Swan Witch

by Betina Lindsey

  An exquisite ticklish sensation rippled through her as a subtle wetness suddenly watered her mouth like dewy honey. Long crushed desire exploded in her. She released a slow breath of surrender and boldly laved the slick heat of his cunning tongue.

  While kissing her, he bestowed continuous caresses with the palm of his hand over her shoulders, following the swell of her breasts down the soft flesh of her belly. With the lightest brushing of his fingertips, he circled the soft indentation of her stomach, moving down to the secret nest of her womanhood. He aroused her in ways she’d never imagined in dreaming moments, and never thought to experience. Aye, ’twas better than magic!

  He pressed gently with the heel of his hand on her woman’s mound. Fire shot through her. She arched to the pressure of his palm and yawned to the full swell of his tongue. He withdrew from her and kissed the hollow of her throat.

  In a hoarse, passion-skirted whisper, he said, “Fly with me this night on wild wings of love…”

  The poetry of his words filled Eithne, but she could speak none of her own aloud. His words had touched her, and in the mystical way of her kith she longed to sing her love lilt…a swan song, a ritual of disclosure and bonding.

  He buried his lips in the furrow of her cleavage and kissed the pulse of her heart. Little by little she felt his tongue preen the full circle of her breast. He nuzzled and lapped, secreting his tongue’s tip along the half-moon fold beneath.

  Soon his head dipped down to rain hot kisses upon the hollow of her belly, and her desire spread like fever to tingle every nerve. His kisses were long and deeply sensuous as if he sucked into himself her very essence.

  His hands slipped around and cupped the pillow of her hips. His dark head lowered, and his mouth gently met the inner velvet of her thighs. She relished the moist stroking creeping up inside each leg in turn. His tongue moved in soft swirls along the outer boundaries of her woman’s mound. Unhurried, as if he intended to sup on every cream-flushed pore, he tasted the moist folds of her sensitive confines. She felt soft contractions and realized her virginal channel expanded, readying to embrace his shaft. She ached, feeling the soft surge again, and again.

  She reached for him, clasping his thick hair in her fists, and drew his face up to her own. In the starlight she could see the flash of his teeth as he smiled.

  I’m dying for you, she begged with the full potency of her emotion.

  His arms encircled her.

  Her body twisted, reaching to the heat of his engorged manhood. She felt his chest rise and fall in rhythmic coursing against her own. Again he put his mouth on hers, sucking tenderly on her upper lip, using his tongue and lips to imbibe the moist, pulpy underflesh. A wild heat fired her blood and she became bold and kissed him as he kissed her—meeting his tongue, moving her lips against his.

  Instinctively, she spread her legs, arching up to him. He met her wantonness with his own urgency. Her hands clung to the lean hardness of his hips, guiding him to her. Gathering himself, he entered slowly…straining against her silken, virginal cloak of last resistance.

  “Sweet witch!” he groaned, full-throated, as he thrust deep his shaft into the dark body of her womb. She felt the fingers of his one hand roughly clutch her shoulder.

  “Arra-a-ah!” he shouted aloud, like a warrior’s battle cry.

  Eithne saw his pain flash like wildfire in the contracting spokes of his pupils. She felt a tremendous pang of guilt. Mayhap she should have warned him it would be painful…but only briefly so. But if she had warned him, he might not have loved her. Oh…too many secrets.

  ’Tis but fleeting. I do not betray you. Your ecstasy will come…a hundredfold. Hold back, my sea clansman. I will promise you a mating like no other you have known.

  In his eyes she witnessed his struggle for mastery. Moisture beaded the shadow of his mouth, she kissed it away. Between the brokenness of breath, the primordial panic, she felt the rippling epiphany of love unfold.

  On slow wing, their spirit dance began.

  His strokes became more powerful. Together, their hips undulating, the one potent, the other yielding. Simultaneously strong and soft, thrusting and with-drawing. No space was between them…a single body, a single breath, a single pulsating. Bliss rushed with delicious force from her womb, setting a long fire in her belly, onto her breast, catapulting like shooting stars across hot heaven.

  Whirlwinds of delight carried Eithne sky-high…

  Their union was like a dawning daylight rainbow carrying them upward into deep wonder…downward into silent pools of crystalline communion.

  At last, her heart unbound, she was free to love with nothing withheld. She was no longer the wicked, evil “gurrul”…but a wild-winged shapeshifter soaring to ecstasy.

  The air rustled with the wind of wing, she transformed into swan…down and feathers wafted in the air…she floated on the currents of sun-spilled eternity…and then just as quickly she reshaped into woman.

  She felt his heart pounding next to her own, and she held him close with joy and awe. In the eddying waves of rapture, she drew a trembling breath and opened her tear-moistened eyes to seek his own. In that connecting, she glimpsed his mystery, his depths and shallows…the falling away of every mask.

  Her soul bursting, she met his emerald gaze. I love you. I have always loved you.

  “You love because you are loved. You have enchanted me without enchantment, my swan witch.”

  ’Tis only the beginning…

  Again, his mouth was upon hers and his kisses rushed upon her like the wild waves of the sea.

  Chapter 10

  “The top o’ the day to ye, sweethearts,” gargled the provoking voice of Gibbers. “Begorrah, whare’ve ye been? I’m waitin’ since sunup fer me tribute.”

  Startled to wakefulness, Eithne sat up, beside her Bron stirred as well. Through the night he’d pleasured her until she felt as joyously radiant as the sun above.

  Sun? Beway! She squinted eastward to the golden orb rising full face above the stone circle. Disbelieving the hours had passed so quickly, she felt uneasy.

  Be off! glared Eithne, attempting to gather her wits. Gibbers lurched forward a step.

  “Niver! I’ll throuble ye to keep yer word, Bron mac Llyr.” His gob green orbs widened and he pointed a spidery finger. “Look a ye, gurrul. Ye aren’t dacent.”

  “Leave off!” Bron said sharply. “I’ll be good to my word.”

  “Too late!” cackled Gibbers with so much maliciousness that Bron rose to his feet threateningly.

  Gibbers scrambled off and hid behind a dolmen.

  “Come,” said Bron to Eithne. Gently kissing her cheek, he looped his arm protectively around her shoulders and led her to where he had left his clothing. He gave her his cloak and slipped on his own tunic, leggings, and boots.

  He caught the reins of Samisen’s bridle. He hefted the saddle onto the horse’s back, then retied his harp and kit bag to the saddle leathers. “What do you wish to do?”

  Her breast rose and fell in a deep sigh. She was not sure. She reached up and touched the stubble of whiskers on his cheeks. Light speared the glowing filament of his irises. Though his features appeared relaxed there was a steely gravity in his eyes.

  What did she wish to do? In the aftermath of his loving everything had changed. She trusted him. She trusted him because she trusted herself with him. How that alchemy had transpired she was not sure. Had it happened when at last she’d told the truth of it all to him? Or did it begin from the first instance she saw him cross the bridge of buzzards?

  I wish to go with you, Bron mac Llyr. I wish to go to the isles of the sea…to your home on stone cliffs. All this I wish. But these are only wishes. I dream…my dreams are like the illusions of Rath Morna.

  “You doubt your dreams?”

  Beway…dreams are for those who sleep.

  “Mayhap your doubts hold the illusions in place. You could be free, my swan heart. Free.”

  And how can I be free?

 
He pulled her close. Her arms wrapped around him in a fragile embrace, and she rested her cheek against the strength of his chest. “I have told you in words and deed…You must love more than you fear.”

  I do not know how not to fear! Tears slipped down her cheeks and she raised her hand to brush them away. I have always feared.

  She felt Bron’s warmth and love, but she still feared.

  “Oho…ohoo! They be here!” came Gibbers’s alarming cry. He ran from behind a great stone into the circle center.

  Eithne pulled away from Bron and riveted her gaze beyond the stones. She saw her father and his Unseelie Court approaching across the bridge. Her mouth dropped open as if she were going to cry out herself. Aye, she trembled with the fear of him.

  Panic striking her, she tore herself from Bron’s arms. She ran toward Gibbers and in a mighty effort caught hold of his jumping body and ruthlessly shook him.

  You’ve betrayed us…you little demon! You’ve betrayed us!

  “Ye betrayed yerselves,” he screeched, bursting with that horrid laugh he had. “I know all yer sssecrets…and quare things. I know whare ye go at night…I know whare yer mother’s imprisoned…I know—”

  My mother? Her hands gripped his throat. Where is she? Where! Aye, he’d known all these years and withheld it from her. The very devil he was! ’Twas the end of his tormenting, the last of his insults and taunting.

  His bulging eyes bulged more…his green face began turning green-blue. Overwrought and unable to express aloud her outrage, Eithne’s breast heaved from the containment of it and she squeezed his neck harder and harder.

  Bron came up behind her and he caught her wrist in his hand. “Eithne, Eithne…you must stop. ’Twill do no good to choke him…though well he deserves it.”

  She released him abruptly. Gibbers gimped into a fetal ball and groaned. She covered her face with her hands in all-out weeping.

  “Beway…dearest one.” Bron gathered her in the comforting blanket of his arms.

  Gibbers gasped for breath. “Ye murdherin’ gurrul!”

  “What goes on?” rang Sheelin’s voice from outside the stone circle.

  “Naught that involves you, Sheelin,” returned Bron.

  “As you like.” Then, “However, I am here on my own errand.”

  “He kin’t enter the circle of stones…” whispered Gibbers.

  Bron looked down at him curiously. “Not more secrets?”

  Gibbers’s one eye narrowed with canniness and he smirked, “Aye, more secrets…none of thim kin.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll niver tell!” He threw back his head with a delightful croak.

  Eithne all but reached out to grab his neck again, but Bron’s arms stopped her.

  Bron muttered an oath under his breath. The wretch knew no bounds or how close he truly came to being murdered.

  “Is something amiss?” called Sheelin, his demeanor gratuitous.

  Gathering herself, Eithne ceased her weeping. She stared at her father and his Unseelie Court, bedecked in the false finery of lords and ladies, looming just beyond the stones. Above their heads fluttered banners of bright colors and they mingled with a festive air as if a tournament or…beheading was to ensue.

  Bron left Eithne and walked toward Sheelin. As far as he was concerned the charade was finished—too many secrets, too much illusion.

  Cloaked in black, Sheelin stood like a holy man, his hands clasped self-righteously over his heart. Rabidly, the Fir Darrig was running on all fours around the henge—to and fro like a wild hyena awaiting the kill.

  “Aye, Sheelin. All is amiss.” Bron stepped outside the circle and walked toward Sheelin. He did not see the blow that knocked him to his knees, but he did see Coup de Grace, axe in hand, standing beside a stump of a chopping block so conveniently hidden behind Sheelin. He still counted Coup friend and knew he was not responsible for the debilitating blow. Two of Sheelin’s gillies held him motionless, while another tied his hands behind him.

  “I think not,” declared Sheelin, indifferent as stone. “I’ve made the decision to hasten your ordeal. I am a compassionate man and I do not abide suffering very well.”

  In the periphery of his vision Bron saw Eithne running across the circle. Instinctively, he knew she must not leave its boundaries. “Stay where you are,” he commanded.

  She halted.

  “Have you any last requests?” Sheelin’s deep black eyes slipped away from Eithne and then querulously to Bron.

  “Aye, there is one thing,” announced Bron. “I would like my hair pulled forward away from my neck so it won’t be soiled with my blood.”

  It was no surprise to him when the Fir Darrig sprang forward and seized hold of his hair. He twisted it punishingly tight around his clawlike hands.

  Sheelin turned to his daughter. “’Tis time Eithne to ask your question…and save your hero.” His tone was spiced with lashing sarcasm.

  Bron looked over to Eithne. He’d hoped it would not come to this. She stood precariously close to the outer boundary of the henge. Her face was drained of color and her crimson hair flamed wild in the sun. She seemed a tormented specter. Her gaze fastened onto Bron like a drowning soul in a storm ravaged sea.

  His life hung in balance with the fate of Myr. He would not sway her and composed his features with blandness. How would he himself choose?

  The words struggled out with shocking clarity across her long silent lips. “Do you love me, Bron mac Llyr?”

  For the space of a heartbeat he hesitated. Her voice was rich and resonant and oddly familiar. “Aye, Eithne. I love you. And do you love me?”

  “With all my heart.” He saw her love in her eyes and he did not doubt.

  “Coup!” snapped Sheelin, dispassionately. “Sever his head!”

  Bron heard Coup’s questioning challenge. “Milord?”

  The Fir Darrig viciously yanked Bron’s head forward.

  “Now!” reaffirmed Sheelin, without a care to fair play.

  Bron heard Eithne’s scream…a fierce denial. A cry that ripped asunder mind and heart…a cry that echoed through the forest and reverberated through the deserted towers of Rath Morna.

  “Be wise, friend,” counseled Coup under his breath, and he lifted his axe.

  Bron jerked back…pulling the Fir Darrig forward.

  The axe fell…slicing off the Fir Darrig’s hands. Black blood sprayed everywhere.

  Then Bron felt the bond being severed at his wrists. “Run for yer freedom,” cried Coup.

  Bron needed no prodding. He leaped to his feet and ran into the confines of the stone circle. He whistled to Samisen. Snorting and head shaking, the horse galloped toward him. Bron swept Eithne up into his arms and onto the horse.

  Jumping on himself, he paused for a split second. Gibbers! He leaned dangerously forward, nearly unbalancing himself and caught the little devil by the neck.

  “Begobs…let me be! I’m afeerin’ heights. Nay! nay!” he squealed.

  Bron ignored his protests and gave the command to his horse to fly. Samisen reared on hind legs, pawing the air, and lunged upward. His powerful wings spread and lifted the riders high above the stone circle, high above the turrets of Rath Morna and beyond the grasp of Sheelin.

  Bron continued to hold Gibbers outstretched. Gibbers cried and flailed his scrawny arms pathetically, grabbing for the safety of the stallion’s back. “Tell us now where Ketha is imprisoned or I’ll be dropping you.”

  “I’ll niver tell!” bawled Gibbers.

  “My fingers grow weary…and mark I have but one hand. Once I let go…I let go,” threatened Bron.

  “I’ll have me tribute…” whined Gibbers, his own fingers clawing the empty air for a handhold.

  “Speak, you bog child,” rasped Eithne. “Speak or I’ll shout your own secrets o’er the countryside.”

  She was clasping her throat as if it pained her to speak.

  “What is it?” asked Bron, worriedly.

  “’Tis…’tis Sheel
in. He draws off my voice.”

  “Is there no way to stop him?”

  “My mother…we must find my mother.”

  Bron turned his attention to Gibbers. “Speak now, you green imp! Or I’ll dust the mountain peaks with your carcass.”

  “Troth! I dunno…only ’tis in the northern marssshes…”

  “The northern marshes. Arrah!” Bron knew the place. He tossed Gibbers into Eithne’s arms and muttered a cryptic word in Samisen’s ear.

  “You know?” asked Eithne, half-heartedly patting Gibbers, who shivered with fear in her arms like a fresh cream pudding.

  “I know. The night past, while searching for you I found a tower in the marshes. I believed it to be deserted. It had no entrance, only a single lancet window high above.”

  “I have never spied a tower in the northern marshes. I have flown over it a hundred times.”

  “’Tis invisible. Another of Sheelin’s illusions.”

  “Nay…” breathed Eithne, peering over the wide wings of Samisen.

  Around them the gathering storm clouds veiled the sun and the sky paled. Eithne felt chilled and found little comfort from the nearness of the cold-blooded Gibbers. Yet at her back, the warmth of Bron radiated against her skin like a hearth fire.

  As they neared the marshlands the skies turned darker and a great wind brewed. Bron guided the horse downward. The tower would be difficult to find again in the vast loneliness that stretched out before them. Fingers of fog clouded vision, but Bron kept his eyes open for the ancient tree stump.

  “Will Sheelin follow?” asked Bron.

  “Aye, he will follow to hell’s door and beyond.” Eithne frowned at Gibbers, who hid his face in the folds of her tunic. “Why can’t Sheelin and his court enter the circle of stones, Gibbers? And do not say you’ll ‘niver’ tell or I’ll throw you off this beastie myself.”