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Epilogue
Fear the wrath
marvel the splendor
So damned fierce
yet, oh so tender
Mystique lures the curious:
reputation keeps at bay.
The menace makes them flee
while the beauty makes them stay.
Behold! The enchanted creatures
of which you have heard stories,
enduring spellbound knights
disregarding tainted quarry.
Fire rides in its breath
while ice dwells in its heart.
Feeble minds think twice
while forked tongues dart.
It has the long sharp talons—
they rip the tender hide
the animalistic howls
last throughout the night.
Love is a Dragon
your heart a maiden fair
To be sacrificed at dawn
or rescued from the lair.
And you, the shining knight
must be prepared to duel;
though love is a grand and gentle creature
its fury can be cruel.
* * *
Chapter 1
^ »
Donegal, Ireland
1169
Gaelan swore his bones were turning brittle.
Only Ireland could be this cold in spring, he griped, and would avow on his finest sword, the last tree he passed looked painfully familiar. 'Twas bloody humiliating, a knight of his caliber, hopelessly lost and running in circles. He shook his head sadly and could almost hear Sir Raymond's jests. "Mayhaps m'lord should pack a sack of crumbs to mark his trail," he mimicked bitterly to the dense mist. "Or haps a ribbon tether?"
Ah, the disgrace of it would surely kill him.
Compounding his misery, the hem of his fur mantle snagged on a branch of Blackthorn, dragging him back a step. The gnarled talons refused to release him and with a curse, he wrenched it free, the angry clank of armor echoing hollow in the forest, making him feel more isolated and lost as he adjusted the pelt about his exposed neck and shoulders again. A ghostly gray mist hovered in the forest air, cloaking him up to his thighs. Icy wind moaned like the bale of a bereaved old woman, skating along the cobbled and mossy earth, knifing through his chain mail and driving the chill deeper. A few feet behind him, Grayfalk stopped, the destrier dipping his big head and prodding the velvety ground for a nibble to ease his hunger. Gaelan dug in his sack of provisions and offered the weary beast a fistful of grain, then proffered a portion of drying cheese for himself.
"Make well us of it, my lad," he murmured with a glance to the thick brambled forest as he swiped the back of his gloved hand across his mouth. "'Tis all you'll have if this barren land is any indication of what precedes us." His dark gaze scanned the shadowed trees, undefinable sounds dancing around him like dandelion fur, untraceable, making his senses jump. "Fairy folk," he muttered around the food. Aye, let us not dismiss the magic. Fodder for fools. But whilst his vassals were inclined to believe the local tales, embellishing them enough to terrify the young pages and squires, Gaelan was not. He'd no time to lend credence to fables when he'd a future to render into his hands.
…as soon as he discovered where in all of Christendom he was.
Giving the loyal beast a pat, he trudged on, his chain mail slapping his thighs, the leather straps of his breastplate creaking like weary bones. Above him, the sun desperately groped through the low-lying fog, the wind suddenly heavy as wood smoke.
And much warmer.
Gaelan's forehead wrinkled at the abrupt change and he paused, squinting between the misshapen branches. He sucked cheese from his teeth and swore he heard bells. A tiny tinkling. His head whipped back and forth, his ears pricked to the faint sound, his hand not far from the hilt of his sword.
Then beyond a thinning in the copse, he saw a woman dart into view, running, her skirts hiked nearly to her knees, mist swirling about her bare calves and clinging to her like fitted garments. A basket looped her arm. She must be freezing, he thought, his gaze following her. She tossed a glance to whence she'd come, her deep red tresses briefly shielding her face and in the faint morning light, specks of gold glittered from her hair. The bells. The sight of her enchanted him, held him by the throat and kept him there, unmindful of the cold—or that this could be his source back to his encampment.
By God, she was a tall one.
Then he heard the rumble of footsteps, rapid, closing in. His gauntleted hand slipped beneath his mount's pelts, closing around his crossbow as his gaze snapped to his far left. He counted five men running at full speed for the lass.
"A lady in distress, Grayfalk." He slid a glance at the horse. "What say you we lend aid, hmm?" Grayfalk snorted and Gaelan swung up onto the saddle. "Make haste, lad. She's in need."
With a prick of spurs, Grayfalk lurched, and Gaelan maneuvered his mount around the trees, following sound, following her. Ducking beneath low branches, he knew if he could get ahead of the brigands, he could catch her first. As if a great hand divided the trees, he was suddenly free of the dense thicket. Grayfalk sensed his master's urgency, tearing across Irish soil.
* * *
Siobhàn O'Rourke thanked the Goddess for her long legs and fought the laughter bubbling in her throat. They imagined themselves so clever. Yet she'd heard the village boys in the underbrush, failing miserably to hide their presence whilst they waited for the chance to startle her. This time, 'twas she who startled them. Eager for some lively sport, she pressed on, vowing to outdistance the lads. Covering several more yards, she stumbled, bruising her toes. Wincing, she hopped on one foot, soothing the ache. They'll catch me now, she thought, then stilled, lowering her foot to the cold ground, frowning at the sky before turning toward a thunderous sound.
"Jager me," she whispered, suddenly breathless. A man, nay, a giant astride a massive warhorse charged across the land. Steam shot from the horse's nostrils in sharp gusts, leather sacks and weapons slapping the beast's bellowing sides as its hooves ripped the ground black. 'Twas consonant to a dream; Finn MacCoul come to avenge every wrong of her people. A warrior lord from the mist. A gold-brown fur flowed from his shoulders and only his huge chest and arms gleamed with polished armor. He wore no coat of arms or helm, his dark hair over long and catching the wind, yet as he neared, Siobhàn knew an English knight when she saw one. They'd taken the lives of so many of her countrymen already. Then she realized he was racing straight for her.
Siobhàn darted out of his path, but he swerved, bending low over the horse's broad neck. She turned and ran. But the lads were in the clearing and she waved frantically, calling out. The forewarning lost precious time. He was upon her, the horse's breath warming the back of her head, and Siobhàn prayed if she met her death, that it not be trampled beneath English hooves.
Gaelan's arm snaked out, snatching her off the ground. She screamed, flailing wildly, losing her basket as he tucked her to his side, then wheeled Grayfalk about. The sharp turn sent the animal rearing back on his hind legs, pawing the air, and even as Gaelan's efforts commanded the beast to settle, he adjusted the woman across his lap.
"You are safe, lass," he said, not sparing her a glance and urging Grayfalk toward the brigands.
"From what, pray tell? I was not in danger!" Siobhàn shoved her hair from her face and tried slipping from his lap, but his arm clamped down on her waist, chasing the breath from her lungs and making her dizzy. "Do you seek to crush me to death? Release me this instant!" She pounded his arm, tried prying his fingers.
The giant ignored her, freeing his battle-ax fr
om its bindings. Clods of dirt kicked up as he rode hard, arm raised, and Siobhàn's eyes widened as he swung back to strike. Her gaze flew to the boys caught motionless with fear.
"Nay! Oh, nay!" She latched onto his arm, yanking hard.
"Leave off, woman!" He shook her free as if she were no more than a kitten.
"Nay, nay! Cease!" She drew her knee up and drove it into his stomach, trying to unseat him. He caught her tighter, her breasts bruising against his armor. "Escape, lads! Flee!" she shouted, her voice muffled against his cold metal chest.
Her efforts cost him and the boys scattered like feathers on an unexpected breeze.
Gaelan yanked back on the reins, his breathing labored. He looked to the cloudy heavens, praying for an attack of patience, taking his time to secure his ax and remove his gauntlets, then finally bringing his gaze to the interfering wench. He found a woman full grown and lush, older than he expected. She had the most intriguing eyes, like a stone he saw once at court. Green, yet flecked with yellow and blue. And they were on fire with anger.
"You, sir, are a pea-headed … imbecile!"
The warrior eyed her. "Me thinks you should be rewarding me, lass"—he inclined his head ever so slightly toward the boys vanishing into the forest—"instead of cursing like a shrew."
His dark gaze bore down on her, yet his deep voice was deceptively soft, caressing. Siobhàn ignored it. "A reward, is it now?" The arrogance of the man. "For hacking at children?"
His brow tightened, his gaze flicking to the tree line now shrouded in mist.
"Aye, boys." She gave his shoulder a shove, attempting to slide from the saddle again.
Suddenly, he imprisoned her, her body flush to his. The iron hardness of his thighs flexed beneath her bottom, the band of his arm about her waist unyielding, yet gentle. This close she couldn't help notice his face, carved and hewed with a lifetime of war, square along his jaw, high upon his cheeks and framed in flowing ribbons of dark hair. Unduly handsome, if she had to admit. Which she did not. He bore a scar across his left brow, a thin break in the dark wings hovering over eyes the hue of freshly tilled earth. Gazing into them, Siobhàn felt her heart skip. 'Twas as if the man could reach into her soul and cradle it in his palm if he desired.
Codswallop.
Yet his face neared, the scent of leather and man surrounding her.
She jerked her head back. "Do not dare further, sir knight."
He winced at the pricking in his side and lowered his gaze to the blade tucked neatly beneath his breastplate. His gaze returned to hers and he arched a dark brow. "What plan you with that, lass?"
She scoffed. 'Twas not clear enough?
"And after I've stolen you from harm?" He tisked softly.
"Hah. I was never in peril, English, and me pet is protection enough."
"I saw no pet." Yet as he spoke, out of the corner of his sight a furry white creature leapt from the treeline, stalking them. Grayfalk sidestepped, threatening to bolt.
The jostling pressed their bodies more tightly and Siobhàn felt more than his hard thighs beneath her as he controlled the mount. A swift, nearly violent ache shot through her, quickening her heart, yet she refused to break her gaze from the Englishman's. He stared back through unreadable dark eyes, only the lines bracketing his mouth growing a wee bit deeper. 'Twere not real, she thought, those feelings.
The dog hopped, the horse shifted and the knight cursed.
"Culhainn, be still," she said in Gaelic and her rescuer frowned, confused. Good. Her English was, at best, disjointed. "I pray your detainment was worth a fortnight of my herbs?"
Gaelan's eyes flared as the red-eared beast barked in response. What folly this?
"This giant"—she said with a thorough study of the knight—"might have slaughtered the lads, as well as me." She spared a quick glance over her shoulder, her tone chiding. "How like you that on your noble conscience?"
Again the animal responded, but this time with a bow of his great head, an infantile whimper.
"And ashamed you should be," she said in English, yet the woman did not take her gaze from his face.
Gaelan could feel it, moving over his features, probing and intent, though he'd little trouble feeling everything about this woman. Her hills and curves were burning into his body. His groin thickened as she shifted on his lap and he let her wiggle, enjoying it. A lovely piece she was, generously shaped, her face holding the blush of excitement and as comely as any one he'd seen. Her garments were stained with dirt and berry nectar, frayed at the hem and sleeves, and idly he wondered from which village she'd come and if she could lead him out of the forest. But most, he wondered what that ripe wet mouth would feel like beneath his own.
"Would you stab me for a kiss, lass?"
"Aye." She pricked his side to demonstrate.
His lips quirked, his face nearing, and heedless of her threat, Gaelan let his hand slide up her back to cup her head. "Such sass and spice," he whispered, his gaze flicking between her mouth and her eyes.
Culhainn growled, low and deadly.
"Do you not fear death?"
He shrugged ever so slightly, his intent clear, and Siobhàn swallowed. He was going to kiss her. Or at least attempt it. Perhaps a kiss would suffice him and gain her freedom, she considered briefly. Nay. Would she let him do more, she'd find herself flat on her back and likely ripped clean in half by this giant. She dug the blade a wee bit deeper.
He didn't flinch, his fingers moving luxuriously in her hair and tipping her head. Bells chimed from the end of a dozen thin braids, singing to him.
"Slay me"—he breathed against her lips—"after I drink of you."
His mouth slanted over hers, the hot jolt making her flinch. He tasted of wine, and where she expected brutality, she received a slow rolling deliberation that was already difficult to fight. Siobhàn's temper fizzled like a tallow flame snuffed out. Yet with her bloodlines, a defiant flicker refused to die and she shoved uselessly at his chest, her hand splayed over cold armor as his lips twisted insistently over hers, begging a response.
He held her prisoner, yet she did not struggle.
He took, but she did not give.
His mouth soothed and nurtured, catching her lower lip and pulling softly before his velvety tongue lushly outlined its shape. A soft, helpless shudder spilled from her lips and he drank it.
'Twas so distant from anything she'd experienced before, so unlike Tigheran's harsh grindings that offered more of a taste of blood than desire. 'Twas a magic he gave and the brewing heat ignited in her belly, curling about her waist and sliding warmly downward to settle between her thighs. Ah Goddess, 'tis unfair. You offer me this—and make him my enemy!
Yet without the scrutiny of her people, away from the rules of society and her place in it, Siobhàn sorted the harm from the exquisite indulgence and dared to explore him. A wildness in her urged, for aside from the man and his misguided heroics, his touch, his mouth made her feel like a woman again. Selfishly, she wished it to persevere and with the dirk still at his ribs, her free hand moved hesitantly up his enormous chest, touching his cheek. He rumbled with satisfaction and his kiss grew harder, deeper, his desire breathing life into her. 'Twas savage and greedy, this kiss, yet mysteriously fragile. And the threads of her restraint broke.
She wrapped both arms around his neck, fingers pushing deep into his hair, and he moaned his pleasure, his embracing arm tightening, bringing her off his lap and higher against his chest. His hand rode down over her waist, her thigh, sliding around to cup and knead her buttocks, and the blaze in Siobhàn raged along her blood, grew heavy between her thighs. Her body quickened with her heartbeat, and clutching the dirk in her fist behind his head, her unencumbered hand sought the feel of his skin.
Please, she thought frantically. One touch is all.
Gaelan's greediness was unstoppable and he enfolded her breast, waiting for the slap, the shriek, yet knew even before he caught her whimper of excitement that she would give him more. And like a t
hief, he took, his thumb brushing heavily over her nipple, feeling her arch into the pressure, the tender bud peaking sweetly for him through the layers of cloth. That she allowed him such liberties gave Gaelan reason to believe she was familiar to a man's exploring. So be it. For he was wanting to explore her, thoroughly.
He tasted the line of her mouth and she opened wide for him, her tongue plunging between his lips and dueling his for victory. He groaned at the sheer torture of her closeness, his hand busy after the hem of her skirt as her delicate fingers feathered over the shell of his ear, driving a shiver down to the very core of him before gliding over his bare throat to taunt him further. When her fingertips met armor, by God, he wanted to rip it off to give her better access. He wanted to take her to the ground and push his throbbing body deep inside her and assuage this fire she created. When her incredibly warm hand found an opening, pushing beneath his hauberk and mail to stroke his shoulders, Gaelan frantically searched for a way to have her. Now. In the saddle.
The horse stirred restlessly beneath them, scenting their desire. The wolf remained in the clearing, its head tilted, ice blue eyes watching. Morning mist faded, swept away by the heat of their passion. His hand touched the bare skin of her calf and she flinched.
Suddenly he tore his mouth from hers, their breathing matched, harsh and quick as he gazed into her unusual eyes. A flush of embarrassment spread across her lovely face.
"I need more of you, lass." His coarse fingers slid higher, seeking tender skin, her thigh. "Now." A touch of alarm skated across her features and Gaelan smiled tightly, his body prepared for a fulfillment he would not receive. Forcing women was not his way.
Still holding her close, he suddenly twisted a look at the forest, scowling, all tenderness vanishing from his features.
"M'lord?" Siobhàn glanced about for Culhainn, but the craven beast had vanished.
He turned his dark gaze on her, even as he secured his ax and unsheathed his sword. "Who are you, lass, that brigands make duty in chasing you?"
"Me? I am inconsequential." She waved loftily, then stretched her neck to look around him. "Think not 'tis you they seek, invader?" Her gaze moved past his shoulder to the land beyond and her eyes flared. "Sweet Goddess."
The Irish Princess Page 1