Tynan frowned at the simpler’s attempt to soothe his rage, but it was Bryna’s silvery gaze that snared him, Bryna’s gaze that held him in a pool of restraint.
“Leave us, Eamon,” he commanded, not looking at his cousin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eamon nod and move to join the other single men at the west end of the clearing.
Tynan knew his cousin wanted Bryna. He had to secure his claim soon without forswearing his geas. He hoped to handfast without the fey claim, hold Bryna by pledge until the time became appropriate to mate with her.
The two days he had given the tribe elders to approve a handfasting had turned into a month.
A month.
His control was weakening under the onslaught of the fey compulsion.
He looked away from her. His dark amethyst gaze swept the clearing in thoughtful intensity. Faces stared back at him in silence and uncertainty. His people did not understand his recent intolerances. They knew only that the time to retake Kindred drew near. In truth, he did not understand his recent rages himself.
His heart grew heavy at what he saw reflected in their eyes. They are afraid of me, he realized, and that angered him.
He looked back to Bryna once again. He had tried to stay away, tried to fight the pulse in his blood, the burning ache in his loins. He could no more stay away from her than a bee could stay away from a succulent flower.
She smiled up at him in innocent invitation and Tynan felt his body tighten.
“Welcome, Dark Chieftain.” She spoke in a voice loud enough so that all could hear and patted the ground next to her. “Come join us.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. Did she understand the implications if he acted upon her offering?
“Oh, do sit, Lordling,” Rose huffed, “before you frighten the maidens away and the well faeries become vindictive.”
Tynan’s eyes lifted to the wide-eyed maidens standing near the well. Faces flushed, they turned away from him, having been caught in open stares.
“I doona frighten maidens,” he said gruffly. “Then sit,” the simpler ordered.
He lowered himself down beside Bryna and had to admit that the maidens looked about ready to bolt.
“Welcome,” his faery waif said.
He grunted in response, battling the siren call of her in his blood.
“May that be a faery greeting, my lord? I doona know it.” She tilted her head in devilment and then mimicked his grunt. No way did it sound gruntlike to him, but it served her purpose well; for the simpler snorted and covered her mouth in suppressed laughter. Tribesmen sitting near enough to hear the peculiar sound chuckled loudly in enjoyment.
Tynan fought back a grin. “Well done, but the grunt needs to be deeper, like this.” He grunted again to show her.
“I shall practice.” She smiled, brightening this new day.
“My lord, are you finished?” the simpler demanded on the other side of Bryna. “The celebration awaits.”
Tynan leaned across Bryna’s lap, his hair spilling over his shoulder into her lap. “Proceed at your own pleasure, simpler,” he replied softly.
“My pleasure?” Rose muttered a foul word under her breath. “As usual, you have disrupted another ceremony.”
“ ‘Twas not my intention, Rose.”
“ ‘Tis never your intention, Lordling, but you always manage to do so.”
Tynan grinned. “True enough.” He felt a tug at his scalp and glanced down. Bryna’s fingers had somehow become intertwined in his hair. He glanced sideways at her before sitting back.
“What are you doing, Bryna?”
A lovely shade of pink stained her cheeks. “Lordling,” the simpler called in high irritation. He looked back at her.
“May we continue?” she snapped in annoyance.
“Aye, continue.” He felt a sharp twinge in his scalp and looked down. His faerymate was trying to disentangle her fingers from his wet hair.
He covered her small hands with his. “Bryna, stop.” Around them, several grins had slowly begun to spread across the faces of his people. It appeared they were the center of attention, not a good thing with the faeries.
Another tug at his scalp ended his patience. “Bryna.”
“Oh, let me.” She yanked her hands back, taking several strands of hair.
“Ouch!” He bellowed and glared at her, rubbing his abused scalp.
She smiled openly, the mischievous waif.
“Sire,” Ian called from where he knelt with his family, barely able to contain his mirth, “Do you need help?”
“Nay, Ian, the faery has released me but has taken several strands of my hair with her.”
One of the maidens at the well started giggling and soon other giggles joined hers.
Bryna held up her hands and wiggled her fingers for all to see her new found freedom.
Tynan broke out in a grin. Reaching over, he brought her hands closer and kissed her fingertips.
“My thanks, Bryna.” The tension that he had brought with him to the clearing faded away.
Releasing her, he gestured for the maidens to sing. “Continue with the celebration.” He tossed his mane of black hair behind him, removing temptation.
“Men and their hair,” the simpler grumbled. Climbing to her feet, she moved away, waving her thin arms in the air.
“Start the song from the beginning,” she ordered.
The maidens faced west again, their lilting voices rose once more in song, promising loyalty to the land in return for the water of the well.
“Why do they face west?” his faerymate inquired.
“West be where the element of water flows,” Tynan explained, moving closer to her. “They turn South now for the blessing of fire and East for new beginnings where we ask for the blessing of air. This brings us truth, wisdom, and vision.
“And North?”
“North be where the element of earth resides, deeply grounded in strength and support.”
“Your ways are very strange to me, Tynan.”
He supposed that they would be. “New ways are always strange, Bryna. You must keep an open heart and see with more than your eyes. See and feel with the center of your spirit.”
She nodded and looked back to the well.
He did, too, enjoying this gentle respite, this moment of unaccustomed peace. His compulsion had suspiciously quieted and he welcomed it without question.
Soon, he would need to talk to her about the future, but not now. He just wanted to live in this very precious moment.
“Father?”
He glanced over his shoulder at his son of eight summers. “Hawk.”
“I waited to give tribute with you.” The boy settled down in the small space between him and Bryna, holding a large pink rock in his hands.
“Hello, my name is Hawk.”
Bryna found herself staring into a child’s brown eyes that were full of life and childhood curiosity.
“I am gratified to meet you, Hawk.” She smiled warmly in greeting. “I am Bryna of Loch Gur.”
“I know. My father says you are pretty, like sunlight and mist.”
“Am I?” she whispered, fighting the urge to look up at the father. Tynan has a son?
“Do you like my father?”
“Verra much, I do.”
“I do too.” He held up the pink rock for her to see. “I come to give tribute to the well faeries for Elf.”
“Who is Elf?” Bryna took the pink rock from his outstretched hands. The rock was surprisingly heavy for a child to carry.
“Elfin Song is my horse.”
“Ah.” She turned the rock carefully this way and that, all the while feeling the watchful gazes of both father and son.
“It carries the beauty of a pink sky at twilight,” she offered.
“Aye, ‘tis a fine offering,” Tynan said in agreement, ruffling the boy’s head.
The child beamed at her compliment.
“Good, for it contains faery magic like me.”
She handed the rock back to him, careful that he took it with both his hands.
“Go give your tribute, Hawk,” Tynan command-ed gently, helping the boy stand. “The spirits of the well await.”
The boy tucked the pink rock close to his chest and hurried toward the well. Bryna watched him go, wondering about the mother.
“He is mine in all ways that matter,” Tynan said beside her.
She turned back to him and waited.
“I found him in an abandoned hawk’s nest on the cliffs.”
That surprised her. “His parents?” she asked. “Gone, I know not where. Faery mischief, Rose thinks.”
She nodded, her heart less pinched in her chest.
“Does that make you feel better, faery?”
How well he was beginning to understand her. “I doona know what you mean.”
“Ah.” He smiled. “Well then, I spoke out of turn.” Bryna clasped her hands in her lap. Hawk was Tynan’s son by pledge, not blood. As she watched, the boy moved deftly between the maidens to get to the stone well behind them.
The haunting chant had ended sometime during her conversation with the child. People now rose in small groups to bring their tribute, their own hopes and prayers for the future. Many carried flowers, some offered jewelry, and still others carried makings of their own design.
Had she known, she would have brought an offering of her own. She glanced at Tynan and frowned slightly; he carried no offering either.
“You doona care for the faeries to make an offering?” she asked thoughtfully.
“ ‘Tis not that, Bryna. They can be damned unforgiving at times.”
“Unforgiving?”
“Aye. They want without regard, almost as if envy eats at them. I canna put it into words.”
“They hurt you.” She knew, coming to a deeper understanding of him.
“Not I alone. They have hurt many with their ways.”
She turned back to the sacred well and Hawk . . .
“Tynan!” she cried out, but he had already bolted for his son.
The child had climbed up the stone well and now teetered on the edge near one of the stone columns, clutching the pink rock high above his head, ready to throw it in.
Tynan grabbed Hawk around the waist and jerked back. The pink rock that had been going forward in the child’s hands suddenly came flying back into his temple. Bryna heard the painful smack as both father and son went down, scattering the maidens into a flowing mass of shrieks and robes.
She jumped up and ran to them.
Tynan lay flat on his back, his eyes closed in a painful grimace. “Hawk, you will be the death of me one of these days.”
Bryna knelt and touched Tynan’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
“My pride only.” His eyes remained shut as if in pain.
“Liar,” she scolded, worried for him.
“True enough.”
He squinted his eyes at her.
“Am I still in one piece, faery?”
“Aye.”
He looked to his very quiet son.
“Hawk, are you hurt?”
“My rock dinna go in the well.”
“I know. It landed on my head.” He squeezed his son’s waist and dropped his head back upon the ground.
“Let me see your temple.” Gently, Bryna pushed aside his hair to see the swiftly purpling bruise.
He stiffened at her touch and pulled away. “I am fine, faery. ‘Tis just another bruise from my son.” He braced himself up on his elbows.
“Are you mad at me?” The boy sat up between his father’s long legs.
“Should I be?” Tynan responded.
“Are you mad at Bryna, then?”
Tynan exhaled loudly. “I am not mad.”
“Why do you have the mad face, then?” The boy scowled like his father.
Bryna struggled to keep a straight face.
“Dirt smudged whirlwind,” Tynan muttered, “I am not mad. Now, can you toss the rock in the well from here?” His eyebrows rose in challenge.
His son took the bait.
“Aye.” The boy reached for the pink rock that had landed near his foot.
“Then do so and let us hope the spirits of the well are quicker than I and step out of the way.”
Bryna enjoyed the interaction between father and son. It was obvious that Tynan loved the child very much.
The boy stood, spread his legs, and positioned himself for the throw.
Bryna ducked when Hawk held the rock behind his head. The pink rock sailed through the air and disappeared into the depths of the sacred well.
Hawk let out a loud shout of glee.
“Well done, Hawk.” Tynan complimented his son proudly. “Now, let us listen for its fall.”
Bryna leaned forward, tilting her head, but no splash marked the end of the rock’s journey in the deep well.
She looked at Tynan. “There was no splash. What does that mean?”
He motioned his son to answer.
“The faeries are pleased?” Hawk answered with uncertainty.
“Aye, Hawk. They are well pleased.”
“I did it.” Hawk jumped up in triumph, a child’s joy, his right heel perilously close to grinding down his father’s manparts.
Tynan scooted back, but not soon enough. Bryna caught the child’s foot, the back of her hand brushing hard against the father’s inner thigh.
The boy hugged her and ran off to where the simpler waited.
Bryna held her flushed face and laughed. She rested her hand on Tynan’s thigh and turned to him. “He is delightful, Tynan.”
Her smile slowly wilted.
Black amber eyes watched her, cast in a feral light.
“Did I hurt you?” she whispered. “I only meant to protect you from Hawk’s heel.”
“Remove your hand from my leg.”
She pulled her hand back, holding it to her.
“Doona touch me again unless you mean it.” He climbed to his feet and stalked off into the woodlands.
Bryna looked to the ground, her heart hurting. Within her blurred vision the simpler’s small feet appeared.
“What did I do, Rose?” She looked up.
“Not you. It is his geas, Bryna. Do you know what that means?”
“His faery obligation.”
“You do know, then. It heats his blood with compulsion and pain if he battles it.”
Bryna did not want to think of Tynan in pain. “What can I do to help him?”
“The tribe elders have agreed to the handfasting ceremony owing to the chieftain’s honor-mark on you. Without our faery brethren’s approval, they canna in good conscience consent to a permanent consort for him.”
Bryna nodded, biting her lip in silence.
CHAPTER 9
IN THE FLICKERING LIGHT OF candles, Bryna stood in the back of the roundhouse finishing her cloth bath. Night had fallen many hours ago, leaving a fey stillness in the green woodlands, a watchfulness of things yet to be. Leaning over the bronze bucket, she squeezed water from her dripping hair. Shadows caressed her damp skin. In the fire circle of gray stones behind her, orange flames crackled and spat, giving out heat in the roundhouse.
She twisted her hair one last time before shaking it out and then reached for a cloth to dry herself. This day she learned that tending the ill included the tribe’s numerous animals. After the morning tribute to the holy well, she had helped Rose and Hawk tend an orphaned wolf cub covered in mud, and a magnifi-cent brown mare with a swollen fetlock.
Combing out her hair, she wove the damp tresses into a single braid down her back and tied it with a cord. She knew most of the Tuatha Dé Danann slept without clothes, but Bryna could not bring herself to do that. As a slave, she always kept herself covered for safety. She slipped into a long, white sleeping garment that Rose had thoughtfully provided. It was many sizes too large and the front panel required lacing up. She looked down at herself. The panel exposed a sliver of flesh down to her navel, but she was too
weary to deal with the intricate laces. Besides, no one was here to witness her immodesty.
She felt weary inside her body. Tynan’s anger at the well this morning drained her to the core. Bryna glanced over her shoulder at the trestle table.
In the center of the wooden table, the flames of three white candles danced. Bunches of wild flowers and fragrant herbs tied with silver ribbons lay beside the candles. They were a gift from the mysterious piskies, Rose had said.
“My thanks for the gifts, little ones,” she whispered. Since coming to the woodlands, a new deep-rooted belief in the fey magic had begun to take hold of her. “The flowers are lovely.”
Above the table, tiny giggles lit the air with threads of gold and then disappeared.
“I knew you waited for notice.” She smiled gently and walked over to the table. There indeed were faeries. Her fingertips caressed the yellow petal of a flower and then moved to the clay bowls filled with goat cheese and bread. She had eaten little this eve, yet felt no hunger.
Turning away solemnly, she wondered where Tynan slept this night. Dropping down to the bed, she snuggled into the soft furs. She ran her fingers through the soft pelts and closed her eyes, imagining Tynan’s strong arms around her. She yearned to be held by him.
To feel his touch . . .
To feel his lips . . .
To feel every part of his large body pressing her down into the furs . . .
Suddenly, a primordial presence made itself felt, heavy and flowing like liquid shade. Bryna opened her eyes and slowly sat up. The darkness shifted near the front of the roundhouse, a parting of shadows and stillness. Cool air from the outside rushed in causing the flames in the fire circle to flicker.
At the entrance, stood a tall dark shape.
“Tynan?” she called hesitantly.
The shape came closer and Bryna found herself staring at a half-naked savage, clad only in green breeches. His amethyst eyes glowed with an un-earthly light.
“Tynan, what is wrong?”
Faery magic, as old as the sea-swept shores of Eire, looked down upon her. His chest and shoulders gleamed with sweat. The scent of fallen trees, woodland mist, and fey yearning lay heavily on his skin. He was breathing hard, a struggling against some great inner battle.
Her hands fisted in the pelts at his continuing silence. He frightened her a wee bit. He seemed otherworldly, a creature trapped in darkness and obsession.
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