lips, and he knew how soft and yielding they were. He wanted to kiss her again, but it would only heighten the temptation.
She moved back to him, snuggling her backside against him, drawing his arms around her body. The moment she did, he gritted out, ‘Dieu, you’re cold.’ She was slender and hardly seemed to have any body warmth at all.
‘I am sorry,’ she whispered. ‘But it’s impossible to sleep when I’m so freezing.’
He pulled her body against his, bringing his leg over hers, to keep her even closer. She sighed and murmured, ‘That’s so much better. Thank you.’
It wasn’t at all better for him. Her presence aroused him, and he could not prevent the instinctive response. He had a beautiful woman in his arms, and despite her cool skin, his mind was envisioning other ways to warm her.
Her brown hair was silk against his cheek, and her limbs were tangled with his, seeking comfort. His conscience warred with his body’s needs, and he couldn’t stop thinking of the way she had reached for him earlier. Despite her boldness, he didn’t at all believe she had any intention of seduction.
In time, her breathing slowed, and her skin was not so frigid. He lay awake, staring at the fire, wondering if this was what it would be like to have a wife. He had never married, not after all that had happened after his parents had died.
But a part of him hungered for a life such as this. To lie with a woman at night, to take comfort in her softness. War was a part of his blood, and he lived in a world where killing was expected of him. There was no peace, no sense of contentment.
Whether or not she knew it, Carice Faoilin was bringing him towards a greater temptation. And each day he spent with her made him more aware of the loneliness surrounding him.
With reluctance, he rose from the bed and went to stand by the fire. He’d revealed his burns to her, expecting her to be repulsed by them. Instead, she’d sympathised and had lain close to him.
He should take her to Laochre as she wanted. She needed to remain in a safe place where she could be surrounded by friends—not with a man like him. He walked over to stand by the bed, reaching for one of her long curls. He traced it between his fingertips before releasing it.
There was a restless energy within him, the sense that all was not right. He put on shoes and his cloak, taking his weapons before closing the door behind him.
The air was frigid, and his breath formed clouds in the air. He decided to go and check the grounds, to ensure that there were no intruders. Once he was convinced it was safe, he might be able to sleep.
The scent of Lady Carice haunted him, tempting him to taste those lips once again. He strode down the stairs, needing the cold night air to temper the fire rising within him.
Raine seized a torch from the wall and walked outside. It was snowing lightly, the ground covered in a dusting of white. As he walked the perimeter of the ruined abbey, he thought of King Henry’s orders. The man had no intention of allowing Rory Ó Connor to reign over the lands he wanted for his own. Henry was ambitious and ruthless, a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. The High King’s death would ensure his success.
Raine stopped beside the graves of the monks, the burden of their deaths troubling him.
He pressed his hand against the skeletal remains of the building, remembering the vicious pain of the burns. His men had taken him away, and over the course of several weeks, he’d gradually healed. But he’d needed to return, to silence the ghosts that dwelled within him.
Dieu, what was he still doing here? He’d been granted two days, no more. He had to return to the soldiers, to face his commander and obey the orders given to him. Time was slipping away from him, and he had to uphold his duties.
But the woman waiting in bed for him could not survive on her own. He had to either use her to get close to the Ard-Righ—or he had to bring her to Laochre and wash his hands of her. Leaving her behind was not an option.
Reluctantly, he returned to his quarters, stomping the snow from his feet before he ascended the stairs once more. The moment he opened the door to his chamber, he saw the dim glow of the fire illuminating Carice’s face. Her features were softened in slumber, and she had the face of an angel. From deep within him came the desire to guard her, to protect this woman from all harm.
She reminded him of a life he could have had, if tragedy had not befallen his family. For a moment, he allowed himself to dream of being a husband...or even a father. Guilt slashed through the vision, reminding him of his purpose. His family had died, while he’d been too stricken to move. He could not set aside the blame, and a life of solitude was what he’d earned.
Raine removed his boots and strode towards the bed. It was better if he left Carice alone to sleep before they departed. But he remembered the softness of her body pressed against his, the womanly allure that held him captive. And most of all, her kiss.
He cursed himself, even as he slid beneath the covers. When he reached towards her, he felt the coolness of her skin. She still wasn’t nearly warm enough. The moment he moved closer, she rolled to face him, snuggling as near as she dared.
Her touch was like a slow flame, consuming him. She was a physical torment, tempting him in a way he couldn’t resist.
Raine shut his eyes, forcing himself to remain utterly still. Though Carice was pressed up against him, he didn’t touch her, nor did he let himself imagine anything more. It was nearly an hour before he managed to calm the urges of his body, and even longer before sleep came.
But when it did, the nightmares returned.
* * *
He heard the sound of screaming. Raine bolted awake in his chamber, not knowing what was happening. He dressed quickly, not even bothering with armour, and seized his sword. His heart thundered with worry for his family or worse, their liege. King Henry was visiting Peventon Castle, along with fifty of his soldiers and servants. The scream was a woman’s, but whose?
Raine hurried down the stone stairs, his weapon drawn. He froze at the sight before him, unable to believe what he was witnessing. His father’s face was purple with rage, and he clenched a dagger in his fist. King Henry held his own blade and stared back at Neil de Garenne with arrogance.
‘You dare to draw your weapon before me?’ Henry said, his voice icy.
A sinking feeling caught in Raine’s stomach, a rise of mingled fear and nausea. To threaten the king was a death sentence. His father knew that, so why would he do such a thing?
‘You dared to touch my wife,’ Neil shot back. ‘I care not that royal blood runs through your veins. If you have harmed her, I will spill every damned drop.’
Only then, did Raine notice his mother weeping in the corner. Estelle sat on the floor, holding her knees, her clothes torn and in disarray.
God help them all.
Raine started to move towards her, but a soldier caught him by the arm. ‘Stay out of this.’
He ignored the man and wrenched his way free, moving towards his mother. Tears streamed down her face, and her expression was filled with terror.
‘She knows better than to deny her king. Sheathe your weapon, de Garenne, and apologise.’
But his father lunged at Henry, a war cry roaring from him. One of the king’s soldiers came from behind and stabbed Neil.
Raine froze in place. His limbs felt as if they were iron, bolted to the floor. He stood in shock as his father’s blood spilled over the stones. Estelle rushed forward, reaching for her husband.
And though he knew he had to move, had to help them, he could do nothing.
Too fast. It had all