by Silver James
Niall appeared at the door when Ciaran was six. He’d taken the lad under his wing, teaching him letters and numbers, and swordplay. Niall, though barely more than twenty, was the father Aralt should have been.
Ciaran knocked around the barracks with the soldiers. Most of the cailíns were free and easy with their favors. As heir apparent, he could take his pick. None had enticed him, and he’d not dipped his quill in any ink but one.
He’d been sixteen and celebrating Samhain. A young woman, comely and fair, not too much older than himself, came up to him. She took his hand and tugged him behind a tinker’s tent, leading him back to a little hut in the woods beyond. Once through the door, she turned loose of him long enough to spread a pallet near the fire. Pushing the bemused boy down on it, she’d straddled his groin and began to unlace his shirt.
Ciaran’s reaction took him totally by surprise. His boidín grew hard and thick, and of their own accord, his hips began to thrust up at her. She smiled then and bent over to let him glimpse her ample breasts.
“I told him there was naught wrong with you, lad, naught that I couldn’t fix with some teaching,” she purred, taking his hands and placing them at her bodice.
For the rest of the night, he touched and suckled, was touched and suckled in return, and thrust his cock into every place it could find in the woman’s body. She taught him how to kiss, how to pleasure a woman and how to prolong his own pleasure. She showed him how to prevent spilling his seed inside a woman unless he desired to. When they’d finished, he laid there panting and sated. She did the same, curled against him.
The next morning, he left her asleep on the pallet, a smile on her face. He’d closed the door firmly on both the hut and the incident. He had never touched a woman again, had never again felt the stirring deep in his gut, had never grown hard and aching with the need to spill his seed deep within that wondrous place hiding between a woman’s thighs. Until now. Now he remembered each sensation his body had enjoyed, each sublime texture that made up a woman’s secret places, and he wanted nothing more than to explore, tasting and touching everywhere before burying his cock between her legs.
Ciaran couldn’t stand it. The morning dragged by, and he had to see her, had to find out who she was, where she’d come from. He would make her his, one way or another, but if she had kin, he would ask for a betrothal the honorable way. He would even waive any dowry or bride price.
Becca woke. She tensed, waiting for the first spasm to take her breath away. When the pain didn’t come, she stretched carefully. Her muscles were tight, but loosened once she’d stretched full out. Soft purring at her shoulder had her lips curving into a smile. A small calico cat snuggled next to her, nose to nose with a different massive wolfhound. A second hound guarded her back. These were good drugs. The pain was at bay. She had animals around her. She’d never admitted how agonizing giving up animals had been for her. Becca was still naked under the covers. She needed to put on something before the nurse came back. Convinced she was back in the hospital, she’d obviously created this fantasy world to see her through the pain rather than face that stark reality.
She shoved at the wolfhound lying between her and the side of the bed. With a growl more grumble than gruff, the huge beast slid to the floor, giving her room to get up. Becca steeled her nerves, then swung her feet off the bed. She’d been tall once, before the accident, a full five foot nine in her bare feet, but her feet still dangled almost a foot above the floor. Becca didn’t like this part of the dream. Dropping even that little distance to the hard stone floor would send eruptions of pain up her spine. Still, her body was getting insistent, and she had to find the bathroom. Carefully, she slid off the bed.
Nothing happened when her feet touched the floor. She was stiff, and her muscles were sore but... No pain. No cramps. Nothing. Oh, yeah. Definitely great drugs. Where had this prescription been the past twenty-five years?
Becca snatched a softly woven throw from the back of a wooden chair and wrapped it around her like a shawl. Gingerly, she put one foot forward—still no pain. She cautiously took a second step and a third. Pleased with her body’s response, she glanced around the room. Her need for the bathroom hit critical and facing what was out in the hallway, beyond the one door in the room, was not very high on her To Do list. Too bad she didn’t have a private room. She’d always been shy about her bodily functions. Becca turned around to face the door.
She sucked in her breath. That gorgeous guy lounged against the doorjamb, leering at her. “How long have you been there?” she sputtered.
Grinning lopsidedly, he affirmed her worst fear when he answered, “Long enough, cailín.”
The man positively purred at her, and Becca couldn’t keep her eyes from straying. Lord, but he was tall, and with all that black hair, that broad chest...not to mention... She jerked her gaze back to his face.
Ciaran really hadn’t meant to watch her get out of bed, but when she threw back the covers and was naked... Then she swung those magnificent legs over the side of the bed, and he couldn’t force his eyes to look away or his body to behave. He was pleased she’d boldly looked him over. Tit for tat, he thought.
The delicate pink tip of her tongue swept across her bottom lip, and he almost groaned aloud. He knew the gesture was unconscious on her part, which made it even more enticing. When her top teeth tugged at her lip, it was all he could do to stand there. Every muscle in his body wanted to sweep her into his arms so he could kiss her soundly. She blushed, and the fact she was embarrassed by her perusal of him amused a man who’d never been amused by a cailín before.
Defensively, she pulled the throw closer around her. “Do you mind?” she snarled pointedly.
“I don’t mind at all.” His masculine conceit fueled his smug grin.
Becca looked around for something to throw at his arrogant expression. Guessing her intentions, he laughed before ducking out the door and tugging it closed behind him.
She still had a problem. Finding the bathroom was now a matter of go, or else. Nervous about having the cute dude hanging around outside the door, she hesitantly opened it and stuck her head out.
Two brawny men with massive swords strapped to their waists spun with exquisite symmetry to block her exit. The look of surprise on their faces mirrored her own expression. She blushed furiously. She needed the bathroom, and she needed it now. “Bathroom?” she squeaked, her face scarlet. Only the word “bathroom” had not come out of her mouth. The word she’d uttered sounded more like “garderobe.”
The men tried not to ogle her, and Becca found that almost as amusing as the cute dude giving her the once-over, but then again, she was basically naked, and men were men. One man stepped back and gestured down the hallway. The second stepped in front of her and led the way while the first fell in behind. Had she landed in some asylum for the criminally insane? Was that why she had guards? Then again, maybe this was all part of a drug-induced fantasy. When the door to the bathroom swung open, Becca gagged. Slightly larger than a big walk-in closet, the room featured a bench with holes cut in it bumped up against the far wall and a straw-covered floor. The smells emanating from the bench crinkled her nose. Though clean, the room reminded her a bit too much of a bad version of a porta potty at the county fair. Still, it was better than a bedpan. With relief in sight, she looked around for toilet paper and found nothing but a pile of clean-smelling clover straw. She eyed it distastefully but did what she had to do.
Her face still heated from her blush, she scurried back to her room. The men escorted her, ushered her inside, and firmly shut the door behind her. Becca was glad to see the nurse straightening the bed linens, even though both hounds and the kitten had abandoned her. Maybe the drugs were wearing off.
“Ah, and yer looking much better today, cailín,” the woman crooned to her. “Are yee hungry?”
Becca realized she was. Ravenous, in fact. She hadn’t wanted food in ages. She nodded.
“Good. Yee need to be putting some meat back
on yer bones, cailín.”
Becca found her voice. “Why do you keep calling me colleen? I’m older than you are.”
The woman laughed at her. “Older than me? Are yee touched, girl?”
“I’m fifty-years-old,” Becca insisted.
“Then I’m nigh a hundred.” The nurse chuckled dryly.
A tight knot formed in Becca’s stomach. She clenched her fists, waiting for the pain to take her. She grew still.
The woman eyed her worriedly. “What is it, cailín?” She hurried over and put her arms around her, and the muscles Becca felt grow so tight relaxed.
When the pain didn’t come, Becca relaxed a tiny bit more. No pain was good, but what her nurse insisted to be true about their ages was a horse of a different color. Suddenly curious, she checked the walls and furniture, but no mirrors reflected her face. ’Course not, silly. Silvered glass is still a century or two away.
She congratulated her psyche on the construction of this delicious fantasy. She noticed a large metal bowl and a pitcher on a table tucked against the wall. Must be what they use for a sink. A round metal plate, like a shield, hung on the wall above the table. Its highly burnished surface reflected the room like a mirror. Step by hesitant step, like a moth drawn to a flame, she crossed the floor, stared into the shiny metal, and fainted dead away.
Ciaran stepped into the room as the girl looked into the polished shield hanging on the wall. Her faint caught him by surprise. With superhuman speed, he dashed across the floor and caught her before her head smacked against the stones of the floor. He cradled her to his chest for a moment, relishing her nearness and warmth.
The clucking behind him reminded him to get up and get the wee cailín back into bed. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding her on his lap. Reluctant to put her down, he delighted in the fact his arms were wrapped around her nakedness and her bottom fit so perfectly against his groin.
Thanks to Siobhan’s healing magic, the girl’s bruises and cuts were fading. He searched her face. High cheekbones curved around to a strong but feminine jaw. Her neck was long and graceful, her nose pert and her lips full, luscious, and entirely kissable. He bent his head, wanting to taste the sweetness he knew he’d find there.
****
“You said she wouldn’t remember.” That voice was accusatory.
“She shouldn’t.” That voice was filled with denial.
“Yet she does. ’Tis a complication we shouldn’t have to deal with.”
“It is an art, not a science.”
“What have you done to me?”
****
“Why nothing, cailín, at least not yet, though I was planning on kissing yee.”
The deep voice washed over her as warm and sexy as a caress. Becca opened her eyes. The Chippendale dancer she’d talked to earlier now held her cradled in his lap. She stared at his full lips only inches from her own. Something hard poked her bottom and she squirmed. The man’s eyes widened in surprise as a look of pure desire washed across his face. Becca sucked in her breath hoping not to break into a fit of giggles. All she could think of was the old Mae West line...“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?” In this topsy-turvy time warp of a hallucination, she suspected this male model of a medieval warrior wouldn’t know what a gun was. However, he would more than likely know what was in his pocket and would know precisely what to do with it when he brought it out into the light of day. The thought turned her stomach into a cheerleader, flip-flopping wildly as the muscles between her legs clenched.
She felt defensive for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom. “I’m old enough to be your mother,” she snapped waspishly, not entirely liking the possessive way he watched her lips.
He arched one eyebrow. He looked roguish and even more kissable.
She resisted the urge.
“Are yee daft, cailín?” He shook his head. “I’ve thirty summers to my name, and you can’t have more than twenty, twenty-five at the most.” He glanced down the length of her body and his eyes glinted with male arrogance, possessiveness...and something Becca couldn’t quite divine.
Only the thin woven throw separated her naked body from his rock hard one. Becca scrambled to seal the ends across her chest and thighs with her fists, all the while glaring at the gorgeous man.
He roared with laughter at her futile gesture. “Siobhan,” he choked out, wheezing as he caught his breath. “Me thinks the cailín is shy and has a need to be covered.”
“Aye, Taoiseac, she needs a shift and a gown or two to boot.”
Almost as if he’d silently commanded it, there was a soft knock at the door. A maid poked her head in, bobbing it in respect. “I’ve brought the gowns yee requested, Taoiseac,” she murmured.
Siobhan hurried to the door and relieved the girl of the bundle. Shaking out each one, she laid the gowns across the foot of the bed.
Becca’s eyes widened in surprise. These were no common dresses like those worn by Siobhan, but truly gowns of the finest linens and brocades in soft, glorious colors, more beautiful than any prom dress she’d ever coveted. Entranced by the clothing, she missed the flash of possessive pleasure in the man’s gaze when he recognized the surprised delight on her face.
Her happiness shouldn’t have meant a thing to him, yet he found that it did matter; it mattered quite a lot. That something as simple as picking out a gown enchanted the girl left a warm spot in his middle.
With her hands on her hips, Siobhan unleashed her snappy tongue on him. “Off with yee now, Taoiseac Ciaran. Let the cailín dress in peace. She needs no overgrown lout starin’ at her like he wants her for supper.”
“Ah, yee’ve a tongue on you, Siobhan, but in this instance, yee’re right. I wouldn’t mind eating her for supper.”
Becca blinked. He meant exactly what he said in every carnal sense of that phrase. Her heart raced and that funny tingling down between her legs started again. Oh, lord, she thought. I am way too old for this fantasy.
Siobhan scolded the man out of the room and turned back to her charge. The girl would be a beauty when the bruises finally healed, and it was evident Ciaran was completely smitten. She just hoped his feelings were reciprocated. If not, Becca would be in for a hard time of it. Siobhan smiled. She’d seen him adjusting the front of his trews as he’d risen from the bed. Aye, the cailín definitely would be getting a hard time, sooner or later.
Returning to the business at hand, Siobhan smiled at Becca. “Pick yer favorite color, and I’ll help yee dress, cailín. Then, I’ll fix yer hair.”
The retort about her age forming on Becca’s lips suddenly died. She’d seen her reflection in the shield, believed it couldn’t be her own, yet knew it was. For the first time, Becca seriously doubted her sanity. She’d fallen asleep in the twenty-first century wanting to be twenty-five again or sleep forever. She remembered the book she’d been reading the night before—a romance about a twentieth-century scientist traveling through time and falling in love with a sixteenth century Highlander. This all had to be a dream. Though it seemed real, it couldn’t be. Could it? Her pain was gone for the first time in twenty-five years, and the body and face she wore were the ones she’d enjoyed in her youth.
She chose to participate in her dream and picked a sky blue linen dress embroidered with delicate silvery green shamrocks. Shamrocks? So, not the Highlands of Scotland, but Ireland instead. Fitting, since her family originally came from County Galway. She sighed, marveling at the way her subconscious wove this tale.
“Be paying the MacDermot no mind, cailín. He’s a good man, for all his bully bravado,” Siobhan told Becca.
Chapter Three
Siobhan dropped the soft lawn shift over Becca’s head and then the linen dress. After the woman laced up the back, it took a few tugs and pushes to get everything in the front seated correctly. Becca glanced down. As a teenager and in college, she’d been tall and athletically built—broad shoulders, high, firm breasts, a small waist tapering to wider hips and long,
muscular legs that, as one college football player had mused, went all the way from here to there. There wasn’t a sport she hadn’t excelled in. Track, softball, swimming. She competed in them all, but her true love was riding. Riding like that “wild Comanche.” All those summers on her grandfather’s ranch prepared her to compete on the Grand Prix jumping circuit. Her parents insisted college came before her equestrian goals, so she finished her degree in equine management. She’d always known that one day she would compete in the Olympics for Team USA. She was twenty-four when she’d been named as an alternate to the team. And then the accident. Months in rehab, told she’d never walk again, told she was lucky to be alive. Twenty-five years later, Becca wondered when the luck had run out.
****
Siobhan stopped brushing Becca’s hair. The cailín had gone as still as a stone, scarcely breathing. Instinctively, she knew the girl had gone far away. She wondered what painful memory caused the tortuous wrinkling of Becca’s brow. With slow, rhythmic strokes, she brushed Becca’s hair again, hoping the gentle motion brought comfort. She’d known other women abused like the girl, women who withdrew into their minds, merely existing from day to day.
Siobhan laid aside the brush. The girl needed time to heal. That was all. Her strong, capable hands picked up the first gown and folded it neatly and precisely. Opening a large wooden armoire, she rearranged the MacDermot’s clothing to make room for the few gowns.
****
Becca blinked. Lost in her thoughts, she now couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking about. She found some comfort in the normalcy of Siobhan’s tasks. Until she saw the shirts and pants stacked in the cabinet. Men’s clothes. Lots of them. She sucked in a breath, her eyes wide.
