The Immortal's Hunger. Kelli IrelandЧитать онлайн книгу.
that was no life for her.
This couldn’t be the man to see her through her epithicas. That half of her that demanded she take flight had her taking her first step away from him.
“I wouldn’t,” he said below the close of an Irish ballad.
“I...”
“Want to dance,” Gareth finished for her.
“No. I—”
He spun her round and pulled her into his body, nostrils flaring on contact. The King’s Footmen took up a traditional Irish reel. One hand on her hip, he pulled her closer still and took her hand...within his gloved hand. Eyes tight at the corners, he said nothing.
“New style, leaving your gloves on when you shed your coat?” Trying for flippant, the question emerged far closer to breathless as he spun her across the floor in time with the other dancers. His steps and spins were smooth, polished, as if he’d either been formally taught or had danced a thousand and more jigs and reels in his time.
Gareth didn’t answer her, simply spun her faster as the piece took up a more frenetic pace. Holding her hand, he moved to her side and, in time, they began a step dance that had others clearing the floor and cheering them on.
Caught in Gareth’s grasp, Ashley did the only thing she could think to do.
She danced.
Gareth ignored the pain in his damaged, gloved hands as he held on to Ashley. She gripped him tightly in return, having made no more comment than to question him about his new fashion accessory. That suited him just... No. No, it didn’t suit him “fine.” It didn’t suit him at all. He wanted to touch her, skin to skin. How she chased the goddess’s chill away defied logic. And he didn’t care.
The music sped up, the pace ever faster, and he had to focus to keep up.
As if her body had heard his unspoken request, the point of connection between them heated, seeping through his palm, up his arm and into his shoulder. Sensation trilled through him.
Warmth. True warmth.
Gods, he’d missed it. Having that comfort now, he wanted more. And what he wanted, he typically made sure he got.
Twirling her out and then back, he stepped into the move at the last moment so she didn’t have time to adjust her trajectory or stop her forward motion. Their bodies collided. He wrapped an arm around her trim waist and anchored her against him. Despite his heavy sweater and worn denim, the woman’s heat all but seared him.
Ashley’s chin snapped up and she gasped. Her breath was sweet and sharp on the heels of the whiskey shot she’d taken with the brokenhearted lad. She was a heady mix of alcohol’s influence and natural sultriness. The combination speared through him, the sensations so sharp he had to wonder if the gods hadn’t shown mercy on him and manipulated the experience to fit his preferences.
He knew better. The gods had abandoned him.
Gareth forced the bitterness away, focusing instead on drinking in Ashley’s gift. He fought to keep up with the dance versus simply holding her tight against his body. Reflexively, he tightened his grip. She didn’t even flinch. Whatever she was, she could handle at least his rudimentary strength. Or what was left of it.
Good to know.
Crossing their hands, he twisted her around in his embrace under the guise of the dance. He knew better. And from her quick glance over her shoulder when he pulled her against him, her back melding to his front, so did she.
He directed her across the floor, modifying the dance so she was in front of him rather than to his side.
She never missed a beat.
Apparently invasive by nature, her body temperature bled deeper into him, and he missed a step as his element surged toward her. He forced it back. The last thing he needed to do was burn her. Or reveal his gift in front of a roomful of locals who already thought him odd, no matter the respect with which they treated him. It would draw unnecessary attention.
None of the assassins or tyros needed the extra challenge of wiping memories years before it was time. The Elders were the ones to perform that general spell every six years, the spell that made locals forget their faces. It was the only way the Assassin’s Arcanum, the assassins and the rotation of trainees could stay in one place across the centuries.
“You’re lagging,” Ashley called back, reclaiming the whole of his focus. “A man of your stature should be able to dance circles around a common bartender.”
He stopped her still in the middle of the floor and leaned forward, his breath against her hair. “Is that so?”
She turned in his arms, the movement slow, almost wary. “So it would seem.”
He bent forward, into her space, their noses almost touching. Something elemental sparked in her gaze, something that looked like desire. His heart skipped a beat, and his voice dropped low, emerged gruff. “Let me assure you, bean álainn, nothing is what it seems.” He’d called her a beautiful woman. And he’d meant it.
Her eyes widened at the endearment. Obviously, she had the Irish. Reaching up, she tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, then cupped his cheek. “Nothing? I’ll ask you to prove it.”
He grinned. “Oh, I will.”
Several wolf whistles sounded, and she startled.
He didn’t give her a chance to balk.
Without forecasting his intent, he whipped her out to the end of his grasp, their arms extended. When she would have spun back to him, he twirled her again and landed her at his side. Glancing her way, he was thrilled to find a flush riding high on her cheeks. She was the picture of health, the epitome of beauty, the manifestation of his most vivid dreams. A deep well of craving opened in him, a well he’d believed capped and closed. Not so. Not if the burgeoning hunger he had for her was authentic, not manufactured. The thought irritated him. “Are you a siren, love, because you’re doing things to me that defy nature.”
She tipped her chin up and laughed. “And have I sung to you then that I don’t remember?”
His grin returned, wider than before. “No.”
Her eyes met his, the amusement in them clear. “There’s your answer, then. A siren I’m not.”
“A seductress for sure,” he murmured.
Something odd passed through her gaze, but her smile never faltered. “Only under the waxing moon every thirty-sixth month.”
“Smart-ass,” he teased. She started to respond, but he gave a short shake of his head. “Step dance in three, two, one.” Gareth started the traditional dance, setting a rapid pace.
Ashley watched for a moment and then picked up his rhythm, matching him move for move. She followed his lead beautifully, increasing her speed as The King’s Footmen sped up the tempo.
Gareth’s heart thundered in his chest, and he wondered briefly if the band was trying to kill him. It seemed possible given that they kicked the tempo up a third time.
Ashley laughed again, the sound rich and full.
Sparing her a glance, Gareth found a faint sheen of sweat covering her rosy skin. Her hair seemed to crackle. Her face was more radiant, her lips fuller.
The music stopped abruptly and the crowd’s raucous cheer nearly raised the roof. Gareth glanced over to gauge Ash’s reaction. For the first time he could recall, he gaped.
If a being could radiate robustness of, and for, life, she did. Her skin positively glowed. A faint sheen of sweat dotted her nape, and stray short curls stuck to her skin while longer strands that had come loose during their dance hung past her shoulders. Hazel eyes had taken