by Erin O'Quinn
“Oh, oh,” I moaned, “suck it, Liam, stick your tongue in me,” and I raised my buttocks, now needing his mouth more than ever. His hands spread my bum wide. I felt his hot tongue run down the cleavage, sucking as he neared my most sensitive parts.
Then he began to lick, slow, back and forth, then inside me and out again. My groans rose in volume, the passion burning and scorching in places that amazed me.
“What, Cat?” he teased. “Like this?” Suddenly he was sucking, then drawing his mouth almost all the way off, then sucking again.
I could have come any moment, but I held back, wanting his hot mouth to make me explode, and I cried very loud my need. And then I could hold back no longer. I climaxed again and again, and the throbbing seemed endless as I cried and sobbed and pushed my raised groin and butt hard against his mouth. I loved it when he sucked me from behind, for somehow the angle was perfect for reaching every sensitive part of me.
Liam stroked my back, my bum, until I calmed and rolled over. “Devil,” I told him. “I want you too much sometimes.”
He said nothing, but he pulled me close to him again while I lay stroking his muscled arms and chest. He knew I would not make him wait long, and he was being patient, letting his stiff erection move of its own accord against my legs.
“What do you like, Liam?” I whispered. “What do you want the most?” I put my mouth completely over his and started to suck exactly the way he often kissed me. As I kissed, my fingers pulled his stiff nipples. Even though I was spent, kissing him like this and talking like this made my desire flare again.
His response was immediate and very arousing to me. He began to plunge his tongue into my mouth and talk, too, all the while mounting me, kneeling over me. “First suck me banger, suck hard.”
“Yes, yes,” I said into his mouth. Lying all along his long body, I curled and grasped him with both hands, and I could tell that he was fully engorged, very large and hard. I slid down so that I could take him into my mouth as far as possible, greedily sucking and smacking and playing with every inch that I could get inside my mouth. He thrust so hard that I had to use my hands to stop him from choking me, and still he pushed and moaned.
“Now inside ye,” he said roughly, and I eased up his body and guided him in. I was slick and wet, and I hoped I could take every inch of him, the way he liked.
“Tell me, Liam. Is this deep enough? Now? Now?” I used all my warrior’s muscularity to arch high so that he would fill me all the way. He pushed and groaned, “Anois, oh now, Cat, I need ye, now, now.” As he climaxed I seized his butt and squeezed as hard as I could. He collapsed without pinning me under, and we both lay still awhile until he caught his breath.
“An’ still I need ye,” he said, stroking my cheek. “A chuisle mo chroí.”
“Ah koosh-la,” I imitated his sweet sound. “My heartbeat, my love. And I need you, too.”
We lay there for a while, enjoying the feel of each other’s skin, our legs and hands entangled. “Let us go to the river,” I told him. We bathed there every morning during the good weather—actually, until winter’s bitter winds forced us inside, into our barrel-like bathing tub. I had grown up in a Britannia villa where bathing was not only common but insisted on. No day had ever passed without at least a languid few minutes in the steaming caldarium, followed by a quick jump into the cold waters of a frigidarium. That was Mama’s drill, and the need for it had sunk into my very bones.
The River Foyle was a frigidarium, always. Winter’s winds only intensified the cold, but even during the warmest weather, the plunging currents and the sprays of water dashing off rocks hit the skin like icy needles. We stood in the currents and watched a rouge-cheeked sun yawn into a bright blue day, the clouds scudding south off the great northern ocean. Already, banks of swans soared downstream in the direction of the blue lake.
I bent and scooped handfuls of water over Liam’s chest and watched little streams find their way into the coiled hairs around his groin. As soon as the cold water touched it, it seemed to shrivel into a tiny animal, huddling away from the ice-cold touch of the myriad little streams. I was fascinated by the way those rivulets I had created would drip and run the rest of the way down his legs, then finally back into the mighty river they had sprung from.
Liam did the same for me, cupping his hands and pouring water from my head, or my shoulders, then smoothing my skin as the water flowed down my body. At last, feeling fresh, we made our careful way over the rocks, onto the bank, and we rubbed each other’s skin with a large square of linen. Then, shielded from view by the pines near our front door, we ran for the indoors.
As we were eating our bowls of stir-about, I reminded Liam about going to the brugh construction site with me this morning. “Michael would have us decide what he and his workmen need to finish first,” I told him, “and then we can begin to move our household.”
“Go now,” he said. I knew he meant we should visit the homestead site first, before he left for the bally trench, and I agreed. I dressed in my old deerskin while Liam pulled on his leather breeches, and soon we were walking downstream, along the rocky riverbank. Our new holdings were only about a thousand feet beyond our present little clay house but shielded from view by a small wild-apple orchard and a grove of slender birches.
As we emerged from the birches, my breath caught in my throat as I beheld our soon-to-be home. I had deliberately held off coming here for several months, almost as I would hold back when Liam made love to me, wanting the climax to be even more intense. The sight before me was worth the wait.
My eyes were drawn first to a large, dome-like structure with another smaller dome on top of it, off to one side. This large round-house, I knew, would be the crux of our new home, where I would have part of our comfort room. The dome on top would be our private bedchamber.
The roof was made not of thatch but of hundreds of small bits of split wood layered on top of each other, similar to King Leary’ s mead hall in Tara. And studding the building, every ten feet or so, were square window holes, gaping open now to the rain and the wind and the morning sun.
I saw that a very old oak stretched its gnarled arms around the dome, seeming to shelter our new home like a babe in the arms of its mother. I reached for Liam’s hand and we stood, transfixed. Michael and his crew had worked miracles in the seven or so months of construction. They had labored every day but the Sabbath, I knew. Only the very early hour kept them from working even now as we stood among the trees admiring their work.
The terrain around the large round-house was lower, and I could see that the workmen had already begun to lay new walls so that they followed the contour of the ground. So the finished main house would be in at least two sections with this lower, nearer section serving as a kind of anteroom to the other.
I turned to Liam, still grasping his hand. “Look, darling. See where this lower section will allow a little stream to run through the house, from the river and back to the river?” I had envisioned a tiny river flowing through the comfort room itself, and even a small waterfall or fountain splashing where we could be comforted by the sight and sound. Now I stood amazed, knowing that my dream might soon become a reality.
Michael’s voice sounded then, and we both looked to see him standing quietly about ten feet from us. “Aye, lass. We are still working out the mechanics. B’fhéidir it can be done. D’ye like the rest?”
Liam strode to his cousin and enveloped him in a gruff embrace. They spoke in Gaelic too fast for me to follow, but I could see both men grinning and nodding. I waited until they finished talking, and then I asked Michael, “Will you show us the main structure?”
We walked carefully through piles of saplings and hand tools and around vats that would hold the wattle materials. I saw a large, rough lean-to and lifted my eyes in a silent question to Michael.
“Inside, lass, be the planks for your floors. Oak, an’ cedar, even pine…some larch. They have been floated downriver an’ finished right here, like smooth
timbers of a longship.”
He led us to the main structure. As soon as we entered, I saw at once that there were four doors around the perimeter. They had been invisible from the vantage of the main door. Again my eyes questioned the architect.
“Four rooms, private rooms. For guests. An’ for family.” He paused. “We are still working on those rooms. They will probably be last. An’ one of them will be your Roman baths.”
I knew my eyes were brimming in excitement. “Oh, Michael. Do you think I might have the pools and the underground vents laid in soon?”
“As soon as the Feather Clan can do it, colleen. An’ the tile work, too. We leave that to the experts.” He grinned, thinking no doubt, as I was, about the myriad talents of Jay Feather and his astonishing family.
“And what of the room on top?”
“The grianán was your request, Caylith. Ye can see how it is supported by beams.” He strode to where four stout posts were sunk into the ground. Between them lay a bank of stairs at a shallow angle to allow easy ascent and the moving in of furniture. “All we need to do is lay the floors. An’ cover the sky window.”
“Sky window? May I see?”
He bowed an elaborate little bow, and I raced up the stairs. Before me was a landing, and beyond lay a rather large room just waiting to hold our oversized bed and other furniture. On the ceiling, right above where I could envision our bed, was a large square space, carved out of then-wet wattle, waiting for a window. I felt a little thrill all along my backbone, knowing that on rainless nights I could lie in our oaken bed and watch the stars. Or, if the hole were to be filled with the new invention “glass,” I would have the glow of the sunny sky all day long to light our room, with no need for candles. The new substance, made somehow of fired sand, was opaque but would allow in light.
I walked more sedately down the stairs, right into the arms of a surprised Michael. I hugged him fiercely. “Go raibh maith agat,” I said, my head on his chest. “You have captured my dreams. Everything, everything I imagined, is here for me, for Liam, for…for family. Ah,” I said, drawing back a bit, “I may as well say it. For our coming child, too. Thank you, dear Michael.”
His eyes crinkled in amusement. “A child, is it? Then ’tis good ye set a bit of a fire under me bum, lass. Do I need to ask where ye want us to work first?”
“I think you know, Michael. Liam, do you agree? I think, ah, after the bedchamber, first you need to lay the floors and set in the windows. That is all we would need before we move in.”
Slowly, trying to find the right words, Liam asked, “The…holes. Windows like—like the ones in your teach, a Micheál?”
“Some glass, like me own. Some regular, so you can see the trees an’ the river beyond. An’ shuttered, so ye can close them up. Tell me, Cay, which ones will be glass?”
“You have a source of sand, Michael?”
“We do. We have found it nearby at the neck of the Lough Foyle where the sea begins. There lies an area several miles wide, sand dunes caught up in the grasses an’ reeds, all blowing an’ waiting for two or three days’ transport by wagon.”
“Then half my windows could be of glass?”
“They could, if we have enough sand.”
“Make it happen then, Michael. What color will they be?
“An’ sure that depends on what God has put into his sand, lass. ’Tis different according to the little grains of sand themselves—b’fhéidir yellow or rose or…who knows?”
We smiled at his unintended rhyme. “Rose…who knows? I care not. Let it be any color. Do it, Michael. Lay the floors. Start our windows. The one in the ceiling—make it glass too.”
Liam’s eye lit on the center of the room, the spot under a large smoke hole. “The fire pit. Will ye lay it? Or…”
Michael already knew that I wanted Liam to lay the stones for the fire pit. I wanted it large, waist high like the one in Sweeney’s brugh, cunningly interlaid with river rocks. Liam’s love of the stones would result in a fireplace fit for a royal bally, a place where I could lay a metal grate and even have space to prepare food with no fire below.
“Ye can even select the stones, cousin. I will be joyed to see the work of an expert stone layer.” He clapped Liam’s broad back, and Liam’s face glowed. “Later on, we will be building a cook house. Ye can decide if ye want to build that fire pit, too. It will be twice as big. But wait an’ think about it. Now ’tis time for me lads to arrive. We need to set our shoulders to the work, sure an’ ye do not mind.”
“Tell me just one last thing, Michael. How…how long do you think—?”
“Give us a full moon to finish the floors an’ the windows, to do a solid bit of work. Two or three moons if I take some time to help me Uncail Eóghan. Will that be all right wi’ ye, Cay?”
“It is more than I hoped for, dear one.”
Liam and I walked back to our modest little clay house, silent, thinking about our new home. Liam spoke only once. “A new son. A new house. Me heart is too full, Cat.”
I squeezed his rough hand, my heart singing, not even bothering to correct his mistaken notion of having a son. “Cuileann,” I whispered happily. “A whole new home just for my little girl Holly.”
Chapter 6:
Pain for Pain
After Liam left for the bally trench, I busied myself with the horses and the garden, loving every moment I could spend outdoors. The only one not to have been ridden lately was my pony NimbleFoot. I stood before his handsome head, reaching my hands deep into his white mane at the top, talking to him as I rubbed and stroked.
“Golden boy, oh, my pretty boy. Do you want to ride a bit?”
As though he understood my every word, my every whim, his shapely hooves began to dance. I went to the lean-to where I kept his blanket and saddle. As soon as I emerged, he began to whinny and toss his head. “Where, Nimble? Along the river?”
As soon as I settled into the saddle, we were flying like swans along the rocky banks of the Foyle. I marveled as always at how the mountain pony flew among the rocks as though he were cantering in a grassy moor. I thought no full-sized horse could handle such terrain with hooves so sure, and I smoothed his flying mane as we ran upriver along the gleaming Foyle.
I returned only reluctantly, conscious of having to gather vegetables for supper. I changed into one of the léines Brigid had given me, feeling pretty in the pine-green and mint-green colors, like a garden in a forest. I stood daydreaming by the fire pit, cutting up a golden, swan-necked squash to put in the cauldron.
Responding to the sound of a wooden knocker against our oak door, I expected to see almost anyone but Mama. I opened it wide and drew her inside with a warm embrace.
Except on the coldest of days, Mama liked to wear a silken or linen toga or rarely a light woolen gúna, bound to her slender body with an intricate leather belt. At that moment her body was caught up in a toga of pale yellow silk. It showed off her long, auburn hair and dark brown eyes.
“Mama! What a delight! Please come in and stay a while. I will make us some mint tea.”
She smiled and kissed both my cheeks lightly. “No, darling, I cannot stay. You look very pretty. I stopped by to see—to ask how you are doing.”
I looked at her narrowly. “Whatever do you mean, Mother? We saw each other just two days ago, after the church service. I have not changed.”
“I thought I could see—a certain something—something only a woman sees in other women.”
“Sit down, dear Mama.” I indicated one of our three small benches, and she settled herself onto the hard wooden seat, smoothing her toga on her knees.
She looked at me with placid eyes. “Well? Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what? I, um, I know not—”
“The little one,” she said with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “The small hidden one.”
“You mean…your granddaughter?”
“Ah, yes, that very one.”
“You scamp.” I laugh
ed and stroked her smooth, lightly rouged cheek. “I have named her Cuileann. Holly.”
“I like that very much. Quill-un. Not too foreign, not too hard to say. Yet exotic, in a way. And when will I be a grandmother?”
“Late October, I think, Mama. Early November. About the time Father Patrick is coming to Derry.” Then, remembering our brief meeting in the churchyard, I sat close by her. “Perhaps I should ask after your own health, Mama. The day we saw each other, you did not seem—ah, quite yourself. Rather pale, I thought. Very pale.”
“Yes. Well—” She stopped, almost embarrassed. My mother had never been an accomplished liar. “I thought for a moment I saw a–a familiar face. Someone who knows me not and yet I—have not forgotten his own face.”
“You mean someone at church?”
“Yes. Standing in the yard. And then he turned, and I lost him in the crowd.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“For a moment—just for a second—I thought—but it is not possible.”
“Who, Mama? Please tell me.”
“One of my…captors. Not the blue-marked men. One who bought me from them. One who drove a bullock wagon. But why would he be here in Derry? At our church? I must have been mistaken.”
Mother had never, even by a hint, spoken a word about her captivity from the time the savages torched our villa until the day she stood trembling in my arms outside the building I thought to be Sweeney’s slave quarters. She had shared her story once about herself and Owen but never a word about her own sad history of thralldom.
“Mama, I have respected your privacy. I have never asked you about your captivity, for fear of tearing open old wounds. But if you could bring yourself…if you could bear to talk a bit about the past…”
“Then what, Caylith? Could you heal such pain? Could you undo the savagery? Could these scars vanish?” She held out her wrists, crossed by ghastly, gristle-like marks from old bindings. “Or…other scars, other places?”
That stopped me. I had never thought overlong about the marks, physical and emotional, that my dear mother still wore where none could see. Pure and simple, I had not wanted to confront those hidden scars.