“Do that again,” she asked.
“What?”
“Kiss my lips. It stirs my blood and that is undeniably healthy for one who so recently has been a corpse.” She held him in a hot, wanton gaze that teased.
“I want to kiss your mouth and more. I want to take you in my arms.”
“Only that?” she prompted with mock innocence.
His hands took and held her own lightly. “In truth I want to carry you away to some deserted spot and make love to you,” he confessed. “But I fear this is not the time.”
She looked down and cried out, “You have both hands!”
“Aye.” His white teeth flashed an overwhelming smile. “’Twas one of the many miracles this day.”
“Beway,” she breathed, her eyes large and luminous. “It was your harp music I heard. I was aboard a ship, one akin to the Wave Sweeper, setting off to the faraway isles. I heard the slap of waves against its hull, and the splash as an anchor was raising. The sails were being run up the mast and billowed as the wind filled them. But it was then I heard the harp music. My senses tingled as the notes chimed like fairy bells on the wind.”
Tears glistened on her cheeks. “Oh, Bron, that music touched my heart with such deep yearning, that it was then I told the shipman, I must go back. When I opened my eyes you were there.” She laid her face against his shoulder, feeling the rough texture of his tunic and inhaling the familiar aroma of his breath.
“Come,” he prompted, lifting her to her feet. “Unless you wish to continue lying upon your funeral pyre. ’Tis well oiled and awaiting the torch.”
“Begorrah,” she jested. “My nose may be still cold, but not that cold.” She nuzzled it against his hair and peeked over his shoulder. She smiled at all those around as first Ketha, then Sheelin, moved to embrace her.
She felt herself being drawn in the warm oval of her father’s arms—she realized for the first time in her remembrance. His clasp was startling in its strength and tenderness. The darkness that she’d ever sensed around him had dissipated and she felt a flow of love between them. Her throat ached, not as a result of his magics, but from her desire to tell him again that she loved him.
Before she could speak, his own words erupted. “Forgive me, Eithne. I love you, my daughter.”
In the soft folds of his cloak she wept softly with joy, and then reluctantly moved to embrace others.
“Do I smell troll?” A sudden, she sniffed the air and looked about. She spied a green flash of color dash behind a fallen stone. She walked over. “You must come out, Gibbers.”
The tip of his pointed ears appeared over the stone and Eithne heard his small whining voice. “I’m here, but I’m afeared.”
“’Tis only me…the evil, wicked gurrul.”
What an outburst of wailing followed. “I niver, thruly belaffed ye were an evil, wicked gurrul,” he sniveled. His gob green eyes, running wet and overflowing with misery, came into view. Pointing a bony finger at Bron he declared, “That one ‘ill murdher me if I show me face.”
“Is that so?” asked Eithne, watching Bron with amusement in her eyes.
“’Tis no more than he deserves.” Bron winked conspiratorially.
“Can you promise to speak well of all?” examined Eithne.
“Troth, nary a foul ward can pass me lips. Me hart has turned,” Gibbers vowed, touching his breast.
“I think his heart turns because at his feet the heath is a mass of violets,” challenged Bron. Gibbers shook his head in denial. “But if he’s a particular favorite of your heart, milady…I’ll show mercy.”
“That he is!” affirmed Eithne.
Gibbers’s lipless mouth spread wide with delight and he scrambled atop the stone slab in full view as if he were about to wear the crown of the hour.
There was a companionable silence that stretched for some moments, before Bron bowed gallantly and offered his arm to Eithne. “Milady, would you honor me by taking a stroll in this fair land of Myr?”
“Indeed, I will, Bron mac Llyr,” agreed Eithne. She raised her head, just a little, to look into his eyes and there she saw a wealth of love and promise. He smiled in a way that made her heart expand like a moon daylight bright. With resilient eyes they held each other’s gaze, entwining fingers and hands.
Soft confidences flowed between them as they strolled from the hallowed henge, his head slightly bent to catch her words, his arm around her shoulders, hers lightly encircling his narrow hips.
“Musha,” beamed Gibbers on the aside to all who cared to listen. “I knew their sssecret all along. He loved her betther than life. An’ she axed was it in airnest he was, an’ he said cud she doubt it whin he loved her wid all the veins av his heart.”
Gibbers gave a dramatic sigh as he saw the two lovers disappear over the rolling hill. Munching on a handful of violets, he prattled on, “An’ now they both think the trouble is all over foriver. It’s a way thim lovers has, an’ they must be axcused, bekase it’s the same wid thim all.”
Author’s Note
I would like to credit research sources I have used in writing this story: The Enchanted World Series published by Time-Life Books, Faeries published by Bantam Books, Irish Wonders by D. R. McAnally, Jr., and Irish Folk and Fairy Tales Omnibus by Michael Scott.
In mythology swans are the symbol of self-transformation and spiritual liberation. I believe that there is nothing more transforming than loving relationships.
Swan Witch is the second book concerning the romantic adventures of the swan maidens of Myr. The third book is entitled Swan Star.
More from Betina Lindsey
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Moira grew to womanhood in the realm of Myr, wise in the arts of women.. and utterly innocent of the ways of men. All of that changes tonight.
Moira wondered, trembling. She passes through the circle of stones into the world of men. There, she meets Wulfsun, every mesmerizing inch a man, hard muscled and tawny maned. No Viking was more feared, until he captures a maiden as beautiful as moonlit shadows, and is enslaved for all time. He would have her willing or not at all, though his blood coursed hot with wanting. And though Moira wore a golden collar of thralldom, her desire for the mighty warrior was the greater bondage.
Swan Witch
In an enchanted realm, all is illusion, save for a love that blazes brighter than the stars.
As the setting sun haloed her flame-colored hair, beautiful Eithne glowed with netherworld witchery, her gentle nature clouded by the black magic of the Druid father who held her mother imprisoned. Having vowed never to speak, she could not cry
a warning to the handsome knight who, by entering the gates of Rath Morna, has sealed his fate. With his raven-black hair braided like that of a king, Bron Mac Llyr has traveled the land searching for the famed Swan Sister who is blessed with the powers to heal his battle wounds. Instead he finds a place of dark enchantment, a trap of lies and illusions, and an exotic, ethereal woman so lovely he burns to possess her. Bron vows to unveil the sorrowful secret that burdens Eithne's heart. Now she must chance exchanging her father's evil reign for the greater hazards of desire and so discover that a man can give as well as take, could free as well as possess his beloved Swan Witch.
Swan Star
The glorious conclusion of the enthralling Swan Trilogy.
During a moonlit swim, Arrah of Myr finds herself at the mercy of Traeth of Rhune. Headstrong and bold, Traeth quickly seizes the now helpless Arrah and carries her to Rhune Castle, in the world of men. There the handsome knight showers her with gifts and kisses, awakening a wild passion between mortal and swan maiden—the other-world beauty he vows never to let go.
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