The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “Which shoulder?”

  She could barely speak, so intense was the throbbing. “Right.”

  His hands left her hips, only to find her right arm, which hung limp by her side. Rough calluses skimmed her skin as the man felt upwards, until he had her shoulder clasped in his palms.

  “’Twill hurt,” he said, his breath brushing her cheek.

  “I know,” Nia whispered, and squeezed her eyes shut. A fierce wave of pain ripped through her as he pressed hard, and just that fast her shoulder popped into place.

  Nia drew several deep breaths to keep the tears away. When the nausea passed, she rotated her shoulder several times. “Thank you,” she said to the darkness. “Can I know your name, sir?” It seemed strange, being in such close contact with a stranger – a man – without knowing who he was, or even what he looked like. ’Twas a mite unnerving to say the least.

  “Cyric.”

  His voice, not quite as hostile as before, ran of an accent unfamiliar to Nia. “Thank you again, Cyric.”

  “Aye.”

  Nia felt a shift in the air as Cyric moved away from her. “Is there a way out?” she asked.

  “Nay.”

  This Cyric answered just as calmly as he had her other questions, and she now felt the first niggles of irritability settling in. Running away from her tyrant father’s controlling grasp was one thing; dying of starvation in a pitch-blackened cave was quite another.

  Her stomach growled loudly, and Nia placed a hand over it.

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  In the darkness, Nia felt her cheeks grow warm. “It has been a while.”

  Air in the cave shifted once again as Cyric silently moved about. How could he see? She held a hand up, a mere breath from her own nose, and wiggled her fingers. She saw nothing but blackness.

  “Give me your hand,” Cyric instructed.

  Nia stilled. “Why?” What was this strange man about? Did he plan to rape her, mayhap kill her?

  “I could do both, but will do neither.”

  Anger rushed through Nia’s veins. She’d endured a lot in her twenty-two years, and threats from a stranger weren’t going to rankle her. Small in stature, she would indeed be easy prey – but she’d put up a fight for sure. “Your attempts to frighten me are useless,” Nia said, wondering how she’d managed to say her thoughts aloud.

  Silence, then, “Give me your hand. I have food.”

  “Oh.” Nia held out her hand.

  “Dried meat. ’Tis all I have.”

  Well, now she felt like a fool. “Thank you. Again.”

  With a sigh, she lowered to the ground and sat. The coolness seeped through the woollen trousers she’d stolen from the guardsmen and now wore, but she couldn’t just continue to stand in the darkness. She ate in silence, grateful to have something in her belly. She only prayed it wasn’t smoked rat. It was well cooked, and salty, so she wouldna complain.

  “You were running away.” Cyric’s deep, steady voice reverberated within the cave’s walls.

  “I was, aye,” Nia replied. She finished her meat and pulled her cloak tightly about her. “I willna go back, no matter what you do or say. I’d rather die in this cave.”

  “That may verra well happen,” Cyric said in a low voice.

  Nia ignored the threat. “Why did you jump on me?”

  “To keep you from falling into this pit.” His voice was closer now. “Who are you running from?”

  Somehow, it caused a shiver to course through her. She wasna sure if ’twas the closeness of his voice, or the fact that she was trapped in a pit. “I’m no sure if my personal matters need be discussed. I dunna know you.”

  “You may no’ ever leave this dark place alive, Nia of Clare. But suit yourself.”

  “There is no way out?” Nia asked.

  A sigh escaped Cyric. “Aye, but ’twill take time.”

  The thought of dying didn’t exactly appeal to Nia, but somehow, she wasna fearful. And she wondered briefly why he referred to her dying, yet no’ himself. “Who are you, Cyric? Do you live close by?”

  Silence filled the cave for several moments – so verra long that Nia thought the man wouldna answer. Then, he did.

  “I’ve lived in Killarney Wood the whole of my life.”

  Nia pondered that. Certainly he didna mean in the wood. “Then you must have heard of the legend, then? Of the Beast?”

  A low laugh – more like a growl – escaped Cyric. “Aye. I have.”

  “Have you e’er seen him?”

  All at once, the warmth from Cyric’s body grew intimately close, crowding Nia in the already small enclosure. His breath grazed her neck as he whispered in her ear. “I am him.”

  Another shiver coursed through her. “I am no’ amused, sir, nor scared.”

  Cyric gave another low laugh. “You should be, girl. And I dunna mean to amuse. But we are trapped here for now. I am confessing a secret to you, Nia of Clare, and you are the only soul I’ve e’er told.” Silence, then, “I am what they call the Beast of Killarney Wood. And wi’ good reason, I suppose.”

  Nia’s heart quickened. “The Beast I’ve heard tales of skinned men alive and ate their innards. It craves human flesh and fights with a fierce rage,” she said softly.

  Cyric laughed. “Aye, and the Beast rips the heart out of a man wi’ its bare clawed hand as well.”

  “Aye,” muttered Nia. “That too.”

  Silence filled the darkened cave, only their joined breathing made any sound at all. What if his claim was true? She’d never believed in such childish lore before, even when it was used to frighten her as a small girl.

  “Nia,” Cyric said, his voice low, even, “do you think me a beast?”

  “Give me your hand,” Nia said. The air moved beside her, and she reached out. Her fingers grazed Cyric’s arm, and she slid her hand down until she grasped his hand in hers; she inspected it with her fingertips. Large, strong, with long fingers, she gently searched. “No claws,” she said as she touched his blunt nails, and ran her fingers over his palm. “Calluses I see,” she said, and examined the back of his hand. With her middle finger she found a plump vein, pressed it and noted its spring, and then traced it up his arm. “You seem rather strong like a beast,” she confided. “But I am no’ easily convinced of fairytale creatures.” She let his hand drop. “Or of brave knights who would die for the woman they loved, for that silly matter. Neither exists to my notion. Nay, methinks you are merely a man o’ the wood.”

  Only then did Nia notice how Cyric’s breathing had quickened, and how verra close he sat to her. She was aware of his body and, somehow, she wanted more than anything to feel his touch. It surprised her to know she was fiercely attracted to him, without even laying eyes on him. Heat flamed her cheeks at the thought of it, and she smothered a smile.

  “Why do you wish my touch?”

  Nia’s mouth slacked open. Had she said the like aloud? Again? “If we weren’t in a life or death state o’ affairs, Cyric the Beast of Killarney Wood, I would die right here of mortification. Why must you sit so close that you hear my whispered words?”

  Again, Cyric gave a light laugh. “I heard no’ a whisper – ’twas in your head that I heard your confession. What else might you wish to tell me?”

  Nia blinked in the darkness, speechless. Slowly, she placed her fingers over her lips and pinched them shut – just to make sure she didna speak aloud. Then, she thought, If you can hear me, Beast of Killarney, then tap the top o’ my head.

  A chuckle, then a single, solitary tap to the top of her head.

  Nia jumped where she sat. “Oh! How did you do that?” He could hear her thoughts? He’d certainly just given her proof ’twas true. She’d have to be much more careful now.

  “I dunna crave the innards of men,” said Cyric, his tone grave, “but I am no’ an average man. I do have a beast within me.”

  Nia found she wasna fearful of this. She instead fancied his voice. It sounded young, vibrant – an
d ancient at the same time. Odd. “That much I can see. What are you, then? And cease entering my thoughts. ’Tis rude.”

  “Why do you accept such witchery so fast?” he asked. “Most would either run away screaming, or no’ believe me at all.”

  Nia sighed. “I see no reason no’ to believe. You’ve already proven you can read my thoughts. Besides, what grown man would make up such nonsense to a complete stranger if it weren’t true? Now, tell me your story.”

  Cyric grunted. “Aye, ’tis so.” Silence, then, he said softly, “I am the last of my kind. And cursed to the wood for eternity.”

  Nia kept quiet, waiting breathlessly to hear the rest.

  “The English called us ‘berserkers’. Your ancestors called our blood-frenzy ríastrad. Our bloodlust becomes as such that we recognize neither friend nor foe. We just fight. Fight to kill.”

  Well. That certainly was something. Hardly believable, but something indeed. She couldna imagine this gentle man, who’d cautiously popped her shoulder into place turning into a bloodthirsty beast. “So with all that, you canna get us out of the cave?”

  Cyric laughed. “Nay. I’ve ne’er been able to control my strength. It seems only to become useful whilst I am in battle.” He seemed to think for a moment. “We were from the painted warriors. The Picts. And wi’ all that strength and fury, nay, I canna get us out of the cave.”

  Nia pondered that. ’Twas nigh unto inconceivable, the thought o’ it. She’d heard of the Picts. An ancient Celtic race of fierce males. “I remember stories of the Beast of Killarney from childhood,” she said. She leaned back against the cave wall and rested her head. “Do you have markings of indigo upon your skin?”

  “Nay,” Cyric said. “Black.”

  “I see. Have you been here long?” She rubbed her arms vigorously. ’Twas getting colder in the cave and she began to shiver.

  The sound of earth and pebbles grinding met her ears as Cyric moved next to her. Immediately, his warmth comforted her. “Centuries.” He moved closer still, and his hand found hers and stilled it. “Your skin is like ice.”

  Nia ceased rubbing her arms. “Centuries? How is that possible?” She couldna fathom it. “You’ve . . . no one?”

  “Nay.”

  That admission saddened Nia to the bone. Didna matter that she, too, had been alone most o’ her life. Especially since her mother died . . .

  Nia began shivering again, and this time her body shook uncontrollably. Then Cyric slid behind her, pulling her body against his, and he wrapped his arms about her. She let him.

  “I will keep you warm,” he said, his deep voice against her ear. “Rest, Nia o’ Clare.”

  Never had Nia been so intimately close with a man the whole of her life, and yet with ease she settled against Cyric’s chest, soaking in his warmth. She could tell he was quite powerful, as hardened muscles pushed against her own softness. Steel arms wrapped about her, and powerful thighs held her in place. If he was centuries old, he must look like an old man indeed; yet he felt very strong, vibrant, and she cared not about his looks. He was kind to her, and now sat trying to keep her warm. But would they truly just sit in the dark until death claimed them? Rather, claimed her?

  She wondered briefly if he’d continue, should he know the truth of her own face.

  With nothing but the sound of their joined breathing, and a faraway drip-drip-drip of water, Nia closed her eyes as slumber overtook her.

  The verra last thing she remembered before drifting off to sleep was Cyric’s fingers entwining with her own. She discovered not only did she like it, but that it felt completely natural . . .

  Cyric dared not move; he didna wish to disturb the wee sprite sleeping in his arms. While the cold cave didna bother him, he knew she would freeze without his warmth. Yet the feel of her soft body against his was something he hadna prepared himself for.

  How long had it been since he’d held a woman close? Nearly as long as he’d been cursed to Killarney Wood. How had the Elders ever suspected he’d find his Intended whilst banned from roamin’ his beloved Ireland? No one ventured into the wood except vagrants, thieves and gypsies. He’d made little contact with mortals over the years, but still they’d turned his mere presence into a legend of terror. The Beast of Killarney Wood. Aye, if enraged, he truly was a beast; he remembered naught when he slipped into anger, and many times in the past he’d awakened with blood on his hands and body.

  He truly was a beast. A berserker. And Nia’s life was in more danger than she knew.

  He didna feel like a beast, though, with Nia snuggled against his chest. So trusting and unafraid, he wondered, if she survived, what she would think of his appearance? Never before had he wondered that, but he did now. He discovered he wished powerfully to touch her. With only the slightest hesitation, he lifted a hand and found a lock of Nia’s hair. He rubbed the long strands between his fingers and thumb, and was amazed at its softness. He wished he could see it in truth. Lifting the long strand to his nose, he inhaled. It smelled clean, sweet and fragrant, like the clover honey he stole from the hives in the wood. Then, he found her face in the pitch-darkness. But the moment his fingers grazed her cheek, she jumped.

  “What are you doing?” Nia asked, scooting away.

  “I didna mean to frighten you,” Cyric said. “I wanted to comfort you. Or, myself. Mayhap both.”

  “Oh,” she replied, her voice calmer. “I . . . dunna like people touching my face.”

  Cyric thought that to be odd. Did a woman not appreciate the stroke of a man’s hand on their skin? Then again, what did he know? He wasna even a man in truth. He was a beast. He’d been merely acting on instinct, the desire strong enough to urge his hand to seek Nia’s skin. The attraction was that powerful between them, and, aye, he could feel that Nia felt it, as well. A voice as sweet as hers surely had a face to match. “Why is that?” he asked. “You allowed me to touch your hand.”

  “Well,” she began, “’tis an intimate gesture meant for lovers, the touching of one’s face. Aye?”

  The thought was more than curious to Cyric, and whilst he was confessing to a mortal who probably would no’ survive, he continued. “I’ve never had one.”

  The silence stretched between them for several moments. Then Nia said, “You’ve . . . never had a lover? Ever?”

  The surprise in her voice shamed him. “I’ve known nothing but blood, battle and war,” he said quietly. “You have had lovers, then?”

  Nia gave a soft laugh. “I was betrothed once, but . . . no, Cyric. I’ve never had a lover.”

  Somehow, that soothed him. He knew no’ why, but it did. And for some odd reason, he wished to tell her. “That . . . pleases me,” he confessed. “Tell me more about yourself, Nia of Clare. What of your mother and father?”

  She was silent for several moments. “My mother died in a horrible fire when I was very young,” she said. “I . . . barely escaped death myself. I believe my father resented me from then on, as he loved my mother fiercely. To lose her completely crushed him.”

  In the darkness, Cyric’s mouth slacked open. “Was he no’ gracious that you had survived?” He couldna fathom a father blaming a child for her mother’s death. Although he could well imagine the sorrow of losing a woman he loved.

  A slight sigh broke the darkness, and Nia shifted where she sat. “I’m sure he was simply overly distraught.”

  Overly distraught? He frowned, although he knew she couldna see it. “You’re verra protective of a man who has mistreated you. ’Tis why you were running away. From him.”

  “You’ve no idea why,” she said quietly. “And I no longer wish to discuss my family matters.”

  Anger seeped deep into Cyric’s bones, and he had no clue why it affected him so much. Mayhap he was being irrational? Who was he anyway? An immortal beast who couldna control his fury. He was no better than her da. He reached for Nia’s hand. “I am . . . sorry. I feel powerfully protective over you.”

  In the darkness, Cyric heard Nia’s bre
athing ease, although she said nothing. He entwined his fingers with hers, marvelling at the slight bones in them, the softness of her skin. He stroked her wrist and slid his thumb over the quickened rhythm that matched her heart. He could hear it in the darkness, her heartbeat. The more he touched her skin, the more it raced.

  His did, as well. ’Twas a feeling he wasna used to at all.

  Then, Nia did something he didna expect. She slid closer, her hand resting on his arm. “Can I touch your face?” she asked quietly. “I’d like to know what you look like, sir.”

  Cyric blinked in surprise. “Did you no’ say ’twas a gesture meant for lovers?” he said, truly surprised his centuries-old voice didna squeak like a young boy. His own heart quickened pace.

  “Aye, I did indeed say that,” she answered, her slight hand inching upwards over the linen tunic he’d stolen from a gypsy.

  Her hand burned his skin, and he was shocked at the feeling it caused in the pit of his stomach. He dared no’ move.

  “But I suddenly feel overpoweringly compelled to touch you,” she said on a shaky whisper. “I know that sounds wicked, but . . . may I?”

  So close was Nia that her sweet breath slipped over his throat. “Aye,” he answered, completely entranced.

  The moment Nia’s fingertips grazed his jaw, Cyric closed his eyes and exhaled. Ne’er had a woman touched him intimately, and without scorn or hatred. He didna know how much he craved it . . . until now.

  Nia’s insides shook as she slowly explored Cyric’s face in the dark. The contact of her fingertips against the scruff of his jaw excited her, and ’twas a feeling she’d ne’er experienced in her entire life. She had no idea what compelled her, but nothing felt more . . . right. She let her fingers move over his cheekbones, his temples, the bridge of his nose, all while Cyric sat motionless. She fingered the long column of his throat, his ears. Only their rapid breathing sounded in the cave.