Faerie Fate

by Silver James

  Riordan figured Ciaran’s infamous temper was about to take away his good sense. He grimaced when Becca beat his cousin to the punch.

  “Cows. This whole bloody war was over a couple of cows,” she raged.

  “Well, ’twas more than a couple, cailín.” Ciaran spoke before Niall’s warning cough cut him off.

  “You don’t get an old man and a boy killed over cows.” Her blue eyes flashed angrily, and she balled up her fists. “The whole bloody countryside is covered with the fat buggers. You’d think there’d be enough to go around. But, no. Some idiot of a man decides he has to steal a handful. And some other idiot decides he has to retaliate. So all the idiot men go fight a war over nothing but leather and meat.”

  “Cailín, ’tisn’t right to be calling the king an idiot.” Ciaran’s tone remained reasonable. “And there was more to it than the cows.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Becca spat. “I can just imagine. I’m sure the king’s honor was royally impugned because an O’Brien was presumptuous enough to steal O’Conor cows.”

  Ciaran’s nose flared, and his lips clamped into a grim line. Honor was a very sensitive subject with him, because he valued it beyond all else. In fact, the clann’s motto was Honor and Virtue. His father had been without honor. As a result, Ciaran vowed his honor would always come first.

  Riordan and Niall surrendered and wisely backed away. Becca’s tears dried. Red-faced, Ciaran clinched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white. Discretion being the better part of valor, the two men turned, but didn’t quite run.

  “To impugn the O’Conor’s honor is to impugn mine.” The words came out in a growl all the more menacing for being quiet. Ciaran’s eyes glinted like winter ice.

  “And to bury boys and old men over cows is a pointless exercise in male egotism.” Becca’s eyes narrowed, fire flashing in their blue depths.

  Ciaran’s stormy indigo eyes stared into Becca’s fiery cerulean ones. Even though he was fuming, he noticed her eyes were the exact color of the stone in the center of the MacDermot Knot she wore on her mantle. A voice stirred to life in his head, a soft, whispery voice that sighed like a dying breeze. He didn’t remember giving Becca the Knot, though it felt right that he had. She was still furious, and he suddenly saw the situation from her point of view. Despite the fact she’d killed more than her share of O’Briens, she’d done so to protect him and his, not for honor or glory. Women lived with the results of war—death, injury, hunger. Women buried the dead, nursed the wounded, and managed to feed their families when food was not to be found. Of course they would view war through different eyes. To men, it was all about honor. And glory. It was about victory, and in some cases, defeat.

  Rather than retorting something that would further antagonize her, Ciaran reached over to caress her cheek. As his palm cupped her jaw, Becca tilted her head so that her cheek rested against his fingers. Her eyes closed, and when they opened, their color had gone soft with gentle golden swirls dancing in their azure depths. Ciaran bent his head to kiss her, and she leaned into him.

  “Ah, love of my heart,” he sighed. “May there always be such heat and passion between us.”

  His lips nibbled her full bottom lip, teasing and pulling. Then his mouth moved down to her chin, and his lips and tongue traced the curve of her jaw line until it met her ear. Ciaran smiled when he tasted the silky skin where her jaw met her throat. The spot was as soft and smooth as he’d thought it would be that long ago day when he’d looked up as she stood at the top of the stairs.

  Ciaran’s arms stole around her, and he felt her relax into his embrace. His heart was so full he thought it might explode. He’d never felt so protective of or so tender about any living thing. Just when he was at his mushiest, she took the upper hand. Ciaran burst out laughing when she muttered into his hair, “It was still stupid to fight over a bunch of bloody cows.”

  Ah, he feared his Becca would always demand the last word. And, as Ciaran thought about it, he wasn’t sure he’d have it any other way.

  Chapter Eleven

  Becca guessed they were still a mile away from the castle when Ciaran called a halt and insisted he’d ride the rest of the way. She clucked over what she considered to be one more example of masculine pig-headedness, along with an unhealthy dose of superfluous male egotism. Her anger seethed at the unnecessary deaths and injuries to the men of the troop and bubbled just below the surface since they’d mounted up after the dinner break. She wasn’t mad at Ciaran or the men of Ailfenn in particular, just men in general.

  She rode quietly in the middle of the column, her back ramrod straight. Taidhg watched her for a long moment before nudging his horse closer to hers. He would brave her tongue. “He is An Taoiseac.” At his quiet reminder, she opened her mouth but he held up a hand to silence her retort. “He does what he must, mistress, not what he wants. He must put the needs and wants of his people above his own.” They rode knee to knee for a short space before Taidhg continued. “He is a good man, mistress, and one who will love and protect you above all others, but he is An Taoiseac, and with that title come many duties a lesser man would find burdensome.”

  “It’s not fair, Taidhg,” Becca hissed. She kept her voice low.

  Before Taidhg could reprimand her, the moon came out from behind a cloud. Tears glistened in her eyes, and a look of such compassion suffused her face. He thought his own heart might break. He’d misjudged the cailín, and not for the first time. Nor for the last, he suspected. She was turning out to be more than a fair match for the MacDermot.

  As they neared the first crofters’ huts, a river of torches flowed out to meet them. Becca rode in the middle of the column with some of the wounded. Ciaran was at the head, flanked on his right by Niall and on his left by Riordan. All three men rode tall and straight in their saddles. Becca knew how grueling this journey had been, and the sight of their proud bearing gave her pause. She’d picked the fight with Ciaran earlier because she was tired, frustrated, and just plain out of sorts. Her abdomen cramped and ached with each step Arien took, and she blamed it on Ciaran’s wound. The men looked regal as they led the troop home to Ailfenn.

  The column pushed its way through the growing crowd and entered the gate to the keep itself. Men came to lead the wounded soldiers’ horses to the barracks where the injured were taken inside. Stableboys collected the horses and took them to the stables for a rubdown, water, and grain. People crowded around the rest, cheering and treating them like returning heroes.

  Becca turned Arien toward the stable and wasn’t too surprised when Eachan himself appeared. The big horse master lifted her to the ground. “I’ll take care of the beastie, m’self,” he told her. “Git along with yee, cailín. Yer fair worn out and all but asleep as yee stand here. Off to bed with yee.”

  Too tired to protest, Eachan’s order made perfect sense. Becca skirted the main part of the crowd and stumbled inside to the great hall. Now that she was home, a great weariness settled on her. She no longer cared even about a hot bath. She wanted only to find a soft bed, throw herself onto it, and sleep for that week she’d promised herself. All but asleep on her feet, she wearily navigated the stairs and hallway to the chamber she shared with Ciaran. She’d inhabited the room alone for so long, and she was so tired, she’d even forgotten it was his.

  Alone in the chamber, Becca kicked off her boots and stripped out of her trews. The insides of her thighs felt raw from days in the saddle. Then she got a whiff of her shirt and peeled it off. Stumbling to the wardrobe, she pulled out one of Ciaran’s shirts and slipped it over her head. The soft garment covered all the pertinent parts and, as she knew from previous experience, fit quite nicely to sleep in. She didn’t even bother blowing out the candle. She just crawled beneath the covers and was sound asleep as her head touched the pillow.

  ****

  After greeting Niall, Siobhan stopped by the barracks to check on the wounded. Becca had nursed them well. Knowing there’d be a celebration, she settled the injured solders as
quickly as possible. She’d just finished checking the last man when Niall reappeared and asked her to look at Ciaran’s wound.

  “Where’s Becca?” Siobhan asked her mate. “I thought she’d be looking after him.”

  Niall shrugged. “We rode in the lead, and she stayed back with the wounded. I thought to find her here, but found you instead. She’s not with Ciaran.”

  Siobhan’s brow furrowed even as her eyes widened in alarm. “Where is Taidhg? Or Riordan? Mayhaps they know where she is.”

  They hurried back to the castle where they found both Taidhg and Riordan, but when asked, neither had any idea of Becca’s location. Ciaran sat at the head of the table as mugs of ale were passed around, but his gaze restlessly combed the room as if he looked for her, too. When Eachan came in from the stables, Siobhan questioned him, and he mentioned he’d sent Becca to bed.

  Just to make sure, Siobhan slipped up the stairs to check. She found Becca sleeping peacefully in Ciaran’s bed, right where she belonged. Smiling, the older woman pulled the door shut. It was after midnight, and the whole castle needed to be abed.

  Skipping down the stairs, she found Niall and told him Becca was upstairs asleep, and that’s where they should be as well. She tossed a saucy grin over her shoulder as she sashayed away from him, the invitation unmistakable in the sway of her hips.

  Niall yawned loudly, announcing to Ciaran he was done in and going to bed.

  Grateful to his second-in-command for breaking up the celebration, Ciaran stood slowly. He’d never felt so tired in all his life. He glanced around, unable to find Riordan. He suspected his cousin had already slipped off with a willing cailín. As the other men drifted out with their wives and sweethearts, Niall waited for him at the base of the stone steps. Before he could ask, the man smiled at him.

  “She’s upstairs asleep, Ciaran.” Niall explained as they climbed the stairs together. “Eachan took Arien from her and sent her on to bed.”

  Ciaran nodded, almost too tired to speak. Niall left him at his room. Ciaran pushed through the door, sighing at the vision greeting him. Becca’s hair was strewn across the pillows like a golden web. Silver lights danced in its strands as the candles flared in the draft from the open door. He grew hard and heavy with wanting her, but he was too tired, and his body too sore to do anything about it. Quietly, he stripped out of his clothes. Pulling back the bedcovers, he stared at her, charmed that she’d donned one of his shirts to sleep in. Then he saw the pool of bright red blood beneath her hips.

  “Siobhan!” Ciaran’s panicked voice rang through the castle. “Siobhan, come now!”

  Niall and Siobhan leaped out of bed. She quickly pulled a shift over her head and grabbed a mantle to toss around her shoulders. Niall pulled on a pair of trews and nothing else. They charged toward Ciaran’s room.

  Ciaran sat on the edge of the bed cradling Becca on his lap, crooning nonsense words to her as he rocked back and forth. The poor girl looked completely done in, but vainly tried to wake up enough to comfort Ciaran.

  Siobhan noticed the bloodstain on the sheets and on the hem of the shirt Becca wore. “’Tis your time of the moon.” Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact.

  Becca blinked owlishly for a minute before figuring out what Siobhan meant. Her eyes widened. “My period? I haven’t had one in over ten years, Siobhan.” Too late, she noticed Siobhan’s cocked eyebrow and realized what she’d said. “Oh, my god, I am so embarrassed.” Becca groaned. This was worse than the nightmare every teenage girl had. The one where she wore white pants on a first date with the hottest boy in school, only to have her period arrive and ruin the whole evening.

  Ciaran had the good graces to look slightly embarrassed as well. “’Tis so much blood,” he muttered. “I dinnit know a cailín could lose so much.”

  Becca groaned again, partly in mortification, partly in pain. No wonder she’d had cramps for the last two days. Well, tampons were definitely out of the question, which led her to the next one, and it was one she didn’t want to ask in front of the men.

  “Niall, off to bed with yee,” Siobhan ordered. “I’ll be along shortly to warm yer feet. Taoiseac, the cailín isn’t dyin’ so let her be and go find something to do with yerself for a few minutes while we tidy up in here.”

  Reluctantly, Ciaran set Becca on her feet and stood. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Becca’s cheeks burned. “Ciaran, puh-lease.” The look she gave him pleaded for privacy.

  Ciaran shuffled out of the room, dragging his feet the entire way. Siobhan shut the door behind him, and Becca turned to her, panicked.

  “What do I do, Siobhan?” She gulped. “Let me rephrase that. I know what to do, at least in my time. I just don’t know what women here do when their time of the month comes. And while we’re on the subject, what about underwear?”

  “Underwear?” Siobhan tried out the unfamiliar word.

  “Yeah, you know. Panties. Pantaloons. Knickers. Things you wear here...” She gestured at her midsection. “...that cover your front and rear and keep a cold breeze from blowing up your skirt?”

  “Ah, I think I understand. The first problem I can take care of. The second thing you describe... I’ll have one of the seamstresses come up tomorrow, and you can describe such a thing to her. If it is important to you, she will make you some... What did you call them?”

  “Oh never mind. Let’s just deal with the problem at hand.”

  Siobhan slipped out of the room and came back a few minutes later with a bundle she opened up on the bed. Inside was a piece of material that looked suspiciously like a thong and a stack of things that looked a lot like feminine napkins, made from rolled-up rags. Becca figured they weren’t disposable, but at the moment, she didn’t care. The older woman helped her into the thong contraption and then into a clean shift. Together they stripped the bed. A sleepy maid appeared with fresh coverings and retrieved the soiled ones, along with the dirty clothes strewn about the room. They’d just finished with the bed when someone softly tapped on the door.

  “Can I come in, cailín?” Ciaran’s voice beseeched.

  Becca was still mortified by the situation, but Siobhan didn’t give her time to dwell on it.

  “Aye, Taoiseac, yee can come in,” the older woman called. “I’ll send up a warm stone if your tummy still hurts,” she told Becca.

  Becca shook her head, staring at her toes. The door creaked, and the latch dropped into place. She and Ciaran were alone.

  He put his finger under her chin and tilted her head up so she would have to look at him. “’Tis all right, cailín. I’ve not been around womanly things much, and it took me by surprise.”

  Becca started to giggle. She hadn’t been around womanly things much, either, and it had more than taken her by surprise. There were some advantages to being old, she decided. Her giggles threatened to become hysterical, and Ciaran’s temper flared. How could she explain that she wasn’t laughing at him but with him, especially since he wasn’t laughing? The combination of being punch-drunk tired, and the shock of the last two months, finally caught up to her. A huge yawn choked off her giggles. She gazed up at him through drooping lids as her arms crept around his neck. She snuggled her check into the hollow where his chest met his shoulder. “I just want to sleep for a week, Ciaran,” she murmured. “Is that okay?”

  Without waiting for his reply, she turned away from him to climb into bed. Before she could, Ciaran scooped her into his arms and carried her. He laid her down gently and then crawled in beside her.

  “If I can have you in my arms for the whole time, I, too, would like to sleep a week,” he murmured into her hair. “Though I must say, I much prefer you in one of my shirts if you have to wear anything at all.” He kissed her gently, almost reverently, and spooned up to her back. Her head rested on one of his thick biceps, and his other arm encircled her waist. “Good night, love of my heart.”

  Becca sighed as his comforting warmth surrounded her. Love of my heart. Twice he’d called
her that. She could get used to hearing him say those words every night. She thought she’d answered him with “I love you, too,” but she was so tired, she wasn’t sure the words came out.

  The sun climbed to midday before she stirred. Ciaran still slept heavily, so she carefully disentangled herself and made her way to the garderobe. She was tempted to throw everything down one of the holes but found a covered bucket in one corner filled with cold water. Convenient, Becca decided.

  Becca returned to Ciaran’s chamber, but no guard curled on a pallet beside the door. With the lord of the manor sleeping in her room she supposed a bodyguard was no longer necessary. As much as she had chafed under his stewardship, she would miss Taidhg.

  Ciaran still slept as she slipped back into the room. Had he been awake she could summon Siobhan for a bath. Becca really wanted a bath. She also really wanted food—real food, served on a trencher at a table, not a bite of journey cake and dried meat eaten in the saddle or huddled around a small fire. Jerky was fine as a snack but not to live on for any length of time, and she’d been living on it for way too long.

  The castle hummed with life. Even through the thick walls, she was attuned to its rhythm. Food was being served in the great hall, folks went about their daily chores, and life returned to normal now the troops were home. Home. Becca’s thoughts lingered on that word. She felt like she’d come home. This when still felt strange, like wearing someone else’s clothes. There were times when she reacted as if she were fifty, but her heart and her soul found the peace and happiness she’d never had before. She shied away from the bad memories of this when—of Ciaran lying mortally wounded, of fighting back-to-back with Taidhg, of the long ride home. Instead, she gazed at the man sleeping in the bed that still showed the outline of her own body.

  What a magnificent man he is. Tall, broad-shouldered, strong. Becca could run her finger over the hills and valleys of his chest and abdomen and count every muscle group. Indigo highlights danced in his jet-black hair when the sun got caught in its ebony web. His stormy blue eyes, often turbulent like the North Sea, turned soft and gentle like the high mountain lake at her grandfather’s ranch in Colorado when he looked at her. He did have a temper, but Becca decided there was a bit of fun to be had in provoking it. The only reason to fight was to have an excuse to make up. Making up with him would be delicious.