He heard hurried footsteps and raised voices outside. Her guards and his men were approaching. Aislinn’s eyes darkened. If she died at his hand, it was doubtful he and his men would survive, but there’d be no purpose to life if he killed the woman he believed was destined to be his queen. He called on the spirits of his ancestors to come to his aid, convinced in his heart only he could free her from her enthralment.
He gripped the torc and pulled again, bellowing a war-cry. The metal shattered into pieces and Aislinn collapsed to the floor of the palanquin.
As Aislinn’s life ebbed away she cursed the fate that had made her Moqorr’s slave. If Sibrán succeeded in preventing the torc from choking her, the High King would surely strike them both dead. Aware her actions would bring down his wrath on her head, she had nevertheless harbored a slim hope the Gaelician’s magic was stronger than Moqorr’s.
The deafening roar of a war-cry echoed in her bones as she heard the metal snap. She gulped air. Her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor of the litter. Sibrán scooped her up and held her close to his chest. At least she would die in the arms of a man she craved more than life itself.
“Aislinn,” he rasped, nuzzling her ear. “You are safe. I have freed you.”
Ice flooded her veins even as fiery heat raced over her skin. A loud thudding assailed her ears. It couldn’t be her heart if she was dead. A death knell then…
“You are free of Moqorr,” a deep voice insisted, “but now you are mine.”
She was placed on a soft bed and covered with something warm. Kisses rained on her face and neck. She welcomed death and slipped into oblivion.
If Aislinn believed strongly enough she was going to die, Sibrán feared she would succumb. He shouted a reassurance to the crowd gathered outside that all was well, then stripped off his still damp raiment and boots. She had mentioned blankets and drying clothes, but there was no time to search. Instead he tore down one of the inner draperies, tucked it around his chest and tossed the end over his shoulder. He felt incongruous dressed like an immortal, but the drapery would have to suffice until his clothing dried. He’d have preferred to warm Aislinn with his body, but she might be alarmed if she woke in the arms of a naked man.
Someday.
He eased his frame under the blanket and gathered her into his arms. She fit him perfectly. It seemed appropriate to hum the lullaby his mother had sung to him as a babe. He was confident Aislinn would recognise it.
There was much he still didn’t understand about this unusual woman, but he was determined nothing would ever come between them.
He believed he had broken Moqorr’s hold over her. Perhaps the High King wasn’t as omnipotent as she feared.
Colors
Aislinn floated in a myriad of warm, vibrant colors. The ominous shadows that perpetually haunted her sleep were gone. Strong arms held her safe from harm and conjured the forest green of wealth and masculinity. The hue lightened as the soft strains of a lullaby changed the pervading maleness to fertility, the sowing of seed and the bearing of children in a land of plenty.
Fear no longer slithered in her belly. The icy chill had left her veins.
Purple enfolded her in its regal embrace when a deep voice she recognized asked, “Do you remember the tune?”
She slowly opened her eyes and touched the face she had hoped to see. Sibrán’s love and strength had destroyed Moqorr’s power over her. She thanked the gods the High King hadn’t been powerful enough to rob her of the gift of foresight; the dream was the clearest vision she’d ever had.
Sibrán was destined to rule the kingdom of Inisfail. He would wear the royal purple and she would bear his children in a land free of tyranny. “Kiss me,” she whispered, filled with heady contentment.
“Gladly,” he replied with a smile.
At first his kiss was gentle and loving, then he groaned and pressed her to his hard body, coaxing open her mouth with his tongue. He breathed for her, imbuing her with the sure knowledge that the only sorcery he possessed was the simple magic of love.
Knowing she was loved strengthened her for the mighty battle ahead. Moqorr wouldn’t relinquish his crown willingly, but the love she bore for the brave warrior who rocked her in his arms would prove to be stronger than any malevolent force the High King might bring to bear.
Sibrán broke the kiss and looked into her eyes. “Will you be my queen?” he asked, his deep voice hoarse with emotion.
An ache of longing took hold of every part of her being. She wanted to be possessed by this man, to join her body to his, to be one with him. Her need intensified when he cupped a breast and grazed a thumb over her nipple. “I will,” she vowed, pressing her loins to his hard maleness, accepting he was her destiny.
He nibbled her ear. “Will you give yourself to me?”
She twirled a finger in his damp hair and smiled. “You already own me.”
He returned the smile. “But I want you to come willingly to my bed.”
Her body cried out to yield to his kisses, his embrace, his possession, but a memory of Moqorr’s dire warnings intruded into her euphoria. She couldn’t risk losing abilities that might prove to be important weapons in the looming battle. “I will, when the time is right.”
Sibrán’s body insisted this was the right time. It was difficult not to press her to surrender, but he resolved to be satisfied with Aislinn’s pledge, for the moment. “I swear never to take you against your will,” he promised.
“I know,” she replied, “but I must remain chaste if we are to defeat Moqorr.”
He opened his mouth to protest his inability to understand, but she put a warm finger to his lips. “Do you trust me?”
Here was the point of no return. Iago’s spluttering protests echoed in his ears. His uncle had been brutally murdered in this land. The woman he held in his arms was a foreigner, a stranger. Yet, she was in his blood. He’d left Gaelicia with the conviction it was a desire to avenge Nith’s death urging him to Inisfail. Now he was certain Destiny had brought him to this place—to Aislinn—for a higher purpose.
He took hold of her hand, sucked her finger into his mouth, then pulled it out slowly and deliberately, savoring the sweet taste of her skin. “There are many things about you that bewilder me,” he conceded, “but I have put my life in your hands.”
She nuzzled his neck, inhaling deeply, then wrinkled her nose. “The smell of the river still clings to you.” Her eyes widened. “And you’re wearing my drapery?”
He smiled guiltily. “You had nothing else that would fit, and I was in a hurry.”
She sat up and slowly eased the fabric off his shoulder, her eyes full of mischief. “You have trusted me with your life. If you put your body in my hands, I can cleanse the salt from your skin and banish the aches and pains.”
He loosened the cloth from around his chest, pushed it down to his waist and stretched his arms wide. “Cleanse away, my queen.”
Aislinn stared at Sibrán’s bare chest. She had seen him naked when he emerged from the river, but darkness had hidden much of his chiseled beauty. She licked her lips, eager to run her hands over the sculpted muscles, to touch her fingertips to the dusting of black hair.
He took hold of her hand and pressed her palm to his chest. “Have you never seen a man’s body before?”
Heat soared into her face. She sensed he was teasing her. She fixed her gaze on the half moon of his gold torc, the strong thud of his heart pulsing through her body. “Only once.”
He tilted her chin. “At the river?”
Breathing became difficult as she looked into sparkling eyes. “You knew?”
He smiled. “I had a suspicion. Lop was there and he rarely leaves your side.”
“It was wrong, I shouldn’t have…”
He shook his head and pressed her hand more tightly against his warm skin. “What I feel for you in my racing heart is something I have never felt before, Aislinn. Destiny has brought us together. There is no shame in wanting me as I want you.” He frowned.
“Will you admit you want me?”
She nodded. “I do.”
“Then work your magic and cleanse my body. Let me feel your touch on my skin.”
Summoning her courage and trusting in his words, she put her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him back against the padded seat. “Lay still and I’ll fetch the oils.”
Saffron
Sibrán closed his eyes as the aroma of saffron stole into his senses. A wave of nostalgia swept over him. “Reminds me of Gaelicia,” he muttered.
“You have the same oil?” Aislinn asked.
Thoughts of the life he’d left behind fled when she smoothed her warm hands over his shoulders, then worked her way down to his biceps. All that existed was this moment and the woman who tended him.
He grunted in reply.
She kneaded his wrists and hands, pressing her thumbs rhythmically into the flesh of his palms. “Feels good,” he rasped.
“Relax,” she urged, flexing her fingers into the muscles of his chest.
How to tell her there was no hope of his desire abating if she continued?
She accidentally grazed his nipples when she moved to work the muscles of his belly. He groaned, enthralled by her innocent sensuality.
“Good,” she repeated softly. “Relax.”
In an effort to take his mind off his arousal, he let his thoughts wander over other things the oil’s aroma reminded him of. Honey…a freshly scythed meadow…a hint of almonds.
It was for naught when she lifted the hem of the drapery, bunched the fabric atop his groin and kneaded his thighs.
He opened his eyes, grasped her hands and cupped them around the fabric covering his erection. “Pledge to me now, Aislinn,” he growled. “I will have no other.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed, but didn’t try to pull away. Indeed, he rejoiced to feel the slight pressure of her hands. “I belong to you, and you alone,” she replied, “but…”
Fearing she was about to rebuff him again, he sat up and straddled the seat, keeping her hands on his manhood. “But what?” he said with more belligerence than he intended.
Aislinn dreaded revealing her abilities to Sibrán. A mortal male might deem visions and dreams acceptable, but would never want a woman who could change into any animal she conjured.
But if she again denied him his right to possess her without an explanation, she would alienate him forever.
She thirsted to explore the hard maleness beneath the fabric, to know him in every sense, but the loss of her powers would put him at a disadvantage.
She retrieved a drying cloth and wiped the crocus oil from his body. His eyes never left her face. There was no alternative but to reveal the whole truth. “If you will turn and allow me to cleanse your back, I promise to tell you what you need to know.”
He hesitated only a moment before coming to his feet, the dishevelled drapery clutched to his manhood, his head touching the ceiling. He towered over her, a splendid, powerful male, but she felt no fear, only a mischievous impulse to ease the fabric away from his body.
He smiled, as if sensing her thoughts, turned slowly, sat down and leaned forward.
He twitched when she poured oil onto his broad back. She put her hands on his flesh and uttered a silent prayer to the gods that her revelations wouldn’t repulse him.
She drew on the strength in his corded muscles as she massaged from the base of his spine to his shoulder blades, over and over. “You have realized by now I can sense the thoughts of others,” she began.
He chuckled. “Then you know what I am thinking.”
“Yes, but we must be serious. The gods have also given me the gift of sight. I have visions which foretell future events.”
He inhaled deeply. “You foresaw I would come to Inisfail.”
“I was Moqorr’s prophetess. I had to warn him of your coming.”
“And he instructed you to make sure we didn’t survive long enough to get to Tara.”
“Yes.”
“Your guards were sent to kill us.”
She flinched when the edge of a fingernail marked his flawless skin. “No. An ambush might not have succeeded. It was my responsibility to arrange more subtle hazards.”
His shoulders tightened, but he made no reply, so she continued. “Those who travel the Bhearù face many dangers.”
“Storms, for example,” he said.
She nodded. “But it was not I who conjured the tempest on the coast. I fell under your spell as soon as we met and knew I couldn’t harm you.”
Her breath caught in her throat when he spun around to face her. “I am a mere mortal, Aislinn, not a wizard who weaves magic spells.”
She put her hand to his cheek. “Yet you enthralled me the moment I set eyes on you.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “I believed you were a goddess when you appeared from the dunes.”
Tears welled. “I have never known the power of love.”
He tightened his grip. “Do you love me?”
She sniffled back the threatening tears. “If I had failed to save you from drowning, I would have followed you to your watery grave.”
He frowned. “You sent the wolf-bitch to save me?”
She swallowed hard. “I was the wolf-bitch.”
He stared into her eyes for long, silent minutes. The chill of his hand froze her heart, but then he smiled in understanding. “And the fawn.”
Sibrán suddenly had the answers to the puzzling riddles. He knew now why he had hesitated to slay the fawn in the forest and understood the red tinge of the wolf-bitch’s coat. The woman he loved had saved his life at the river and protected him from Moqorr’s evil intent ever since his arrival.
But the difficulties and dangers of living life with a shapeshifter loomed large. If he angered her…
She averted her sad eyes, obviously aware of his inner torment.
He cupped her face in his hands and brushed away the tears with his thumbs. “Forgive me, such powers are difficult to understand. I have never known a person who could change into an animal.”
She blinked rapidly. “Deep within, every man and woman possesses the same instincts that have helped the beasts of field and forest survive in this dangerous world. My gift allows me to become one with those instincts, to turn myself into the animal.”
It was an awesome revelation and there were no words to adequately express his wonderment and dread. His usually sharp wits failed him. “So, if your instinct was to punish me for…”
She came to her feet abruptly, her face reddening. “I would never harm you, Sibrán. Do you not yet understand? My natural feelings for you transcend any supernatural power I may possess.”
His inability to trust in things beyond his comprehension might yet cost him this remarkable woman. He leapt to his feet, heedless of the drapery falling to the floor, and gathered her into his arms. “Help me understand,” he rasped.
Their hips moved together in rhythm as he rocked her.
She pressed her hands into the small of his back. “You see,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Our bodies know instinctively what our hearts want, but giving myself to you will mean surrendering my gift.”
Icy heat rushed through his veins. “You are telling me that once our bodies join you will no longer possess the magic to shift into animal form?”
She nodded.
He had an urge to beat his fists against his chest like the macaques he’d seen when he and his brothers sailed south through the narrow straits into the Middle Sea. “Then we need not wait. Join with me now.”
She flattened her palms against his chest and pushed. “You are making this more difficult. We may need my gifts in the battle ahead.”
Once again his male urges had got the better of his wits. His preoccupation had driven thoughts of Moqorr from his brain. He let her go and stooped to gather up the drapery, cinching it around his waist. “You are wiser than I, Aislinn of Inisfail.”
The Spell is Broken
It was unl
ikely Aislinn was the only person in Inisfail to experience dreams and visions, but she had the concentration and confidence necessary to interpret them, a gift which also allowed her to sense people’s thoughts.
She had the power to change into an animal. Such physical transformations required willpower and control, yet she couldn’t summon the will to deny the intense yearning for Sibrán. It was fortunate her words had dissuaded him—her body didn’t have the strength. When he draped himself in the flowing white cloth, she was tempted to tear it from him, to expose his beautiful body once more to her lustful gaze. “You look like an immortal,” she whispered.
He smiled. “We both know I’m not,” he said, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear, “but together you and I will be a force to be reckoned with.”
A spark of hope sprang to life in her heart. “You still want me, even though…”
He kissed her softly and pressed his maleness to her woman’s place. “Does this answer your question?”
She snaked her arms around his neck and returned the kiss, swirling her tongue along the seam of his lips. With a sigh he stepped away. “You are a temptress, but there are tensions outside this palanquin as well as inside.”
She’d been too preoccupied with Sibrán and hadn’t been aware of a loud argument going on in the camp. “I must reassure my guards,” she murmured, flustered by his ability to completely distract her and afraid of what they might encounter outside their padded refuge.
Sibrán grasped her hand and thrust open the heavy outer curtain.
Iago stood in the clearing, his face contorted in a mask of defiance and hatred, his sword drawn. Behind him ranged the whole Gaelician crew, including those who had been ordered to remain at the river. They scowled, murder in their eyes, daggers gripped in their fists.
Lances in hand, the Tuathan giants were arrayed in a half-moon formation, their backs to the palanquin.
Apprehension prickled across Sibrán’s nape. “Hold,” he shouted, raising one hand as Aislinn clung to his other arm.
Iago’s jaw dropped open. “My prince, when you failed to return we feared you had been slain.”
“As you see, such is not the case,” he retorted angrily. “You have disobeyed my orders.”
Lords of Ireland II Page 66
