The Pledge

by Helen Mittermeyer

  Deep in sleep she thought herself caught in a storm. She couldn’t free herself from the maelstrom. Tossed and turned, she heard a mumbling as though Taranus, god of lightning, had come among them. Though a follower of the Christian ethics, Morrigan was too canny to underwrite the great gods and goddesses of Boudicca and other great Celts. When she had to, she soothed their capricious ways. She opened her eyes to mutter a prayer to the power god and looked into the eyes of her spouse.

  “Wha…?”

  “Be still, my beauty. You’ve come to my bed and I give you welcome. This night this warrior has need of the likes of you. ’Twould seem I’ve sustained a wound, though I know not with what or how.” He frowned. “Nor can I recall what day ’Tis nor what battle beset me. Must have been a blow to the skull with a cudgel. No matter, I’m strong enough for this and seek it. I have a great flame in my innards I would bestow upon thee, my beauty. Forsooth I’ll give you the hottest of loving as you’ll give the same back to me.”

  “Wait! Hugh MacKay—”

  He kissed her, his tongue jousting, tickling, teasing, cutting off her sputtering ire and protest. “Resist not, lovely one. I care not that you’ve given your favor to others, though if truth be told I would prefer that all your talents be mine, alone.” He grinned at her struggles.

  “Will you listen—?”

  “Nay! This night you’ll belong to me, as I will be yours, and we will pleasure each other until I must rise from your pallet and battle once more.” He leaned over her, kissing her neck, her cheek, returning over and over to her mouth. “I’ll fill you with my heat as you will drown me in your charms.” He kissed her lips again. Then his mouth slid between her breasts, caressing the skin, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking there, muttering shocking encouragement that she imitate such on his body.

  “Sirrah! I cannot—” Morrigan was spinning. New sensations filled her like rare wine in a goblet. She couldn’t describe what was happening. Nay! She’d never known there was such. She was on fire with a need she couldn’t name. Her hands clutched Hugh MacKay even as she told herself it couldn’t be happening.

  “You can, my lovely. Tomorrow, I’ll war again, and not know your name. Mayhap I’ll not forget you so easily, though. You’re a rara avis to be sure. This night you’ll be my mate in passion and ecstasy…” He kissed her, openmouthed, eager, wanting.

  Unused to such endearments, to such a clasping of bodies, to such daring words, Morrigan was rigid with outrage. Yet there was a melting in her, a yearning that ignored his shamelessness. Nay! She would’ve spurred him on if such was necessary. Hugh MacKay had no need of impetus. He set a fire and fed the flames with an eagerness that left her breathless.

  It would seem he was not as sick as she’d believed. That he thought her a common strumpet raised her ire. Then she felt the coldness of sweat brushing her skin and knew that he was indeed in deep fever. Her umbrage melted, her rage seeped away. She wrenched her mouth from his. “Stop, MacKay, you’re ailing. Stop!” She felt her garment tear. Good glory! The evil humors had taken his hearing.

  “Seek not to tease me, lovely one. Remove this wrap and I will love you as you seek.”

  “Seek? Me?” Sputtering, Morrigan tried to reason with him. Then she caught sight of his glazed stare. “You know me not!”

  “Of course I do, sweet one. You’re my whore—”

  “What? How dare—”

  He kissed her, his mouth filling hers, taking, giving such heat that her fury had no focus. A drumbeat began in her belly, throbbing until she was deafened by it. Her limbs had turned to hot honey and all they wanted was to entwine with MacKay’s.

  When he lifted his mouth a mere breath from hers, she couldn’t get enough air to voice more protest. He didn’t seem to share her problem. His eyes held more than fever. The look made her fire anew. His body, though pearled with sweat, seemed to have a seductive, sinuous strength that magnetized her. “Hugh—”

  “In the east you’re honored as kadim or houri. If you suit me, I’ll keep you with me. ’Tis not uncommon to keep such as you in a castle.” He lifted her torn garment from her body, seeming not to notice her protests. “I will inform my people that you will be an honored guest.”

  Gulping breaths, she glared at him. “Oh? Is that the way of it? You’ll not keep me—”

  “I shall… until I battle again.”

  “Monstrous! You cannot,” she argued with him as he was freeing her from the last of her raiment. “I am not a houri, Hugh MacKay. Hear that plain.”

  “Sweet one! Do not seek to entice me with false shyness.”

  “False, is it? I’ll take a claymore to you, I will. And one more thing, you ungracious lout, I’m not…” All at once she realized she’d been poking her finger into his naked chest. “Good glory! Have you no shame?”

  “Nay. Nor should you, my bare beauty.”

  “Bare? Don’t be… Eek!” She scrambled to cover herself, slapping at his hands when he continued to ignore her modesty. She was stunned to realize their bodies were entwined. “Stop!”

  “I can’t,” he muttered. “Nor do you wish it.”

  “I do…” Words dribbled away when he put his head upon her breast, pulling her nipple into his mouth.

  “Beautiful,” he muttered, his lips still surrounding her.

  Aghast, she opened her mouth, exhaling and inhaling deep breaths, words of denial caught deep in her throat. “No…” she wheezed.

  “Shh,” he muttered, taking her other nipple and repeating the torrid ritual. “I would wash you with my tongue, sweet lady. Lave you up and down from your woman’s place to your eyes, I will.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “Seek me, not the Maker, lovely one.”

  He was a barbarian! If she’d had the strength, if she weren’t so hot, so trembly, she’d smite the bastard Scot for such effrontery. His language was atrocious! He spoke in the most outrageous way. If truth be told he was blasphemous. Ohhh! His mouth upon her middle must be sinful. Surely such wild sweetness could be nothing else.

  “ ’Tis not often I’m made so hot. You have done this,” he told her, growling the words. “This is where your magic is.” His hands went down her middle until they touched her female center. Then his mouth followed, darting at her navel, then moving lower, his lips pulling at the curls there, licking, making her body as feverish as his. When she bucked beneath him, he increased the rhythm until she thought she’d go mad.

  Stunned by the surge of sensation, building inside her like the mudslides from the cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea, she could only grip his shoulders and wonder if she was living or dying. The heat she’d never known, nor imagined, grew and expanded, filling her. When there seemed there could be no more, there was. It cascaded through her like the sea crashing on the shore.

  “Hugh!”

  “I’m here, beauty.”

  “I can’t… I don’t…”

  “Ah, ’Tis the same for me. You’ve set me aflame.”

  Her body writhed upon the bedding as though she, not Hugh, were caught in a miasma. Trying to gainsay him, to find the words to stop his wonderful onslaught, seemed impossible. Appalling that she wanted him to continue, yet she couldn’t stem that wondrous tide of desire. The thought crossed her mind that he thought her another, that he might not have wanted her as much. Then it evaporated like the mists in the glen. Why could she not find the strength to stop this thunderous wanting? What magic did MacKay have? It was a bittersweet certainty that, even if MacKay didn’t know he made love to her, she wanted more and didn’t want him to stop.

  She’d had the swelling sickness in her throat once and her body had burned into watery rashes. She’d thrashed for days on the edge of oblivion. She had a similar sensation now. If she released her hold on MacKay she could spiral away into nothingness. He was her anchor to life and hot, melting beauty.

  The heat in the core of her was beyond any fire she’d ever thought to have. How to define the mushrooming need that had n
othing to do with hunger and thirst, but was even stronger? It was not for cool, fruited water her being cried. What then? She couldn’t comprehend the great gnawing that filled her, making her form move with his upon the big bed. What unseen rhythm had them in thrall?

  “So, my sweet, you call me as Circe has always beckoned with your lovely form.”

  How outrageous he was! Being with him was more than right, it was a clarion call from spirit to spirit… and much more. She ached to be closer though she was skin to skin with him. Letting their bodies abrade, their limbs entwine was a command she couldn’t ignore. That heat from within was building to a pyramid of feeling she’d not had an inkling of until that moment. Wanting choked her. Air left her body in great gasps, to be sucked in again in huge gulps.

  Her intent to tell him to desist crumpled like the dried sage put into the bedcovering, turning to dust her resolve to make him lie back, rest. Their sweat-slick bodies rubbed each other like flint against stone, turning them into glowing embers. Hands gripped hands, legs tangled and tightened, bodies pulsed against each other.

  Morrigan forgot protest, forgot inhibition, lost reluctance. She wanted him, and no other. Needed him, no other, and she didn’t know why, or how it happened. And she didn’t care. She’d never been so weak, so strong, so rejuvenated. What was happening?

  “That’s it, my beauty, move against me.”

  “I… I do not—”

  His mouth took her words, tasting them. When his tongue found its way between her lips and began a dance with hers, she tried to cry out. Instead her tongue began its own jousting and the intolerable heat built again.

  Her arms pressed against him to be freed. When he backed a hair’s space away to give her room, some far-off thought was sure she’d smite him. Instead she let her arms encircle his neck.

  “Hold me tight, little love, I shall carry you with me to Valhalla.”

  ’Twas blasphemy, an errant voice whispered. Why would a Scot wish to go to a Viking heaven? True, some said his mother was Icelandic… Thought dribbled away. Her body, heeding its own clarion call, began to inch up and down him anew. When he cursed, his voice hoarse with urgency, she stopped, uncertain, hot, eager, but afraid.

  “No, sweet thing, I have no anger. You just make me so hard, so needful. I could plunge into you now, but I’ve a fantasy to make you as wanting as me.” He kissed her hard, his one hand holding her, the other stroking up and down her form.

  Euphoria and excitement were a wild paradox that held her. When he looked into her eyes, smiling, he took away all resistance. She wanted this coupling, enough to drown the fear deep within her. It was madness to desire a Scot. Surely she’d lost all sense to want him in such a way. No doubt of it. She was depraved.

  He turned her body so that the candlelight flashed over it, creating a sunburst of color. “You are a goddess. What deed have I accomplished that brings you to me from your star?”

  Morrigan didn’t have an answer even if he’d expected one. She knew he didn’t when he pressed his face between her breasts, his tongue laving her, his hands massaging her.

  Eager for more, she let her hands touch his back, her fingers feeling the strong, smooth skin, crisscrossed with many scars. She caressed him as she’d done to no other. Excitement built anew, even as she was sure there could be no more. It was as though another had taken her life and given her a new one, bubbling with a delight, a desire to mate with MacKay.

  He lifted his head, smiling at her, his eyes glittering. “You taste sweet, my beauty.” His mouth closed over her breast again, the touch arching her body into him.

  He put his arms around her buttocks, lifting her closer. He lifted his head, gazing at her. “I shall make you flame with desire, beauty.”

  Morrigan swallowed. “Yes.”

  He smiled, his lazy mouth descending to her skin, scoring down it to her navel, entering and exiting in a wonderful rhythm that seemed right, though she’d not known of it before Hugh MacKay had done this.

  She pulled at his hair when she felt his breath on her woman’s place. None should go there except to plant the seed of a child. She knew this as did all women. But he’d been there before and she wanted it again. “Ohhh.” The cry escaped her as she felt his tongue there, going in and out as it’d done in her navel. She would’ve protested, but she couldn’t find the words.

  His tongue plunged again and again into her woman’s place. Then she seemed to rip apart in heat.

  “MacKay!” she called aloud.

  “I’m here, beauty.”

  She was being torn by MacKay’s flame the way that lightning struck a tree. There was no pain, only a building, hot sensation then blackness took her, her body bucking against his mouth.

  “I come to you, my beauty.”

  Sliding up and into her body, he began the rhythm again, taking her beyond anything she’d ever known. There was a sudden surprising pain through all the boiling need, then there was nothing but a surging, pounding desire.

  His body worked over hers. She rose to meet every thrust, finding a burgeoning fullness that suddenly carried her beyond any sight or sound she’d ever imagined. She gripped him, thinking that she’d risen beyond the castle, the battlements, the land of miserable Scots.

  She shuddered over and over again, feeling a subtle rawness, but it was not unpleasant. She was still locked into MacKay’s arms, his mouth in her hair. Then as though a far-off plan was executed, their two bodies strained in an ultimate journey of joy. For long moments after she couldn’t move, nor could she see or feel. After a while sensation appeared again. She knew where she was, what she’d done. She tried to free herself. His hold tightened.

  “Nay, lass, I already want you more.” Though the words were slurred his hold was fast.

  Twice more in the night he loved her, each time better than the last, longer, sweeter, until she was wrung out with new feelings she’d thought never to experience.

  When he began to sleep she gazed at him in wonder. He was devilishly ill with fever, still he’d made love to her over and over and it’d been wonderful. She was truly wed to a giant of a man. How frightening that, mayhap, she might come to love this man because of the night of love he’d given her. His feelings wouldn’t be involved because he thought he’d joined with a courtesan. Would he change his feelings on the morrow and realize he’d made love with his wife?

  She rose, easing him away from the coverings, eyeing the blood there. Her husband would never know he took a virgin as bride and she could never tell him. She began changing the bedcoverings. In a rage he could deny Rhys his heritage. He could put her aside and the boy, as well. No, she couldn’t confess that Rhys had been born to another mother. Her pledge overrode her need for truth. The pathos, the irony shook her and she felt a tear on her cheek.

  SIX

  What fools these mortals be.

  Seneca

  Morrigan watched the children while they had their lessons with Father Monteith. She bit back a smile when Rhys rolled his eyes at Avis, who labored as hard as he over the Greek words.

  Her attention went to Conal, who seemed to eat up every word and thirst for more. She caught the eye of the priest, who gave some directions to the children and then moved to her side. “’Twould seem we have a scholar, Father.”

  He nodded, smiling. “Conal is eager for any knowledge and is able to digest a good mix. His language skills are excellent, milady, and his curiosity is boundless.”

  She smiled. “Both he and Avis have responded well to care.”

  “You have shown them love, milady. They flower because of it.” He bowed to her. “And we owe you much for the nurturing you’ve given the MacKay. As a man who has studied the medicaments, I know how dangerous and varied are the poisons that surround us. You saved his life. Though he chafes at his slow recovery, I’ve told him many times he should be grateful he can move about at all.”

  Morrigan frowned. “He insists on riding over his holdings, yet I’m not sure his innards are in a
s good shape as they should be.”

  “A most headstrong man is the laird, milady. In another turn of the moon he should be in guid tid as the country people say, if he does not undo all your nursing by being precipitous.”

  “He’s most impatient.”

  “Yes. Milady, I would ask a boon.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “If I have your permission I should like to take the twins to the monastery. Conal wishes to see the great books, and Avis would accompany him.” His smile lurked. “Rhys has told me he’s seen such things.”

  Morrigan chuckled. “Rhys is happiest in the stable, I think.”

  “And with the dogs,” Father added. “I thank you for letting me take Avis and Conal.”

  “Of course. The outing would be good for them. I’ll take Rhys for a ride on his new mount, though I’m quite sure he would prefer working in the stable.”

  The priest chuckled, then went back to his charges.

  * * *

  “Why do you have to go with me? Eamon will do that.”

  Morrigan looked at Rhys, wanting to laugh when his chin jutted out, his eyes narrowed. He looked so much like her beloved cousin Gwynneth at that moment. “You have run poor Eamon ragged. I’ve decided to spell him.”

  “You’re tired. Dilla says you are. She says that you take care of MacKay all the time, and that wearies you. Then she laughs,” Rhys told her. “So you should return to rest. I can watch myself.”

  Morrigan was glad at that moment when he looked away. Her face flamed. Nay! Not just the visage, but all of her felt heat. Some was embarrassment. Most was the heat that MacKay engendered though he wasn’t beside her.

  He was improving every day, though there was still great weakness that was akin to such poisonings even if one was fortunate enough to survive. Though he required little in the way of nursing, he wasn’t back to full health no matter how many times he roared that he was. He didn’t need her ministrations. She wanted his, though she was sure he’d be too weak for the wild loving he’d shown her. She couldn’t forget that wonderful night when he’d taught her how to be a woman, let her learn about his passion. She wanted more. Sometimes she was emboldened to ask how soon he would like her to join him on the nuptial bed. It was only a wispy wish. She couldn’t bring herself to query him so. Besides, she didn’t want him to recall their night of love. What if he remembered the blood of her virgin wall and how he’d shattered it? She didn’t want those questions, so unless they spoke of his health she didn’t initiate conversation with him. She was on the horns of a dilemma, wanting him, yet not wanting him to discover the secret of Rhys’s birth. What a quandary!