a half moan as she dug her fingers into his back. Sorcha’s thighs locked around him tightly when he moved in her, while every other muscle clenched to draw him closer. Pleasure fanned through her body from the places where they joined, until that was all there was.
They ate up hours with each other. Laughing in the between moments at their own passionate madness, drowning in the sensation. Sorcha let herself be carried away, for once forgetting the control that had been taught to her and enjoying their moments together. Finally they lay against each other, sweat drying on their bodies and drowsy exhaustion lying over them like a blanket. Even though Sorcha had thought herself a fit person, her body ached pleasantly in places she didn’t know it could. She made a mental count of them; tongue, thighs and back cried out.
And also unexpected. Sorcha took what felt like her first real breath in hours. Raed rolled over and kissed the damp spot at the base of her neck. “You, Mistress Deacon, are quite the minx, and quite the surprise.”
“As are you.” She trailed her fingers over the outline of his lip and brushed against his teeth; those teeth that always flashed in that smile that had caused this whole thing. Even now she wanted to be kissing him, bruised and battered as she might be.
They stared at each other a moment, smiling in disregard of the storms that loomed ahead. His voice broke through the silence they shared, and he surprised her yet again.
“And if I said I am falling under your spell, Mistress Deacon, would that get you to leap from this bed and run back to your Abbey?”
He was smiling, but behind his eyes, green in the candle-light, was something serious. Slowly she shook her head. “No—strangely, no.” It was the truth.
Raed kissed her lightly and pulled back. “I should not seek out more complications in my life, but you are a delightful one.” His honesty once again completely disarmed her. Used to dealing with men in a controlled void, where emotion and circumstance were never really discussed, she had no experience to fall back on. She floundered a bit in this new environment.
Sorcha had to rely, for the first time, on her own feelings. With a lazy smile and a sigh, she replied, “I certainly thought all this behind me—that makes you dangerous, Captain Rossin.”
His hazel eyes widened but the glint of teeth in his smile made her deepest core twitch. “It is the situation that is dangerous, and frighteningly good.”
“Frighteningly good,” she whispered back in agreement. “But I love it when reality exceeds expectation—that rarely happens.”
She’d laughed, before, at people who told her, “I couldn’t keep my hands off him,” but now at the receiving end, she understood. Raed was a need that was impossible to deny. She felt overcome with sex and pleasure. The experience could prove dangerously addictive. Stroking Raed’s dirty blond hair, she tried to file away the sensation of it; surely this much pleasure couldn’t last. The realization was bittersweet.
His eyes narrowed on her and she feared what was coming. “And your husband, Sorcha—what of him?”
So this was not to be more than sex, then—not for him. The Deacon sighed, her gaze dropping to Raed’s chest. “I don’t suppose you can imagine how it is to be in a dead marriage? How it is to realize you made a huge mistake?”
Raed’s breathing slowed, but she wouldn’t yet meet his eyes. “Is it really that bad?”
“If it was good, you and I would not be in this cabin.” Sorcha said it lightly, hoping he knew she wasn’t sorry. It was the truth, though, and for some reason she wanted to tell him the truth.
Raed tipped her chin up to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sorcha.”
The Deacon frowned. “He shut me out of everything: our love life, our friendship—even our work.” The hollow pit inside her, the one she had been ignoring for so long, was opening up at her feet. “I married him because I loved him, and then I watched him slip away from me.”
By the Bones, she had not wanted to talk about this with him, but it also felt good to finally confide in someone. Yet Sorcha was also fully aware they did not have much time until they reached Vermillion—and there her problems would be waiting for her.
“Don’t let’s talk about Kolya . . . please.” She reached out for him to drive away those moments yet to come.
Raed smiled slightly, the kind of melancholy smile that she knew was on her own lips. He let his fingers trail down her hip, and despite her exhaustion Sorcha was shocked to feel her body stir to life. She should be hungry —she hadn’t eaten since breakfast—but her body still wanted only him. Certainly, there couldn’t be many more moments left to them.
“So, Sorcha,” Raed whispered, “have you finished with your interrogation of this dangerous fugitive?” His tone was husky and teasing, as if he knew what he’d awoken in her. His fingertips traced patterns on her skin, writing his name or trailing cantrips she didn’t know. If only there were a rune to make time stop outside the cabin. If only she could order the Captain to circle the City of Vermillion instead of landing.
Now should be the time for guilt, but that was not the emotion that filled her. Instead, it was something Sorcha had experienced before, in the face of a geist—exhilaration. She stroked his thick hair before curling her fist tightly in it. “Fortunately, for both of us . . . no. I haven’t.”
He laughed as she pulled him back to her mouth; for now, there were still moments left to them. They would enjoy every one.
EIGHTEEN
Epiphany at the Scarlet City
Sorcha and Raed had barely left their cabin for two days. Everyone was uncomfortably aware of this, but none more so than Merrick.
He’d heard the rumors of his partner’s marriage, the whispers that it was now nothing more than a convenience, but in their short time together he had not been able to get the details. Now, however, he was getting much more than he had ever wanted to.
“Are you all right, Merrick?” Nynnia squeezed his arm.
The ripples of pleasure along the Bond were doing very uncomfortable things to his anatomy, especially with the young woman at his side standing so very close. Merrick tugged his cloak tighter about him as quickly as he could. “Yes. Yes, fine. It’s just cold.”
She turned and looked out over the rolling clouds and bright blue sky. “It is a little cold, I suppose, but the view makes up for it.”
Merrick gritted his teeth as spasms of reflected delight ran down his spine. Whatever the young Pretender was doing, he was doing it very well. Knowing these things about another man was awkward, and it was something that had not been covered in any novice class he could remember.
He should have been thinking about the task ahead: what they were going to say to the Arch Abbot, how exactly they were going to find the Grand Duchess—anything at all but the physical pleasures his partner was indulging in. However, the only thoughts Merrick could muster were along a similar vein. The curve of Nynnia’s soft neck, the swell of her breasts beneath her bodice, the long, tapered length of her fingers, the . . .
He swayed sideways and smacked his knee into the wood of the halyards; it was not entirely accidental.
“Merrick.” Nynnia clutched him to her, completely negating any advantages from the momentary pain.
He wanted to turn and kiss her—certainly he had already, but he knew if he felt her soft lips beneath his, there would be no going back. He wasn’t about to satiate desires based on Sorcha’s—that felt wrong, and a disservice to Nynnia.
Merrick jerked away as Kyrix hobbled toward them. The old man was slowly recovering from the beating he’d received at the hands of the Prior, but his eyes were still weary.
He nodded to the Deacon, but clasped Nynnia’s hand in his own. His fingers on hers were white and almost shaking. “Daughter, I would speak to you.” His gaze darted almost resentfully to Merrick. “Alone.”
“Father, I—”
