Free The Irish Warrior by Kris Kennedy

startling rush of heat his touch brought to her face and other, less moonlit regions of her body. Nothing moved in the night. She looked down, he looked up, then he cupped her bottom with both hands and pushed her the rest of the way up the wall.
    Flinging herself to the top, she spun and crouched down, hand extended. Finian leapt up without effort and without touching her hand. He smiled as he came up, just the slightest all-knowing, roguish lift to the corner of his mouth. That was about how he’d touched her when he hoisted her up the wall. She ignored it and turned, still in a crouch, to peer over the other side.
    He crouched beside her, his body hot and strong. Ten feet below was a small pile of clippings from the castle garden. Ten feet was nigh on two of her.
    â€œâ€™Tis a long way down,” she whispered tautly.
    He turned in her direction. His face was shadowed. “Not so far, lass.”
    â€œFar enough.” Could he hear panic in her voice? It had frozen her fingers to the lip of the wall.
    He nodded slowly. “It seems far.”
    â€œI don’t think I can.” Shameful, shameful fear. Was she to crouch here on the bailey wall then, until someone spotted them?
    â€œWould it help if I pushed ye?”
    She almost laughed. “Aye, that would help immen—”
    He put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her off the wall. She didn’t have time to scream or even feel scared, before she landed with a soft bump on the mound of rotting flora. She scrambled to her feet just as he dropped down beside her.
    â€œYou’ve lost your wits,” she hissed.
    In a flash, he towered above her. The heat from his powerful torso shimmered between them, hovering at the edges of her tunic. Senna threw her head back, startled.
    â€œMistress, I’m fairly certain ye’re a few stones shy of a full load yerself.” He lightly touched her upper arm for emphasis. “Now, hush.”
    She shivered at the rush of something his fingers created. She could not rip her eyes from the sight of him, so close. His torso was long and lean but sturdy, wide shoulders tapered in clean, muscular lines to trim hips and powerful thighs. Corded muscles in his neck and arms were defined by the moonlight, and tangled black hair spilled down past his shoulders. His face was carved in moonlit angles, his chin square and firm. The growth of hair on his face made him appear rough-hewn and wild, but then there was that heart-stopping smile.
    The Irishman was sinfully handsome.
    Her breathing grew shallow, but the rush of heat to her face was simply a result of the drama of the escape. Surely.
    It was the rush of heat to her loins that was so bewildering.
    His dark eyes flicked back to hers in question. “Which way?”
    She looked around. The castle grounds, while tumbling into disrepair, were enormous, built over the years into a veritable village within the castle walls, filled with twisting turns and dead ends. Keeping an eye on the buttressed main gate was only minimally helpful, because they could not take a straight path toward it, across the wide-open training fields. They must keep to shadows and corners.
    A series of low, thatched buildings ran in a fairly straight line away from them just now, and would provide some concealment. But beyond that dubious shelter, there could be anything. Guards, swords, battle.
    â€œThis way,” she said firmly, starting off, then hesitated. “I think.”
    His eyes gleamed in the moonlit dark. “As ye say.”
    â€œBut I am not certain—”
    â€œYe’ve a better sense of the keep than I,” he said shortly. “Do not doubt yerself.”
    She marched off. “You’d best be alert, Irishman, for I’ve no idea to what end I lead us.”
    â€œI am ever alert. There is no need to caution me in that.” His soft voice wafted through her hair, and her skin prickled in unwelcome response.
    Soon the main gate