Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) Read online

  She lifted shaking hands to his face, then trailed them in a path down the corded muscles of his throat into the crisp dark hair that fanned across his chest. He groaned as her fingertips swept the broad plane, and Maryssa could feel his body tense against hers as one strong arm looped about her waist, pulling her deep into the lean hardness of his own tall frame.

  His hand threaded through the soft curls at her temple, his eyes hot, heavy with want. "Maura. So sweet. So sad. Let me give you joy."

  Tade's mouth dipped down, a groan rumbling through him as his lips molded themselves to hers. She tasted of wild wind, of late summer, of sweet ripe berries bursting with warm juices, and she tasted of a despair that stole inside him, robbing him of anything but the fierce need to rid her of all pain. His tongue circled the satiny fullness of her lips, then parted them to pierce the inner sweetness of her mouth, and it was as if somehow he had lost himself inside of her.

  Lost himself in the wonder of her innocent eyes, her fragile, wounded smile, the loneliness that welled up from within her like that of a banished angel.

  He eased his palm up over the dainty curve of her waist and beyond, until the underside of her breast swelled against his hand. A tiny mewling sounded low in her throat, and Tade took the soft mound in his palm, the gentle wooing he had intended to soothe away the misery in her delicate features flaring into the heat of unbridled passion.

  Her small hands burrowed beneath his shirt, smoothing the naked flesh of his shoulders and back, driving him almost mad with untutored caresses. And her eyes . . . their mystical depths glowed green, gold, and blue beneath lids heavy with newfound desire. He pressed her into the coverlet, cupping his body over hers with greedy longing. She was warm, soft, beautiful. So beautiful.

  "Maura, I want to make love to you. Damn it, I can't."

  "Tade." His name was a breath on the wind. He pulled back just a whisper as she pressed one soft palm against his chest. Her eyes locked with his, her small white teeth indenting the moist fullness of her lower lip as she took his hand in hers. He could feel her fingers shaking as she slipped the ribbon end of the gown's fastening between his fingertips. Passion and an odd, tearing hopelessness warred in her incredible eyes. "Please," she whispered, her lashes glossed with tears, "I . . . I want you to."

  "Maura . . ."

  "Make love to me, Tade. Now." Soft red lips sought his, and had she asked for his life, he could not have denied her. He took in their trembling curves, his own mouth hungry and demanding, the neatly tied cords of her gown tangling beneath his impatient hands as he tugged at them.

  It seemed an eternity before folds of her dress, the dainty lawn underbodice, and the stiff corset fell free, baring warm flesh blushed soft as the petals of a primrose. Tade's mouth went dry, his eyes feasting on the silken arch of her bared shoulder, the delicate rose of her nipple, which pearled at the mere touch of his ragged breath upon its crest.

  "Maura, I've dreamed about you. About us . . . together like this . . . until my whole body felt on fire and I'd wake up, aching." His lips dropped kisses in the hollow at the base of her throat, and down onto the soft swell below. "And now . . ." His tongue swept out, touching, just touching, the hardened bud tipping one snowy mound. She whimpered, and the sound shot white-hot flames through his loins.

  “Maryssa," he moaned, his lips opening over her flesh. “Maryssa." He suckled her deep into his mouth, feeling her hips writhing up against the hard proof of his sex. And he wanted her beneath him—naked, needing—wanted to fill her with himself, chase the desolation from her eyes.

  "Maura, are you certain?"

  She didn’t answer. Her fingers, made clumsy by the haze of desire, trailed a quavering path down his shirtfront, fumbling with the tiny buttons. The feel of her small hands baring his skin hurtled the driving need inside Tade higher, higher. He helped her, tearing the buttons free, his mouth never ceasing its dance upon her breasts, throat, and lips. A gasp escaped her throat as he stripped the garment free and hurled it to the ground beside them. She arched upward her trembling, moist lips skimming his hair-roughened chest.

  A shudder of sensation rippled through Tade, rocking him. In one swift move, he claimed her mouth, forcing her down into the softness of the coverlet as his tongue thrust deep. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his back, her tongue swirling instinctively against his, mating with his in a way that robbed him of his senses.

  He worked his hand between them, struggling with the layers of her petticoats until they came free beneath his hands. The heat of her fevered skin seared his roughened palms through the icing of fine lawn that shielded the slender columns of her thighs, the sweet mysteries of her woman's secrets.

  Suddenly gentle, he eased the garment down over the slender curves of her hips and thighs. "Maryssa." The soft curse he uttered was profanity and prayer. "More beautiful than I'd ever dreamed . . ." A single fingertip trekked a worshipful path across the silken skin of her stomach, then lower. He watched as her lashes drifted down to grace the delicate rose of her cheeks. She whimpered as he skimmed her downy softness. "T-Tade, I want—need . . ."

  "I know, love," he breathed. "Maura, I burn for you. Feel what you do to me." He took her hand in his, flattening it against the hard plane of his naked stomach, sliding it down to the waistband of his breeches. "Touch me, Maura," he said. "Please. I need you to touch me."

  Her eyes fluttered open, and he could see her hesitate mere seconds that seemed to stretch into eternity. He swallowed, battling to force down the disappointment that tore at him. Then suddenly he felt her hand stir against his flesh. With agonizing slowness, her fingertips eased down over the soft doeskin.

  Tade clenched his teeth, every muscle in his body whipcord tight as the tentative warmth of her hand brushed the tip of his sex through his breeches. The warmth retreated, then returned, testing the rigid flesh, skimming the length of him with an innocent wonder that slashed through his body with greater force than had any of a score of artful seductions beneath well-practiced hands.

  The breathless sound of her voice tingled along his skin. "You're so . . . I . . ." A scarlet flush heated her cheeks. Her tongue swept out, moistening lips swollen from his kisses. She lowered her gaze, raised it, her eyes seeming to draw him inside her very soul. "I want to see you."

  Desire speared deep in Tade's belly, but no words could pass the knot crushing his throat. He nodded, moving her hand to where the doeskin-covered buttons of his breeches strained against that which made him a man. Her fingertips eased inside the taut waistband, the backs of her fingers brushing the dark ribbon of hair bisecting his stomach. Tade shuddered, his pleasure akin to pain, each tug of button sliding through hole, each delicate brush of her fingers swelling the need building inside him, until he feared he would spill his seed upon the coverlet.

  The breeches fell open, the lake-cool kiss of the breeze tantalizing his fevered flesh. He closed his eyes, grimacing in an agony of waiting.

  "Tade." His name fell from her lips, hushed and awed. The soft pads of her fingertips trailed over the velvet heat of his flesh, the feel of her touching him pulsing torrents of desire through his hardness. "Tade," she whispered. "You're beautiful."

  Groaning low in his throat, Tade wound his arms around her, crushing her in an embrace that tumbled them both into the grass-scented sweetness of the coverlet. His mouth sought hers with tormented hunger as he rolled her beneath him, crushing her breasts against his chest, tangling the hair-roughened leanness of his legs with the silken smoothness of Maryssa's. Downy-soft curls damp with wanting tantalized the shaft of his manhood.

  And he wanted to see her, to see every quicksilver emotion flash across her angel's features as he claimed her for his own.

  His hands knotted in the thick sable swirls of hair spilling about her shoulders, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. "Maura," he moaned, "open your eyes. Let me watch you."

  Rich, sooty lashes swept up, unveiling eyes heavy with wonder... dark with... love? Love. Slowly, Tade
drew his lips from hers, bracing himself on his elbows to peer for long, aching moments into her trusting face. The sweet curves of her mouth quivered beneath his gaze, innocent and vulnerable, the corners tipped down just a whisper, as though weighted by a lifetime of sorrows. Sorrows that he would magnify tenfold if he took her, and then . . .

  She was Bainbridge Wylder's daughter. Heiress to a fortune, with the right to grace the finest ballrooms in England. What future could she have in the bed of an Irish rogue who had been robbed of his inheritance three and twenty years past?

  "Tade?" Tremulous and tentative, her fingertip reached up to touch his lips, and the torment that raged in his loins nearly made him dash her hand away as if it were a flaming brand. He rolled away from her, flinging his wrist across his eyes as he sucked in deep, steadying breaths.

  "Did I—” Her small voice faltered. “Did I do something wrong?''

  Tade dragged his leaden arm away from his face, and the hurt clouding her eyes tore at his heart. He swept up, and cupped her face in his hands, fiercely, savagely. "Nay, love. Don't even think it. You were beautiful. More than I ever have a right to hope for."

  "Then why?" He saw the sudden crimson stain the ivory of her skin, her endearing, uninhibited acceptance of their nakedness fading into bewilderment and shame.

  "Because I can't hurt you this way. Now, this minute with the sun dripping down, the flowers, the meadow . . . now you think you want this, want me. But a week from now, a month . . ."

  "I'll still want—" He stifled her passionate denial with his fingertips, pressing them tight against the lips that had given him such pleasure.

  "Maura, do you think I could take you, make love to you like this, and then just walk away? Damn it, think."

  The wounded light in her eyes deepened, and the need to love away that pain twisted like a knife in his belly. She wrenched away from him to snatch up the clothing strewn about them.

  "Maryssa, I just cannot—"

  "Can't what? Make love to me? From what your father says, you've done it often enough before." The defiant words snagged in her throat as she fumbled with the tangle of fabric. "Maybe I'm not well schooled enough to please you.”

  In one, aching sweep, Tade pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her cheeks, temples, eyelids. "Damn it, Maura. This is different. You are different. You're not some willing dairymaid with petticoats lighter than swan’s down in the breeze."

  "Nay, I'm Bainbridge Wylder's daughter. You're afraid—"

  "Afraid? Aye, by the saints, I'm afraid. The bastard nearly shattered your jaw because you'd been defiled by the mere presence of a Kilcannon. What think you he would do if I planted my babe within you?" His hand splayed on her bare stomach, and Tade gritted his teeth against the vision of that gentle swell ripening with his seed.

  "Maura, I won't risk that—risk you. You touch me, Maryssa Wylder. Here." He took one of her small, knotted fists and pressed it against his chest. "And I swear to God, I'll not let anyone hurt you. Nay, not even myself."

  * * *

  Maryssa huddled deeper into the curve of Tade's shoulder as the mist of rain drizzling from the dismal evening sky groped with chill fingers beneath the layers of her cloak. It was as if each lurch of the Marlows’s cart along the road that wound toward Nightwylde had spilled out the misery that gripped her, darkening the sun-glossed Donegal countryside to the stark gray hues of despair.

  The cart jarred to the left as Reeve murmured a command to the mare. When the green-painted wheels ground to a halt, Maryssa could feel the supple length of Tade's body stiffen against her, and her own grip about his waist tightened instinctively, as if to hold the inevitable parting at bay.

  Reeve turned his rain-damp face toward his friend. "Tade," he began hesitantly, "Christa and I thought... well, perhaps it would be wise if you would—"

  "Spirit my blackguard Kilcannon self back into the wilds where I belong?" Maryssa saw the slightest hint of irony twist Tade's lips as his green eyes flashed toward Nightwylde's battlements, the jesting tone of his voice sounding oddly strained. "When, pray tell, Mr. Marlow, have you ever known me to be wise?"

  "Rarely." Reeve's mouth crumpled in disgust. “It is just that . . ." He fingered his neckcloth, studiously keeping his gaze away from Maryssa. "Well, Mr. Wylder might make things, er, difficult."

  "Difficult?" There was an edge underlying the velvet of Tade's voice that belied the lazy tones. “It is good of you to caution me. I lead such an old woman's life that—"

  "Damn it, Tade, for once it is not your blasted neck I'm worried about. Sometimes I think if ever a man courted disaster—" Reeve gritted his teeth, a white line of irritation ringing his mouth. "Use what paltry sense God gave you. Maryssa—"

  "Aye. Maryssa." The stiffness of the arms still holding her gentled, and she felt the breath ease from his taut chest in a sigh as Reeve turned again to face the darkened road. Tade lowered his mouth to the crown of her head for long moments, pressing his lips against the silken sable strands. "Maura." His palm curved under her chin, raising her face so that she could meet his eyes. "It seems for once I needs must take Reeve's advice. It is best if I leave you here. But I—” His voice faltered, and she could swear it was not just the mist that clung in crystal droplets to his lashes. “I want you to know that I'll always remember . . ."

  Maryssa died inside, what little hope she had held that she would see Tade again fading. “It is— it is all right, Tade," she said softly. "Today was the sweetest I have ever known. I'll hold it in my heart forever."

  His gaze swept over her lips, cheeks, and hair. "I'd give you a thousand tomorrows as beautiful if it were in my power.''

  Maryssa forced a tiny smile to her lips, wanting to soothe away the worry creasing his brow. "Perhaps I would get greedy then, and not see how perfect a tiny glen can be, or how gentle a man—" She stopped. Her tear-blurred gaze dropped to the damp shirt clinging to his chest. "Thank you, Tade, for—"

  "Damn!" She started at his savage oath as his mouth swept down, capturing hers in a fierce kiss and then abruptly released her. "By God, I should shove you through your father's gates and stay away from you, but I can't. I have to see you again, touch you. Maura . . ."

  He pulled her against him, every sinew of his taut body burning into hers, sending life and joy hurtling through her in a rush that stole her senses. "Wait for me, love. I'll send word with Christa. Somehow I'll find a place where it is safe for us." He crushed the words onto her lips, his tongue delving deep into her mouth, greedily, hungrily. And then he was gone. Maryssa forced open passion-heavy eyelids as he vaulted from the cart, lifting one bronzed hand in a silent salute to the Marlows as the wheels jarred into motion.

  With chilled fingers, she drew the folds of her cloak tighter abut her shoulders. Where it is safe for us. It was as if the wind itself mocked Tade's words, sweeping in sinister whispers off the castle's cold stone walls. Maryssa shivered as Tade Kilcannon's tall, lean form melted into the mist of the castle's brooding shadows and the gates of Nightwylde closed behind her.

  Chapter 8

  The cottage drowsed behind the veil of night, the pale wood of its newly hewn door standing out against the time-mellowed walls like a fresh wound, one of many inflicted of late by Tade and the father he loved with a fierce protectiveness that had changed a lad into a man long before the years of childhood's frolics should have passed. Wounds that had no time to heal before the next breach split them wide.

  Tade wiped his soaked shirtsleeve across his damp face, his eyes roving to where the flame of a single candle glowed from the cottage window, its soft light beckoning like a loving, gentle hand. From the time he was a lad of thirteen, rebelling against his stern father to run wild in the Donegal hills, the candle had been Rachel's way of guiding him home, telling him all was forgiven.

  And when child's games had given way to the quests of a man, unbeknownst to the loving Rachel the taper had served as signal to those who secretly sought the Black Falcon, telling them th
at the daring rebel was already one with the darkness.

  Tade grimaced, tunneling his fingers beneath the rain-sodden mass of hair that clung to the back of his neck. No doubt the perils of the Irish highroads would prove more peaceful than his father's hearth tonight. For there could be little question that Kane Kilcannon had spent the hours since the hurling match stoking his blazing rage. Irony twisted Tade's lips. By now he should be well used to his father's temper and the bitterness that ate like poison in the older man's belly. For Kane always seemed to vent his anger on the son he saw as nothing but a reckless rakehell, gallivanting across the countryside in search of fresh diversions.

  If only he knew . . . Tade sighed wearily. For certainly Kane Kilcannon would claim the Black Falcon as blood of his blood with a pride he never felt in irresponsible Tade. The older man's trouble-ravaged eyes would gleam bright with the same fierce pride he reserved for Devin. He would grip Tade by the shoulders, pull him into that manly embrace.

  Yet no matter how deeply Tade needed his father's respect, that respect would be small comfort when matched against the danger his family would suffer if Kane Kilcannon knew Tade’s secret.

  It was best for everyone in the cottage that his father view him with contempt. Tade might as well get the angry scene that waited beyond the newly hung door over with. Poor Rachel must be at her wit's end trying to calm the rampaging old lion.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Tade squared his shoulders into a belligerent stance, forcing onto his lips the expression of bored arrogance that always enraged his father. Grasping the latch, Tade threw the door open, his gaze flashing immediately to the hearth before which his father always paced as he waited. But the turf fire glowed upon a room strangely empty. No solemn-eyed children glanced fearfully back and forth between the two men they adored; Rachel's gentle face didn't plead from the flickering shadows.