Page 3 of The Beast in the Loch (The Beasts #1)

"The Norsemen have taken my village, sir. They drove my people into the hills and we cannot go home again while they hold my land. We will all starve, come winter, and there is no one else I can call upon for help."

She looked up at the last, lifting her chin, and found that black assessing gaze upon her.

How old was he? she wondered, and then couldn't answer her own question.

His face was that of a mature man, a warrior, but it was also ageless.

He might be her own age or a hundred. The Knights had been spoken of as long as she could remember, and for generations before.

They were magical creatures to be wary of, and only approached if there was no other option.

It would be a mistake to believe him her friend.

Murchadh was still watching her and suddenly he smiled a smile that took her breath away.

Some part of her mind noted the crone's soft chuckle. "Ah, he likes you," she murmured. "I knew he would. He is old, the oldest of the Knights, and he needs a woman not a girl."

She spoke the last few words in a manner that was defiant but it meant nothing to Maire, who was struggling to understand. His smile seemed to have momentarily taken away her wits.

"You are aware that there is a price to pay, Damsel?" he was asking her, his deep voice sending ripples once more across her senses.

"I understand." She choked the words past the lump in her throat. She wanted to ask him what the price was but she was afraid, and childish as she knew it was, she thought if she did not ask then she could pretend it wouldn't be so bad.

Murchadh stared a moment more and then nodded.

He stood up and once again she saw that he was taller than any man in her village.

Every part of her being was gathering itself, preparing to turn and run, but she didn't. She reminded herself that even if she reached the gate and the bridge over the loch, there was still the fate of her people to consider.

No, she could not turn coward now. She must stay and submit. She must hold true to her word.

And then he was before her, his powerful body blocking out the firelight, his face above hers, his eyes fixed upon her. She found herself unable to look away and as she stood before him she could feel the heat from his body, and smell the faint scent of the sea.

"You have not been breached by mortal man?" he asked. His gaze dropped to her mouth and she felt her lips begin to tingle.

"No, I-I haven't."

"How so?" he demanded, and his hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides as though he wanted to touch her and was restraining himself. "You are beautiful, damsel, tell me why no man has come to your bed?"

"I was to marry," she said, her voice dropping despite her determination to be brave. "But he died, and since then there has been no one I . . . no time to find another," she corrected herself, but he had already heard her slip.

"No one you would wish to share pleasure with?" There was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "I am glad."

Maire felt as if the floor was moving beneath her feet. Only a short time ago she had believed she would be eaten alive, and now . . . Did Murchadh mean to take her maidenhead? Was that the sacrifice she must make to save her people?

She wanted to laugh, and swiftly put her hand up to her mouth and lowered her eyes, so he wouldn't see.

There was a warm tide rising inside her, a sense of anticipation.

Maire had been chaste for a long time, and Murchadh was a handsome and captivating man.

But there was more to him than that, and she had thought so from the first moment she saw him on the loch shore.

Or was he indeed a monster masquerading as a mortal?

Perhaps he would feast on her after he was done?

The hysteria threatened to bubble out from between her lips and she gasped.

"Damsel," his low, quiet voice was so close. She felt his warm breath upon her hair and went very still.

He must have glanced to the crone, because suddenly she bustled forward.

"Thank you, Sibby," he said, his voice almost too low to hear. "I am grateful."

The old woman nodded and then took Maire's hand. "Come lady," she said, in a voice suddenly shaky with emotion, "there are preparations to be made."

Maire looked back at him over her shoulder. He was standing watching her, the firelight flickering behind him and warming the skin tones of his naked shoulders. "The Norsemen," she said anxiously, searching his face. "Will you save my people?"

"It will be done," he promised.

And although she didn't know him or anything about him save for legend, Maire believed him.

She had met men in power, had bargained with them and learned to understand their ways, good and bad.

She could read their faces and their actions, and she knew Murchadh was telling her the truth.

Relief swept over her, and she told herself that whatever happened to her now at least she had fulfilled her promise to those who depended upon her.

"Come," the crone spoke again, clearly exasperated, and finally she turned away.

This room was a bedchamber and a bath had been placed before the hearth. The old woman, who she now knew was called Sibby, had lit a fire before she helped Maire to strip off her damp clothing and climb into the water.

"Allow your thoughts to calm," she had said. "You have placed your life and that of your people in the hands of Murchadh and there is nothing more to be done. You have chosen wisely." She smiled a little smile. "I will return soon."

The bath was deep, filled to the brim with steaming water, so she was able to sink down beneath the suds.

It was delicious. Maire had a smaller bath at home, and she had swum in the ocean when it was warm enough, but nothing had been quite this luxurious.

And it was made all the more so after her arduous journey and her fear of what she would find at the end of it.

The scent of the rose petal soap filled her head and made her eyelids heavy, or perhaps it was just that she was tired from her long walk to Samhanach Castle.

If she could only sleep for a moment . . .

She half dozed. Instantly she found her thoughts turning to Murchadh, as he had been last evening when she first saw him.

It was easy enough to imagine that, instead of stopping by the loch to dress, he had walked all the way to where she was crouched, hiding, at the edge of the trees.

Damsel . . . In her dream he stooped to her, cupping her face in his hands, and then his mouth captured hers, drawing forth sensations she could not remember ever feeling before.

His lips caressed hers, his tongue sliding across the full shape, until his taste became as familiar to her as her own.

There was a hungry ache deep in her belly and in her dream he straightened and stood, gazing down at her, his handsome face hard with desire, his dark eyes intent.

"You will be mine," he said. "This time all will end well."

With a sigh, she woke.

The shadows were deep, the fire a mere glow of coals compared to the blaze it had been earlier.

She had slept for some time and now she felt languid and relaxed, her fears at peace.

The old woman should have come to fetch her, she thought, but it didn't seem to matter.

Maire stretched her arms above her head, easing her muscles, and prepared to rise from the bath.

"Damsel."

His voice came from the corner and she froze. She had been dreaming of him and now he was here. Perhaps, she thought warily, it had been no dream. Cautiously she touched her lips and found them tender, as if the kiss had been real.

The shadows stirred and reformed as Murchadh rose from his chair and prowled toward her.

Maire lifted her head, her hair dripping, and stared.

Because he was completely naked. The muscular chest and shoulders were complimented by equally muscular thighs, and then her gaze flew instinctively to his manhood.

And it was big, in keeping with the rest of him, and already semi erect.

As her eyes widened it hardened further, and she made a wordless sound, her gaze lifting to his.

"You have spent a long time in your bath, lady. I could wait no longer," he explained, a smile teasing his lips.

Her breasts peaked and she looked down in surprise at the hardened buds of her nipples, reddened by the heat of the water. Quickly, embarrassed, she sank below the surface but he had seen and he made a sound in his throat, deep and hungry, as he moved purposefully to her side.

"Sir, I . . ." She swallowed and spoke more firmly, as befitted her position in life. "Please allow me to dry myself and dress."

But he shook his head. "I will dry you," he declared in a voice that brooked no argument. He reached for her hand and, before she knew it, she was being lifted from the water as if she weighed nothing at all. A moment later she was out of the bath and standing beside it, as naked as he.

Murchadh reached for the drying cloth. Maire hung back, arms folded over her chest, dripping water onto the floor.

His dark eyes swept over her, seeming to take in every inch of her glowing skin, momentarily lingering upon the dark curls between her thighs.

"Damsel," he said, a request and a warning, and reached for her, drawing her gently but firmly toward him.

Maire stood stiffly as he began to dry her, smoothing the cloth across her shoulders and down her arms, and then gently patting the firm mounds of her breasts.

Her body heated from his touch. She caught her breath when his finger circled the peak of her breast and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her there—and the truth was she wanted him to.

But he smiled instead, and began firmly drying off the remaining water from her belly and thighs, moving to stand behind her so that he could pat her back and buttocks.