Chapter Sixteen
When she finished the dough and set it to rise, he grabbed the pails to go fetch water for the afternoon’s chores and the evening cooking, but Emer put a hand on his arm.
Heat shot through him from the spot where her hand alighted, every muscle in his body aware of her touch.
“We have an errand first.”
Broccan set down the pails. “An errand?”
“We’re going shopping,” she grinned.
His pulse quickened. Damn but this woman had a hold of him. He needed to loosen her grasp, for Teamair’s sake. It would be much easier, of course, if he didn’t enjoy it so much. “And I’m not allowed to complain about orders?”
Her belly-deep laugh was his only answer.
Gray skies followed them down the road to the market square.
Market was a generous term for the haphazard smattering of stalls and carts that filled a cobblestone courtyard near the old causeway.
Since the Fianna left, they’d been to the market twice to restock her supply of fresh ingredients, but Broccan knew this trip was different.
He’d never seen her so excited—and with Emer, that was noteworthy.
The woman’s never-ending enthusiasm put a puppy to shame.
Instead of visiting Scanlon’s spice cart, she wandered over to an entirely new one—filled to the rim with bolts of cloth. Broccan groaned internally. They may be on much better terms, but he couldn’t risk her accusing him of not following orders.
Her fingers ran over a bolt of deep, sapphire-blue silk. “I’m going to need your help, you know.”
“I’m useless with dresses. You’d be better off waiting for Alannah to return.”
A glimmer of mischief clung to her grin. “It’s not for a dress. I need to make new bed linens.”
Broccan sighed. For the new hostelry, no doubt.
She picked up a strip of white cloth, running it through her hands before offering it to Broccan. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a piece of white cloth,” he muttered. What did he know of such things?
Fisted hands flew to her hips. “I order you to give me your opinion. What do you think of it for bedding?”
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“I think you’re getting far too comfortable using that word,” Broccan told her as he squeezed the cloth between his hands. “It’s too rough. It’ll be scratchy.” He thrust it back to her.
She looked positively giddy. They continued playing the game through three more pieces of fabric, until she and Broccan both held armfuls of cloth. All the while, the sky above them kept darkening.
“It’s going to pour,” he warned as they started the nearly two-mile walk back to the Hart’s Rest.
“It’ll be fine,” she answered, as though she could somehow control the weather.
No sooner had the words left her lips than the sky opened up above them. It did pour, the wind blowing the water in sheets.
Broccan was soaked instantly, as was the cloth he carried. “Aw, hell,” he growled. All that effort, and everything Emer bought was sopping wet. He turned, preparing to offer her his condolences.
They were wholly unnecessary.
She was laughing. Rivulets of water carved channels down her beautiful face, eyes closed, as she tilted her head back and laughed.
His heart seized.
She was perfect.
She set down her cloth on a stone beside the road, raising her hands and spinning in the downpour.
Broccan was mesmerized, transfixed. Caught utterly off guard by her boundless joy.
The green dress she wore clung to every curve of her body.
In spite of the rain, Broccan’s mouth went dry, his breath catching as he watched her.
“Water heals the soul,” she called to him, as though her behavior needed an explanation.
“So do you,” he whispered, knowing she’d never hear him.
“Put that down and get over here,” she laughed. “I order it.”
He did as she ordered, setting his cloth atop hers. He strode toward her purposefully, unburdened by any thoughts save one. He didn’t stop until he stood so close his body brushed hers.
Emer stilled, lowering her arms. The smile left her face, her lips parting with a sharp inhale.
Broccan brought both his hands up to cup her face, running his thumb over that full lower lip.
Her eyes darkened, falling to his lips.
That was all the answer he needed. His mouth claimed hers, the cool raindrops wetting his lips but not quenching his thirst.
Her hands moved to his chest, his shirt so wet it may as well be off. Grasping fingers burned a line from his shoulders to his stomach.
He held her like a raft in a storm, devoured her like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, cherished her like the gift she was. Broccan deepened the kiss, his tongue finding her lips already opened for him. The honey-sweet taste of her hardened every inch of him.
He felt everything. He felt her breasts pressed against his chest, her hips against his cock. He felt the moan escape her lips as he drank her in.
For the first time in nine years, Broccan felt alive.
Fire raced through his veins. Desire sank in its claws and refused to let him go. His hands slid back, running through the dark, wet tangle of Emer’s sable hair. Broccan had forgotten how good it felt to share this closeness, to live on the same breath as another.
Emer’s hands wound their way up his chest, threading around his shoulders and pulling her fully flush against him. All traces of the gentle, sweet woman he knew had disappeared. Her tongue demanded attention. Her fingers grabbed greedily. Her body ordered him to action.
Broccan happily obeyed. He kissed her harder, his hands moving lower, squeezing her hips and pressing her roughly against him. There was no way she couldn’t feel what she was doing to him, how crazy she made him.
In response, a breathy moan fell from her lips, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
It had been so long since Broccan had felt like this, like a match dropped into a bonfire. He hadn’t wanted anyone.
Not since Teamair.
Broccan pulled back when the full reality of what he’d just done struck him.
Emer stared at him, the haze of desire still filling her brown eyes.
A battle raged in Broccan as he watched the rain drip down her flushed cheeks to her swollen lips.
His body still ached for her, there was no point in denying it.
But she was not for him. She was too good, too bright.
She deserved better than a broken man who couldn’t keep his family safe any more than he could keep his own demons at bay.
And Teamair deserved better than to be forgotten.
Swallowing the knot in his throat and ignoring the ache in his chest, Broccan dropped his hands from her hips, picked up all the cloth from the stone, and marched back up the road to the Hart’s Rest.