She stole a glance over her shoulder to see if he dared to follow her and force upon her his attentions. What she glimpsed was him standing before his horse, scratching its nose.
Humph! she thought. He lets me walk away. He is the biggest fool of all!
Chapter 4
Bron watched the shimmer of the setting sun on the western horizon, his eyes watering from the brilliance. It shone with the dazzling radiance of polished gold. Beside him on the high cashel wall sat Coup de Grace; like Bron, his legs dangled over the edge.
“’Tis like seeing there and beyond,” said Coup philosophically, nursing a gourd of brew. “I’ve never missed a sunset in all my time at Rath Morna.”
“And how long has that been?” asked Bron, reaching out of habit with his sword hand for the gourd. His fingers passed right through it. Muttering under his breath, he switched hands and successfully brought the gourd to his mouth and took a long pull. The fire of it near burned through his gullet, but tonight he felt the need to numb his senses and to put to rest the harpies of his mind. He was homesick for the sea…for the bite of a rousing gale, the crash of waves on ragged cliffs, and the cree of a hundred gulls soaring in a snapping blue sky.
“I know naught. I’ve always been here.” Coup scratched his bearded face.
Bron stared over at him curiously. Did all those enslaved in Sheelin’s court believe so? He handed the gourd to Coup and asked, “Then you know something of Lady Eithne.”
“I know she is a witch and loves nothing more than tricking lads like yerself to a misfortunate end.” His voice dropped to a whisper. Furtively, he leaned closer to Bron, shielding his mouth with his hand. “There’s no cure for wickedness. Keep yer wits about ye or she’ll trip you into a pretty puddle.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m a saying when you go to her at night be prepared for her sorcery. All know she’s a shapeshifter.”
“Have you seen her shape shift?”
“Nay, but all tell they’ve never seen the like of beasties she can become. And the secret ye must know is how to handle yerself.”
“Oh? What must I do?” asked Bron. He was surprised that the Lady Eithne had such a reputation among the weird monstrosities of the court. It was like the crow calling the raven black.
“Ye must hold her tight no matter what happens, for that is the only way to save yerself.”
Bron was becoming quite mellow from the ale. He chuckled. “’Twill not be so unpleasant a task to hold her close.”
Coup sneered. “Aye, especially when she rips out yer gizzard.”
“And would she do that?”
“Aye! And more. Take heed. ’Tis not every man gets the advantage of my counsel. Drink nothing she gives you. Never shut yer eyes in her presence or ye might open them to find yerself changed into a wee toad.”
The image brought a smile to Bron’s lips. He reached again for more drink. “It might not be such a bad life to be a wee toad in the pocket of Lady Eithne.”
“Hah!” spat Coup. “She’d toss you into a cauldron of witch’s brew or dry ye in the sun till ye crackled. Mark me, she’s a heart stealer. ’Tis her kiss, they say. She kisses ye and yer naught but buzzard bait. You’ll pass yer seven days in heaven and then it will be too late to do naught but have me chop off yer head. Like the others, you’ll think she loves ye true and will speak in the last instant. But she will not. She’ll hold her lips tight as a virgin’s thighs.”
“Arrah…that tight?” Bron was fast on his way to being tipsy.
“That tight!” confirmed Coup.
“Well, it appears I must work upon a plan to woo this lady without losing my own heart to her witchery.”
“I’ve not much hope for ye.”
“Hope is naught but nostalgia for the future,” enlightened Bron, rising to his feet. He teetered dangerously on the edge of the high stone wall, underestimating the potency of the brew he’d been drinking.
Coup grabbed his calf in an attempt to steady him. “Ye’ll have us both tumbling o’er the edge.”
Bron squatted back on his heels and surveyed the distance to the keep and announced to Coup, “I calculate I might enter the Lady Eithne’s window with a little genius, a little daring, and a length of rope.” Of course he was not sure how much of his genius could be attributed to the false courage of Coup’s sour brew.
“And why would ye want to do that? What’s wrong with using the stairs and stepping through her doorway?” questioned Coup, shifting his own position away from the edge.
“The element of surprise!”
“Aye, ye’ll be surprised when she pushes ye back out her window and ye’ve but one hand to hang on with.” Coup laughed hard at his own jest.
Bron grinned himself, but somewhere deep inside he felt a sharp pang of defeat. He glanced down at the illusion of his hand. What Coup said was true…a one-handed man did not scale tower keeps and climb into fair maidens’ windows. The thought sobered him and he jumped to safe footage on the battlement walk. Slowly, he out-breathed a deep felt despair and ponderously watched the last purple lights of twilight succumb to darkness.
Mayhap he should leave Rath Morna tonight and return home to the sea. He’d not be a whole man, but he’d be a man like any other who had gone to battle and been maimed. He’d no need to entangle himself with sorcerers and witches in the hope of finding someone who could heal him. He knew the truth of it…that it was only a false hope that kept him searching, and the shame of standing before his father’s clan without a sword hand.
His attention was caught by the movement in a window opening high in the keep tower. The window casement framed Lady Eithne’s silhouette. What was the mystery in her that drew him…called him? Did it really matter that she might be an illusion? Might all life be illusion? He did not know. But in this inescapable moment the flame-haired witch summoned him as surely as a full-faced moon rose on the horizon. He felt her call in his mind, his loins, and most fully in his heart.
Eithne was beginning to hate the power a luminous moon held over her. She felt distracted and restlessly wild. She ran her fingers through her hair and reached her arms high in a full sensuous stretching while her bare feet danced over the floor in disconnected patterns. A part of her wanted to hide under the bedding of her pallet until morning, but the other part shamelessly lusted for the sea clansman.
A knock vibrated the thickness of her door. Her feet halted. Had she heard right? Again the knock sounded. She clutched her belly with nervousness. It won’t be him, she told herself…and if it is I will refuse to open the door. Yet, her feet betrayed her and she found her fingers reaching for the great ring latch.
The door yawned open.
He stood there. She experienced a flash of fear like no other in her life. His gaze rested lightly upon her. She dared not meet his eyes. Instead she picked out the details of his tunic, his boots, his belt, and lastly the tousled queue of black hair partly looped over his broad shoulder. She couldn’t even think of what to do next.
“Milady, might I enter your chamber this night?” he asked without pretension.
As if drugged, she assented with a slow nod of her head, though she knew she had no choice but to allow it. It took a very long time for her to move back and give him space to pass through. It took even a longer time for him to come forward.
When at last he did, her heart did a small cartwheel and she wished she was anywhere but there. But for his missing hand his body was perfection. As he moved…aye, he knew how to move…with each gesture…each step a masculine vibrancy emanated from him. There was no standing with his jaw askew like the others. This one was accustomed to entering ladies’ chambers and that reality fired her fear even more.
He walked over to the open window. Standing with his back to her, he gazed out. “A lovely night,” he remarked, turning to face her. He looked her straight in the eyes.
How she fought to keep her equanimity. Never, never had she felt so exposed. What did he see when h
e watched her? Did he see she was the “wicked gurrul”? Had Gibbers told him of her evil deeds? How she had allowed all those men to die, never shedding a single tear.
From shame she averted her eyes to a flickering candle in the wall sconce just behind him. Oddly, like a puff of breath, a breeze rushed through the open window and snuffed out the candle. With no fire in the hearth, the room fell into darkness but for the moonlight streaming across the floor.
Between them the air hung thick with mystery, expectation, and hazard. He moved. The light traced his profile that held the arrogance of lineage and the confidence of experience. Coming to her with a noiseless stride, he caught her in his arms.
His sudden proximity was a shock. She pushed against his chest with the palms of her hands, but he did not relinquish his hold.
Softly he said, “Is this not what you wanted, milady?”
Her throat dry as ash, she shook her head in a weak protest, all the while realizing her error in snuffing the candle. This action had misled him. He brought his hand to tilt her face, his broad palm at the base of her throat. His arm tightened her to his body.
Not a kiss, she thought. Another kiss would disassemble her…she’d be a quivering pudding at his feet.
It was pure fear that spurred her into the use of magic. Between one breath and the next she transformed, not into a swan but a snarling lioness with barbed tail and triple rows of fangs. Instantly, she felt him release his hold upon her.
In a deep-voiced blur he uttered words she could not understand. Just as suddenly, a gust of whirlwind filled the room and the window clamored shut. Shockingly, the sea clansman himself transformed into a savage, thick-pelted, lean-flanked, broad-shouldered black wolf. The beast snapped and growled.
Taken aback and unable to hold her illusion for more than mere seconds, Eithne changed again into a giant serpent that coiled threateningly, shooting out its forked tongue.
The air sparked. Hackles raised, the wolf yawned a full-throated howl and attacked, its white fangs gripped her coiling tail.
Blessed goddess! Eithne wondered what she’d gotten herself into. She quickly changed back into her own form and scrambled up a decorative hearth pilaster to the nearest sanctuary, the wide mantel ledge. Precariously she held fast to the head of an ornamental sylph and peered down at the black wolf.
Red jaws agape, a menacing growl rumbled from his barrel chest. Too late Eithne realized that on the whole her shape-shifting had been an exercise in bad judgment.
Was she to spend the remainder of her life upon the hearth mantel? Tentatively, she lowered her foot. She saw the snap of jaws and felt the steam of hot breath upon her toes. Hastily, she yanked back her foot.
Bron mac Llyr did not play fair. She had a mouthful of epithets to say to that, but as always she would not. Instead, she would most likely pop out with hives. That always seemed to happen when she had something important to say and never said it. Aye, she must wait the spriggan out.
She shifted.
She shifted again.
She changed position once more. Her left leg was going numb.
Her lips tightened with aggravation. She glared at the wolf with her most withering gaze…the one that caused those that walked, to crawl, and those that crawled, to slither.
The black wolf’s response was an indifferent yawn.
In her desperation she considered transforming into her swan self and flying out the window. Unfortunately, the window was across the room and now shut. Even so, she didn’t think it was a good idea to give her complete set of tricks away all at once.
Time passed. The black wolf had relaxed on his haunches, fiery eyes alert. What was he waiting for? A bone?
And then it occurred to her that he held her hostage in a clever scheme to make her speak.
Begorrah and begobs! She would not!
What she wanted to give him was a piece of her mind…but from spite she would not…at least not yet.
There are times, even though trapped and cornered, self-will is stronger. She adjusted this way and that until her length was supported by the mantel and her shoulders by the sylph. The wolf’s black-lined eyes followed her movements shrewdly. If need be, she would remain a statuesque fixture on the hearth until she turned to stone. Closing her eyes with exaggerated sufferance, she endured…
…but only until she dozed off.
Eithne landed hard, so hard that when she hit the cold slate floor, her teeth nearly snapped off her tongue and the black wolf near snapped off her head.
She might have screamed if her breath hadn’t been knocked out of her. She might have leaped up if the wolf hadn’t been straddling her, its fangs teasing her throat. Instead, she lay still staring into green-fire orbs.
Then it wasn’t the wolf’s fangs on her neck but the teeth and hot breath of Bron mac Llyr. His dark head raised up, his features appeared wolfen. A primitive fire glittered in his brooding, hooded eyes. She struggled against him, not realizing her efforts only inflamed him all the more. His weight, he balanced upon his elbows, but she felt the full-bodied pressure of his hips on her own.
It was shocking enough to discover a fleering wolf on top of her, but in comparison the wolf was less threatening than Bron mac Llyr. Fisting her hands, she thrust her strength against his chest. He did not budge. What was he trying to prove? That he was stronger?
His hand was in her hair, grasping the side of her face, brushing back the long copper strands, his mouth brutally capturing her own. She twisted her face away. His mouth at her throat, he kissed and tongued the curve of her neck. She writhed and struggled, but the muscular hardness of his arms contained her. He was so powerful, she felt the heaving of his chest pressing her own, and her breath coursed as if she’d been running fast.
With low laughter he caught both her wrists in the grip of his one hand and brought her knuckles to his lips, nipping them roughly.
The realization hit Eithne that he’d not quite fully transformed from wolf. Great goddess! Hadn’t he revenge enough? Now, she must be chased about her chambers by a wolfman.
Uttering a growl, he lowered his head and clamped his teeth into the loose fabric of her bodice. He tore the garment open and exposed her breasts to his burning gaze. His nostrils flared…and so did Eithne’s temper. Her bosom heaved with indignation. She glared at him steadily as her cheeks suffused with a raw blush.
His eyes narrowed wickedly.
Her resistance did not falter while she quickly concluded she must use her own wiles to keep him at bay. Valiantly, she used the last vestige of her energy to transform one last time.
She reared up with all her might. The air crackled and she felt power surge through her limbs as she reshaped into a talon-clawed, carnelian-scaled winged dragon.
In pooling moonlight, Bron mac Llyr lay sprawled on the floor, openmouthed, staring up at her. Saffron flame glimmered from her fanged jaws. Through red reptilian eyes she leered down at him, witnessing him shift full shape again to wolf. His shoulders rippled beneath the shiny black pelt, his jaw lengthened and narrowed in a jagged-toothed gape, and his emerald eyes smoldered canine venery.
She knew she had only seconds to execute her plan. In that instant she returned to her own shape and she moved for the water pitcher. The black wolf lunged toward her. She let fly the water. It hit him full face.
’Twas the man that crashed into her, knocking her sideways and to the floor. She lay stunned.
Drenched, he stepped toward her. He wiped his face with his sleeve and pulled back his long hair from wild disarray.
“Arra-a-ah! Forgive me, milady,” he apologized profusely, bending down on one knee to her. “The game was more dangerously played than I supposed.” Water dripped off his chin and beaded off the end of his nose.
Eithne sat up and clutched together her ripped bodice. She experienced some guilt in that she had started it all, but she would hardly confess it.
In the end he did the civilized thing. He lit a candle and looked about for a covering
for her. He retrieved a blanket from her pallet that he wrapped around her shoulders. She accepted his attentions, choosing to make the most of her advantage.
“Oh,” he said with concern. “You’re bleeding, milady.”
She looked down and saw the red smear on her shoulder. His fingers were carefully parting the hair on the back of her head. Wholly drained, she sat with her lips in a disgruntled pout and endured. This seemed to be the night for it.
“Aye, ’tis a brave goose egg and a wee wound. Fortunately, none of my doing.”
She cast him an accusing glance. Of course it was his doing. He’d kept her perched on the hearth for what seemed like hours.
Her recriminatory look caused him to amend his words. “Aye, ’twas somewhat my fault.”
While she changed her shift, he courteously turned away. They moved to sit on the pallet. He proved himself an apt caretaker by holding a damp compress of cold water upon her injury while he recounted a few of his own…including the one that caught Eithne’s main interest—the event of his losing his sword hand.
She lay on her stomach beside him, her cheek pillowed on her arm. He carefully parted her hair away from the swelling lump and said, “Aye, it was close to evening on the fifth day of battle. The slaughter had been terrible. Pride and shame were there side by side and hardness and red anger, and there was blood on the white skin of young fighting men. And the dashing of spear against shield, and sword against sword, and shouting of the fighters and the whistling of arrows and the rattling of scabbards was like thunder over the plains. Many a time I slipped in the blood that was under my feet, and believed I’d not be able to lift my sword arm one more time, so exhausted was I.”
He paused and she sensed in his mind the endarkened visions sweeping past. “Countless fell and the river carried away the bodies of friends and enemies together.” Regret seared his voice.
“The Fomorians are a fierce and frightening lot of creatures. Some have but a single leg and a single eye. Some have men’s bodies, but walk upright on flipperlike feet.” She felt the pressure of his hand lift from her head and then his fingers began stroking her upper back. He was probably not even aware of doing it and she hoped he would not stop.
Swan Witch Page 4