by Laurel McKee
“It’s not possession of the land that makes a person truly Irish.”
“No. It’s belonging to the people, isn’t it? Caring about them, being one of them. That’s what my sister Eliza always said.” She thought of Eliza, so far away in her exile, and how she gave up so much to be Irish. Anna had always envied her.
But now she understood how such a passion could drive a person. She had begun to feel it herself.
“You are cold,” Conlan said. “I’m afraid it can be rather drafty here.”
“No, I’m fine,” Anna protested, but he took off his coat and laid it over her shoulders. Its soft, tweed folds smelled of him, of lemons and starch and clean air, and it still held the heat of his body. She clutched it tightly around herself, snuggling deeper into its warmth.
“I’ll build us a fire,” he said. He took her arm in a gentle clasp and led her to one of the large, green velvet armchairs by the hearth. “I may be a duke, but I’m not completely useless.”
“No,” Anna murmured. “Not completely.” She sat back, wrapped in his coat, and watched as he built a fire in that huge grate, large enough to roast a boar for a feast. The long, lean muscles of his back and shoulders shifted and flexed against his shirt, and she remembered how his bare skin felt under her touch. The heat and strength of him. How she felt so safe with him; how she trusted him.
She was not the only one he kept safe.
“You belong to the people, Conlan,” she said.
He glanced back at her, his brow creased. The kindling in the hearth caught into flames. “Do I?”
“I saw that today at the McEgans’ house.” She couldn’t meet his green, steady gaze. Instead she watched the growing fire. “I’ve seen how the workers on other estates live, with barely enough to eat and no sturdy roof over their children’s heads. Dirty, cold—it is shameful. There’s nothing like that here. It’s like this is its own little country.”
He sat back on his heels. “Of course, there is no starvation here. I would never allow anyone at Adair Court to starve. It is the duty I was born with.”
“And because you care about them. They are like your family, and they see you that way, too. I could see that so clearly. You are part of this land, really part of it.”
“So are you, Anna.” He took her hands as he knelt at her feet. How handsome he was, she thought, outlined by that fire, his dark hair windswept. He belonged in this room, just like that, an ancient chieftain.
She gave him a gentle smile. “An Ascendancy princess?”
“Ah, Anna, you know I did not mean that. You’re one of the least spoiled women I have ever encountered.”
“The least spoiled Anglo-Protestant woman?”
“I thought you said you were Irish, and so you are. You have that spirit in you, that fire. This is your home, too, if you want it. You’re Irish—if you want to be.”
“That is what my sister Eliza said. Look where her Irish passion got her—sent to Switzerland.” Anna slid her hands from his and framed his face in her palms. “Where will it get you, Conlan, and all the people of this estate? What would they do without you?”
He turned his face to kiss the inside of her wrist. His breath was so warm and vital on her skin. If only she could hold him safe, keep him with her always. Help him.
“I do what I must to protect them,” he said.
And who protected him? She feared she wasn’t strong enough to do that. No one was.
She slid down to sit beside him on the hearth rug as the fire blazed away to heat the cold room. Outside the high, narrow old windows, the snow fell in white earnest, enclosing them in their own small world.
She couldn’t warn him or beg him for answers or promises. She knew he wouldn’t give them. She could only be with him now, while she had the chance.
“Remember the Three Sorrowful Tales?” she said, thinking of that beautiful tapestry and Deirdre’s sad eyes.
“Tell me.” He stretched his tall body out on the rug, resting his head on her lap.
She smoothed her fingers softly through his hair, feeling the rough slide of it on her skin.
“Long ago,” she began, “the five kings of Ireland met to decide who would be crowned the head king, and King Lir of the White Field expected to be elected. But Dearg, son of Daghda, was chosen. Lir left, angry, and the others would have cut him down for his disobedience. But Dearg said instead, ‘Let us bind him to us by the bonds of kinship, so that peace may always dwell in the land.’ And he was given Dearg’s kinswoman Aoibh, the fairest maiden in the land, for his wife. She gave him four children, a daughter Fionnuala and three sons, Aodh, Fiachra, and Conn.
“But Aoibh died, and Lir was overcome with terrible grief. The king, who feared Lir would die of this grief, sent him Aoibh’s sister Aife to be his new wife. At first all seemed well, but Aife grew bitterly jealous of Lir’s love for his children, and she used a Druid’s magic to turn them into swans, bound together by silver chains. In punishment, she became a demon of the air for all eternity. But that did not help the children of Lir. For nine hundred years they lived as swans, cursed to remain so until ‘the woman from the south and the man from the north’ came together. And so it came to pass after hundreds of years that the prince of Connaught was to wed the daughter of the king of Munster, and she had a desire to possess the beautiful swans, which had come under the protection of St. Mac Howg of Glory Isle. When the prince went to seize the birds, their feathery coats fell away, and they were revealed as humans again.
“And thus was the fate of the children of Lir,” she finished. “After nine hundred years of suffering, they were free.”
Conlan was silent as her words faded. The tale was done, yet it seemed those enchanted swans lingered in the room with them, their gleaming white wings enfolding them. The children of Lir found their freedom at long last, but could she?
Conlan reached up to toy with the black braid trim of her bodice. His touch was light, but to Anna it burned. She craved that touch so very much after being apart from him. Perhaps those magical chains bound them as well, and when they tried to break them they only wounded themselves.
“I try to send you away, try to do what is right for us both, and you keep returning,” he said. His hand trailed along her rib cage, his fingers spreading over her waist. His touch was gentle through the wool of her riding habit, but it made her want so much more. She wanted his bare skin on hers, wanted to feel that connection again and know she was not alone.
She covered his hand with hers and pressed him closer. “I was never much concerned with doing what was prudent or careful, Conlan.”
He laughed and reached up with his other hand to caress her cheek. She nuzzled into his touch, kissing his palm. He smelled of lemons, smoke, and snow. “I have certainly learned that much about you, Anna. No one could ever accuse you of being careful. You’re like a warrior goddess.”
“A warrior goddess and a witch?” Anna said lightly, though inside she was terribly pleased. “La, how busy I must be!”
“Every time I think I know you, you change. You show me a different side of you, and I’m baffled all over again.”
“But you know me better than anyone else ever has. You actually look at me; you see me.” She leaned closer to him, their lips hovering mere inches apart. She felt those silver chains tighten, and she knew that even if he sent her away again and forever, she would still be bound to him. “And I see you, Conlan. As much as you fight to deny it, you are a good man. A Celtic warrior king.”
He shook his head, but he did not turn from her. He didn’t even look away, and in his green eyes, she saw her own turmoil and desire reflected back to her.
“You know I am a liar and a killer,” he said.
“So am I. You do not condemn me for my sins, so I certainly won’t do the same to you. You do what you must to take care of your people. I know that.” She closed the space between them and brushed her lips softly over his. She felt their breath mingle and the damp heat of their kiss.
“But who takes care of you?”
Before he could answer, she pressed her lips to his again, harder, letting him feel all her desperate desire. She needed him so much, and she wanted him to need her, too. She felt his hands close around her hips, and he shifted his body so that she lay on top of him. His tongue traced the curve of her lower lip, lightly, teasingly, before he slid inside. She opened her mouth in welcome, tasting, feeling him intimately.
And, like the swans, she soared free.
“Anna,” he growled. Through the blurry heat of her desire, she felt his touch tighten over the curve of her backside, dragging her against him. She arched her hips into his erection, spreading her legs to cradle him with her body.
He groaned deeply, and their kiss slid into wild, frantic need. She tore at the lacings of his shirt until she could touch his bare skin at last. She pressed her palms hard to his chest, reveling in the hot, smooth satin of skin over those hard muscles, the roughness of his hair on her hands. His breath, his heartbeat, his life, his strength—she craved all of it. Needed all of him.
But there were too many blasted clothes in the way!
Anna sat up, her knees braced to either side of his hips, and unfastened the tiny jet buttons along the front of her habit. He watched very closely as she released each button, parting the bodice inch by inch to reveal her sheer chemise and the naked skin beneath.
She eased her arms from the long, tight sleeves and let the garment fall away. Never taking her gaze from his, she slid the ribbon straps down, too, leaving her breasts bare. The purple and white fabric pooled around them.
She shoved away a pang of shyness and forced herself to hold her head high, her shoulders back. “Do you like what you see, Conlan?” she whispered.
He braced himself up on his elbows beneath her. “You know I do. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you.”
“I like what I see, too.” She trailed her fingertips down his chest. Lightly, teasingly, she traced the sharp curve of his hip, the line of his thigh—and pressed against his penis, iron-hard through his breeches.
“Anna,” he growled, his hips flexing. In one swift move, he knelt before her, his hands hard around her waist as if he would push her away. Instead he dragged her tight against him. Not a single breath was between them.
He kissed her fiercely, her head pressed back as he tasted her deeply. There was no artifice or deception to that kiss, only pure, raw need. Passion that overcame all else. There was no refuge in respectability, no prudence or caution, not for people like them. Those chains tightened, and they had to be together.
She felt his touch on her naked breast, his rough palm sliding beneath to cradle it. His long fingers teased at her hardened nipple, tracing one light, fleeting caress over the very tip, barely touching. He teased her until she arched her back and pressed herself hard against him, insisting on what she wanted. He gave her what she longed for, plucking at the sensitive nipple, rolling it hard between his fingers.
The sensations raced through her, lightning along her nerves. Her desire burned even higher. She held tightly to his shoulders, blindly shoving at his shirt until the intrusive fabric fell away, leaving his chest and shoulders bare to her. She dug her fingers deep into his skin, holding him with her.
He leaned away, and she cried out in wordless protest. But he merely stripped out of his shirt and tossed it away before grabbing her in his arms again. His mouth closed hard on her nipple, sucking deeply as he covered her other breast with his hand.
Anna’s head fell back weakly, and she murmured incoherently, begging for what she only half-understood in the haze of her need. His open mouth trailed along her rib cage to her stomach, his tongue circling her navel, then down to that freckle just below her waist.
He pushed her skirts out of his way, discarding them near his shirt, and licked a fiery ribbon over her hip. His hand curved hard around the back of her thigh and tugged her closer to him. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her leg, just above the black silk edge of her stocking. One finger eased along the seam of her womanhood and slid into her.
“Conlan,” she panted. She closed her eyes tightly to concentrate on every feeling, every touch. His fingers spread her wider, and she felt his tongue touch her there. “Conlan!”
“Shh, let me,” he whispered, and she gave herself completely over to him. He kissed her deeply, tasting her so intimately she could have no secrets from him at all. She was completely vulnerable to him. Waves of hot pleasure washed over her, and she was drowning in them, tugged down deeper and deeper.
She drove her fingers into his hair and held him against her. The air was filled with the scent of musky desire and woodsmoke, and she only wanted more and more of what he gave her. She wanted everything, all of him.
Her climax took hold of her, low at the very core of her, a building, burning pressure. She let it expand over her whole body until every thought vanished and there was only the feeling. As he pressed his tongue deep, thrusting one last time, his hands hard on her thighs, she exploded.
“Conlan,” she sighed, sinking to the floor. She rested on the soft carpet, shivering, her legs spread as he knelt between them. He stared down at her, his eyes so dark they almost seemed black, his lips damp with her own essence. His chest gleamed with sweat, heaving with the force of his breath. It was an almost unbearably erotic sight.
Anna reached out to unfasten his breeches and push them away from his hips. His penis, hard and thickly veined with his own unfulfilled desire, velvet over hot iron, beckoned for her touch, and she gave in to the temptation. She ran her hand slowly up his length and down again, catching the tiny drop of pearly moisture there on the tip of her finger. He trembled at her caress, his erection straining against her hand, but he held very, very still.
Anna slid her fingertip between her lips to taste him. As she sucked at the salty wetness, he moaned deeply and closed his eyes. A muscle ticked along his jaw as if he reined himself in hard.
“Diolain,” he muttered.
She sat up and pushed him down in her place, flat on his back on the carpet. She stripped away his breeches until she could see his naked body at last, nothing in her way. The firelight turned him to molten gold, and she thought he must be some sort of Celtic god in truth. She touched every inch of him, exploring, wondering at his beauty and strength.
On his left upper arm he had a tattoo, a small, purple-black mark of an elaborate Celtic cross. She traced over the pattern with her fingertip.
“Did this hurt?” she whispered.
“Aye,” he answered tightly. “Like the very devil.”
“And this?” She touched a puckered, pale pink knife scar over one rib.
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember being stabbed?” she said. Her heart ached to think anyone could ever hurt him. That he had suffered so much.
“I was a foolish youth, brawling in a tavern.”
“Well, surely you remember this one.” She touched a scar on his thigh, larger than the knife wound, puckered and faded red. She remembered that night during the rebellion, when she found him in that ruined stable. His leg had been hurt then, bound with stained rags. “From ’98?”
“Yes,” he said shortly.
“And this…” She turned to the half-healed wound on his shoulder. “I remember this one all too well.”
“Then you must remember why I told you to stay away from me, colleen.”
Anna laughed. “I fear I have a terrible memory. And I never obey.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
She bent her head to press an openmouthed kiss just below that shoulder wound. Slowly, taking her time to fully enjoy him, learn him, she kissed his flat brown nipple, biting at it lightly. He cursed and tried to catch her by her hair, but she slid away from him. She trailed the tip of her tongue down the taut line of his torso, over his abdomen. The muscles tightened under her lips.
She kissed the old wound on his leg. One day, she would get him to tell her
that story. But not now. Now she wanted him to think only of her, of the two of them in that moment, and not of the past or the future.
Gently, she kissed the inside of his thigh, as he had with her. His skin was hot, damp, and he smelled of that dark, clean essence she loved about him. Slowly, carefully, she touched her tongue to the tip of his penis.
“Anna!” he shouted.
“Shh—let me,” she whispered, echoing his words to her. He lay back, but she could feel the taut wariness of his body. She licked along his length, tasting his salty sweetness, feeling that hard, velvety heat under her tongue. Then she took him fully into her mouth.
“Anna, nay.” He tugged at her hair, drawing her away from him. His eyes burned into her as she sat back on her heels to look at him. “You’ll kill me.”
“I hope not. I have plans for you, Conlan McTeer, and they will take a very long time to carry out.”
“And I have plans for you, cailleach,” he growled. He seized her by the hips and bore her down to the carpet as he rose up over her.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder, kissing her skin as she laughed happily. “Do you promise?”
“If I could, I would lock you up in this house for weeks and weeks,” he muttered against her. “I would tie you to my bed and never let you go.”
Anna shivered at the images that his words summoned. “That sounds delicious. And what would you do then, when I was at your mercy?”
“I would kiss you here…” He lightly licked at her hardened, ultra-sensitive nipple. “And here.” He slid lower, kissing the damp curls between her legs, the soft inside of her thigh. His tongue trailed down her leg as he slowly removed her stocking, until he bit gently at her toe. Then he did the same to her other leg, until she was completely naked. His willing captive.
“I would kiss every single inch of you until you begged me to stop,” he said.
“I never would,” she whispered. “So we would be here forever.”
“Even better.” He gently spread her legs wider, kneeling between them. “Do you want me, Anna? Do you want me inside of you?”