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  Since her husband's younger brother was the only one among the three men she knew, Bailey went to stand beside him. “Aye,” she said, never taking her attention from the fight.

  "He's learned a thing or two since we last sparred,” one of the other men said softly and Bailey glanced his way, saw the family resemblance and realized the speaker had to be one of the two of her husband's older brothers.

  It was a brutal fight with much blood shed, much flesh sliced open, but it wasn't Van's blood, and it wasn't his flesh that suffered. He had a few scratches on him and one long but shallow cut running from his shoulder to his elbow and, when he struck one final time with his knife hand to block a thrust from Doyle, the Resistance leader's dagger went flying.

  Doyle stood there heaving for breath, his gaze darting toward the weapon he'd lost. He was obviously trying to decide if he should make a run for the blade when Van tossed his own weapon away and threw himself on Doyle.

  "This is where it gets good,” the taller of the two men who bore such a strong resemblance to Van said, folding his arms over a broad chest.

  "Maybe you ought to leave, wench,” the other man suggested.

  "Liam's right,” Patrick said. “Why don't you...?"

  "No,” Bailey said. She wasn't about to go anywhere and stood her ground, ignoring her husband's brothers, her eyes on Van.

  If she had thought the knife fight had been brutal, she was not prepared for the fists her man used to pulverize his opponent. The Modartha hit Doyle with everything he had in vicious blows that rocked the Resistance leader's head from side to side and backwards, broke his nose and shattered a cheekbone. He pummeled Doyle's stockier body with blow after rapid blow directly into his gut until Doyle could barely draw breath then he slammed a right cross into a jaw that gave way beneath the savage hit, spinning Doyle around to crash to the cave floor.

  But the Modartha wasn't finished with his enemy. He slapped both hands onto Doyle's shoulders and jerked him up, spun him around and continued to hit him with punishing blows that drove the Resistance leader back until he crashed into the waters of the grotto. Even then Van wasn't finished with him and waded into the milky green waves to snatch Doyle up once again only to slam repeated blows into the nearly unconscious man's destroyed face. Blood sprayed in the air along with a tooth.

  "That's it,” Liam Byrne said and put out a hand to take Bailey's arm. “You've seen more than enough."

  She tugged at his hold, but the man's grip was firm, and he had no intention of allowing her to break free. He pulled her toward the grotto entrance as the sounds of violently splashing water echoed through the low cave. She tried to twist around, tried to see what was happening and when the sounds suddenly stopped, she pulled hard, nearly toppling her captor. When she managed to look back she saw Van bending over, holding Doyle beneath the gently lapping water. The look on her husband's face was truly frightening.

  "Van,” she said softly and when he lifted his head and looked at her, she felt a tremor of terror shudder down her spine.

  The man he held under the waves was no longer moving but the Modartha didn't notice. His hands were buried in Doyle's shirt, his foot in the middle of the bastard's unmoving back. A part of him registered the fact that his enemy was dead, but a part of him wanted the punishment to go on.

  "You can let him go now,” Bailey said and though Liam tried to stop her, took a step toward the water.

  Van growled low in his throat, his lips skinning back from his fangs and Bailey stilled. It was all she could do to force a smile to her mouth.

  "He's dead, Vannie,” she said. “He can't hurt us any more."

  The Modartha slowly lowered his attention to the man beneath the water and though the face was no longer recognizable and only one eye remained open, that eye was staring at him accusingly, the destroyed mouth gaping open as water flowed into the still body. He unhooked his fingers from the man's clothing and stood watching the body bobbing on the surface for a moment before it began to sink.

  Bailey took a few more steps toward the water, ignoring Liam's warning hiss. She held out her hand, palm up. “Let's go home, my Modartha,” she said quietly.

  Van was panting from his exertions, his chest rising and falling sharply with each labored breath. His t-shirt was torn at one shoulder, slit at the belly, and one pant leg was ripped where Doyle's blade had snagged it. Blood flowed down the cut on his arm and there was a shallow nick on his cheek that oozed, but other than those minor injuries, he was good. As he waded out of the water, he ran a hand under his chin to wipe away the sweat dripping there.

  Spying her husband's blade, Bailey bent over to retrieve it from the cave floor and was just straightening up when she heard a loud, piercing trill that made the hair stand up on her arms. She looked around to see Lady Tara Cowart-Flynn rushing toward them, a laser pistol aimed straight at Van.

  Van reached out to shove his wife aside and felt the blast of the laser hit him in the side. He flew backward into the water—arms outstretched, legs wide—landing squarely on his back as another round of the deadly fire sizzled the water beside his head. He went under the waves, bumped into Doyle's body and scrambled to twist away as a third hiss of fire exploded just in front of him. When he came up, gasping for air, it was to see Tara aiming the pistol at him. He thought he was a dead man, but then Tara's eyes rolled up in her head and she dropped to her knees, a bright red stain blossoming in the center of her chest where Van's dagger had been driven all the way through her back to pierce her heart and continue out beneath her breastbone.

  Bailey stood over the body of her uncle's wife but didn't look down at the dying woman. Her gaze was locked on Van. She lifted her chin. “Are you all right, my Modartha?” she asked.

  It took him a moment to answer as he waded toward her. “Aye, wench."

  "Are you sure?” she asked and began to shake, her teeth clicking together.

  "Aye, my lady, I'm sure,” he answered, his brow furrowed with concern.

  "That's good.” Bailey's knees buckled and she would have crashed to the cave floor had her husband not shot forward to catch her. He swept her up in his arms, cradling her tightly against him.

  "It's okay,” he said and bent his head to kiss her cheek. “Everything's fine now."

  Van motioned his brothers to follow him as he started out of the grotto with Bailey.

  "Now why can't I find a woman like that?” Declan asked. He looked back around at Tara's corpse as he fell in behind Liam. “She didn't even hesitate but plunged that knife in to the fucking hilt."

  "You don't want to mess with her man, Dek,” Patrick said. “It's the quiet ones you always have to watch out for."

  Bailey tugged at the hair at the nape of her husband's neck. When he looked down at her, she held his gaze. “I think I'm carrying our child, my Modartha."

  "I know you are,” he answered.

  Chapter Eight

  It took over a week for his side to heal and during that time the Modartha was not a happy patient. He grumbled and cursed and complained constantly. He argued with his brothers, for all three had moved in temporarily to make sure he followed the Medic's orders. He argued with O'Rourke, who was technically his boss, and he argued with Donley when that man came over to check on him. He argued with Bailey's uncle, the Senator, who did not seem all that upset that his treasonous wife's body had been left on Madra for the Madras to deal with. It seemed the only person Crevan Byrne did not argue with was his wife who refused to allow him to intimidate her.

  He did, however, complain to her.

  "If they don't leave this house before the end of the week, I am not going to be responsible for what I do to them!” he snapped as he eyed his brothers playing a game of high stakes pócar in the library of the Modartha's plush estate.

  "You won't do anything to them,” Bailey stated as she handed him the chicken salad sandwich he'd demanded.

  "Trust me,” he mumbled before taking a big bite of the sandwich. “I'm going to hu
rt one or all of them before the week is out.” He chewed savagely, his eyes intent on Liam's broad back.

  "You're gonna piss and fall back in it if you try,” Liam called out, not even bothering to look around.

  "You see? You see?” Van snarled. “They are baiting me! Just watch and see if I don't...."

  "I'm as horny as a quayside doxie when the fleet's just come in,” she said with a sighed as she took a seat across from him, garnering his immediate attention.

  Van's head snapped up. “Excuse me?” he asked, jaw stilled, eyebrows up, sandwich poised at his chin.

  Having heard her comment, Liam twisted around in his chair, and both Patrick and Declan looked her way, the mouths of all three men hanging open.

  "It's been awhile since you satisfied me, my Modartha,” she declared. She picked up a book and began casually leafing through it. “A woman has her needs, you know."

  Van remembered he had food in his mouth and slowly began to chew it, eyes narrowed on his lady.

  "I know your side was much worse than we thought at first and I can understand you needed time to recuperate, but if you're up to trouncing your brothers.... “She glanced up at her husband then gave an elaborate shrug before looking back down at the book. “Well, surely you're up to tupping me, aren't you?"

  "What did she say?” she heard Patrick gasp. “Did she say...."

  "Shut up,” both Declan and Liam cautioned in unison.

  The Modartha had difficulty swallowing the food in his mouth. He was all too aware of his brothers listening in on this strange conversation and shot them a glare only to have all three grinning nastily back at him, obviously with no intention of giving husband and wife their privacy.

  "My lady...” he began, but Bailey set the book aside and reached up to unbutton the top two buttons of her blouse.

  "Is it hot in here to you, Vannie?” she asked, fanning her hand across her face. “I'm so hot I could strip down to my skivvies right here."

  "I'd like to see that,” Declan whispered loud enough for everyone to hear him.

  Van lowered his sandwich to the plate then put the plate on the side table. “Get out,” he said in a low growl, his words directed—not at his wife—but at his brothers.

  Liam scooted his chair back. He knew when it was time to vacate the room and motioned his brothers to their feet. “Now, punk!” he snapped at Patrick. “Before he comes after your ass!"

  "Ain't punk's ass he wants,” Declan said with a chuckle.

  "Get out!" It was a roar that set all three men to scrambling for the door.

  Bailey smiled to herself. She continued to flip through the book she'd retrieved. “Do you think you're fit enough then?"

  He put his hands on the chair arms and levered himself up. Like the stealthy predator he was, he walked to her and extended his hand. “Shall we see, wench?"

  She set the book aside and slid her hands into his, coming to her feet without putting any strain on his grip. “Only if you let me do most of the work,” she replied.

  Gray heat flickered through the Modartha's eyes, and he tightened his grasp of her hand. “I believe we can arrange that.” He started walking slowly backward, leading her toward the stairs. “Horny, huh?"

  "Like a witchlet in heat,” she said in a low voice and felt her heart thud heavily against her ribcage at his wicked grin. The man was too devastatingly handsome for his own good.

  Together they climbed the stairs—his arm around her shoulders, hers around his waist. He ushered her into their room, then closed the door, engaged the lock, then turned to find her slowly removing her shirt. He took a step toward her.

  "No,” she said, holding up a hand. “What I want you to do is watch. Now be a good boy and go sit in the chair."

  He grinned and did as she ordered, padding barefoot over to the overstuffed chair that was one of his favorite possessions and sat down.

  "Do you remember the second time we met?” she asked as she finished unbuttoning her shirt, her bare breasts peeking from the opening as her fingers worked.

  "Aye,” he said, his voice husky as she peeled the soft cotton from her shoulders. “Do you?” He licked his lips as he stared at his woman's firm breasts.

  "From the moment I turned to find you watching me until I lay my head on your shoulder and went to sleep."

  His eyes darkened. “Did you dream while you lay in my arms, wench?"

  She nodded as she unhooked her long skirt and ran the zipper down.

  "Of what did you dream?"

  "I dreamt of you,” she said and let the skirt fall down her long legs to pool on the floor.

  Van sucked in a harsh breath for his lady had been completely naked beneath the skirt. “If I'd known you were practically bare in front of my brothers...” he began then had to swallow his jealousy.

  She came to him and dropped gracefully to the floor, pushing his knees wide apart as she wedged herself between them. “You talk too much, Modartha,” she said and put her hands on his knees, then ran them slowly up his thighs.

  "Wench...."

  "Entirely too much,” she said and shifted one hand so her palm slid between his legs to cup the hardness that was growing there. Her thumb swept back and forth over his erection. His balls in the soft cotton of his pale blue lounging pants nestled firmly in the palm of her hand.

  Van closed his mouth and his eyes and lay his head along the back of the chair. His lady had such soft, gentle hands and both of them were on his cock, manipulating it through the straining fabric. One hand was kneading his scrotum while the other stroked him tenderly. He smiled when he felt her tug down the elastic waistband of the pants and ease him from the constriction of the fabric. The moment her mouth closed around him, he groaned deep in his throat.

  "Like that, do you?” she asked, her lips sliding from him.

  "You know gods-be-damned well I do,” he growled. His hands were gripping the chair arm, his nails digging into the padded material.

  "Good."

  She swirled her tongue over the head, flicked it along the seam, licked him from base to tip and back again until he was so hard he was sure he could break bricks with his erection. She had insinuated her hand into the pants and was gently rolling his sac, stroking the most sensitive part of him with her middle finger as she caressed him.

  He moved his hands to her hair, reveling in the feel of her warm, wet mouth claiming him. He thrust his hips against her and squirmed in the seat, his blood burning for release, his body aching for it. When he was sure he couldn't hold himself back, she took her lips from him and he opened his eyes to see her get to her feet and hold her hand out.

  "Stand up, my Modartha,” she said and tugged on the hand he slipped into hers.

  When he was standing, she pushed his pants down his legs—squatting as she did—then prompted him to step out of them. She laughed when he crossed his arms at his waist then yanked his white t-shirt over his head in one quick movement, baring himself to her avid view.

  With her palms turned downward, her fingers lightly arched so she could graze his flesh as she got to her feet, she slowly dragged them up his long legs from the arch of his bare feet to the juncture of his thighs, loving the feel of the wiry hair tickling her palm.

  "Mother of the gods,” he whispered and shivered. “You've no idea what that just did to me."

  She cupped him. “I think I do,” she replied.

  The Modartha slid his arms around her and brought her curvaceous body to his. He put a hand to her chin and tipped her face up to his, devouring her slowly with his eyes for a long moment before he lowered his head to slant his mouth possessively across hers. His kiss was electric and every nerve ending in her body snapped to life.

  His cock was probing at her belly, seeking admittance farther down so Bailey pushed her palms up his back and ground her lower body to his. She heard his faint chuckle as he kissed her, the rumble low in his chest.

  "Wanton little wench,” he whispered against her mouth, then slid his palms
to her ass to lift her.

  Bailey obliged him by wrapping her legs around his waist. She figured if his side hurt him he'd never tell her anyway, but she was careful not to put too much pressure on that part of his body as he walked her over to the bed and eased her down. Like a lazy cat, she crawled into the center, giving him plenty of room to join her, then stretched, giving him a come-hither look that could have melted rock.

  "Wench...” he warned as he stretched out beside her and put a hand to her breast. “You do things to me that should be illegal and probably are on some worlds."

  She loved his strong, calloused hand on her flesh. The heat from his palm radiated all across her chest and when he leaned over her to draw her nipple deep into his mouth she threaded her fingers through his hair and held him to her. His tongue laved her, his teeth nipped and she purred beneath his gentle ministrations. When he slid his body over hers and used his knees to push her legs farther apart, she looked up into his dark gray eyes and smiled.

  "I love you, my Modartha,” she said. “I am so glad you came for me."

  "I will always come for you, wench,” he vowed. “And come and come and...."

  She drew in a quick breath as his steely cock thrust firmly into her silken sheath and seated itself fully within her. She clasped him with her legs and brought his head to her shoulder as he began the slow rhythm that would lead them to such dizzying heights.

  "Now you come for me, little wench,” he growled. “Come for me hard."

  The End

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