by K. E. Saxon
He was still a bit stunned by how quickly and easily she was able to give him a second release each time they swived. And this past night’s had surprised him, for he’d nearly fell upon her in a dead swoon immediately afterward. A thing which had now happened twice to him with her, but had ne’er before happened with any other. And ‘twas not something for which he was proud. That rather embarrassing reaction this night past, he hoped, had only occurred because he’d had little to no sleep in the three nights since they’d returned from the hunter’s cot. And the other time—well, it had been after fucking her several times, and they’d been trying to make the other swoon.
Aye, ‘twas no doubt that he had been wearier than he’d realized which had given him such a reaction. For he’d stayed awake the first night after their return, worrying, planning and scheming o’er his new conquest. The second night, he’d spent out in the cold on the heath with his temporarily lame horse, and the third had been filled with anxious anticipation of the next morn’s exchange of vows and the horrid feast that would follow.
God, but she was sweet. He loosed the ties that closed the side of her gown and ran his fingers and palm down into the bodice before capturing one of her breasts. He lifted it up and out. “I’m not going to fuck you,” he said against her mouth, “but I want a bit of what this abundant tit of yours offers.”
He moved his mouth further south, avidly tasting and nibbling the soft skin of her face and neck. She tasted so good, he couldn’t keep himself from biting and sucking the tender place where her neck met her shoulder. When she jerked and stiffened, he soothed the spot with the tip of his tongue before continuing his mouth’s journey down her chest and o’er the rise of her breast.
He wasn’t so gentle when he opened his lips wide o’er her nipple and drew hard on its peak, teasing the hard nubbin that grew tauter still with each new flick of his tongue.
When he had her trembling and straining against him, when he knew she would now be as avid to fuck as he would be all day, he released her.
They both stood staring at each other, the black centers of their eyes magnified and their bodies rigid. The sound of each grating breath they took echoed in the chamber like the wind o’er Sìdh Chailleann.
Robert dipped his gaze first to the place on his wife’s neck and then to the swollen, hard tip of her breast. There were white indentations in both places where his teeth had been. And within each, the skin was swollen and red. A bit abraded, even.
There was something about her that made him want to leave his mark on her.
“Straighten your gown. ‘Tis time we left.” He turned and strode to the door. After swinging it wide, he turned back. “Come.”
Almost as an afterthought, or so it seemed to Morgana’s dazed mind, Robert held out his hand to her.
She hurriedly tightened the laces on her gown and realigned the neck of the shift beneath so that it covered her well. Then, with a bit of a skip in her step, she walked toward her husband and placed her hand inside his calloused palm. When a very slight, but warm smile curved his lips and a twinkle lit his eye, she grinned and happily allowed him to lead her out of the chamber.
* * *
A while later, as their wagon shuddered and jerked, and began to move out the gate, Donnach Cambel seethed and worried. ‘Tis the basest of fortune that the meddling Norman paid so much of the MacVie’s debts. Instead of having his mute niece well out of the way again, and too poor to be of any danger to him, he’d now have to spend good time and coin to have her watched—and if need be, killed. But, what tormented his mind even more, was why the King had suddenly insisted the lass be brought from the nunnery and presented at Court. How had he learned she still lived?
PART TWO
A Lady’s Journey
“But, soft: behold! lo where it comes again!
I'll cross it, though it blast me. - Stay, illusion!
If thou hast any sound, or use a voice.
Speak to me.”
Hamlet (Act I, scene i)
“Mad call I it, for to define true madness,
What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?”
Hamlet (Act II, scene ii)
“O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that.”
King Lear (Act III, scene iv)
CHAPTER 6
The Highlands, Scotland
The MacVie Holding, May 1207
MORGANA SWUNG HER arms in a lively arc as she walked around the corner of the keep. ‘Twas nearing two moons since she and Robert had returned to his holding and all around her was activity. Some were hard at work repairing portions of the fortress’s structure and others, like herself, were preparing for the Bealltainn festival that eve. The warm yellow beam of the sun’s rays had melted the last of the snow a fortnight past and now kissed her cheeks, giving them a slight rose tint.
She’d received a missive from her cousin that morn. Vika was still bold as ever, it seemed, openly giving forth every shameful detail of who was with whom at the King’s court. But there was a rather worrying, and telling, omission: With whom was Vika spending time now that Robert was gone?
Morgana shrugged and shook her head. Her cousin was a bit of a puzzle, brazenly giving her body up to men, yet ne’er giving any of them the slightest hope of winning her hand, or her heart. A thing that was so far removed from Morgana’s own desires as to be nearly unimaginable.
She allowed her palm to rest lightly o’er her lower abdomen. Had Robert’s seed at last taken root the eve before? She prayed so. She’d had her flowering twice since their first time together, and Modron had explained that her monthly courses would stop when a babe began to grow there.
The sound of metal striking metal jerked her from her thoughts and she turned toward it. A contented smile formed on her lips for, there, not more than thirty paces from where she stood, was her dark-haired, handsome husband. Bare to the waist, he hefted the long handle of an iron hammer into the air again and blasted it down on top of a long, heavy spike.
‘Twould not be many more moons before their keep was back to the condition Robert had told her it had been in when he was a young lad—before his father’s compulsive need to make war on the de Burgh’s had o’ertaken his duties to his clan and fortress.
Aye, the de Burgh’s! She’d had no idea that Robert’s family was so closely linked to Guy’s. Not, at least, until she’d arrived here and heard the tales from a few of the more vocal clanswomen who spun for the keep. And then Robert had utterly shocked her last eve, after their first loving of the night, when he’d lain on his back, tucked her up against his side, and talked to her! Not in short, blunt commands, as was his usual way, but in expressive words. About his days as a young squire, about his hopes for the future, and about how consumed his father had been in trying to destroy the de Burgh’s—so much so, that his sire had put their clan and holding at risk.
And ‘twas upon hearing him speak to her thus that her heart had truly tumbled. She sighed. Aye, ‘twas going to be much more painful than she’d e’er imagined when he left her bed for another’s.
But, she was sensible. Especially so after seeing at court just how faithless most marriages were. For now, however? Aye, for now, she’d enjoy every last moment of this mad, surprising, fortunate twist in her fate.
Modron walked up and stood next to her. “Think you the rowan arch will be completed in time for the festival?”
Morgana smiled, but didn’t turn her eye from the flexing, sweaty bands of muscle across her husband’s abdomen and chest. She nodded and motioned with a wave of her finger toward the center of the courtyard.
“Ah, I see now. But...what e’er is your husband working on then?”
Morgana shrugged one shoulder and shook her head. She knew she no doubt had a worshipful look upon her countenance, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from the sight of him. And she truly cared not what he was making. She just hoped it took a long while to complete, so she could savor the view for a bit lon
ger.
Aye, she had enjoyed watching Robert at the tourneys; watching him meet each new challenge, each new test of strength and prowess. And not only win, but far surpass his opponents.
And to think, ‘twas all to save his holding, to rescue his clan from total ruin. Not for the renown had he competed, as so many of the young knights she’d met at court had done. Nay, ‘twas for a much nobler cause than that.
All at once, Robert’s eyes locked on hers. He gave her the most heated, conspiratorial smile she’d e’er seen—or that he’d e’er bestowed upon her. Her nipples tightened under the light wool of her gown. When his eyes dipped to them and an avaricious spark lit their pale gray depths, her canal grew heavy and damp, pulsing in readiness for his next invasion.
“Breathe, or you shall be in a swoon in another moment,” Modron said in a low voice.
Morgana gave her an absent nod, but forced air into her lungs as her maid—who had also become a dear friend these past sennights—had advised her to do.
“My, but your husband is a virile one. ‘Twill not be much longer, I trow, before he’s bred a strong son ‘neath your heart.”
Morgana lifted her hand to that rapidly beating organ and lightly rubbed it with the tip of her fingers.
Her husband clearly misunderstood her action for, in the next second, he was striding toward her. And in not more than five after that, he had her lifted into his arms and was marching them in the direction of the keep’s front entrance.
Aye, Morgana thought happily, ‘twould not be many more days, she was sure, until she’d have his babe growing inside her.
* * *
God! The way she’d looked at him—as if he were invincible, mighty, as if she thought he was a god. It both frighted and thrilled him. And now, Robert was so ready for her, he nearly dropped her twice before he made it into their chamber and tossed her crosswise on the bed. He flipped up her skirts, shoved down his braies, clamped his hands under her knees, spread them wide, and entered her. When she came immediately, it almost caused him to shoot his seed, but he gritted his teeth and growled, somehow managing to keep the unbearably pleasurable impulse at bay so he could enjoy gliding in and out of her a while longer.
He’d ne’er desired any woman to this degree, and ‘twas beginning to bring on an uncontrollable panic. And not only that, but there was, expanding inside him, some other emotion. Foreign in scope and foreign in experience. Even when she was nowhere in sight, his thoughts were on her. And not just thoughts of fucking her, which he could almost understand. Nay, they were other thoughts, other images that at first were nebulous, but with each passing day, were becoming so strong, that one in particular had burned into his consciousness and would not let him go: Her, round with his child and holding another.
He’d ne’er, e’er cared for the young ones. Had only e’er thought of them in terms of his responsibility to his clan and his family. But there was something about Morgana that made him think of babes in a different light. Made him want to be a father for Christ’s sake! Made him want to be the father of her bairns—their bairns. Together.
On the cusp of that last realization, he shot his load. High and straight, deep and purposefully, pushing the seed against the mouth of her trembling womb.
And afterward, they both came again. First her, then him when he felt the strong muscles of her canal tugging and sucking hard on him. “God, Morgana, I lo—argh!—what are you doing to me?”
Later, as he held her dozing form close against his side, softly rubbing his lips against the silken strands of moonlit hair at her temple, he recalled what he’d been envisioning just before he’d climaxed, what he’d nearly said—what he had said—and his lungs stopped working. The walls of the bedchamber suddenly seemed to close in on him.
But then, in the next second, he realized that he had no doubt been speaking of the way she was fucking him, and his world righted a bit. He was at last able to take air into his lungs once more.
* * *
Atop the gorse-covered mound about a mile from the fortress, the two Bealltainn fires were lit on either side of the path, one on a carn and the other in the ground. The rowan-wood arch decked with bright yellow flowers was placed o’er the pathway leading to the fires so that couples might pass through two-by-two.
Robert had said little since Morgana had awakened after his spontaneous dash with her to their bedchamber earlier that day. His silent reserve, a thing she had grown accustomed to these past sennights, worried her now, for he’d been more solemn than usual as well. But then he took hold of her hand to walk the last distance up to the Bealltainn fires and her anxious thoughts settled a bit.
In the dark purple and deep blues of near-night, she heard the rumbling, chattering sound of far-off joyful voices behind and in front of her. And over to her right, she saw the darkening shadows of clan herdsmen with their cattle preparing for the rite of running the animals between the two fires to cleanse and bless them against illness and injury for the next twelvemonth.
A cool breeze buffeted her gown, causing the skirts to cling to her legs. She halted, shivering a little as she tugged at the material. Her husband must have noticed, for in the next second, he hauled her up against his side and lightly rubbed his palm up and down her arm.
She looked up at him, hoping to see that shadow of a smile he sometimes bestowed upon her, but she found only the same shuttered look she’d been receiving from him for hours now.
She didn’t hold his gaze for long, however, for he looked away almost immediately, turning his attention back to the fires that crackled and spat a bit further ahead from where they stood. They resumed walking then, but after only a few paces he dropped his arm from around her. Her heart did a little dip in her chest at the loss, but soared once more when he twined his fingers through hers again.
When they were close to the fires, Robert waved to one of his clansmen and dropped her hand. “I need to speak to Dugan. Go stand with Modron,” he said, and walked away. He’d not even looked at her while he’d spoken to her. What is he thinking? If only he would tell her what he was displeased about—with her?—she might be able to lessen his displeasure.
She did, however, go stand with Modron.
The older woman turned a surprised eye upon her, but smiled, saying, “I thought not to see you again ‘til well past morn after the way your lusty husband behaved this afternoon. I thought he’d not let you out of the chamber again, even for the fire rites!” and handed her a flagon of ale.
Morgana blushed, but returned the smile, and accepted the proffered spirits. She shrugged, took a long swallow, and looked toward the dancers that waved flame-tipped torches as they moved around the smoking, crackling blaze.
After a few more minutes, she and Modron strolled closer to them, and clear of the path that the herdsmen and cattle would take in just a while.
They were not in their new position long before an older, unwed clansman took Modron by both her hands and hurried her into the throng of revelers.
Morgana chuckled silently into the palm of her hand and shook her head when Modron looked back at her with a pleading look in her eye.
Just then, the muffled male shouts, the frenzied rush of hoofed feet and the swish! of rowan branches against rough-trod path and fleeced hide came from behind her and she turned toward the sound. The herding had begun.
All about her was madness and mayhem. At first, Morgana was amused by the sights and sounds around her, but then an unaccountable dread began to grow inside her. Images, colors, blurred and her mind spun, she spun, looking in all directions for her husband. Where is he? Her skin went clammy, causing her chemise to cling to her breasts and tummy. A gust of wind blew across her, making her shiver, and sent sparks and ash into the air.
And then she saw him—nay, not Robert—but Him. Ankou. Standing on the other side of the Bealltainn fires, the hood of his long, black cloak pulled forward so that only an ebon void could be seen where a visage should be.
The tankard
slid from her nerveless hand. She doubled over, her arms about her middle, unable to breathe. “Say naught. Else you shall be next.” The disembodied, rasping voice floated up from somewhere deep in her memory, and again, the fleeting image of Ankou carrying the limp form of a dead woman in his arms taunted her understanding.
“Morgana! What ails you, child?” ‘Twas Modron. “Laird MacVie! Make haste, your wife!” the older woman called out.
In a flash, Morgana was enveloped and lifted into a strong pair of arms. He held tight to her as he took the path back to the keep in great strides. “We’ll be back home soon. Do you need a physic?” His voice sounded strange, a bit strained, as if fright had hold of him.
Morgana lifted her head and shook it. She was feeling much better now. Calm, in fact, since her husband was holding her. She placed a soothing kiss on Robert’s tensed jaw.
She felt his shoulders relax beneath her hands. “When I get you settled, you are going to tell me what happened.”
Morgana smiled at his choice of words but nodded.
* * *
The man in the cloak looked in all directions, ensuring he wasn't seen by any others, before he slipped silently back into the rising mist and trudged down the opposite side of the mound toward his waiting stallion.
* * *
It took a while, but between Morgana’s large hand gestures, her mouthing of words, and her miming of incidents, Robert finally felt he kenned the whole of what had happened to her up on the fire mound.