Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

H unger roared through Cillian, and he fought not to hold her too tight as his arms constricted around her. Jenna tasted sweet, hot, and carnal. He groaned, sliding his tongue against hers with sensual greed. Her arms twined around his neck, holding him close, and her soft moan kissed over his cock; an intense jolt of lust hardened his length with such swiftness that for a heartbeat, he felt light-headed. Slowly, he gentled their kiss and lifted his head.

"Hullo, Jenna."

She touched the corner of his mouth with a gloved finger, her touch light and intimate. "Hullo, again."

"Will you join me for supper?"

A beguiling smile curved her mouth. "Is it not too early for supper?"

"By the time I have finished cooking, the sun will lower."

Her dark blue eyes widened in surprise and amusement. " You plan to cook?"

He caressed the back of his knuckle over her nose as she wrinkled it most charmingly. "Accept my invitation and prepare for your gluttonous appetite to be delighted."

Her warm laughter rolled over his skin and settled deep inside a place that had grown cold the moment she left.

By God, it has only been a few days, Jenna, and I damn well missed you so much , he silently told her.

She must have seen something in his stare because her cheeks pinkened, and she danced away from him, her movements light and graceful. The tan trousers clung tightly to her alluring curves, the white shirt flowed below her lush derriere, and her hair rippled boldly over her shoulders. She showed him all sides of her, the genteel lady and the hellion, a captivating blend that made his heart race.

"The gleam in your eyes is appreciated," she drawled, a playful note in her voice.

Cillian allowed his gaze to linger on her, taking in the confident sway of her hips and the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. Every inch of her exuded a magnetic allure that drew him in, making him acutely aware of how much he had missed her presence. He walked to her, dragged her into his arms and kissed her once again until she softened against him.

"I missed you," he murmured against her mouth, for he had vowed to show her all facets of himself.

Her lips parted, and questions lingered in her gaze, but she did not voice them.

I have no wish to speak of the past or the future.

The phantom voice of her words seemed to whisper in the space between them, and he understood that whatever connection they had now would only be mired in the present, and no future existed for them. Once, his pride would have made him turn away because he wanted all of her, and he was not a man who did anything in half measure. However, Cillian would accept the small pieces she entrusted to him.

"Come with me," he said, walking away to collect his bag of game.

Cillian led Jenna to a secluded brook. The clear water babbled over smooth stones, and the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shadows on the ground.

"I have two grouse and a pheasant. What will be your pleasure?"

"You are cooking them here?"

"Yes."

"You only have three birds?" she asked teasingly, "I thought you knew and respected my appetite."

He grinned. She watched in evident fascination as Cillian expertly cleaned one of the birds. With practiced efficiency, he plucked the feathers, removed the innards, and rinsed the bird in the clear brook water that rushed over rocks downstream. He gathered dry twigs and branches, arranging them carefully in a small pit he had dug. He struck sparks into the kindling using flint and steel until a small flame caught and grew. He fed the fire gradually, adding larger sticks until it was robust enough to cook their meal.

"You have done this before," she said.

"Many times," he replied, his hands steady and sure. "It's one of the simple pleasures I enjoy."

He removed a bag containing his salt and herbs from the sack and liberally applied them to the three birds. The flames danced and crackled, casting a warm glow on her lovely face, which seemed captivated. Cillian always enjoyed doing tasks in silence, and he liked that she patiently watched him.

Or perhaps it was her admiration and the heat in her gaze he enjoyed.

Cillian skewered the cleaned birds on spits he had fashioned from nearby branches and positioned them over the fire, turning them slowly to ensure even cooking.

The aroma of the roasting game soon filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the forest. Jenna's stomach growled in anticipation, and he smiled at the simple yet profound pleasure of sharing this moment with her.

As they waited for the birds to cook, he took a seat beside her on a moss-covered log. The tranquil setting, the comforting sound of the brook, and the company of the woman beside him made Cillian feel an unexpected sense of peace.

"Your hands move with such confident precision. Who taught you? Or is it a skill that was honed by necessity and survival?"

"I learned many years ago as a lad. Mr. Murphy, the blacksmith who works at my estate and the village, taught me."

Her eyes widened in astonishment. "How unusual. Somehow, I presumed your closeness with your workers happened after you inherited the viscounty."

A small grunt escaped him, but he said no more, leaning over to turn the birds on the spit.

"Cillian?"

He turned to her, and their damn faces were so close he only needed to shift slightly, and they could kiss.

She brushed a finger over his chin. "Will you tell me about it?"

It gutted him to see that she braced for a rejection. How closed off was I from you before, Jenna ?

"My father did not love me." Cillian jerked, then stilled, for somehow, he had not shaped the words in his mind before they spilled forth.

"Why?"

He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked away, leaning back against the towering tree behind them and peering up in the canopy.

"The why hardly matters; he simply did not. There was a time when I followed him and did everything I could to please him. He enjoyed cricket, and I learned to play. He admired Handel, and I asked for a music tutor. My father hunted frequently; I ventured outside, tried to learn, and almost shot off my foot."

"How old were you?" she softly asked.

"I was a lad of eight."

"Eight?"

"Yes," he murmured. "I was a young fool."

"You were not," she said softly. "I see courage and determination, not foolhardiness."

Jenna scooted over on the log until her shoulder was pressed against his. Her warmth seeped into him, and some tension eased from Cillian's frame.

"The blacksmith happened to be cutting through our lands and saw me. That day, he gave me pointers on how to handle a hunting gun … and that was the beginning of it. I wanted to learn everything to impress my father and show him that I was a capable son. Murphy taught me how to fish, swim, hunt game and clean and cook them. I wanted to show my father everything I knew and invited him out in the woods to show him."

He fell silent, the memory annoying him. He felt the familiar dread of rejection, a lingering remnant of the person he used to be. A part of him wanted to snap at Jenna to leave his past alone, and he ruthlessly suppressed it.

She deserves to know all of me, always . Even if revisiting his past felt like a poison-tipped dagger piercing his heart.

"Did your father not appreciate your efforts?"

Cillian roughly cleared his throat. "Though I waited for almost four hours, he never showed."

Jenna gasped. "He never showed?"

"Yes."

"Then what did you do?"

"I invited him repeatedly, almost every day for a month before I stopped."

"That rotten face, bacon brain waggle tackle fool!" she burst out with furious passion. "How dare he be so callous?"

Cillian was so shocked he damn well nearly choked on the air. Then he laughed, his shoulders shaking. "What is a waggle tackle?"

She sheepishly grinned. "I have no notion; it just felt appropriate."

"Ah, there is no need to be so indignant. He is not here to face your ire, and that last day I waited in these very woodlands, I stopped trying to earn his approval."

"Why was he so … cruel?"

Cillian was silent for several beats. "The old viscount was uncertain that he was my father."

Her eyes widened. "Utter rubbish!"

Her fierceness warmed him.

"My father had blonde hair and light blue eyes," he said.

"Well, then you resemble your mother," Jenna said tartly.

"I do not," he said with a light chuckle. "There is a slight resemblance, but it seems the viscount saw nothing of himself in me. My mother loved someone before she married my father. He believed they remained lovers, though my mother vehemently denied it."

"How awful," Jenna whispered.

"Hmm, it also did not help that my mother presumably named me after her Irish lover."

Jenna's breath audibly hitched, and Cillian lowered his gaze and peered into her shocked eyes.

Ah, Jenna, now you know one of my most guarded secrets. Your move.