The Irish Devil

by Donna Fletcher

  Faith responded quickly. “Innocent of evil.”

  “You play with words,” he said sharply.

  “I speak the truth,” she insisted.

  “Of that I have yet to learn.” He turned to walk away and ordered, “Come with me, you have yet to answer my question.”

  Faith followed him, though her strides were slow and measured. The day had been long and busy and she now regretted taking her anger out on the garden plot with the pickax. Her arms ached, her healing basket growing heavier by the minute and her stomach rumbled in hunger, putting her in no mood to answer any more demanding questions.

  Eric slowed his pace, aware of her weary condition. He reached out as she drew near him and snatched the basket from her arm. Before she could protest he shot the question at her again. “How do you know henbane is considered an aphrodisiac?”

  A question she did not mind answering. “I have made a study of several herbs and their properties. The plant has a fetid order and the noxious smell seemed more a warning than an attraction. I decided to study it further before making use of it. I was glad I did, since after being called to a nearby keep to see if I could aid the ailing lady I discovered she had been given a special potion by her husband, the one ingredient being henbane. Unfortunately, the lady succumbed to her ailments.”

  “How did you learn it was thought an aphrodisiac?”

  “Gossip is the mainstay of any keep. The servants did not know I was Lady Faith; they thought me one of them and spoke freely. It seems that the lady of the keep was adverse to her husband’s touch and he tired of her denying him. He sought the services of a nearby healer who prescribed a potion, supplying the cook with specific instructions on how to prepare it. The cook protested when the healer insisted she add henbane; the smell was so odorous she felt certain it would spoil the potion. The healer had explained that the foul scent actually worked as an aphrodisiac, causing the coldest of women to respond to their husbands and the most impotent of men to succeed.”

  Eric stopped at the door to the keep. “And what is this potion you gave to Mary to replace the one that made Stuart ill?”

  “Chamomile and mint leaves.”

  “This works?” he asked skeptically.

  Faith smiled and laughed. “I drink the potion all the time.” She grabbed her basket from his hand and hurried into the hall, her husband’s thunderous shouts trailing after her.

  Eric failed to catch up with her upon entering the hall. Many of his men, deeply into their cups of wine, pounced at the chance to comment on his exceptional skills on the exercise field that day. It would have been rude of him to protest their praises, though he would have much preferred to follow his wife and demand an explanation, which he still intended to do once he maneuvered his way through the gregarious crowd.

  Colin and Borg lounged in their chairs on the dais, watching him with broad grins, and if he was not in such a hurry he would take the time to wipe the smug smiles from their faces.

  He dealt in a good-natured manner with his men, all the while drifting closer and closer to the stairs. Until he was finally free to make his escape.

  “Lord Eric, come share one last drink with us,” Colin shouted, his glass raised as Eric turned a murderous look upon him.

  He could not refuse to drink with them. His men respected and admired him and to them it was an honor to raise a toast with him.

  A path miraculously opened among the crowd as he marched across the great hall straight for the dais and Colin.

  “Easy with him,” Borg cautioned Eric when he drew near. “He has sampled the new wine and found it too much to his liking.”

  Colin grinned foolishly at him. “My coins are on you.”

  Eric looked to Borg.

  “A harmless bet.” The large man shrugged.

  “And who are your coins on?” Eric asked.

  “The winner,” Borg said with a confident smile and handed him a goblet of wine.

  Eric nodded knowingly. “A wise answer, brother.”

  Anxious to be off, he turned, lifted his glass high and spoke for all to hear. “To the brave and mighty warriors who fight by my side.” He downed the contents of the goblet.

  A loud and lingering cheer echoed through the great hall, fists pounded at tables and voices soon raised in robust song.

  Eric turned back to Borg. “Are you well enough to mount the stairs on your own?”

  “I am well enough to mount most anything,” Borg grumbled.

  Colin snickered. “I wager the fair Bridget will be pleased to hear that bit of news.”

  Borg looked ready to pounce on him.

  Eric intervened. “The wine speaks.”

  “The truth speaks,” Colin mumbled in a drunken stupor. “Both of you need mounting and neither one of you have the courage to do what is necessary.”

  “And I suppose you know what is necessary?” Borg asked.

  Colin gave them a slow nod. “I do.”

  “And will you share this bit of wisdom with two fools?” Eric asked, placating his intoxicated friend.

  Colin waved them closer as if he were about to impart with an invaluable piece of information. Eric and Borg obliged him, moving nearer.

  It took three attempts before Colin got his finger to his lips in warning. “It is a secret.”

  Borg hid a laugh behind the hand he brought to his mouth and Eric played along. “We will not tell anyone.”

  Colin looked to Borg for the same confirmation.

  “Promise,” the large man said, his hand continuing to conceal his laugh.

  Colin shook his head, evidently not believing them. “You are both too foolish.”

  “To do what is necessary?” Borg asked, his laugh having turned to a wide grin.

  Colin still shook his head. “To know what is necessary.”

  “What is it we should know, my friend?” Eric asked.

  Colin placed a hand on Eric’s thick shoulder. “When you know what is necessary, you will do what is necessary.”

  “He talks in riddles,” Borg insisted.

  “I speak the truth,” Colin argued.

  Borg argued back. “You are drunk.”

  “I am a wise drunk.”

  That caused both Eric and Borg to smile.

  “And I know the truth,” Colin persisted, tugging at Eric’s tunic. “You know the truth too, Eric, you know the truth.”

  His repetitive words disturbed Eric and he wanted to hear no more of them. He was about to signal one of his men to see Colin safely to his quarters when he caught the anxious eye of a young servant girl he knew Colin fancied.

  He summoned her and she hurried right over to him. “Will you see that Colin finds his bed?”

  “Aye, my lord,” she said with a pleased smile and though she stumbled with the weight of him draped on her, she also smiled and laughed at the words Colin whispered in her ear.

  “How does he do it?” Borg asked. “He is barely able to stand and the girl still falls under his damn charm.”

  “He has a special way with women, always has, and sometimes I envy the ease and wisdom with which he deals with them.”

  “You have never had difficulty finding a woman to bed.”

  “True, but there is a certain air of danger and intrigue in bedding the devil himself.”

  Without another word exchanged Eric marched out of the great hall, his own words troubling him as he mounted the stairs in search of his wife.

  He did not care if he found Faith abed. She had taunted him with her answer and she would explain herself, though if he was honest with himself he would admit that he enjoyed talking with her. She was far more intelligent than he had expected.

  His father had been generous in his education, insisting on its importance in dealing with foreign lands and their people. Most people assumed Vikings to be barbaric, and while the Viking heritage did contain a barbaric history, the Vikings also were excellent sailors, fine craftsmen and skilled merchants. To succeed in any of those trade
s, his father had made certain that mathematics and languages were an intricate part of Eric’s studies. And while he chose none of these professions in life, his studies enabled him to succeed where many failed. He understood his adversaries’ tongues, could calculate distances and troop movements for battles and could map a course in the blink of an eye.

  Eric respected knowledge, which is why he so admired his wife’s tenacity as a healer. She took pride in her skills and had obviously fought hard to gain them, qualities a husband did not often find in a wife and ones rarely sought.

  He approached her bedchamber with a specific intent in mind, to clarify the answer she gave him and to learn more about the woman he had abruptly wed.

  Her chambers sat directly beside his; his first thought when ordering them constructed had been that if he did not favor the wife he was forced to wed he could at least seek solace from her. Strangely enough, he now found himself seeking her chambers and he wondered if it would not grow to be a habit.

  He gave no knock to announce his entrance. Why should he? He was the lord of this keep and had the right to enter any room he chose.

  Faith sat at the table, staring at the low flames in the hearth. A night chill had crept into the keep, causing several hearths to be lit.

  “I saved you a brew of chamomile and mint,” she said softly and turned a smile on him.

  “Think you I need it?” he asked, closing the door and joining her.

  She held the cup out to him. “If it is soothing you wish.”

  Eric accepted the offer and sat opposite her, tasting the hot brew. “A pleasant flavor. But why did you recommend it for Stuart if it but soothes?”

  “He is anxious, he needs soothing.”

  “And this is his problem?”

  “I will discover soon enough. If I hear no more from Mary, then I know I have treated him wisely.”

  Eric simply nodded, though he silently applauded his wife’s perceptive intelligence.

  “I am sorry if my absence from the evening meal caused you embarrassment.”

  “I know you have your faithful companion to protect you,” Eric said, sending a brief glance to the dog sleeping soundly near the hearth. “And while I have no doubt as to your safety within the castle walls, I prefer to know at least why my wife will not be present for a meal.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Eric understood that her formal response was issued with respect for his position, and took no offense. The blend of herbs did soothe and he found himself relaxing in the hard wooden chair.

  “I am told you have single-handedly dug up a plot of earth for your garden.”

  Faith placed her cup on the table and pushed the heavy strands of curls away from her face as she spoke. “The location is perfect with the sun and shade being equal partners and it sits in a spot that will not be disturbed. That is, if you do not mind. You did tell me I could have a garden.”

  “I do not mind,” he said, his glance settling on the pale, thin scar that ran down the side of her face, not far from her hairline. He did not find it unsightly, though it disturbed him to realize the horror she must have suffered. “Though I do mind that you labored alone. Ask and it will be done for you.”

  Faith looked at him as if insulted.

  And for a moment he thought he had insulted her with the way he had stared at her scar.

  “But it is my garden, my plants will rest and nourish there. Therefore, it is my concern to see that their home is sufficiently prepared. It would not do for someone else to labor over my patch of ground. ‘Tis mine and I shall see to its care.”

  He was about to comment snappishly that if she carried his child she would not be laboring over anything but seeing to her own care. But he stopped himself, realizing there was no chance of her being with his child, and the thought left him feeling bitterly disappointed.

  “I have also been told you have made your presence known around the castle grounds.”

  “I wish to explore and discover as much as I can about your home.”

  He noticed she did not refer to Shanekill keep as her home, but then he had not given her reason to believe she would be staying. Yet still she wished to explore her surroundings.

  “I see that besides your private chapel within the keep, a chapel has been erected in the courtyard for the castle residents, but I have yet to meet a cleric.”

  He smiled. “While I can coerce my men to follow me to hell and back, it is more difficult to get a priest to attend the devil permanently.”

  She laughed and strangely enough, seemed relieved.

  He decided it was time to change the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go. “I am surprised you walk so freely, without fear, about the castle grounds.”

  “Why would I do otherwise? I fear no one here.”

  So she did not fear him. He was relieved to learn this, but interested in learning more. “I thought perhaps that the attack had left you with some fears.”

  She paused in her response as if uncertain, or perhaps memories haunted her. “I have faced my fears and they have made me strong.”

  Information was vital if he were to learn the truth, so he probed. “You mentioned the attack took place in the stables. You do not fear going to the stables here?”

  She shook her head. “No. Rook always goes with me.”

  “Would you go alone?”

  This time she shuddered, though she tried hard to hide her reaction.

  Eric was persistent. “Your attacker was never caught?”

  She looked hesitant to answer him and then seemed resigned, almost as if she was just too tired to object to his questions. “No, he was never found.”

  “Did you offer a description?”

  Again the hesitancy. What was she hiding from him’?

  “It was late at night and dark, far too dark to identify the man.

  “A face is not always needed… clothing will do. Was he dressed in peasant or a nobleman’s garb?”

  Her hand went to her neck and she rubbed at the thin scar that trailed down over her collarbone. She remained silent and he wondered if she gave thought to his words. She was obviously remembering something, but would she share the memory with him?

  Faith shook her head. “I do not remember. I know he was strong, for I fought hard to keep the knife away, though he left his mark.”

  “At least he did not take your life.”

  She looked with sorrowful eyes at him. “But he did. He changed my life forever.”

  Eric could neither find words of comfort nor alter the truth of which she spoke. She had suffered greatly through no fault of her own and yet she had survived and had grown strong.

  “You stare,” she said bluntly. “Does my scar disturb you?”

  Her candid question startled him as did the realization that he had allowed his gaze to linger much too long on her scar. And while he was the lord and could do as he pleased, it did not please him to embarrass her in such a rude manner.

  He discarded his cup to the table before he rose, and walked over to her. He squatted down in front of her and her own eyes betrayed her, taking note of his firm thighs and the sizable bulge between his legs.

  She forced her eyes up to meet his and was grateful that he had not taken note of her intimate scan of him. His one finger gently sought her chin and pushed her head to the side so that he could look fully upon her scar.

  He ran his finger from the point to where it began beneath her eye, close to her hairline, down over her cheek, her jaw, along her neck and over her collarbone. He stopped when his finger touched her tunic.

  “Take my finger on the path it travels,” he said softly.

  She did so without question, wrapping her fingers around his and slowly tracing along the scar where it traveled beneath her shift. The path ended at her nipple and she looked into those blazing blue eyes that could ignite the most celibate soul with one glance.

  His finger ran in a tender circle around her nipple and the soft orb
responded, instantly hardening to his intimate touch.

  Faith dropped her hand away, feeling guilty, as if she had initiated his touch.

  His hand fell away, along with hers. “You are a brave woman.”

  “Many thought me a coward.” Her voice quivered.

  “Why?”

  His lips were much too close to her face and they were moist and full and so ripe for kissing . . . and the scent of him? If a man could smell virile, he did, and the assault of him on her nostrils was hard to ignore. But ignore the devil she did. Or did she? He seemed closer to her, but how could that be—he had not moved. Had he? Or had she?

  “Why?” he repeated, his warm mint breath fanning her lips.

  He was closer to her still, but who had moved?

  She shook her head, softly attempting to clear her head. “Many felt I should have prayed to die, not live.”

  “More fools they.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “My scar does not shame you?”

  He ran his finger over it once again. “You bear a sign of courage. Why would your courage shame me?”

  She knew then that it was she who had moved for she slipped forward in her chair and tentatively touched her lips to his. He touched back gently. Her small tongue peeked from between her aching lips and reached out to stroke his lightly.

  He moaned, but stayed as he was, allowing her to explore him.

  His nonevasive response urged her pursuit of him and her tongue began to trace his lips over and over and over. The warm sweet taste of him made her feel giddy and she continued her innocent assault on him.

  She slipped the tip of her tongue between his lips and he slowly parted his mouth, allowing her entrance. She darted in and playfully teased him, his own response just as teasing.

  Her hands went to his shoulders, his hands went around her waist. She leaned forward, he leaned in and in a brief startling moment they were wrapped in each other’s arms. The tamed kiss turned wild and their bodies melted against one another.

  Eric’s only thought was to carry her to the bed, strip her bare and lay claim to her. The consequences be damned. He wanted her. He hungered for her. He was hard, damn hard for her.

  He stood, taking her along with him until he stood straight and then he scooped her into his powerful arms and carried her to the bed. He brought them down upon it together, their mouths and hands never leaving each other.