From Undone: A Storm of Love, A Novella

by TERRI BRISBIN

  She’d been almost invisible last night once they’d arrived here, head down, blending in and not speaking. And though he had liked it little, he could not muster enough strength to bring her into the conversations. Now she appeared quite at ease in his house, cooking something for his dinner, much in the way he’d seen to her needs along their journey.

  “Why is your hair covered?” he asked, realizing that he preferred to see the wild curls than to see them hidden away. The kerchief that he’d removed when he’d carried her into bed was firmly back in place.

  “Married women cover their hair,” she said evenly, though he noticed the hitch in her voice.

  Her voice.

  It was different now, in some way he could not identify. The melody that seemed to run through any words she spoke was gone now and her words sounded like . . . words. He walked over to her and tugged the fabric off her hair. She turned as though ready to say something but she just stared at him.

  Breac reached up and ran his fingers through her curls. For a moment a vision of her on her knees before him, sucking his cock, flashed through his thoughts and his cock hardened in anticipation of it. Was that a memory from that lost night? Had that been two nights before? He remembered being unable to fall asleep and taking a walk to ease his nerves, only to fall asleep then and have such vivid dreams of them coupling and pleasuring each other through the night.

  He dropped his hands and stepped away.

  She did not speak, but she did not cover her hair either.

  Aigneis scooped some of the stew into a wooden bowl and placed it before him. It did not look or smell like the thick, aromatic meal that Beatha fed them last evening, but she was sure it would suffice. Unwrapping the loaf of bread she’d purchased from the baker, she sat down and waited for him to begin.

  He dipped his spoon into the bowl and lifted the thin broth to his mouth. She had not figured out how to thicken her stew into the tasty gravy that Beatha had. Aigneis waited as he took the mouthful of meat and turnips in and chewed it.

  And chewed.

  And chewed some more.

  The second spoonful held only the broth, which he swallowed quickly. Then he tore off a piece of bread and chewed that. Aigneis tried hers and found the meat inedible and the broth worse than she imagined old bathwater would taste. It was so bad she fought not to spit it back into her bowl.

  “’Tis horrible!” she said, waiting for him to agree.

  “The bread is good,” was his only response.

  “I did not make the bread,” she admitted.

  “’Tis good.”

  She put her spoon down and met his gaze. “I cannot cook.”

  There. It was the sad and awful truth.

  “No, you cannot,” he agreed.

  Part of her was miffed that he agreed so quickly and part was relieved that she did not have to try to hide her inability and pretend to know. He stood and left without a word of explanation. Within minutes he returned, carrying a small pot in his hand. He put it on the table and after dumping the contents of their bowls back into the large cooking pot, he divided Beatha’s wonderful stew between them. Only the slight slant of his mouth as a smile threatened told her he was not upset.

  After their meal, he took care of the fire while she worried over where to sleep. But Breac never hesitated as they entered the other room, inviting her to his bed with a soft word and a warm embrace.

  That night their joining was different from the other times. It should not have surprised her, but it did. He touched her gently and slowly, bringing her release, but without the wild passion that happened before. He drew out every caress and eased deep inside of her, moving at a pace that drove her mad with desire for more and for harder and for deeper.

  He satisfied her several times before seeking his release and then held her close without a word between them until they both slept. In the morning when she woke, he was gone from the bed and the house.

  Beatha arrived in the later morning, baskets on her arm and an offer to teach her to cook. Aigneis found out that Breac had secured her help, if Aigneis wanted to learn, and so she spent the rest of the day conquering a simple porridge dish. If Breac thought it strange to have his morning meal in the evening, he did not comment. He just ate it. The practice repeated each day for several more until Aigneis could make something resembling Beatha’s stew.

  Though they fell into a comfortable pattern, she knew that Breac had not yet accepted Fenella’s death. Each time they entered or left the bedchamber, she noticed the sad glance toward the other pallet. She watched in the evening as they ate, and he gazed at the door as though expecting his sister to walk through it and sit with them.

  But the clearest sign to her was that he never mentioned his sister by name. The few times she’d witnessed Daracha or one of the others try to talk about Fenella, Breac either changed the matter under discussion or he left, avoiding it completely. Like a boil that festers until broken, Aigneis knew it was only a matter of time before his grief came to the surface, but she had no idea of the powerful emotions he kept controlled . . . until he could not any longer.

  Breac found that he actually looked forward to discovering what concoction Aigneis was making for their evening meal each day. He spent the days busy enough to avoid thinking on his loss and spent the nights wrapped around or deeply inside Aigneis’s supple and welcoming body, sharing a passion with her that he’d never shared with another woman. The few hours between were pleasant ones, as she became skilled in cooking with the help of Beatha’s expertise and offered him meals that filled his belly and lightened his spirit.

  Aigneis seemed content in their arrangement, using her time to practice the one household skill at which she was accomplished—sewing and embroidery. Uneasy about taking Beatha’s time up with teaching her to cook, she offered to sew and mend clothing for Beatha and her father. And she repaired his torn or worn-out clothing that he’d ignored for so long.

  This exchange seemed to make her feel useful and ease some hurt from her life before, and he could not disguise his pleasure in having her happy.

  She accepted his invitation to his bed every night and never turned from his touch or embrace. Nor did she hesitate to make her desires known and they explored the limits of pleasure in the dark of the night, never stopping until each one had a full measure of satisfaction.

  His cock hardened as it did every day when he returned to his cottage and found her there. Breac smiled thinking of something he discovered last night when he took her from behind. His body readied itself for her endless sense of adventures of the flesh, and she had only to look at him to know they would not make it through any meal first.

  Within minutes, and without a word of greeting exchanged, he had her pressed against the wall next to his pallet, her skirts flung up on her back, with his cock sliding between the cheeks of her butt from behind and his fingers touching her cleft from the front. Her body wept into his hands as he plundered her, rubbing some of the moisture on the sensitive puckered opening and pressing the thick head of his cock there as though he would enter it. Her moans excited him and he ached to get inside her body and spill himself there.

  Pressing his hand on the small of her back, she arched lower and his cock slid inside her tight channel, the muscles of the opening gripping every inch of his hardness. It was more intense than anything he’d felt before and he eased himself in deeper. Rubbing his fingers over her nether lips, he felt her body tighten around his. He thrust in and out, in and out, slowly until the tremors began within her. As she cried out and her channel spasmed around him, he pushed her to find her release with his fingers against the sensitive bud between those swollen lips.

  In those final moments of pleasure, he leaned over her and bit her on the tender area between her neck and her shoulder with his teeth, claiming her body as his, marking her with his mouth as a stallion did a mare in heat.

  It took awhile before either of them regained their senses, so complete and intense was thei
r joining. Their breathing slowed and they fell together on the pallet in a heap of entangled limbs and bodies, waiting for their bodies and their passion to cool. She still lay unmoving several minutes later so he offered to get some ale for them.

  Breac stood and climbed from the pallet, wobbling on his feet from the exertion and excitement they’d shared when he noticed that the screen separating his part of the chamber from Fenella’s was gone. As he walked toward the other room, he realized her pallet was gone as well. A coldness settled over him as he turned back to face Aigneis.

  “Where is the screen? Where is Fenella’s pallet?” he asked quietly. Though the words were soft, he could feel the rage building within him.

  “We spend so much time in this chamber, I thought it . . .”

  “You thought?” he interrupted. “You . . . thought?”

  She slid off the pallet and walked nearer to him. He stepped away. “’Tis been more than a fortnight since . . .”

  “It was not your decision to make,” he yelled. “It is not your house or your place to make decisions.”

  Like some insanity that lay dormant and then breaks free, Breac could feel the grief and anger over his sister’s death boil to the surface in him. Even the way Aigneis’s face lost all its color and she flinched at his words did not ease it.

  “What is my place then, Breac?” she asked, her soft tone goading him more.

  “Your place is on that pallet with my cock in your mouth or between your legs or in your arse,” he snarled. Even feeling his rage overflow did not stop him. “Do not think it is more than that. You warm my bed and get a place to live in return.”

  He pulled the door open and strode out. He could not breathe in there and his head felt like it would explode at any moment. But his heart! His heart pounded in his chest and his blood raced through his veins. Rage heated him and pushed him on, and even knowing that his target was the wrong one did not stop him.

  “The worst part of this is that we caused her death,” he yelled at her. “While I was busy sniffing after you and swiving you by the side of the road each night, she lay here dying. If I had ignored you, she would still be alive,” he leveled the accusation that had tormented him for weeks.

  He panted then, unable to take in an even breath. Aigneis moved around him, keeping close to the wall, watching him as though afraid he would strike her. And, at that moment, and in spite of the terror he saw in her eyes, he did not know what he was capable of doing.

  She flung open the door and ran from him into the night.

  Breac fell to his knees and screamed out at the pain that tore through him. His sister was dead because of him and his weakness. If he’d gotten back sooner, he could have saved her. Instead, he’d sacrificed her for a stranger. His grief and his guilt surged up and he sobbed it out until he had no more tears left.

  Chapter 11

  Aigneis had never felt terror like she did at that moment. The terrible power of the guilt and grief he’d held inside exploded in a horrible flash aimed at her. And even knowing that it would happen in some way did not lessen her fear. She ran from his cottage, down the road until she could not run any farther. Then, turning into the woods, she held onto a tree for support and wept for their losses.

  She’d begun to believe he was not like the other men in her life, that he could be trusted, that he would not hurt or betray her when this happened. Even understanding the power of grief, she still understood that something had changed between them in that instant, that he had expressed some grain of truth about his feelings for her, and they were not the ones she felt for him. Though she would now grieve for losing something special between them, she knew it was better to find out the truth about him now before she fell . . . in love with him.

  Aigneis fell to her knees as the truth sank in—it was too late for her after all. She had not learned.

  She pulled her legs up and curled around them, rocking as the disclosure shocked her. There was no choice now—she must leave. But without coins, she could not support herself or find a place to live. What would she do now? How would she live? How would she ever have any hope of finding her sons now?

  The night passed slowly and no matter how she thought on it, she could not find a way out. Sometime before dawn, she collapsed into a fitful sleep, unable to face the turn her life had taken.

  Breac wiped his face and looked around the chamber. The door still stood open as she’d left it as she ran. He’d never done something so cowardly before as this—setting an innocent woman as his target and abusing what little faith he’d established between them.

  If there was any guilt, it was his.

  If there was anyone in the wrong, it was him.

  Climbing to his feet, he realized that she had turned his house into a welcoming place. She had learned to cook to please him. She had taken him into her body and eased his grief without words, and she had never asked for a thing in return, not even a promise of a future.

  He needed to find her and try to undo the damage he’d wrought already. Aigneis could not go far, for she’d crept out without even her shoes. Mayhap she sought refuge with Seumas and his daughter? He would go there first and try to come up with a plan if she was not there.

  Seumas knew nothing of her whereabouts but patiently answered his questions about Fenella’s last days, seeming pleased that Breac finally spoke of his sister. They talked for some time and Breac explained what had happened earlier and how he’d blamed Aigneis for missing the chance to help his sister.

  Armed with the correct knowledge of how and when Fenella had died, he knew he must find Aigneis. With full moon’s light, he followed the road down almost a mile before finding signs of someone nearby. Then her soft snore gave her away and he discovered her curled up next to a tree, sleeping. Though this time it was not the deep sleep she usually fell into, but a fitful one in which she mumbled and cried.

  Breac sat at her side, easing her against him, and waited for her to wake so he could ask for her forgiveness.

  Though not warm, Aigneis awoke feeling not as cold as she thought she would after spending a night sleeping on the ground. Her back and her legs ached and she shifted around trying to get comfortable. The sun’s weak light barely crept over the horizon when she finally gave up trying to sleep and forced herself to face this day.

  After a brief respite during which she simply lived and enjoyed a short time of a pleasure with no promises or commitments, Aigneis knew she must face the reality of what her future would hold. And she must find a place to live.

  Opening her eyes, she pushed her hair away from her face and began to stretch, moving muscles that did not want to move. That was when she realized she did not lay on the ground, but against someone. She scampered away before his identity had even become clear and she found herself facing Breac.

  Easing farther away from him, she knew this was not the raging beast she’d seen the night before. Still she could not trust that he would not become that beast again.

  “I am sorry,” he said, in a gravelly voice.

  She did not speak. When she did not, he continued. “I am sorry for making you my target when I was angry with myself,” he said. “I am sorry for not listening to Seumas and Daracha and Ceanag and even Lord Malcolm when they told me I should let myself grieve for Fenella. I am sorry for being exactly like the others in your life who failed you and blamed you instead of themselves.”

  She gasped at his words for they were so close to her truth it frightened her. How had he known?

  He held out his hand to her, but she was not certain she should take it. “Please come back,” he said.

  His eyes held the glint of guilt now, but she sensed it was not about Fenella but about his treatment of her. “And her death? Do you still blame me for delaying you and causing it?” He flinched at her words and she waited for him to explain.

  “Seumas told me that she died within two days of my leaving. Lord Malcolm wanted to send someone after me, but I had not told him my dest
ination or path. Once I left here, I could not have returned in time to be with her at the end.”

  “Oh, Breac,” she cried, crawling back to him and accepting his embrace, while wrapping him in her arms. “I am so sorry you were not there with her.”

  “Daracha said she never woke from her sleep. That she slipped away quietly,” he whispered. “At least I can content myself that she was not alone and not in pain.”

  They sat quietly together for several minutes until he leaned back to look at her. “Come back with me, Aigneis.”

  She could hear both a request and a plea in his words and thought on them. This incident had awakened her to the dangerous feelings growing between them, ones that would not survive what he must do—choose a wife, marry, and have children. Now that he was accepting his sister’s death, his lord would begin to press him to do so. And since she could never be the woman he chose and she could never stand by and watch it happen, she must find a new life before it happened.

  She stood and waited for him to join her. “For now.”

  “For now? What does that mean?” he asked. “I know you are angry and that I terrified you, but I can promise it will not happen again.”

  “You did terrify me, I will admit that,” she nodded. “But this just made me realize that my place is not with you and that you must choose a woman soon who will stand with you.”

  “Aigneis . . .”

  She lifted her hand and placed it over his mouth to stop him. “Make no promises, Breac.”

  “Come back with me?” he asked again.

  Aigneis nodded and they walked back to his cottage together. Instead of leaving her to carry out his duties that day, he remained there and spent most of the day with her, rearranging the bedchamber as she’d started to do.

  Their days fell back into the comfortable pattern of the last weeks, but Aigneis was ever mindful of the future that moved toward them. Breac laughed off several attempts by men in the village to negotiate betrothals with their daughters. He even managed to ignore Lord Malcolm’s advice about a suitable wife, but Aigneis knew it would not be long now that he was coming to terms with the loss of his sister.