He'd draped her arms around his neck. She left them there. "Yes."
His hands tightened around her body, gently, protectively. One of them pressed lightly on her left breast, the one Buddy had pinched, and warmth flowed from him to soothe the ache. She snuggled closer to the warmth and power.
Her glance drifted across Buddy, still cringing in his corner. He'd lost weight since she'd seen him last. Tears stained his face--tears that looked more like loss and sorrow than pain. Dougal carried her out of the cell and kicked the door shut behind them, locking Buddy in, locking him out of her life. Savage glee flooded through her.
There will be a reckoning, she whispered to herself. You will suffer ten times what you did to me.
Slowly, gently, Dougal carried her down stone corridors and up stone stairways into brighter, sweeter-smelling, warmer rooms. She lost herself in his arms, drowsing even though she didn't feel half as hungry and tired as she had before.
His encircling arms felt so warm, so strong, so protective. They were the arms of a warrior, her warrior, to fight for her and for her friends. She smelled his maleness, and it wasn't threatening. He wasn't Brian, but at least he was the right species.
"Brian. Jo. David. Danger." Talking was an effort.
"It's night now. We'll start our hunt in the morning."
Good. Sleep first, then duty.
Warm moisture tickled her nose, touched with lavender and soap and a faint resinous burning smell like incense. She opened her eyes again. He had carried her into a smaller room, tiled, warm, softly lit. Vivaldi played quietly in the distance.
She blinked with surprise. It was a frigging California bathroom, with huge spa tub recessed into the floor and skylights that showed a moon nearly full and towels that looked like they were about an acre across and three feet thick. Some castle her lover kept, bidets and surround showers and full-length mirrors framed by sweeps of ivy climbing to the beams overhead. Stereo speakers hung high in the corners.
The room even had a goddamn fireplace in one corner, lit with fresh birch logs to scent the air. She blinked again and shook her head, trying to chase the illusion away.
He smiled down at her. "You were expecting an outhouse? We're not the Sassenach here, not barbarians."
He helped her undress and kissed her again with a gentle caress that warmed her belly and made her cheeks tingle. Then she settled into the absolute bliss of hot water and soap.
When she surfaced again, he was sitting on the tiles by the side of the bath, smiling quietly, holding a glass of beer and a genuine, non-mirage, Swiss-and-ham-on-rye, sandwich. She grabbed for it with a sudden lurch and splatter of suds, but he gently pushed her hand aside and fed her himself, alternating bites of sandwich and strong kosher pickle washed down by sweet dark beer.
The beer seemed to go straight to her head, bypassing her stomach. It called out for more, loud enough for him to hear, but he shook his head.
"You shouldn't eat or drink too much, too suddenly. It will make you sick. Tomorrow, the day after, you will build up gently. This is all you should have, for now."
She splashed him. He dunked her head under water, and she got soap up her nose. He massaged shampoo into her hair and washed her back and gently, erotically, teased other parts of her awakening body. Maureen floated in a warm, fuzzy bliss.
"Time to get out."
She shook her head, not denying but trying to wake up. The whole scene felt like a dream. She stood, climbed out of the tub, felt soft warm towels fold her to their heart. Her hair dried itself. She caught a glimpse of something slim and pink and elegant in one of the steamy mirrors. She preened and posed for an instant, thinking that stranger didn't look at all bad for an escapee a few minutes out of Buddy Johnson's dungeon.
A heavy door opened directly into his bedroom, a huge space of stone and wood panels and richly embroidered drapes and arched beams overhead. Weapons and animal heads hung the walls and furs warmed the wooden floor. She stood on one, kneading it with her bare toes and soaking up the sensual bliss.
Dougal lifted the towel robe from her shoulders, and she wondered at the warm air on her naked body, such a contrast with the stone and the gloom and damp she'd always associated with castles. Such a delight, magic was, to allow both comfort and grandeur.
Then Dougal took her in his arms again, lifting her gently and carrying her to his bed. Darkness stirred at the back of her head, a fear long felt and fought.
Man. Bed. Sex. He was going to make love to her. She had feared this, struggled against it. It was something painful and evil. She had sworn to kill, to die, avoiding it.
But that was all Buddy Johnson. Buddy was locked behind cold iron, in the dungeon.
She relaxed. Dougal wouldn't hurt her. He loved her. Sex between a man and woman who loved each other was sacred, not evil. Even Father Donovan had said so. Sex was a sacrament of God.
His kisses were warm on her breast, gentle, and her nipples hardened as if they were something independent of her mind and body. His fingers probed and caressed, below, a delicate and knowing touch. Dougal kissed her belly with a final, tender promise before he stepped away from the bed to undress and join her.
She closed her eyes, waiting for him, trusting in him, and fell sound asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jo felt invulnerable, and it scared her shitless.
She knew there were things out there that would love to munch her up like a cocktail olive. The dragon was one of them. And here she was actively looking for it, instead of beating feet in the opposite
