Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight by Anna Markland Page A

rendered it relatively easy to leap from her horse to his pony, but she succeeded in reining in the impulse. She took a deep breath, common sense, decorum and desire at odds in her confused thoughts. “I would, but what about Fortissima?”
    He held out his hand. “She won’t want to be left behind and will follow along meekly. The trail is too narrow for her to wander off.”
    As if he sensed he might be needed, Rhydderch appeared. “I will see to your horse, Lady Rhoni.”
    Somewhat surprised, she thanked him, leaned over and put her hands on Ronan’s shoulders to move to his mount. She had an urge to knead the hard muscles with her fingers, but as soon as she was seated behind him she let go and gripped the back of the saddle, her spine rigid. “I’ll try not to touch you,” she murmured.
    He took her hand and wrapped it around his waist, then did the same with the other. He kept his hand atop hers, sending heat spiralling the length of her arms and into her belly by way of her breasts. “You must hold on tight. This trail is dangerous. Lean into me. Don’t concern yourself with my wounds. They have healed well.”
    She leaned against him. He had lied about his back. The aroma of the salve he still used to ease his discomfort filled her nostrils, reminding her of the night she had tended him. His heat quickly penetrated her tunic. Sweat trickled between her breasts despite the cooling air. His body was hard, solid. The pony’s steady gait caused her breasts to rub against him rhythmically, tightening her nipples to the point of pain. She closed her eyes and put her cheek against his back, dreaming of their bodies entwined in a loving embrace. She did not care if they ever arrived at Cadair Berwyn.
     
    The rubbing of Rhoni’s full breasts against his lacerated back was sweet torture. Her elusive perfume was enough to drive him mad. He did not dare invite her to sit before him. She would definitely feel his arousal against her bottom if she sat in front of him. He looked down at her long elegant fingers clasped together around his waist. He wanted to take each one into his mouth and suck on it.
    She may have fallen asleep. Would she notice if he ran his fingers along hers? No woman had ever inflamed him to such a degree. Perhaps it was a result of his near death at the hands of his tormentors.
    The memory sobered him. He had indeed thought his life was over. If not for Conall—
    He must concentrate on his plan for vengeance. Túr MacLachlainn had to be regained. Instead he had offered to let Rhoni ride behind him and his thoughts had become muddled.
    Rhodri called the cavalcade to a halt. Ronan reined in his pony and Rhoni stirred. “What’s happening?” she murmured sleepily.
    He conjured a vision of her waking beside him after a night of lusty lovemaking, crooning good morning in that same sleepy voice. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Not far now, I believe.”
    They came to the top of a crag and had to keep as close as possible to the side of the mountain. The path was wet and slippery. If they fell, they would fall to their deaths. Rhoni’s arms tightened around his waist.
    “Don’t look down,” he advised.
     
    Once they had crested the crag, they headed along a wide ridge path. They reached a rocky knoll and Cadair Berwyn loomed out of the mist. Mabelle de Montbryce had described her first impression of the wooden fortress many times, but it still took Rhoni’s breath away.
    Built into the side of the mountain, some of the roofs of the buildings seemed to be covered with turf, others with what looked like slate. It perched on the edge of a deep ravine.
    Her mother’s first thought had been that any army wanting to attack would have to send its soldiers in one at a time. It was impregnable.
    Rhoni surveyed the mountains looming on every side. The Countess of Ellesmere had stoically deemed it a beautiful place to die. Rhoni’s heart filled with the wild splendour of her birthplace.