Faerie Fate Page 6

  Something on her face must have revealed her bewilderment. He strode across the room and took her suddenly cold hand in his big paw. “The O’Brien clann is raiding again,” he told her. “All tuatha loyal to Conchobhar O’Conor rally with an army to defeat them.”

  A shiver skittered down her spine. Ciaran was leaving. Echoes whispered in her mind. He cannot go ’til it is done. He cannot tempt fate this time.

  “What troubles you, cailín?” He released her hand and raised his arms as if to hug her.

  Becca stepped into the warmth of his embrace. Grateful for this gesture, his open arms encircled her. She was tall, the top of her head almost as high as his chin. He rubbed it across the silkiness of her hair.

  “I do not understand what is happening, Ciaran,” she whispered. “I do not know who I am, or who you are, but I fear for us both if you go away.”

  His lips brushed across her forehead as his heart leapt for joy. Witch she might be, but she had wrapped around his heart just as her arms now wrapped around his body. He could not let her go. “Three months, cailín, and the invaders will be defeated. I’ll be back before Albun Heruin.”

  Again, when her face betrayed her confusion, he added, “The summer solstice.”

  Becca opened her mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Instead, she simply turned her face to his, tears glistening in her eyes.

  He bent his head and tasted her lips, his mouth gentle and hesitant, as if this was the first time he’d ever kissed a woman. His lips were strong but soft, and his tongue flicked across her teeth, inviting her to open her mouth to him. He pressed his whole, hard length against her soft yielding one, then he shuddered, his arms tightening around her. She felt him harden, and she wanted to grind her hips against him. Instead, she kissed him back, her tongue seeking his. Her arms tightened around his back.

  “Nay, cailín,” his mouth murmured into hers. “I must go, though my heart aches to stay with you. Honor demands I answer the summons.” He tried to put distance between their bodies, but his was as reluctant to part as hers.

  She closed her eyes, unwilling to see the yearning in his. Her body felt heavy, achy, and in need of his touch, yet her heart and her mind shied away from what she wanted.

  “The binding,” the female voice demanded in her head.

  “The covenant,” the male insisted.

  “Oh, shut up,” she shouted.

  Ciaran released her so quickly she almost fell. She’d spoken out loud, and he assumed she was talking to him. She caught the flash of hurt in his eyes as he turned away from her and resumed his packing. “Crap,” she murmured under her breath. “Why do I keep doing this?” She waited a moment to see if her ghosts, as she now thought of them, would answer her. When they didn’t, she stepped closer to him.

  She reached out to touch his broad back, her fingers trembling as their tips brushed his shirt and found the man beneath the linen. It was like touching a wall but hard and smooth with muscle rather than stone. “Ciaran?” she whispered. He flinched away from her voice and her touch. “I’m sorry,” she added. He ignored her. “I’ll leave you to pack.” She turned to leave. As she reached the door, she felt the stirring of those voices in her head.

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” she demanded.

  “As you wish, mistress,” Ciaran’s cold voice answered.

  Becca whirled to face him, realizing she’d spoken out loud again. She’d lived alone for so long it was second nature for her to talk out loud to herself. Some days, her voice had been the only live voice she heard. As crazy as it might seem, the conversations she’d held with herself had been comforting.

  Ciaran glared at her, anger etched in every line of his face. She wanted nothing more than to run to him and kiss his hurt and anger away, but a part of her rebelled, chafing under her overwhelming, and inexplicable, need for him. Becca screwed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, letting it out with a slow huff. “I didn’t mean you, Ciaran.” She kept her voice carefully neutral.

  He spread his arms to encompass the entire room. “I see no one else,” he snarled.

  Becca dipped her face to her hands and rubbed her temples. She was getting a raging headache, probably from those two fiends arguing in her head. Another deep breath helped steady her nerves. “There is no time, Ciaran, to convince you, and I’m not sure I could if we had all the time in the world.”

  You could, a voice whispered, with the covenant.

  She shook her head, but wisely refrained from retorting to that voice in her head.

  “I don’t want you to leave, though I know you must. I...I don’t want your anger between us.” She walked toward him warily, watching his fury build like a thunderstorm on a hot summer afternoon, all sound and fury as it boiled higher into the sky. Emotions flickered across his face as quick as lightning. Standing in front of him, she had to tip her head only slightly to look him in the eye. A muscle jumped along his clenched jaw but he remained silent. “There is something between us, something I don’t understand, and it frightens me. I fight it, foolish as that may be, but I do not fight you.”

  She touched his cheek and felt him shudder all the way to his toes. His arms hung straight at his sides, while his fists clenched and unclenched. She wondered if he wanted to embrace her or throttle her. “Forgive me, Ciaran. I would not see you hurt. You have been nothing but honorable toward me, and I have repaid you badly. Please do not turn away from me because I am dimwitted at times.” Her hand traced his strong jaw, then trailed down his chest to lie against his heart. She could feel its strong, steady beat beneath her palm. “Stay safe, Ciaran, and return to me so we may resolve what is between us.” She waited a heartbeat, then two. He was still angry and refused to reply. Disheartened, she turned to leave again.

  As her hand withdrew, he snatched it and brought it to his mouth. His lips placed a searing brand in the exact center of her palm. With a growl, he loosed her hand and stormed out of the room after grabbing his leather satchel.

  Her knees shook so hard she sank to the floor as the door slammed behind him. Tears streamed unheeded down her face. Becca’s heart had been ripped out. No, she amended. Her very soul had just stomped out that door.

  Ciaran found Niall in the stable trying to bring order to chaos. The older man took a good look at his liege. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d seen the man this angry but could only guess at what had made him so. As he opened his mouth to ask, Ciaran spoke up.

  “Why, Niall?” he snarled. “What have I done to the gods that they would do this?”

  Niall rocked back on his heels, surprised at the vehemence in Ciaran’s voice. “But, Ciaran, you’ve been spoiling to fight.”

  “Nay, Niall,” the other growled. “I welcome the clean battle of war, for that is a fight I understand. ’Tis the other I don’t comprehend. Why is it the only woman to ever stir my blood is an addlepated waif who beguiles me on the one hand and rebukes me on the other?” Ciaran let out a huge sigh.

  Niall choked back a snicker. “She’s a woman,” he finally managed to say, almost choking on his suppressed laughter. Ciaran just looked pained. Niall allowed himself a brief moment of familiarity by putting his arm around the other man’s shoulders. That love should come so late to his Taoiseac was entertaining, despite the misgivings he felt about the tie between the two. Remembering the circumstances in which they’d found Becca, he reminded Ciaran. “We don’t know what befell the cailín before you rescued her. She still heals. Leave her to Siobhan and the Druid. We will go fight glorious battles against the O’Brien. When we return victorious, you can settle what is between you.” He thumped Ciaran heartily and led him off to finish preparations. “When we return, yee need to tup her before either of yee can think about it,” he counseled with a knowing chuckle.

  Siobhan found her huddled on the floor. Becca felt completely drained and her brain threatened to cease functioning. Overwhelmed, she could only look up at Siobhan helplessly. Giving her a hand up, the older wo
man led Becca down to the kitchens. Cooks and maids bustled about, getting provisions ready for the march. Siobhan found an empty bench near one of the hearths and parked Becca on it. In a few moments, Becca had a bowl of stew and a slice of cheese melting on a hunk of hot bread. Grateful, she tasted the stew and decided it was the most delicious thing she’d ever put in her mouth. When she expressed that opinion, Siobhan just laughed.

  “It’s been so long since you’ve eaten, week old gruel would be a feast,” the woman teased.

  As she ate, Becca watched, fascinated by all the activity. Life in a medieval castle wasn’t anything like she’d imagined. Maybe this wasn’t a dream. When she’d mopped up the last bit of liquid in her bowl with the last crust of bread and wolfed it down, she looked around for Siobhan. Her nurse was nowhere to be found. A maid hurried by, saw the empty bowl in Becca’s hands. She dropped a curtsy and snatched the bowl before sailing away. Feeling in the way, Becca slipped out of the kitchen. She found her way back to the great hall. Men rushed around, and she was afraid she’d get run over. Deciding her room was safer, she wearily climbed the stairs.

  She found Siobhan directing the filling of a tub with hot water. A dozen buckets lined the hearth, gently steaming. As Becca entered, Siobhan shooed out the men who had carried up the tub and the buckets.

  “Come, cailín, out of those clothes and into the bath,” she directed.

  She didn’t need a second invitation. Siobhan had her out of her dress in moments and Becca peeled off the shift underneath. She trailed her hand through the water, relishing its warmth. Stepping into the tub with care, she sat down and sank up to her chin. This was pure heaven. Warmth seeped into her muscles and she relaxed. The fragrant steam rising from the water smelled of roses and something spicy she couldn’t put a name to. Once she was settled, Siobhan scurried out the door, intent on some mission of her own.

  Half asleep, Becca didn’t hear the door open, nor did she hear Ciaran’s sharp intake of breath when he saw her. By the gods, but she is beautiful, he swore. Her breasts were full but firm. Her narrow waist flared to hips perfect for cradling a man. Ciaran grew so stiff his trews actually strained the laces. Golden curls nestled at the top of her thighs. Then he got a good look at her legs—long, muscular, with dainty ankles. He yearned to have those legs wrapped around his middle as he plunged into her time and time again. A strangled cry tore its way from his throat.

  Becca knew without looking who’d made that sound. She held her breath waiting for him to speak, hoping he would, afraid he wouldn’t.

  “Ah, cailín,” he cried. “If yee’d but let me love yee...” His anguished voice trailed off.

  Becca wanted nothing more than to jump up and run to him, throw her arms around him, and kiss him until the hurt went away. She’d never felt this way about any man before, and it bewildered her. Still, she longed to comfort him.

  “Please,” she whispered, “don’t let me blow it this time.” Louder, she simply said his name, trying to put all of her feelings into the one word.

  “If I touch you now, cailín, I’ll never leave.” He groaned. “My honor—” His voice thickened with emotion, and he couldn’t finish.

  “Then go, Ciaran. Go quickly so you can return to me that much sooner.”

  Before Becca could voice her next thought, Ciaran scooped her out of the tub and kissed her. His heart pounded an urgent rhythm against her breast as his mouth devoured hers.

  She responded, cupping his cheeks in her hands. He carried her to the bed still ravaging her lips with his. She squirmed against him, her hands working inside his shirt, seeking bare skin.

  Ciaran laid her on the coverlet then broke away. He stood swaying with the effort it took to release her. “Ah, cailín.” Those two words whispered across her naked skin, a caress as warm and seductive as a lover’s touch. His eyes memorized her body.

  Becca closed her eyes, waiting for what she was sure would come. She opened them when she heard the door close quietly. Her body didn’t feel like her own. She was hot, achy, and her middle was tied in knots. Her breasts ached for the feel of his hands, and her lips felt cold without the touch of his.

  “Wow,” she sighed. “Nobody should be able to kiss like that.”

  Chilled and stark naked, she wrapped up in what she thought was a dark plaid blanket tossed carelessly across the foot of the bed. Woven of rusty red and gray wool, with touches of yellow and lavender, it smelled of Ciaran—wild, woodsy, clean—like the outdoors, but with an underlying musky scent, too, one that was all man. That scent twisted her insides all over again.

  The blanket was warm, as if Ciaran had just thrown it aside. Becca found an intricate brooch pinned to one corner. This was Ciaran’s mantle—more than a cloak, less than a blanket—a very practical combination of the two. She buried her nose in it and inhaled, wanting to keep Ciaran’s scent with her always.

  Shouts from outside and down below in the great hall propelled her to her feet. The men were leaving. Ciaran was leaving.

  Becca wrapped the mantle around her like a toga. She ran from the room but stopped on the top step of the stairs, unaware her guard had stopped behind her. Men milled about the great hall, Niall and a few others shouting orders. Ciaran stood in the midst of it all, a wild warrior tall and strong.

  Becca couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t just handsome. He was beautiful in the way the Rocky Mountains were with their rugged majesty, the way a desert sunset was all crimson fire, blazing across a blue sky, so brilliant one had to squint. Her eyes filled with rainbows as she blinked away tears.

  Ciaran looked up and stopped breathing. Like some ethereal fae, Becca stood at the top of the stairs wrapped in his mantle. Her hair framed her face and bare shoulders in a golden nimbus. The subtle reds and grays of his plaid suited her. His chest swelled as he remembered to breathe. The sight of her standing on the stairs wearing nothing but his colors was one he would gladly take to his grave. He touched his heart with his fingertips then made a fist. Extending his clenched hand toward her, he opened his fist, hoping she’d understand.

  Becca recognized what Ciaran’s gesture meant. She stretched out her hand and envisioned it gently wrapping around his. She drew back her fist, laid it above her heart and then spread out her hand. Ciaran had offered her his heart. In return, she’d taken over the safekeeping of it in her own.

  Ciaran smiled at her, lust, need, and something deeper, more profound shining in his eyes. Becca kissed the tips of the first and second fingers on her left hand and blew him the kiss. He caught it and pressed his hand to his lips. Abruptly, he turned away from her, his voice rising above the babble around him.

  “We ride!”

  Chapter Five

  Realizing she’d be able to see the courtyard from the window in Ciaran’s chamber, Becca sprinted back down the hallway. Stretching up on tiptoe, she could just barely look out the high window. Frustrated, she grabbed the bench by the hearth and tugged it over. By standing on it, she could lean out the window to see the gate and most of the courtyard. Two detachments of mounted men awaited their commander. One group carried shields and either long swords or lances. The other detachment had bows and quivers full of arrows. These were the famous Irish hobelars—mounted archers who could dash from one crucial front to another in a battle.

  Becca recognized Niall as he gracefully vaulted onto his warhorse. Her heart lurched, and her throat closed off as Ciaran came into sight. Already mounted, he was utterly magnificent, like some pagan war god.

  Their eyes met across the distance. As foreign as the idea seemed, she truly cared for this man. He was a stranger, yet that mattered little. She was afraid for him. Would he be safe? Her emotions were in turmoil. She feared he wouldn’t come back even as she was afraid he would. Once Ciaran returned, all that was between them would break open like some raging flood smashing through a dam.

  She finally understood this man held her fate in his hand, just as she did his. She laid her hand against her heart to show him she was k
eeping his safe. He smiled and she watched the stormy ocean blue of his eyes soften to the color of the summer sky.

  She returned his smile even as she raised her chin in a show of bravery she didn’t necessarily feel. She would survive this as she’d survived everything else in her life. She held his gaze until he wheeled his stallion and called his troops together.

  Horses snorted and stamped, kicking up a fine coating of dust. Metal jangled and leather creaked as the troop lined up for departure. A few wives darted forward for a last kiss. Children and dogs milled around creating little eddies in the tide of people.

  Ciaran watched the controlled turmoil with a practiced eye. In his heart, he was a soldier. Until this moment, he’d lived for the call to arms. Now? Now, his heart ached at the thought of leaving Becca.

  Earlier in the great hall, his men had been too busy to notice her dressed only in his mantle standing at the top of the stairs. He’d forced himself to turn away and chuckled, now thinking, Aye, and I would have had to kill any man who noticed.

  As he was about to give the order to ride out, movement in the window of his chamber caught his eye. She was there, framed by the dark stone of the castle walls. The wind caught the golden web of her silken hair and playfully tugged it toward him, as if she were casting a net to catch and hold him. His stomach clenched. Only his willpower and devotion to honor kept him in the saddle. Every muscle, every sinew, every part of him longed to rush to her side, to hold her and kiss her and bury himself inside her, making her his for all time.

  Gods, but she was beautiful. She drove him to distraction with her vacillation, but once he returned from this campaign, he’d have her one way or another. The thought of her lying beneath him rode him hard, a burr under his saddle festering into a sore spot. Then she touched her hand to her heart. Ciaran steeled himself to turn from her, to tear himself away from the promise in her eyes.

  He rode through the gate at the head of his troops, not once turning to confirm she was there. Ciaran knew. He could feel the warmth of her gaze burning into his back. He planned on making short work of the thieving O’Brien so he could return to his golden witch. Nay, his heart whispered, not witch but fae.