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. Unknowing 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 often 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.
Fairies 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.