by Amy Tolnitch
The sky grew darker and darker and a cold wind blew against Aimili’s cheeks. She pulled up the hood of her mantle just as the rain began.
Perfect, Loki grumbled.
We do not have far to go. She was right, but a thick veil of rain obscured her vision and made the grass slick, forcing her to slow Loki. It seemed like days before they finally reached the gatehouse of Castle MacCoinneach, only to find the portcullis securely lowered against entry.
Aimili spied movement above, and yelled, “Open the portcullis!”
A guard looked down at her, but she could not make out his face. “Who are you?”
“Lady Aimili.” She threw back her hood and blinked up at him while water ran down her face.
Thankfully, the portcullis immediately groaned open and Aimili rode straight for the stable.
“My lady!” a voice yelled, but Aimili ignored it, intent on seeing Loki settled and finding her chamber to dry off.
When she neared the stable, D’Ary ran out. Even through the rain, she could see the shock on his face. He reached Loki and took the reins. “Aimili, you are alive! Thank the gods.”
Aimili gratefully slung off Loki’s back. “Of course, I am alive.”
D’Ary’s throat worked and finally he grinned. “Of course. You had best go inform the laird of that fact.”
“I need to see to Loki.”
“I can do it. Aimili, my lady, the laird, well, we all believed you slain.”
“What?” She took a step back.
“Your husband went out searching for you and found evidence of a fight. He presumed you dead.”
Well, Aimili thought, wondering what Padruig was feeling now. Relief? No, surely he could not be that callous. He would likely be saddened, but blame her death on her own recklessness.
“Go, my lady. I shall take good care of Loki.”
“Give him an extra measure of grain. He has worked hard this day.”
“Aye.” When Aimili turned to leave, he touched her shoulder. “Are you all right, Aimili? Truly?”
“Far better than the cur who attacked me.”
“Please take me along the next time.”
“I shall. I promise.”
“Good luck with the laird.”
She sighed and tromped through the mud toward her chamber. Everything would be better once she’d donned dry clothing and had a cup of wine in her hand.
Padruig sat in his chamber staring unseeing at the fire. The window shutters rattled with the ascending storm, and cool air trickled across his face.
To his surprise and dismay, he found his cheeks wet with tears. He’d thought himself beyond such tender emotions, but Aimili’s loss cut him more deeply than he would have imagined.
He finally realized how badly he’d wanted to be the man she saw inside him, but now it was too late.
Her smell lingered in the chamber, and the bed-sheets were still rumpled from last night. The night you insulted her, hurt her, and left, he reminded himself.
By the saints, if only he could take a day back.
His lips twisted into a bitter smile. How many times had he thought exactly the same thing about Brona? Just one day, Lord, one day to do over, to make the right choices instead of the ones that brought pain and death.
Unfortunately, God did not see fit to grant him that boon.
He lifted his cup in a silent toast and downed the wine.
“God, I am sorry, Aimili,” he whispered. “I failed you.”
“Padruig,” her voice said.
He put his head in his hands. “Och, lass, now your ghost haunts me, as well.”
“I am no ghost, Padruig.”
Slowly, he stood and turned. Blood rushed to his head, and he swayed before catching himself. “Aimili?” He took a step toward her, sure that he was seeing a vision, and that she would fade away just as Brona did.
Instead, she shut the door and pulled off her mantle. Water dripped a line on the floor as she hung it on a hook.
Could ghostly clothing drip water? Padruig wondered.
The dog popped its head out of the top of Aimili’s tunic. Aimili put it on the floor and it scampered over to where Cai lay on the floor in front of the fire. His wolf raised his head, gave a sigh, and let the dog snuggle up next to him.
“How strange,” Padruig said. “I’ve never seen a ghost dog.”
Aimili’s ghost frowned at him. Her hair was plastered to her head, and her clothing was wet. He peered closer. Was she shivering? Ghosts did not feel the cold. Did they? “Padruig, are you sotted?”
“I should be. God knows I have tried.”
“What is wrong with you?”
Padruig opened his mouth to tell her it was his fault she died, when Aimili began stripping off her wet clothing and tossing it into a heap on the floor. With each garment, his jaw dropped lower and lower.
By the saints, even as a ghost she aroused him, he thought, wanting to protest when she wrapped a sheet around her body.
“I am freezing,” she announced.
“Is that possible?”
She looked at him as if he were absolutely witless. Gradually, another expression spread over her face and she walked close to him. When she was no more than a handbreadth away, she dropped the sheet. “I am no ghost, Padruig.”
He felt as if he were caught in a dream, reaching out to touch the curve of her neck. His fingertips brushed cool skin. Solid skin. “Dear God, you are not dead.”
“Just cold. Very cold.”
Surely it was someone else who said, “I can help with that.”
Aimili held her breath as Padruig’s roughened fingers drifted across her skin. She was not sure what bit of bravery had prompted her to cast aside the sheet, but everywhere he touched grew warm and warmer yet.
This time, his kiss was desperate, marauding, claiming. Aimili clung to his broad shoulders and gave herself up to him. It was as she’d dreamt, only better. Far better. She tasted the wine on his tongue, but mostly she tasted his desire.
When he cupped her breasts, her moan mixed with his. “Dear God, how I’ve wanted to do this,” he rasped, the words torn from him as he kissed her throat.
Aimili gasped, her body tingling as he brushed fingertips over her nipples. When his mouth closed on one, she jumped and cried out. Dear Lord, how glorious. She glanced down, and her knees buckled at the sight of him suckling her.
Within moments, he’d swept her onto the bed.
She watched him strip, greedily drinking in his hard body, the spread of his shoulders, the smooth planes of his belly, the silver glitter of his eyes. Her gaze dropped lower and she stared. Perhaps she should be embarrassed, but she was not. She surely was not afraid, anticipation coiling into a hard knot in her center.
He stretched out on the bed next to her and brought his mouth down to hers once more, plundering her lips, her tongue, everywhere, stroking, devouring her mouth like a man who’d not eaten in a sennight.
Dimly, Aimili realized that his hand stroked down her body, between her breasts, over her belly, and yet lower.
“Open for me,” he whispered, his fingers splayed in the curls covering her sex.
Aimili swallowed, gazing into his eyes. When she relaxed her thighs, he let out a hiss. Never losing her gaze, he slid his fingers lower, stroking her body’s opening, spreading the moisture he found there. Aimili’s breath became more uneven and she pushed against his hand, at the same time shocked and thrilled at her body’s instinctive response.
He watched her as his thumb found a place that shot her off the bed. She shook her head, suddenly frightened as tension gripped her body. It was as if some irresistible force had taken control of her. She moaned, unable to stop from bucking against him, desperately needing more.
“Let go, Aimili.”
Everything within her built into a coil of feeling, then burst apart with such incredible pleasure that she cried out. Even as her body yet trembled, Padruig slid between her legs and pushed just inside her.
&nb
sp; Aimili dug her fingers into his arms.
He kissed her, hot and openmouthed as he pushed deeper. Aimili trembled, but she tilted up to meet him, knowing somehow that this was what she’d waited for.
With a groan, he filled her.
Aimili caught her breath. Dear God, he was so deep, so big and hard inside her. Her legs fell open farther and she was filled with the wild need to be taken by this man.
The friction of him sliding back out made her whimper.
“Are you all right?”
She stared into his eyes. “Yes. God, yes.”
With the kind of smile she’d thought reserved only for others, he began thrusting, rocking against her, gently yet firmly, relentlessly. She slid her hands down his chest, learning him, claiming him as her own.
When she traced the ridged skin of a scar, he paused. “Pray do not stop,” she whispered.
He briefly closed his eyes and bent her legs, opening her more. Aimili gasped as he pounded into her, such a big, invasive presence that she panted with each thrust. He consumed her, hurled her into another place, where only the demands of her body mattered, only the heat of his body covering hers.
She was shattering into a million pieces and it felt so right she didn’t care. Aimili threw her head back and rode a wave of pleasure so intense it engulfed her senses. She barely heard Padruig’s shout, just before he collapsed against her.
Aimili fought to get her breath back. Her heart thundered in her ears and she never wanted to move.
Padruig rolled to the side and lay on his back, one hand flung over his brow. “By the saints, I am an animal,” he cursed.
Aimili sat up. “Oh, no. You will not belittle me so.”
He looked at her. “What are you talking about?”
She clenched a length of sheet in her fist. “I am your wife. You made love to me. There is naught wrong with that.”
“I should have—”
“Done so before, I agree.”
He blinked, then slowly smiled. “Think you?”
“Aye.”
He leaned up and brushed hair from her face. “I am heartedly glad that you are no a ghost.”
She blew out a breath. “As am I.”
“What happened?”
Before answering, she rose, poured a cup of wine, and returned to the bed. For some reason, it felt entirely natural to be reclining without a bit of clothing and talking to Padruig. “Though it pains me to admit it, you were right. I should have taken D’Ary with me.”
To her surprise, he managed not to appear either smug or chastising. “Next time you shall.”
“Aye.” She took a sip of wine. “I stopped to rest in a grove.”
“We found it.”
“I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke, a man stood there.”
Padruig’s gaze narrowed. “Who was he?”
“He was disguised. Something about him seemed familiar, but I could not identify him.”
“Did he speak?”
“Not much. He … intended to kill me, Padruig.”
Padruig’s body was still, but she felt his anger nonetheless. “Instead, I killed him.” She retrieved the dagger and placed it in his hands. “With this.”
“Where did you come by such a piece?” He turned it over in his hands. “’Tis most unusual.”
“Aye.” She gazed at him and thought, it is time. “A woman gave it to me.”
His brow furrowed. “Who?”
“She claimed to be the Queen of Paroseea.”
“Where? I have never heard of such a land.”
“I do not understand it yet, but I think it is a land of… magic.” When Padruig frowned, she raised a hand. “Listen to me. When I held out the dagger, ’twas as if the man’s sword could not touch me. That is how I bested him. And he wanted it, Padruig. Badly.”
“Where did you meet this … queen?”
“In the loch.” She shook her head. “I know it sounds impossible, mad, but ’tis true.”
“As impossible as a person being able to communicate with animals?”
Aimili gulped a drink of wine. “You—”
“Guessed, aye.”
“Oh.” Aimili waited for him to turn from her, waited for revulsion and fear to cloak his face, but he calmly gazed at her.
“What a wondrous ability that must be,” he said.
“You … you do not mind?”
“Only that I cannot do the same.” He looked over at Cai, now sleeping in a tangle with Lyoness. “Is he content here?”
Aimili laughed. “You do not need any special ability to decipher that. Look at him.”
Padruig shook his head. “I never thought to see him curled up with a bit of fluff.”
Aimili sobered. “Lyoness tried to aid me today. I had tethered Loki’s reins to a branch. When that man …” Her throat closed and she forced herself to take a deep breath. “She tried to chew the reins free.”
“Och, a wee hero.” Padruig rose, pulled on braies, and fetched a cup of wine, all the while holding the dagger. “I have seen this design afore.”
“It looks like a sea creature.”
“Aye, a dolphin. I have seen such in my travels.”
“But we are not near the sea.”
“This design,” he said, pointing to the pattern etched into the steel blade. “See, the dolphin is set within the circular lines. I have seen that symbol carved somewhere.” He drummed his fingers against his cup.
“Here?”
“Aye, but I cannot recall exactly where.” He glanced at her. “What did this … Queen of Paroseea say to you?”
“’Twas confusing. She said that there was danger here from a man, that I would help defeat him.”
“And so you have.”
“Perhaps.” You shall not defeat me so easily. “You did not find his body in the grove?”
“Nay. ’Twas empty. Most likely the man had a companion who carried his body off.”
“I saw no one else.” She tried but failed to stifle a yawn.
“Rest.” He approached the bed, and suddenly his face turned to stone. “By the saints, I bruised you.”
Aimili looked down to where his gaze was fixed. Already bruises formed from where his hands had spanned her waist. “’Tis of no matter. I bruise easily.”
“No matter? It is to me.” He grimaced, his obvious self-disgust a splash of icy water on the mood in the chamber.
“Padruig, I—”
“Rest now.” His voice was back to cool and impersonal. “I will explore the castle to see if I can find this symbol.”
The warmth that had so briefly seized her fled as she watched Padruig hastily throw on his clothes and exit their chamber.
He never even looked at her.
“Damn that bitch,” Vardon muttered as he rode his horse slowly back to Castle MacCoinneach. “Both of them.”
He’d barely escaped being found by Padruig MacCoinneach and his weak-willed followers, spelling himself and the horse with invisibility just in time. By far the only pleasure to be had in the whole affair was the tortured look on the laird’s face when he believed his woman slain.
By the gods, she should have been.
What was the queen of nothing thinking to give that human the dagger of Artemis? He’d recognized the blade at once, of course. Long ago, he’d held the dagger in his own hand, felt the power burned into the steel.
His horse stumbled, and Vardon had to catch at its mane not to tumble off. Damned nag. It was a crime that he’d been reduced to riding a horse simply because it was easy to steal. For a moment, when the wench had plunged the dagger into his shoulder and his blood had run like a pulsing river, he’d thought she’d truly killed him, but as he’d hoped, the dagger was not enough to finish the deed. Still, blood oozed from him, and weakness wound through his limbs, pulling at his eyelids.
“Bitches!” he swore aloud.
He’d made a mistake in underestimating the laird’s lady. There was more to her than a simple lass g
ood with horses, but he could not detect what it was. The dagger guarded her though, and that meant something.
She hadn’t expected it, he’d seen that in her frightened gaze. Though she might possess the blade for now, clearly Sebilla had failed to explain its power.
Foolish woman. When he possessed the dagger of Artemis, he would never let it out of his sight.
He took deep breaths, focusing on reaching the castle before someone noticed his lengthy absence. In between chanting spells of healing to hasten his recovery, he considered how best to deal with Aimili MacCoinneach.
In a way he enjoyed the fact that she would not be as easy as he’d expected. The gods knew no one at Castle MacCoinneach had proved to be any challenge at all thus far. Easily manipulated, easily harmed. In light of the latest scourge to the grain supplies, he’d heard more than one of the clan wonder aloud if the laird bore a curse.
He chuckled, wishing that were, indeed, the case, but that was a power he’d not been able to regain.
Aimili really had to die. Now, he knew how devastated Padruig would be. All he had to do was come upon her when she did not have the dagger. Perhaps when she was bathing, he thought, liking the idea more and more. After all, she owed him.
Aye, Aimili would die, he would take the dagger, and poor Padruig would be so overwhelmed with guilt that he would never recover.
Instead, he would die with the certain knowledge that he had failed. What perfect vengeance.
“Padruig,” Freya shouted when he entered the hall. “Is it true?” She ran to his side, her face pinched and pale.
Silence gripped the hall as expectant faces turned toward him.
“Aye. Aimili is fine.”
Freya swayed. Magnus, who stood just to her side, grabbed her around the waist.
“Our lady lives,” Padruig announced to the folks gathered for supper.
A chorus of excited voices flowed through the hall as Padruig took a seat next to Alasdair and Efrika.
“Praise the Lord,” Efrika said, her hand clutching Alasdair’s. “What happened, Padruig?”
Well, it appears our wee Aimili found herself a magical dagger and defeated her attacker, Padruig thought. Instead, he said, “She rode out alone, despite my orders. A man did attack her, but she managed to defend herself.”
