Into the Dreaming Page 7

  “You’re too short,” he hedged.

  It took Jane two seconds to retrieve the small footstool from beside the hearth, plop it down at his feet, and stand on it. It put them nose to nose, a mere inch apart.

  She stared at him, heart thundering.

  And he stared silently back.

  Their breath mingled. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips. Back to her eyes, then lips again. He wet his lips, staring at her.

  Jane kept her hands behind her back so she wouldn’t touch him, knowing he’d use it as an excuse to leave. It was intensely intimate, such closeness without actually touching. And the way he was looking at her—with such raw hunger and heat!

  A small sound escaped her. He answered in kind, then looked startled by his involuntary groan. Jane scarcely dared breathe, waiting for him to move that last tiny half inch. His dark, raw sexuality coupled with his innocence of lovemaking was an irresistibly erotic combination. The man was an expert lover, of that she had no doubt, yet it was as if it were his first time ever, and each touch would be an undiscovered country to him.

  She gave a quarter inch, and he met her halfway.

  His lips touched hers.

  God, they were cold! she thought, stunned. Icy.

  God, she was warm, he thought, stunned. Blazing.

  Fascinated, Vengeance pressed his mouth more snugly to hers. He knew he was supposed to use his tongue somehow, but wasn’t certain he understood the mechanics of it.

  “Taste me,” she breathed against his lips. “Taste me like you would lick juice from your lips.”

  Ah, he thought, understanding. Mesmerized by the softness of her lips, he touched the tip of his tongue to them, running it over the seam, and when her lips parted, he tasted her like he was trying to remove a bit of cream from the center of a pastry.

  She was infinitely sweeter.

  And then his body seemed to take over, to understand something he didn’t, and with a hoarse groan, he plunged his tongue into her mouth and crushed her against him, locking his arms securely behind her back. But that wasn’t good enough, he quickly decided, he needed her head just so, so he slipped his hands deep into her hair and clamped her face firmly, kissing her until they were both breathless.

  It was incredible, he marveled, stopping to stare at her. He touched a finger to his own lips; they were warm.

  And she got prettier when he kissed her! he thought, awestruck. Her lips got all swollen and cushy-looking, her eyes sparkled like jewels, and her skin grew rosy. He’d done that to her, he thought, with pride. He could make a lass prettier merely by pressing his lips to hers. ’Twas a gift his king had ne’er told him he possessed. He wondered how much prettier she’d get if he touched his lips to her in other places.

  “You are lovely, lass,” he said in a voice utterly unlike his own normal tone—indeed, it came out raspy and thick. “Nay, doona speak, I haven’t finished.”

  He pressed his lips to hers again, swallowing her words. With butterfly light touches, his thumbs caressed smooth circles on the delicate skin of her neck, along the line of her jaw, and over her face. Then he drew back and ran his fingers lightly over her face, as if he were blind, absorbing the feel of every plane and angle from the downy soft brows to the pert nose and high bones of her cheeks, from the shape of her widow’s peak to the point of her chin.

  Her soft, lush lips.

  When he rested a finger there too long, she gently sucked the tip of it, and heat lanced straight down to his groin. The vision of her lips closed full and sweetly around his finger near made him crazed … reminded him of something else, long forgotten, something a lass might do that was sweeter than heaven. His breath caught in his throat.

  She stared at him, her amber eyes glowing, wide, trusting, her lips around his finger. It made him nearly mad with some kind of pain in his breast.

  Taking her face between his hands, he kissed her as if he could suck the heat of her right into his body, and indeed, it seemed he did. “I want to touch you ’til your skin smells of me,” he growled, not knowing why. “Every inch of it.”

  But Jane understood. It was a purely male way of marking his territory, loving his woman until she bore his unique scent from head to toe. She whimpered assent into his mouth, her hands curled into fists behind her back because it was killing her to not touch him.

  Then he lifted her from the stool, crushing her against him completely, holding her weight as if she were light as a feather, and his hard, hot arousal pressed into the vee of her thighs.

  I’m dying, Vengeance realized dimly. The feel of her body against that swollen part of him that seemed to have never recovered from whatever rash he’d caught from the coverlet burned and throbbed angrily. He must be dying, because no man could withstand such pain for long.

  Mayhap, he thought, once he’d undressed her as she’d directed in her parchments, he could doff his tartan, too, and she might tell him what was wrong with him.

  But nay—he would press his lips to hers a few more times, for she might see the thing betwixt his legs and be disgusted. Flee him. For now, he was warm … so warm. He slipped his hands from her hair and down over her breasts. He shuddered, once, twice, and three times, before losing complete control of himself.

  He had no idea what he’d done, lost to a madness of sorts, until he stood looking at her as she perched atop the small stool naked, tatters of her dress scattered across the floor. He had no clear memory of ripping her gown away, so urgent and fierce had his need been to bare her completely to his touch.

  “Did I hurt you?” he demanded.

  Jane shook her head, her eyes wide. “Touch me,” she encouraged softly. “Find my most private heat. You may look for it wherever you wish,” she encouraged, eyes sparkling.

  He circled her slowly. She didn’t move a muscle, merely stood naked on the stool as he marveled over every inch of her. And when he returned to face her, he sucked in a breath. She’d done it again—grown more beautiful. Her eyes were filled with some lazy, dreamy knowing he could only guess at. Glittering and sleepy and desirous, her skin flushed from head to toe.

  He reached out with both hands and gathered the firm, plump weight of her breasts in his palms. They felt sweet, so sweet. Their eyes met and she made a soft mewing sound that shivered through him.

  “Kiss—”

  “Aye,” he said instantly, knowing what she wanted, and lowered his head to the soft pillows of her breasts. Unable to comprehend why he wanted it so badly, he closed his lips over first one nipple, then the next. Not knowing why he did it, his hand slipped between her soft thighs, sought the warmth and wetness …

  And images assaulted him—he was someone else—a man who knew much of soft thighs and heated loving. A man who’d lost everything, everyone:

  “Aedan, please dinna go!” the child sobbed. “At least wait ’til Ma and Da come home!”

  “I must go now, little one.” The man crushed her in his arms, brushing helplessly at her tears. “ ’Tis only for five years. Why you’ll be but a lass of ten and three when I return.” The man closed his eyes. “I left a note for Ma and Da …”

  “Nay! Aedan. Dinna leave me,” the child said, weeping as if her heart would break. “I love you!”

  “Ahhh!” Vengeance roared, thrusting her away, clutching his head with both hands. He bellowed wordlessly, backing away until his spine hit the wall.

  “Aedan! What is it?” Jane cried, jumping off the stool and scurrying toward him.

  “Doona call me that!” he shouted, his palms clamped to his temples.

  “But Aedan—”

  “Haud yer wheesht, woman!”

  “But I think you’re remembering,” she said frantically, trying to touch him, to soothe him.

  Another wordless bellow was his only reply as he raced from the hall as if all the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

  Eleven

  ABOVE ALL ELSE, IT WOULD BE UNWISE TO SEEK THE company of female humans or permit them to touch
you.

  It would be unwise.

  How had he overlooked such nonspecific phrasing?

  It would be unwise. Vengeance didn’t feel particularly wise at the moment. Nor did he intend to eat bland food, nor did he intend to circumvent Kyleakin because “it might be best.”

  Just as he’d begun to suspect, his king had, in truth, not issued a single order at all.

  How and when did I meet him? Vengeance wondered for the first time. Had he been born in Faery, pledged to the king from birth? Had he met him in later years? Why couldn’t he remember?

  Vengeance sat in silence beside the gently lapping ocean, slapping the blade of a dirk against his palm.

  Fae didn’t bleed. They healed too quickly.

  Vengeance made a fist around the blade.

  Blood seeped from his clenched hand and dripped down the sides. He spread his fingers and studied the deep cuts.

  They remained deep, oozing dark crimson blood.

  A harsh, relieved breath escaped him.

  How old was he? How long had he lived? Why could he not recall ever changing? Why did humans gray on their heads, yet Vengeance remained unchanged?

  Nothing changes in Faery.

  If he never went back, would his long black hair one day turn silver, too? Strangely, the thought appealed to him. Thoughts of a child rose unbidden in his mind. He imagined hugging one of the wee village lasses in his arms, wiping away her tears. Teaching her to climb trees, to make boats out of wood and sail them in the surf, bringing her a litter of mewing kittens whose mother had died birthing them.

  “Who am I?” Vengeance cried, clutching his head.

  It occurred to him that, in truth, mayhap the right question was—who had he once been?

  Jane watched him from the front steps of the castle. He sat with his back to her in the deepening twilight, clutching his head, staring out to sea. Blood was smeared on one of his hands, dripping down his arm. Suddenly he stood up, and she caught a gleam of silver as he flung a blade, end over end, into the waves.

  A salty breeze whipped at his hair, tangling the dark strands into a silken skein. His plaid flapped in the breeze, hugging the powerful lines of his body.

  He seemed dark and desolate and strong and utterly untouchable.

  Jane’s eyes misted. “I love you, Aedan MacKinnon,” she told the wind.

  As if the wind eagerly whisked her words down the front lawn to the sea’s edge, Aedan suddenly turned and looked straight at her. His cheeks gleamed wetly in the fading light.

  He nodded once, then turned his back to her and walked off down the shore, head bowed.

  Jane started after him, then stopped. There’d been such desolation in his gaze, such loneliness, yet a great deal of anger. He’d turned away, clearly demonstrating his wish to be alone. She didn’t want to push him too hard. She couldn’t even begin to understand what he was going through. She was elated that he was remembering and equally anguished by the pain it was causing him. She watched, torn by indecision, until he disappeared around a bend in the rocky shoreline.

  Twelve

  HE DIDN’T COME BACK FOR THREE DAYS. THEY WERE the most agonizing three days of Jane Sillee’s life.

  Daily, she cursed herself for pushing him too far too fast. Daily, she berated herself for not going after him when he’d begun walking down that rocky shore.

  Daily, she lied to the villagers when they came to work, assuring them he’d only gone to see a man about a horse and would return anon.

  And nightly, as she curled with Sexpot in the bed that was much too large for just one lonely girl, she prayed her words would prove true.

  Thirteen

  AT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WHEN AEDAN RETURNED.

  He awakened her abruptly, stripping the coverlets from her naked body, sending Sexpot flying from the bed with a disgruntled meow.

  “Aedan!” Jane gasped, staring up at him. His expression was so fierce that her sleep-fogged brain cleared instantly.

  He stood at the foot of the bed, his dark gaze sweeping every inch of her nude body. He’d braided his hair. His face was dark with the stubble of a black beard, shadowing his jaw. In the past few weeks, he’d lost weight, and although he was still powerfully muscular, there was a leanness to him, a dangerously hungry look, like a wolf too long alone and unfed in the wild.

  He didn’t say a word, just stripped off his shirt and kicked off his boots, then moved toward her.

  She never would have believed it of herself, but he radiated such barely harnessed fury that she scuttled back against the headboard and crossed her arms over her breasts protectively.

  “Och, nay, lass,” he said with silky menace. “Not after all the times you’ve tried to get me to touch you. You willna naysay me now.”

  Jane’s eyes grew huge. “I-I—”

  “Touch me.” He unknotted his plaid and let it fall to the floor.

  Jane’s jaw dropped. “I-I—” she tried again, and failed, again.

  “Is something wrong with me?” he demanded.

  “N-No,” she managed. “Uh-uh. No way.” She swallowed hard.

  “And this?” He palmed his formidable erection. “This is as it should be?”

  “Oh,” Jane breathed reverently. “Absolutely.”

  He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”

  Jane shook her head, her eyes wide.

  “Then give me those kisses of yours, lass, and be quick about it.” He paused a moment, then added in a low, tense voice, “I’m cold, lass. I’m so cold.”

  Jane’s breath hitched in her throat and her eyes misted. His vulnerability melted her fears. She rose to her knees on the bed and extended her hands to him.

  Never breaking eye contact, staring into her eyes as if the invitation in them was all that was sustaining him, he placed his hands slowly in hers and let her pull him onto the bed, where he knelt facing her.

  She glanced down at their entwined hands, and his gaze followed. Her hands were small and white, nearly swallowed by his work-roughened and tan fingers. She flexed her fingers against his, savoring the first real feel of holding Aedan’s hand. Until that moment, she’d only touched him in her dreams. She closed her eyes, savoring every bit of it, drinking the experience dry.

  She opened them to find him regarding her with expectancy and fascination.

  “Sometimes I think I know you, lass.”

  “You do,” she said, with a little catch in her voice. “I’m Jane.” Your Jane, she longed to cry.

  He hesitated a long moment. Then, “I’m Aedan. Aedan MacKinnon.”

  Jane stared at him wonderingly. “You’ve remembered?” she exclaimed. “Oh, Aedan—”

  He cut her words off with a gentle finger against her lips. “Does it matter? The villagers think I am. You think I am. Why should I not be?”

  Jane’s heart sank again. He still didn’t recall.

  But … he was here, and he was willing to let her touch him. She would take what she could get.

  “Jane,” he said urgently, “am I truly as a man should be?”

  “Everything a man should be,” she assured him.

  “Then teach me what a man does with a woman such as you.”

  Aw, her heart purred. The look in his eyes was so innocent and hopeful, nearly masking the ever-present despair in his gaze.

  “First,” she said softly, raising his hand to her lips, “he kisses her, like so.” She planted a sweet kiss in his palm and closed his fingers over it. He did the same with both her hands, lingering over the sensitive skin of her palm.

  “Then,” she breathed, “he lets her touch him all over. Like this.” She slid her hands up his muscular arms and into his hair. Removing his leather thong, she combed her fingers through the plait until it fell dark and silky around his face. She laid her palms against his face, staring into his eyes. He was still beneath her touch, his eyes unfocused.

  “More,” he urged, a stray tomcat, starved for touch.

&n
bsp; “And she touches him here,” she said, skimming his shoulders, the muscles of his back, down over his lean hips, and back up his magnificent abs and muscled chest. Unable to resist, she dropped her head forward against his chest and licked him, tasting the salt of his skin.

  A rough groan escaped him, and the heat of his arousal throbbed insistently against her thigh.

  Jane whimpered at the contact and pressed against him. She tasted his neck, his jaw, his lips and buried her hands in his hair. “Then, he brushes his lips—”

  “I know this part,” he said, sounding pleased with himself.

  Fitting his mouth to hers, he kissed her; a deep, starving-soul kiss, and dragged her hard against his body.

  The feel of her naked body against his bare skin made his head swim. Made him burn. Made him tremble with wonder. He’d never known … he’d never suspected what pleasure was to be found in touch. The feel of her wee hands on his body made him hotter than any fire could and brought him crashing to his knees inside himself.

  She’d said that he was fashioned as a man should be, and she touched him as if she desperately craved his body. He liked that. It made him feel … och, just feel and feel and feel.

  He nibbled and suckled at her lips, then plunged his tongue deeply, thrusting. His body moved to a rhythm, innate and primal. She went supple in his arms, dropping back onto the bed, and he followed, stretching his body atop her lush softness. “Christ, lass, I’ve ne’er felt aught such as you!” Intoxicated, he kissed her deeply, his silky hot tongue tangling with hers. When she shifted her legs beneath him, the swollen part of him was suddenly flush between her thighs, and he thrust against her instinctively. She raised her hips, pressing back, and he thought he would die from such sensation. He cupped her bottom and pulled her more firmly against him. Digging his fingers into the softness of her bare bottom filled him with a wild and fierce sensation—an urge to possess, to hold her beneath him until she wept with pleasure. Until he shuddered atop her. Images came to him then:

  Of a man and a woman rolling naked across a bed. Of the firm pistoning motion of a man’s hips, of slender ankles and calves raised near a woman’s breasts, of the musky scent of skin and bodies, the sweat and rawness and heat of—