by Jayne Castel
My love.
Galan could not breathe, could not move. Instead he stared into her eyes and wished for those words to be true.
“Is that really how you feel?” he finally asked.
Tea nodded, her shoulders trembling slightly from the force of emotions she was keeping in check. She took a step back, breaking the spell she had cast over him. The chill night air rushed in between them, bringing Galan sharply back to his senses. His hand snapped out, catching her by the arm. He hauled her against him.
“Come here, woman,” he growled and brought his mouth down hard over hers. There were not any words he could use to describe how he felt at that moment, none would make her understand how much he loved her. He would show her with his body instead.
She responded to his kiss with a wildness that made him forget everything else. He dropped the torch into the mud and scooped Tea into his arms. She coiled her arms around his neck, her mouth devouring his. He gave a low groan in answer, pivoted on his heel and carried her into the village.
As chief, Galan did not have to share his sleeping space with the other warriors. The villagers had made him comfortable in a small wattle and daub hut with a sod roof—one of the few original dwellings that had not been destroyed in the raids. Inside the gate, he met Namet, who had come looking for him.
“Tea’s pony is outside,” Galan told the warrior. “Can you see to it?”
Not bothering to wait for Namet’s response, and ignoring the stares from his men and the villagers who were making their way toward the feasting hut, Galan carried Tea through the village to his dwelling.
He kicked open the wattle door and carried her across the threshold into the warm space beyond. A small brazier burned in one corner and goat skins covered the dirt floor. A pile of furs sat in the center of the space, next to a low table where the villagers had placed a cup, a jug of ale and a platter of bread, cheese and cured meat for their chieftain.
Galan ignored the food and ale—there was only one thing he was hungry for. There was only one thing that would fill the yawning emptiness inside him. He wanted to feast upon this woman, to show her how much he loved her, to brand himself upon her soul so that she never thought to leave him again.
He set Tea down, and they tore at each other’s clothing. Garments of fur, leather and wool thumped to the goat-skin rugs at their feet. Galan pulled Tea hard against him, feeling the smooth heat of her skin against his. He ran his hands down her back, exploring the firmness of her muscles, the softness of her curves. His shaft pulsed against her belly, and when he felt her fingers wrap around it, the last shreds of his self-restraint snapped.
Galan threw her down on the furs, lifted her long, shapely legs over his shoulders and entered her in one deep thrust.
Tea angled her hips off the furs to meet him, throwing her head back and crying his name as she did so.
Galan stared down at her, his gaze devouring her full, pink-tipped breasts, the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips. His fingers stroked those breasts, feeling her nipples harden under his touch. She met his gaze, her eyes glittering with passion.
“I’m yours, Galan,” she gasped. “Now and always.”
“You are,” he growled back, “and let me prove it to you.”
Galan began to move inside her in hard, possessive strokes—each thrust claiming her as his.
The brazier died to embers, casting a dull red glow over the interior of the hut. Tea lay upon her belly, thoroughly sated, while Galan lay against her, one leg draped over her back, trapping her against the softness of the furs.
He lifted up her curtain of hair, which had come undone from its braids during their lovemaking, and nuzzled the nape of her neck. The feel of his lips on the sensitive skin there caused Tea to shiver with pleasure. She gave a soft moan and pressed herself back against him, her loins melting when she felt his manhood pressed hard against her.
She would never tire of this man, of the feel and taste of him. The sound of his voice—the low, powerful timbre of it—was like listening to music after their time apart.
“I love you, Galan,” she murmured, barely able to concentrate as his hand slid up and stroked her breasts.
Galan rolled back, bringing her with him so that she could turn and face him. Tea looked up into his face—those strong features that could be hawkish when angry but at that moment were relaxed and handsome. His eyes were the color of wood-smoke as he watched her.
“It nearly killed me to leave you at Dun Ardtreck,” he murmured. “I wanted to tell you I loved you but I was too proud. I’ve regretted that ever since.”
She reached up and stroked his cheek. Tea inhaled the scent of him. He smelled of fresh sweat, smoke, leather, and of virile male—a scent that made her pulse quicken, her stomach tighten with hunger.
“It would have made little difference,” she admitted, self-recrimination biting her with every word. “I was too proud.”
His mouth twisted. “My fierce warrior bride.” He caught her hand and brought it up to his mouth, gently kissing the backs of her fingers. “What made you cast your pride aside?” His smile was so tender that it hurt her to breathe.
“You can only ignore your heart for so long,” she admitted ruefully. “Not only that but Eithni and Wid were never going to give me any peace. I had to leave to escape their nagging.”
Galan laughed, and the sight of him smiling made Tea’s chest constrict once more. The gods had shone upon her, and given her a man she not only loved but one whom she respected deeply.
Both Galan and Loc had shown her that battle courage was not the sign of strength she had always thought it to be. Galan was a warrior—he had been taught to fight and to kill—but he had risked the ire of his people and of hers to take another path. That was the mark of true bravery.
Epilogue
Honeyed Oat Cakes
The chieftain of The Eagle and his wife rode back into Dun Ringill two days later. The defensive perimeter at Kil had been built and Galan had sent his men on to the next village while he returned home with his wife. He would join his men again soon enough—but for now it was time for Galan and Tea to bring news of their reconciliation home.
A feathery mist crept in from Loch Slapin this morning, curling around the fort’s stone bulk like smoke. The air was damp, reminding Tea that although spring was now not far away, winter still held The Winged Isle in its grip.
They rode in through the outer perimeter, and up through the collection of roundhouses. Ruith was there, scattering grain for her fowl. Upon spotting Tea, a wide smile split the bandruí’s face. She waved to them.
“Ruith will be insufferable over this, you know?” Galan told Tea as he waved back at the seer.
Tea looked away from Ruith and met his eye. “Why?”
Galan gave her a pained look. “Ruith cast the bones a few days ago, and saw the marks of The Eagle and The Wolf side-by-side with The Cauldron beneath them. She tried to tell me all was not lost, but I wouldn’t hear it.”
“Your bandruí is a wise woman,” Tea replied with a grin. “I’d advise you to listen to her in future.”
Galan smiled back. “I intend to.”
They rode up to the fort and dismounted in front of the entrance. Cal and Deri, who had been overseeing Dun Ringill in Galan’s absence, came out to greet them, as did Eithni.
Tea hugged her sister tightly, noticing that she did not feel as fragile as she had when Tea had arrived at Dun Ardtreck. She was still slender as a reed but Tea no longer felt as if hugging her would snap her. Eithni’s face was starting to fill out and the color was returning to her cheeks.
Eithni’s eyes glittered as she drew back from Tea. Her gaze flicked from her sister to Galan and a smile of pure, unselfish joy spread across her face.
“I was beginning to worry,” Eithni admitted, breathless from her run down the steps and across the yard to meet them. Shyly, she dropped her gaze before Galan, and Tea realized that this was one of the few times her sister
had addressed him directly. “I’m so glad you have reconciled,” she murmured. “Tea was miserable without you.”
“That’s enough,” Tea cut in. The last thing she needed was Eithni to embarrass her. “Galan knows the story—there’s no need to repeat it.”
She glanced at Galan to see he was smiling. “Tea tells me you had a part to play in her returning to Dun Ringill,” he said. “I thank you for that.”
Tea watched her sister blush. She did not blame her; Galan had that effect on women.
“Eithni wishes to stay here with us,” Tea said, hooking her arm protectively through her sister’s. “I’d like her to, as well.”
“I won’t be a burden,” Eithni assured him, slightly nervous under the chieftain’s penetrating gaze. “I’m a hard worker.”
“She’s a gifted healer,” Tea added.
Galan’s smile widened. “Even if she was not, she would still be welcome here, Tea. She’s your kin.” He turned his attention back to Eithni. “You may have one of the alcoves inside the fort—or I can have a dwelling built for you in the village if you prefer.”
Tea watched a smile illuminate her sister’s face. “I would love a home of my own.”
Galan nodded. “Then you shall have one.”
That evening, Galan and Tea hosted a great feast. Barrels of ale, mead and wine were opened and the folk of Dun Ringill feasted on roast venison. Husband and wife sat together at the chieftain’s table and dined off the same platter, feeding each other slivers of meat and morsels of bread. They drank sloe wine from the same cup.
It was a significant meal, a re-creation of their handfasting feast all those months ago. That occasion had been tense and marred by decades of feuding—while this one was joyous and marked the beginning of a new life for them both.
Tea ate slowly, savoring the flavor of the roast venison. She had not been able to eat venison or drink sloe wine since her handfasting without being reminded of that evening, and the night that followed. For a long while she had wanted no memory of it, yet now things had changed.
When the oat-cakes, dripping in honey, were brought to the table, the feasters surrounding them cheered. One or two of the men hooted and called-out lewd comments.
“They’ve got good memories,” Tea muttered, staring down at the cake on the platter before them. She had forgotten that a good many of the warriors here had been at their handfasting.
“Aye—and if you keep blushing they’re not likely to let you forget it,” Galan teased.
Tea glanced up to see him grinning at her, not remotely embarrassed by the cat-calling and hooting that echoed around the feasting hall. At the end of the chieftain’s table, Eithni had gone pink in the face, while next to her Ruith wore a knowing smile.
Tea looked back at Galan and raised an eyebrow. “What do you suggest we do now?” she asked.
Her stomach fluttered at the smoldering look he gave her in answer. Galan then broke off a piece of seed cake and fed it to her.
Ignoring the cheering that now shook the rafters, Tea chewed slowly before she smiled back at Galan. “Well then, let’s give the crowd what they want.”
She reached out and caught his wrist, stopping his hand before he could lower it. Then she licked the honey from his fingers.
Initially, they had done this for show—to entertain the feasters—but as soon as Galan’s smile faded, Tea knew they were no longer acting. They had gone full-circle; only now things would be different.
This night would be a new start—a union untainted by blood feud.
Galan rose to his feet, bringing Tea with him. Then he scooped her into his arms. The revelers roared their approval, their cheers shaking the broch to its foundations. Ignoring them all, The Eagle chief turned his back on the feasting hall and carried his wife away to their alcove.
The End
Did you enjoy BLOOD FEUD?
Reviews are crucial to a novel’s success. Please take a moment to leave a review on Amazon. It doesn’t have to be creative or long, just honest. Thank you!
Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk
Historical Note
As I mentioned in the Historical Background in the forward to this novel—the culture, language and religion of the Picts is one largely shrouded in mystery. Unlike my novels set in 7th Century Anglo-Saxon England, which is a reasonably well-documented period, researching 4th Century Isle of Skye proved to be a challenge. Pictish culture is largely an enigma to us. However, they did leave behind a number of fascinating stone ruins, standing stones and artifacts, as well as a detailed collection of symbolic art.
As well as a host of online resources, I also relied heavily on three books to ensure my depiction of the Picts, and the Isle of Skye, was as accurate as possible:
Picts, Gaels and Scots by Sally M. Foster (Batsford, 1996)
A Wee Guide to the Picts by Duncan Jones (Goblinshead, 2009)
Isle of Skye and Raasay by John Garvey (Matador, 2009)
I created the four tribes of The Winged Isle from Pictish animal symbols. This is not a far-fetched idea; many Iron and Bronze-age peoples identified themselves with animal symbols. The clans we identify with Scotland did not appear until a few centuries later.
A note about Luana’s death. Although I call her death ‘birthing sickness’, we now know the condition as Eclampsia, a life-threatening complication of pregnancy. Eclampsia is a condition that causes a pregnant woman, today usually previously diagnosed with preeclampsia (high blood pressure and protein in the urine), to develop seizures or coma. Today this complication is preventable and treatable.
Galan mac Muin and his two brothers are, of course, completely fictional characters (although I’d like to believe they all lived, if only in my imagination!). The next novel in this series will focus on Tarl’s story. This novel will hinge on a real historical event—the Barbarian Conspiracy—when the Picts, Scotti and Atecotti banded together and attacked Hadrian’s Wall.
See you back here for the next installment!
Acknowledgements
Although writing a novel appears like a solitary task, there are actually plenty of people involved in the process. Firstly, I’d like to thank my readers—without you I would never have started on this new series. You’ve let me know you enjoy my stories and given me the drive to keep writing!
I’d also like to thank Emma—the book you lent me on Pictish symbols (A Wee Guide to the Picts) was a goldmine!
My gratitude goes to the members of the Otago Chapter of RWNZ (Romance Writers of New Zealand) particularly Maria, Susie, Rachel, and Kura, who have all given me valuable advice, and to RWNZ as a whole. Last year’s conference showed me that yes, I can make a living with my fiction!
Lastly but most importantly, I’d like to thank my fiancé, Tim. He’s crucial to all aspects of the novel production, but especially the editing. I might not want to always hear what he has to say—especially when it involves extensive rewriting—but the novel is always a better one once he has worked his magic on it. Not only that but his belief in me, and in what I’m capable of, makes me realize just how lucky I am.
Your free starter library is waiting! Join me in 7th Century Anglo-Saxon England and receive a 30,000-word historical romance novella and two full-length novels. Immerse yourself in the Dark Ages!
More works by Jayne Castel
Jayne Castel has written three series set in 7th Century Anglo-Saxon England. They are (in chronological order):
THE KINGDOM OF THE EAST ANGLES
Prequel novella: Night Shadows
Book #1: Dark Under the Cover of Night
Book #2: Nightfall till Daybreak
Book #3: The Deepening Night
The Kingdom of the East Angles: The Complete Series
Click on the banner to find out more about this series.
Get Jayne's FREE Starter Library and read the prequel novella and Books #1 and #2 to her first series, THE KINGDOM OF THE EAST ANGLES: www.jaynecastel.com/home/sign-up
&nb
sp; THE KINGDOM OF MERCIA
Book #1: The Breaking Dawn
Book #2: Darkest before Dawn
Book #3: Dawn of Wolves
Click on the banner below to find out more about this series.
THE KINGDOM OF NORTHUMBRIA
Book #1: The Whispering Wind
Book #2: Wind Song (to be released in late 2017)
Book #3: The North Wind Comes (to be released in 2018)
Click on the banner below to find out more about this series.
About the Author
Jayne Castel writes Historical Romance set in Dark Ages Britain and Scotland. Her vibrant characters, richly researched historical settings and action-packed adventure romance transport readers back to forgotten times. Jayne’s new Scottish Romance series takes place in 4th Century Isle of Skye.
When she’s not writing, Jayne is reading (and re-reading) her favorite authors—Bernard Cornwell, Diana Gabaldon, Elizabeth Chadwick, and J.R.R. Tolkien to name just a few—learning languages and taking her dog, Juno, for walks. Jayne lives in New Zealand’s South Island, where she works as a freelance copywriter.
Get Jayne's FREE Starter Library and read the prequel novella and Books #1 and #2 to her first series, THE KINGDOM OF THE EAST ANGLES: http://www.jaynecastel.com/home/sign-up
Connect with Jayne online:
www.jaynecastel.com
Read Jayne's blog.
