by Silver James
They settled the horses and huddled together in the copse, their mantles wrapped around them. Taidhg broke open a pack and dug out some journey cake and dried venison. Becca shared a measure of hers with the wolfhounds now snuggled on each side of her.
“Will you tell me, Riordan?” Becca finally broke the silence. “Will you tell me of the clann?”
Riordan grinned at her, cocky good humor twinkling in his eyes. “Curious are you of the clann you’ll be joining soon enough? Well, those of us tied to the MacDermot are more a sept than a clann,” he explained. Becca felt utterly confused.
Taidhg, more familiar with her background, broke in. “A sept denotes direct lineage from common parents, mistress. Riordan and the MacDermot belong to the sept of MacDermot.”
“Why do you call him the MacDermot?” she asked. Taidhg and Riordan exchanged uneasy glances. “Oh, hell,” she sputtered. “I know you’ve heard the rumors about me. I’m not daft. I just can’t remember much of what happened in my life before Ciaran and Niall found me.”
“Captain MacDonagh was nigh beside himself that night,” Taidhg explained to Riordan. “Not to mention the Taoiseac,” he added with a wry grin.
“As you wish, cailín,” Riordan acquiesced, falling into the more familiar address. “A lesson in clann history then. As Taidhg said, a sept is a familial group descending in direct lineage from common parents. I am a MacDermot, a direct cousin to Ciaran. Ciaran is the MacDermot. He’s the head of the sept and the clann. The clann, which includes the MacDermots and the septs owing fealty to them, descended from one common ancestor. Captain MacDonagh is a distant cousin, as is Taidhg. Several clanns form a tuatha, which is like a kingdom. We owe allegiance to the O’Conor of Sil Muredaich. Conchobhar O’Conor is King of Connaught. Have you no idea of your family, cailín?”
Becca shook her head. Her grandfather’s last name had been Connor, which was much too close to O’Conor for comfort. The voices in her head had insinuated she’d lived in this time, but they’d given no indication of who she had been. She sure didn’t want to make any rash statements about her ancestry. Her surname was Miller. Common enough in the twentieth century, but too chancy in the nineth.
“Mayhaps ’twill come to you, mistress,” Taidhg said. His smile was meant to encourage her.
Becca’s whole body slumped as exhaustion set it. She’d been running on adrenaline since dawn. Before she could catch it, a huge yawn stretched her face.
“I agree,” Riordan laughed. “’Tis been a long day with more just like it to follow. We’d all best bed down.”
“I’ll take the first watch, Riordan,” Taidhg offered.
Riordan nodded his assent, rolled up in his mantle and was softly snoring within moments. Taidhg moved away from the group and found a place in which to conceal himself.
Becca nudged Winken with a toe. “Go with him and guard him well,” she told the dog. With a deep sigh, the huge animal stood up, shook, stretched, and padded over to where Taidhg had hidden himself. Becca then poked Blinken who was lying beside her. “And you’ll go with Riordan when he relieves Taidhg.” The dog yawned but Becca knew he’d obey.
She bundled up in her own mantle. With her nose buried in the woolen wrap, she sniffed deeply. It still smelled of Ciaran, and her stomach knotted in an unfamiliar but enticing way. She knew what it felt like to awaken in his arms. Enough time had passed, though the memory was more like a hazy dream than reality. She closed her eyes. What would his arms, broad chest, and muscled abdomen feel like pressed against her when they embraced skin to skin?
Ciaran was always fiercely aroused whenever he was near her. Though she’d never actually seen a naked man, Becca was well aware of the mechanics involved with the act itself. She’d supervised the mating of her share of stallions and mares. Unbidden, the image of Ciaran covering her body like a stallion over a mare seared across her psyche, and she squirmed as inner muscles contracted. Flushing, she remembered how his erection pressed against her. Though she had nothing to judge from except some half-hearted teenaged memories, comparing him to a stallion might be just a little too accurate for comfort.
Becca sighed. If she didn’t quit thinking about his body, and what it might do to hers, she’d never get to sleep. Tomorrow would be just as exhausting as today, and the urgency to get to Ciaran still rode her hard. Resolutely, she forced all thought of him out of her head.
****
“He gave the Covenant without the binding.” The female was complaining again. “Its power is diminished, and look what has happened.”
“There was magic enough to deflect the blow. He will be able to ensure the line.” The male sounded cocksure of himself.
“He should have made the binding.” She was insistent.
“How could he? Fionn died before his Covenant was fulfilled. That fool Aralt wouldn’t know a true mate if she bit him on the toín.”
“Enough! No more excuses. Ciaran must learn the binding oath before he becomes the biggest fool of all.” She was adamant.
“He has until Lughnasadh to complete the binding.” Did he sound a bit unsure?
“What happens if this binding thing doesn’t occur by then?”
Silence.
“Fool. She still hears.” The female was upset.
“Nay, dear heart,” the male denied. “No fool am I. ’Tis fools these mortals be.”
“And what of you who tied the MacDermot’s fate to our own?”
“’Twas in the heat of the moment,” he answered defensively.
“Pray she gets there in time. The line can’t die.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
More silence. Becca sighed. Eventually, these people had to give her answers.
****
Becca woke up shivering. Both dogs pressed against her as Riordan brushed her hair back from her face. “What is it, cailín? What ails you?”
“’Tis not me,” Becca replied groggily, trying to get her bearings. “’Tis Ciaran. He has a fever.” She pushed herself upright. “What time is it? Can we safely ride? I fear each moment I’m apart from him.”
Riordan nodded. “Aye, ’tis not even first light yet, but if we travel slowly, we can ride.”
Taidhg was already up and saddling the horses. Becca retreated to a bushy tree some distance away and took care of her morning absolutions. She mounted up and followed Riordan’s lead, Taidhg once again bringing up the rear.
The day passed uneventfully, and as dark descended, they pressed on through the night until it was again too dangerous to ride. Once more they made cold camp, this time Riordan taking first watch. Becca was so tired she fell asleep with a piece of journey cake still in her hand. Blinken dutifully followed Riordan while Winken nestled at Becca’s back. Taidhg wrapped up in his mantle a few feet away and fell into a light sleep.
They followed this same routine for almost a sennight before they caught up to the first stragglers of the O’Conor’s army. As they passed each group, Riordan asked about the location of the MacDermot men and news of Ciaran. At last, the captain of a troop of horse being held in reserve knew where their troops could be found.
Becca fought back tears. They’d threatened to fall the entire journey but she was so close to their destination, losing control was an eminent possibility. Each passing day weighed heavily on her. She could feel what was happening to Ciaran’s body, the fevers and pain that ravaged him. Would she be too late? He was gravely wounded and ill. Her heart and soul were positive she was the only one who could save him.
The sun was gone and shadows lengthened in the murky dusk when the first MacDermot guard challenged them. “Riordan MacDermot,” Riordan answered. “With Taidhg MacDonagh and an Taoiseac’s lady.”
Becca and Riordan had already passed the sentry, but Taidhg caught the measured look the man sent after the girl. Taidhg had heard the talk in the barracks and at the table. These were battle-hardened men, and they were none too sure of the MacDermot’s choice for a mate. Her startling arriv
al, strange appearance, and behavior was odd enough. Add the MacDermot’s reaction to her, and the whole affair left them puzzled. With battle imminent, she was a distraction the troop did not need.
The three of them rode into the encampment. Niall MacDonagh swept Riordan into a rough hug as soon as the younger man stepped down from his horse. Niall nodded up at his kinsman, Taidhg, and stared at Becca, finally recognizing her.
“What does she here?” he demanded of Riordan, his voice harsh with accusation.
“She does what she pleases,” Becca retorted. She swung off her horse with assured grace as Niall stared at her mannish attire. He opened his mouth to chide her, but she preempted him. “The countryside is unsettled. Three men were less likely to draw attention than a woman and her escort. Where is he?” she demanded.
Flabbergasted, Niall simply stepped back and pointed. A crude tent had been erected, and the shadowy shape of a body was visible among a pile of furs and blankets. Becca let out a little cry and rushed to Ciaran’s side.
Sweat left a sickly sheen on his handsome face, now creased and wracked by pain. He thrashed about, caught in a fevered nightmare. Becca laid a cool hand on his hot forehead. “Rest easy, Ciaran. I’m here now.”
He grabbed her hand and almost crushed it with his brute strength. She stroked his cheek with her other hand. “Becca?” his voice grated out between dry, cracked lips.
“Shh,” she soothed. “Everything will be fine now. I’m here to take care of you.”
“Nay, muirnín,” his parched voice croaked. “’Tis no place for you. Who was fool enough to bring you? Not Taidhg. He swore his life for you.”
Riordan slipped up beside Becca and knelt down. “Twould be me, cousin,” he said in hushed tones. “This one you have chosen has a mind of her own. Near a sennight ago, she awoke and demanded we bring her to you.”
Niall sucked in a deep breath. Ciaran had been wounded in a sneak attack just before dawn a sennight ago. He stared at Becca, his expression thoughtful. “So the binding goes both ways,” he muttered.
Ciaran grasped Riordan’s arm in greeting. “’Tis glad I am that you are here, cousin. Niall will have need of you. The O’Brien think to attack soon.” He turned feverish eyes to Becca. “You are getting back on that horse and going home,” he ordered with some semblance of his old authority.
Becca snorted, the inelegant sound saying it all. “The hell I am,” she added for emphasis. Over her shoulder, she called to the other man hovering at the tent flap. “Taidhg, get the bag Siobhan packed for me from my saddle.”
She reached for the blanket covering him, but Ciaran grabbed it. She pushed his hands away and stripped it off. Tears filled her eyes when she saw the raw, gaping wound in his side, just above the hipbone. The gash was an angry red, swollen and full of pus. Becca hoped she’d arrived in time to stop the infection. When Taidhg appeared with the bag, she gave him whispered instructions.
Within a few minutes, a bucket of steaming water appeared at her elbow. She tossed in a cake of soap and washed up. With hands as gentle as she could make them, she probed the wound, ever conscious of each breath Ciaran sucked in. She winced each time his muscles clinched and knotted or when his hands fisted to keep from pushing hers away from him. Though deep, the wound hadn’t bled much. Becca was grateful. No major arteries or veins were involved. The infection and the attendant fever worried her. The wound must be cleaned and drained before she could cauterize it. None of it would be pleasant for Ciaran. She glanced up to find Niall guarding the entrance to the tent.
“Whiskey?” she asked the captain of the guard. “Or something equally strong.” She wanted the strong liquor for two reasons: first to get Ciaran roaring drunk so he wouldn’t feel as much of the pain, and second to help disinfect the wound. Food mold was still centuries away from being distilled into penicillin.
“You have to go home, cailín,” Ciaran whispered to her. “I couldn’t bear it if aught happened to you.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me, Ciaran. And if I don’t kill this infection, you are going to die. Where would I be then?” she retorted.
Ciaran smiled and relaxed a little. That she’d considered life without him, and she didn’t want him gone was a major stroke to his ego and gave him great comfort. He didn’t want to admit how often in the past two months he’d almost mounted his horse and ridden home to claim her fully. He worried she truly was fey and would disappear before he could return.
While she waited for the whiskey, Becca bathed his face and chest with a wet cloth. His men had piled blankets and furs on him hoping to sweat out the fever. Becca knew this fever had to be cooled rather than sweated. It was so high the fever itself could kill him. As her hand trailed the cool water across his chest, his hand found its way to her leg and rested on her thigh for a moment. It didn’t stay still very long as caressed her.
“At ease,” Becca ordered with a small giggle. “Is that all you ever think about?”
Ciaran cupped himself and grinned at her. “’Tis too late, cailín, to make an boidín stand down.”
Becca glanced at his erection. Her breath whistled sharply as she sucked it in. So that’s what had poked her in the behind. She tried not to stare, but she couldn’t drag her gaze away.
“Aye, look your fill now, sweet Becca, for as soon as I am up, I’ll be burying him deep between your legs.”
“You are up,” she retorted, ignoring the little shiver of anticipation skittering up her spine. “And you are in absolutely no shape to be putting that thing anywhere but back to sleep.” She glanced over her shoulder after hearing a discreet cough. “Ah, Niall,” she greeted the other man with relief. “’Tis about time. Pour that stuff down his throat ’til he can’t think anymore.” She haphazardly threw a blanket over his midsection and stood up. Ciaran groaned and reached for her. She danced away from his hand. “I’ll be back when you are good and drunk,” she informed him. While the tone of her voice brooked no argument, her eyes glinted with mischievous lights.
“I’m always good, even when I’m drunk,” he shot back.
Niall dropped beside Ciaran and propped him up. “Drink, Ciaran. I wouldn’t want her coming after me with that sharp tongue of hers.”
Ciaran smiled, remembering a different conversation with Niall concerning the same subject. “I can’t think of anything more pleasant,” he mumbled around the mouth of the wineskin Niall held to his lips.
Becca found Riordan and Taidhg sitting at the fire. Riordan handed her his plate but she shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“’Tis as bad as it looks, cailín,” Riordan stated, his worry leaking out in his voice.
Becca shook her head. “It’s bad enough but I think he’ll live. I have much work to do tonight, Riordan, and it will be hard on him. Niall is getting him drunk now so he won’t feel as much of the pain. Can someone build a small fire closer to the tent? I’ll need a continuous supply of hot water, and when it comes time to cauterize the wound, I’ll need to heat the knife.”
Riordan and Taidhg both grimaced at her words, but Taidhg stood to do her bidding.
“You seem inordinately fascinated by hot water and soap,” Riordan mused.
“Heat and soap cleanse,” she told him. “Both kill that which would fester in a wound.” Her face was etched with fatigue as she pushed her hair out of her eyes. “That which festers in a wound would kill a man.”
Riordan nodded. Eachan had told him of her part in the birthing of the foal. He was not surprised she was wise in the healing arts. Once again, he wondered where she’d come from. In the dark midnights on their way to find the troop, he and Taidhg often talked, speculating about her. Taidhg told him of her battered body and the strange language she’d spoken when they’d found her; of Ciaran’s immediate and possessive reaction to her. She acted like no other woman Riordan knew, and there were still times strange words and phrases came out of her mouth.
As Aralt’s nephew, under Brehon law, Riordan could h
ave made claim to become clann chief when Aralt died. Though his father’s acknowledged heir, Ciaran was still Aralt’s bastard. Like Niall, though, Riordan recognized something in Ciaran so he hadn’t pressed his claim, choosing instead to swear his fealty to his cousin.
Riordan stared into the fire watching the crackling flames dance as he wondered. Was she a witch as some in the castle believed? If so, he’d seen nothing but good magic come from her hand. When he’d gazed upon Ciaran’s face earlier, Riordan would have sworn the man wasn’t long for this world. Then he’d seen his cousin’s reaction to the girl. A man near death could not evidence that much lust. Riordan grinned as he remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on the girl. She’d had the same effect on him.
A sudden burst of song erupted from the tent, the words slurred and bawdy. Riordan and Becca exchanged smug looks. Ciaran was rip-roaringly drunk.
“He’ll need to be,” she murmured as much to herself as to Riordan. “What I must do tonight might kill a lesser man.”
She stood up and headed back to the tent, her steps measured and resolute. Riordan stayed where he was, wishing for a bit of whiskey himself. It would not be the last time he made that wish in the long night that followed.
Back in the tent, Becca stared at Niall and Taidhg. Her gaze never wavered as her mouth formed a tense line. “This will not be easy,” she told them. “What I have to do will hurt him and though he is drunk, it will not be enough to block all the pain. You will have to hold him down. Know that I seek only to save his life and trust me to do what is necessary though you may not understand.” She gazed at each man for a long moment, taking their measure. “Will you help me?” She held her breath waiting for their answers.
“Aye, mistress,” Taidhg replied without hesitation.
It took Niall longer to reply. He scrutinized Becca with a hard eye. “What comes to him comes to you, cailín,” he finally replied with a soft growl.
Becca wondered if there was an implied threat in Niall’s words. If Ciaran died, would Niall kill her? She blinked. With perfect clarity, she realized that if Ciaran died, she wouldn’t want to live. Becca took a deep breath before nodding at the big soldier to show she understood. “We begin.”