Her breath caught in her throat when she first sighted a sail on the horizon. The invaders would hopefully deem a young animal a good omen of plenty. She closed her eyes, summoned the help of the gods, and slowly transformed into a dappled fawn, silently commanding Lop to cease growling. He’d never been happy about her shapeshifting abilities.
She watched from the shore as the Gaelicians brought their boat closer, soon recognizing Iago standing in the prow. Seeing him again brought dark memories of Nith’s brutal murder. She wasn’t surprised he’d returned for vengeance, having foreseen his need to be part of the expedition.
Next to him stood the chieftain, Nith’s nephew. It was the first time she’d seen him in the flesh, but she knew him from her visions, though he seemed bigger…broader…darker.
She retreated into the seagrass when Iago pointed to her, perplexed that something significant concerning the Prince of Gaelicia yet eluded her.
Confident the gently swaying grass hid her from the scrutiny of the invaders, she summoned her strength and changed back into human form. She pressed her fingertips to her face and traced her nose, mouth and eyes, then ran her hands through her hair. Her gift had never failed, but it always came as a relief when she was whole again.
Lop licked her hand. She tilted the hound’s chin and kissed his nose. “I appreciate you don’t like it when I change into an animal you usually hunt, but I’m myself now.”
He sat, long tail thumping the ground, ears pricked, silver eyes fixed on her.
“You’re a faithful companion,” she told him, wistfully aware the dog was her only confidant.
Lop tilted his head, listening as the wooden ship scraped bottom on sandy shoals and male voices shouted commands. She had spoken true when she’d told Moqorr of a fleet, but had failed to mention the ships wouldn’t all arrive at the same time. “My gift of sight allows me to read the thoughts of others,” she confided to her dog, “yet I sometimes have difficulty understanding my own motives. Perhaps resentment of Moqorr’s dominion prompted me to not divulge everything.”
A shiver crept across her nape as she fingered the hated torc around her neck. Did the High King suspect she had kept part of the dream hidden?
Lop sat on his haunches and stared towards the shore.
“Yes, you’re right,” she whispered, “there is something about the invader I cannot discern. It is clear he seeks vengeance, but whatever else lies in his heart remains hidden.”
Lop followed as she emerged from the grasses. She pushed the hood of her woollen cloak back onto her shoulders and stood at the top of the dune. Dozens of copper bracelets sang as she extended her arms in welcome, the beloved hound at her side. She wasn’t afraid, but whatever eluded her about the Iberian prince caused tiny winged creatures to flutter in her belly.
Lop growled at the foreign sailors who remained aboard the boat, their reaction to being greeted by a lone maiden with a dog amusingly predictable. Scowling, they stood with mouths agape, hands on the hilts of their swords.
Their leader was the first to jump into the shallows. Lithe, long-legged, swarthy—as she’d foreseen. He waded ashore, an unexpected smile upon his weather-bronzed face. Lop’s size and wolf-like features had caused many a warrior to hesitate, but this man seemed to have no fear of him. Her hound ceased his growling as the stranger approached, which was equally curious.
She walked slowly towards the invader, arms still extended in friendship. “Welcome, men of Gaelicia,” she declared. “I am Aislinn of Clan Tuatha, and this is Lop.”
His dark eyebrows arched and the smile fled as he scanned the dunes behind her, no doubt anticipating an ambush. “You speak our language,” he said gruffly.
“I am a polyglot,” she explained softly. “The gods have gifted me with the ability to speak many tongues.”
He braced his feet in the sand and pushed the voluminous red cloak back off his broad shoulders with a flourish. “And how do you know we are from Gaelicia?”
He too wore a torc around his strong neck, but the burnished gold bespoke wealth and high rank, not servitude. She took another step closer, filled with an incomprehensible compulsion to touch him as she gazed into ice-blue eyes. “We expected you. Will you accept my gesture of welcome?”
He hesitated only a moment before taking her hand. Her bracelets slid to her elbow. “I am Sibrán of Coruña, son of Milead, King of Gaelicia. I thank you for your welcome, Aislinn. I see your people also love copper trinkets, and that’s a fine hound you have.”
Lop looked up at her, tongue lolling as if he’d understood the foreign words of praise.
Her throat constricted when Sibrán bent to bestow a kiss on her knuckles. His husky voice uttering her name was like a blessing. The heat of his calloused fingers and the moist warmth of his lips took her completely by surprise. It was the most intimate human contact she’d ever had.
Lop made no move to defend her, apparently sensing she wasn’t in danger, but a dire fate awaited those who disobeyed Moqorr. Any attraction she felt for this invader must be put aside. She withdrew her hand and averted her eyes from his gaze, afraid he saw more than she wished him to see.
Throughout the long voyage, Sibrán had considered two possibilities concerning his arrival in Inisfail. Either the mouth of the Bhearù would be deserted or they’d find themselves confronted by an army.
A tall, willowy goddess with a massive wolfhound was not what he anticipated. The unknown but intoxicating perfume lingering on Aislinn’s skin might be some trick of Tuathan magic intended to lower his guard. She’d openly admitted she belonged to a clan whose chieftain claimed to rule the Otherworld.
He’d half expected the dog to react when he’d kissed her hand, but the animal seemed to sense he was no threat to his mistress.
Maiden’s breasts that would fill his hands had him thirsting to suckle like a greedy child. He licked his lips, longing to sift his fingers through flame red hair cascading over her shoulders. She was a vision who would dignify any man’s bed.
Yet he knew she was real as soon as they touched—flesh and blood like him—and her wide eyes betrayed she too had felt the spark that rushed into his veins and stirred the keen interest of his shaft.
A throaty cough behind him indicated Iago had come ashore. He stiffened his spine and let go of her hand, ashamed he’d allowed a stunningly beautiful maiden to distract him from his mission. He’d been too long at sea. “If you expected us, you are aware we have come to avenge the slaughter of my father’s brother. Yet you are alone and appear unafraid, though I suspect Lop could tear a man limb from limb.”
“I do not fear you, Sibrán,” she whispered, her sultry voice echoing in his bones.
He wished she was lying beneath him on a bed of furs, his name on her full lips as he thrust…
“And I am not alone.”
His hackles rose and his manhood lost interest when a score of armed warriors appeared as if by silent magic atop the dune. Either they’d been chosen for their height, or the Tuathans were a race of giants. He drew his sword and heard his men do the same behind him.
Lop growled, baring an impressive array of sharp teeth.
Aislinn stroked her dog’s head and he quieted immediately. “Put up your swords. These soldiers are my escort. The High King sent us to guide you safely to the Hill of Tara.”
Sibrán lowered his weapon but did not sheathe it. “This king you speak of is the murderer on whom we will wreak our vengeance. Why would he want us to reach his fortress?”
She looked directly into his eyes. A man might drown in those green depths. “King Moqorr welcomes the chance to convince you the executions were justified.”
Iago strode to confront Aislinn, but the beast barred his way, fangs once more in evidence, huge front paws planted firmly in the sand. “I myself witnessed the killing, as did you,” he declared angrily, baring his teeth in imitation of the dog.
To her credit she didn’t flinch in the face of his wrath. Instead, she hooked the fin
gers of one hand in the hound’s collar and placed the other on the old man’s arm. “Iago,” she said softly, “I am happy you are alive and have returned. Do not be concerned. Things are sometimes not what they seem.”
Gathering Storm
Conflicting emotions swirled in Sibrán’s heart. He feared Iago’s seething anger might prompt him to launch an attack against Aislinn and her escort. They outnumbered the Tuathans, but that didn’t necessarily mean they would emerge victorious. His men were exhausted after the long voyage. Aislinn’s massive hound would protect her to the death, but it was inevitable she would be among the casualties. He clenched his jaw, the prospect churning his gut.
Iago’s oft-repeated account of the bloody murder had been graphic, his conviction unshakable that Nith and his men had been unjustly slaughtered.
Yet Aislinn’s soft voice also carried the ring of truth. Her genuine affection for the embittered old warrior was plain to see. He moved closer to her, obliging his navigator to take a step back, and risked allowing the dog to sniff his hand. A raspy, wet tongue licked his fingers, settling his disquiet.
Inhaling the unknown scent that clung to Aislinn, he stared into her eyes. “The few survivors who succeeded in returning to Coruña told of unjust accusations of treachery.”
“Falsehoods,” Iago shouted.
Aislinn did not avert her eyes. “His Highness will explain when we reach the Royal Enclosure. I am but a humble servant of the king.”
Sibrán doubted her assertion. This intriguing woman was no simple bondswoman. Her clothing and the ornaments she wore spoke of wealth, the copper bracelets the most finely crafted he’d ever seen, though the rope-like bronze torc around her slender neck looked troublingly like a slave-collar.
However, this wasn’t the time or place to be concerned with a beautiful woman and her jewelry. He had to make provision for the men who’d brought his ship safely to these foreign lands. They would wait for the overdue vessels. “We will camp here for two days before proceeding upriver. I am confident the other boats in our fleet will have reached these shores safely by then.”
When Aislinn raised a hand to her forehead and looked out to sea, he immediately missed the reassuring depths of her green eyes. “I must advise against remaining here,” she said softly, perplexing him further. “A powerful storm is brewing in the Dark Waters. Your boat will be safer upriver.”
“There isn’t a cloud in the sky,” Iago scoffed. “She wants us to move further inland where we will have less chance of retreat if attacked.”
Many of the crew grunted their agreement.
Sibrán was torn. Iago had spent most of his life on the sea and had a well-earned reputation as an infallible predictor of wind and weather. The waters were calm, the heavens clear, yet when Aislinn’s gaze pierced him again, it was clear she believed the truth of her prediction. He didn’t understand how a young woman could foresee a storm, but the ominous black line that suddenly appeared on the horizon convinced him to heed her advice.
Lop barked his agreement.
Sibrán extended his hand. “Will you join me aboard my ship, Aislinn?”
Aislinn had no knowledge of wind and tides, but was well acquainted with Moqorr’s fondness for conjuring foul weather. The king intended for the invaders to sail up the river, and a storm on the coast was the most likely means he would use to achieve his goal.
Swallowing the fear that had robbed her of breath upon seeing the black clouds forming, she accepted Sibrán’s hand, disturbed by the brief spark that again passed between them when skin touched skin. The momentary confusion paled in comparison to the turmoil in her heart when he scooped her up. She squealed involuntarily and had no choice but to put her arms around his corded neck and allow him to carry her across the sand and lift her into the boat. She fixed her gaze on the finely-wrought gold torc, reluctant to look at his handsome face, afraid of what it might reveal.
Lop lurched after them.
She thanked the gods for her faithful hound. Without him she’d be venturing into unknown territory alone. Danger lurked in the Gaelician prince’s apparently magical ability to confuse her emotions. He leaned against the boat and passed her over the side into the arms of another burly Iberian, but there was no thrill in the other man’s touch, no unsettling male attraction. “My thanks,” she muttered to the scowling sailor as he set her down on her feet on the planking of the ship’s hull.
Lop leapt into the boat and ran around sniffing everything and everyone.
Sibrán laughed at the dog’s antics. His laughter startled her. It was something rarely heard in Tara.
He put a hand on the boat and jumped aboard with seemingly no effort. “To oars,” he commanded.
The rowers took up their positions without complaint, though exhaustion etched their windburned faces.
The chieftain surveyed the dunes then turned his puzzled gaze to her. “Your escort has disappeared.”
Following her earlier instructions, the Tuathan warriors had already set off on the coastal path. “They will travel by land,” she replied.
He stared, as if deciding whether or not to believe what she had said, then pointed to the river ahead. “To Tara,” he declared, his eyes still fixed on her.
She followed his gesture. Iago stood at the prow with legs braced, his back to her. The rigid set of the navigator’s shoulders bespoke the mistrust that no doubt distorted his weathered features.
Lean on Me
It quickly became evident Sibrán had no need of Aislinn’s guidance. Under his and Iago’s watchful eye, men strained to shove the boat away from the shallows. The oarsmen pulled together to bring them into the deep channel that led inland. They seemed content to work as a team for their master. It was a far cry from the forced labor Moqorr exacted from his subjects.
Uncertain of her balance on the first vessel she’d ever set foot on, Aislinn gripped the wood with one hand, the other hooked into Lop’s collar—her always steady anchor. She inhaled the salty air, relieved she was being ignored. The lack of scrutiny provided an opportunity to calm the tiny winged creatures still fluttering in her belly. She’d heard tell travel by water often caused such inner turmoil.
The sky darkened as the storm rolled in off the sea with alarming speed. Rain started to fall as they pulled away from shore. Somewhere in the far distance an unseen wolf echoed Lop’s howling. The crewmen exchanged worried glances.
Sibrán stood nearby, absorbed in the task at hand. She had no right to expect him to notice her trepidation. Indeed, she preferred to keep her distance.
He clamped a hand on his navigator’s shoulder. “For once you were wrong, old friend,” he shouted. “I predict the wind will soon fill our sails.”
Iago turned to scowl at her. “There’s sorcery afoot here,” he growled as a brisk wind lifted his cape and men hastened to hoist the canvas.
Her own heavy woollen cloak seemed inadequate as the stiff breeze intensified, forcing the hood back over her head. Teeth chattering, she dug her fingernails into the wood, relieved in spite of her reservations when Sibrán put his arm around her waist.
“Lean on me,” he commanded in a deep, husky voice that echoed in her heart.
There was no reason for her to be afraid. Moqorr would ensure no harm befell her, and she had the faithful Lop for her immediate protection. Yet she did as the Iberian bade, finding reassurance in his solid body. She glanced up at him, surprised to see a broad smile on his rugged features, though the wind had whipped his wet hair around his face. It was evident he feared neither her hound nor the fury unleashed by the elements. Indeed he seemed to relish the tempest as he stroked Lop’s head.
“It will be over soon,” she murmured, hoping she spoke the truth. Not that it mattered. Her voice was lost to the wind.
Aislinn’s obvious trembling fear confirmed Sibrán’s suspicion she was a mere mortal, yet if such were true, why would she be afraid of a tempest she appeared to have conjured?
Iago was right. Unnatura
l forces had been unleashed. Any storm his navigator hadn’t sensed in his bones was suspect and her hoarsely whispered reassurance the worst would soon be over carried the weight of certainty. Yet how could that be?
He had defied violent weather before and survived. He didn’t fear the elements, but sorcery was another matter. He resolved to steel his heart against the troubling allure of this beautiful woman even as his body rejoiced in her apparent need to cling to him.
They sailed past green meadows and ever thicker forests as the gusting wind carried them swiftly away from the sea. When they came to a wide bend in the river protected by an island in the estuary it dropped to a pleasant zephyr.
The rain stopped.
Lop ceased howling, sniffed the air then leapt into the shallows and paddled to the shore.
The sail came down and the oarsmen pulled the boat to the grassy bank without being ordered to do so, but fearful uncertainty was plain to see in their worried faces.
Cold weather never bothered Sibrán, but a strange chill swept over him when the color returned to Aislinn’s cheeks and she broke away. Looking back to the distant shore where dark clouds still roiled, he worried for the men out on the open sea. Was it her intention to destroy the rest of his fleet?
She put a cold hand on his wet arm. “Do not be concerned. They will ride out the storm.”
Lullaby
Ridiculous jealousy churned in Sibrán’s gut when a Tuathan soldier suddenly appeared on the bank beside his boat to take Aislinn from his arms and lift her over the side. Her eyes held a matching glimmer of disappointment. “My guards have set up our camp a short distance from here,” she explained.
He had a foolish notion to challenge the giant but thought better of it and instead watched him carry her into a nearby copse of white-barked trees, the enormous dog hard on their heels.
“Don’t trust the hound,” Iago snarled.
The old man had his best interests at heart, yet the warning irritated Sibrán. He jumped from the boat. “I admit I was wary of the beast when I first laid eyes on him. He looks more like a wolf than a dog, but he seems to have taken a liking to me.”
Lords of Ireland II Page 62