by Jayne Castel
She was dimly aware of cheers and applause from the onlookers, but didn’t pay any attention to them. Her lips parted under Talor’s, and the cheering turned into a roar in her ears.
When they drew apart, the pair of them were both breathing hard.
Talor was watching her with a hot, melting stare that made Mor’s knees tremble underneath her. She wanted him to drag him away, to the roundhouse in the village where they were to spend their wedding night, so that she could rip off the tight leather encasing his muscular body and feast upon him.
But their handfasting feast awaited—and it was as important for the uniting of their peoples as this ceremony had been.
For the first time The Serpent would sit down with the people of the united tribes, and would eat and drink with them. The feast symbolized the beginning of a new era for this isle and everyone upon it.
Catching Talor’s hand, Mor turned, her gaze taking in the crowd that formed a semi-circle around them on the shore. They were all there: Artair and a handful of her own people, as well as all four of the chieftains of the united tribes and their kin.
Talor’s cousin, Fina, stood near the front of the crowd, her husband’s arm around her shoulders. Fina’s eyes gleamed as she watched them, and for a moment the two women’s gazes fused.
Warmth filtered through Mor. She had liked Fina from their first meeting, as she had Ailene. The past year had been a lonely time for Mor; after losing her mother, she’d had few other female companions. Instead, she had spent all her time with her father, uncle, and brothers. She missed the company of other women, and as Fina’s mouth curved into a smile, Mor knew that the pair of them would become close friends.
Smoke hung in the air inside the broch, the pungent smell of burning peat mingling with the savory aromas of roasted venison, braised onions, and freshly baked bread. The strains of a harp floated through the space, barely audible at times as the rumble of conversation rose and fell throughout the hall.
Seated next to Talor, Mor took it all in. As the newly wedded couple, they sat upon the raised platform at one end of the hall, a position usually reserved for The Eagle chieftain and his kin. This afternoon though, all the chieftains—including her uncle—sat at the table with them, while everyone else sat upon low benches at long tables that lined the hall, forming a great square around the huge hearth.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Talor whispered in her ear. The tickle of his breath against her skin made Mor’s breathing quicken. She turned to her husband, her mouth curving. “Aye … one that warms my heart.” She paused then, lowering her gaze as the events of the past days revisited her. “There were times when I despaired, when I thought it might never happen.”
“But you never gave up,” he replied. “You fought right till the end.”
Talor reached forward then and picked up a jug of bramble wine, pouring them both some. “Are you ready to drink from our wedding cups?”
Mor raised her chin, smiling. She had forgotten about this tradition; it had been a while since she had been a guest at a handfasting. There had been no time for such things among her people for a while—not with their very survival at stake. “Aye, go on then.”
Together, they picked up their cups, interlaced their arms, and raised the rims to their own lips. Mor took a sip, sighing as the rich, spicy wine slid down her throat. Meanwhile, Talor’s gaze held hers, his eyes full of sensual promise. She felt the tension in his body, in the thigh that pressed up against hers; he was as eager as her for their wedding night.
Lowering their cups, they began to eat from the platter they shared. The venison was delicious, flavored with flakes of salt and rosemary. Mor ate slowly, savoring each mouthful, yet all the while her awareness of the man next to her grew, and the excitement that flickered in the pit of her belly reminded her that the true hunger within her was not for food and drink, but for the man seated next to her.
Mor fed Talor a piece of venison, her core starting to ache as he licked the meat juices off her fingers.
Getting through this feast without bursting into flames was going to be torture.
A few feet away, Galan mac Muin rose to his feet. At the sight of The Eagle chieftain looming above them, a drinking horn in his hand, the rumble of conversation and music faded into silence.
Galan waited till he had everyone’s attention, before he cleared his throat and held his drinking horn high. “Today marks a turning point in our history,” he said, his gruff voice echoing high into the rafters. “It shows us all that some good can come from tragedy, and that you can always start again, even when all hope seems lost.”
Galan paused there, and Mor saw that the chieftain’s cheeks were slightly flushed. That was his second horn of mead, and although he usually appeared a quiet, self-contained man, the drink had loosened his tongue.
“I grew up in the shadow of war,” Galan continued, his iron-grey gaze sweeping around the hall. “And my father fell in a battle against The Wolf. We were once bitter enemies … the fighting had gone on for so long that none of us could even remember what had started the blood feud between us. But when my father fell, I swore to myself that I would break the cycle.” Galan cast a warm glance at the dark-haired woman who was seated beside him. “I wed Tea, and together we helped bring our peoples together.”
A few feet farther down the table, Mor saw Wid mac Manus shift in his seat. Although The Wolf chieftain no longer looked like he wanted to throw himself at Mor and strangle her with his bare hands, the warrior wore a shuttered expression this afternoon. He tolerated this union, but she sensed that deep down he was not happy about it. Next to him, Wid’s wife cast her husband a soft smile, placing a hand over his upon the table before him.
However, Galan had not yet finished his speech. He turned his attention now to where Varar and Fina sat at the far end of the table. “But as much as I wanted peace with my neighbors, I could not bring it about … no sooner had relations improved with The Wolf when we clashed with The Boar.”
Farther down the table, Galan’s brother Tarl gave a small smile. He sat next to an exotically beautiful woman with jet-black hair and golden skin. This must have been Lucrezia, Fina’s mother—a woman of the Caesars. Mor watched him with interest, before her attention shifted to Talor’s father, Donnel, who sat a few feet away. Talor had told her of what had taken place twenty years earlier—of the rift between the two tribes that had nearly brought them to open war. Varar’s uncles had made enemies of Tarl and Donnel, and the tribes had come close to another bitter feud.
“I thought history would repeat itself with you, Varar,” Galan said, addressing The Boar chieftain directly now. “But, like your father, you could see beyond the grievances that have steeped our isle in blood for so many years.”
Galan broke off then, a rare smile stretching his face. He was a striking man when serious, but incredibly handsome when he smiled, Mor noted. All three of the mac Muin brothers were pleasing on the eye—it was no wonder that Talor was so attractive. “I am rambling,” he admitted. “The mead has loosened my tongue, I’m afraid … but my sentiments are real. For a while now, I have grown increasingly bitter, sure that my dream of peace would never come to pass.” A beat passed as Galan’s gaze then rested upon Mor. “But thanks to you, Mor, it has. Raise your cups everyone … to peace.”
“To peace!” The shouts echoed high into the rafters. Mor took a sip of wine, swallowing the lump that had just formed in her throat; she had no idea that The Eagle chieftain felt that way.
“The four chieftains of the united tribes have discussed what happens now,” Galan continued when silence settled once more, his attention never leaving Mor. “And The Eagle and The Boar have decided that we will make a gift of Kyleakin and the surrounding lands to what remains of your people. Artair mac Calum will lead The Serpent there, and … of course … you and Talor are welcome to join him.”
A wide smile stretched across Mor’s face. She tore her gaze from Galan’s and met her uncle’s far
ther down the table. He too was smiling, although there was no surprise in his eyes.
The chieftains had already discussed their decision with him.
Setting down her cup, Mor rose to her feet. All around the feasting hall, faces swiveled to her, and Mor let her own gaze travel over them all, picking out every face that lined the long tables beneath the platform. She then shifted her attention to the faces of the four men who had made the decision to gift her people Kyleakin. “Thank you,” she said huskily. “This is more than I dared hope for … thank you for giving my people a second chance.”
Chapter Thirty-one
That’s How Fate Works
TALOR’S GAZE FEASTED upon Mor as she lowered herself back down onto her seat. A flush had spread across her high cheekbones, and her eyes gleamed with emotion. Her crown of drualus still sat upon her head, the small white berries and dark green leaves contrasting with the russet of her hair.
She had never looked so beautiful.
The ache in his groin intensified. Although he appreciated his uncle’s impassioned speech, this was turning into the longest feast he had ever attended. Handfasting celebrations were known to be lengthy affairs, often lasting late into the night.
It would be a while yet, before he and Mor would be allowed to leave the hall and retire to their roundhouse in the village. His uncle had offered them an alcove in the broch, yet Talor had asked to be given a roundhouse instead. He had grown up in one with his father and Eithni, and found the alcoves where most of his kin resided stifling.
He wanted Mor and him to have their own space while they resided here in Dun Ringill.
Talor drew in a deep breath and tried to focus on the food that he had no appetite for.
Patience. It was not something he had ever excelled at.
The feasting drew out, and more mead, wine, and ale flowed. Then oatcakes dripping with butter and honey were served. In handfasting tradition, the newlyweds fed each other pieces of cake.
Doing so, nearly unraveled what remained of Talor’s self-restraint, especially when Mor licked honey off his fingers. The sight of her pink tongue sliding across the base of his thumb caused Talor to choke back a moan. His shaft now strained against the tight leather breeches he wore. He would not be able to stand up right now without embarrassing himself.
Around them men and women rose to their feet and started to push back the tables and benches, readying the floor for dancing.
Frustration pulsed through Talor at the sight. He did not want to dance. He wanted to plow his wife, and he had nearly reached the limits of his endurance.
At the end of the raised platform, he spied his step-mother, Eithni, taking a seat at her beloved harp, while his aunt, Tea, pulled up a stool beside her. A moment later Eithni’s fingers started to fly across the strings, and Tea’s beautiful voice soared. They sang a ballad he knew well—one about a lass of the fair folk who fell in love with a mortal man and the tragic tale that followed. Despite that it was a song of love and loss, it was haunting in its beauty.
As the song reached its conclusion, Talor stole a glance at his wife. Mor was watching Eithni and Tea, her attention rapt, as tears trickled down her face.
“Have you never heard that song before?” Talor asked softly. Leaning close, he wiped away her tears with a gentle sweep of his knuckles.
Mor shook her head. “We haven’t had a lot of time of late for music and songs … and no one among my people can sing like that.”
Talor smiled. “My aunt has a voice to make the Gods weep.”
The song concluded then, and Eithni and Tea struck up another—this one a jaunty tune about a lecherous farmer and his many lovers. Couples flowed out onto the dance floor, laughter echoing out into the hall.
Talor grasped Mor’s hand then and rose to his feet, pulling Mor with him.
Her eyes flew open wide. “You want to dance?”
“No,” he said, the need to be away from this hall, and alone with her, turning him terse. “I want you.”
Mor’s eyes widened further still, before a wicked smile curved her mouth. “Isn’t it too early to leave?”
“Aye … but we’re leaving all the same.”
Those at the chieftain’s table cheered as the couple stepped down from the platform. They assumed that Talor was leading his wife onto the floor to join the dancers. But, gripping Mor’s hand tightly, Talor took her straight past them, hauled open the door, and led her out into the night. Hooting and catcalls followed them, as the revelers realized what Talor intended.
Ignoring the cheering, Talor pulled the door shut after them and, hand in hand, they descended the stone steps into the yard beyond.
After the hot, smoky air within the hall, the cold air outdoors hit Talor like a slap across the face. He inhaled a deep lungful of it all the same, enjoying its freshness. The stillness of the night was a balm after the noise inside the broch.
Neither of them spoke as they crossed the yard and passed under the archway into the village. No sound but the crunch of their boots on the snow followed them. Most of the occupants of Dun Ringill were packed into the broch, and those who were not were slumbering in their furs.
The roundhouse sat a few yards away from the south gate. As he approached, Talor remembered the last time he had walked this way—it had been when Mor had freed him during that blizzard.
Only a few days had passed since their escape, and yet it felt like a lifetime ago. Talor felt like a different man. His entire way of looking at life had shifted, and it was all because of the woman who clung to his hand.
They entered the roundhouse, stepping out of the cold into a warm space that smelled of dried heather and rosemary. A hearth glowed in the center of the circular room, and glancing down, Talor saw that someone had strewn herbs over the floor, hence the scent that had greeted them.
A few feet away, a huge pile of soft furs awaited.
Talor turned to Mor, aware that his heart was hammering so violently against his chest that it felt as if it might burst free. He had never had this reaction before bedding a woman. Desire galloped through him, and as their gazes fused, he felt his shaft swell once more, turning rock-hard and painful in the constraints of his breeches.
Mor only had to fix him with that sultry look of hers, and his body reacted, violently.
Murmuring a curse, Talor pulled her into his arms and gave her the kiss he had been dying to bestow upon her since their handfasting ceremony. His hands roamed Mor’s strong, lush body—down the long curve of her back to the globes of her buttocks—as his tongue plunged into her mouth and tangled with hers.
Mor tasted like heather honey, her mouth as hungry as his. Her hands pulled at his clothing, her fingers fumbling when she unlaced his vest and pushed it off him. Likewise, he unlaced the plaid bodice she wore. The garment flattered Mor beautifully, for it pushed up her full breasts, revealing a deep cleavage and an expanse of creamy skin that had been enticing him all day. But he preferred her naked.
The firelight played across her full breasts and rose-pink nipples. They strained up toward him, the nipples pebbling hard under his hot gaze.
With a groan, Talor caught her breasts in his hands, pushing them up to meet his mouth. This was what he had wanted to feast on; there was nothing more delicious.
Mor let out a soft whimper—a sound that excited him beyond measure—her fingers running through his hair. Her fingertips then dug into his scalp, urging him on.
He suckled her hard, until she gave another cry, her body trembling against him. Pulling back from her, Talor struggled to keep a rein on his self-control. He prided himself on his ability to draw a love-making session out, but right now he just wanted to throw Mor back on the furs, part her thighs, and plow her until she screamed for mercy.
She unraveled him completely.
Sensing his conflict, a sultry smile stretched Mor’s lips. And then she dropped to her knees before him and reached up to unlace his breeches.
His shaft sprang free to
meet her, eager to be loosed of its tight leather prison, and Mor was on it in an instant, her mouth greedily taking him in, right to the hilt.
“Gods,” Talor choked out, his hands tangling in her hair. “Go slow … I can’t … Mor!”
The heat of her mouth, the sensual ministrations of her lips and tongue, were too much. Talor exploded, his body arching as he spilled into her mouth. His cry shuddered through the dwelling.
Breathing hard, he pulled Mor to her feet. She licked her lips before smiling, pleased that she had caused him to lose control like that. Talor was used to being in charge in the furs—no woman had ever taken him in hand so confidently, had ever taken him over the brink so swiftly.
And yet his rod was still rock-hard.
He was done waiting.
Reaching down, he undid the belt at Mor’s waist and stripped it off, before pushing down the heavy plaid skirt so that it pooled on the floor. The sight of her long, strong, naked body made lust surge through his loins once more. He had to be inside her. Right now.
“Get on the furs,” he growled, “and spread your legs for me.”
Mor’s breasts heaved as her breathing caught. She watched his eyes darken, her lips parting with arousal. She loved it when he was dominant in the furs; he had seen it during their first coupling. Mor was strong and independent, a warrior to be reckoned with, yet she liked to give up control when she was with him.
She wanted him to take her hard. Once again, Talor usually preferred slow, languorous lovemaking. But with Mor it was different—somehow this woman unleashed the beast within him.
Mor moved back, never taking her gaze from his, and lowered herself onto the furs. Then slowly, deliberately, she spread her creamy thighs, revealing herself to him.
