The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  When her fingers gently caressed first his chin, then his lips, a low groan sounded from somewhere deep within Cyric. Full lips, perfectly shaped, and the sudden urge to taste those lips overcame her.

  In the next instant, Cyric captured Nia’s exploring hand with his own. He held her hand still. “Is that what you wish, Nia?” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. “Shall I kiss you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered back, her voice shaky, excited. “Kiss me.”

  Cyric’s warmth enveloped Nia as he grew close in the darkness and gently pressed his lips to hers. Softly they melded together, and they sat verra still for seconds. Nia’s heart raced wildly, and then Cyric leaned into her, his mouth searching hers, tasting. Low in her abdomen, Nia burned for him. She’d ne’er burned for another.

  Nia lifted one hand to Cyric’s neck, then found his hair with her fingers. Long, wild, with a single narrow braid, she threaded her fingers through it. When Cyric’s tongue touched hers, she gasped, so powerful the touch. Cyric groaned, and lifted a hand to Nia’s jaw.

  She instantly jumped back.

  Both were out of breath.

  Then, before either could react, a hissing sound streaked downwards from the pit’s opening above. Cyric yelled in another language and pushed Nia against the wall. Then, the small cave filled with angered voices, heavy thumps and swords being drawn.

  Nia couldna see a thing, but she verra well knew what was happening. The guardsmen had discovered her and were here to take her away.

  Out of the inky darkness a hand viciously clamped over Nia’s mouth, and another yanked her hard around the waist. In the next second she was being lifted straight up. Her mind reeled and silently shouted, Cyric! Please!

  Nia could barely see a thing as she and the guardsman holding her tightly cleared the opening. The moon was nothin’ more than a sliver in the sky, and it caused more shadow than light. She was shoved to the ground as the battle ensued, that idiot of a guard firing arrows into the pit! So fearful for Cyric, her brain was a scrambled mess as she searched blindly on the forest floor for a weapon. Finding a heavy branch, she smacked the guardsman so hard his helm flew off. He fell to the wood floor with a curse and a grunt.

  The sound that next came from the cave below chilled Nia clear to the bone. First, ’twas the screams of the guardsmen. Next, the pained roar of . . . something. Someone.

  Cyric?

  In the hazy moonlight, a guardsman’s body flew from the hole as though launched by a medieval catapult. His limp and bloodied self landed no’ too far away, and ’twas just enough light for Nia to see his mangled flesh. Two more bodies followed, and then, with another loud roar, a creature exploded through the hole, earth and roots and rock spraying about. Without thinking, Nia knew what it was. Who it was. Feral, and nigh unto unrecognizable as a man, yet she knew.

  “Cyric!” she called. “Cyric, please! Run!”

  The beast turned, faced her and stilled. The guardsmen were dead – that much Nia knew.

  “There will be more to come,” she warned, stepping closer. “You have to flee!”

  With a blood-curdling roar, Cyric jumped towards her. In the shadows Nia could see a hulking form, long, wild hair, claws and a face covered in animal-like fur. Fangs jutted like tusks, and still, she showed no fear.

  For admittedly, only to herself, she’d fallen in love with Cyric of the Wood.

  “Run!” she hollered. “Go, now!” With a fist, she pounded his chest. Sobs shook her and escaped her throat. How she hated to cry. “Please,” she said, softer. “I can’t bear to see you hurt.”

  Again, Cyric lurched. His face, so animal-like, stared at her intently with human eyes that shone in the moonlight. He searched her face, so it seemed, and it was only then that Nia remembered her own disfigurement. She turned and quickly covered her face with her hands.

  The empty night was filled with Cyric’s harsh breathing, and now Nia’s stifled sobs. Even as a beast, she didna wish for him to see her hideousness. But, she knew he had. Shame filled her and, for the first time since encountering Cyric, fear as well.

  Fear of the disgust she’d seen in so many others eyes – including her verra own da’s.

  A shout broke the silence, followed by the shrill whistle of an arrow.

  With a deafening roar, Cyric charged the guard and killed him. Then, he turned back to Nia, scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder and ran. With each step he grew faster, and the weight of his clawed hand pressed against the backs of Nia’s legs to hold her steady as they forged into the shadowy wood of Killarney.

  Nia could do little more than hold on.

  Nia knew not how long they ran through the wood; exhaustion had overtaken her and she’d fallen asleep against the beastly back of Cyric. She lay still now, alone, on something soft, and without opening her eyes she listened to a strange sound. It was one she’d dreamed of hearing one day. Could it be?

  With a long pull of air, she tasted the salt of the sea on her tongue. Slowly, she opened her eyes, sat up and looked about. She lay on a soft bed of thick furs in what once had been a grand castle. Hollow windows allowed the fierce breeze to blow in, and lichen covered the walls of the roofless stone shell that probably housed a hundred different memories. Standing, she moved to the window. Outside, green grass covered a rocky hill, whilst the sea’s waves crashed against the sheer cliffs of the castle’s dais. She gasped as she took in the view. A gust of wind pushed the cloak from her head, tossing her hair back. She closed her eyes and inhaled again, revelling in the feel of the sea breeze against her skin. A shrill scream sounded and she cracked open her eyes to watch a gull dive and screech.

  “Nia.”

  Nia turned before she thought, and the moment her eyes met Cyric’s, she hastily turned away and covered her face with her hands. “Please,” she begged. “Please, leave me.” She didna want him to look upon her marred skin, ever again. ’Twas bad enough he’d done so in his other form. Both Cyric and the Berserker were one and the same; they’d looked upon her with the same pair of eyes and the same memory. They’d seen. Cyric had seen. And it shamed her fiercely. Uncontrolled quivers began inside her, and no matter what she did, or how many deep breaths she took, they wouldna cease. Angered, Nia swore.

  A light chuckle sounded behind her.

  “Nia, turn round.”

  Nia shook her head. “I willna, so leave me.” She pulled the cowl of her cloak closer about her face.

  Then, a pair of strong hands gripped her shoulders, and Cyric’s deep voice washed over her. “You’ve ne’er seen the sea?” he asked gently.

  Nia wouldna answer. What was he about? He’d seen her face, and still he tormented her? He acted as though he wasna affected by her fire-marred skin. No man wasna affected by it. No’ even her own father.

  “Nia, look at me.”

  Finally, she’d had enough. All the resentment and anger of being shunned the whole of her life emerged. Nia turned then, and flung her cowl off her head. Bravely, she met his gaze with her own. “There! Are you happy now?”

  A slow smile started on his beautiful mouth. “I am indeed.”

  Nia blinked. Only then did she take in the features of Cyric of the Wood. For a moment, she nearly forgot the anguish he was causing her by looking at her face, so overcome was she by his. Her gaze searched his features. She’d never been more intrigued in her entire life.

  Standing well over six feet, Cyric was bare to the waist. Broad shoulders cut into a muscular chest, narrowing into a rock-hard abdomen. His skin was flawless – where you could actually see skin at all. Intricately etched black markings covered his body and sinewy arms – even up the left side of his jaw and face. To some, ’twould be menacing. Frightening. A beast. To Nia, he was—

  “Beautiful,” Cyric said, barely above a whisper. “My God, Nia.” He moved closer and stared directly into her eyes, searching. “How could you think yourself otherwise?”

  Nia, still mesmerized by the ancient Pict warrior before her,
continued her perusal, ignoring him completely. Cyric’s hair was as black as the markings burned into his flesh, and hung wild and tousled nearly to his waist. The front was braided into two long strands and hung on either side of his temples. She even noted how the markings crept up into part of Cyric’s lip. How she remembered those lips tasting hers . . .

  A slight grin lifted one corner of Cyric’s mouth.

  Still, Nia ignored.

  Green eyes. Cyric of the Wood had the smokiest green eyes she’d e’er seen on a man, with long, black lashes and perfect black brows. She could do little more than stare at his all-too perfect features.

  Again, the corners of his mouth lifted. Nia noticed for the first time a deep dimple in either cheek. God Almighty, no’ only was he mythical, he was bloody beautiful.

  That awarded Nia with a deep-throated laugh.

  Even his teeth were straight and white. And those lips?

  Heat flooded Nia’s face. She knew the fool listened inside her brain. She didna care. She wasna finished yet.

  Slowly, Nia walked around Cyric, inspecting each and every inch of his exposed skin. The markings fascinated her. Ancient markings started at his chest and wound around his abdomen, his back and spine, and disappeared below his waistline. Down the length of his muscular arms and on to his hands – even down each long finger.

  Nia couldna imagine the pain he’d endured to receive such intricate markings.

  She thought him to be the most beautiful creature she’d ever laid eyes upon.

  “Are you quite finished yet, madam?”

  Nia, surprised at the ease she felt in Cyric’s presence, faced him. She tilted her chin. “Aye. And now you see why I didna wish for you to neither see nor touch my face.”

  “I wish to now,” he said, those green eyes burning into hers.

  “Drink your fill,” Nia said, a bite to her words even she could hear. She held her gaze to his, and Cyric did exactly that.

  She watched his green gaze slowly move over her face before he lifted a hand to her cheek. Inwardly, Nia flinched, but she wasna going to shirk his inspection. He’d saved her life. If he wanted to see the horror of her scars for himself, she’d let him. Then, she’d leave.

  Cyric’s eyes flashed as he firmly but gently grasped her chin. “Do you think so little of me, Nia of Clare?” Slowly, he released her, and let the back of his knuckles drag slowly over the very skin marred by the fire that took her mother’s life. His eyes softened, and when they moved to her lips, turned even smokier. “You’ve no right to judge me by others, Nia,” he said quietly. His thumb grazed her lower lip, and his eyes followed the motion, seemingly fascinated by it.

  Then, he cupped her face on either side with both of his hands, tilted her head just so, and lowered his mouth to hers.

  She allowed it.

  His lips were a whisper away from touching hers when he stilled. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said, his lips brushing hers softly with each word. “The way you look at me – you didna fear the beast.” He brushed his lips over hers. “I’ve waited for you my whole life, Nia of Clare.” He pulled back and searched her eyes. “I think you were meant to be mine.” He kissed her again, his thumbs brushing the puckered skin on her face. “Ne’er has any mortal been able to tame the Beast, but you did. I knew who you were last night,” he said. “And you feared me not. You were so verra brave.”

  Nia was lost in his touch and his words. Ne’er had she been looked upon with such love. “My da deemed me unworthy of a husband because of my face,” she said. “I was being sent to the abbey to live a life worshiping God, alone.” She cocked her head. “Why have so many men before you seen my face and thought me ugly, yet you find me beautiful?”

  Cyric’s gaze stared down at her, and the sincerity Nia saw in the green depths rocked her to the core.

  “Fools, for one,” he began, and lowered his head once more. He brushed a light, teasing kiss across her lips. He leaned back, just far enough so his eyes weren’t crossed at being so close. “And I’ve seen inside your head,” he said proudly. “What’s in there has a powerful beauty, as well.” He cocked his head and stared directly at her scars. For once, she didna cringe. “When was the last time you saw your face, Nia?”

  Nia had to think – quite difficult whilst being held in the arms of a half-naked marked man, centuries old. Then, she laughed. “I don’t recall.”

  Cyric smiled. “Come. Let me show you something.” He tugged her hand and pulled her away from the window. Then, he suddenly stopped, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, lowered his head, and covered her mouth with his. Everywhere his hands touched, her skin burned, and Nia slid her hands over his marked skin to clasp her fingers behind his neck. He moved her slowly until her back was against the aged wall, and they kissed until breathless.

  Finally, Cyric pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. “Come,” he said. He pulled her out of the ruined room, down a stone corridor, then down a narrow flight of steps. “Careful,” he warned, leading the way.

  Nia smiled at that. Cyric could turn into a bloodthirsty, frothing-at-the-mouth fanged beast that could rip a man in two, and he was telling her to be careful of the stone steps.

  Finally, they reached the bottom. The roof of the castle was mostly gone, with wooden beams and sky exposed overhead. Cyric guided her to a wall where an old knight’s shield hung askew. He reached up, grabbed it and, with the tail of Nia’s cloak, polished it. He stared into it, grinned, and turned it around and held it up.

  “See for yourself.”

  Nia stared into Cyric’s mischievous eyes, then slowly let her gaze settle on the polished metal. Although no’ a perfect mirror by any means, she could certainly see her reflection.

  Nia blinked and drew closer. She felt her mouth slide open in surprise, and she lifted a hand to her marred cheek.

  Rather, the cheek that was once marred. Now, ’twas just a bit pinkish and ever so slightly puckered.

  ’Twasna nearly as bad as it used to be.

  Then, Cyric’s image edged into the shield as he looked on with her. “Beautiful,” he whispered and, for once in her life, Nia felt it to be true.

  He then set the shield down and walked Nia to what once was a massive landing overlooking the sea. He pulled her close and tucked her head beneath his chin. “You and I make quite a pair,” he said, holding her tightly. “I dunna ever want to let you go.” He lifted her chin, forcing Nia to meet his gaze. “Will you stay wi’ me? I canna offer much, other than warmth, food and safety—”

  “Aye,” Nia said, joy filling her soul. “I never dreamed of finding someone who loved me as much as I loved them.”

  A wide smile stretched across Cyric’s breathtaking face. Nia noticed how it curled one tip of the black Pict marking in his lip. “You love me, then? Beast and all?”

  Nia wrapped her arms about Cyric’s waist. “I do love you, Cyric, Beast of Killarney Wood.” She raised on tiptoe and pulled his head down to her. She kissed him. “I’ll love you forever.”

  Cyric embraced her tightly, then kissed her back with just as much fierceness as she. “I love you too, Nia of the Wood.”

  With a deep laugh that reverberated off the walls and cliffs of the sea, Cyric scooped Nia up and kissed her some more.

  Beyond the Veil

  Patricia Rice

  Connacht Region, Ireland – 161 AD

  One

  A blast of wind and hail burst from the roiling black clouds, battering bodies crumpled in a sea of red. Rain lashed at the valley and the grassy mound rising above the fallen warriors, as if to wash away the stench of death. But the carrion crows already gathered.

  Mortally wounded and bleeding profusely, one soldier determinedly staggered up the greensward, away from the battle scene. Caught sideways by a fierce gust of hail and rain, he sagged to one knee. But his will was mightier than the storm. With gasping breath, he dug his fingers into a boulder and hauled his big body up again. A cu
t across his cheekbone bled freely down his square jaw and into his long, wet hair, staining it a deeper shade of auburn.

  The great sword slung across his back dripped with the blood of his enemies, but Finn mac Connell knew, in the end, they had killed him. Others like him, warriors all, the kind of which legends are made, lay slaughtered in the valley below. The battle had been won, but at a high cost.

  Finn lurched on to a rocky path, his gaze fixed on the wooden fort at the top of the hill, where he’d left his wife. The women and children had fled with the cattle to the woods and hills when the battle arrived at their doorstep. But Niamh had been in childbed.

  He had fought furiously to protect his home so he might return to the woman who owned his heart, and the child she was about to bear.

  He prayed to all the gods that she was safe. In response, the gale blew so wildly, Finn stumbled backwards, but he fought for his balance and pushed onwards. The gnarled Druid Oak sheltered him momentarily, allowing him to fill his lungs, giving him the strength to continue, although the gash in his side was deep, and he’d lost more blood than any normal man could survive.

  No smoke curled from the chimney. She would be freezing in this blustery damp air. He would start a fire for her before he left – because he knew he was not long for this world. But Niamh must live. And his child. Without them, he had no home to defend, and brave men had died for nought.

  Using his sword to hold himself upright the last few steps, Finn pushed open the crude plank door of his home.

  At the sight within, his roar of rage and agony surpassed the thunder, bringing him to his knees at last.

  Niamh, his beautiful black-haired Niamh, lay in a bed of blood, her usually rosy cheeks now as pale and still as the winter snows. Her once flashing eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. Her warm smile would never greet anyone again.

  The warrior crossed his arms on the timber bed and buried his face against them. He was not a man who wept, but his heart howled like an infant—