by Laura Parker
When at last he lifted his head, she could not draw breath and kept her eyes closed against the devastating effect of his kiss.
“What’s this, acushla, have you never been kissed before?”
Deirdre opened her eyes to his gentle laughter and thought of Cousin Claude and the half dozen other young men who had dared press their mouths briefly to hers.
“No, I do not think I have,” she answered with wisdom of her new knowledge of a kiss.
“Good,” he answered and pulled her to him again.
They lay in the grass a long time, his mouth on hers, his hands on her shoulders, one long black-clad leg thrown across hers as though he feared she would flee. But Deirdre had no desire to move an inch, unless it brought her closer to him.
Finally, he rose away from her and lay back on the grass beside her and they both stared at the misty day about them.
“I did not know that kissing could be like this,” Deirdre admitted after a few moments, too timid to turn and look at him.
“Like what, acushla?”
“Like fear and joy, Christmas Day and its anticipation all rolled together.”
“Aye, ’tis like that, acushla.”
She smiled to herself. “Why do you call me ‘darling’?”
From the corner of her eye she saw him roll onto his side to face her. “What could you have me call you? Madilse?”
My love. Deirdre trembled inside. “Kiss me again.”
“No, lass.”
Confused, she turned to him and met his serious look. “You’d nae like it if I kissed you again.”
“Why?” she whispered, already suspecting what his answer would be.
“There comes a price with joy, and though I do not think you’d be sorry now, later you might come to regret the price you’d pay.”
Deirdre closed her eyes against the stark beauty of his face. It was a dangerous moment.
“Aye, dangerous currents tug at your skirts, madilse,” he said quietly, as though she had spoken her thoughts. “Only the bravest venture into the strongest currents. Ladies do not set sail upon strange seas.”
Deirdre opened her eyes and once again met his gaze. She had heard of lands to the south where the sea was a deeper blue than the sky, where green and sapphire currents ran together in a warm flood of beauty. She felt the tug of those currents as she gazed into his eyes and she wanted nothing more than to launch herself upon that sea tide in his gaze and go where he would take her.
“You think me a coward,” she whispered.
He touched a finger to her cheek and then traced the sensitive bow of her upper lip. “Nae, I do not think you a coward. The lass of my dreams would dare anything if her heart ruled that it be so.”
She understood at last what he meant. This was her choice, and her responsibility. Greatly daring, she reached up and touched his face. “Kiss me again, Killian. Please.”
He did not kiss her at once. He continued to trace her mouth with a callused finger, and the strange, spellbinding motion sensitized her skin until the sweet abrasion became a torment. “Please,” she whispered raggedly and hoped that he would not laugh at her.
He did not. His face was unsmiling as she opened her eyes. There was a new tenseness in him; it carved caverns beneath his cheekbones and intensified his eyes, which were shaded by a heavy fringe of black lashes. He was as expectant and perhaps as wary as she of the moment that yawned before them.
And then they were past it, leaping the precipice as his mouth found hers.
Deirdre felt the burden lifted from her and joyously flung her arms about his neck. His hair was amazingly soft beneath the caress of her hands. The warm sweetness of his tongue slipped between her lips and she wondered if any woman had ever experienced this low, sweet flame that began burning within her.
Kiss followed kiss, meeting and melting until she no longer knew when one replaced another, until they left her dizzy and shaken. His hands framed her shoulders as he lifted and rolled her over, carrying her with him until she lay over him, chest to chest, belly to belly, and thigh to thigh.
With gentle insistence, he tugged off the jacket of her riding habit and then found the lacing at her back. The cool river breeze stroked her back as he parted her gown. She kept her eyes on his, drawing courage from his intense gaze.
He smiled at her, but there was no amusement, no glibness at her expense. He lifted her off and onto her knees beside him and sat up himself. Then he was pulling the gown from her shoulders and she found that she could no longer look at him. She leaned forward and embraced him, hugging her body so close to his that the gown could fall no further.
“Now, acushla?” he questioned softly. Then he sucked in a quick gasp and his fingers tightened on her right shoulder. “The rose!” he whispered, and bent to place his lips against the red mark.
The flame leaped within her as the fiery heat of his mouth touched her cool skin. His lips moved from her shoulder to her neck as his hands slipped her gown lower, leaving their scalding impression. And then he lowered his head and took a nipple gently between his lips.
Deirdre shut her eyes, making a soft murmuring sound deep in her throat as his tongue coaxed unnameable sensations of pleasure from her flesh. Tears rose to her eyes with the strangeness of the feeling he stirred deep inside her. He was a wizard, a magician who brought her a joy too profound to give speech.
The world dropped away, day becoming twilight, summer rolling back to spring. As he laid her back in the dewy grass, she breathed deeply of the air about them and knew she would remember always the smell of grass and mist and the scent of his body.
He moved more swiftly now, pulling the gown from her hips and then stretching out to cover her with his own naked length.
His skin was smooth; and as she rubbed her hands over his chest and shoulders, she wondered why she had expected a man’s skin to be hard and callused like his hands.
Yet, one part of him was hard, and hot, and pulsating with the urgency of the life within him. When he touched her with that life, slipping it inside her, it took her breath away; and she thought she would die well quit of the world in that instant.
But he was not yet done. The strangely gentle yet hard urging of his body on hers demanded a response she did not believe she possessed. Despairing, she twisted her head from side to side.
He caught her face in his hands and, bending, placed his lips on hers. “Open to me, acushla,” he said against her mouth. “Feel my joy within you. Take from it. Make it your own.”
And she did. Wave after wave of pleasure broke over her, flooding her from breast to belly with sensuous joy. MacShane’s strong body rode hers with superb skill, urging her again and again to the unutterable ecstasy of fulfillment.
Afterward, he rolled over and pulled her tight against him, hugging her head to his shoulder. He did not speak again and she was too content and too awed to do so. After a moment, the finger tracing the lobe of her ear stilled and his breath deepened, and she knew that he slept.
All about them it was cool and dark, and yet inside herself she was warm and content. She did not think she had ever been so alive, so awake within her skin.
It came as a distinct shock when an insect tickled her nose and a sneeze sent her bolting upright and she realized that she had been asleep.
The sun was beating down on the riverbank, the grass hummed with insects, the river’s smooth surface reflected all the bright light and color of the summer day…and MacShane was gone.
Deirdre jumped to her feet, stunned to find herself alone. She was dressed just as she had been when she left home, the lacing of her gown as tight as Brigid had made it. Her anxious gaze ranged across the open field until she saw the silhouette of her horse still grazing under the tree where she had left him. The mist was gone, the clouds, the rain. The crisp tough grass crunched beneath the tread of her feet.
As she hurried toward her horse, her heart racing wildly, she began to cry. She had dreamed it, had dreamed it all, the
day, the rain…and MacShane.
*
Deirdre pushed open the door to her room, her mind full of what she had dreamed, and was brought up short by the sight of a young girl sitting at her vanity.
Gowned in pink taffeta, the girl was tugging a brush through her short, dark curls. When she caught sight of Deirdre’s reflection in the mirror, she turned about and Deirdre found herself gazing into enormous, luminous dark eyes that belonged to Fey.
“How could I have ever mistaken you for a lad?” Deirdre remarked in wonder as she came forward.
“I’d as lief ye had,” Fey muttered, a mutinous expression creeping into her features. “As for that pisspot ye call a nurse, I’ve a thing or two to say about her.” She stood up and cast the brush aside. “Look at what she’s done to me!”
“You look lovely,” Deirdre said.
“I look like a prize pig on market day.” Fey tugged at her waistband. “Old pisspot took me breeches and trussed me up in a corset. Under these skirts me arse is as bald as the day me mother whelped me. I cannot go to Nantes dressed the like. Some swab would have me off me feet and his prick betwixt me legs afore I could cross the street!”
“I suppose so,” Deirdre murmured distractedly. “Where is Brigid?”
“Old pisspot? She’s gone to get a bar of soap. Says I need me mouth washed out. Does she do that to ye?”
“Not very often,” Deirdre answered, determined not to allow the girl to make her laugh, for it would only encourage her outrageous behavior. Old pisspot! How vexed Brigid must be.
Deirdre pulled off her riding jacket. “I must change in a hurry. Since Brigid’s not here, will you unlace me?”
Fey complied reluctantly and when she was done, Deirdre stepped out of her gown and scooped it up, flushing guiltily as she spied grass stains on the hem. It was a dream, she reminded herself, but a sudden warmth gathered in her middle at the very reminder of what she had dreamed. She did not feel very confident about facing Brigid at the moment, and the woman was certain to cluck at her about the stains.
“Ye’ve ruined that gown,” Fey remarked.
“Aye. Brigid will be furious,” Deirdre responded.
Fey watched Deirdre cross the room in her petticoats, sizing up her narrow waist and full hips and bosom. Having had time to think about MacShane’s betrayal of her, Fey had come up with the only answer that made sense to her. MacShane lusted after the lady. Fey’s mouth tightened ominously as she speculated on the reasons for the grass stains on the lady’s gown. Perhaps he had already helped himself.
“Were ye out riding with MacShane?”
The name so startled her that Deirdre bumped her head on the armoire as she spun about. “What did you say?”
Fey’s expression soured. “He has eyes for ye, I saw that the minute ye was together. He should give ye a rare old time, being as he’s that well hung.”
All the color drained from Deirdre’s face. The child’s speech was as appalling as her innuendos.
Fey’s expression hardened as she observed the lady’s distress. She had guessed right. “I should have said ye were out riding MacShane, and from the looks of it, ye didn’t waste clean sheets when the grass would do as well.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying,” Deirdre replied dry-mouthed.
Fey shrugged. “Ye’ve the look of a tupped ewe, that’s what I know.”
“You impudent little guttersnipe!” Deirdre exclaimed indignantly.
“MacShane’s a man, and a man must have his pleasures.” Fey stroked her hands down over her still-flat breasts until they rested on her hips. “I’m nae so prettily made as ye, but I’ve seen other lasses get udders and hips as they grow. Once I’m rigged, MacShane will look at me the same.”
Deirdre turned away from the lustful gleam in the girl’s eyes. Fey was only a child. She could not possibly know what she said. And yet…
Deirdre turned back, her skin tingling with alarm. “Did MacShane say something to you? Did he tell you that he had lustful—?”
“That he did not!” Brigid closed the door behind herself and came forward. “I’ve already questioned the lass, and she told me Captain MacShane did nae lay a hand on her. I checked. Though God only knows how, the lass is still intact.”
“Brigid!” Deirdre said hoarsely, wondering how much the nurse had overheard. “You’re back.”
“That I am.” Brigid stared meaningfully at Fey. “And I’ve a fat bar of soap for a dirty mouth. If ye’d leave us, Miss Deirdre, the lass and I have a spot of business to see to.”
“Ye damned bawd, and with cold fingers into the bargain!” Fey cried. “Ye’ll nae lay hands on me again!”
Though defiant, Fey paled as Brigid advanced on her. Lady Deirdre she did not like, but Brigid she feared because the woman did not fear her back. She treated her like a child and for that she hated her. “Miss Deirdre’s just changing after a bit of a tumble,” she said suddenly, her dark eyes full of guile. “MacShane had something to do with it.”
You damned little sneak! Deirdre thought as Brigid turned to stare at her. The girl had successfully turned Brigid’s attention away from herself. “Fey is teasing, Brigid. I rode quite alone.” She turned and lifted the nearest gown from the armoire, hoping Brigid would be satisfied.
“He’s a dangerous man, is MacShane,” Fey continued. “I would nae go far with him, Lady Deirdre. ’Afore ye know it, he’ll be showing ye the way of the blanket hornpipe, and have ye thinking ’tis proper.”
“Ochone! Ye dirty-mouthed little slut!” Brigid cried. “I’ll scrub that filth out of ye, see if I don’t.” Shaken out of her customary self-possession, she grabbed Fey by the hair and dragged her toward the basin.
Terrified, Fey fought back, kicking and scratching, even butting the woman with her head. But Brigid was strong and larger and held on grimly to the twisting, thrashing girl.
“Brigid, Brigid, please,” Deirdre said desperately. She had suffered a similar fate at Brigid’s hands when she was ten. Fey would lose, and though she deserved it, Deirdre could not stand to see the girl hurt again.
Brigid looked up blankly from her struggle. “Not to worry, Miss Deirdre. I’ve sorted out worse cases.”
Deirdre smiled her best smile. “Surely you might allow her this one mistake.” She glanced pleadingly at the girl. “Fey will promise to be as docile as a lamb after this, won’t you, Fey?”
Fey jerked free of Brigid and stumbled back a few steps, breathing hard. She did not agree, but neither did she deny Deirdre’s words.
Reluctantly Brigid placed the bar of soap on the washstand. “’Tis against me better judgment,” she said with a last hard glare at Fey. “So, I’ll be taking up the matter with Lord Fitzgerald.”
When she was gone, Deirdre turned to Fey. The girl had turned a pasty gray shade. “Oh, Fey, I’m sorry!” She threw her arms about the girl. “We mean you no harm. You’ll never be beaten here, I promise you that.”
Fey struggled out of Deirdre’s embrace, her face white but her eyes hard as stones. “I’m nae afraid of a beating. I’ve took worse than she can give!” She doubled up her fists and was glad to see Deirdre back away. “Ye’ll nae keep me here against me will. When MacShane leaves, I’m going with him. And when herself comes back, I’ll be ready for the old pisspot.”
“Do not call her that!”
“I’ll call her what I like. And call ye what I like, come to that!”
Deirdre knew she could not allow the girl to best her. She dropped her gown and balled her hands into fists. “My brothers taught me to fight when I was a lass. ’Tis certain I’ll remember something of it.”
Fey blinked in amazement at the lady before her. “Ye would nae strike me?”
“I’ll try very hard to if you strike me first,” Deirdre said determinedly.
“MacShane would nae like it,” Fey said less certainly.
“Aye, he would not. So what shall we do, bloody each other’s noses or decide that we must be friends? Even Brigid
can be made to forget her anger.”
“Who?” Fey questioned blankly.
“Old pisspot,” Deirdre replied, and turned quickly away to keep the child from seeing her smile. She picked up her gown and stepped behind an ornate screen to dress. “I’m going to visit my stepmother. You stay here!”
Fey stood irresolutely, her fists still clenched. If she struck the lady, what would MacShane say? He would not like it, of that she was certain. As for the lady herself, she was not at all what Fey’s notion of a lady should be.
“She’s that mad!” Fey exclaimed after a moment and turned away in disgust
Chapter Nine
“I thought you’d deserted us,” Conall greeted as Killian rode into the stable yard. “You were gone some while, MacShane. Did the ride clear your head?”
“Aye, of some things,” Killian answered and swung his leg over to dismount. Mostly he had allowed the fatigue of a sleepless night to overcome him in the shade of a tree near the Loire. His talk with Lord Fitzgerald had left him dissatisfied, but thoughts of a very different nature had kept him company until the slanted rays of the sun fell across his face and awakened him.
“I’ll not ask how your conversation went with Da. I heard a good measure of it, as did the rest of the house,” Conall informed him. “I will tell you that Da has been in a rare mood since.”
Killian did not answer directly. His mind had been too full of other thoughts these last hours. He noted Conall impatiently flicking his riding crop against his leg. “Are you riding out?”
“’Twas my intention. At breakfast Deirdre made me promise to accompany her to see our cousins, the de Quentins, but the mad lass rode out earlier in the day and has yet to finish dressing.”
“Perhaps she had another appointment to keep,” Killian said quietly as he turned his horse over to the care of the stable boy who appeared at his side. Without haste he added, “Is the Comte de Quentin a particular friend of Lady Deirdre’s?”
“Cousin Claude has always doted on the lass,” Conall agreed, his expression bland. “Lady Elva believes that he will offer for her, though Dee will not have him.”