The O'Madden: A Novella (The Celtic Legends Series), Page 2

  Now it did matter. It pleased her that this giant had followed her so silently. It spoke well of the man that he had the patience to wait for his pleasure. She nestled the turnip gourd on a bed of ivy. The flame glowed bright as tallow oozed out. A gust of wind swept across the clearing, setting the flame to flickering.

  They had so little time.

  And yet he paused. He released her hand and trailed to the edge of the hillside. The moon pearled the slopes and inked the shadows of the valley a deep blue. A stream silvered its way across the darkness like a still bolt of lightning. On a distant hill a spark of orange glowed— another village’s All Hallows’ Eve fire.

  He murmured, “You know these lands well.”

  She cast her gaze down, letting him believe what he would.

  “A man might think that you’ve led me through the veils to Tír na nÓg.”

  “A woman,” she whispered, “might think you believe in the illusions of a child’s imagination.”

  “This valley is no illusion.” He breathed in the crisp autumn air. “In my life, I’ve never seen such a majestic place.”

  She peered past him to the landscape cast in the moon’s glow. “Are the fairies playing tricks on you, with you seeing castles in common pasturage?”

  “You must have lived here all your life if you don’t know how uncommon such beauty is.”

  She gazed over the landscape, thinking aye, the moon cast a veil of silver upon the hills, but surely the sight was as simple as grass. She found herself wondering again what kind of place he came from that he found such beauty in tilled fields and sod huts. As he turned and looked at her again, he chased the curiosity from her mind.

  “We’ve traveled far afield of hearth and bonfire, lass.”

  She hoped the sheen of the moon would not reveal the darkening of her cheeks.

  “A man might think you don’t fear the creatures of this night,” he continued. “A man might think you’ve bewitched me, only to turn into a swan or a white cow, come morning.”

  “I have the lantern to protect us,” she said, thinking how strange it was that this rough-handed giant knew of the gentle side of the old Irish tales, when most men spoke only of the legends of gore and war: The Fenian warriors, the bloody feats of Cu Chulainn, the lost honor of King Cormac.

  “That lantern,” he said, “will long sputter out by the time we’re done.”

  “By then I will have you to keep me safe.”

  She couldn’t believe what she’d just said. Yet the words shimmered between them, sparking a gleam in his eye, curling a smile up one side of his mouth. A smile that spoke of intimate knowledge, as if he’d danced this dance a thousand times before and savored each move. She began to tremble, from much, much more than the cold.

  “Fairies don’t shiver.” He swept open his cape. “Come. I’ve room enough in this cloak for two.”

  He folded the cloak around her like great black wings. She found herself pillowed in a burrow of warmth, her senses swimming with the spiced-cider scent of him.

  “No fairy, this,” he muttered, splaying his hands across her back. “I feel the heat of your blood.”

  His lips trailed down her temple and over her cheek. She turned her head to meet his mouth, but he teased her by grazing her lips then moving on to kiss her eyes, her brow, and then down the other side of her face. His lips pulled a strand of her hair, damp from his kisses, across her eyes. She turned her face again, seeking those lips. He captured her upper lip in his mouth and then pressed his forehead against hers.

  “You’re a rare feast, little fairy.” He brushed a tress off the corner of her lips. “I’ll taste the full of you before the night is through.”

  He sucked on her trembling lip as his words drew a world full of pictures in her head. Her body trembled, trembled, she couldn’t seem to stop it—the warmer she became in the cocoon of his cloak, the more she trembled, as if she were shaking off some brittle shell to reveal the creature within, this bold and fearless woman who pressed close to this man’s body as if she knew exactly what she wanted.

  He passed one hand down the length of her hair, beneath the fall of her cloak, into the hollow of her back, which was aching and tender. Everywhere he touched swelled, rising to the merest brush of those callused hands. She flattened her hands against his chest and felt the hammer of his heart beneath the layers of wool. She ran her fingers up, up, over those shoulders while the rest of her body quivered. Still he teased her with kisses along her jaw. Still he teased her until her lips tingled.

  When she could bear it no longer, she dared to put her hands on either side of his face and guide his lips toward hers. She kissed silent his husky, knowing laugh. She kissed him quiet, kissed him until he kissed her back, until a trill of urgency shimmered between them.

  He lifted her from the ground. “We can do it your way, fairy-woman, if that’s your pleasure this night.”

  She had only a moment to wonder what she’d unleashed when he strode back toward the fallen log and the flickering spark of the turnip-gourd, with her breasts crushed against his chest and her legs dangling beneath the sweep of his cloak. Her face was level with his, so she could see his eyes so turbulent and intense with only a shadow of humor remaining.

  Then the world tilted. The bare boughs of the trees swung into her vision and the grass gave beneath her back. He swooped down upon her and his cloak fluttered down to shroud them in warmth.

  He thrust his thigh between her legs so high that she found herself arching into him. Then came what she’d expected of the night—the swift eager press of hands on her body, the rushed tug of laces, and his hot breath against her face. He’d offered her the tenderness she’d thought she would crave, and now she thanked God and the stars that he’d given her instead this hungry eager mating.

  What she hadn’t expected was that she would want him—and what he was going to do to her—like she’d never wanted anything before. She welcomed his tongue into her mouth, drew it in, let her own tongue seek the warmth inside his mouth, too. When he finally thrust his hand beneath her kirtle and scraped his callused palm over her breast, she moaned with thrill of it, and felt her nipple tighten to a peak.

  This is madness, this is madness. This must be the same hungry lust that animated all those young people by the fires—but no, it felt like more than that. She sensed even in her madness that when this loving was over it wouldn’t leave dry, dusty ashes.

  Crazed, disjointed thoughts flew through her mind. A man shouldn’t have hair so soft. How sweet the grass smelled crushed beneath them. Oh, what was he doing, scraping his fingers up her leg, over her knee, beyond her thigh? She shifted her weight so she could better feel his hips against hers. Then his fingers splayed over the joint between her leg and hip, and she found herself letting her legs fall open, welcoming whatever he would do with his hand.

  What he did with his hand made her squeeze her eyes shut. What he kept doing made her arch up against his palm, hungry for more. She dug her fingers into his back and sucked chill air into her lungs only to breathe it out like fire. A sound rumbled in his chest and suddenly he was tearing at his clothes, shifting his weight off her only to shift it back on her again. With one fierce tug he hiked her skirts to her waist. She felt the brush of his hose against her naked thighs, and, as he guided her knees open on either side of his hips, she felt something else. She felt him, hard and insistent and nudging the place where she needed him most.

  No thoughts of duty kept her stoic now. No hesitation. All that existed in this silvery clearing was Maeve the woman, the man she’d chosen, and this passion she’d never known herself capable of.

  She cried out in pain at the first thrust of his hips, but the moment passed in an instant. He said something, an exclamation muffled in the sweep of her hair, then buried himself in her again. She squeezed her eyes shut at the unfamiliar tightness that felt so very right. She did what instinct bid her and arched up to meet his next thrust. He gasped and gripped her by the hi
p and moved his body against hers, sliding himself out and easing himself in, at first slowly, then faster, while her heart thundered against his.

  Breathless, she felt something coming over her—something she couldn’t stop—so she dug her fingers into his back as she cried out, falling away beneath the blinding white stars as he stiffened atop her and filled her with warmth.

  Sometime later, as slowly as a drifting feather, she floated back to the coolness of the clearing. The tallow candle in the turnip gourd sifted blue-gray smoke. She became conscious that he was still warm and firm inside her. She didn’t know a man could do that after he’d already filled her with his seed.

  It is done.

  But maybe it wasn’t, because he lifted his face from the pillow of her hair and gazed at her through half-lidded eyes.

  “Aren’t you a strange one,” he said. “So full of secrets.”

  “I’m thinking that there are not many secrets between us anymore.”

  “There is at least one less.” He traced the curve of her cheek. “What kind of peculiar place do you come from that a man hasn’t lured such a beauty as you into the grass before now?”

  She started. Glenna had told her men took their pleasure and paid little mind to the pain it inflicts upon the woman. Glenna had told her that a man wouldn’t even notice the loss of her maidenhead— he’d roll over and snore when the thing was done.

  He said gently, “You should have told me, lass. I mistook your innocence for eagerness.” The finger continued down her jaw and over her neck. “You’ve a look as cool as ice, but you have a body as hot as fire. I couldn’t tell by looking at you that I was the first man you’ve lain with. Had I known, I would have been gentler.”

  “You’re … you’re not supposed to notice such things.”

  “Only a fumbling young man or a drunk wouldn’t.”

  “You’re supposed to grunt and have the thing done with, with no care at all for the woman.”

  He pulled back a fraction. “Someone has been filling your mind with foolishness. Is that what happened here tonight?”

  “No.”

  The word slipped out before she could catch it. Well, there would be no hiding it, not while she lay under him with his body still locked in hers, warm and wet. She’d enjoyed the mating, obviously. She’d certainly waited for it long enough.

  She murmured, “Clearly, I chose well tonight.”

  A corner of his lips twitched, but curiosity lingered in those eyes. “I’ll take the compliment. But I still don’t know why.”

  The reasons whirled up a rush of quiet anguish. How she’d love to spill the secrets of her heart in the darkness. She had so few people to talk to about such things. She’d spent a lifetime guarding her troubles, searching for answers alone, with no one but Glenna to guide her. And tonight she felt like the Maeve of her dreams, the woman who had choices.

  But of all people who walked the earth, this man was the last one she could tell.

  He pressed two fingers to her mouth as she started to speak. “I see there’s a whole web of reasons, lass, I see them spinning in your pretty eyes.”

  She wondered why he would ask only to stop her.

  “No half-truths,” he said. “Not now. Not after this. I’d rather leave it at silence than doubt what you say.”

  She tried to read the strange flicker of emotions passing across his face. It was almost as if he knew that her reasons would change things. She waited for him to say something more, breathless. An owl hooted from the woods. She waited as night creatures crackled through leaves.

  Finally, he said, “I know this much. You’re no Caer of the legend, doomed to change into a swan the morning after Samhain. You’re too hot-blooded for that.” He lowered his lips to hers. “Reason can wait until daylight.”

  He touched her again, but differently this time. He anointed her with every brush of his fingers. He christened her with every teasing hot-lipped kiss. With wonder she ran her fingers under his tunic, on the bare tough flesh of his abdomen, through the light, crisp hair of his chest. A world opened to her and she learned greedily, eagerly, like the Caer of the legend he’d spoken about, forced to live a lifetime in an evening before the break of dawn turned her into a swan.

  Sheened with the breath of moonlight, Maeve threw away all sense. She opened her heart and her body to this gentle stranger.

  But time did pass. The moon slipped across the open sky, then sank behind the lace of the bare trees. Night dew settled on the grass like fairy’s breath then crystallized into a veil of frost. When Maeve finally blinked her eyes open, the first fingers of dawn had already curled up over the eastern horizon.

  The giant moaned in his sleep and shifted. In the pale blue light, she gazed upon him. For all the crookedness of his nose and the nicks that scarred his face, in sleep he looked as tousled and careless as a boy. She slipped out from under the edge of his cloak.

  Never before had she so hated the song of the lark.

  His voice rumbled from beneath the cloak. “Don’t wander far, lass.”

  She looked down into the blue brightness of one eye that he’d squinted open. She forced a smile onto her lips. “I won’t.”

  She waited until he closed his eyes. She waited until he turned his head into the crook of his arm. Still she waited, staring down at those broad shoulders, the thickness of one thigh hiked up outside his cloak, memorizing the color of his hair, the slope of his back, the smell of him, and the hundred thousand impressions of an unforgettable night.

  Then she swiveled one heel on the grass. She headed through the fencing of trees as hot tears blinded her. When she’d walked far enough away, she yanked her skirts into her fists and began to run.

  At least, she thought, her eyes burning, the poor fatherless child he’d just put in her womb will have been conceived in joy.

  Two

  Garrick kneed his mount out of the forest and into the rolling lands of Birr. The tavern-keeper in the last town had told him that the castle stood just beyond these woods. Garrick paused to peer through the mist still clinging to the valley. All he saw were some bow-backed cattle lowing on the slope above.

  No hint of a castle.

  He frowned. The castle had probably disappeared into thin air, just like that woman from All Hallows’ Eve. He clenched the reins, breathing in the clean air, trying to accustom himself to the silence. He’d scented the magic in this place the minute he’d arrived from the stinking, narrow streets of Wexford to seek his fortune. Amid these mists, how easily a man could be lured into enchantment by a dark-haired beauty on a pagan evening.

  For two days he’d searched for her and no one had ever seen her nor knew her name. She’d sailed off to places unknown like the ships he used to watch in Wexford harbor when he was a boy, leaving him on the docks like some sailor’s forgotten wife. The pilgrim with whom Garrick had broken the fast had dubbed him bewitched. He said that Garrick would have no rest until he rid himself of the memory of her. As if he could forget night-black hair like Assyrian silk, skin the smoothness of country cream, and eyes as gray as mist. As if he could forget her husky, uncertain laughter or the heat of her body moving beneath him under the stars.

  He would find her. If he had to seek the doors of the Otherworld, he’d find her, as surely as he would eventually find the Castle of Birr.

  Then he would claim both as his own.

  He kicked his mount up the hill on a trail no wider than a cow-path. The flaxen waves of a harvested wheat field came into view, then, in the distance, the blades of a mill. As he reached the height of the hillock, he saw another building. It was a tumbled-down square donjon of stone, planted by a river.

  Passing a few sheep nibbling at the stubble of a field, Garrick spied a young boy sleeping with his hood pulled over his eyes. He called out to him in Irish. The boy started and then, seeing horse and rider, he stumbled to his feet. The stripling’s clothes hung off his bones as he hurried closer.

  “That castle, up ahead,” Ga
rrick asked. “Is it the castle of Birr?”

  “Yes, milord. And the village, too.”

  And a damn sorry sight, it was. The wooden roof was caved in and the stones of the walls looked as green as pond scum. Surely ten years or more had passed since a man had put his back to fixing the surrounding wall. Just outside that barrier, a clutch of huts sagged under dirty thatch.

  Garrick resisted the urge to laugh. What a fine trick his great English lord of a father had played. In his father’s mind, a son who was nothing but a by-blow from a summer night’s dalliance with an Irish laundress deserved no better than a sorry place like this. But Garrick knew that being lord of the meanest castle was better than digging another man’s turnips. It sure as hell was better than sweating under the casks and bales and boxes on the docks of Wexford, or having his back striped by the snapping end of a cat-o-nine-tails on a merchant ship. What his fool of an aristocratic father would never understand was that this was the finest pot of gold a bastard of Wexford could ever have received.

  Garrick waved the boy toward the castle. “Go tell your people that the new lord of Birr has arrived.”

  The boy clutched his hood and set off on a run. His bare feet flew as he sped across the field to the first thatched hut. Garrick kicked his horse to follow at a more leisurely pace. The fine woolen clothes he’d had made in Wexford were not as loose and comfortable as the well-beaten linen shirt and braies he preferred wearing. These fine clothes hung on him as awkwardly as his new title but he straightened his shoulders under them nonetheless.

  Women scurried out of the huts, spindles and pots still in hand, to watch as he passed. What a bony, sunken-faced tribe, he thought, dirty in threadbare clothes no dockworker would dare to be seen in. A young girl scratched in the dirt, a bowl of wheat and a crushing-stone lying beside her. Her mother snatched her hand and yanked her to her feet as Garrick nudged his horse up a shallow rise, through the rock-pile fence, and toward the square tower of the castle of Birr. The villagers followed him at a distance like nervous hunting hounds.