Ailénor flushed from her hairline to her toes as Garreth drew his gaze slowly over her as though he memorized every detail.
“Is there something more you wish, my love?” she whispered, her throat gone dry.
He nodded, his eyes black pools of desire. “I would that you are mine tonight in every way.”
“I already am, Garreth.” Ailénor lifted her arms to him and their lips closed together as he moved atop her.
Wrapped in each other’s love, they partook of each other fully, pleasuring with hands and lips and tongues. Their love play quickly grew ravenous with need and throbbing for completion. Giving into that urgency, they spent their first passions in a swift and fiery joining. Settling then into slower rhythms, they explored one another’s secrets and pleasure points, prolonging the heights of each new bliss attained as they made love deep into the night.
As their final hour together diminished minute by minute, they rode their passions anew for a last time. Ailénor exulted in Garreth’s mastery as he moved against her with strong, even strokes. Fastening his mouth over hers, he mated her tongue with the same driving rhythm. They strove together, faster and faster.
Ailénor heard her name rip suddenly from Garreth’s throat. In the same moment a tide of sensation overcame her, bursting through the center of her being and deluging her with wave after wave of a shuddering, pounding, convulsive release. She became a part of him as he did of her. Transported to rapturous heights, their passions consumed them in a blazing sea of ecstasy.
»«
Garreth glanced back at the row house where Ailénor still rested, then scanned the lane in the early-morning light, hoping to find a street crier peddling hot breads and spiced cider as he had yesterday.
Several houses down, a youth hawked his toothsome goods, trudging slowly away. Garreth fell into long, deliberate strides, calling out and bidding the boy wait. When he caught up with him, Garreth purchased several loaves and a small pitcher of drink, arranging for the lad to retrieve the vessel later.
Seeing a merchant raise his stall a little farther down at the street’s corner, Garreth thought of purchasing a pretty hair ribbon for Ailénor’s exceptional hair.
Heading there, he saw the streets of Lundenburh were already astir with people, busy about their sundry purposes as they started their day.
‘Twas an intriguing town, he reflected. Like Silchester, ‘twas Roman in origin but abandoned in the face of the Saxon aggression. Curiously, ‘twas the subsequent invaders — the Danes — who had revived it as a center of commerce, trading with European markets, and this only recently. The king encouraged such traffic, despite who fostered it. England profited even more so now that Athelstan had brought her under one rule.
Though Garreth personally preferred Winchester to Lundenburh, here, with so many ships from distant ports, one enjoyed more diverse and interesting sights.
The same thought invaded his concentration minutes later as he stood undecided, choosing from three ribbons. Glancing up, Garreth started at the sight, a short distance away, of a barbaric-looking man of a breed apart from any he’d seen before.
Unusual for the early-morning bustle, people maintained a wide space around the man, murmuring and parting before him as he strode slowly along the street. True, he was bare-chested and hard-muscled, with a fell sword gleaming at his side. But what startled most was his shaved head with its single shock of black hair tumbling down his back. That jolted, and one thing more. A purplish mark covered half his face.
Unease rose in Garreth, his instincts prodding him to return to Ailénor. Acquiring all three ribbons, he quickly headed back to join her.
Climbing to the upper floor, he found her sitting in bed, waiting for his return. He held forth his offering.
“I thought you might be hungry this morn.”
“Famished, in truth.” She smiled. “I hold you fully responsible, Garreth of Tamworth.”
Garreth chuckled and gave a quick bow. “Blame accepted, my lady.”
Settling himself on the edge of the bed, he handed her a loaf of bread and presented the cider. Quiet descended upon them as they partook of the simple fare.
Garreth watched as Ailénor licked the last crumbs from her fingers. She gazed up at him, and their eyes locked with knowing looks. Their time together was at an end.
They both started to speak at once, then stopped. Garreth slipped his hand over hers.
“Once I see you safely away from the docks, I will ride straight to the king. My confidence remains in his judgment. ‘Tis my hope we shall be reunited with his blessing very soon.”
“Then I best be away so we might be together all the sooner.” Ailénor attempted a smile but failed.
Garreth pressed a kiss to her forehead, concurring with a small nod. They finished the last of the cider, then Ailénor rose and dressed in silence. Garreth laced the back of her dress and gifted her with the ribbons. She happily received them and selected the green one to tie back her hair.
By the time she was ready, Garreth saw that her heart had grown heavy again. Tears rimmed her eyes as she lowered her lashes. He lifted his finger to the corner of her eye and caught a droplet as it escaped.
“‘Tis time,” he whispered softly.
“Oui. Oh, Garreth — ” Ailénor’s voice broke and she stepped into his arms.
He embraced her at once, his lips closing over hers, her hands slipping upward around his neck. They held one another tightly, sharing a last bittersweet kiss, filled with aching and longing and the sheer misery of parting.
As Garreth released her, Ailénor fingered away the stream of tears slipping over her cheek.
“‘Tis time, indeed,” she said in a soft, shaky voice.
Fortifying herself with a breath, she preceded Garreth out the door.
Seeing that Ailénor had forgotten her mantle, Garreth caught it up from the chair, then crossed the room to follow, and descended to the street.
Emerging from the building, he lifted his eyes to seek Ailénor, then halted. The barbarian stood before him with Ailénor imprisoned against his chest, one muscled arm across her body, the other hand clamped over her mouth.
Garreth read terror in Ailénor’s eyes, her gaze traveling past him.
“Ailénor!” He lurched forward, his hand going to his sword hilt.
Scarce did his fingers close on the grip than a bolt of pain ripped through the back of his skull and darkness overtook him.
»«
Gagged and bound, Ailénor lay beside Garreth’s unconscious form in the bow of a small and shallow ship.
The vessel rode the swell and pitch of the Thames as it departed the quay and began its journey downriver. Gulls shrilled and cartwheeled overhead against a marbled sky.
Ailénor sliced a look to Wimund who sat amidship. She cursed him silently, for ‘twas he who had struck Garreth from behind, and she with naught but a look to warn him.
The fierce heathen who had seized her now sat astern, near to the boatswain, a seedy-looking man with few teeth. She could only presume all three were creatures of the woman who wished her mother harm — Rhiannon.
Ailénor glanced up to the flaxen sails overhead. Uncommonly, the ship possessed two — both square, the one to the fore smaller than the one aft, each bearing a crimson cross upon its billowed surface, like the Celtic high crosses her mother had so oft described.
Fleetingly Ailénor wondered whether Rhiannon’s miscreants had stolen them from some monastery. Probably so, she decided. Why else would they sail beneath so holy a symbol?
She closed her eyes, the crimson crosses burning into her mind’s eye, knowing in her heart they sailed for Ireland.
»«
The Sea Falcon swept up the River Thames beneath a sail of midnight blue, its great silver falcon heralding the arrival of the Baron de Valsemé.
Rurik personally manned the tiller as the ship closed on the quays of Lundenburh and his crew prepared to dock. Lyting and Ailinn stood at the prow of
the ship gazing shoreward, drawn taut with anticipation and worry.
Rurik raised a hand and pointed toward the wharves. “There is Downgate. We will put in there.”
Ailinn’s grip tightened on Lyting’s arm as they looked toward the quay. A ship momentarily blocked their view with its double sails but then moved swiftly past.
“I see Gunnolf’s ship is still in port,” Rurik called out once more. “Let us hope he will have news for us.”
Ailinn’s attention drifted from the sight of Lundenburh’s shore, drawn back to the double sails of the ship that had just passed. They bore a sight she had not seen in decades — the Celtic high crosses of Ireland.
Chapter 13
West Irish Coast
The stiff Atlantic breeze tossed Ailénor’s hair in a wild and fiery dance. Her hair ribbon had loosened and blown overboard days ago, somewhere off the English coast.
Ailénor shuddered beneath her mist-sodden cloak. The damp of the open sea had seeped into everything, reaching its cool fingers down to the very bone.
“Lean against me,” Garreth whispered at her ear, his breath falling warm upon her as he shifted nearer.
“I thought you were sleeping.” She graced him with a soft smile.
“Only napping. Conserving my strength. You need do the same, Ailénor.”
Tiredness lined his features, yet the cool beam in his eyes and hard set of his jaw spoke of his determination to win them free.
Ailénor eased herself against his chest and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. She knew it irked Garreth no end that he had fallen victim to Wimund’s wiles and for a second time. The little wart of a man had a penchant for slogging people from behind, and Garreth blamed himself for not being alert to his dangerous presence. That their circumstances were now no better than when they first made the crossing from Francia galled Garreth all the more.
But Ailénor had also witnessed how he steeled himself with a warrior’s resolve — biting down on his frustration and biding the time, counseling they meet each hour and each minute as they came, prepared to seize whatever opportunity might present itself.
As Ailénor rested against Garreth’s solid chest, she leveled her gaze over the ship’s side to the spectacular coastline with its soaring cliffs and rock-strewn shores. Colonies of kittiwakes and razorbills populated ledges along the cliff face. A small flock of the latter now flew in a low line above the water, distinguishable by their thick beaks and necks and black-and-white bodies.
As she continued to watch, the striking silhouette of a solitary peregrine rose above the cliff, its flight strong and swift, its wing-beats fast, giving itself occasionally to gliding. Seeing the peregrine, Ailénor thought of her sister and her hawks, thought of her family and of Héricourt. They seemed so far away. Dismally she wondered if ever she would see them again.
She must keep faith, she told herself with stiff resolve. In God, in Garreth, and in herself.
She slid a glance to the others. The fearsome barbarian remained astern near the boatswain. He seemed a stony island unto himself, never exhibiting the least emotion. He did, however, appear to be interested in the boatswain’s steerage of the ship and watched his movements closely, as now.
Wimund, on the other hand, had wallowed in a superior mood since departing the docks of Lundenburh. Compared to the barbarian, he seemed absolutely loquacious at times. Carrying her gaze to him, Ailénor gave a start to find his enormous eyes fixed on her. They glowed with nervous anticipation — a greedy, possessive look that made her cringe.
She shifted uncomfortably, masking her revulsion. His great eyes roamed over her as they had so often during this journey. As before, his gaze paused where her hands disappeared behind her back.
Ailénor knew he coveted the pearl and amethyst ring upon her finger. He had spied it during their first day at sea and had eyed it numerous times since. Quickly she worked the ring around her finger, turning the pearl and stone settings to inside her palm, then closed her fingers tight over them. All too vividly, she remembered Wimund prying the gems from the precious Psalter, desecrating it. He’d not have the ring Garreth had given her.
Wimund continued to stare at her, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse. He wiped his lips, then gave a sniggering laugh and moved forward.
“Thought you could slip away from ol’ Wimund, did you? He’s got big eyes. Doesn’t miss much. Got a sharp sniffer, too.” He thumped his forefinger against the side of his nose that seemed to jut out even farther from his face due to his lack of chin.
Ailénor strove to ignore him, her gaze following the elegant passage of a string of low-flying kittiwakes, snowy white with black-tipped wings. But her slight of Wimund only encouraged him to sidle closer. She felt Garreth stiffen.
“Didn’t take much to pick up Grimbold’s scent and follow his track. Was to meet him at Andover. They were all astir when I arrived. That reeve, Rannulf, he was in a fine fettle, too. Discovered you had slipped away, right under his nose. The stablehands remembered Grimbold, though, and thought he had headed north.”
Wimund stabbed a stubby finger at his chest. “Now, I figured he left to follow you. Varya and I traveled all the way to Silchester before finding anything. Then what should we see as we approached the city but a fresh grave?”
He took another swipe at his lips for he had a tendency to dribble from the corner of his mouth. “Not many people in Silchester. But the innkeeper, he got real chatty once he got an eyeful of Varya and his sword. ‘Twasn’t hard to track you from there.”
Wimund’s lids drew partially together over his huge eyes, giving him a squint akin to that of a toad.
“Lundenburh was more crowded. But the waterfront never sleeps. Lots of eyes along the docks, and luck was with us. People remembered a pretty, redheaded woman.”
He reached out and fingered Ailénor’s hair, causing her to shrink back.
“Leave her be,” Garreth snarled.
Wimund’s countenance suddenly changed, a menacing look entering his eyes. “For now, mayhap.” His gaze prowled down Ailénor’s arm. “But I’ll have that ring.”
Grabbing for her hand, Wimund fumbled at her fingers. Ailénor fisted her hand and twisted away, pressing into Garreth’s chest. But Wimund’s persistent fingers dug into hers, and he started to pry them loose one by one.
“I said leave off her, cur!” Garreth barked, trying to kick out with his bound feet, but Ailénor leaned across his chest and lap, frustrating his efforts while Wimund tore at her fingers.
“Mine, now. Give it to me!” Wimund demanded as his grappling movements rocked the boat. Ailénor gave a cry as he yanked at the ring.
Suddenly a thunderous growl rolled from stern to prow. The heathen, Varya, rose and came forward. Clamping down on Wimund’s shoulders, he jerked him back, jamming him onto his seat. Varya then uttered low guttural sounds — possibly words — but more like those of a maddened beast.
Wimund glowered and sulked, knifing glances over his shoulder at the barbarian who resumed his seat and sat stonily, arms crossed over his wide chest. Turning back to Ailénor, a nasty gleam appeared in Wimund’s eyes.
“Keep the ring. I’ll be having another prize from you, Baronne.” He emphasized her title. “The princess promised.” He glanced shoreward and scanned the coast. His lips pulled into a smile. “And ol’ Wimund will be enjoying it very soon now. We are there.” He pointed a blunt finger toward the shore. “‘Tis Cahercommaun.”
Ailénor’s breath shortened, her stomach clenching. Her eyes sought Garreth’s, then together they looked to the dramatic cliff towering above the waters.
Flocks of black crowlike choughs occupied its ledges, some circling just off shore — ominous specters, shrilling their high-pitched “kiahs” in welcome.
Lifting her gaze to the cliff’s summit, Ailénor beheld the ponderous walls of the ancient hill-fort. Rhiannon’s lair.
»«
“Princess. The bàrc arrives. Princess, wake up.”
Rhiannon stirred as the words seeped through the fog of sleep and settled in her brain. She felt her arm jostled once, then twice. Levering open one eye, she peered at the spindly servant girl, Blinne. She thought to box the girl’s ears for disturbing her rest. Instead, Rhiannon turned to her other side and burrowed into her pillow.
“Be gone, or I shall take a stick to you.”
“The bàrc, Princess. Varya returns.”
Rhiannon came fully awake, her heart jolting. Shoving upright, she rolled back and grabbed Blinne by the fleshless rail that was her arm.
“Did you see them? How many are there aboard?” Rhiannon demanded, dragging the girl half onto the bed.
Blinne’s features crumpled with visible pain as Rhiannon’ s fingers dug to the bone. “Please. I did not count. Mayhap four, five.”
“Is there a woman with dark red hair, the shade of the trees afire in autumn?”
Blinne’s head bobbed up and down in quick affirmation, tears collecting in her eyes.
Rhiannon released her hold, triumph soaring through her veins. “My robe. Hurry!” She gestured to the chest where it lay.
Blinne scrambled to retrieve the rich garment, then held it out as Rhiannon stepped naked from the bed. Too anxious to dress further, Rhiannon belted the garment and hastened from the chamber.
Hurrying out into the large, circular courtyard, she rapidly crossed its expanse and headed for the west wall that backed to the cliff’s edge and overlooked the sea.
On bare feet she mounted the rough steps that flanked the inner defense wall, climbing to a height of fifteen feet to stand atop the thick drystone construction.
Rhiannon’s robe billowed in the wind as she scanned the waters below. Farther down the coast, along a narrow strip of land, she beheld a ship putting into shore and recognized its twin sails bearing crimson crosses.
The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series) Page 28