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Whiskey Creek Press
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright ©2007 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CELTIC LOVE KNOTS VOLUME 5:
SONS OF THE SIDHE:
THE PRISONER
&
THE WHISPERER
by
Jennah Sharpe
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
Whiskey Creek Press
PO Box 51052
Casper, WY 82605-1052
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright © 2007 by Jennah Sharpe
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-59374-981-1
Credits
Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston
Editor: Gail Simmons
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For all those who dream of their own Sidhe warrior.
SONS OF THE SIDHE:
THE PRISONER
by
Jennah Sharpe
The torches in the camp stood tall and unwavering in the still night. The noise of the men was now a soft hush. Many had retired for the night, but Pandora was wide awake. This was the end of her seventh day in this new land. Pandora, her sister and their father had traveled far from their home to assist in converting the inhabitants of these barbaric isles to the ways of Rome. As daughters of the phalanx commander, they traveled in limited luxury. It wasn't what they were used to back home in Rome. Her sister, Arista, felt it most acutely, bundling in furs in the evenings and rubbing her feet with salts at the end of the day.
Of course, there were times when Pandora questioned their sanity in traveling to this strange land of mists. There were so many stories of frightening creatures. The men sat around the fires at night, speaking of water sprites, banshees and the powerful Sidhe—fantastical creatures that could make one vanish and never be heard from again. The stories sent shivers of intrigue coursing up her spine in the night as she lay on her furs. Despite her father's assurance that they were just stories, Pandora felt they must take care to not too dramatically tilt the world of those they were subduing. Her father's soldiers would hear none of her talk. She was a woman and was not welcome in the least on this journey. She was tolerated as the daughter of the commander, as were her sister.
It was a night for thinking. The air was quiet, and the scent of the campfires was comforting. She felt safe and protected. It had been many years since the death of their mother. Pandora and her sister chose to travel constantly with their father rather than impose on family in the city. On nights such as this, Pandora knew she'd made the right choice.
Pandora's father walked over to her and seated himself at her left. “You think too much, my dear. Of what are you dreaming?'
"I do not dream, Father. I worry of the integrity of our fight.” She gazed down at her hands in her lap.
Her father raised his eyebrows. “Pandora, you doubt the wisdom of Rome?"
"No, Father. I worry of revolt.” She sighed. “We desire to change these people because they are not like us."
"They are barbarians, my dear. We work to civilize them."
"The revolts are becoming more organized. I hear the men talking in the night. They talk of Daoine Sidhe warriors, fearsome fighters of incomparable strength."
Gaius Livicus patted the shoulder of his eldest daughter. “Trust me, Pandora. I brought you and your sister here because I knew you could endure what the men can. I would not be without you. We are doing the right thing."
Pandora looked into the fire before her as if it could verify her father's words. The dying coals sparked and snapped erratically, bathed in their swaths of orange fire. She reached for another stick of wood beside the log she sat on. She lifted it slowly, careful not to scratch her hand on the rough bark. The flames leaped higher, licking at the dry wood. Still, the fire told her nothing.
She closed her eyes. “I do trust you, Father, as does my sister. You've taken good care of us."
Her father stood. “I'm going to lie down. Tomorrow will be another long day of travel. Caledonia is many days away yet. Go to sleep, my dear. You need your rest as much as the men."
He turned to leave. Pandora watched him walk to his tent, lift the dirty canvas flap and let it fall behind him. His shadow moved around inside until he extinguished the candle. At least he could sleep. Something tickled at Pandora's insides, something she couldn't name. She would not sleep this night.
Pandora knew her father had good intentions in wanting her to wed a soldier, but the way these men talked about women in general, and her family in particular, left much to be desired in terms of the qualities she wanted in a lifelong companion. The soldiers made bets around the fires before herself and Arista. Which sister would be the first to choose a husband, and who among them would be chosen? Who among them would be the first to deflower a Livicus maiden? Honey mead consumed, flatbread eaten, they tossed coins to one another in wagers. Inevitably, because they were male, talk would turn to a more sexual nature. What would their breasts feel like? Which would put up a fight and which of the two would lie willingly in the bed of a man? Of course, her father, the great Gaius Livicus, was never present at these talks. The men greatly respected their leader. Respect for women seemed to be another matter all together.
Thus far, Pandora was disgusted with the choosing. A few of the younger boys were fun to tease and play with but they were just that—boys. They had no interest in marriage just yet. They had the whole of Caledonia to conquer. What was a woman? They knew nothing of women.
Pandora's younger sister, Arista, liked to play with the men. Her sister was of the opinion that their father's men were mere playthings. Pandora conceded there were a few men who were handsome and would make good husbands; however, there was never the spark she'd dreamed of. When her eyes met theirs, her insides didn't flip nor did she ache for them to touch her. She would leave them to her sister. There wasn't a man for her in these hills.
Pandora's eyes became heavy as she sat mesmerized by the flames of the cookfire. Moments later, the yelling began, waking her and sending her thoughts of marriage to the back of her mind. She sat straighter on her log as if that would identify the cause of the ruckus. Squinting in the firelight, she caught a glimpse of men running back and forth between the pavilions at the far end of the camp.
"They come! They come!” someone called out in alarm. The cry rose, one voice joined by many.
In her peripheral vision, her father's candles burst to life within his tent. He charged out, pulling his battle gear over his nightclothes.
One of the men ran up to Gaius Livicus, lowering his head in respect. “Commander, the Celts attack.” He was panting hard and the words came out in short
gasps.
Livicus looked around at the numbers of his men flocking to the west. He caught sight of Pandora sitting by the fire. She stood, panic growing like an unfurling bud in her stomach. Hugging her fur cloak tight around her neck, she watched her father run with a slight limp to the commotion with his cumbersome sword.
"Pandora!” he yelled over his shoulder. “See to your sister. Do not leave your tent."
"Yes, Father.” But Pandora had no intention of hiding. They had yet to see a battle in Britannia and Pandora was no coward. She smiled at her father. Despite his age, he was battle ready and a formidable foe to his enemies, in this case, the savage Celts who were currently plundering their encampment.
With her heart hammering in her chest, she ran to the perimeter of the camp where she skirted the pavilions, hoping for a good view of the fight. She crouched in the dewy grass at the edge of the field. Hidden by the dark shadows of the forest trees, she caught sight of the Celts, dressed in earthy colors of rough cloth and intimidating in their war paints. It was as if they'd taken on a new identity for battle. Were their souls safe if it wasn't really them who slaughtered Romans like unseen ants under a boot?
The men were tall and burly compared to her Roman friends and they angrily ploughed through the soldiers.
Pandora was too far away to see the killing, but she knew men were falling. Both Celts and Romans. Blood splattered the ground beneath the feet of her father's men but she was too distant to see which ones fell. Knowing would come later. She couldn't find her father in the melee. As the blood flew and swords punctured chests, her insides pained her, and bile rose in her throat, but she needed to know what was happening. She rubbed at her neck in annoyance. Pandora needed to know what the men were going through, why they were here in Britannia willing to die for the cause. The answers eluded her as she watched from behind an oak tree.
A warm breath caressed her neck and Pandora's focus was instantly taken from the battle scene.
"Your eyes are not meant for such atrocities, lady.” The voice was soothing and warm. It didn't startle her. She turned slowly, expecting one of her father's men to be behind her.
It was indeed a man crouching behind her, but no one she recognized. He put a finger to his lips, silencing her. She did as he requested, gazing into his smoky grey eyes the color of the mist as it rose from the hills in the early mornings, or perhaps it was closer to the river waters on a cloudy day. Whatever color they were, they were keeping her from acting as she should.
"I mean you no harm, miss, but you should go back to the pavilions,” he whispered.
Pandora found herself watching his full lips as he spoke rather than focusing on his words. He wet them and her chest constricted in desire. He would kiss well. She knew it and wanted nothing more than to see if she was right. Wearing trousers of deer pelt and a sword hung in a cavalier manner across his back, he was a picture of pagan, Celtic male glory. Pandora's eyes roamed over his chest, muscled from years of swordplay, she imagined. When her eyes finally reached his face once again, he was sporting a grin full of wicked mirth. She bristled at his cockiness. He thought he knew exactly what she was thinking. What bothered her was he'd be right.
"I should call my father right now and have you taken prisoner.” Her voice was shaky. It wasn't easy to sound in charge and sure of herself, when she was eye to eye with a Celt.
He reached out to gently hold her shoulders. Her knees weakened. “I am no danger to you. I fight with my family, my brothers to protect our homeland from the invading Romans. I can see that you're along for the journey and so it is only with your men I have my quarrel. Go back to your tent, princess."
He straightened, standing tall and powerful above her. Pandora slowly rose to face him, but her eyes only reached his chest and she forgot what she was about to say in response to his command. No words came to her. She wanted only to reach out to touch that chest, to run her fingers over the ridges of muscle, to stroke the fine, dark hair that called out to her as it traced a path from chest, past his navel, deep into his groin. Her eyes lingered there at his waist for only a moment. Her fingers itched and she licked her dry lips.
"Do you hear me, woman? Go back."
Her gaze shot to his face. “I hear you. Who are you to speak to me this way? Why do you not fear my father's men? I have only to scream and your heart will be ripped from your chest.” Oh yes, that gorgeous, strong chest. No, she would not let anyone mar the silky plateau that should be her pillow.
"I'm only warning you. It's not safe here.” He leaned closer, a lock of dark hair curtaining his eyes. She reached up to brush them back. His hand caught her wrist. “Mind yourself, girl. Don't toy with me.” He lowered her arm. “What is your name?"
"Pandora Livicus, daughter of Rome.” She almost smiled. This man was nothing like the boys in camp who let her touch them or caress them without a word. This one intrigued her.
"I thought as much. I was asked to retrieve a prisoner, Pandora. Are you the one I should take?"
Pandora reared back. Horror filled her as she imagined life in a barbaric prison cage, cave or whatever it was these pagans used.
"You wouldn't dare,” she spat.
He took a step back. “No, I wouldn't. A woman would not last long as a prisoner of our camp. Instead, I ask you to warn your commander of our intent to disembowel your army.” Pandora flinched at his words. “That's all, lady. Take this warning to your father. I am Samuel Dannon of the Daoine Sidhe. Tell him my name."
Pandora gathered her cloak, hiking it up in preparation to run. She took a couple of steps toward the camp. As she took the first leap of a run, the man smacked her behind. The nerve! She ran as fast as she could, leaping over roots and uneven ground. Only once she looked behind her. He stood there, leaning against the tree she'd hid behind. He wasn't visible to the battle weary men below but he was to her ... and he was smiling, a hand resting on a hip, the other arm propped against the oak as if nothing in the world could bother the man. As if the battle in the valley below was a figment of her imagination.
She blew out air in a huff. She needed to find her father. He would need to know there were men around the camp, watching, planning. Samuel Dannon. He didn't have a common Celtic name. He had a plainly Christian name. Why? His name rolled around her mouth, sliding over her lips like silk.
She slowed to a walk, then rounded the corner of a tent and headed to her own. Her father slowly trundled up to the now smoky fire they'd left what only seemed like moments earlier.
When he caught sight of his daughter, pine needles stuck in her cloak and dirt on her cheek, anger flashed across his face. It dissipated as quickly as it had come. He quickened his step, suddenly eager to hold her against him. She was swept against his chest. He smelled as he always did, of sweat, wood smoke and blood.
"Are you all right, Pandora? Where is your sister?” He took hold of her arms and held her back to look at her.
She smiled, trying to reassure him. “She's fine, father,” she said, suddenly realizing she had no idea where Arista was. “She's in her tent.” She desperately hoped she wasn't lying. Surely her sister was still fast asleep on her own furs.
"Good. We lost a few men, but nothing we weren't expecting. We beat them back but I'm sure that won't be the last we see of them. They were organized. Not like the rabble we've been up against thus far."
She knew she should tell him about Samuel. He was the enemy. Somehow, she couldn't bring herself to tell him. She lowered her eyes. Perhaps he'd cast a spell on her, an ancient Celtic magic that prevented her from revealing his whereabouts. The thought buzzed around in her head.
"Arista? Come out here!” Her father bellowed in the voice his soldiers knew meant business. Having Gaius Livicus for a father, the two girls knew the tone as well. Arista emerged from the tent; her dark curls gleaming in the firelight, her delicate face creased from sleeping.
"Father? Pandora?"
She quickly realized something wasn't right. Her eyes opened
wide, trying to take in the scene of sombre men walking through the camp, her father's tattered appearance and the bitter scent in the summer breeze. “What's happened?” She rushed to their side.
Their father drew her into his arms as he had Pandora moments earlier. “It was a minor skirmish with a local tribe. We're fine. We had some losses, but they lost more, and the enemy was pushed back for now."
Arista's concerned young eyes blinked in the night, trying to adjust. She was most like their mother, patient, quiet and extremely stubborn. She had their mother's eyes. They were light as if made from cream with only a tinge of the darkness Pandora had inherited from their father.
"I'm sorry to have woken you, my dear,” their father said. “I needed to see that you were unharmed. It was hasty of me to call out. Thank you for coming."
Arista responded, “Papa, you're tired.” She took his hand, gently leading him to his tent. “Go inside and sleep. There are men on watch and whoever isn't will be alert tonight regardless."
He followed her, head down and shoulders slumped.
"It's affecting him, isn't it?” Arista commented more than asked as she stood next to Pandora.
"Yes, I think it is. Despite his battle wisdom, he isn't young anymore and he's dragging the worry his two daughters bring along."
"What can we do?"
Pandora shrugged. “I don't know that we can do anything. He needs this campaign to end and it's only just begun. We'll watch him. That's all. Go to bed, sister.” Pandora patted her sister's back. “I'm not ready for sleep yet myself."
"All right. I'm not sure I'll sleep though,” Arista muttered as she turned toward her pavilion.
Pandora whispered after her, “I think it's going to be a long night for all of us."
Pandora was still huddled by the fire when she saw Arista slip from her tent wearing only a light shift, the moonlight making her form visible beneath the thin material. Pandora had been lost in the vision her mind created of Samuel Dannon, wondering what exactly had kept her from delivering his message to her father. She knew she would have to do it, but then her father would know she'd lied. Her heart was torn. She envied Arista her abandonment. Pandora knew Arista yearned for the company of a boy tonight, someone to take her thoughts to another place. Pandora knew because she felt the same way and would have acted in the same manner, had she not Samuel Dannon's handsome face fixed in her mind. It was him she wanted, but she had no means to find him. Even if she did, he was the enemy.
Celtic Love Knots Volume 5 Page 1