for who we were, who we fought for, only that we were fellow men in need of aid. He took us into his poor house, healed our wounds, and kept us safe. Fortunately, not all of my wealth had been stolen so I was able to repay him with some coin ere we left. Fate continued to favor us, allowing Dugald and me to escape that cursed land and find our way home.”
“Only to be taken on another bloody raid,” she observed.
“Ah, but that is your fault.” He grinned when she lifted her head to stare at him. “’Tis.”
“And just how did ye come to that conclusion?”
“Ye didnae stay at Dubheilrig. Now, if ye had stayed for a few months more, wailing and tearing out your hair over my death, all this would have been unnecessary. Instead, ye strolled off to England with your father.”
