by Silver James
Ciaran wished she wore a gown, for she’d have been free and open to him at that moment. While the trews she wore left little of her curves to the imagination, the leather created a formidable barrier between them. Despite the trews, his thumb still found the tiny nub guarding her womanly entrance, and he teased it. Becca clamped her legs around his hand. Ciaran groaned. Ah, to have those lovely legs wrapped around him as he pushed into her hot depths. He didn’t think it possible, but he grew harder and thicker with the thought.
He rolled on top of her and groaned again, only this time from pain not passion. Becca immediately pushed him off and away. She sat up and checked the bandage on his hip. Despite the pain he was in, Ciaran grinned at her. Her lips were swollen, her skin flushed. A wet stain surrounded her still taut nipple, and its rosy bud was visible. He was the one who evoked that passion within her. He was the one who would one day soon make her his.
“You’ll pull out the stitches,” she chided as she pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“Stitches?” he asked. “An’ what have yee done, cailín? Have yee sewn me up like a fine, linen shirt?”
“Something like that,” Becca replied distractedly as her fingers tenderly checked his wound. “Ciaran, you almost died,” she scolded, at last satisfied he had done no damage. “You still could. I won’t take a chance with your life.”
He grabbed her hand and placed it around his thick shaft. “What of my boidín?” he asked with a wicked grin. “His life is in danger as well.”
For a long moment, Becca savored the feel of his erection—satin smoothness over steel, a hard ridge running up the underside and a flap of soft skin covering the tip. The muscles between her legs constricted, and she felt a gush of wet heat. She bent her head to taste him, her tongue caressing his swollen tip then swirling around the top of his shaft. His hips thrust helplessly at her, and she opened her lips to take him into her mouth.
Ciaran’s hands fisted in her hair, and he dragged her head up. “Nay, cailín,” he whispered, his voice husky with barely controlled lust. “Not until I can finish by burying myself deep within you.” He pulled her up and kissed her hard, his tongue sweeping in and out of her mouth in a preview of what the rest of him would do to her once he healed.
“You could at least wait until you get the cailín home and in a proper bed before you go about tupping her,” Riordan groused, poking his head through the tent flap. A sardonic grin spread across his face, and his eyes twinkled with droll humor.
Embarrassed, Becca rolled away and got to her feet. “Yeah, I, uh, I need to... I’ll be back,” she stammered. She ducked through the tent flap and sprinted for the woods like a banshee was hot on her trail. The three wolfhounds and Taidhg followed at a slightly more sedate pace.
Riordan chuckled, amused by Ciaran’s state of arousal. Sobering a little, he reminded his cousin, “Siobhan says she’s still a maiden, Ciaran. Do the cailín a favor and at least give her the vows and a proper bed the first time.”
Vows. Something clicked in Ciaran’s memory. An oath. There was an oath he was supposed to remember, one having to do with Becca. His mind worried the thought like a dog with an old bone, but he couldn’t pin down the why of it. When he couldn’t remember, he grinned at Riordan. “I’m not sure either of us will be able to wait that long, Riordan.”
“So I noticed,” Riordan shot back. “However, there are more pressing needs demanding attention. We should be moving out soon, Ciaran,” he continued. “Conchobhar’s men have routed the O’Brien, and the king has released us. The men are ready to get on the road, afraid that he will change his mind if we’re still here when he comes back.”
“Aye, and probably right they are,” Ciaran agreed. Besides, he’d seen the look the king gave Becca. Though he’d blessed her betrothal to Ciaran, under the false pretense that she was kin to Niall, he could just as easily change his mind. “We ride,” he announced.
Chapter Ten
The journey back to Caisel Ailfenn was a nightmare for Becca. The wounded required constant tending, and Ciaran was the worst of the lot. Each morning he insisted on riding, but by the end of the day, he was ashen and wracked with pain. Becca felt every ache and spasm all the way to her bones. Niall, Riordan, and Taidhg did their best to shield her from the worst of it, but with little effect. Becca called them her Three Musketeers.
On the third day, she decided to get the whole bloody lot rip-roaring drunk and keep them that way until they reached home. At breakfast, she liberally dosed Ciaran and the most severely wounded with whiskey. By noon, Ciaran couldn’t sit his horse, so Riordan and Niall rigged a litter between two horses to carry him. He regaled them with bawdy songs until they stopped for the night, at which time, he promptly passed out for which Becca was eternally grateful.
By the fifth day, the troop settled into a routine, and Becca fervently prayed that the liquor supply, which was running woefully short, would hold out. Niall and Taidhg reassured her there were any number of places to resupply should the need arise. Riordan wore a constant grin, fully enjoying his Taoiseac’s indisposition. He did realize, though, that Becca had hit on a brilliant plan where all the wounded were concerned, as the troop traveled much faster than anyone anticipated. He and Niall originally estimated the journey would take near a fortnight, when in reality, they were only two, maybe three days at most, away from Ailfenn.
When Ciaran finally sobered up, his hangover was going to be vicious. Riordan had every intention of being as far from the keep as his horse could take him before the effects of the whiskey wore off.
Niall sent riders ahead with news of the wounded, and as the company drew closer, small groups arrived claiming husbands and sons and fathers, taking them home to nurse them. Each departure lessened Becca’s responsibility, and the tired lines around her mouth and eyes eased somewhat, though Ciaran’s wounds and fever still plagued her.
On the road, Becca enjoyed a certain amount of autonomy. She’d proven herself to these battle-hardened men, and there wasn’t a one who wouldn’t follow her. She was lucky this pocket of Ireland had clung to the old ways longer than most, as women had been on a more equal footing in Celtic society. Becca was reluctant to return to the castle. She didn’t want to give up the freedom of her trews and boots. She didn’t want to lay down her sword to take up needle and yarn. She was a twenty-first century woman. Granted, the last half of her life had been sheltered by necessity, but the first half had been a glorious exploration of her abilities. This was Becca’s chance to live the second half over again, and she wanted to live it to the fullest.
She’d be riding along simply seething with rebellious thoughts, and then she’d look at Ciaran. Even drunk, he tied her stomach in knots. She remembered far too vividly how he’d made her feel back in his tent the morning after the battle. The memory brought a blush to her cheeks and liquid pooling low between her legs. A long, hot bath was the first thing on her agenda once they got back. Then she was going to sleep for a week. When she finally woke up, if Ciaran’s stitches had healed properly... She squirmed in her saddle. Well, she wasn’t going there just yet, but she had a great deal of unfinished business with a certain part of his anatomy. No thieving O’Briens, or anyone else for that matter, would stop her.
She circled Arien around so she could ride beside Ciaran’s litter. He snored softly. Becca smiled, reining in Arien and stepping off him. She jogged a few steps to catch up to the litter and walked along side, leading Arien by his reins. Her hand stroked Ciaran’s cheek, and the touch elicited a smile. Her hand found his and slipped into his big paw. She missed the looks her Three Musketeers exchanged as she walked for most of an hour by his side.
“If he doesn’t tup her soon, the whole castle will be goin’ up in flames,” Riordan complained, shifting in his saddle to find a more comfortable position.
Niall chuckled. “Gonna’ find a willing cailín when we get back, are yee?”
“Aye, or two or three. Niall, I’m tellin’ yee, ’tis unnatural.
Yee dinnit see him back in the tent. Him half dead yet as big as a horse, and her all hot and bothered.”
“I did see it,” Niall remarked dryly. “At least it’s mutual.”
“Oh, aye, ’tis mutual. Neither can keep their hands off t’other,” Riordan groused.
When they stopped for the night, Becca recognized the place. They were only a hard day’s ride from home.
“Day and a half at most, mistress,” Taidhg confirmed.
Thank goodness for small favors. She’d only thought she was in riding shape, but after almost three continuous weeks in the saddle, she was ready to sit on something soft. She glanced at Ciaran. Nothing soft about him, but I can’t wait to sit there, she silently amended. Niall and Riordan glanced at her, almost as if they’d read her thoughts. She blushed furiously, blood suffusing her cheeks. The two men had the good graces to look away before grins split their faces.
When it came time to settle down for sleep, just to prove them wrong, Becca chose to bed down away from Ciaran. She’d fed him and then dosed him with whiskey again before checking his bandage. Snoring, he rolled over as she gathered up her blankets and moved away. Even though Winken and Blinken snuggled her front and back, she was restless. She tossed and turned until well after midnight. Across the dwindling embers of the fire, Ciaran was having a bad night as well.
Becca gave up. She was too tired to fight the need any longer. Her body craved his, to be near him, to touch him. This was a need deeper even than the sexual desire he aroused in her. Her soul yearned for his. Her heart ached for his. Her longing was as elemental as life itself.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
Gathering up her blanket and mantle, she trudged over to him. The dogs happily joined Bhruic as she checked Ciaran’s forehead. He was running a fever again as he had intermittently during the trip. She was out of Siobhan’s fever powder, and she hoped his symptoms didn’t worsen before they got to Ailfenn. Ciaran stirred, his head tossing back and forth across the blanket stuffed behind his head. Becca spread her blanket next to him. Part of her still rebelled at her need for him so she laid down with her back to him. As she fell asleep, her hand brushed his arm. The simple contact was enough. As they slept, she turned to him, and his hand found hers. His strong fingers interlaced with hers. Becca sighed in her sleep, content and at peace. Ciaran’s restlessness ceased, his soul finding solace in her nearness.
So close to home, Niall had posted only a light sentry. Unfortunately, the man was as worn out as the rest, and he fell asleep at his post. In the trees, two figures flitted between shadows.
“Told ya ’twas a woman,” the larger of the two whispered.
“But she wears trews,” the other denied.
“’Tis not a true man alive with curves the likes of that,” the first insisted.
“The MacDermot lies injured,” the second hissed, changing the subject. “And many of his men have fared the worse for their adventure. Mayhaps we need to visit his land soon and see what strays our way.”
“Aye,” the first agreed.
Bhruic stirred, lifting his head to sniff the air. Catching an unfamiliar scent, he got up to investigate, Blinken hard on his heels. As the dogs stalked around the camp, the two men beat a hasty retreat. The dogs prowled the perimeter for a few minutes. Satisfied the intruders had gone, they returned to nestle beside Ciaran and Becca.
Ciaran awoke with Becca beside him on his left. Close to my heart, he thought. He rolled over, ever mindful of his wound, and wrapped her in his arms. He pulled her back against him so they could spoon, his front to her back. Not surprisingly, he grew hard and his shaft burrowed into the soft curves of her tóin. Even in her sleep, Becca’s body recognized his need for her, and she pushed back against him. Ciaran smiled and kissed her golden hair.
He had been extraordinarily blessed by the gods. This woman who appeared from nowhere, who haunted his dreams and hardened his body while softening his heart, was a gift. She was brave beyond all meaning of the word. His men now adored her and would follow her as they followed him. She was tender and knowing of the healing arts, yet she killed without hesitation to protect her own. Ciaran’s right hand trailed over her waist and lay against the gentle swell of her belly. He couldn’t wait to feel his child growing within her womb. Ah, what children they would make together. The lads would be strong and brave, and the cailíns? They’d be so fair every man would want them, but no man would be good enough. Ciaran chuckled. From what he was learning about Becca, the girls would likely be as strong and brave as the boys, and they themselves would decide if a man was good enough.
Ciaran was anxious to get home and in a hurry to heal. Though parts of his body were more than willing, other parts were not yet able. When the time came to claim Becca as his own, he wanted to be at full strength. Ciaran knew she’d been keeping him drunk, and Niall finally confessed why. Just as he’d felt every pain from her strange illness, she’d felt every pang of his wound and ache from his fevers. He marveled again at her strength.
As he drifted back to sleep, a thought nudged at the back of his subconscious. Words danced enticingly just beyond his memory. Important words; words he needed to say but didn’t know why. By the life that courses in your blood, the wind whispered in his ear. And the love that resides within your heart.
Warmth spread out across her middle and Becca smiled. Ciaran’s hand splayed across her stomach, warm and gentle. Her breath slowed to match the rhythm of his, and she’d almost swear that their heartbeats were synchronized. A breath of wind kissed her cheek, and words whispered in her ear. Our love is a beginning with no end, until the end of time. “I love you, too,” she murmured.
Early the next morning, Niall and Riordan decided to push hard for Ailfenn. All the men were eager to return home. The wounded gritted their teeth and pressed on without break except when the horses needed rest. Ciaran rode in the litter without argument. The column traveled faster because of it. Becca rode close to his sling all morning, keeping a watchful eye on him. Taidhg rode nearby, keeping a vigilant eye on both.
Niall and Riordan rode up and down the line and made frequent detours into the surrounding area. The hair on the backs of both of their necks was prickling. The more seasoned among the soldiers remained alert. Someone watched, though no one spotted anyone spying on the column.
At noon, they stopped for a brief respite. They built no fire and paused only long enough to chew a quick bite and rest the horses. As the afternoon wore on, Riordan chose to ride next to Ciaran and Becca. The hair on his neck still bristled, and he would take no chances with the life of his cousin or Becca. The MacDermot was a man feared and resented by many of his neighbors. The land around Ailfenn was rich with fat sheep and cattle, it’s harvests bountiful. The keep was large and well maintained, a most desirable prize for any raiders. Ciaran was a favorite of Conchobhar, and that, too, led to antipathy from lesser sept and clann chiefs.
Niall and Riordan were positive rumors of the MacDermot’s injury had swept the countryside. They worried someone would try to finish the job the O’Briens had started or take advantage of Ciaran’s incapacity in other ways. That Becca traveled with them made them doubly on edge.
They traveled along the edge of O’Flinn territory, and the O’Flinns had been notably absent from the defensive maneuvers in the south. Garbhan O’Flinn had two strapping sons, Darroch and Luthais, and a troop of both horse and foot soldiers. Ten years ago, the O’Flinn had offered his daughter to the MacDermot. Ciaran politely turned him down, stating the girl was barely fifteen, and when the time came for him to marry, he wanted to be a husband, not a father, to his bride. Since then, communication and trade remained strained between the two clanns.
Niall briefly wondered what had become of the daughter. He couldn’t recall her name and only remembered she’d been a scrawny little thing, completely cowed by her father and brothers. Her mother died when the child was barely four, and Garbhan never remarried. The little cailín alone in the keep with that rough
-and-tumble lot would not have had an easy life. Niall now hoped that O’Flinn had found another to marry the girl, and that her life had been tolerable thereafter.
Late in the afternoon, the column passed from O’Flinn country, and everyone sighed in relief. The oppressive sense of being watched waned, and the outriders relaxed a little. Just before sundown, they halted again. Like lunch, supper was cold. The men planned to stay only long enough to give the horses a breather. The road from here was well marked, and they’d be able to make Ailfenn before midnight.
Becca dutifully checked all of her patients. Despite the hard ride, most of them fared well. She avoided the two horses that brought up the end of the column. She couldn’t look at their burdens without tears. Riordan sat down beside her and cocked his head.
“Why such a woeful face, cailín?” he teased. A glib retort about his cousin’s constant state of arousal died as something in her expression stayed his tongue. He waited for her reply.
Becca inclined her head toward the two horses carrying their grisly cargo. “Did they have families?”
This was the last subject Riordan expected to be discussing with her. She never ceased to amaze him. What a lucky man Ciaran was. “Nay, Becca,” he replied. “Manus was near sixty, and his wife died years ago. Padruig was not much more than a lad.”
“Then he has a mother who weeps for him?” she asked, unwilling to let it go.
Riordan shook his head. “An orphan.”
“Then I’ll weep for him when the time comes.”
Niall and Taidhg helped Ciaran to the fire. He sank to the grass beside Becca, concerned with the melancholy face she wore.
“What troubles you, dearest heart?” he asked before Riordan could warn him.
Becca turned tear-filled eyes to him. “Why do men have to be so stupid?” A little sob not much more than a hiccup escaped.
