by Raina Wilde
“Brian? ” One of Brian's household men came past, clapping him on the shoulder. “You ready for tomorrow morning? ” Their party would leave the next day. Some of them were not even at the evening's event to celebrate.
“Yes. ” Brian answered, noncommittally. The look of irritation that slid across his face was obvious, and his scowl at being disturbed amused her. She could feel the deep flush of arousal that rose into her cheeks.
“Good. We can't have the latest Laird of Leary tired out. ”
What? Aigneis lifted her head. Her eyes were wide. Disbelieving. She waited until the man had gone. “What did he call you? ”
“The. . . the Laird of Leary. ” Brian said, helpless. He did not know what had happened, only that she was suddenly angry. Why?
“And why did he do that? ” She asked it more reasonably. Perhaps it was some joke they had between them. He could not have been – he must not have been – all which that would have made him.
“Because. . . ” He reached for an answer, “because I am? ” He finished weakly. He looked down at her, a bewildered, crestfallen gaze.
“No. ” She said it flatly, before she could stop herself. “No. ” She backed away from him. Her face showed horror, and revulsion. “Leave me. ” She sounded desperate. “Leave me, before I have to kill you. ”
She spat the last words, a mix of urgency and vehemence.
He blinked. What had he done?
“I. . . ”
“Go!”
He stepped back, stumbling.
“Aigneis. . . ”
Hearing her name on His lips was too much for her. Her heart twisted in her chest, with hurt and anger and sorrow. “No! You and your kind are poison! Whatever we agreed, I now rescind. I will meet you on the field, come battle, and I will kill you. ”Her voice hissed between her teeth, low and quiet and venomous; entirely sincere. She had also stepped back, and now stood, rooted to the spot. Her skin was pale, her eyes enormous. They watched him, pools of gray and green and hurt, as he walked, wounded and heavy, from the room.
No. Not him. He cannot be.
But he was. Her father's slayer. Her mortal enemy. And she had come so close to loving him. She sank into a wooden bench by the fire, head in her hands.
Chapter 6
It was cold. The fire wove in the grate, the flames popping as they devoured the pine logs. The scent of them drifted upward, curling, making its own patterns on the air. Aigneis watched the flames, restless. She had not moved all day.
“Lady Aigneis? ” Her maid, Jess, appeared at the door. “Luncheon? ”
“No. ” Aigneis shook her head. Her eyes did not leave the fire.
It was the week before battle. She had every reason to be withdrawn: plans, strategy, war-counsels. But it was not these things that held her there to watch the flames.
Brian. The wreathing gold-and-orange forms danced before her eyes, making patterns. They formed themselves into her memories. His form, lithe, dancing with the sword. His smile, sudden and surprising. The curve of his chin. His muscled grace. She blinks. This is foolishness, she chided herself. But was it?
All her life, as long as she remembered, she had nursed this hatred of the Learys. It had been her driving force, she thought, her entire adult life. And then. . . ? Then, her world had turned upon its head and left her groping for direction.
How could she love him? She felt disgusted at that. She would. . . could have. . . wanted to. . . She blinked. How could she have? But, at the same time, how could she not? He was everything she was. He was her equal, her exact match. She had never even thought he might exist; never mind that she would have met him, engaged with him, matched sword to sword in the dance that was her life.
Brian…Her memory was full of thoughts of him, and would not be denied.
It was a week before the battle. She should have been excited, elated. Preparing. Instead, she felt only a hollow emptiness. She felt so alive, with him. She sighed, and sat closer to the fire. It would soon be over. She would have won. But what would she have lost?
Her mind wandered, restless, to that night. She saw afresh the pictures, heard the voices. Everyone in the hall had looked shocked, when she took that oath to kill him, even her own men. She thought back, then, to how no one would meet her eye. One man, lean and sandy, had even recoiled from her, as if she were a dangerous animal. Lucas McGuire; his name came back to her, unbidden. McGuire…
Somehow, that name awoke some memory.
She remembered then, another night, another time. McGuire? A voice asked in her head. She remembered the tone of it: incredulous.
Aye, McGuire, the remembered voice continued, they were the ones who. . . And she remembered then, how the man had turned, when he saw her coming. How he had suddenly gone silent, white-faced. He had greeted his companion and left, staring hastily over his shoulder. As if she were poisonous.
McGuire. I wonder. Perhaps there was more to Father's death than meets the eye.
Chapter 7
It was morning, the sunshine warm where it shone through the window. Aigneis was in her father's study, at his oak desk. She always went to his office when she wanted to speak to him, his personal belongings untouched and holding, still, the pattern of him.
That day she was not there to talk to him. That day, she was there for evidence. She had not sleep that night, a sudden pattern that grew in her mind from the thoughts of her previous day. She had to see if she was right.
McGuire. Something about that name had stayed with her. She looked through her father's papers. There! A deed about land ownership. Their land backed onto some ancestral land of the McGuires. At least, they said it was their ancestral land. The McGowans, her clan, had claimed it for centuries, until. . . until her father's death.
Trembling with the force of her emotions, Aigneis opened the document. She scanned through the legalese. It was a declaration of recension. Her father had given the land-rights to them. He must have been persuaded into that, she thought grimly. Even the signature looked unlike his—hesitant and shaky.
They killed him! Suddenly, it seemed so clear to her. Somehow, they had either forced him to agree to this, or forged it. Then they killed him, to prevent his changing it. It sounded right. She remembered how her father had seemed strained, the days before his death. Jumpy, as if he had been doubting something, or expecting conflict.
She knew, then, with a growing, deep conviction, that she was right. They had killed him, and then they hid behind the name of Leary. She had, all these years, been devoted to their untruth. Their lie.
Brian! She sat back, suddenly. The elation in her chest mixed with horror. I am free to love you, she thought, rejoicing. But, I will face you on the field. For a crime you did not commit. And I am sworn to kill you.
Brian, my beloved. She thought. What can I do? She did not leave the office all that day.
Chapter 8
Swords rang out in the great hall. The whole force of the Leary clan was there it seemed, practicing for war. Brian stalked from the room, leaving the clash and swing of them behind him. Arthur followed, quickly.
“Brian! Come on!” He remonstrated with him, tensely. “You can't just leave. We're counting on you. ” He paused, dramatically. “The men are counting on you. ”
Brian turned, at that. The look on his face was livid, his eyes hard. Arthur stepped back. “Alright, alright. ” His voice was a placation. “I'll stop trying to persuade you. ”
Brian sat down then, covering his face with his hands. “Go, will you? ” he asked, His voice muffled. “Do me a favor Arthur and just go. ”
Arthur nodded. “As you wish. ” He backed out of the room.
Brian stayed for a long while after he had gone. He wanted to help the men. Wanted to prepare for this conflict. A small part of him still wanted to win his father's approval.
How can I do this? He asked himself. Everywhere he turned was a reminder of her. He had never felt like that for anyone. The restless torment of desire
lanced through him, each hour of every day since meeting her. If he had felt rages before, they had worsened in those intervening days. His own manservant, Davy, had started to avoid him.
He could not channel the passion he felt into anything but wild, unreasoned anger. He was lethal on the practice-ground, but had lost all his control; as likely to kill his sparring partner as he was to kill an enemy. And all he really wanted was to be alone. The responsibilities he had been handed were tedium for him, where once he would have reveled in the trust shown in giving him such a task. He had taken to taking long solitary rides, or sitting in his chamber, alone with thoughts of her.
Aigneis.
Even her name was torment to him. He felt his loins tug with desire for her. She was so beautiful. And his exact match. He did not let himself think too far about what it would be like to kiss her.
“My lord? ” His man, Davy. He was being brave disturbing his master. Few would.
“Yes? ” Brian's voice was infinitely weary. He looked up with blank eyes.
“My lord. . ? The men. . . they want you at the council. ”
The council. For war. In two days' time.
“Thank you, Davy. ” His voice was tired. “I will. . . join them in a moment. ”
“Very good, my lord. ”
He heard Davy walk down the corridor, footsteps echoing.
I will join you in a moment, he thought, sadly. When I will spend my night discussing how best to attack the woman I love.
He shook his head. It was cruel. Life was cruel. He sighed, dusted himself off, and left to join the council.
Chapter 9
“Go! Go Douglas!”
The field was alive with horses, flags and men. The air thrummed with the sound of horns, of shouts, of metal on metal. The sky and the grass formed a backdrop gray to the sudden wildness of steel and men, unleashed upon their banks.
It was battle.
Aigneis, mounted, wheeled her horse to let herself shout encouragement to her commanders. “Yes, Jamie! That's it! “Her voice was hoarse already and her sword-arm ached. Any other day, she would be elated. Then, she was awake and functioning, but all the while she felt a numbing ache. She faced his men in battle. Him. What if they met each other on the field? She refused to consider the notion. Her mind narrowed to the imperatives of battle: her horse, her knees, her arm, her men. Her sword.
She caught motion from the corner of her eye and whirled, blade raised, to counter it. Steel rang on steel. She grated the blade around, freeing it from the lock. Her eyes were blazing. She whirled and struck. She felt the blade pass through flesh. Grate on bone. She moved her knees and rode forward, already looking for the next assailant. “Aagh!” She found that she was screaming, a wild primordial sound. It was her battle cry; wordless and frightening. Her men rallied to it, surging to form up around her horse.
They fell on their assailants, then, with renewed vigor. Aigneis used the moment to wheel her horse, letting the motion give her a vantage point from which to view proceedings. The enemy were falling back. Already, they were in groups around the edges. All she needed then was for Douglas to bring the horses in and finish it off.
She allowed herself then, to look for men in red. There they were. Hanging back, on the edge of the field. Brian was with his standard-bearer, presiding over the battle.
She wheeled again, blocking another blade. The skirmish was brief, and she the stronger fighter. The man rode off. She did not stop to think how bad his wounding may have been. There was no time to consider anything but the immediate imperatives of battle.
“McGowan!” Her men were shouting, their war cry. She smiled, and whirled back to them.
She heard, rather than saw, a man draw his sword, standing near her bridle. She stabbed down, unthinking. That meant she did not see the rider on her right. Suddenly, she felt a ringing blow. Her horse fell, and she fell with him. She knew how to dismount from a fallen horse, and did so before her leg was crushed. There was no time to remount. The rider faced her, then, his blade drawn. She had always practiced facing cavalry on foot, but she was a rider at heart. She lifted the blade, and swung it at his thigh. He glided past, swerving at the last instant, wheeling ‘round behind her and coming at her again. She was on foot, her blade before her. In front of her, the horse was bearing down.
The rider was levelling his blade. She turned, facing a new threat: an infantryman was running at her, blade aloft. She struck at him, but the horseman was still coming. There was no room to run. She felt the impact, as his blow struck her shoulder. She felt herself faint. She did not feel the arm that caught her, nor the lift, as Brian pulled her across his saddle and rode with her towards the shelter of the woods.
Chapter 10
Trees. They were tall, almost leafless. Stark and grey and bare against the sky. Aigneis opened her eyes to trees and silence. She was lying on the ground. She slowly became aware of the hardness and the cold. With the return of sensation came also the ache in her shoulder. It spread out, throbbing, and for a moment she could not think of anything else.
Then, she became aware of other things. It was silent. Last time she was awake, she was in the midst of a battle. It should not have been silent around her. Where was everyone? Was everything over?
“Uugh…” She groaned, as she sat up. Her head ached, as well as her shoulder.
“It's alright. You're well. ”
She recognized that voice. It throbbed into her, making her body ache, pleasantly. She rolled onto her side to sit up. She sat up to face him.
“Brian? ”
“Aigneis. ”
His voice was low, and longing, and it matched, entirely, how she felt. She felt her womb clench with the sweet ache she felt for him.
She sat up, and paused while her head cleared. “Brian? Where are we? ”
“You fell. We're in the forest. ”
“The battle? ”
He shrugged, then. There was a strange, sweet smile upon his lips then. “Our battle? ” He paused. “Without us, perhaps it will die down. ”
He was right, she thought. We fuelled it. Started it. When we are gone, our men will cease to fight. At least, she hoped it was true. “We. . . should get back. ”
“No. ” His voice was low, deep. A breath of longing. His eyes, when they looked into hers, were strangely guileless.
“No? ”
“Not. . . now. Not when I'm here, with you. ”
Their eyes met. She felt the trembling longing in her womb gather to a slow, pulsing ache. She moved forward, rolling over so that she sat beside him. She looked into his eyes. He leaned towards her. Their lips met. Her mouth was soft, and strangely hesitant. Sweet, like meadow-grass. His mouth moved over hers slowly, their lips playing over each other, touching, teasing. Her lips parted, and his tongue entered her mouth. Her eyes closed. Her lips, likewise, moved over his. They leaned in closer. His arms were around her, stroking the mane of her hair. Her fingers moved to touch, lightly, the back of his neck.
He stiffened at that, the sudden stab of desire too much to bear for a moment. Her arms tightened around his body, pulling him back towards her. His body pressed forward, eagerly, and then they were lying on the ground. He was over her, her hard body a new sensation. Her arms pulled him against her, his densely muscled chest hard against her breasts. She wanted to feel the full weight of him on her; wanted so much to feel him inside her.
Her legs wrapped ‘round his waist, and their bodies pressed together. The ache of that was almost too much to bear. They writhed together, loving the sweet pressure of their bodies as they felt them press, hard against each other’s skin. Her hands explored his back, and his mouth found her skin, kissing down the margin of her neck. Her skin was scented with soap, and sweat—magical and surprising. It kindled the fire inside him to new heights.
He sat back a little, looked down at her form. Her eyes opened, and she looked him a question. He returned it then.
“Yes. ”
She nodded.
Her voice was deep, throbbing with longing. It made him ache for her. She reached up to the buttons of his shirt, even as he began to unbutton hers. He kissed the soft, satin skin of her chest, and worked her shirt down, taking her breast in his mouth.
She cried out, loud and breathily. The sensation was like fire; warm and intense, kindling nerve-endings and setting them alight with sensation. He nuzzled and sucked, gentle and insistent, and she felt the tightness in her womb as she ached for him.
He moved to the other breast, and she cried out her need for him. Her thighs wrapped round his waist. He groaned, sat back and started to undress. She undid the ties of her breeches, and then they were naked in the grass.
Their bodies pressed against each other, and he moved back, sliding into her. She cried out, and so did he; their voices joined in a gasp of sudden delight.
He moved back, and slowly entered her again. Her thighs locked behind his back, drawing him inside. He moved back and thrust, moved and thrust, and soon they were riding wave after wave of desire as it rocked through them. They thrust and thrust, losing all awareness of anything besides the rocking, raging fire that ripped through both of them, coursing up their bodies as if to consume them.
She cried out, an explosive gasp of pleasure; and a second later his voice followed, a grating grunt of pleasure so intense it could not be expressed in words.
They collapsed back onto the grass. He remained inside her, his weight pressed onto her body. She already loved the feel of him there, the weightiness of him.
It felt like hours that they lay there, lost in the dizzying mist of pleasure. Then, slowly, he rolled off her, and sat back, looking down at her. His face was awed, and soft with care. She saw it, and how it transformed him to true beauty. She smiled. Her green eyes were aflame with warmth.
They kissed, slowly and then deeply; desire rekindling. After a moment, they sat back.
“We should. . . go back? ”It was a question, and he asked it reluctantly.
