CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By the time Fallon walked into the quarters arranged for her, dawn streaked over the east. Nadia’s hadn’t been the only story she’d heard through the night, and all of them circled in her head. Her heart.
Tales of torture and despair, of families torn apart. But through those tales she thought she might be able to pinpoint other containment centers.
She needed her maps. She needed a clear head. God, she needed a shower. A drink. One night’s sleep.
Even as she reached for the wine some considerate soul had left on a desk under the window, someone knocked on her door.
Her first thought was: Go away. For five minutes just go away. But she walked to the door, opened it.
Duncan stood, as battle-grimed as she.
“Colin said you’d just gotten in.”
She said nothing, just stepped back to let him in.
“I know you sent Mallick back to his cottage for a few days, and that’s a good call. We’re going to need him when he’s had his time. And I know he talked to you about the islands. The fact is we can’t spare the troops to handle the number of POWs we’ve taken, and we damn well can’t keep people locked up for-fucking-ever anyway, or we’re not much better than they are. That’s number one. Then there’s the resources we’d need to house, feed, treat, clothe. We can’t spare them, not indefinitely.”
“Duncan.”
He kept prowling the room, stirring up the air, the energy. Stirring everything.
“We need a solution. One we can live with, and one where those resources are used for the rescues, the troops, the people who’re just trying to live through this fuckfest.”
“Duncan,” she said again.
He spun back to her, fury and fatigue all over him. “What?”
“Shut up.” She grabbed him, locked around him. “Shut up, shut up,” she repeated as she crushed her mouth to his.
His hands gripped the back of her jacket, balled into fists. Then streaked up to take her hair in that same furious hold as he dragged her head back. His eyes, sharp and green, met hers.
“Don’t ask me to stop.”
“Shut up,” she said again.
She grabbed his belt, tugged until his sword and sheath clattered to the floor. His hands got busy as she yanked at his shirt. He threw one out to lock the door before her sword fell with his.
She had a farmer’s knowledge of mating, but already knew this would be more. She wanted more. She wanted all.
“Touch me. God, touch me.”
“Trying.” He fought off her jacket, shoved her onto the bed. Covering her, his mouth feasting on hers, he took her breasts in his hands.
Another rise, sharp and hot, streaming from her center, spreading, spreading everywhere. Oh yes, here was more. Should she have known—how could she have known—the feel of his hands, so hard and rough, would lift her up, so high, so fast?
She pulled at his shirt even as he yanked hers off. Now his hands—those hard palms, those strong fingers—took flesh. Took her breath. Arching up, she pressed her aching center to his.
Like the merging of powers, that joining, humming, humming, humming in the blood.
Her body, taut, lean, quivered under his. Those muscles, well honed, rippled strong. The feel of her—finally, finally, the feel of her—so long, so smooth, so hot, as if flames sparked under her skin.
Her heart galloped under his hands, then his mouth. God, the taste of her—dizzying. It rushed through his system, hot whiskey after a bitter chill. She bore bruises, cuts, burns left untreated from the battle. Half-mad, he healed as he touched, as he tasted, as he roamed the body he’d wanted longer than his own memory.
Her hands, as eager and questing as his, slid down, dug into his ribs. A stabbing shock of pain jolted through him. He hissed it out as he fought open the buttons of her pants.
“You’re hurt.”
“Now you shut up.”
His mouth came back to hers while he worked her pants down. And he felt her warmth slide into his injured ribs, soothe, mend. They healed each other as they pulled clothes away. Frustrated by boots, he slapped power out, sent two pairs tumbling across the room.
He wanted to see her, absorb her, savor her, but need blinded him. And she was already reaching for him, taking him, opening for him.
“Now,” she said, her eyes like smoke. “Anois ag deireadh.”
Now at last.
He plunged into her, deep and desperate, and swore his soul leaped. Light burst, brilliant and bold, through the window, through the air, from her, from him. There came a crack of thunder, a swirl of wind. Flying on it, she found his hands, gripped them in hers.
She gave herself to the light, to the storm, to him. Took him through the whirl of bodies, minds, powers mating. The thrill tore through her, keen as a blade, then rolled and rolled like a swamping wave. Rising on it, soaring, she tasted freedom so heady and sweet she cried out.
And the cry was joy.
Breathless, drunk, drugged, staggered, he lay over her. The light, softer now, spread over them, glowed and flowed between them like liquid. He felt her trembling, not from cold or pain, but from that same overwhelming rush that had stormed through him.
Half dreaming, she sighed. “I was so tired and sad. Now I’m not. You had a cracked rib.”
“Now I don’t.” He wanted to stay as he was, but pushed up to study her face. He felt it, as he’d known he would, simply overwhelm him again. “We’ve seen each other like this before.”
“Yes.”
“Dreams and visions.”
“Reality’s more intense.” Her gaze roamed over his face, and some of the light dimmed in her eyes. “If you’re going to regret it, we’ll just chalk it up to battle fatigue.”
She lifted a hand to shove him aside, and he took it in his, squeezed hard.
“This is it. Goddamn it, this is it for me. You. So give me a minute to deal with that. To deal with the fact it doesn’t matter why. I’ve pushed back on that all my life. We’d end up here, sure. But then … I don’t know what the hell. Now I know, this is it for me, and it doesn’t matter why.”
So frustrated, she thought as her heart melted. She lifted her free hand to his face, brushed it back through his hair. “No, it doesn’t matter. Duncan of the MacLeods,” she murmured. “Tha gaol agam ort.”
He dipped his head to brush his lips over hers. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Duncan of the MacLeods should learn a little Scots Gaelic. I love you.”
He rested his brow on hers while emotion swirled through him. “I can probably butcher it in Irish from what I learned back in school. But I’ll stick with English. I love you.”
She drew him down to seal the words, the promise of them with a kiss.
He rolled over, tucked her against his side. “I just wanted to see you. Needed to talk to you about the island, but that was mostly an excuse. I just needed to see you. I didn’t expect you to jump me.”
“I wanted a drink, a shower, sleep. Then I saw you. Bloody, bruised, broody. And I only wanted you. I think if you hadn’t come to me, I’d have taken the sad into sleep instead of remembering the good we did today.”
“I get the drink, shower, sleep. Why were you sad?”