He grimaced. “If you enter a man’s bed in the middle of the night, that’s exactly what you should expect.”
A rather short-tempered response, which she attributed to his being rudely awakened. “Did you find Marsailli?”
“Nay,” he said, turning his head to look at her. “I’m sorry.”
Disappointment flooded her chest and she grabbed his arm. “But Giric is dead, aye?”
He ran a light finger over the bruise on her chin. “Nay,” he said softly. “He escaped.”
Caitrina slumped against the pillows, her eyes closing. She had risked her life for naught—they had failed. “How is that possible? We had them surrounded.”
He said nothing, allowing the circumstances to speak for themselves.
For a time, there was only the sound of her heartbeat, heavy and mournful, in her ears. “You are aware, are you not, that he will punish Marsailli for my rebellion?”
“Myrebellion,” he insisted, scooping her into his arms and holding her tight. “And harming her will not win him your cooperation. He will know that now.”
She bit her lip and sent a prayer skyward. “Dear lord, I pray you are right.”
“Don’t lose faith, lass. I’ll retrieve your sister. I swear it.”
Caitrina laid her cheek against the firm planes of his chest and allowed his warmth to curl around her. Here in Bran’s arms, she could pretend—just for a while—that his assurances were true and that Marsailli would not bear the brunt of Giric’s anger. It was a powerful magic, and she wished she could lose herself in it for eternity.
They lay like that, quiet and comforted, for some time.
Until the spicy scent of Bran’s skin and the smooth brush of his hand on her hair slowly erased her worries, replacing them with a warm tingle of awareness. A hot stirring deep within her belly. And then she did something quite daring—she lifted her head and kissed his chest.
He froze, all movement ceasing, even his breathing.
“Was that unpleasant?” she asked.
“Nay,” he croaked. “A surprise, that is all.”
Emboldened by his reaction, she lapped at his nipple with the very tip of her tongue, enjoying the slightly salty taste of his skin.
He sat up abruptly, pushing her gently away. “Lass,” he said, his voice edged with quiet desperation. “You ask too much of me. I’ve not the strength to resist you right now.”
“I don’t want you to resist me.”
Indeed, she wanted him to ravish her. To banish all her terrible thoughts, to bury her worries under a thousand delights of the flesh. She wanted to live in the heat of the moment, to feel loved and cherished and beautiful until the sun rose on a new day.
Was that so wrong?
“Nor do I want you to lecture me on the merits of saving myself for some future husband,” she said, running a hand down the ropy sinews of his arm. He was smooth and firm, like silk over fire-heated steel. “I could have died today, pure and chaste and unfulfilled. Is that what you wish for me?”
“Nay.”
She leaned in, drawing in a nose full of his delightful scent. “I thought not.”
“Don’t mistake me for a true gentleman.” His words rumbled deep in his chest, and she pressed her ear to the masculine vibrations. Lord. Everything about him was a wonder. “My patience is limited. I’ve given you fair warning, and I won’t repeat myself.”
“Consider me warned,” she agreed, nibbling her way up his throat to his chin. “Now do your worst. Or rather, your best. I expect to end this night weak-kneed and bone-weary.”
He snorted. “You have rather high expectations for a first round.”
She trailed a finger down the line of dark hair in the center of his belly. “Oh? Why so? I’ve been told that a skilled lover can make a woman swoon with joy.”
In a quick, sudden movement, he captured her wandering hands and pinned her to the mattress. “Aye,” he said, tasting her throat with sweet, tender kisses, much as she had just tasted his. “But you are not yet a woman. You’re a maiden.”
