Silence.
“Won’t ye at least tell me yer name, mon?”
He shook his head back and forth, but no smile adorned his beautiful mouth this time.
“Verra well, ye leave me no choice,” she said and she climbed atop him to sit on his thighs with her legs wrapped around his waist on the three-legged stool. He inhaled and clenched, tightening his legs and sending his now jutting member against the soft pallet of what he presumed was her belly. Both soaking wet and dripping, she reached her arms around his shoulders in a kind of erotic bear hug that sent his pulse racing.
“Now, I have only a few places yet that need to be cleaned,” she breathed into his ear as she drew her wet tongue over the lobe giving him chills. With her right hand, she displayed her intention and pushed a sopping wet cleaning cloth up the length of his thigh torturously slowly.
Grabbing the back of his head with her left hand, she intertwined her fingers in his hair and it broke free of its leather thong shackle. She pressed her nose into his neck and bit him gently and he jumped, sending the cleaning cloth higher up his leg still.
He was shaking now, nearly unable to keep her in his lap as his thighs vibrated uncontrollably under her body. She moved her lips up and over his neck towards his cheek, whispering an unnamed warning to him. Pulling his hair further back with her left hand she moved his head to meet her forehead and searched his face.
“Will I have that name, sir?” she asked.
Silence.
His chest heaved up and down and met the distinct sensation of pert nipple with each exhalation. She kissed his cheek and cupped his face with her hands now, bidding his cooperation.
“I will have that name, sir,” she said before placing a tender kiss on his swollen lips and rubbing her own cheek against his freshly-shaved face.
“Must I go on torturing ye so?” she asked. “Or shall I end this now, the pain must be exquisite,” she whispered.
He grunted in acknowledgement and she pressed her lips firmly to his, an invitation to submit. He grew rigid, body and soul, and his hands shot up and grabbed her about the hips as before, attempting to stabilize them on the wobbly stool.
She bit his neck, he groaned loudly this time and his legs gave way beneath him as she slipped down almost in a fall; before he hoisted her back up atop his big thighs and settled her there with his large hands encircling her belly. His was a tall man that much was certain. With his knees high in the air from his position on the short stool, she couldn’t avoid slipping closer to him, to it, to his throbbing wet need pressed firmly against her stomach.
She cupped his face in her hands again and rubbed her cheek feverishly against his. Returning to his mouth, she licked her lips and asked, “Yer name, sir?”
Before she could continue her brazen assault, his eyes flew open and met hers with restrained force. Sea blue, by the gods, she thought to herself, drowning in their fevered depths. His hands left their familiar perch on her hips and pulled her into him further. His left hand swept behind her neck toying with her hair, his right hand splayed across her back and he brought her in for the kill.
He kissed her. It was an angry, violent warning of a kiss where swollen tongues fight for dominance in a warm crowded space, unsure of their goal. He won, of that she was certain, by the way he had her spread out over his big lap and half way on the floor, his left hand holding her up with the slightest bit of effort.
“Yer name, madam,” he grunted restlessly against her neck.
“Kyra,” she returned, staring up into the devilish eyes Shadrae had tried to warn her about.
“I’m Kyra,” she repeated, now lying like a rag doll in his arms.
“Yer name, sir,” she begged in a whisper.
He smiled a triumphant, arrogant smile that lit the room, and pulled her up to reposition her on his lap. Never taking his eyes from hers, he rubbed the back of her shoulders with his strong hands and whispered, “Parkin. Parkin MacCahan, maám.”
THIRTY-ONE
O’Malley Council Chamber
“By the gods, Gemma! Ye mean to tell me ye had the Lord’s brathair tied up like a common prisoner?” shouted Ruarc. He slammed his thick, red-haired fist on the council table and shook the mugs of ale that were placed there by Galen.
“Da, it was but a mistake,” interjected Kyra from the entry way. Making her way to one of the empty chairs, she briefly touched Lucian on the shoulder and nodded at Galen who was busy making entries in the council records. Gemma, Ruarc, Atilde, Galen and now Minea stared disbelievingly at the door, as if they saw a ghost.
“Good eve’n,” it said.
Ruarc nearly fell over rising to greet the newest council chamber occupant. Standing only in his damp kilt, bare-footed and all, Parkin MacCahan made quite a picture. Nearly as tall as his elder brother, but with long hair to his mid-back, which was now neatly tied back with a leather thong, and crystal blue eyes that could mesmerize any fae, Parkin strode assertively into the room. He stopped to grab a tray of fruit and dried meats from a maidservant, accepted a mug of ale graciously and sat down between Atilde and Minea who promptly turned beet red at his presence.
Lucian offered him a cloak, but he waved it off with his right hand, before sucking the sticky grape juice off his fingers one at a time, locking eyes with Kyra.
“Ruarc, I must say it is nice to finally make yer acquaintance.”
Ruarc choked and stood upright at the council table and began, “Lord MacCahan…”
“Parkin,” he interrupted, correcting Ruarc, before waving his right hand again and then licking an invisible line of wayward fruit juice down the length of his wrist.
“Parkin,” Ruarc nodded. “I must offer ye our sincerest of apologies. We simply did not ken ye were coming so soon, we had no idea who ye were and the ladies of the isle were under strict orders to allow no asylum to strangers. With yer brathair, I mean, with the Lord off in search of Braeden, we placed our lands on high alert and unfortunately, it appears when Mavis saw ye at the window…”
“Never mind that,” Parkin responded. “Mavis kens who I am well enough, however I was wearing a cloak and I disguised myself,” he explained with his hands, raising them above his head as if he were covering his face with the cloak.
“I meant to find what became of my daughter, Winnie.”
Kyra gasped and leaned forward in her chair. “Winnie is yer daughter?” she asked.
“Aye, Winnie is mine. She came with me and me charge, Macklin. When our boat arrived, verra late I might add in the night; I bid that Macklin see to her while I and me men cared to the ship and our stowage. When we finished our work, there was naught hide nor hair of either one. Atilde here saw to our tents, and me men set us up for the night but I could na’ make out what became of me Winnie.”
Gemma motioned for the servant girls to bring the whiskey bottle, and she poured herself and Parkin a stout drink. Parkin raised his glass in deference, took a shot, and set it down loudly on the table.
“So, I heard tell of this ‘island of women’ as is customary I believe, to be heard from the men leaving the tavern of the inn?” he asked raising his shoulders. Minea agreed.
Lucian nodded as well and waved for him to continue.
“Well, yer mon Odhran came along—quite a nice gentlemon I might add, and a good storyteller— anyway he explained that only the women and some children live on the Isle and that orphaned or otherwise parentless bairns are sent there to foster. I naturally presumed that Winnie was somewhere in the midst of the other women and children.”
Galen coughed from beside the hearth and Parkin stood upright, “I did no’ see ye over there, fathair,” he stated. Grinning widely from ear to ear and red-faced from the whiskey, he visibly surveyed the others at the table and continued, “Ye have ye own wee little fathair, have ye?” he asked giggling.
“Ye must excuse me, me…me behavior please,” he said, “as ye will note, I’ve had more of the spirits than I have had food, and therefore I am pr
one to some silliness, as me brathair Patrick would put it.”
Grabbing a mug of ale, he sat back down at the table and toyed with a bit of cheese before him.
“Where was I?” he asked, looking around, the world obviously spinning before him. “Oh…so last night, I paid a young boy near the docks to row me out to the island, in the dark mind ye, he said we can have no light. So seeing as how I couldna’ get anyone to assist me in finding me daughter Winnie, at that late hour, I surmised mayhap I would have to do it meself.”
Gemma covered her head with her hands and rested her elbows on the table in front of her.
“Where is Winnie now?” asked Ruarc.
Atilde spoke up, “We sent her back to the mainland. She is with Macklin at the inn. I have a servant girl looking in on her from time to time.”
Ruarc interjected, “Parkin, I am most positively remorseful that such has befallen such an honorable and noble…”
“Stop right there,” Parkin said, raising his right hand palm forward to Ruarc. “There is no need to ap, apo, apology…” he hiccupped. “Pardon me,” he continued. “I think it best we remove the whiskey, no?” he gestured towards Gemma who was smiling in spite of herself.
“Ye have some of the finest, some of the best, ye have the best soldiers I’ve ever laid me eyes on,” he spat staring directly at Kyra. “That first guard ye had me with, she was a blewdy shrew!”
Gemma and Lucian both leaned forward in laughter and Lucian, asked, “Shadrae?” to which Gemma replied, “Aye.”
“It was the next one that roiled me. She had me fearing for me life. She-devil she was, I tell ye.”
Kyra straightened her back and clasped her hands in her lap so tight she thought they would lose feeling. Ruarc looked at her strangely.
“There was no’ a square inch of me body that lass did na’ manage to torment. I thought at one point, I might rightfully burst!”
Kyra coughed and Parkin stifled a smile.
“Why did ye no’ tell us who ye were?” asked Atilde.
“I tried. I told the guards at the shore I was needing to speak to whomever was in charge and they said that the Bacchanal wasn’t to start ‘til the next eve, and that I was in a heap load of trouble for trespassing. I managed to get away though and when I heard Winnie’s laughter, I followed it to the cottage where I saw her through the slit. With me cloak over me head, Mavis did no’ ken who I was.”
“So the guards came and got ye?” Lucian asked.
“Yes, I think there was four of them. I fought real good for awhile until that Shadrae, did ye say, until she stuck a dagger at my neck and I figured as much as I did no’ wish to die that day, I may as well go along with it.”
“I see,” added Ruarc.
“Why did ye no’ tell them who ye were?” asked Galen from the corner.
“Well, fathair,” Parkin started, “I did no’ ken much about this ‘island of women’ and so I saw the makings of a festival and such, and was worried that mayhap these women were witches or some such other and mayhap they meant to harm or even sacrifice me Winnie. And, I ken I needed to devise meself a plan to rescue the babe a’fore night fell.”
Lucian groaned and wrinkled his nose. “Parkin, I hope by now, that ye understand that no one was planning to hurt yer Winnie.”
“I got the right of it now,” he said leaning his face in close across the table to get Kyra’s attention.
Kyra sat back in her chair and her face grew pale.
“I have only one request, if it please the council,” he added gallantly.
“Go on,” said Ruarc.
“I would be most grateful if ye would ensure that no other mon, prisoner, vagrant, thief or otherwise be subjected to the anguish I suffered at the hands of her!” he said as he pointed at Kyra. “’Twas enough to kill a mon. Me heart almost burst,” he added.
Ruarc turned and looked at Kyra strangely, confused. “Kyra, ye questioned the mon?”
“Aye,” she responded.
“I think under the circumstances, sir,” said Parkin, “I should be allowed the privilege of meting out some just punishment of my own against this fiend ye call a lass.” Parkin stood on wobbly legs and attempted to dramatize his point before the council. “Aye, I should have leave to question her…in private as well ye ken…in the same manner in which she questioned me! Tis only just!”
Kyra stood and clenched her fists against the council table, looking Parkin in the eye. Ye handsome bastard! she thought, before breaking out in a smile that left the others in the room thoroughly disjointed.
Lucian spoke, “Ye wish to invoke the reciprocity doctrine?”
“Aye. I do.”
“What is the reciprocity doctrine?” Minea asked, leaning over and whispering in Gemma’s ear.
“What is he talking about?” asked Ruarc.
“He knows what I’m talking about,” said Parkin, pointing at Lucian.
Lucian stood and motioned for the others to quiet as he spoke. “Lord MacCahan here is indeed correct. He knows the law.” He began to pace back and forth before the hearth and struggled to speak on several occasions before stopping mid-way between the two pillars in front of the council table and stroked his long beard.
“Verra well,” he started, “Ruarc, the reciprocity doctrine says that if an ally is treated as an enemy or spy, and bodily…uh…harm is used against said ally, that said ally…once cleared of all charges…may reciprocate said bodily…uh…harm against the perpetrator of such bodily harm.”
“Ye mean to harm me daughter?” shouted Ruarc pointing a thick finger in Parkin’s chest, sending him toppling backwards onto the stone floor of the chamber.
“Yer daughter?” asked Parkin astonished. “She is yer daughter?”
“Ye won’t touch a hair on her head, do you ken?” shouted Ruarc.
Kyra stood and the room silenced. “We are a just and honorable people. I have taken my vows to protect our people and our laws,” she began.
“But Kyra, he intends to harm ye,” said Atilde, tears welling in her eyes.
“He only intends to mete out what was mete to him as is provided by law,” she said forcing herself not to look at Parkin, heat rising in her face. “I am a well-trained soldier, having served our clan for many years,” she continued.
“I will not permit this!” commanded Ruarc, physically shaken by his rage.
Lucian laid a worn hand on Ruarc’s shoulder. “Look at him,” said Ruarc. “He is our Laird’s own brathair. I hardly think we can refuse his lawful request to abide by the law. I ken he won’t permanently harm yer daughter, he only intends to take what is rightfully his.”
Ruarc grunted and shook Lucian’s hand off his shoulder.
“Ruarc,” whispered Lucian in his friend’s ear, “look a’ him, he is utterly blotted. I doubt he is any match for Kyra, should he corner the lass, she will rip him to shreds like a barn cat.”
“When do ye intend to take yer rights of reciprocity?” asked Ruarc.
“Right now,” retorted Parkin, grabbing Kyra by the forearm and heading towards the chamber door with her in tow.
“How long will this go on?” asked Ruarc helplessly.
“All night,” replied Kyra. “That is how long he was prisoner on the Isle, I expect he means to take all night about it?” she stated looking at Parkin, who nodded in agreement.
“And—where will ye be, we must know yer whereabouts,” begged Minea.
“In me chamber,” replied Kyra, “with the door barred.”
THIRTY-TWO
Burke Lands — The Cave
Cordal returned to the cave as abruptly as he left, albeit with a shiny blade thrust to his quivering Adam’s apple. Orla gasped and moved forward, rather than backward, toward the cave’s mouth. Shanleigh tugged at her tunic in an effort to prevent her forward motion, but was unsuccessful. Too brave for her own good, Reni would say. That much was true of Orla. She was the type that grew bolder in crisis, rather than shrinking.
“W
hat is the meaning of this?” shouted Orla, raising the black kettle pot she grabbed from the fire with her skirts, intent on burning someone.
Cordal raised both his hands in apparent submission and the voice behind him started, “Hold on there, lassie, we aren’t here to harm anyone.”
“Show yerself,” she demanded.
“’Tis alright,” shouted Braeden, now standing at the cave’s opening, furiously tugging at the truis of a giant of a man with broadsword and dagger splayed before him. The first man who spoke released Cordal and Braeden began yapping so quickly and so loudly that Orla just knew her head would rupture.
The large man replaced his dagger and sword and knelt down to accept the incessant affections of Braeden and the other man watched in dismay, as if he were a new pup greeting his master after a long time away.
“What the devil is going on?” screamed Orla, this time sending her vocal tirade echoing through the chamber.
Braeden turned around to address Orla, “Calm down ye fiery devil,” he said nonchalantly. Orla’s face grew white, obviously unaccustomed to being spoken of in that manner. She drew her arms to her chest and tapped her foot, inhaling sharply.
“B-Braeden, c-can ye n-not see, that is n-no way to sp-speak to such a f-fine lady as sh-she?” said Patrick, kneeling before Orla as he took her hand and placed a delicate kiss on her palm.
Shanleigh huffed and rolled her eyes. In two seconds flat, a man had succeeded in controlling Orla Burke’s wild temper. Making a mental note in her head, she saved the information for a later date, when it could be used against her friend, to her own advantage, of course.
“And who is this angelic being?” asked Rory, following Patrick’s suit, much to the chagrin of Shanleigh.
“Shanleigh,” she replied hastily, unwilling to succumb to the charade.
“This is Naelyn, this is Shanleigh, and that is the priest,” said Orla flippantly pointing at the dark figure hiding in the furthest recesses of the cave mumbling to his self. “Who in the world, are ye?”
***
Celtic Shores, Book 2 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 19