Chapter Eight
His thumb ran along the bottom of her cheek as he fought his self-control. He needed to make certain she understood what he was suggesting before he went any further.
“I’m not looking to court anyone,” she told him softly, like she could read his mind.
“What are you looking for?”
Her eyes fell to his lips. “Just a little fun.”
“How about a lot of fun for just a little while?” he offered. “We’re only staying for a few weeks.”
“Who says I need a few weeks of fun?” Her eyes darkened, raising to look up at him from beneath hooded lids. “How about one night of fun?”
That was all he needed to hear. The last thing he wanted was to start up a reputation like his brother had—the sort of man who beds his way across the island. He had no interest in leaving a string of broken hearts in his wake. But he wasn’t going to live like a monk, either.
Without another thought, Conan gave into the desire he’d had since the moment they arrived. His lips came down on hers hungrily.
Her soft, sweet mouth opened to him, her tongue inviting him to delve deeper.
He happily obliged. The kiss was a frenzy of lust, a celebration of letting go. She tasted like temptation incarnate.
Dropping her sword, Alannah fisted his tunic and led him to one of the small guest roundhouses. She shut the door behind them, drenching the room in darkness.
Conan blinked, but his vision never cleared. There was no light at all in the little room. He sensed her in front of him, though, and reached for her until his hands found her waist.
“I’m disappointed I don’t get to see those muscles,” she pouted. Her fingers danced over his chest, emphasizing her statement.
“Perhaps we’ll have to make it two nights of fun,” he whispered, moving them both to the cot he’d seen behind him before the door shut.
Her teeth scraped his bottom lip, sending a shiver through him. “Just one night. I can’t afford a distraction as pretty as you.”
A low rumble escaped him. He couldn’t have said it better himself. “Then we’d better make it count.”
With no light whatsoever, Conan relied entirely on his other senses, running his hands along her body, using his mouth to taste every inch of her.
Her breasts filled his palms, and he would have given anything in that moment to actually see them.
Instead, he used his tongue to tease the nipples until he felt them harden, until Alannah’s soft moans grew ravenous.
“Conan,” she begged, reaching for his hard length and guiding it toward her.
Every muscle in his body went taut as he entered her. She felt exquisite—velvety and wet and warm. He moved slowly at first, doing his best to torment them both.
But Alannah spurred him on, lifting her hips in a movement that drove him wild, shattering what little control he’d had in the first place.
Slipping his hand between them, Conan helped her spiral toward her own fulfillment.
The pressure that had built to the point of agony in the base of his spine finally gave way to his own release. He held still, listening to her heavy breaths slow and wondering if he really could keep his promise of only one night.
Because already he found himself wanting more of Alannah.
When he woke the next morn, Alannah was gone, the sun was up, and Conan had no regrets whatsoever.
He couldn’t savor the satisfaction of a night well spent for long, though, as Illadan would be after him if he kept them from getting their mission underway.
They may have bought the room for a month, but that was a worst-case scenario.
If things went well, they may only stay a sennight or less.
She was nowhere to be found in the main hall where they’d dined last night. Emer swept the floor while the other Fianna broke their fast at the corner table near the door.
Based on the absurd looks they gave him, Conan knew they only kept their mouths shut out of respect to Emer. He was, for all intents and purposes, the only true stag left among the eight of them now.
First Finn had married Dallan’s sister, Eva, while Illadan was busy romancing Finn’s sister, Ethlinn.
Then Dallan had stumbled upon his first love and somehow won her over.
Conan’s younger brother, Diarmid, had stolen the King of Dyflin’s intended bride.
That he’d stolen another man’s wife hadn’t surprised Conan one bit.
That the woman was willing had shocked him to no end.
Even Conan’s elder brother Cormac had charmed a woman to wife, an Ostman princess, no less.
Ardál had no wife, but he’d also shown no interest whatsoever in taking lovers, at least as far as Conan had observed. The man was a complete mystery, keeping even more to himself than Cormac.
And Broccan would never marry again. He never spoke of the wife and daughter he’d lost, but Conan knew it had broken him, changed him. He’d never been the same man after the fire. And he’d made it more than clear that he’d never take another wife.
One by one, they’d fallen prey to their hearts, which meant they had but one target to get in all of their obnoxious jests.
They finished eating without much conversation. Dallan looked barely conscious, and Conan knew his head must ache something fierce even though he didn’t complain. When they were well out of earshot of The Hart’s Rest, Illadan rounded on Conan.
“You cannot keep bedding her.” He spoke under his breath, keeping the conversation quiet.
“I don’t intend to,” Conan assured him. Alannah herself had insisted it was for one night only, though he knew he’d be sorely tempted to see her again.
“Good,” Illadan clipped. “Because if you bed her every night except the ones where we go to the bridge, she’ll realize what we’re up to. She has a sharp mind and an observant eye.”
He was right. Conan nodded his understanding, grateful that at least someone had kept their head last night. “She thinks we’re retired mercenaries,” he told them all.
“Is that what you told her?” Finn asked from behind him.
“No, she decided it was the only reasonable explanation for a group of bards being so heavily armed and giant.”
“Giant?” Dallan grinned.
“Her word.”
“And you agreed to it?” Illadan pressed, his mind flying behind narrowed eyes.
“I did. I told her we didn’t like to speak of it.” Though he’d answered her truthfully, he hadn’t loved the lie of omission. But his loyalty was to the Fianna. Unlike his younger brother, Conan wasn’t about to risk a mission over a woman, no matter how beautiful.
They spent the day out about the town, sure to stay clear of the king’s residence to the north. Conan hadn’t been in Ath Luain since he’d left at the age of seven to foster with Brian, so none of the townsfolk had much chance of recognizing him.
But he had seen his father, King Cahill of Connachta, a few months earlier. The king and his men would certainly recognize Conan on sight, along with the other Fianna. If they were discovered staying in town instead of accompanying Brian to the council meeting, their mission would be compromised.
The bridge proved a busier place than Conan imagined. Every time the Fianna neared it, someone was either crossing or within easy sight of it. They’d not have any hope of sneaking supplies out there during the day with this many people around.
“What day is it?” Finn asked.
“Thursday.” Illadan had the answer before Conan could even process the question.
“We should try Sunday morning,” Finn suggested. “The folk who aren’t at church will be sleeping off their Saturday night.”
The hint of a smile passed over Illadan’s lips as he nodded in agreement.
Dallan smacked Finn’s back affectionately. “Maybe you’re not a total loss, after all.”
“Your sister seems to think so,” Finn taunted him.
“You did not just—”
Finn shrugged, walking back in the direction of The Hart’s Rest and leaving Dallan grimacing.
Conan was enjoying not being at the wrong end of a joke for a change. “We should come back every day,” he added. “Sunday may be best, but every town has a rhythm. Perhaps we’ll have more than one option.”
“Agreed.” Illadan halted Finn. “Finn and Dallan, you find a reason to visit the western side of the bridge every day for the next sennight. Conan and Ardál, the eastern side. I’ll see if I can learn anything from the locals. We still spar every morn. We can meet outside the town to the west.”
“We can spar behind The Hart’s Rest,” Conan told him. “Alannah believes we still practice every day, so she won’t think it odd.”
“How did she fight?” Dallan turned to Conan, genuine curiosity in his tone.
“Fair enough for someone who doesn’t make a living of it.” She had the heart of a warrior, but the skill of a novice. With practice, she could be a worthy opponent to anyone.
“She needs a dagger to help her parry.” Ardál’s smooth voice slid into the conversation. “She’ll be relying on her speed and will struggle with heavy blows.”
“Then we’ll make her one,” Conan grinned, pleased with his idea. “The smithy is on the eastern side of the bridge, is he not?”
“Aye,” Illadan agreed. “Do it.”
Even though his involvement with Alannah was at its end, Conan’s chest warmed at the idea of having a dagger made for her. It would serve her well, make her into an even better protector.
And she’d have something to remember him by when he was gone.
The way that thought tugged at his gut, Conan decided Illadan was absolutely right. Not only could it put them at risk of discovery, but spending more time with Alannah could also make leaving even more difficult.
They returned to The Hart’s Rest in time for the evening meal. The gathering room smelled like heaven, warm spices and savory pork accompanying the familiar scent of peat smoke as they entered. Conan’s pulse leapt when he spotted Alannah helping Emer deliver trenchers of stew to the busy room.
She still wore trews, sword hanging at her side, her dark hair in a messy plait. The memory of his hands threaded through her hair rose up, raising the temperature in the cozy room. Suddenly he was famished, his eyes fixed on her delicious hips as she walked back toward the kitchen.
Dallan’s hand on his shoulder pulled him from his trance. “I don’t know how you got her into your bed in the first place,” his voice dripping with sarcasm, “staring like that. Did Diarmid teach you nothing?”
Conan shoved him. “Remind me again how many women have agreed to get into your bed?” He knew damn well it was only one.
“Unfair,” Dallan countered. “She’s the only one I asked. It’s one by choice.”
“Whatever you say.” Conan patted him like a child before walking over to a table, satisfied in his small victory.
Emer may not have been the prize, but she certainly could cook.
All five of the men devoured the stew, easily the best meal they’d had in months.
And the cook at Cenn Cora was famously skilled.
Alannah generally avoided their table, keeping busy helping her sister.
Conan caught her looking his way once, but she never came over to speak with him.
They’d agreed it was for only one night, yet it stung his pride more than he liked that she seemed content to keep it that way.
For his part, he’d happily have spent another with her if Illadan hadn’t forbidden it.
Deciding he wouldn’t let the situation between them grow any more awkward, Conan waited until the guests had left for the night before pulling her aside in the far corner of the room.
The rest of his companions retired to sleep.
They had a long day tomorrow, starting with sparring at sunrise.
With Conan’s luck, Illadan would have them running laps around the town as he had in Dyflin.
That thought gave him another one—one that excited him more than it should.
“You ran away before I could thank you,” he whispered, forcing himself to keep his eyes on her face.
“I had things to do.” She managed to keep her face serious, but her eyes were just as playful as they’d been last night.
“That’s good,” he purred, “because I thought you were avoiding me.”
“And I thought we agreed on one night.”
“We did,” he sighed, battling his rising desire. This was going to be a long month. “I had another proposition for you, actually.”
The door flew open before he could tell her his idea.
The bastard from yesterday stormed into the room, looking just as furious as before.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Conan growled. The man had clearly waited until he thought the women would be downstairs alone. Every muscle in Conan’s body tensed, crying out to put him in his place.
“Get out.” Alannah charged the man, a tempest unleashed. She didn’t attack him, stopping an arm’s length away, hands fisted on her hips.
As much as he wanted to run to her rescue, Alannah wasn’t that kind of woman. She needed to deal with the fool on her own. His hands itched to interfere, his teeth grinding as he watched the exchange.
But he held back.
As far as he could tell, the man didn’t realize Conan was there yet.
“If you don’t stop stealing my business, you’ll force me to take more drastic measures.”
“If you don’t find your own way to the door, I’ll have to drag you there myself.”
The man didn’t back off. Instead, he moved closer. “I don’t want to hit a woman.”
Conan thought his teeth might crack.
But Alannah stood her ground, not giving an inch. “It sounds to me like you’re looking for an excuse to do just that.”
He’d give her two moves, then he was interfering. If she didn’t get the upper hand in two moves, Conan was going to paint this bastard’s face purple. Honestly, he might do it even if she did best him. He deserved no less for threatening two women over his own inability to conduct business.
The fight broke out as he’d expected. The man threw the first punch. Alannah dodged and missed her counterpunch. He landed his next one, propelling Alannah backward into a table.
Absolutely not.
Conan strode forward, more than prepared to ruin this man’s night.