by Pamela Clare
He wanted her, more than any woman he’d known. But he could not give in to his want. He would not bind himself to her or any other woman, and a woman like Bríghid deserved more than a quick tumble in the grass by a man who would lift her skirts one day and leave her the next. Besides, he’d made great sacrifices to preserve her virginity. He’d almost died, for God’s sake. What kind of man would he be if after all that he stole her virtue himself?
He tied Hermes’s reins to a nearby tree, left the horse to graze. Then he walked to where she stood atop the outer ring of a much larger set of rings. Her eyes were closed, lashes dark against her cheeks. Her ebony hair, grey cloak and red skirts billowed gracefully in the wind behind her. She looked like a pagan princess from some distant past or a heathen priestess lost in an incantation. Before her stretched the broad hilltop—rings within rings, mounds, and standing stones.
Jamie felt the deep stillness around him, thought of Indian sacred sites Takotah had shown him, and knew he stood on hallowed ground. “What is this place?”
Her eyes flew open, and she seemed startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there. “It is Teagh-mor. It was once the seat of a great kingdom.”
“This one is much bigger.” He came to stand beside her, gestured to the giant rings before them.
“Aye. It should be. It is the Rath Righ, Fort of the High Kings. For more than six centuries, it was the home of the Ard Righ, the High King of Ireland.” She lifted her skirts, walked toward the center where there were yet more rings. “’Twas the home of my forbears.”
“Your forbears?” Jamie stopped, looked at her through new eyes. “So you are—”
“A many-times great-granddaughter of Niall Noígiallag, one of our greatest kings.”
Sheff had told him that most Irishmen believed themselves descended from ancient heroes and kings, even mythological creatures. At the time, Jamie had been amused and laughed with Sheff at the absurd imaginings of illiterate, ignorant peasants. But after what he’d witnessed, Jamie knew Sheff had a twisted view of this land and saw only what he wanted to see. And while Jamie had so far had but a taste of Ireland, he had never known Bríghid to lie or tell fanciful stories. Perhaps she’d been fed false tales of royal lineage by her father. Or perhaps it was the truth.
He saw her hand lift to her throat where her brooch should have been, then slide away, disappointed. “What do you know about King Niall?” he asked.
“I know he subdued the Picts in what you call Scotland.” She tilted her face towards him, smiled sweetly. “I know he harried the Romans when they had made a slave of your country. His descendants ruled Ireland for six hundred years.”
“He must have been a fierce warrior.”
“Aye, but he was wise, too.” She slipped into a tale about King Niall’s youth as she wandered through the grass, stopping to name this set of rings or that standing stone.
Jamie followed, lost in her story, lost in the beauty of her voice, the sweet lilt of her accent, the grace of her movements. He felt he could listen to her speak forever and never weary of it. The burdens he’d carried these past months seemed to lift from his shoulders.
“But while his brothers saved from the fire only things that could be remade and forged anew, Niall saved the forge itself from destruction. When his father saw the deep wisdom of Niall’s actions, he called his court together and said, ‘It is Niall and no other who shall succeed me as Ard Righ of Eirinn.’” She stopped before a tall standing stone that jutted from the ground like a giant phallus. “This is the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny. ’Twas said it roared when touched by the rightful king of Taragh.” She reached out as if to caress the stone, pulled her hand back.
“What’s this?” Jamie looked with fascination on a low, grassy mound with a base built of piled stones. An opening led to a low stone passageway inside. He crouched and looked within.
“Don’t!” Bríghid grabbed his coat sleeve. There was genuine fear on her face. “Do not go in there! The Sidhe! Such mounds are said to be the gateway to the world of the Faery, the Otherworld.”
Jamie might have laughed, as he didn’t believe in such things. But there was power here. He could feel it. This was sacred in some way or had been at one time. He could just make out designs carved into the rock—concentric circles, cup shapes, lines. The hands that had made them had long since turned to dust, and their meaning was now lost. What did they signify? Jamie would have loved to take a closer looked, but some ancestral memory told the Irish to stay out, and he would respect that just as he respected Indian burial grounds in Virginia.
“It is called the Dumha na nGiall—The Mound of Hostages.” She then told a story of King Naill and the hostages he brought back with him to ensure the cooperation of conquered enemies and vassal kings. “’Tis said he kept hostages from as far away as Gaul here at Teagh-mor.”
“You tell the stories well. Your father must have brought you here many times.”
Her step faltered. “Only once, and that was long ago.”
Jamie heard the pain in her voice, regretted his ill-chosen words. He had wanted to make her smile, had instead stirred her grief. He fought his urge to comfort her, to hold her. He did not trust himself to be near her.
They strayed in silence for a time, Bríghid interrupting the stillness to name a mound or set of rings—Teach Chormaic, Rath na Seanad, Rath Gráinne. The names were foreign and exotic to Jamie and conjured up images of some magical past beyond the reaches of history. Yet, it was all real and alive to Bríghid. What must it be like to know your family’s history back to its dawning? What must it be like to be tied by your very blood and the crumbled bones of your ancestors to the landscape? While Jamie loved Blakewell’s Neck with its forests, fertile fields, and the rushing of the nearby Rappahannock River, he was but the second generation of his family to live on that land, by comparison little more than a newcomer.
She stopped before a long, rectangular indentation, perhaps the foundation of a great, long hall. “This is the Midh-chuarta, the Banqueting Hall. Some say the king held the great Feis here every third year. The kings, chiefs, nobles and the seancaithe—the lore-keepers—met to settle disputes, pass laws and hear the entire history of Ireland recited.”
“No doubt the stories grew taller with each retelling.”
She gaped at him with wide eyes. “Oh, no! Any seanchaí who dared to change the history or weave lies into his tale would have been condemned by the others and risked becoming an outcast.”
“Do you mean to tell me the Irish storytellers never embellish the truth?” Jamie didn’t believe that for one second.
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Well, perhaps when they’ve had a bit too much poitín.”
“What other stories do you know?”
“No Sasanach truly wants to listen to the tales of old Ireland.” Bríghid met Jamie’s gaze, felt as if she herself were on the drink. He looked so handsome in his woolen coat with its brass buttons. His shoulders were so broad, his jaw strong, and the way he looked at her…
He cupped her cheek in his hand, traced a circle on her skin with his thumb. “Ah, Bríghid, then I am not like other Sasanach.”
His touch left a trail of fire on her cheek, drove away all thoughts but one. She wanted to know. She needed to know. “Kiss me. I want … ”
She looked away, shocked and mortified at her own boldness. But the words were out. She could not take them back.
He lifted her chin, forced her to look into his eyes. “What do you want?”
The warmth of his gaze left her weak, spellbound. “I want to know what it feels like … to be kissed when … when I’m not afraid.”
His eyes closed, his brow furrowed. A low sound like a moan came from his throat, as if the idea brought him pain.
And she understood. Shame made her cheeks flame. He didn’t want to kiss her. She was naught but a poor Irish maid in his eyes, a destitute girl dressed in tatters. “I-I’m sorry. You don’t want to. I understand
. I was wrong to—”
His eyes opened. He chuckled, and then his voice softened. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Bríghid, my sweet. I want very much to kiss you. I want it so much it hurts. But be sure it’s what you want.”
Sure and this was not what she had expected him to say. His words made her heart beat faster, made it hard to speak. “That night, I felt … But I was so scared, and … I need to know. Just a kiss.”
His gaze locked with hers. “Aye. Just a kiss.”
She closed her eyes, fisted her hands in the folds of her cloak, unable to breathe. Just standing near him she could feel the enticing masculine strength of his body. She tilted her chin up to him, felt his arms enfold her, the hard press of his body against hers. At the first tentative brush of his lips against hers, she thought she would melt.
He kissed first her upper lip, then her lower. Then his mouth gently took hers, his lips warm and soft, and she did melt, sinking against him with a whimper, her palms flat against his chest. But the kiss wasn’t over.
She felt his tongue trace the outline of her lips and found her lips parting of their own accord. Heat flared in her belly as he tasted her, penetrated her. This was much better than what she remembered, much more potent, more thrilling.
“Bríghid.” When his lips took hers again, all gentleness was gone, replaced by an intensity that almost frightened her. She could not breathe. She could not think. Rather than pulling away, she found herself clinging to him, returning his passion with a fervor of her own. Their tongues twined, caressed, parried.
It was like nothing she could have imagined. She was on fire as he held her, consumed her, ravished her mouth.
He twined his fingers in her hair, pulled her head back and trailed kisses along the sensitive skin of her throat. She gasped at the delicious new sensation. When his tongue traced the whorl of her ear, her knees gave way. “Jamie!”
Gently he lowered her to the ground, the thick grass a blanket beneath them. He cradled her head in the crook of his arm, continued to kiss her throat. His body stretched, hard and strong, beside hers.
Through a haze of pleasure, she felt a hint of alarm. “Just a kiss. You said—”
He lifted his lips from her quivering skin, looked down at her, his eyes dark with passion. “Bríghid, my sweet, this is just a kiss.”
Then his lips took hers again, and she forgot her fear. He filled her senses, the taste of him, the manly smell, the feel of his masculine body so close to hers. Her lips tingled, pulsed as he plundered her mouth, kissed her cheeks, nibbled the skin of her throat. Other parts of her tingled, too. She felt wet, hot with longing.
She heard herself moan, felt herself arch against him. Her fingers laced themselves through his blond hair, sought the planes of his back through the frustrating thickness of his coat. What was wrong with her? Her body burned as if with fever, alive and wanting.
“Ah, Bríghid.” His voice was strained. “We must stop.”
But she didn’t want to stop. Not yet.
When he at last broke the kiss, she felt bereft, forlorn, desperate. Her breathing was as rapid as if she’d just run up a hill. Her lips ached for his attention, her body for his touch. A maid though she was, she knew what she felt was nothing less than a woman’s full desire. She felt overwhelmed by it, both afraid and enthralled.
Just a kiss.
He gazed down at her, the look in his eyes one of undisguised male hunger. He trailed a finger along her cheek. “You have now been good and thoroughly kissed, Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill. Do you have your answer?”
Bríghid could scarcely remember the question. “Aye.”
“And how was it?”
How could she answer that question? She searched for the words, felt suddenly awkward. What would he think of her if she admitted how he had made her feel? She didn’t want to admit it to herself, much less to him. Yet, how could she deny it? She’d reacted like a wanton. “I didn’t hate it this time.”
In truth, his kiss had shaken her to her soul.
He smiled, and she knew he’d seen through her feigned indifference. “Ah, Bríghid, you do know how to humble a man.”
The reality of what she’d done began to sink in as her passion cooled. She had brazenly kissed a Sasanach, and it had touched her to her core.
She tried to rise, suddenly eager to be far away from him.
His weight held her fast.
“Which part did you not hate the most? This?” He gently brushed her lips with his.
She heard her breath catch, as the fire he’d stoked within her leapt to life again.
“Or this?” He deepened the kiss, tasted her with his tongue.
She whimpered, opened her mouth to his lingering, lazy intrusion.
“Or perhaps this?” His lips found the sensitive spot just beneath her ear and teased it.
She moaned, a low earthy sound of pleasure.
Abruptly, he pulled away.
Through a mist, she realized he was waiting for an answer. A blush crept into her cheeks. “I-I don’t know. It was all much better than ... ” She let her words trail away. She had not meant to stir those memories.
His brow furrowed. “Bríghid, about that night … I said things, did things I would normally never say or do—”
“Please!” She held her fingers to his lips. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“It frightens you.” It was a declaration, not a question.
She nodded. “Aye.”
“Yet you wish to know the truth. Why ask me to kiss you else?” His voice was deep, husky with desire.
She had no response. He saw too much, understood her too well.
“The truth is, Bríghid, I’m sorry for what you endured that night. I wanted only to protect you from something far worse. If I were truly to make love to you, it would be so much different than it was that night. When I make love to a woman, I take my time, and I make certain she enjoys it as much as I. Her pleasure comes first.”
His lips lingered a mere inch from hers. His words made her belly do a flip. They also reminded her he’d been with other women, perhaps many.
She sat abruptly, pushed him away. “I wonder if you’re after pleasin’ them for their sake or just to satisfy your male pride.”
He stood, helped her to her feet, a smirk on his damnably handsome face. “Why, Bríghid, don’t tell me you’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” She brushed grass from her cloak. “I don’t care—”
She heard it the same instant he did and froze, heart in her throat.
Men’s voices and the frantic neighing of a horse.
Chapter Fourteen
“Hermes!” Jamie took Bríghid by the hand, bent low, and began to run back in the direction they’d come.
The gentle curve of the hilltop blocked their view of the stallion. It also prevented whoever harried the animal from seeing them—for the moment.
Bríghid held her skirts with her free hand, struggled to keep up with him. He seemed to move without making a sound, as he had that night when they’d fled the iarla’s house. His pistol had somehow appeared in his hand, and a shiver ran through her when saw it was already cocked.
Back across the hilltop they ran, until they came to the Dumha na nGiall, the Mound of Hostages. They took shelter behind it.
The stallion’s shrill screams filled the air.
The men’s voices were clear now.
“It’s going to kill me!”
“Hold tight! Don’t let it pull free!”
A chill ran down her spine as she recognized the second voice. It was the man who’d kidnapped her, who’d groped her, fondled her breasts. The man in her nightmares.
“You recognize that voice?”
She nodded, feeling sick. “The iarla’s man.”
His jaw line grew rigid. His gaze hardened to jade.
She closed her eyes, sank back against the mound, fought to quell a wave of panic.
“Take this.”
She g
lanced down at the object he’d pressed into her hands, closed trembling fingers over the polished wooden handle of a dagger.
“Don’t hesitate to use it.”
The memory of that long ride, of that awful man’s hands on her body, flashed through her mind. Rage mixed with fear. “I won’t.”
“Stay here no matter what, do you understand? Hide inside if you must, legends be damned.”
“Aye, but—”
“But what?”
Don’t leave me alone! The words were on her tongue, but she swallowed them. She looked into his eyes, subdued her fear. “Be careful.”
He gave her a teasing, lopsided grin. “Why, Bríghid, I didn’t know you cared.”
With that, he was gone.
* * *
Jamie crept around the side of the mound, considered his options. He doubted Sheff’s servants would have orders that permitted them to harm him. Still, he could not be certain. Sheff was not the man he remembered. If it became necessary to defend himself, he’d have only one shot. There might not be time to reload.
Ordinarily, his dagger would serve as a backup in that situation. Takotah had taught him to throw knives as a boy, and he was almost as accurate with a dagger as with lead balls. But he couldn’t leave Bríghid without some means of protecting herself. If anything happened to him, she would be helpless. They would find her, and …
He brushed the thought aside, focused on his quarry. Bent low, he ran toward the largest set of rings, crept along their outer edge. As he came round the circle, he could see two men struggling to restrain Hermes, who bucked and reared, deadly hooves slicing the air. They were not far now.
Hermes whinnied in panic and rage, the whites of his eyes flashing.
“For God’s sake, shoot it! It’s broken my arm!”
“Grab the bridle! Hold its damned head!”
“My arm!”
Jamie chose his moment. “Let him go!”
