Becca St.John

by Seonaid

  “Even among my friends, I was separate,” she called, as she spurred Peregrine to catch up as well. “The healers are neither English nor French nor Scottish, nor anything but women who heal.”

  “You aren’t a healer,” he shouted back.

  Peregrine caught up to him, “They need someone to keep them safe. I will do that.”

  He snorted.

  Riding Peregrine, Seonaid cut Deian off, forcing him to stop, speaking to Padraig as she dismounted, lifted the boy from the saddle. “What? Do you think they don’t need a guard?” She smoothed Deian’s hair. The boy pulled away.

  “There’s been talk of the Women of the Woods since I was a boy.” Padraig dismounted, clapped Deian on the back. “Good riding, lad, you knew your mount needed water—” he’d gotten them to a river bank, “—but you mustn’t go beyond us.”

  Approvals done, he faced Seonaid. “Those women have survived lifetimes; no doubt they will continue to survive.”

  Seonaid put her hands on her hips. “And kingships last lifetimes, too, but not without a guard.” She reached over and pulled Deian to stand in front of her.

  Padraig took Deian’s shoulder, aiming him toward care of his horse. “Not by a single woman, they don’t. They have armies, armies of men.”

  Seonaid took Deian’s other shoulder. “You must be thirstin’. Take your mount down and both of you get some water.” At Padraig’s strangled glare, she told him. “He’s my son, not yours. He does what I ask, not you.”

  “And if we run into danger, you both better listen to me!”

  “No,” Seonaid squared on him. “This is my adventure. You best be listening to me.” And she stormed off down to the water, leaving him to flounder in his own temper.

  CHAPTER 5 ~ BOGGY PLACES

  Water seeped up through her pallet, but she’d not complain. Padraig suggested they go up another rise but she’d been up enough rises to refuse.

  “We’re fine here,” she’d snapped, and he hadn’t argued. Bully for him. Let him get wet through as well. Too late to change anything now.

  She shivered. Turned to see Deian sleeping soundly, warmed by the fire they’d made beneath an outcropping of rock that formed as near as a cave as they could find. Deian between stone and the fire. To the left of him and across from her, Padraig. They formed a triangle, with her at the lowest point. She’d insisted, certain that, should Deian wake in the night, he’d head downhill.

  Padraig took the first watch, her turn now. Just as well, she’d not sleep anyway.

  Rising from where she sat on her thoroughly damp bed, she crossed to the fire. The rocks Padraig lined it with were still warm. Hopefully, with some readjusting, she could get her own bedding dry. Despite being as quiet as possible, she turned to see Padraig watching her.

  Damn him for knowing what he was talking about. For befriending her son. She wanted her son to herself, for a change. Needed to build that bond.

  And she’d wanted Padraig’s friendship for herself, horrid, foolish woman that she was.

  Lord knows Deian needed more masculine influence than he’d had, being raised in a household of women. Except she wasn’t much of a woman, taking the role of the man, protector, seeing to the farm while her friends raised her son.

  “Are you moving it or beating it?” Padraig asked, nodding toward the bedding she fought to adjust around the remains of the fire.

  As far as sarcasm went, it was mild enough. No reason for her to react as she did, but on the cusp of a sleepless night, and busy as she was feeling sorry for herself, his words burned like a poker to a bruise. She sniffed against emotion, swallowed a hiccupping sob once, twice, before they broke through.

  Out of his bedding at the first sound of tears, Padraig pulled her into his arms. She tried to stop him, waved her hands at his approach, pushed ineffectively at his massive shoulders.

  She tried, so glad when he didn’t relent. When he held her against his warmth, cradled her head in his hand. All warm, solid man, holding her like a cherished child, rocking her, shushing her, swallowing her up in his embrace as he’d done after the attack, when she fought to control her tears.

  Not now, on this dark, wet night. She let them fly.

  How long had it been since anyone cared? She sobbed for the gentleness. Bereft of all the lost, lonely years. Sobbed harder for the chance to ease, to feel the tender stroke along her back, the soft kisses to the crown of her head, the curve of her cheek.

  Tears fell like rain, watered a blossom hidden deep within. Heat steamed, petals unfolded, revealing an unfamiliar, reckless want, fierce enough to wipe out fear or sorrow or loneliness.

  She wanted him.

  Her hunger voracious beyond his gentle touches.

  She cupped his face with her hands, lifted her lips, pressed them to his. He stilled, but she would not let him, took advantage of his wariness to press him back onto the ground as she tried, in all her naiveté, to ignite his passion.

  Her strength no match for his.

  With one roll, he had her flat on her back, raised himself over her.

  “Do you know what you are asking for? Do you know where you are leading me?”

  She nodded, licked at dry lips, shivered with emotions too powerful to check.

  “I’ll not take advantage.” He eased away, rubbed his hand down his face.

  Incensed, she rose on her knees. “Do you know what you’re denying me?” Harsh, yet quiet, she demanded.

  He’d turned his back on her, but she’d not have that. He chose to be here, let him face what it did to her. She pulled at his shoulder, urged him to look at her. If she were to confess, she’d not do it to a man’s back.

  “Do you know you’re the only man I’ve ever kissed?” Ah, yes, she’d stunned him with that. “Oh, aye, Lochlan taught violation, the cruel, crude invasion of a woman.”

  “Did you think he wanted kisses? After bloodying my lips with his fist?” Ah, it was too hard to speak to his face, to admit to the shame. More than expected.

  She shifted away, spoke in a whisper as though to herself. “Do you think he could ever provoke want?” She shook her head. The pure, clean moment of desire now tainted. “Never mind.” She shrugged his hand from her shoulder.

  Too late, too, too late.

  “Come here.” He lifted her clear off the ground, taking them both around a boulder, out of sight of the fire, of Deian. She fought against the pain of rejection. He’d not wanted her before, he couldn’t have her now.

  “Stop,” he ordered, sitting down, his back to the rock, her in his lap.

  “Stop.” He took both of her hands in one of his. “Just let me hold you.”

  Startled, she looked up, shadow hiding his thoughts from her.

  “Just let me hold you.” It sounded like a plea, but why would he beg? She was the one who needed the comfort, needed his touch. “Please.”

  Stiffly, she curled into him, no longer deep enough into her sorrow for her mind to release its hold. Only moments ago, her body led. Now thoughts reprimanded. He pitied her. Benevolent kindliness for a poor, weak soul.

  She was a fool. Pulled away. He caught her close, adjusted her in his lap and she felt it, through his trews, her trews.

  He desired her.

  Again, from nowhere, heat scorched a path through her.

  It didn’t mean he cared. Men desired anything that stood still long enough. Her brother told her that. Didn’t matter if it was a woman, a child, a sister, or even an animal, desire raged in the other sex.

  Arms held her tight, his cheek rested on her head. “I’ve wanted you the whole of my life.” She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Words fought within her. Sharp, bitter words. Sighs of longing. Equally matched. “I want to woo you, not slide in on your sorrow.”

  Woo her? Win her? She was headed for England. He would go back to Glen Toric. No future to entice her to.

  Men could lie.

  She’d never heard him lie.

  He kissed her temple.

&
nbsp; Simple brush of lips spurring heat, fire. Passion.

  “I’ve never wanted before.” In that, she was pure, untouched. She could give him that.

  He groaned. “I’m a fool,” he muttered, and she realized she’d won, if she wanted to.

  And she did.

  Turning in his arms, once again she framed his face in her hands. “I’ve never felt like this before. May never again in my life. Don’t make me beg.”

  She had never begged for anything in her life. She did not change her ways to beg for friendship when others thought her odd. When others whispered about her, suspected she loved Talorc the Bold, she did not demand to be listened to. She allowed false judgment rather than beg.

  So, as Padraig looked to the sky, the cords in his neck knotted tight, when he turned to the side rather than to her, she crumpled inside. Unable to gather her bravado in anger, too tired anymore for false facades, her hands slipped from his face and she bowed her head.

  Shame, she was shame and filth and unworthy and…

  “No,” he grated. “Don’t think that, don’t be thinkin’ I don’t want you.” He grabbed her hands, put them back, her palms to his jaw, against a beard grown from sharp to soft in the past days. She dared to lift her eyes, to look into his, to see the battle he fought against hunger.

  Timid, still unsure of herself, she threaded her fingers through the coarse curl of beard, watched her actions, amazed, for she had never felt a man’s beard before. She touched, leaned in, her lips brushing against his, the tickle of the facial hair. So aware of each, every sensation, every touch, every tingle. She lifted her eyes from her exploration to find intense, dark longing.

  “Please,” she whispered, her hard edge washed away by tears.

  Ever so gently his fingers traced her face, her eyes, the length of her nose, her lips, gaze on every move, until he growled, “Lord, forgive me.” Then he took her lips with his, pressed the advantage she’d tried so hard to win and rolled them both to the ground.

  His weight shocked her to stillness and, as quickly, slipped her back in time to a weight forcing her down, choking her, pressing, pressing, pressing, jerked her to fight.

  He lifted away. She rolled, panting with the fear infecting her thoughts.

  She didn’t want that either, didn’t know what she wanted, what she didn’t want.

  “Shhhh.” He calmed her agitation. “Shhh, let’s slow this down.” Pulled them both to their sides, his hand stroking the length of their bodies. “I’ll not trap you with my body,” he promised, letting her know he understood what she only just realized.

  Raped, entrapped, no freedom, no say.

  Desperate to get past this, she pushed him over, sat astride him. “Aye, you’ll not.” Still breathing heavy, the whole change, the freedom of how she sat above him, the control. He looked like a child, cornered with the promise of a sweetie. Her laughter bubbled up, surprising them both. She laughed, for she could, for she could do—or not do—whatever she wanted.

  And she wanted.

  She grabbed his hair in either hand, a fierce hold, as she kissed him, squirming against his support, the solid long length of him a buffer to the hard ground. The thrill of him, as his large coarse hands cupped her backside, urged her against his hardness.

  They rolled again, over and over until he was atop her once more, but this time it felt good, wonderful. She laughed. The shock of her desire, spinning her into joy. Yes, please, press into me, put your weight on me, share with me.

  A woman, a real, whole woman, reeking with passion. Nothing could stop her now.

  “Maammmaaa!”

  She pushed Padraig away even as he pulled off of her.

  “Maaammmaaa!”

  “Deian!” she shouted, scrambling to get up, running to the dead fire, to her son’s pallet, but he wasn’t there and the night was dark.

  “Deian! Where are you?” she screamed, as Padraig lit a torch he’d kept close at hand in case of predators.

  “Here, Mama!” Deian’s panic fired her own until Padraig put his hand on her arm and called out. “Deian, stay still, don’t move. We’re coming for you.” His authority calmed even as his words revealed the problem. Bogs. Soggy earth that could pull a man in.

  They could not rush to him, or risk stepping in one, as Deian probably had, sinking into the black muck.

  “Can’t get out.” His fear turned to anger now that he knew rescue was at hand.

  Aye, he was her son.

  “How deep are you?” She’d keep him talking, to ease his worry, but only heard a sniffle in return.

  “Where to?” she whispered, her skin crawling with the need to move, to reach her son.

  “Deian?”

  “Here.” Padraig lifted the torch, as they found a path out, away from the camp.

  “Deian?” Seonaid called. “Are you very deep?”

  “It’s up to my knees,” he warbled, but it could be so much worse, so very much worse, especially when their progress forward depended on watching every step.

  Finally, the torch flickered across the lad. Seonaid ran to him. Still, Padraig reached him first, pulling him straight up out of the bog, his stockings left behind in the sucking muck. Padraig planted him down on solid ground, shook his shoulder. “You were told not to walk about. You knew better.”

  “I want my mama,” he sniffed, and threw himself into Seonaid’s arms.

  Her arms. He wanted her rather than Padraig.

  “He’s safe, isn’t he?” She sniffed herself, unbidden tears rising with his rescue. Safe.

  “Aye, safe now.” Padraig acknowledged as the lad, now snug in his mama’s arms, looked at him. “You were told not to walk about, now, were you not?”

  Deian nodded, as Seonaid countered. “He’s wet and cold.”

  “I want to go home,” Deian whined.

  “You’ve no one to blame but yourself,” Padraig reminded him.

  “No one was there and I had to pee.” Deian lifted his head, scowled at Seonaid.

  She hadn’t been there, off instead with Padraig. She scowled in turn at Padraig, dared him to say anything.

  “Then you call out. We’ll never be far, lad. Never far.” He reached to stroke the boy’s head. Seonaid pulled him out of reach.

  “I’m cold,” Deian griped.

  And so was she, from deep inside.

  “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.” Seonaid followed the light of Padraig’s torch, the only light on this dark, dark night with no moon and cloud cover so low no stars could be seen, and she thought of all the terrors that could have met Deian, of how far he could have wandered if the bog hadn’t stopped him. Nothing to guide him back to camp. Animals hunted at night.

  And she’d been out playing wild with a man.

  She knew better. Had always known better. There was no future for her with Padraig. He was a clansman, his heart would always be there. He would leave them when they reached a boat for passage. He would leave them.

  It was just her and Deian. No other. Just her and Deian.

  All slick, slippery muck, he squirmed to be free.

  “Stop your thrashing!”

  “I don’t want you!” He pummeled her, “I don’t want to be here! I want to go home! I want Ingrid!” And again, words that slew her: “I don’t want you!”

  Seonaid fought to keep her hold on him lest he fall, unable to argue against his wants. He had the right of it.

  But Padraig stormed in, his face right up to Deian’s, startling them both. “And who pushed you to climb into a loft and left you? And who got you out of there?” Padraig argued.

  Rigid, Deian glared at him, but stopped his squiggles. It was not a time to remember. Seonaid slew Ingrid’s sister. She’d had her revenge.

  “Enough!” Padraig’s command broke the stillness. Deian dropped his head onto her shoulder, away from Padraig’s stare.

  “Poor little lad,” she crooned, as she crossed to what was left of the fire, Padraig ahead of her to stoke it. “Shiv
ering and quivering with cold.” Her hands gentled and soothed as he hiccupped. “No, my sweet lad, no shame in tears.” She forced the words out by the threat of her own. “Go ahead and cry now.” She settled him on his feet.

  “I won’t cry.” His breath hitched, as he swiped an arm across a runny nose.

  “Of course not.” Hands shaking, she reached for the brae ties. “Why would you be crying now? You’ve only been lost in a dark hole without another soul to know.” She pulled his shirt over his head. “You’ve only been taken from your friends. You’ve no reason…” Her own voice hitched, as she wrapped him in the blanket Padraig passed to her. “No reason…” Tears blurred her words.

  “Can I hold your brooch?” he asked.

  She studied him, her brave little boy, so stoic despite fear raging inside. And she knew it did, for he asked for the brooch, for the first time in forever, he asked to hold the one thing she had of her mother’s. A circle of gold around the silhouette of a full sun and the ribbon of words “I burn but am not consumed.” The symbol and motto for the clan Macleod of Lewis. When Deian was no more than a wee mite, frightened by a night filled with ominous shadows and dreams that robbed him of sleep, she’d put this piece of jewelry in his hand, his talisman for courage.

  As always, she wore it near her shoulder, to hold her tartan in place. She removed it, secured the pin so it wouldn’t prick, and placed it in his open palm.

  As his fingers curled around it, stoicism turned to ferocity.

  Brave little man.

  She wrapped him warm, pulled him close, onto her lap, and stopped him when he tried to push away. “I need you close, for me. To share your strength.”

  He relaxed then, into her hold, didn’t fuss when she rocked, with him in her arms, mother and son, back and forth, bonding in emotion restrained.

  Exhaustion overrode all else and he slept. It was the darkest point of night, just shy of sunrise. She tucked them both into his pallet.

  Rocks and dirt shifted, as Padraig climbed onto the top of the boulder at their back. He would keep them safe, for now. Only for now. She must send him away. No point relying on help that wouldn’t last.