Celtic Fire(76)

“Nay,” Rhiannon whispered. “You must not harm her. She knew nothing of where I came by the treasure, only that I bartered it for my freedom.”

The sense of betrayal bit deep. Anger surged so hot he wondered that the rain did not sizzle as it struck his skin. He crowded her against the trunk of a broad elm, his heart black with fury.

He raised one hand to touch her face and she flung up her arms as if to ward off a blow. He stared for a moment, stunned, then threw back his head and laughed. She feared him. No matter that he’d never lifted a hand against her. No matter that he hadn’t forced her into his bed when another man would have used her until she broke. No matter that he had whispered soft endearments and heard them spoken in return. He’d told her of Aulus’s haunting and of his own guilt and despair. He’d trusted her with the darkest secrets of his soul.

Yet despite what they’d shared, she still believed him to be the basest of criminals, a Roman dog, a defiler.

Fire raged through his veins, along with a dark purpose born of anger and need. He would give her what she expected of him, no more, no less. It was only what she deserved.

With a swift motion, he grasped her cloak in both hands and tore the fabric free of the pin at her throat. The garment landed on the ground, a bright heap on the mud.

“Lucius, nay—” Rhiannon’s eyes were wide, startled. Afraid.

He couldn’t bear to look into them any more than he could stop himself from reaching for her. He caged her with his arms. She resisted, twisting, but her frantic struggle only caused him to tighten his hold. He spun her around and pressed her spine against his muddy armor. Her buttocks nestled at his groin, his hands splayed over her breasts and stomach, holding her immobile.

“Release me,” she gasped.

“No.” He lifted her instead, carrying her deeper into the forest with two quick strides. His hand sought the hidden place between her thighs and stroked the heat he found there. She squirmed and twisted, striking him as she was able. Her efforts succeeded only in causing his rod to go even harder.

He increased the tempo of his fingers, concentrating on the hard nub at her center. He scraped the fabric of her tunic across her sex until the linen dampened in his hand. A moan tore from deep in her throat.

Her entreaty, when it came, was breathless. “Lucius. Please. Put me”—she moaned again as he touched her—“down.”

“As you wish.” He set her, face down, over the wide trunk of a fallen oak and lifted her hem.

Rain fell in glistening drops on the smooth white skin of Rhiannon’s buttocks. She struggled furiously, but his hand on the small of her back conspired with her awkward position to prevent her escape. She braced her hands on the ground but gained little leverage. “Let me go.”

He palmed over one smooth globe. “How could you leave me, Rhiannon?” He slipped his hand into her cleft and stroked downward. Slick heat gripped him when he slid his finger into her sheath.

She went still. He added a second finger to the first and flexed his knuckles. She let out a cry, not of anger or pain, but of need.

His eyes burned. “How could you leave me,” he said again, “when you want me as much as I want you?” He flexed a second time. “Tell me, Rhiannon. Tell me that you want me inside you.”

“No.”

He bent low, his hand still pulsing inside her. Raindrops fell on his arm and coursed along his wrist and into her heat. “Tell me to whom you belong.”

“No.” The word was a bare breath.

His low chuckle contained no mirth. “Then I will show you.” His hand left her tight passage. She made a small sound, a whimper she tried but failed to contain. He cupped her buttocks with his palms, kneading, watching as the rain pelted her skin. He followed the path of one droplet with his finger into the crease at the top of her thigh.

Her hips lifted into his touch. “Lucius … please.”

“What do you want, Rhiannon?”

Another moan as he reached between her legs to stroke where her need was greatest. “You, Lucius. Within me. Now. I cannot bear it any longer.”

He shifted his war belt and lifted his tunic. Grasping her hips with both hands, he plunged into her with one sure, swift stroke, burying himself to the hilt. She let out a soft cry and clamped tight around him, hot, wet, and demanding. He withdrew until he was nearly unsheathed, then paused, waiting, gripping her hips and holding her still.

She was sobbing now. “Please, Lucius. I want—”

His fingers tightened. “What?”

“You.”

A heady flare of satisfaction pulsed through him. He entered her again, driving deep, losing himself in her heat. He withdrew and thrust again, savoring her cry of relief as he filled her. He bucked hard and fast, urging her surrender, until she sobbed his name a final time and came apart in his hands. His own climax followed, pulsing, unending, until his legs gave way and he collapsed atop her, gasping for breath.