by Dawn Madigan
He felt her shivering beneath him, digging her nails into his arms as his fingers slipped inside her again. “Still soaking wet,” he said softly, twirling his fingers inside her. Her breath hissed out and she thrust her hips forward and up, pressing her sensitized flesh harder against his moving hand.
“Rowan,” she moaned. “Rowan. Rowan.”
Her hips rocked and gyrated, her feet burrowing holes into the thick mattress. He felt her feverish hands slipping from his arms to his damp back, kneading his flesh over and over. Rowan groaned low in his throat, withdrawing his fingers from Dara’s hot pussy.
She felt his nakedness sliding above, felt him moving along her body until their eyes locked. The head of his cock slid against her wet lips, nudging her entrance.
He watched her face displaying a rainbow of emotions. Propped on his elbows he bowed his head to hers, pressing his lips down. She opened her mouth wide for him, welcoming his tongue, answering his deep explorations with untamed want.
Still cradling her head in his hands, he entered her with a single, swift thrust, driving all of his length inside her. She felt hot and tight around him, her drenched cunt sucking his cock inside, coaxing a soft growl out of him.
His mouth stifled her scream when he drove himself all the way inside. Sharp, powerful, filling her all at once. He was big, and the move that had put him inside her wasn’t a gentle one.
It felt breathtakingly, achingly…wonderful.
Her legs wrapped and locked around his waist. She managed to tear her mouth from his, turning her face sideways to take a quick, hissing breath, so she could cry out all over again. Her head’s vigorous movement made his mouth slide wetly from her lips to her cheek. He kept himself still inside her as the second cry broke from her lips. She was shaking like a leaf in his arms, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Look at me,” he mumbled roughly against her damp cheek. “Open your eyes for me, sweetheart.”
Dara turned her face to his again, her breathing uneven and shallow. Their eyes locked once more. His gaze was rapt, intent, hard to decipher. He started to move inside her, a soft, slow rocking, so different from that almost violent first thrust that had driven him inside her. Her hips answered, undulating with him. Easy. Gentle. The small in-out movements of his cock slowly massaged her puffy, drenched walls, cajoling more of her juices out to lube him.
He dipped his head to nibble and suck on an earlobe, sliding his hands along the sides of her body, down lush curves and deep vales, until he cupped the full cheeks of her ass. His kiss slipped lower, sucking the hot pulse beating in her throat. Her neck arched and she dug a hand into his hair with a breathless moan, pressing his head tighter against her neck.
His thrusts grew longer, sharper. His fingers dimpled and squeezed her ass, pulling her harder on his cock each time. He groaned, his mouth full of her flesh, wanting to have more of her, to devour her whole. To melt their joined flesh together. To brand her as his, forever.
“Aaah, Rowan. Aaaahhh!” She answered each thrust with a short moan, a clipped scream, a single word. Just his name, whispered, moaned, yelled, over and over again. His name, not the one she had called that night, back in the storehouse.
“Dara.” Her sweat-beaded skin muffled his answering groan. He managed to capture her slender wrists, wrestle them with gentle firmness high above her head, force them against the mattress. She gave a broken howl, arching sharply against the crushed bedcovers. Her bowed body was sweetly trapped between his buried cock and his hands on her wrists. His rhythm peaked and he started pounding into her, breathing hard, flesh slapping wetly against flesh. Her pussy was sucking him in, massaging his sensitive cock head, ruthlessly pulsing against his throbbing shaft.
Dara cried out, squeezing her thighs harder around him, struggling to match him thrust for thrust. Rowan’s powerful strokes were grinding her clit, pinning her body against the bed. Her trapped hands clenched into tight fists, her nails carving half-moons in her own flesh. And then she sharply angled her hips and shuddered violently, her pussy exploding with a burst of tight, successive spasms.
He followed close behind, coming on a throaty groan, his cock squeezing bursts of hot semen into her rippling flesh. Her wrists slipped from his loosened hold. She wrapped her arms around his back and kept clinging to him, hot and trembling beneath him. And then Rowan was finally spent, sinking against her like a drowned man. His weight pressed her body against the mass of pillows, the satin and silk of the linens drenched and twisted beyond recognition.
Rowan held her for a while, and then gently tried to roll sideways, trying not to smother her with his full weight.
“No, not yet,” she pleaded and tightened her hug, arms and legs squeezing around him. “Stay here.”
“I’ll crush you, sweetheart.” His laugh hummed against her cheek.
“I won’t break that easily, you know.”
“I know.” His body remembered well the steely grip her thighs had kept on his waist just mere minutes ago. He brushed his lips over her skin, fingertips combing sweaty hair away from her face. His tongue snaked out to sample her taste again, that tangy mix of sweat and sex and Dara. Moving his hands around her waist, he rolled to his back, easily swinging her on top of him.
She grinned at him from above, shifting to straddle his waist.
“Don’t we have a bleedin’ feast to attend?” He flashed that teasing grin of his. His hands ran in long, lazy caresses from her ass to her shoulders, and back down again.
“Yeah. I think the Warrior Princess called it the—” she frowned in concentration, “—Imbolc banquet.”
“Aye,” he nodded, suddenly grave. “And now I’m reminded of something that troubled me before.”
“What’s that?” She leaned down and licked a sliding drop of sweat from his face, tracing it backwards from his strong, unshaven jawline to his left temple.
“Uh, see, Imbolc is celebrated on the first of February,” he said, distracted by her devilish tongue. “While we left Portland in the morning following Halloween.”
That brought about the reaction Rowan had expected. Dara sat up sharply as if she’d just spotted a hissing rattlesnake.
“We lost three damn months?” she yelled, eyes wide. Dara’s thighs were still straddling Rowan, and he groaned as she unintentionally squeezed him. “But, Rowan, we haven’t been here a full day!”
Chapter Seventeen
“A few hours, a few months—is there truly such a big difference?” Fergus rumbled over a speared, golden brown pork chop. He smacked his lips, leisurely licking the juicy glaze. His massive hand closed on his impressive, newly filled goblet.
“I bet you wouldn’t have asked that if you had had three months stolen out of your life!” Dara punched the dining table with her fist. It hurt. Deep red wine trembled in her own bejeweled goblet. She sighed miserably. Having her wine spilled would have made a greater dramatic impact, but the cup had been too heavy to be toppled over by a small thump.
Rowan muffled his snigger with a long swig of wine from his own ornamented cup.
“Nothing has been stolen from your lives,” Medb intervened. “Time Down here and Up there simply do not match.”
The banquet hall was huge, more vast than anything Dara had ever imagined in her childhood daydreams. Multihued light was seeping from above, filtered through the colorful ceiling mosaic. It tinted the marble floor in the hall’s hub with a softer version of the mosaic’s pattern, an armored redheaded woman, a raven perched on one of her shoulders, and a squirrel on the other. Most likely Medb’s emblem, Dara mused. She flattened her palms against the marble table, its face as milky-white as the flagstones, and latticed with fine, rosy veins. She let its coolness ooze into her flesh, easing her exasperation a bit.
Soon after the feast had started, it had become clear that the High Princess of Connachta and her consort knew their guests to be more than mere travelers heading north. This fact had been hard to deny when Fergus had inquired whether the Upper Realm’
s grilled veal chops were still as juicy as he remembered. Having nothing left to hide, Dara had demanded to know where three months of their lives had gone.
Medb was currently scrutinizing them both, her sharp eyes seeming amused rather than irritated. “So clothes do fit you both,” she grinned, diverting the conversation to different tracks.
Dara’s face caught fire. Back in the bedchamber that she’d shared with Rowan, she remembered him soothing her confusion with hot, long caresses. Coaxing her to ride him as she straddled his lap. Cajoling her to turn her ass on him, face and fists pressed against the mattress as he slipped into her from behind.
After a long while the two of them had finally gotten dressed, tumbling into each other with hushed laughs. Their ankles were drowning in the thick fur covering the floor tiles. Clothes had been left for them, all rich greens and brocades and leathers, stretched against a mahogany-framed settee. Two pairs of boots had been displayed there as well, made with too many buckles for both their tastes. Rowan had tightened Dara’s brocade corset laces over her ample breasts, then helped her secure her beloved dagger against the glimmering silk. She had pulled a tight, silken vest down his chest with a lingering motion. Slipping into their lower garments—his tight buckskin breeches, hers a side lace patent leather skirt—turned out to be a lengthier procedure, involving more mutual touches, both shallow and deep.
“Aye,” Medb’s grin broadened, interrupting Dara’s reminiscing. She was addressing Fergus. “I told you a bit of enchantment would only do them good.”
“Enchantment?” Dara’s eyebrows arched. “As in, open sesame? Presto? Shazam?”
“I’m not familiar with the incantations you’ve just mentioned.” Medb leaned closer against the marble, shoving plates and goblets aside with a careless sweep of her arm. “I only used a simple, harmless charm on you two, a wee thing involving my herb.”
“Your herb, Highness?” Rowan sneaked a wary glance at Dara. “You mean, like, Princess Grian’s plant, hawthorn?”
“Aye.” Medb wrinkled her nose. “Hers is hawthorn. Poor lass, the smell! Mine is cnáib.”
Rowan choked on his wine, putting his cup down with tearing eyes and a bout of coughs. Fergus gave a thundering, hearty laugh. Medb was still leaning against the table, watching her baffled guests with growing amusement.
“Rowan, you okay?” Dara gave his back a healthy pound. “What’s this…Knau-b, anyway?”
“Aye, I’m…fine,” he squeezed the words in between coughs, shielding his mouth with his hand. “It’s just that…cnáib is Gaelic for cannabis. Hemp.”
“What? You drugged us?” Dara let Rowan go and leaped to her feet, her massive chair screeching back against the tiles. Her eyes were shooting daggers at the High Princess.
“Well, not exactly.” The High Princess studied her with a serene smile. “I just made sure the candles in your bedchamber were bearing the right kind of incense.”
Dara sank back into her seat, her face drained of blood. Rowan quickly slid the chair beneath her backside, saving her from an embarrassing plunge to the floor. He leaned into her, his arm gently embracing her shoulders.
“What happened between us in there was real, Dara,” he whispered.
“Was it?” she mumbled. “Maybe it was just a combination of a good spell and a little pot.”
“A spell was cast on you, truthfully,” Fergus softly interrupted. “Only, you two are the ones who originally conjured it, not the High Princess. She just added a wee bit of spice.” He rose from his chair, swift and spry despite his size. “Now, for matters of no less importance. Knowing you’re being persecuted in this Realm, Her Highness wishes to help you go back Up to yours.”
“A way back Up?” Rowan’s eyes darted back to Fergus. “Is that possible? Up where?”
“There is a cave, with one of its mouths in the Otherworld, and the other in Erin, in a place the folk there call Roscommon,” Medb replied. “The cave’s name is Oweynagat.”
“You mean we’ll enter the cave here and emerge in the county of Roscommon, Ireland?” Rowan echoed. “Back home,” he added with a warm whisper. “I know of this place from old legends. Oweynagat, the Cave of the Cats. The Gateway to the Otherworld. They tell in Roscommon that each Samhain many ferocious beasts emerge from the mouth of that cave, and wreak havoc all over the countryside! Haven’t seen one mean beast come out of there yet, I tell you,” he chuckled. “But ‘tis dangerous to trust old tales. Some even tell of Her Highness’s and her consort Mac Roich’s demise, if I may speak so boldly.”
“And those tales were indeed highly exaggerated, as your eyes can see for themselves.” Fergus grinned down at him. “However, lad, by Carabolg here—” he touched his sword’s hilt, “—Oweynagat is a true Gateway.”
* * * * *
Dara and Rowan followed Fergus Mac Roich on horseback out of the palace gates and down the hillside, gradually slipping into the woods again. They rode leisurely, a sharp pine scent again tantalizing their senses. Dara draped herself in silence, her thoughts unclear. Rowan concealed his disquiet, using the time to try and get the information that Brighid had promised him long ago. Fergus obliged, willingly granting him lengthy answers to each of his questions.
“Long ago,” Fergus told Rowan, “We—the Tuatha dé Danann, that is—escaped to the Otherworld, or Tír Na nÓg, if you prefer the old name. Now we like ‘Lower Realm’ better. But this you already know.” He raised one hand from his horse’s reins, counting on his fingers. “So, back when it all began, the Lower Realm was sliced into five kingdoms—Mumha, Connachta, Laighin, Ulaid, and Midhe.”
“The names sound very much alike to Ireland’s four provinces,” Rowan said. “Munster, Connaught, Leinster, and Ulster. I guess your fifth kingdom—Midhe—is parallel to our Tara in county Meath.”
“Aye, the names of Ireland’s provinces are derived from this ancient split Down here—” Fergus nodded, “—which, by itself, had been originally modeled after the oldest split of all, that made in old Erin when the Tuatha dé Danann were still ruling the isle.” He gave Rowan a brief glance before proceeding. “Each of our five kingdoms is further divided into a number of Mounds. Some call them dominions, but these titles mean the same, truly. Each kingdom holds one Ruling Mound and a few more Lesser Mounds.”
“That I figured out by myself,” Rowan responded. “And each Mound is governed by a Prince, or a Princess, aye? The one who has control over a Ruling Mound is called High Prince, or High Princess.”
“’Tis indeed so. My chieftain makes a fine example.” Fergus chuckled. “High Princess Medb has control of Rath Cruachan, the Ruling Mound of Connachta.” He gently yanked his horse’s reins, hopping down from its broad back in the same swift motion. “We’ll be going by foot from here,” he said, fondly patting his steed’s flank.
“Is there a single ruler of the entire Lower Realm, then?” Rowan slid down from his horse and turned to help Dara, finding her already standing on solid ground. She flashed him a brief glance, quickly averting her gaze and turning away from him.
“There’s no single king or queen here.” Fergus was watching them, his expression guarded. “The title is taboo. Realm leadership shifts between the five Ruling Mounds. Current leadership is with High Prince Bodb, in Mumha. This Beltaine, control will finally transfer to Midhe. We’d better move on a wee bit faster now,” he suggested.
He walked them in a meandering route through thick brushwood, where tree trunks were packed so closely together it was hard for a man to pass through. When Dara finally gave in and spoke, asking Fergus how he’d managed the narrow path, the massive warrior laughed and told her, “Just a bit of Glamour, lass. Just a wee bit of Glamour.”
“What about the Ocean, Fergus?” Rowan panted, his brogue growing more obvious. It seemed that trees kept blocking his way, and low bushes kept tangling about his ankles. He stifled a curse, wondering how the bleedin’ hell the massive warrior moved so swiftly among the trees. Magic was involved, for sure. Glamour—Fe
rgus had said so himself. This was turning out to be one of the rare occasions Rowan wished the Kanjali shifters hadn’t neglected the fine art of magic thousands of years ago.
“Tir-fo-Thoinn—the ‘Land Beneath The Waves’—makes a sixth territory, outside the five-way split of the Lower Realm,” Fergus raised his voice over the short distance between them. He kept a fast, steady pace, his image flickering in between the trees. “Its lord is Manannan Mac Lir.”
Finally, both of them caught up with Fergus and stood still. The warrior bent down and lifted a curtain of branches and leaves, exposing a cave’s black mouth. “In you go,” he smiled. “And I shall be free to return to my mistress. You need not worry, no one will follow you up this cave.”
“Fergus,” Dara said, her voice unsteady. She took a few hesitant steps closer to him, gazing up at his face. “Before we leave, can I ask you what ‘Garn’ means? This word, lately it keeps pushing into my mind, like some vague memory, and I don’t…”
“Garn,” Fergus placed a gentle, massive hand on her shoulder. “It means winter. It lasts half a year from Samhain to Beltaine, and then it’s the end of the cold, dark winter, aye?”
“Yes,” she nodded, wrapping her arms about his waist in a sudden hug. Of course, she was far from circling the full span of him. “Yes. Thank you.”
“’Tis nothing,” he replied softly. “Now go with your lad. You and him, you were foretold long ago.”
“What?” she mumbled, but the giant warrior had already vanished with the faintest rustle of leaves. Her shoulder still felt warm with his touch.
“I hate it when they do that,” she told no one in particular.
“Dara, you coming?” Rowan was crouched by the cave’s mouth, staring inside with eager eyes. “Do you want to go back to civilization, or don’t you?”
“Yeah,” she called back, closing the short distance between them. “If you count Ireland as ‘civilization’.”
