Black hair flowed over one powerful shoulder. Gold bands woven around powerful biceps glimmered in the soft glow of candlelight.
He knelt and bowed his head.
That surprised her and eased her fear of his geas somewhat.
“Do you find my home to your liking?” he asked in a voice of darkness and need.
“Aye, ‘tis warm and welcoming.”
He looked up slowly. Blushing, she hastily pulled the laces of the sleeping gown closed. The air shimmered around him with gold and silver threads that evaporated into shadows.
“Do you come from the woodlands?” she asked. “Aye.”
“ ‘Tis a fey night.” Bryna felt the presence of the faery spell swirling thick within his perspiration and unspoken desire.
He inhaled, and then exhaled, a controlling of the relentless drive inside him.
“ ‘Tis fey,” he answered slowly.
Bryna clutched the panels of the sleeping gown nervously. “Tynan, what is wrong? You act strange.”
“You smell of lavender.” Dark eyes stared at her with such primitive hunger she could barely breathe, and then he asked, “Do you want me, Bryna of Loch Gur?”
“Want?”
His gaze dropped. Beads of sweat dripped down his temple, down his face, down his chest and arms.
“I canna wait any longer for you. The fever burns me.”
“Your geas?”
“Aye,” he rasped.
“What do you need of me?”
“A promise from you to handfast with me.”
“Why? How will that help?”
He looked up. “An easing for me. A shield of protection for you, from my geas, from my compulsion should I weaken and dishonor you.”
“You would not weaken.”
He looked away. “It is also a guard of protection for you should my faery brethren disapprove of my honor-mark and choose another mate for me. In this way, never would you be labeled a fallen woman.”
“You would do this for me?”
His gaze slid back to her, a dark and magical watching. “Is there another male that you want?”
She shook her head slowly. “There is no other, Tynan.” He visibly relaxed, a small reprieve, she guessed, from the fever smoldering inside him.
“Handfast with me, Bryna.”
“You ask for a promise only?”
“I ask for a full handfasting, but for now the promise will do. I can no longer think clearly, and I must, in order to recapture Kindred and free the imprisoned faeries.”
Bryna could not bear him suffering for the mistake of honor-marking her. “I agree to a handfasting. Rose said it would be for a year and a day, a temporary vow between us until the golden territorial goddess claims you.”
Tynan heard only two words, “I agree.” With trembling fingers, he touched her cheek.
“Tomorrow, Bryna? We handfast tomorrow?” he asked in longing.
“Tomorrow.”
With her agreement, Tynan felt a shifting inside his body, a lessening of misery and chaos.
He had her word.
“I must give you pleasure now.”
“What?”
For his own relief as well as hers. He stared at the ripeness of her mouth. “Do you want me, Bryna?” He traced the moist outline and pink curve of her lips with one fingertip.
She licked her lips, touching his finger with her tongue. “You taste of hazelnuts.”
He waited for her answer to his question.
“Should we not wait until after the handfasting ceremony?”
“Aye, I will wait. But what I speak of tonight is another matter.” He leaned forward, his warm lips brushed her sensitive jaw. “If you want me, I will mark you again tonight to ease my honor-mark.” His tongue slid wetness along her jaw, savoring her skin.
“You wish to honor-mark me again?” she choked, leaning away, bracing herself in the pelts.
Tynan did not move. The fey lust had worsened since the elders’ approval of the handfasting. Nothing had eased the hunger raging in his body.
And he had tried.
Oh, how he had tried.
He hunted in the deep woodlands with his kestrels until his body neared collapse.
He brushed the coats of every damned horse in the clearing until the animals stomped their impatience and Edwin asked him politely to leave.
And still, the ancient promise of his faery brethren burned in his blood. The damned honor-mark called and called until he could no longer deny it. Now that she had agreed to handfast with him . . .
Tynan looked deeply into her eyes and disliked what he saw reflected there.
Beast. Go slower. You terrify her.
He must gain her trust.
. . . and reclaim Kindred, reclaim the land, reclaim his soul.
He would bury himself so deep inside her they would be one for all time.
But not now.
Not this night. “I doona mean to frighten you. I must honor-mark you again. It is part of the easing for me.” He looked away, disgusted with himself.
A soft hand reached out and touched his forearm. He stared down at it, unable to move, his body trembling.
“All things unfamiliar are frightening. You must go slow with me.”
Pain rippled low and deep in his belly. He dropped his head down between his shoulders and muttered, “I have become a beast.” He was shamed to the core of his being by this uncontrollable need to possess her, to be brought to this base level.
“Tynan.” She cupped his sweaty cheek.
“Tame me, Bryna. Only you can ease this torment.”
He pressed his face into the cool softness of her hand, closing his burning eyes, unable to speak.
He savored her.
This moment.
Her touch.
Her scent.
He could stay this way forever.
“ ‘Tis all right. Tell me what to do.”
Sweet relief flooded his body with her offering. Her soothing voice and touch calmed the brute inside him.
“The magic beats at me,” he admitted hoarsely. “The ancient spell in my blood demands something in between.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “What is in between?”
“I need to honor-mark you again and bring you pleasure, and in doing so, gain respite.”
“Will it hurt like before?” Her hand dropped from his face.
“I will not hurt you.”
“What is this pleasure, a glass of mead?” she teased guardedly.
“Nay, lass. ‘Tis the kind that leaves your virtue intact.”
“Oh,” she thought on that a moment. “I suppose,” she answered slowly, “then it would be all right. Your eyes are turning all black. Are you in pain now?”
“Nay.” He did not want her responding to his discomfort.
“You lie to me, Dark Chieftain.”
He pulled back but she grabbed his wrist and held him.
“I accept,” she said softly.
Tynan stared at her in stunned surprise. “You accept?”
She released his wrist. “Aye, I accept. How shall we begin?”
He did not move.
“I will not nip you,” she added.
Tynan’s lips twitched. He could not help it. “You may nip me if you wish it,” he replied very seriously. He would welcome the distraction of pain.
A long silence came and went while neither of them moved.
“Tynan.” She whispered his name into the shadows, a fusion of yearnings and confusion that matched his own.
“Be sure, faery.”
“I am.”
Slowly, he crawled around her and settled behind her back.
“Let go of the laces,” he breathed against her bare shoulder. She let go and the oversized gown slipped off one shoulder.
“Why do you kneel behind me?”
“I honor-mark you as my faerymate,” he answered huskily.
“From behind? It feels odd this way.”
; “Like this.” Beneath the furs, he slid his hands around her smooth waist, pulling her closer into his heat.
“Wait.” She grabbed his forearms.
He stopped.
“Go slow, Tynan.”
He nodded, pressing his chest into her silky back, making sure she felt the raging heat in his body.
“The night is cold. I will keep you warm.”
“Hot, you mean.”
He chuckled low, pressing his face into her cool nape. “You smell so good, Bryna.”
“I bathed earlier.”
“I speak not of cleanliness, but of the scent of your skin.” He gathered her damp, burnished gold braid in his hands and gently slid it over a smooth shoulder to clear his way.
“So soft. I never thought a faery could feel so soft in my hands.” He cupped full breasts.
She held onto his thick wrists. “This is not honor-marking.”
“It is the beginning of it. Relax into me, Bryna. Feel my hands on your body,” he soothed. “I prepare you.”
“For what?” she asked in sudden defiance.
He nibbled at the base of her neck. “For what comes after this. Do you like my touch?”
“I doona know.”
“ ‘Tis your innocence that answers.”
His hands continued caressing, arousing her.
The hard length of him pressed up against her backside, and she dropped her head back with a whisper of female surrender. “I want to see you, Tynan.”
“This eve is for my touch and mark only. After we handfast, you may see me. Trust me, faery. I do this for both of us and will not hurt you.”
“I trust you, Tynan.”
Tynan slid his mouth over her jaw. The hand at her waist slid down her rounded belly and cupped her womanly softness. He held her in his hand, letting her get accustomed to his touch.
She shifted her hips, seeking that which remained out of her reach.
“I feel your need,” he murmured huskily, and gently stroked her there.
Slowly.
Building the fire.
Her hips rocked forward.
“Aye, faery.”
She pushed down on his hand. “Tynan?”
He caressed her throat with his tongue. “Feel.”
With a single finger, he entered the warmth of her essence. She felt wet and ready for him . . . and tight, so blessed tight. By the goddess, a virgin faery sheath.
Small hands clenched on his thighs. Her head rolled back on his shoulder.
Tynan rubbed the tiny nub hidden within the damp petals of her womanhood. Pleasure mounted within him, a mirror image of her own. The air glimmered with magic, pulsing, primitive and unattainable — her pleasure, her need burned through his body.
“Please,” she moaned, bucking in front of him.
Breath left her straining lungs in rapid bursts. “Let it come,” he rasped against her ear while she pushed down and rode his hand.
Sweat poured off him. “Let it come.” His mouth slid over her jaw to his mark.
Her body quivered.
Innocence faltered.
And then…
She gasped and arched, a shattering of a thousand shards of faery light . . .
. . . taking him with her.
Tynan’s hips bucked in unison with hers. And then, just then, when her hips rocked forward and she climaxed in his hand, he honor-marked her.
Relief came instantly, drenching his body like a warm summer rain. Reprieve spread through his blood, loosening tense muscles and easing the compulsion to mate.
He suckled her jaw, spreading saliva with his tongue.
His geas calmed.
His body eased into quietness.
A deep fatigue weighted his limbs.
Slowly, he removed his hand from her dampness.
Pulling her back into the pelts with him, he continued to suckle her jaw. Her head rolled back on his shoulder, eyes fluttered, but remained closed. The roughness of his tongue lulled her into a deep, replenishing sleep.
Peace invaded his body, invaded his soul. Exhaustion greeted him like an old friend.
Holding Bryna possessively in his arms, Tynan lay down, closed his eyes, and welcomed the sweet, dark caress of sleep.
Bryna awoke alone.
A growing tightness grew into discomfort in her lower womb. It was early morning. Her fickle moon time had finally arrived almost a fortnight late.
“My thanks, goddess,” she murmured, ever practical. “Please may it not be too painful this month.”
With all that had happened, she had forgotten to speak to Rose about preparing the woman herbs.
Tynan was not in the roundhouse and she thanked the mother goddess again for that small blessing. Last night she had agreed to handfast with Tynan today, but her body had other plans.
With a wave of cramping, reality crashed in. Bryna stifled a moan and attended to her personal needs with a slowness that spoke of her distress. In the corner of the roundhouse, she slowly prepared her woman’s wrappings for her courses. She had begun to feel very ill.
“And this is only the morning,” she muttered in loathing. Each month proved difficult for her as if her body fought some invisible battle. Other women did not suffer the cramping pain and weakness that brought her to her knees and made her wish she were dead. She did not understand, only that she must suffer this womanly affliction in silence.
“How can I possibly go through a handfasting ceremony today?” she murmured in pain. Her dreams of the golden territorial goddess were ominous of late, and always ended in a cage of fire and night.
She sat down on the bed, wretched in both body and spirit. Why did the golden goddess of her dreams not come to Tynan? Why did his geas recognize her as the territorial goddess? A new wave of cramping washed over her and she could not think beyond that.
Looking over her shoulder, she shuddered. She always had a rough time each month even with Derina’s woman herbs. On those days when her courses were particularly painful, she would curl up in a dark bend of the fortress and endure the agony in silence. It was a penance for some wrong, she supposed, but could find no reason for it.
“Please, goddess.” A crippling contraction wracked her body. “I am going to be handfasted today.”
“Bryna,” Hawk called. The boy charged into his father’s roundhouse. He gripped a bow and arrow and stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widened in a child’s fear. “Bryna, what is wrong?”
She looked up from where she had been kneeling, crouched over in pain.
“Hawk, doona be afraid.” She tried to soothe the boy from her curled position in the dirt, but he ran out of the roundhouse, yelling for his father.
“Aile Niurin.” Bryna muttered the boy’s favorite oath.
Curling into herself, her body felt tight and constricted. She tensed as another wave of pain drained her. Please goddess. I canna . . . She did not want Tynan to see her like this.
A few moments later, she heard Tynan cursing. He charged into the roundhouse and stopped dead just like his son had. His face drained of all color.
“Bryna? What is wrong?” He dove to her side and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
“Hawk found you.”
“Aye, the boy said you were dying.” His hand stroked her back.
“I think I frightened him.”
“I will deal with him later.”
Another contraction hit, low and painful. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip to stifle a moan.
“Bryna!” His tone rose in alarm. “What is wrong? Did I hurt you last night?”
“Nay,” she said, low. Embarrassment stained her cheeks with a high color. “Last night was wonderful, Tynan,” she tried to reassure him, but her efforts proved pitiful even to her own ears. “Please, go away.”
He watched her with a curious expression, his nostrils twitching.
“Go away, Tynan.”
“I think not, faery.”
A warm hand slid down and rested in
the small of her back. The heat from his hand felt good, providing a momentary respite.
“ ‘Tis your moon time,” he stated with sudden male insight that irked her. “I had wondered at the delay.”
“Do I have no secrets from you?” Straightening from her squat position on the dirt, she balanced on her hand and looked sideways at him.
He was different.
The composure and serenity that the geas had robbed him of had now returned. Gone was the darkness of his compulsion. Gone was the pain that it had wrought. Amethyst light, bright with golden flecks, scrutinized her with concern and nothing else.
“You are better now?” she asked, knowing it for truth. “Aye. Because of what we shared last night, my body will remain at peace for a short time.”
“How long?”
“I doona know. Enough of me. You are in much pain, faery?” He rubbed her lower back with infinite gentleness.
“Little,” she replied, looking away.
“Liar. You have trouble with blood flow.”
Bryna blinked back at him in mortification, her arm pressed to her painful side. “Men do not discuss such things.”
He tilted his head. “My tribesmen do. We care for our women.”
“Go away,” she choked, and lay down on her side. “For a moment I will go.”
He left her and Bryna did not know if she felt grateful or not. She rested her left cheek on the edge of the bed. The fur tickled her nose, but she did not have the strength or the will to move.
As the next wave of cramping hit, she began to rock back and forth.
“Bryna?”
She stifled a moan and looked up from her torture. Both Rose and Tynan were on their knees beside her, Tynan behind and Rose in front.
The simpler held a large, brown cloth bag.
Bryna wiggled her nose and instantly recognized the scent of woman herbs. “Blue Cohosh roots, Raspberry leaves, Sarsaparilla, Blessed Thistle?” she rattled off a few that she recognized. They were the same herbs that Derina gave her for her courses. They helped sometimes.
“Aye, let me help you,” the simpler soothed. “I have seen this many times with young virgins.” She gestured to Tynan. “Help her sit up, Lordling.”
Bryna allowed Tynan to take her in his arms, her back pressed against his chest, his chin resting near her right temple as he too gazed at the simpler’s cloth bag. He felt so wonderfully warm pressing into her like that, and the scents of the woodlands upon him offered a tiny measure of comfort to her. She suspected he knew much about the ways of women, though it embarrassed her to think so. His people did not seem to have the same reservations as her Roman master. They were much freer and less inhibited with their bodies.
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