by Silver James
It was near dawn when Becca finished, so exhausted she had trouble lifting her arms. Niall’s cryptic statement made perfect sense now. She’d felt each slice of the knife as she cut away dead and diseased flesh. Her muscles could recite each stitch she’d taken in the muscles of his abdomen. She’d worked with tears streaming down her cheeks as Ciaran moaned and thrashed. She’d almost passed out herself when she’d finally cauterized the wound. Now, she wanted nothing more than to fling herself down beside him, rest her head on his muscled shoulder and sleep for a week.
Wearily, she washed his blood from her hands, then packed the wound with an herb poultice. She bandaged him and pulled the blankets up around him.
Though still feverish, he was not as hot as he had been. The killing fever had broken at last, and Ciaran finally slept peacefully.
Through the whole ordeal, Niall watched her closely. Only he suspected the toll it had taken on her. “Sleep, cailín,” he ordered, his voice gentle. “I’ll be here to watch over the two of you.”
Becca gratefully curled up beside Ciaran. Niall found her mantle and tossed it over her. Surprised to find the MacDermot Knot pinned to it, he stared at Ciaran for a long moment before gazing at the girl. The Knot had never left Ciaran’s possession since he’d first received it. Upon assuming the position of An Taoiseac, the Knot came to Ciaran even though Niall couldn’t recall Aralt ever wearing the thing. Conversely, he couldn’t remember Ciaran ever without it.
’Twas most curious for sure. Niall could recite many of the old tales, but he obviously didn’t know near enough.
As soon as they got home, he would consult Siobhan and Odhran, the Druid. Surely one of them would have the answer.
Chapter Nine
Becca didn’t want to open her eyes even though the camp stirred outside the tent. Men and horses snorted and stamped. Ciaran had wrapped his arms around her at some point, and all three wolfhounds, Bhruic, Winken, and Blinken, were curled up at her back. She was still so tired she could barely move and guessed she’d only slept two hours or less. At least Ciaran’s fever had broken, and he was sleeping easier.
She moved and Ciaran’s arms tightened around her. He growled softly in his sleep. “You’re as bad as the dogs,” she complained. “I’m just checking the bandage.” She fought loose from his embrace and sat up. She pulled away the covers and wasn’t surprised to find Ciaran aroused. “I swear,” she swore under her breath, “all he thinks about is tupping.” The bandage was soaked through with nasty yellow pus, and she yanked it away. The wound looked less angry now though it still drained. She replaced the herb poultice and bandage with fresh and was just about to lay back down when all three dogs snapped to ferocious attention. Panicked cries echoed from the outlying sentries, and suddenly the area around the tent erupted with violent activity. Men ran this way and that, drawing swords and looking for the enemy.
Alarmed, Becca found her sword belt and cinched it around her waist. The dirk she’d used on Ciaran’s wound was back in its scabbard, hiding beneath the blanket she’d wadded up to use as a pillow. She snagged it, jammed it through her belt, and then reached for her boots. Ciaran stirred, his hand reaching for his sword.
“No,” Becca told him firmly. “You’re in no shape to fight.”
“I can’t just lie here, cailín,” he growled weakly.
“Not only can you, but you will,” she growled back. She did move his scabbard closer so his big fist could close around the hilt. “As a last resort,” she cautioned, turning to leave.
His hand snagged her ankle. “Where are you going?” Groaning, he pushed up on an elbow. “You have to stay here where I can protect you.”
Becca shook her foot loose and danced out of his reach. “You’ll be lucky to protect yourself.” She smiled to take the sting from her words, knowing it was vitally important to him and his honor that he keep her safe. “I am not without ability with a sword, Ciaran. I will protect myself. Stay with him,” she ordered the hounds as she slipped through the tent flap.
“Nay, with her,” Ciaran told the dogs. The three dogs obediently followed her out into the melee.
Becca found Riordan and Taidhg standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the tent, their swords drawn. Eddies of men clashed all around the campsite. The hobelars were at a distinct disadvantage. They were bowman, used to being mounted and mobile. In the hand-to-hand fighting taking place, their bows were useless. The troop of horse carried both sword and lance, and those soldiers were more adept at fighting on foot. As they watched the fight, Niall seemed to be everywhere.
Then suddenly, he was nowhere to be seen. The men exchanged worried looks. Becca turned to Riordan.
“Go,” she ordered. “Taidhg and I will guard him,” indicating the tent with her chin. She pulled her sword and brandished it in the air.
Riordan hesitated just a moment for he’d spotted Niall surrounded and about to be overcome. Then he was gone, diving into the fray.
Taidhg gave her an apprehensive look.
Becca smiled at him. “You have my back, Taidhg, as I have yours. Together we shall keep the MacDermot safe this day.”
Her voice was filled with such utter conviction Taidhg did not doubt her words. Before he could reply, two men were upon them.
The wolfhounds dashed everywhere, nipping and tearing where they could sink their teeth into flesh, but darting away too quickly to take a blow from the swords or dirks aimed their way. Becca and Taidhg fought shoulder to shoulder. Taidhg finished off his man and turned his sword on Becca’s. In short order, that man was dead, too. Slowly, the MacDermot troops got the upper hand. The pile of bodies in front of the tent continued to grow. Riordan and Niall split up, each working their way through their soldiers to rally them.
At one point, Niall turned to check on the tent. He groaned when he realized Becca and Taidhg were back-to-back, fighting off four attackers. There were too many O’Brien fighters between them for him to get there in time. Then, as he watched, Becca slashed the throat of one, and her sword continued in one smooth motion to block the thrust of the second. Her left hand followed the path of her right, and she buried her dirk up to its hilt beneath the arm of the other attacker. Like a dancer, she whirled, freeing the dirk and spinning to take on the second man attacking Taidhg.
“Makes you want to weep for joy, doesn’t it?” Riordan laughed as he appeared at Niall’s shoulder. “What babies the two of them will make!” With that, the younger man was off seeking other prey.
“Aye and aye,” Niall agreed before turning to find his own quarry.
As the sun neared its zenith, horsemen galloped into the camp, and the last of the O’Briens broke and ran. Most of the horsemen raced off to chase the retreating foe, but a small knot stopped in the center of the camp. The obvious leader of the group called to Niall.
“Captain MacDonagh,” the rider acknowledged. “How fares the Wolf of the MacDermot?”
“He lives to fight another day, King Conchobhar.” Niall bobbed his head in a respectful nod.
The king glanced around the campsite, noting how many O’Briens lay dead compared to the small number of dead and wounded MacDermot soldiers. His gaze stopped on Becca.
Her hair fell in loose waves about her shoulders, and there was no hiding her gender. The look on his face sent a shiver up her spine. Gauging the look on the king’s face, she was in peril of losing more than her life. Rather than run, she squared her shoulders and marched out to join Niall.
Riordan and Taidhg closed on either side of her. They would fight even the king himself to keep her for Ciaran and the MacDermots.
Conchobhar watched her speculatively, noting the bloodstained sword and dirk she carried in each hand and the stains on her clothes—men’s garb no less. He glanced at the pile of O’Brien bodies in front of the tent. She was every inch a woman, as the trews clinging to her lovely curves proved, and a beauty.
She met his gaze defiantly, chin lifted stubbornly as her eyes bored into his. This was a woma
n of deep passion, and he wanted to taste what she had to offer. He was, however, surprised a female fought with the MacDermot’s troop. Ciaran was nothing, if not a traditionalist. Conchobhar’s gaze raked over her, lingering on her curves, his desire plain for her to read. Any other woman would be pleased to have elicited the notice of the king. She merely raised her chin another notch and glared at him.
The king saw her knuckles tighten as she gripped both sword and dirk tighter. Then he noticed that Niall, Riordan, and Taidhg had all drawn their weapons and that the rest of the MacDermot troops watched warily, their weapons unsheathed.
Whoever this woman was, Clann MacDermot would not let her go without a fight. “And who might you be?” he purred, still intrigued by her audacity.
Before she could speak, Niall stepped in front of her. “Becca MacDonagh, sire, daughter of my brother Dubhgan and chosen by the MacDermot to be his bride.”
That gave the king pause. She was blood kin to Niall and all but wed to Ciaran. Aye, if he tried to take her, there would be bloodshed and an allegiance with blood ties as old as time would shatter. He looked past the group to the man who appeared at the front of the tent. No matter how much Conchobhar wanted her, he didn’t desire her that much.
“My blessing, then,” the king intoned. “Need you help to clean up this mess?” He glanced around at the dead and dying.
“Nay, King Conchobhar,” Niall replied. “We’ll take care of our own and bury theirs.”
“As you will.” With a gesture, Conchobhar led the rest of his men in pursuit of the fleeing O’Briens.
Becca had held her breath from the moment Niall stepped in front of her. He’d blatantly lied to the king, and if his duplicity was discovered...well, she didn’t want to consider the consequences. Suddenly overwhelmed, she felt an absolute compulsion to sit and sank to the ground.
“NO!” That panicked cry was torn from a throat still ragged from pain.
As one, Niall, Riordan, and Taidhg turned to find Ciaran swaying in front of the tent. He wore naught but his mantle draped around his waist. Ciaran clutched his side and blood oozed between his fingers. The point of his sword buried in the earth was the only thing that kept him upright. Becca turned to look at him, and her heart melted at the sight of him. Absently, she took Riordan’s proffered hand, and he helped her back to her feet. Tired, but determined, she marched over to Ciaran.
“I told you to stay put,” she snapped.
He straightened with a great deal of effort and ran his hands all over her body, needing the reassurance that none of the blood on her clothes belonged to her
“Satisfied?” she retorted, arching one eyebrow. “To bed with him, Taidhg,” she ordered.
Taidhg took one arm, and Riordan grabbed the other. Ciaran knew that in his present state the two men outmatched him, but he vowed to get even with them when he had healed. The two half carried, half dragged him back to the pallet in the tent. Gently, they laid him down, and Becca knelt by his side. She swatted his hands away and pulled off the bandage to look at his injury.
“You’ve reopened the wound, Ciaran,” she scolded. Reaching for her pack, she prepared another herb poultice. First, she daubed the blood away and checked to make sure that none of the sutures had pulled loose. Satisfied he hadn’t done further damage, she applied the poultice and bandaged the wound again. “If you don’t stay still, you’ll never heal,” she admonished. “And if you never heal...” The corner of her mouth quirked in a half-smile as her voice trailed off, leaving the implication open to interpretation.
He groaned, knowing full well what she meant.
Once she’d taken care of Ciaran, Becca checked the other three men. Niall had a slight cut on one arm, and Riordan a slightly deeper wound on a thigh. Like Becca, Taidhg came through the battle unscathed. Becca doctored Riordan and Niall, then moved to duck under the tent flap.
“Nay,” Ciaran protested, his voice hoarse.
“I have to see to the others, Ciaran.” Becca’s voice was no-nonsense. “Your men fought bravely this day, and I’ll not leave them to their wounds unaided.” She turned on her heel and was gone before he could speak again.
Like a shadow, Taidhg drifted out after her. Reassured Taidhg would keep her safe, he turned back to Niall and Riordan. “So tell me,” he demanded.
“I, too, need to check the men,” Niall said. “Riordan, you tell him.”
Riordan sank down on the blankets where Becca had slept scant hours before, thankful to take the weight off his thigh which burned and ached now.
“’Tis a right uncommon cailín you’ve found for yourself, cousin.” He started at the beginning, from the time she’d bested him with Arien, including the story Eachan told him of the birth of the foal. He mentioned her accident in the woods and her gentle melancholy at the Beltane fire. “Methinks she missed you, cousin.” Riordan smirked. Then he spoke of the night she’d awakened with pain in her side, insistent that Ciaran would die without her, and their fast journey to find the troop. “She fought like a demon today, Ciaran,” Riordan added. “Half the pile outside your door belongs to her.” Riordan flashed the injured man a cocky grin. “Not only is she a fighter, but have yee noticed how her tóin looks in a pair of trews? If you don’t marry her, I will.” Riordan barked a hearty laugh as Ciaran growled at him.
“No one shall touch her but me,” Ciaran grumbled. “And if I’m not touching her soon, there’ll be the devil to pay.”
Riordan laughed harder, looking down at the blanket covering Ciaran’s midsection. There was a definite lump there. “Aye, I’d say she’s got you fair certain, cousin.” He snickered, but he couldn’t help but admire the big man lying beside him. Less than twelve hours ago, Ciaran had been closer to death than any of them wanted to admit. Now, his body made demands that a whole and healthy man would be proud of. Pushing to his feet, Riordan flashed his cousin a wicked grin. “I’ll see if I can’t send her back this way.”
Outside the tent, the MacDermot men had been busy. They’d piled the O’Brien dead in the woods, and several soldiers dug a shallow grave. Once they vacated the area, some of the O’Brien would undoubtedly sneak back to claim their kinsmen. Only two of the MacDermot soldiers had died, and even now, several men readied their bodies for the long journey home. Both of these men had died bravely in battle. They would be buried on MacDermot ground.
Becca and a handful of others tended those more seriously injured. Like a faithful dog, Taidhg followed her around with a bucket of soapy water and an armful of rags. When Riordan got close, he noticed how drawn and tired Becca looked. Her pale face emphasized the dark circles smudging her eyes. She was all but asleep on her feet.
“Enough, cailín,” he said, pulling her to her feet and taking the rags from her. “Yee need to look after yourself,” he reminded. With a grin, he added, “Not to mention my cousin pines for your company.”
She swayed on her feet and Riordan steadied her. “Becca, yee’ve slept a scant two hours between healing Ciaran, the battle, and healing the rest. Yee’ve done enough, cailín.” He added softly, “He needs yee as yee need him. Go. I’ll see to the rest.” He gave her a little push toward the tent, and as she took an unsteady step, he realized she was about to fall flat on her face. With a swallowed curse, he scooped her up in his arms. “Aye, he’ll have our hides for sure now, Taidhg.”
Riordan carried her back to the tent, stooping low to bring her inside. He shook his head at Ciaran. “She’s exhausted, Ciaran, that’s all. Both of you need to sleep.”
He laid her beside Ciaran who immediately wrapped his arms around her and pulled her head down on his shoulder. “I have need of you, Becca,” Ciaran whispered in her hair.
“Wash your hands, Riordan,” she ordered, her voice slurred. “Before you tend the wounded.” With a contented sigh, Becca let go of consciousness and sank swiftly into a deep sleep.
****
“He lives,” the female sounded awestruck.
“I told you to be patient.” Th
e male smirked.
“There is still the oath of binding,” she reminded him, sounding prim.
“Humph, all in good time.”
She waited until he was finally gone, and she bent over the sleeping couple, watching them closely. The man stirred as if sensing her presence. She smiled, whispering in his ear. His arms tightened protectively around the woman. She nodded. It was good.
****
Ciaran awoke slowly. Becca lay wrapped in his arms, and he kissed her hair. He needed to do something. He needed to say something to her, but like a will-o’-the-wisp, it danced just beyond his memory. Shrugging the need away, he kissed her awake as he’d longed to do since he’d first lain with her in his bed two months ago. Her mouth was just as sweet as he’d remembered.
Becca opened her eyes and stared into the stormy blue ones watching her intently. “We must be feeling better,” she teased. What had the king called him? The Wolf of the MacDermot. That was certainly apropos. He looked like he was going to eat her alive.
Before she could say more, Ciaran’s mouth covered hers, his tongue teasing her lips. Her hands tangled in his hair as her lips and tongue fought back. Her breasts strained against the soft linen of her shirt, desperate to break free so they could touch his bare chest. One of his big hands found a breast, and she pushed against his palm. He smiled as he teased her already hardening nipple into a rigid peak. Rolling her backward, his mouth broke away from hers. He grinned at her little moan of protest then his mouth covered a nipple through the linen of her shirt.
Becca gasped as his mouth teased and suckled her breast. So this is what I’ve been missing, a small part of her brain complained. Her hands remained wrapped in his soft hair, and she squirmed against his hipbone when another part of her body demanded equal attention. As his mouth worked on her breast, his now free hand traveled languidly down her ribs, across her hip and down between her legs. Becca moaned again and pushed against his hand.
