Rose of the Mists

by Parker, Laura

  The slender arms that came around him from behind seemed a miracle of grace and benediction to his harried thoughts. The world ceased to exist outside the circle of her arms. “My love, take pity,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Meghan rested her brow in the valley between his shoulder blades, her hands splaying over the flat expanse of his abdomen. My love! He had called her his love. He loved her. She felt the rapid rise and fall of his breathing under her hands and it comforted her to know that he was as moved as she. One hand moved up over the wide contours of his chest while the other descended, reaching lower until she found him.

  “Mercy’s Grace!” Revelin shut his eyes and arched his back, involuntarily pressing himself into her hand. Her second hand joined the first and she cradled him.

  He felt alive, like a dove, warm and throbbing. “Did ye always feel so?” she questioned in a serious voice.

  “Always feel…what?”

  Meghan considered this as her fingers searched his clothing for the placket that would allow her entrance. “Ye’re like a bull. The sheathing does not tell the whole of it.”

  Revelin felt the rumble of laughter first in his belly, the immoderate kind of guffaw that was part amusement and part guilty shame. When he loosed it, the explosion startled the night, set the stillness crackling with human warmth and reality. It broke the spell and he stepped away and out of her embrace.

  “Ah, Meghan, ye’ve not a bone of modesty in ye!” he said, mimicking her accent. Yet she was not crude or base. She had no experience of holding her tongue or censoring her words. He must not make the mistake of judging her by his standards again. When he turned to her he thought he had command of himself. The command did not last.

  She threw herself against him, twining her fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth down hard on hers. Her lips burned their soft impression onto his. She was like a womanly vine, curling her small body about his. Her belly caressed his abdomen and her graceful thighs melted into his hard-muscled legs as her tongue, with one day’s tutelage, cleverly invaded his mouth.

  He was drowning, going down into the depths of a sensation so strong that he feared he would not survive. He gripped her waist with his free hand, whether to hold her away or simply to keep from drowning he did not know, but he could not hold her still. Beneath the thin wool her warm fragrant body undulated in fluid softness as she rubbed herself against him. Her pelvis brushed his groin with ever stronger grazing, demanding and achieving his arousal.

  Revelin threw back his head, breaking their kiss. He was drugged by her taste, her fragrance, her desire. From where had she learned this? Was it magic? Aye. And the magic was in the sweet places of her body.

  Suddenly Meghan released him, bent to catch the hem of her gown, and lifted it over her head.

  Revelin caught his breath at the perfection of her young body. Grateful for the torchlight, he could not tear his eyes away. The night before it had been too dark to fill his eyes with what his hands touched. The flame bathed her in its golden halo. It sought the narrow curve of her waist, rode the flare of each hip and the smooth-squared angles of her shoulders. Looking at her, he understood the reasons why women guarded their bodies with gowns and veils and shawls. Few of them could match Meghan’s perfection of form, and fewer still had the simple honesty to offer themselves with the joy with which Meghan now offered herself to him. She was not vain. He saw the need for assurance in her eyes. In her beauty there was a vulnerability that brought him to a conclusion nothing else could have. He would not take advantage of her a second time. He bent, picked up her gown, and offered it to her.

  Confused, Meghan refused the gown but reached up self-consciously to cover her breasts. “Am I ugly to ye? Did ye prefer the dark?”

  Each word embarrassed Revelin more. What could he answer? “You’re lovely, Meghan, more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever—” He bit off his statement too late. It was a blunder unworthy of a man of his experience. But her expression did not alter.

  “Have ye known a great many women?” Meghan questioned in simple curiosity.

  “Aye, thousands,” Revelin lied. Why not? It might make her angry enough to turn away from him.

  Her hands fell to her side. “Do they all have great udders like me?”

  Revelin’s jaw dropped.

  “’Tis not many I’ve seen to compare,” she continued in a conversational tone. “Una’s were flat like griddle cakes with raisins in the centers.” She indicated the glorious globes that his hands itched to touch. “Tell me true, now, will they serve?”

  Will they serve? Revelin raised a not-quite-steady hand to his brow and closed his eyes. Passion made him tremble, and the unreal quality of their conversation was not dampening it. If she asked him to count and examine her teeth he would run screaming from the spot.

  “Meghan, put…on…your…gown.”

  Meghan’s mouth quivered. “Ye do not like me. I’m ugly.”

  It came as a distinct shock to find her mouth once more under his; stranger still was the fact that he knew he had initiated the crushing embrace. She was driving him mad. When he had thoroughly explored her mouth he set her away again, his stiff-armed grip on her shoulders a defense to hold her back.

  “You’re a beautiful lass! You’re a seducer, a harlot in Madonna’s clothing! A charm, a potion, a danger to my sanity! So put on yer gown and keep it on, no matter what! Even if one day I should beg ye to take it off! Keep it on! Do ye understand me, lass?”

  He was shouting, he knew, raving like a lunatic, but he could not help himself. She drove him beyond self-control. She was so bedeviling that had she been a man he would have struck her. Lord! If she were a man he would not feel as he did now.

  Meghan regarded him for a long moment. “Ye liked me the night before. Why do ye not want me now?”

  “It isn’t a matter of wanting, Meghan.” He sighed, searching for words. “Ye’ve had so little experience of the world, of men.”

  Meghan cocked her head to one side. “If I had more experience with men, would ye want me then?”

  Revelin did not trust himself with a reply.

  “Ye’re a fey man, Revelin Butler,” she said at last and pulled her gown over her head. Twisting this way and that, she struggled to work the clinging material over the flushed swells of her body.

  Each flash of skin, a hip, a leg, made Revelin more uncomfortable. “Mercy!” he cried finally and turned his back. “When you’ve done, go back to Sila’s hut. I’ve things to see to before we leave. Stay there until I come for you in the morning!”

  He hurled the words over his shoulder like pikes but they fell gently on Meghan’s ears. We ride tomorrow. He was taking her with him! “Will I like London, do ye think?”

  Revelin sighed like an aged man. “We go to Dublin and then to Kilkenny.”

  Meghan shook out the last wrinkle in her gown before answering. “I will try not to shame ye.”

  Revelin sucked in a long breath. “Nothing you do shames me, Meghan.”

  Meghan kept her skepticism to herself. “Do they make the beast with two backs in Dublin Town?”

  Revelin groaned.

  “’Tis Sila’s name for it,” Meghan explained. “I think I like honey-making better.”

  Revelin walked away without a reply, but in the dim recesses of his mind he recalled a husky whisper during their love-making: “What are we doing, Revelin?”

  “Making honey,” he had answered without hesitation.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’ve decided I’m quite attached to my freedom,” Robin declared with a sigh of contentment as he rode beside Revelin. “No one will believe the tale we’ve to tell of Ulster. Captured by the barbaric O’Neills, brought as prisoners to Turlough himself, feted at the pagan feast of Beltane, and then set free by a fairy’s trick, ’tis deserving of a sonnet!”

  “I would wait until we’ve crossed back into the pale before committing your doggerel to parchment.” Revelin winked at his friend. “You cannot te
ll when we may meet an O’Neill who might take exception to your verse.”

  Robin nodded seriously despite Revelin’s bantering tone. A day and a half out of the O’Neills’ company had not been long enough for his fear of Ulstermen to fade completely.

  He glanced down at the angry marks circling his wrists and then at the rolling green countryside where every rocky outcropping or stand of trees might hide a warrior. “I’ve had enough of blindfolds and manacles to last me a lifetime! Do you suppose they thought we might be tempted to find them again?”

  Revelin urged his mount ahead down a steep slope, leaving the question unanswered. Turlough was a seasoned warrior. He would suspect the motives of every Englishman sent to Ireland. If they had been able to state the exact location of the O’Neill camp, Turlough would not have set them free. He had vowed that the O’Neills would remain neutral, siding neither with the Irish nobles nor with the Crown if war came to the southland. But times were uncertain and the queen’s memory long. Any information she received would not go to waste if she perceived an advantage in a change of strategy.

  Meghan’s arms tightened about Revelin’s waist as they began the climb down and he automatically reassured her by patting her clasped hands. “Are you comfortable, lass?”

  “Aye.”

  Revelin frowned at the simple, lackluster answer. She had scarcely spoken three words together since they’d begun the morning’s journey. Her moods were mercurial, flowing seamlessly from joy to moodiness to sadness. He had hoped that she would be happy to leave Ulster and the superstitious prattling of the O’Neills.

  His expression lightened at the thought of the Scots gallow-glass. There, at least, the problem had solved itself: Colin had disappeared from the settlement the night of Meghan’s supposed vision.

  Meghan moved again, adjusting her body for a more comfortable ride, and tucked her hands up under Revelin’s doublet. Her fingers moved across his middle, splaying out onto his chest as she leaned her head against his back. The cradling warmth of her body reminded him that beneath her mantle she was nearly naked. She had traded her Beltane gown for a new leine, and the straight-lined garment was ill suited for riding astride. Yet, she seemed unaware that the inviting softness of her naked thighs was a torment that he could scarcely ignore.

  This was no better than the preceding day, when she had ridden up before him, he decided. Constantly assailed by her sweet scent and tempted with delightful glimpses of the upper curves of her breasts when her neckline gaped, to escape the torment he had finally slipped from his saddle on the pretense of checking his horse’s hoof for stones. After that, he had relegated her to a position behind him.

  What he needed was female companionship, the kind that could be bought without emotional entanglements. Once he had lain in the bed of an accomplished courtesan, no doubt his pathetic tendre for the girl would dissolve. And if it did not, if he would forever regret their brief hours and the fact that there were not more, none but he would ever know.

  What Meghan needed was a trustworthy lady, preferably a married lady, to explain to her that she must not in the future concede her charms to every eager man.

  As he reached the bottom of the hill he reined in to wait for the others. “Have you a married sister, Robin?”

  Robin smiled beatifically as he and John approached. “Thank the saints, I do not! But I have a pair of plaguey girl cousins. Why do you want a sister of mine when you have one of your own?”

  “She’s not married,” Revelin replied cryptically. That Katherine was unmarried was not the real problem. She was a young widow who had broken more than her share of hearts. Her advice to Meghan would be practical and not overly judgmental. Kathy would sympathize, send Meghan to confession, and then set out to find a husband for her.

  The trouble lay in the fact that Kathy and Alison were fast friends. Kathy was a dear but had a loose tongue. If he took her into his confidence, Alison would learn of his indiscretion. He could not risk that when he meant to bring Meghan to live in his household after his marriage. Meghan was his responsibility, and Alison would unhesitatingly open her heart to the girl unless she had reason not to.

  “I have a sister,” John volunteered. “She’s married these six years, with three children to her credit. If you’ve need of a discreet lady, you’d not do better than Margaret.”

  “Discreet lady? Do we speak of indiscretion?” Robin questioned. “I thought Rev was in need of a kind-hearted soul to take our Hibernian lovely in hand.”

  “‘’Tis exactly my need,” Revelin answered. “Meghan must be taught how to deal with English society.”

  Meghan had been daydreaming until she heard Revelin mention her name. She looked up to find his companions gazing at her.

  “She’s gotten rather prettier, don’t you think?” Robin commented.

  “I think your cowardice blinded you before,” John answered. “She’s the same marked pigeon, only you’re not so particular now because the squab saved your worthless life.”

  “Hm,” Robin murmured as his interested gaze remained on Meghan. “Do you suppose you could teach me to say ‘thank you’ in Gaelic, Rev? I’d like to offer my sincere thanks to her.”

  Revelin shook his head. “Speak to her in English. She must begin learning the language.”

  “There’s our wayfarer at last,” Robin said as he looked up to see Richard Atholl topping the rise down which they had already ridden. “I must say I’m tired of waiting for him. ’Tis no reason for us to lag about because he will not come within fifty paces of the girl.”

  “He’s afraid she’ll fry his giblets and send the rest of him to roast in Hell,” John added with a snicker. “God’s light, he’s a queer bird!”

  “One of you should remind him that the lass he holds in contempt saved his wretched life!” Revelin spurred his horse and rode away.

  Robin chuckled. “Our Rev has a temper.”

  “Go on, I’ll wait for our timid parson,” John suggested. “When I’ve done with him, he’ll keep our pace!”

  As Robin moved away, John crossed his arms to wait until Atholl had negotiated the narrow slope. The man’s face was gray with weariness and he seemed thinner than before. He would break like a brittle twig in my grasp, John thought. But he had no intention of breaking Atholl, just bending the parsimonious hypocrite to his will.

  “Parson, you slow us.”

  Sir Richard licked his lips nervously. “I—I feel most unwell. Is London much farther?”

  John’s black brows lifted. The man’s wits were failing. “Aye, we’re a far ride from London. You should rest.” He did not wait for the man to agree but swung a leg over and slid from his saddle. Choosing a small keg from the generous provisions provided by the O’Neills, he offered it to his companion. “Have a swig, Atholl. You’ve lost the blood in your cheeks.”

  Sir Richard lowered himself painfully from his saddle and reached for the spirits, taking a healthy gulp that burned like fire in his dry throat. “Devil’s brew!” he exclaimed, refusing a second swallow.

  John took the keg and helped himself. “Does not the Bible say that men must sometimes fight fire with fire?”

  Sir Richard covered his eyes with his hands, shaking his head mournfully. “There’s a curse on me! I’m losing flesh. My garments hang from me as if from the skeleton I shall soon become!”

  “I’ve no remedies for curses, but I’ve common sense to aid me,” John grumbled under his breath. He stared at the man, torn between contempt for his weakness and concern that he was on the verge of collapse just when he was about to prove useful. “Sit down before you fall. The others will not roam too far ahead.”

  Too weak to argue, Sir Richard found a seat on a nearby boulder.

  John took a second swig from the keg, and then corked it. “I’m glad for the chance to speak with you alone. There are things which I would rather Butler and Neville not hear.” He leaned near Atholl. “We’ve much to gain from our experience. And we owe our luck to the O’N
eill lass.”

  Sir Richard shuddered. “Plague me not with that witch’s name!”

  “Evil may turn a good deed if wielded by an honest hand.” When Sir Richard’s wintry eyes lifted to his face, John knew he had the man’s attention at last. “Do you know who she is? I will tell you. The girl is the daughter of Shane O’Neill. Shake the cobwebs of fear from your mind and think of the implications!”

  Sir Richard’s expression was disbelieving. “How could… Nay, you’ve been lied to.”

  John thundered an oath and thrust his ruddy face closer. “Would I consider a tale that had no bottom to it? Turlough himself claimed the girl as his cousin’s child. It was the talk of the camp. I heard it from one who spoke a little of the Queen ’s English. ’Tis said Shane put the girl aside as a changeling when she was born—”

  “The devil’s spawn!” Sir Richard interjected.

  “Damn the devil!” John roared. “The blood tie is what counts. Shane got her on a gentlewoman. The queen recognizes handfast. It will serve as well as marriage for our purpose.”

  “Which is…?”

  “If the girl is brought under the queen’s protection, the Crown will gain a stake in its claim to Ulster. Think back, man. Did not King Henry the Eighth resort to kidnapping in order to raise sons of Irish noblemen as faithful servants of the English Crown?”

  “The charge was never proved,” Sir Richard answered reprovingly. “You’d best guard your tongue.”

  John nodded. “I concede the need for discretion, yet it happened. And does not Turlough’s own nephew Hugh O’Neill, the rightful heir to Shane’s earldom, reside even now under English protection at Penhurst Castle? ’Tis common knowledge that the lad is no more than a forced guest of Sir Henry Sidney. The lord deputy of Ireland must nurture hopes of using the boy, when he is grown, to contest Turlough’s claim to Tyrone. We may succeed with a claim in Ulster much sooner. The girl is old enough to wed. Turlough himself vows for the purity of her bloodline. If she were married to an Englishman, he would thus be entitled to claim her rights to O’Neill lands. That is a prize worth considering.”