DONNEL URGED HIS pony into a swift canter—Reothadh’s heavy feathered hooves eating up the distance. This was the third morning of their journey. They were passing through the heart of Eagle territory. To the west was the peninsula where Dun Ringill sat, yet Donnel did not turn in that direction. Instead he continued on, crossing a land he knew as well as the lines of his own palms.
Eithni perched before him, her body jolting against his with each stride. They both had layers of clothing between them, for she wore a heavy fur mantle, but the warmth and feel of her body against his had been painfully distracting.
Her unbound hair tickled his face, and he inhaled the scent of rosemary from her clothing. He was aware of her long legs next to his. Her skirt had ridden up, exposing milky skin. His fingers itched to caress it.
As he rode he thought about the things he had said to Eithni the night they camped under the shadow of the Black Cuillins. There was something about this woman that made him speak recklessly—and yet he could not bring himself to regret those words. The fact of it was that she enchanted him.
It was early afternoon when they reached the boundary between The Eagle and The Boar territories: The Valley of the Tors.
Donnel slowed Reothadh to a walk as they rode down the steep rock-studded slope. Great tors rose from the damp earth: dark sentries against the sky.
“Is this the place where Tarl fought Wurgest?” Eithni asked, speaking for the first time since they had rested at noon.
“Aye,” Donnel replied. He remembered following Galan into the valley and seeing Tarl, bloodied but victorious, sitting on the ground with Lucrezia in his arms, Wurgest dead next to him. Black, brutal rage had fueled Donnel that day. He had helped cut down all The Boar warriors who had ambushed them, but it had not been enough. He had wanted to drown the whole world in blood.
With a jolt Donnel realized that he no longer felt that way.
The fury, the bitterness that had gnawed at his gut day and night, was gone. He no longer sought vengeance for a wrong that could never be put right. He no longer wished he was dead.
This woman sitting before him in the cradle of his arms was the reason.
“It was a dark day,” he murmured, “for we lost Alpia. It was that anger I carried with me to The Gathering … it was why Galan didn’t want me there.” His gaze swept across the empty valley. “And now it’s as if it never happened. You expect the earth to carry the stains of battle forever, but as soon as the first rain comes they’re washed away.”
A cool slender hand enclosed over his forearm. “If only it was the same with us,” she replied softly. “If only the rain could wash the past away.”
Silence stretched between them while Donnel struggled to master his feelings. A wave of tenderness hit him; it almost hurt to breathe. This woman had no idea what she did to him, how just the sound of her soft voice tore down the walls he had so painstakingly built.
“You were my rain,” he replied, his voice coming out as a rasp. “The only reason I’m able to face Urcal is because of you. Being with you lanced the poison from me … you truly are a healer.”
Her hand squeezed his, and he heard her inhale deeply. They rode across the wide valley floor now, and Donnel reached out with his free hand, wrapped it around her, and drew her back against him so that their bodies pressed close. It was no good. He had been fighting this for days now; he could no longer deny it.
The wind had blown her hair to one side and he leaned forward, kissing the soft skin of her nape. Eithni moaned, and his body reacted to the sound, his groin hardening against the curve of her bottom pressed up against it.
The Reaper take me—I must have her.
The more he resisted his need for her, the worse it got. He had to give in to it or go mad.
At the far side of the valley, he drew up his pony and swung down from the saddle. He helped Eithni down after him and pulled her into his arms. Their mouths collided, hot and hungry. She melted against him, linked her arms around his neck, and pushed her body along the length of his. Her firm, pert breasts thrust against him, and when her tongue timidly stroked his a hunger wilder than any he had known reared up within him.
His hands slid down Eithni’s back and cupped her bottom. He picked her up, lifting her against him so that their hips were joined, and carried her over to where one of the tors rose above them, blocking out a mackerel sky. Donnel paid his surroundings no mind. Instead he drank Eithni in, exploring that soft mouth, those beautiful pink lips.
He longed to rip the clothes off that supple body and kiss his way down it. But there was no time for that. His need to be inside her was driving him to distraction.
Eithni was unraveling him, robbing him of any coherent thought.
During their only night together, she had been passionate. Yet there had been a slight reserve—due to her fear of being physically hurt—that had held her back.
Today he sensed no such reserve. She devoured him, her hands roaming his chest before sliding down to his belly to the bulge in his breeches beneath. Her small hand cupped his girth, her fingers caressing him through the plaid.
Donnel growled low in his throat and tore his mouth from hers. Reaching down he unlaced his breeches and freed his shaft so she could touch it openly. He watched her gazing down at it, her slender fingers gripping him as she slid her hand up and down his length. Excitement gleamed in her eyes, and her lips parted as she stroked him.
He threw back his head and groaned.
Eithni gave a soft throaty laugh. “You are beautiful, Donnel.”
He could not stand any more of this. He had to have her.
Hitching up Eithni’s skirt around her waist, he pinned her up against the sun-warmed stone, kneed her thighs apart, and thrust into her.
Eithni took him, all of him, to the hilt—her velvet heat closing around him, drawing him deeper still.
“Eithni,” he gasped. She was so wet and tight it nearly pushed him over the edge. She made him want to lose control completely. Yet he did not want to do that—he did not want to frighten or hurt her.
She gave a deep moan and arched back, grinding herself against him. He stared down at her: the long sensual line of her neck, the way her lips parted as she gasped her pleasure.
Donnel responded in kind, rotating his hips and grinding himself deep inside her. She made a breathy mewing sound, and he felt her body start to tremble, the walls of her womb contracting against him. Her nails dug into his arms, and their gazes met.
The moment was so intense that Donnel nearly spilled within her there and then.
He could feel the shudders of her release rippling through her, yet she kept her gaze fixed upon his so that he could see what it did to her.
“Please,” she panted. “I want you. All of you.”
Her words were like dry tinder to a flame. He spread her thighs wider still and took her in slow hard thrusts, their gazes locked. Eithni cried out, the sound ringing across the valley, and Donnel felt a wet heat release deep within her.
Donnel went wild, his restraint finally snapping. He plunged into her, gripping her buttocks so he could penetrate deeply. Eithni met each thrust, her cries throaty now. Donnel leaned down, his mouth branding her neck as he took her.
He lost himself completely at that moment—for the first time ever during coupling. Life had left its scar upon the soul of Donnel mac Muin, but in doing so had given depth to him. His coupling with Luana had been passionate, yet he had always held himself back with her—just a little. When she died, she truly had taken the man he used to be with her. The man who took Eithni up against this tor was a warrior who had seen the darkest side of his being. He had tried to destroy himself and failed. He had nothing to hold back anymore.
For the first time in his life, Donnel was not afraid of surrendering himself. He lost himself in Eithni: the taste of her skin, her heat, her wild passion. White-hot pleasure crested within Donnel, setting every part of him alight. He bucked hard against Eithni as he came, threw his head back, and roared.
Eithni hung in the circle of Donnel’s arms. She felt utterly spent, her limbs boneless and weak. Had he not been holding her up, she would have slid to the ground.
Her head rested against his chest, and she could hear his heart galloping in the aftermath of their frenzied coupling.
Eithni was having trouble gathering together her scattered wits. Her thoughts felt like clouds blown adrift upon a windy sky. Donnel had literally driven all rational thought from her. Days of tension between them, building steadily after that night together, had led to this.
Eithni’s loins still pulsed and ached with pleasure. She longed to strip the clothes off him and do that all again on the mossy damp ground. She did not care they were out in the open. This was a desolate valley with only the gods to witness their coupling.
Eventually she raised her head and glanced up at him. Donnel looked down, his mouth curving into a sensual smile that made her catch her breath. He reached out, gently pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I meant what I said earlier,” he said. His voice held a husky edge, the look in his eyes so tender that Eithni’s pulse fluttered. “You have healed me … you know?”
She smiled back, reaching up to caress his face with the back of her hand. “You make me sound much more powerful than I really am.”
He shook his head, his smile fading. “I couldn’t have let go of the anger and bitterness without you. I’m sorry I’ve been so ill-tempered. I promise to be a better man … the man you deserve.”
Hope flowered in Eithni’s breast at his words. After all that had happened of late, she had started to believe she and Donnel would never be together. However, this afternoon changed all that. She could see the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability he usually hid.
“You already are,” she said softly.
His mouth thinned. “I will be after I face Urcal, and once I make peace with Galan.”
He pulled back from her then, and a sense of loss flooded over Eithni. She was suddenly aware that the sky had clouded over and that the afternoon had turned cold. She and Donnel had been so taken up with each other, they had not even noticed.
“Come,” Donnel said, adjusting his clothing and taking her hand. “We’d better get a move on if we want to reach An Teanga by nightfall.”
Eithni nodded and stepped away from the tor. Her legs wobbled under her. She was exhausted, and she could have easily made a bed for herself and taken a long rest. However, she knew Donnel was right.
Her gaze shifted behind him, to where the stallion was sedately cropping grass a few yards away.
“Luckily the pony didn’t run off,” she observed with a smile. “Or we’d be in trouble.”
Donnel grinned back. “Not Reothadh. I’ve had him since he was a colt—he’d never stray far from me.”
Eithni held his gaze, her smile widening. And neither will I.