The Pledge

by Helen Mittermeyer

  When he lowered his head, she reared up, calling his name.

  “Shh. This is what we both want, beloved.”

  “Yes.”

  He opened his mouth, finding her woman’s place, and placed his lips and tongue there. In slow and even cadence, his tongue took her over and over again.

  Morrigan’s protests broke to rusty groans of encouragement.

  He felt her rise to the peak, then crash in sudden and full climax.

  Taking in air as though she couldn’t get enough, her body glistening, she looked up at him, shocked, eyes wide. “Hugh?”

  “I’m with you, beloved.”

  Face glinting with the same fever as hers, his body slick with it, he placed his hands on both sides of her. He levered himself over her, entering her with slow, careful strokes.

  He watched her, teeth gritted, he edged out, then in again, trying not to hurry, to hurt her. She was such a perfect fit for him, sweetly snug, warm, damp.

  When she clutched him, taking more of him, grasping his buttocks, rolling herself tighter into him, he began a tightening motion of his own. Again and again he sank into her, sweat beading his face, air wheezing from his body.

  He saw by her sudden gasp, her widening eyes, that she’d begun to share his thunderous questing. When she gasped his name, thrusting back with every thrust of his, he went mad with want.

  She was giving to him, more and more. Hugh couldn’t believe the wonder of his beautiful lady.

  He slipped his hands beneath her hips, cushioning her, tilting her more toward him. Each deepening motion carried them farther into the wondrous land where only they could dwell. Not in all his life had there been such.

  “Hugh!”

  “Yes, beloved.”

  “More.”

  “My love!”

  All his energy turned on this, his breath seemed to leave him, ragged, uneven.

  Morrigan began the ascent again, pulling him with her.

  When the stars burst around them, they sobbed their names, their love, their need.

  Long moments they held each other, embracing, stroking, gentling their breathing.

  “ ’Tis a most wondrous happening. No wonder people marry.”

  Hugh laughed. “Not all go to heaven as we did, beloved.”

  She looked up at him. “Why not?”

  The question arrested him. He mulled over her question, again taken at her perceptive powers, her level of learning, emphasized by her questions. “Because they cannot find what I have in you, beloved.”

  She smiled. “And I must have the same in you.”

  “I would agree.”

  Morrigan laughed. “Good things have happened to me.”

  Hugh tried not to let the tumult of emotions show. For him the words brought back how easily she was taken from him, how cavalierly they’d diced with her life. He’d not let her out of his sight again. He touched her neck, rubbing his hands over the silky surface.

  “What think you?”

  “The necklace that you wore is gone.”

  She nodded. For a moment sadness filled her, then she smiled. “ ’Tis paltry compared to our being together.”

  He nodded. “But you loved it.”

  “Yes. ’Twas a gift from my father to my mother. It’d been in his family many years. Some said ’twas sacred to Llywelyns.”

  “I will regain it.”

  She touched his face, shaking her head. “No. I’d not want it if it cost one drop of MacKay blood. ’Tis a bauble, nothing more.”

  Hugh recalled the exquisite cut of the gems, their deep flashing hues, the richness of the gold that bound them. He smiled, but made a secret covenant.

  “You ponder other things, Hugh?”

  He wanted to evade, not bring up that time when she was in those bastards’ clutches in Wales. Truth won out. “I cannot brush away that time when you were in jeopardy.”

  Her hand cupped his jaw. “I’d not play you false by saying I wasn’t frightened. I was. Not seeing you and our children again would’ve been hell on earth for me.” She nipped at his chin. “I also was quite sure you’d find me. And you did, and brought me home. I have my joy again, Hugh. ’Tis all I need.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think you’d come through the wall.”

  “You saw me.” His hand whorled over her middle.

  “I did, though I couldn’t move or say much, nor was I sure you weren’t a vision.”

  “I thought your eyes were closed.”

  She grimaced. “They were slits, I think. I could see you, but it was as though there were bars to my vision. I couldn’t make anything work as it should.”

  “Beloved!” Torn as he’d never been or thought to be, he enfolded her to his chest, kissing her hair.

  “I feel your heartbeat against my cheek,” she murmured. “It warms me.”

  “And you heat me, beloved.”

  She looked up, her eyes alight. “Surely not again.”

  His face changed, his eyes narrowing. “Are you not well?”

  Morrigan laughed, feeling more carefree than she’d ever been. “I am. I am. I just didn’t think you could do… that so quickly again.”

  Hugh’s eyes glinted over her. “You turn me to fire with your look. I thought you knew that.”

  “I’m beginning to, husband.” She leaned up and kissed him, her mouth clinging to his.

  “Good,” he muttered, his mouth sliding down her neck to her chest. “You’re so beautiful. I need you.”

  “As I need you.”

  For the next hour they spent many ways telling each other that, with embraces, touches, kisses. There was no need for mere words.

  THIRTEEN

  Chaos: A rough, unordered mass of things.

  Ovid Naso

  Morrigan had been disappointed when she’d had her monthlies, though Diodura told her she would bear a child in good time.

  As time went by, it seemed that every MacKay was dedicated to keeping her wrapped in swaddling. Annoyed and amused at the way they rushed to take all chores from her hands, she had to use ingenuity to free herself from the loving shackles. Hugh was the greatest offender. He acted as though she’d break in a thousand pieces if she took a walk.

  Many times she took strolls with the twins, Rhys, and their huge water dog called Odin after the Viking god. The fresh air revived her, good food restored her. Her health was returning by leaps and bounds.

  Strolling outside one day when the children should have been at lessons, she went to the stable and saw a tall, strapping MacKay leading a spirited filly around on a rope, crooning to the horse as though it were a baby. She went over to the enclosure formed by thick branches woven with hemp. Leaning her chin on the top rung, she studied the animal. Sleek, not large, but quick. Certainly not a destrier, but more for the kind of trick riding the warriors in Wales would do with sword and lance.

  All at once the man saw her, his face reddening. His bow was ragged as the steed bumped him in play.

  “You’re Rufus, aren’t you?”

  “I am, milady. ’Tis glad am I that you’re well,” he said in Gaelic.

  “I thank thee,” she answered in the same way. “What do you call her?”

  “She has no name until you give her one. She’s to be yours when you’re well, milady. Hugh has decreed it.” He rolled his eyes. “Oh woe, ’twas to be a surprise.”

  Morrigan laughed, hiding the rush of ire toward her spouse. When was she supposed to be well? When she was sixty turns of the moon? She was more than fine at that very moment. “Good. Saddle her for me. I would ride this day.”

  Rufus’s mouth dropped, his eyes skating the perimeter of the enclosure as though he’d call for help. “Milady—”

  “I’ll saddle her myself,” Morrigan told him, her momentary regret for upsetting Rufus overridden by the need to get out and stretch her mind and body in the fresh air.

  “I’ll do it,” Rufus said, reaching for the sidesaddle that most women used. When Morrigan shook her head, pointi
ng to the regulation saddle, Rufus reddened, shaking his head. “Milady, you’ve… not… the… split skirt.”

  Not that he would’ve approved anyway, Morrigan was sure. “As you say, I’m not wearing the right raiment. Use the sidesaddle.” She nodded her head, acquiescing to his wishes. One day she’d remember to don the split skirt fashioned for her in Wales, made of the smoothest skin of the sheep, and soft as down feathers.

  Rufus exhaled his relief.

  Morrigan eyed the sun, then gave the horse handler her widest smile. “Are Rhys and the twins at their studies, Rufus?” Knowing full well that all MacKays seemed to know what every other one was doing, she awaited his reply. Mayhap her three children would be studying or about their chores. Mayhap not.

  Rufus looked up at her. “Milord wants us not to tell you aught that would alarm you, milady.”

  “Then Rhys, Conal, and Avis must be doing something terrible.”

  Shocked, Rufus shook his head, not quite hiding his misery.

  No doubt he’d been informed to tell her nothing. Morrigan vowed to talk to her husband.

  “Conal totted up his words and his special duties with the Greek studies, milady. Rhys did his stable chores. Avis joined with the cooks when she was through with chores.” He coughed. “All three have finished their lessons for the day and were given a choice of games.”

  “And what did they choose?”

  Rufus swallowed. “They’re out at the jousting field with Eamon, milady.”

  Morrigan hid her chagrin. How like her children to be there. No doubt Rhys fooled his instructors into shortening the lessons so that he and his siblings could get to the practice field. Rhys and the twins had far too many people running hither and yon to please them.

  “I won’t be long, Rufus.”

  “I’ll go with you, milady.”

  “No need,” she told the hapless stable attendant. “I’ll be going down to the practice field. I’ll not be far.”

  “But… milady…”

  “Fret not,” she said over her shoulder. “You must mind the horses.”

  “Yes. And I have to wonder what side of my chest the laird will grab when he slams me to the ground.” He sighed.

  Morrigan loved the smooth gait of the filly, who was fresh and eager to run. Letting her have her head on the wide glen leading to the practice field beyond, she sensed the joy of the horse as she gathered herself and sped down the glen at a gallop.

  Wide-eyed MacKays watched their lady fly over the field, jumping hedges and laughing out loud.

  More than one dropped the tool they’d been using and hurried after her, concerned and curious.

  “She’s wild y’un, our lady is,” Tolphus muttered, breathing hard as he ran along on his bandy legs.

  “Och, aye, though she’s braw, I’ll be sayin’,” said Beamis, panting, then glaring at the many who were joining them. “ ’Twould think ’twas a circus they’d be seein’.”

  “Och, aye.”

  Unaware of the cavalcade at her back, Morrigan raced on, elated, joyous.

  Reining in the excited filly, who reared back, she stared down the shallow hill to the flat area called the jousting or practice field, not surprised to see the twins and Rhys with their wooden weapons learning to handle themselves against some of the MacKay warriors. It would seem a goodly number of MacKays had cut short their chores to entertain the threesome.

  Laughing, she leaned on the pommel of the high saddle and watched the tableau of the eager children intent on their lessons.

  Easing the filly down the slope, she was very quiet, but Rhys saw her nevertheless, and ran over to greet her.

  “Maman!” Rhys shouted. “Come see me slay Eamon.”

  “Me, too,” Conal shouted.

  “I can, too,” the quieter Avis said, more shy than the boys.

  Morrigan approached, acknowledging the bows from the men in their leather aprons. She eyed Eamon. “Bloodthirsty lot, aren’t they?”

  He grinned. “They are indeed, milady. They would slay all of us.”

  “Leave us a few MacKays if you will,” Morrigan told the children, who grinned back at her. It touched her heart at how healthy the twins were, how they could move swiftly with the leather breeks that’d been fashioned for them, fitting over the legs and up over their hips. Dilla had assured her that they were getting stronger each day, that perhaps one day soon they would not need braces for their limbs.

  “Come and fight us, maman,” Rhys insisted.

  When Eamon would’ve interceded, Morrigan waved him back. “And who will I fight?”

  “Not me,” Rhys answered. “I could hurt you. You can fight Urdred.” Rhys pointed to the largest of the warriors, whose face reddened.

  “All right,” Morrigan concurred, earning a horrified look from the MacKays and consternation from Urdred.

  “Milady, I—”

  “Mind your weapons, Urdred,” Morrigan instructed, going to the armorer, overriding his reluctance and choosing a short sword. There were blades covered with leather and the wooden weapons with rounded edges. Morrigan chose a leather-bound sword, preferring its balance.

  “Milady, I couldn’t—”

  “Of course you can,” she told the large man who’d come to her side and bent down to speak.

  He inhaled a sharp breath. “I’ll be put to death if you get bruised,” he said, accepting his fate with a glum expression.

  “No, you won’t, my friend. I’ve been trained. And we’re only jousting.”

  “Yes, milady,” Urdred replied, dour acquiescence in every syllable. “Someone should tell me mither. She’ll want time to fashion a proper send-off for me soul after the laird slays me.”

  Morrigan laughed.

  Donning a leather apron that served as a shield, she approached one of the arenas designated for the training of hand-to-hand combat, the manus a manis, so favored by the Romans and Greeks. Though it wasn’t as exciting as the wrestling, Morrigan would never choose that, nor would she be allowed to do so. It crossed her mind that it would be most entertaining if she taught Rhys and the twins a lesson in the Celtic body throwing favored by the Welsh.

  Hugh rode back with Toric at his side, swinging around the outcropping of ground that all but masked the road leading to the road to the castle. He frowned up at the watchtower, hidden by brush and trees. The sentry had given him the merest salute before he’d turned back to something that seemed to be holding his attention.

  “What is it, Hugh?”

  “Conan seemed distracted.” He pulled Orion up, listening and glancing around him.

  Toric cocked his head. “I see naught, but I hear a cheering of sorts. Are there games this day?”

  “But for those practicing on the jousting field, I know of no other.”

  Toric grinned. “Shall we see? Perhaps Urdred is thrashing one of the arrogant young whelps.”

  Hugh smiled, hiding his eagerness to get to Morrigan. He’d only been gone the morning. Still he felt a loss, a need to get back to her. There was an acid amusement to accepting the hold she had on him. The wonder was he didn’t mind. Nay! He wanted it, desired her to take all of him, embrace him. Years of balancing his wants, his personal needs, behind the pressing business of reclaiming his rights, his title, his holdings, and keep all in place, had kept him aloof from deep feelings toward a woman. He’d come to prefer such a way.

  With Morrigan it was different. She was his life. She’d brought him light and a wild serenity. He couldn’t explain it. Neither could he live without it.

  “Ho! So that’s the reason for the cheering,” Toric said, laughing. He’d ridden ahead of Hugh. Now he leaned back against his cantle, his one leg up and curved in front of him. “A rare sight indeed,” he muttered, slanting a look at his chief as Hugh came up beside him.

  “What tickles that macabre sense of humor now, cousin?” Hugh walked his horse up the rise and reined in next to Toric, his eyes scanning the practice field below him.

  “See,” Toric go
aded.

  “Christ almighty!” Hugh said through his teeth. He would’ve spurred forward, had not Toric stayed his hand.

  “Don’t distract them, Hugh. Those are practice weapons, but if handled poorly someone could get hurt.”

  Hugh stared down at the tableau in the glen, at the clusters of cheering and gibing MacKays. His wife was dueling with Urdred, one of his most able warriors! Damn her!

  Morrigan was getting winded, but she also hadn’t had so much fun in a long time. She’d longed for the strong physical workouts she’d had with her brothers when she’d lived in Wales. Califb hadn’t been home as much as Drcq, Cumhal, or her Hibernian cousin Boyne, but she’d managed with them.

  Though she panted, it cheered her to see that her ability to avoid hits from her adversary and to land some on him, had made Urdred settle down into the mode of fighting. He was as good as Califb, the best of her brothers, at manus a manis. Perhaps not as quick as she, but he was stronger, and knew how to use his weapon, both as sword and cudgel. More than once she’d had to leap to one side or risk a spank on the thighs. She knew he had no intention of hurting her, as she had no wish to mark him, but the strategy of the battle, the wit to know the adversary’s move before he made it, spurred both of them. She’d always loved it and had begun at the age her brothers had because her father had insisted she be well conditioned in the mind as well as the body.

  Round and round they went, dancing in and out of the other’s reach, tapping, tipping, the crowd cheering and making wagers.

  Morrigan noted a change in the sounds of the crowds, but she didn’t turn her attention from Urdred.

  Figuring it was time to end it, she gambled on her memory. She had to be exact when it came to putting the right force in the right spot. Only then would Urdred’s own power catapult himself end over end to slam backward on the ground.

  Tumbling the formidable Urdred would take exquisite timing, placement, and energy. She counted and angled herself around for the best place to enter his sphere of combat and do the routine. It would be faster than the eye could follow. One slipup could tumble her under the warrior, or worse the leather on either weapon could slip and she could risk injury that way.