“I understand,” he said, backing away from her. “You care what people will think if you are seen with me.”
“Kieran, please. You don’t understand—”
She stopped when she saw him reach beneath his great coat to the pocket beneath. He pulled something out, but kept it clutched in his hand.
“This is no passing fancy on my part, Sinead. Nor is it coincidence that I have made my home in the same village as you. It was not a coincidence that it was me who came to tell you the news of your husband.”
People rushed by them, jostling them in their haste. Yet Kieran ignored them and reached for her hand, putting whatever he was holding in her palm, then folded her fingers around it.
“We were in a trench when your husband opened your letter, and this fell out between the folds. It landed on the toe of my boot and the sight of you smiling stole my breath. I could not keep my eyes off your picture as your husband held it in his hand. That night, I took it from his pocket while he slept. I only wanted to see you once more. But I could not give it back. I had to have it—had to have you—even though I knew it was wrong. I had to have a piece of you for myself.”
Sinead opened her palm, and saw the image of herself in the photograph she had sent to David. It was wrinkled and tattered, and something rust colored smeared the corner of it. Blood perhaps. But whose?
“I dreamed of you every night, Sinead. I still do. I wondered what it would be like to come home to you, to make you mine. I dreamed of having you, of you wanting me.”
He backed away, and Sinead did not know what to say. What to do. “David knew of my desire for you, Sinead. I tried to hide it, shamed that I was coveting my commanding officer’s wife, but he had known for a long time that what I felt for you was not a passing fancy. With his dying breath, he told me to come to you. To love you as best as I could. He gave us permission to be together, Sinead. To be happy with one another. I’m here because more than anything I want you in my life. I want a future with you. I’ve made my desires known. I’ve laid my soul bare. It is up to you now. It is up to you to tell me what you want. What you desire.”
She watched him walk away, disappearing down the bustling street amidst the gently falling snow.
She knew what she wanted, yet she could not reach out and take it. David held her still, despite the fact he was physically gone. She had not said goodbye. He had not released her from her vows, her bond.
Walking against the stream of people, she was lost in thought and the fear that she very well might lose Kieran. When she looked up, she was far away from the crowds, the stone circle at the end of the village looming before her in quiet solitude.
Already tables were being set up for the festival. Heavy bows of hawthorn, mistletoe and holly were being strung up in the village green. Behind the green were the ancient Celtic standing stones that were weathered and porous. They stood at varying heights, an imposing circle of ancient mystery. Sinead knew from spending each solstice morning amidst the stones that the sun, when it rose, would shine in the middle of the circle, casting brilliant shadows. When she had been a little girl, she used to twirl in the sunbeams and wish that she would one day be a princess. In a way, that wish had come true, because her love affair with David had been like something from a fairy tale.
Tonight the villagers would celebrate the priestess, whom, it was said, the stones were erected for. It was a shrine of sorts, and the villagers would pay tribute to her as she watched over them before heralding the solstice.
The evening would be a time of mysticism and magic, of passion and frivolity. The dawn would usher in the perfect balance of light and dark, if only for a moment of time, and the world would sit quietly in peaceful harmony.
Sinead realized how much she longed for those things, peace, harmony, magic and passion. She wondered if those things would ever be hers.
The snow began falling harder, and Sinead tipped her face to the sky and felt the flakes tickle her cheeks and nose. It was time to go home, yet she felt held to this spot—watching the preparations from afar, a wistfulness heavy in her breath—that this solstice might bring something special and momentous to her solitary life.
Amongst the stones, she saw a figure. At first she wondered if it was an illusion created by the snow. But then it moved, and a child with curling blond hair, dressed in a tattered white gown and threadbare cloak, stepped out of the whirling snow.
The child stood before Sinead and looked up at her with blue eyes, eyes that were much too intuitive to be in a face of one so young. She could be no more than six years. Sinead noticed that the child’s feet were bare.
“Your feet!” she cried, dropping to her knees and taking a small foot between her palms, rubbing the blanched flesh. “They’re nearly frozen.”
The child said nothing, just watched her, and Sinead felt for the misery of the poor creature.
“Where are your parents, child?” she asked as she dug through her basket for something to cover the girl’s feet. When the girl did not respond, Sinead did the only thing she could. She removed her new hose from the basket and pulled them up over the child’s foot.
When both her feet were covered, and the wool pulled up high on her legs, Sinead looked up to see the girl’s eyes had grown a warmer shade of blue—the color of a summer sky.
“It is meant for you,” the child said in a soft voice. In the hand that she held out to her, Sinead saw a tattered square cloth. Curious, she took it and noticed that something was embroidered in the fabric.
“’Tis the chant of the priestess, who many centuries ago loved and lost her true love.”
“A chant?” Sinead asked quizzically as her gloved fingertip rolled over the embroidered threads.
“A love spell,” the child said. “A spell so powerful that it reaches beyond this realm and into the Summerland where those who have left us walk freely. Light and dark,” the child said, her voice stronger, older, wiser. “Death and rebirth. These are the gifts I give to you on this winter’s night.”
“But—” Sinead looked up from the old tattered fabric, the loose strings blowing in the crisp breeze as she held it in her palm. The girl seemed to fade against the stones and the swirl of snow. Her voice, as low and haunting as the wind, chanted…
“No wanderer’s curse
be he thus beckoned
a slave to passion’s fire
return his head, upon my breast
burn bright of winter’s desire.”
Sinead let the words sink in as if they had been created solely for her. Kieran, was he this wanderer? There was no denying that he had made her a slave to his passion. And David? She wanted one more night with him, to say her goodbyes, to see him one last time. To touch him, caress him, to whisper in his ear all the things she should have but never did. Yet she ached for Kieran, to have him, without remorse and guilt.
Return to my breast. She looked up at the slate-gray sky, summoning David. Yes, she did yearn for his return.
And Kieran? He was her heart’s desire on this night, the eve of the solstice. She was a slave to the fire she saw in Kieran’s eyes, and the passion that burned in his body. He was her winter’s desire.
4
HOLDING THE WARM MUG IN HER HANDS, SINEAD sipped at the wassail as she scanned the crowd of revelers. All the villagers were here—youngest to oldest—celebrating the solstice and offering up gifts to the ancient gods and goddesses so that the bleak winter months would be neither unduly harsh nor long.
Everyone was making merry, laughing and drinking, calling out cheers for good health and a warm home. There was country dancing to the fiddle and the singing of old, seasonal songs. Cheeks were crimson with the slap of the cold breeze, and eyes were bright with the merriment of the festivities.
Walking around the enormous bonfire that was in the middle of the village green, Sinead, jostled by the revelers, watched from the periphery, never really part of the celebration. Despite this, she had come to the place where the ancient
stones had stood for centuries, watching over the tiny northern village. There was magic in those stones. She believed it, and not just because of her Celtic roots, but because she felt it. Especially this evening. A thrilling enchantment hung thick in the atmosphere, cloaking her.
Scanning the laughing faces, she did not see the one she longed for. Kieran was not present amongst the merry gentlemen who danced and tried to steal kisses from blushing maidens. She felt empty knowing he was not there. A part of her had believed he would be, and that part of her had been convinced that she’d give herself to him this night—this night of magic and passion.
“The Mummers!” a young lad cried as he ran into the circle of dancers. “They are making their procession into the village.”
“I wonder what they shall be acting out this year?” a young maid with rosy cheeks and sparkling blues eyes asked excitedly.
“Who cares, as long as Squire Bolton’s son is leading them,” answered her friend. The two began to giggle. Sinead found herself smiling. She had once been like them, young and carefree, with little more to worry about than handsome squires, or village boys. It had been aeons since she’d had a true friend to share a laugh with, or to tell secrets to.
The Mummers’ voices were carried on the darkness as they chanted their ancient song in Gaelic. Sinead could only recall a few words in her ancestors’ native tongue. Her grandmother had tried to keep their culture alive after Sinead’s mother had died when she was three, but soon her grandmother had followed her mother, and Sinead had been left with her father, who had loved her, but who had been too busy to see to traditions.
“Bandia, Sianaitheoir, Beannaithe leannan.”
“Goddess, Savior, Sacred Lover,” the Mummers were singing of the priestess.
Sinead took a long sip of her drink, letting the mulled spirit warm her belly as she waited to see the troupe of actors who were integral to the solstice gathering. The revelers’ voices grew louder until the costumed Mummers, their identities concealed by masks, burst into the clearing, dancing and singing. The crowd quieted, stepping back to give the actors wide berth. Nothing could be heard but the roaring of the giant bonfire and the distant hoot of an owl as the actors found their places in the center of the green before the crackling flames.
Their leader stepped forward, holding his torch high as he walked in a small circle, addressing the gathered villagers.
“You see behind me the form of our priestess, bent over her enemy, caring for him, loving him despite the barrier of class, religion, tongue.”
Waving the torch aside, he revealed the image of a cloaked woman bent over a man. Beside her, pots lay scattered, as well as trenchers. Her hands were moving over his body, healing him as she murmured words he could not understand, for the priestess was an ancient Druid, and the wounded soldier her enemy from across the sea. As the actress worked on the man who lay on the cold ground, the other Mummers broke into song, a quiet chant meant to relay the seriousness of the soldier’s injuries.
Sinead did not pay much attention to the play that was being enacted, but focused instead on the narrator of the piece. The way he moved, the sound of his voice, it was all so familiar. Mesmerized by him, she followed his movements through the crowd as he told the sad story of the star-crossed lovers and the priestess whom they honored yearly.
“Despite his wounds, the two became lovers. Fierce was their loving, but with the dawn, the awakening of their divergent paths becomes all too clear. For it is the solstice, and their lives are never meant to be entwined.”
Suddenly the woman playing the priestess stood up, her arms raised to the heavens, and began to recite the ancient poem.
“No wanderer’s curse…”
Sinead froze as she heard the words that were embroidered on the small square of fabric the child had given her. Her gaze strayed once more to the narrator, who pressed forward, his silhouette illuminated by the enormous flames of the bonfire. Slowly he lowered his black-and-gold mask, revealing his face.
The mug fell from Sinead’s hand; warm wassail splashed onto the hem of her skirt as she stared in mute horror—hope. The eyes…the hair…
She reached out her hand, her fingers trembling. David?
He tried to step forward but couldn’t. Nor could she move, to touch the face she remembered so well.
“Soon, my love,” he said, donning his mask once more. “I will come to you. Soon.”
He was pulled back by the other Mummers, and the eager villagers seemed to swallow him up, concealing him from her. Sinead ran, pushing through the crowd, trying to find him, looking fruitlessly for the golden hair and blue eyes that sparkled from behind the mask. Turning, looking, she found herself moving in circles, until she came to rest on the other side of the fire, closest to the stones. And to Kieran, who watched her through the flickering flames.
Their gazes locked. Her body warmed, heating with longing. What did he think? Did he know what she wanted?
Waiting. Hungering…The whispered words seemed to burn in Sinead’s belly, filling her with a warmth that curled low in her womb.
Do you want me, Sinead?
She heard Kieran’s voice whisper the words. Closing her eyes, she savored the sensation of a fluttering touch against her skin, but it was impossible for it to be Kieran’s touch because he was still leaning against the stone on the other side of the fire. He could not have touched her, yet she felt it again, heard his voice once more.
Come to me…
She wanted to go, wanted to obey that deep beckoning voice, but she could not command her body to walk. Their gazes stayed locked, their yearning so evident despite the enormous fire that separated them. Around them, gaiety and song, drink and food was indulged. Yet for them, there was nothing else but each other, longing from what seemed like a divide that could never be bridged.
The words of the poem were whispered in her mind, like a distant echo. It was Kieran’s voice she heard in her thoughts. His voice murmuring to her so softly.
With his spirit, he reached for her, drawing her ever closer to him as surely as if he had reached for her with his large, callused hands.
She felt his presence, a current of cold air that hovered in the atmosphere like a patch of wispy fog, before it found its way over to her, wrapping itself around her.
You know I can give you everything you want. Everything you need.
Yes, her mind seemed to cry with a fevered plea. She was restless for more of the sensation that licked its way up her body—it was only the night wind, yet she could have sworn it felt like Kieran’s hands touching her. Sinead’s breath caught and held as the cool sensation changed, grew warm as it swept over her mons. Over and over it caressed her until she no longer felt chilled, but warm…so very warm.
Rising up, the warmth stroked her belly before it lingered over her breasts, which felt painfully confined behind her corset and tight bodice. Struggling for air, she began to breathe faster, felt her breasts rising and falling as the sensation all but engulfed her.
Feel me. Want me.
I do, she whispered as her hand came up to rest against the swell of her bosom beneath her cloak. The warmth covered her breasts like the breath of a lover. It moved to the deep valley of her décolletage, and then up to her throat where the vein in her neck throbbed.
The rhythm of her blood sang in her ears until it was all she could hear; the rushing of blood in her veins, the feel of warmth stroking the vein as if someone was breathing against her. Her lips parted as she tilted her head farther, desiring to feel more. And then she did—a mouth—warm and soft. A strong, wet tongue that repeatedly stroked the vein, priming it as if preparing to suckle the bulging length beneath the tender flesh of her throat.
The stroke of the tongue, the pressure of the lips increased as her hunger deepened. Wetness pooled within her as she tugged her bodice, silently begging for the caress to descend to her breast and her nipple, which was beaded into a hard little bud, and which throbbed mercilessly against her
corset.
Fully given up to the power that was luring her, Sinead did not hear the festivities going on around her, nor did she see the villagers. She was consumed now. Consumed by the lure of sexual pleasure that Kieran’s dark eyes promised her from beyond the fire where he stood watching her. She was at the mercy of the fever that raged in her blood, the crazed thoughts of being touched by Kieran when it was naught but a shaft of air that had rustled her skirts. Yet it felt so much more powerful than that, it felt real.
Tell me what you want, and I will it give it to you.
In a daze, Sinead walked amongst the crowd, meandering through the dancing couples and the children who were playing and laughing. She walked to where Kieran stood, his hand outstretched to her.
She took it, allowing him to lead her into the darkness of the stone circle where the light from the fire could not reach, and where the altar had been decorated with oak branches and holly in honor of the priestess and the solstice that would arrive with the dawn.
Sinead knew this sacred place would be where she would lie with Kieran. She would lie on this altar and give herself to him, offering him everything she had.
As she suspected, he led her to the altar. Removing his coat, he placed it on the cold stone, then helped her to lie upon their makeshift bed. Above them the moon glowed. Surrounding them were the tall pagan stones. The frivolity of the festivities was but a distant rumble. In this enchanted grove it was only them.
Without a word, Kieran came down on top of her, his hands braced on either side of her face, supported by his thick, strong arms. His head slowly lowered to hers, his gaze holding hers steady. Suddenly his hands clasped hers and held them high above her head until her back arched beneath him, her breasts rising up to meet his chest.
“You’re mine now.”
“I come to you freely, Kieran.”
Winter’s Desire Page 15