by Erin O'Quinn
I felt a warm glow as I watched him, not raising my head to reveal that I saw him. Murdoch was one of those rare men—and I counted other members of Liam’s family among them—who made me laugh, who stirred up my admiration, whom I could tease and call my friend. He was a man who, in another lifetime, might have played a different role in my life. In that spirit of teasing friendship, I kept my head averted, pretending I had not seen him. Through the corner of my eye, I saw him standing, watching me watch him.
I called out without turning my head, “What brings you to Derry, my friend?” And then, taking my time, I turned my head fully and gazed at him. A lock of straight, black hair lay across his forehead, almost in his eyes. Under his dark brows, his eyes, usually somber, were glittering, almost dancing with reflections of the river’s currents. He wore a light léine, belted with a wide strap of leather, and rather heavy traveling boots. He wore no weapon that I could see.
“My, ah, my father. I am come to help him relocate.”
I had once told Murdoch that he was not a liar. I knew at that moment he was skirting the truth, perhaps embarrassed to tell me the real reason behind his visit. Or perhaps he had not yet confronted the truth within himself.
“I would have thought you were more help to him on the bay, building a homestead for his arrival.” I spoke idly, almost offhandedly, not standing or making any move to get down off the rock.
“Will you come down from that damned rock, Cate? And greet a visitor properly?”
I laughed. “You are the visitor. You must approach me.” And I brought up my line, then cast it again, looking into the whirlpool below, almost daring him to scramble onto the large, wet rock.
“Very well, you devil woman. If I fall, you will pick up the pieces. Yes?”
“B’fhéidir. We shall see.”
He started for the rock, hesitating, looking for a foothold for his large boots. At first tentatively, then with more confidence, he began to inch his way onto the rock. At last, on his knees, he was within a foot or so of me.
“Now greet your visitor.”
Laughing, I held out my hand, and he seized it. Just as he did before, last February, he brought it to his lips palm up, and his mouth and tongue moved across it. “God, I have missed you, Cate.”
I snatched my hand back, laughing again. “Enough overlong greetings, Doch. I am joyed to see you, too. Tell me why you are really here.”
“What? I told you, Cate. My father may need my help.”
“Tá go maith. It so happens that I, too, may need your help.”
He leaned forward eagerly, on his knees, his léine flapping around him. The wind off the Foyle played and teased with his long, straight hair. “You have only to ask.”
“Start by catching me a bright, sassy trout or salmon.” I handed him my line. “I will talk as you fish.”
He obligingly took the line, testing its distance, bringing it up then letting it fly to another part of the vortex under the rock.
Without preamble, I spoke bluntly. “The savages who torched my home and stole my mother may be close to Inishowen.”
He did not interrupt. I looked straight out over the water as I spoke, trying to keep my voice steady and passionless.
“My mother has kept the story inside her. And I blame her not, for the details are…very painful. But I have been able to learn a little—enough to convince me they have set up a kind of trade center not too far from your own holdings.”
I told him, as I had told his father this morning, about the path Mama’s currach took to Éire and how, when played back, it led to the coast of Inishowen, to a small island.
“I know that the promontory is large, Doch. I have spoken with your father, and he thinks there may be perhaps a dozen islands where she could have been. I want you to help me pinpoint the one where she must be. Perhaps you could send someone you trust.”
“Keep talking, Cate.”
“Mama’s clues are few. The island is not large—but it is not a flyspeck. It is surrounded by jagged rocks and cliffs. The sea is dangerous all around because of the rocks and the way the currents flow around them—not unlike this very river.” I paused, and we both watched the currents of the Foyle battering the rock, swirling, foaming, and careening their way to the lake beyond.
“The savages who held her know how to handle a currach. That fact alone may be keeping them safe from prying eyes, for an everyday fisherman or a stray boatman would not dare attempt the approach. Mama says that the little cove where they landed is close to high, rugged rocks that heave up from the sea. So I think it lies some distance from the shore. Far enough to keep their ghastly affairs shielded from prying eyes.”
“I think such an island would be known by the people of the promontory, my friend. Perhaps I need to go on a búaile—a booley, the same way my father did long ago, when I was very young. I think his booley was a desperate search for his own sanity. Mine would be a search, too—for the Isle of Captive Women.”
I stared at Murdoch. I felt a surge of respect and new fondness for the intense young man. “You would do that—for me? For my mother?”
“Of course.”
“But what of your own family? They need you very much. They rely on your building a new baile on Trawbreaga.”
“And yet there is nothing we would not do for a certain young lady. As Father might say, a certain stubborn, exasperating young lady whom we love very much. Very much.” He spoke without looking at me, but I thought I knew his heart.
A lengthy silence followed. At last Murdoch spoke again, and he finally looked at me. “I have hired a score of capable men who are helping rebuild the old bally. All they would need is a strong overseer, someone to direct the building, while I am away.”
My mind raced to the obvious conclusion, and yet I hesitated to speak it aloud. Michael. Michael could do it. Michael would do it. But what of his work on my new holdings? The solution was easy, and the words flowed from my mouth without effort.
“I know such a man.”
“Then it is done, Cate. I will find your island.”
He knelt on the rock, his eyes back on the swirling currents below. I rose and stood behind him. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Do not turn around. I need to tell you something in my own way.”
I waited for him to speak, but he did not. I was reminded of the time on the Brigid about a month ago when I was turned from him into the sides of the ship, while he stood behind me for long minutes, waiting for any sign from me.
“If I had met you two years ago, when first I set foot in your beautiful land, perhaps then the child I carry would not belong to Liam—the man I love. The only man I love. But I did not meet you then. Do you—can you understand that?”
If he answered, I could not hear his voice over the crashing currents, but I saw him nod his head.
“Then please, let no more be said on the subject. Keep making me smile, my friend. That will always be your greatest gift to me. And now let us talk about blue-tattooed savages.”
He turned to me then, and I could not help looking into his eyes. There lay a depth of passion and longing that almost frightened me. “I know I have asked much of you, Doch. But will you do one more thing for me?”
“Name it.”
“Just—try to, um—to school your eyes. It is not seemly. And Liam will not appreciate what he sees there.”
“I would not last ten seconds in a bata ring with him. I will simply not look at you when he is with you. And stop calling me ‘Doch,’ for it gives me hope.”
“Oh, Murdoch—”
Just then a flash of silver and brown, a tightening on the flaxen line revealed a feisty, gold-and-brown speckled trout. Murdoch struggled to keep up with the slashing, fighting fish.
“Then win this battle, my friend, and you may stay for supper.” He grinned, and I did, too.
* * * *
I stood at the hay haggard where Murdoch had tethered his palomino, giving him directions to the dwarf enclaves. “�
�And tell Torin to come to supper, too. Perhaps tonight he can find a space for you in his teach.”
“Should I tell Father you have a brugh supervisor in mind, Cate?”
“Yes. Tell him I plan to ask Michael. I think Michael would be there tomorrow morning if he could, just to help his Uncle Owen.”
He gazed at me with admiration. “You would give up the work on your own holdings? So that Michael may help us?”
“Remember—I am getting something important in return.” I turned toward the house then stopped and faced him. “Come at sundown, or a bit after. As soon as Torin’s workday is completed.”
He mounted his horse and turned the reins north, upriver, and I entered the teach carrying a ten-pound brown trout. Head down, thinking furiously as I filleted the fish with my long knife, I had a sudden inspiration. “I wonder if Murdoch would agree to trade horses?” I reasoned that NimbleFoot would find sure footing even on the rocky beachheads of Inishowen, and Liam could ride the palomino to and from the bally defenses each day to keep him exercised.
I decided to go outside to find grasses on the bank to wrap the trout in, and I saw that Liam was home from work, currying Angus at the haggard where he was tethered. I ran to greet him and tell him about Murdoch’s visit.
As soon as Liam saw me, he stopped currying and gathered me close with one arm. I tipped my face up to him, and we began to pull and nibble at each other’s lips.
“Mmmn. Liam. We have guests for dinner tonight. Murdoch and Torin, about sundown.”
He looked quizzical. “Me cousin went to Inis-Eóghan. But here now?”
“Yes. He has come to help his father. And he has agreed to help us, too.” I told him about the plan for Murdoch to go on a booley, searching for the island where Mama had been held captive. I told him also about the possibility of Michael helping build Owen’s holdings while Murdoch was away, helping us.
As I talked, Liam continued to curry Angus, not speaking. I knew he was still harboring uneasy thoughts about Murdoch.
Last month when we were in Tara, when Murdoch approached us to say good-bye, he had kissed me—a quick, brotherly kiss but one that held a brief attack of his tongue into my mouth. Later Liam had asked me if I thought his cousin was in love with me. “I think he is in love with the idea of love,” I had responded honestly. And just as honestly, when he had asked about my own feelings for Murdoch, I had told Liam that I liked him the only way I knew how—as a friend. He had accepted that, and we had not spoken since about his half cousin.
Seeing his withdrawn look, I decided to confront the unasked question again. “Ask me, Liam. Ask me again how I feel about your cousin.”
“Tá go maith. I ask again.”
“Then look at me.”
He dropped the curry comb and gazed at me intently. I walked close to him and caressed his downy cheeks and mustache. “Is tú mo ghrá, a Liam. I love you and only you. And it will be that way always. When Murdoch kissed me, I was—I am—hurt to the very heart. He had no right to do that. And yet I forgave him. Can you forgive him, too?” When I looked at Liam now, I hoped he could see what truly lay there, what was blazing there for him alone—a world of love and passion.
He cupped my face in his large hands and bent to kiss me. We started slowly, and the slow kiss began to catch a fire in both of us. Soon we were straining against each other’s bodies, biting and sucking as though we had been apart for days or weeks instead of only hours.
“I believe ye, Cat,” he said into my mouth, drawing me even closer.
“Will you believe your cousin, too? Will you let him go on this booley for us?”
“Your heart is set on this, I know.”
“It is, Liam.”
“Come inside with me. I…tell ye…inside.”
* * * *
He stood at the bed, and I knelt in front of him on its high surface. He removed my tunic, bringing it slowly down from my shoulders until I knelt there naked, my mouth at the level of his groin. Slowly, I untied the thong holding his bríste and eased them down off his thighs and then off his calves. He moaned as I turned him around, stroking and licking his buttocks. I could not help moaning, too, aroused as always by his husky voice and by the way the muscles on his trim butt tapered, long and hard, into his thighs.
I began to lick the crevice, and when my mouth touched his testicles I began to stroke and pull them gently. “Cat. Suck me.” His voice was low, urgent. I felt the passion licking at my groin as I sucked his testicles, at the same time inserting my fingers into his bum, in and out again, with a sensuous rhythm that made him gasp and cry out.
Turning around, he seized his own erection and pushed it into my mouth. “Suck, suck,” he demanded. His insistence aroused me deeply, and I took it in as far as I could, caressing it with my teeth and tongue.
Then he took me roughly by the waist and drew me to my feet until I was standing on our high bed. He lifted me right onto his groin, entering me and pushing against my buttocks.
We began to make love standing up, and Liam bent his head and seized one of my breasts. He began to suck and bite and moan, all the while pushing and pulling at my bum. The sensation was so overwhelmingly erotic that I threw my head back and let him devour me and pummel me and thrust into me, shouting my pleasure. We climaxed hard at almost the same moment.
My legs still encircling him and he still grasping my buttocks, he stood for several minutes, pulling me into his spent groin, kissing me deeply. At last he walked close to the bed and released my bum, his groin spilling from between my legs. I fell onto our bed in front of him. “I love you, my Liam.”
“A stór a mo chroí,” he said. “Let Muiredach go on búaile. Let him find the cursed island. Let him be gone…a long time.”
I laughed softly, knowing he had partially released his inner anger and fears. Each of us drew our clothing back on and went together to the table to prepare the trout for supper.
Chapter 8:
The Eyes Speak
I opened the oaken door to behold two tall, handsome clansmen. As tall as the brothers O’Neill were, Murdoch MacOwen was even taller. With a chest as large as his father’s and with heavily sinewed arms, he was almost the image of his father. And yet his sheer height made him seem almost slender—as long as one did not see the bulging muscles that lay hidden under the long sleeves of his léine. Torin was a wren’s toenail shorter than Liam, and neither man had seen six feet for several years.
In a small corner of my mind, I reminded myself that these two young men would no doubt one day be kings of Éire, and here they stood in my rude little house.
“Come in,” I said drily, “and tell me where I will find enough food to feed you two behemoths.”
Grinning, they entered our teach. Torin stood back a moment, yielding the opening to his larger cousin. Murdoch stood near the threshold, looking around the house. Torin withdrew his short sword and handed it to his brother. “In the way,” he said, “of me elbows while I eat.”
“Please sit,” I told them, indicating the three small, plain benches that stood near the table. “I hope next time you two visit us, it will be in a large brugh, and you will sit on soft, covered benches.”
Torin straddled a bench and chided me. “For shame, Cate. I am but a rough soldier. Think you I care about a bench? Ah, I smell brown trout. Now that is important to me.”
Murdoch still stood by the door. I saw right away that he was trying not to look in my direction, and I smiled inwardly. He strode to where Liam stood at the fire pit poking the reed-covered fish that lay in the smoldering wood. “A chol ceathrar.” He held his hand to Liam, who hesitated and then grasped it for a moment.
No beating of backs, no kissing of cheeks—the moment was a bit awkward, and I rushed to fill in the rough edges. “Murdoch, was your father surprised to see you?”
He ducked his head a bit and regarded the crackling wood. “Not really, Cate. But he was surprised when I told him about the booley, and about Michael.”
“Did he like the plan?” I asked.
“He did. I think he was relieved. He badly wants to help, and yet he cannot make any physical moves. He must rely on mental exercise—whereas I can do both.”
I smiled and teased him, ignoring Liam’s tiny scowl. “Are you saying you are as smart as Owen Sweeney?”
Still watching the flames with a certain fascination, Murdoch answered shortly. “I am not. I meant I can walk and think, too. I can be the legs of Owen Sweeney Mac Neill.”
“Enough,” Torin cried out. “Where is your humor, lad? Come here, let us drink a cup of—what, Cate? Fine water?” He looked at me with raised brows.
“Yes. I offer you clean, cold river water.”
“Then bring it on,” Torin said with a lopsided grin, and I saw Murdoch’s answering quirk of the lips—the family trait that started, no doubt, long before Niáll of the Nine Hostages. He left my silent husband at the fire pit and sat on the bench nearest Torin while I poured water from an earthen jug into metal cups.
I looked at Liam and then at the cups, wordlessly asking him to carry them to his kinsmen. As he approached the two men, I could see him square his shoulders back a bit, a small movement that only I could be aware of and appreciate. Please, darling, I said to myself. Please love your cousin Murdoch. He means only good.
Liam sat on the third bench, and the three men began a conversation in Gaelic. I was pleased, for it had already become a strain to try to hear and interpret every word and facial expression. I could hardly understand a word of their conversation, but I caught the gist—they were discussing the Bay of Trawbreaga and the home being built there. I took my widemouthed basket and left for the garden.
Some fifteen minutes later, I brought my basket of fresh-picked vegetables to the fire pit and began to cut them into chunks for a savory soup. By then, all three men were laughing. When the squash and turnips and onions were just on the verge of tenderness, I poured the soup into four waiting bowls. Removing the trout, I placed it on a large trencher and arranged sprigs of garlic and sage around it. Then I approached the table.