by Dawn Madigan
“We’d better figure it out quickly then, sweetheart, because I don’t think we’re anywhere near Inis.”
Dara stopped and turned, giving him a long, assessing look. It seemed as though she was finally contemplating the gravity of their situation.
“Funny,” she said, “how you’re always ending up naked, Mackey!”
She resumed her brisk stride, leaving him behind.
His eyebrows drew together in a fiery red line.
“Fine,” Rowan muttered behind her back. “I guess you think you can handle a dragún all by yourself, then. Gutsy lass.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. “I can handle what?”
“A dragún. A Water Dragon. I truly admire your nerve.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“A full-grown Water Dragon is a matter too serious to be bluffing about, Dara.”
She did a full one-eighty so she could scrutinize his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
He gave her a grave stare in response. She was about to fall for it.
“Fine.” Dara glared at him, placing both her hands over her hips. “So, you have any bright idea as to where we should go?”
“I know this place no better than you.” One angle of Rowan’s mouth quirked in a soft grin. “However, I believe the mermaids have taken us further than intended, through the River of Gold and down the Luran. And I remember Brighid speaking earlier of kingdoms and border crossings. I think right now we’re in the kingdom she named Connachta.”
“And that’s a big help, how?”
He shrugged. “It’s a start, at least.”
Dara’s hand shaded her eyes as her gaze toured the sky, searching for a familiar black speck marring the blue. “Well, I don’t see a raven rushing in to help,” she sighed. “I hope Brighid is okay.”
“She better be,” Rowan growled. “The brat still owes me quite a bit of explanation!”
“Not to mention, we’re hopelessly lost here without her.” Dara frowned. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m back to Plan A.”
“What’s Plan A?”
She spun around, water beads glittering in her knotted hair. “Walking,” she tossed behind her back.
Rowan watched her go thump, thump, thump along the shore again, a muscle twitching in his lower jaw. He turned a wary gaze to the new shore they’d been just cast upon. To his left shimmered the Luran, a river so wide that no land could be traced across its farthest waters. Only now could he fathom how far the mermaids had led them. To his right, wet white sand gradually dried and stretched until gnawed by shallow rocks and patches of grass, and these were quickly dissolved into the shadows of a huge pine forest. The deep scent of sweet and bitter pine took over the air, chasing away Manannan’s salty tang. The woods climbed the ribs of shallow hills, cladding them in dark green. Far away, something glistened like a diamond within the coronet of hills, but Rowan couldn’t make out what it was.
His face darkened as he looked back to the edge of the wood.
“Problem taken care of, Dara,” he called, his tone controlled. “Seems like someone else has already decided a Plan B for us.”
He glanced at her, finding her staring in the same direction as he. He started towards her in long, deliberately unhurried strides.
Riders spilled from the woods, steering their steeds to cross their path. For a frightening split-second he thought these were the same ones who had earlier chased them to the River of Gold. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. No blood-tinged Hound scent haunted his senses, and these riders looked different in clothing and manner. Moreover, unlike before, their chieftain was a woman.
She rode her dark stallion bareback and bridleless, her long hair streaming behind her in loose red curls. A slim golden coronet glittered within the red. Rowan laid his hand over the small of Dara’s damp back as the horse neighed above them, rearing on its hind legs and settling back down. The large beast’s display of power sprayed them both with muddy sand.
“Who are you? Who disturbed my wards?” The woman’s voice was the same silver-sweet that they had grown accustomed to hearing by now. She bent slightly over her horse’s long arched neck, her pale fists full of its black mane. She had an elongated, fine-boned face, but her blue eyes were sharp and impatient.
“These wards are worse than a silent alarm,” Dara muttered.
“You are not from these lands.” The woman shifted on her horse, scrutinizing them both curiously. Her gaze, unabashed, centered on Rowan in particular, sliding down his bare skin and missing nothing. Her next words were meant for him. “Your woman is dark-haired and speaks with an odd inflection, and your skin is the color of honey, like folks of the Upper Realm. Where are you two from?”
“I’m not his wo—” Dara started in protest. She gave a small yelp as Rowan squeezed her arm none too gently.
“Please, not now, sweetheart,” he whispered, his mouth tight against her ear. “’Tis important that you stake your claim on me here.”
Dara glanced up at the woman, eyes squinted against the unfocused daylight. She looked like a warrior-princess taken straight out of history. Her ample breasts were barely packed into a tight corset of leather and brass. Two generous side-splits in her scarcely there leather skirt revealed muscular thighs. Calf-high boots of dark leather and glistening brass buckles completed the picture, and…was that the protruding hilt of a long sword strapped against her back?
“I understand not, isn’t he your man?” The question had been aimed at Dara. The warrior’s ravenous blue gaze roved over Rowan’s body, lingering low and long enough to make him squirm uneasily.
“Yes, he is…my man,” Dara responded so swiftly she even surprised herself.
Rowan chuckled beside her.
“Oh, shut up,” Dara whispered, “before I give you back to the bad lady to play with!”
About five riders were now circling the warrior princess. One of them ordered his stallion forward to her side, both the horse and his rider of massive proportions. The man looked like a giant—wild chestnut locks wrestled about his face and were tied against his nape into a long, untamed ponytail. A vest of loose chain mail glistened against his enormous, sculpted upper torso. It left his muscle-bound arms bare but for a set of twin silver arm-bracelets and a snaking blue tattoo in a language unknown to Dara. His soft leather slacks were molded against his flesh in a way that left no detail to the imagination.
“Highness.” The giant touched the haft of the sword secured beneath his knee, and flashed a lopsided smile. “I thought that whenever I dropped by for a visit, I would be enough to satisfy your appetite.”
“Oh aye, you are more than enough, Fergus.” The warrior woman gave him a sultry smile. Her seething attention focused back on her unexpected guests. “’Tis rude of me, leaving you not knowing who you’re speaking with,” she said. “I’m Medb of Rath Cruachan. Grant me similar grace and tell me who you are.”
“Highness,” Rowan answered warily. “We’re only travelers from the neighboring Kingdom, who’re making their way up north.”
“For now, ‘tis enough.” Medb patted the sweat-glistening neck of her steed. “You’ll tell me the rest in my palace, at the banquet held for Imbolc.”
“Sounds like an offer we can hardly refuse,” Dara mumbled. She gave another small yelp as Rowan squeezed her arm again.
“Not a bright idea, making the bad lady angry with us,” he hissed in her ear.
Fergus motioned to one of the riders hovering in the back. In response, a heavy roll of brocaded plush landed at Rowan’s and Dara’s feet.
“Put this on,” Fergus advised them both, a smile curling beneath his matter-of-fact tone. “A couple of mantles we didn’t make use of.”
“Why should I wear this?” Dara demanded.
Rowan muttered a silent plea for the Goddess’s help as he knelt beside his obstinate mate, untying the small bundle.
“Because you’re riding with us to the Ruling Mound’s palace as He
r Highness’s personal guests.”
“Ruling Mound?” Rowan, crouched above the spread of velvet robes, raised squinted eyes to the mounted huge warrior.
“Oh, aye,” Fergus grinned. “’Tis Medb you’ve just happened upon, High Princess of Connachta, and her word is law around these parts.” He maneuvered his huge stallion with ease, pointing to what glimmered in the distance within the dark green garland of hills. “There is the palace of Rath Cruachan,” he said.
“It’ll take us forever to get there, it’s too damn far!” Dara insisted.
“Your wee woman holds enough spirit to bring thirty able warriors down to their knees.” Fergus grinned sympathetically at Rowan. Ignoring Dara’s glare, he added, “We’ll be taking the Woods Gateway. Time and distance play different there. We’ll be in the palace before a single cipín burns fully.”
“Before what burns out?” Dara frowned. She was still refusing to change into her new attire, leaving the embroidered gown in Rowan’s hands. A sharp gasp squeezed out of her mouth as Fergus leaned down from his horse and plucked her easily from the ground, planting her on the saddle in front of him.
“You ride with Her Highness,” he rumbled at Rowan from above, one eyebrow cocked with amusement. “So she wishes, and her wishes are my commands.”
Dara’s breath hitched.
Goddess, but Fergus was huge! Every aspect of him. His cock, pressed against her back through his leather slacks, was the size of several grown men’s fists.
Dara sucked her lower lip into her mouth. She didn’t want to imagine this erect. Unfortunately, Fergus had been watching her face, rather liking her unintended lip manipulation. She stifled a whimper as she felt his instant reaction pressing harder and longer against her back. Watching her frightened expression, Fergus threw his head back, his hearty laughter thundering above her head.
“Worry not, wee one,” he finally managed. “My duties lie with my consort, Her Highness. Sharing her bed is enough to drain the essence of thirty regular-sized men!”
Dara glimpsed Rowan mounting the black steed, his arms wrapping around Her Highness’s waist in a loose embrace. The front of his thighs pressed against the royal back of hers. Against her will, Dara’s lips and fists tightened in protest.
A low chuckle roared and vibrated against her back. Fergus was sniggering, lowering his mouth all the way down to her ear.
“Haven’t bedded your lad yet, have you?” he whispered. “Let me advise you this. Take him to your bed. Soon.”
Chapter Fifteen
Passing through the Gateway, though Dara had initially feared it, had been hardly felt at all. One moment they were riding into the shadows of a pine forest, hooves crushing needles among its sharply scented trees, the next moment the horses were clattering against marble, and the pine forests were left far behind, adorning the ring of surrounding hills. They were now standing in front of enormous gates, an intricate mesh of bows and spines gleaming in ivory-white.
“The palace gates,” Fergus growled from above.
“Where…where are all the guards? Up on the walls?” Dara was awestruck, gazing up to the full height of the gates, painfully craning her neck.
“At their rightful posts, they are,” Fergus replied, a smile in his voice. “But Her Highness’s palace is also guarded by protection wards. Those you can’t see, no more than you were able to trace the Woods Gateway…unless trained in magic and sorcery.”
The palace gates’ sheen rapidly deepened before her eyes and the solid structure trembled, fogged. The bows and spines now appeared close to transparent.
“On we go,” Fergus rumbled.
Honoring his consort and chieftain, he waited for Medb’s black steed to sashay through the gates first, then followed. The rest of their small troop tagged along close behind. Dara couldn’t help but squeeze her eyes shut as they ambled through what had been, less than a minute ago, a solid mass.
She yelped as Fergus’s massive hands caught her just beneath her arms and swung her down from the saddle. She wrenched her eyes open, her feet slipping and staggering against the solid ground. Another pair of strong arms captured her, their touch startlingly familiar.
“Got you,” Rowan breathed against her cheek. She half-turned in his hold and caught his neck in a loose hug, steadying herself against his hard chest.
Fergus’s laughter thundered from above again. “I’m leaving you in most able hands.” He grinned at Dara. “Remember my advice, wee one. You have ample time ‘til the Imbolc banquet, many cipín yet to burn. Use this time well.”
“What advice did he give you?” Rowan’s fiery eyebrows drew together in suspicion.
“N-nothing.” Dara’s face took on the color of a ripe tomato. “Uh, what’s this Ki-Peen thing he keeps mentioning?” she asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.
“Cipín is a stick,” Rowan replied, “but I’ve never heard the expression he uses. Maybe burning one cipín is a way to measure time here, in a place with no sun and no moon, no true day and no night.” His arms tightened about her waist. He inclined his head lower as he spoke to her, his voice dropping. Dara let out an involuntary moan, her pulse speeding up.
“You’ll be shown to your chambers now,” Medb’s voice sang sweetly beside them.
Rowan and Dara both started as if jerked out of a spell, turning their gazes to the High Princess. She had already dismounted her black steed, and was now standing with Fergus’s arm resting lightly over one lusciously curved hip.
“Bathe and lie down. We shall speak again at a later time.” She flashed her dazzling hot smile again.
“Bathe? Lie down? Hey, you don’t think I’m simply going to—” Dara’s protest was drowned in the buzz and bustle of servants, sweeping her and Rowan towards a gaping arched hall.
Medb of Rath Cruachan pressed lightly against Fergus Mac Roich as they both watched the Kanjali couple being swept away.
“What are your thoughts, Fergus?” she inquired softly. Her red-painted nails teased a tattooed, brawny arm.
“These two are the ones,” he replied shortly, “that Queen Eriu has spoken of.”
“Meaning Donn must be at their throats.”
“Aye, Highness, most likely so.”
“I dislike that conniving bastard. He’s not a true dé-Danann, and his mind is warped with revenge.” She sighed, and her consort nodded. “’Tis all Bilé’s doing, having a Milesian residing here, in the Lower Realm—and as a Prince no less, ruling his own Mound. Conjuring his own magic. By Danu, the bastard wields an iron sword! He should have been left to drown at sea, I swear to it.”
“Shhh, Highness, you don’t wish to wake Bilé, the sleeping God of Life and Death, Ruler of the Otherworld, Guardian of the Sacred Oak. He’s jealous for his scions’ sake and honor.”
Fergus Mac Roich strived to quench his mistress’s burning wrath, though he wholeheartedly shared her views when it came to the rogue prince. Prince Eber Donn, none other than King Miled’s eldest son, should have indeed drowned at sea near Erin’s shores in the magical storm conjured by the Tuatha dé Danann, thousands of years before. The God Bilé, however, intervened and placed Donn at Knockfierna, as one of the Otherworld’s Princes. Besides giving him his life and a dominion of his own, he’d also granted him magic.
“No, I don’t wish to wake Bilé. I’m not sure I will have the Goddess Danu’s protection if I stir her ancient rival out of his long sleep.” Medb had left Fergus’s side and was now pacing back and forth. “Though I would love to wring Donn’s neck with my own bare hands!”
“If I may make you an offer, Highness,” Fergus spoke quietly. “If you wish to help these two out of Donn’s way without stirring earth and sky, there’s a certain Gateway you can point them to, which requires no magic or sorcery, and leads straight back to the Upper Realm.”
* * * * *
“No, you perv, take your damn hands off me!” Dara swiped at an overly eager servant girl who made an unrelenting effort to rub something scent
ed into her bare skin. Dara had resented this maid from the moment she’d managed to rip her shirt away, leaving her naked, but for her shoulder rig. The girl now fled from her, only to try a fresh attack from the rear.
“Hey, you!” Dara spun around heatedly, swinging a well-aimed fist. It hit home. This time the girl crawled away, wailing, and didn’t come back for more. Dara snorted with odd satisfaction. “Anyone else?” she growled at the group of huddled servants. “I’m tired, hungry, naked and I hate public baths!”
“I’d take care if I were you,” Rowan sniggered at the knot of servants. A couple of giggling maids were busy peeling the plush mantle from his shoulders, and he didn’t put up too much of a fight. “She’s got one mean right hook, I tell you. Felt it myself.”
“’Tis the Infinity Hall, one of Her Highness’s most luxurious bathing halls,” one daring male servant protested. “I know not this ‘public bath’ your woman is speaking of.” Quite daringly, he paced closer to Dara.
Rowan groaned at the servant’s careless use of “your woman”. The poor bastard had it coming, and didn’t even know it yet. Rowan watched Dara’s cheeks ignite with an even angrier red.
“Not. Another. Step,” Dara yelled at the servant, highly irritated. “Or you’re going to lose a few inches. And I’m not talking height here!” Her fist closed on her dagger’s hilt. Goddess, she wanted to use it. Badly. At the edge of her visual field Rowan was standing naked—again—his laughter a warm hum in the background.
She threw a miserable glance at the odd-shaped pool occupying most of the hall. It was shaped in a series of connected water channels, designed to look like a Celtic knot. That’s probably why it had been named Infinity Hall. The channels’ rims had been gilded, their glitter softened and blurred by milky steam. The water looked hot and inviting. Every muscle in her body was screaming. She wanted more than anything to sink herself into a hot tub, but Goddess, she wasn’t prepared to put on a show for this bunch. Come to think of it, she’d been doing exactly that for the last few minutes. Making a spectacle out of herself. She couldn’t help it—she’d been treated like she had no will of her own. This specific scene, however, was getting ridiculous. Her mind dug for an excuse that might appeal to the servants.
