by Jayne Castel
His hands slid down Eithni’s back and cupped her bottom. He picked her up, lifting her against him so that their hips were joined, and carried her over to where one of the tors rose above them, blocking out a mackerel sky. Donnel paid his surroundings no mind. Instead he drank Eithni in, exploring that soft mouth, those beautiful pink lips.
He longed to rip the clothes off that supple body and kiss his way down it. But there was no time for that. His need to be inside her was driving him to distraction.
Eithni was unraveling him, robbing him of any coherent thought.
During their only night together, she had been passionate. Yet there had been a slight reserve—due to her fear of being physically hurt—that had held her back.
Today he sensed no such reserve. She devoured him, her hands roaming his chest before sliding down to his belly to the bulge in his breeches beneath. Her small hand cupped his girth, her fingers caressing him through the plaid.
Donnel growled low in his throat and tore his mouth from hers. Reaching down he unlaced his breeches and freed his shaft so she could touch it openly. He watched her gazing down at it, her slender fingers gripping him as she slid her hand up and down his length. Excitement gleamed in her eyes, and her lips parted as she stroked him.
He threw back his head and groaned.
Eithni gave a soft throaty laugh. “You are beautiful, Donnel.”
He could not stand any more of this. He had to have her.
Hitching up Eithni’s skirt around her waist, he pinned her up against the sun-warmed stone, kneed her thighs apart, and thrust into her.
Eithni took him, all of him, to the hilt—her velvet heat closing around him, drawing him deeper still.
“Eithni,” he gasped. She was so wet and tight it nearly pushed him over the edge. She made him want to lose control completely. Yet he did not want to do that—he did not want to frighten or hurt her.
She gave a deep moan and arched back, grinding herself against him. He stared down at her: the long sensual line of her neck, the way her lips parted as she gasped her pleasure.
Donnel responded in kind, rotating his hips and grinding himself deep inside her. She made a breathy mewing sound, and he felt her body start to tremble, the walls of her womb contracting against him. Her nails dug into his arms, and their gazes met.
The moment was so intense that Donnel nearly spilled within her there and then.
He could feel the shudders of her release rippling through her, yet she kept her gaze fixed upon his so that he could see what it did to her.
“Please,” she panted. “I want you. All of you.”
Her words were like dry tinder to a flame. He spread her thighs wider still and took her in slow hard thrusts, their gazes locked. Eithni cried out, the sound ringing across the valley, and Donnel felt a wet heat release deep within her.
Donnel went wild, his restraint finally snapping. He plunged into her, gripping her buttocks so he could penetrate deeply. Eithni met each thrust, her cries throaty now. Donnel leaned down, his mouth branding her neck as he took her.
He lost himself completely at that moment—for the first time ever during coupling. Life had left its scar upon the soul of Donnel mac Muin, but in doing so had given depth to him. His coupling with Luana had been passionate, yet he had always held himself back with her—just a little. When she died, she truly had taken the man he used to be with her. The man who took Eithni up against this tor was a warrior who had seen the darkest side of his being. He had tried to destroy himself and failed. He had nothing to hold back anymore.
For the first time in his life, Donnel was not afraid of surrendering himself. He lost himself in Eithni: the taste of her skin, her heat, her wild passion. White-hot pleasure crested within Donnel, setting every part of him alight. He bucked hard against Eithni as he came, threw his head back, and roared.
Eithni hung in the circle of Donnel’s arms. She felt utterly spent, her limbs boneless and weak. Had he not been holding her up, she would have slid to the ground.
Her head rested against his chest, and she could hear his heart galloping in the aftermath of their frenzied coupling.
Eithni was having trouble gathering together her scattered wits. Her thoughts felt like clouds blown adrift upon a windy sky. Donnel had literally driven all rational thought from her. Days of tension between them, building steadily after that night together, had led to this.
Eithni’s loins still pulsed and ached with pleasure. She longed to strip the clothes off him and do that all again on the mossy damp ground. She did not care they were out in the open. This was a desolate valley with only the gods to witness their coupling.
Eventually she raised her head and glanced up at him. Donnel looked down, his mouth curving into a sensual smile that made her catch her breath. He reached out, gently pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I meant what I said earlier,” he said. His voice held a husky edge, the look in his eyes so tender that Eithni’s pulse fluttered. “You have healed me … you know?”
She smiled back, reaching up to caress his face with the back of her hand. “You make me sound much more powerful than I really am.”
He shook his head, his smile fading. “I couldn’t have let go of the anger and bitterness without you. I’m sorry I’ve been so ill-tempered. I promise to be a better man … the man you deserve.”
Hope flowered in Eithni’s breast at his words. After all that had happened of late, she had started to believe she and Donnel would never be together. However, this afternoon changed all that. She could see the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability he usually hid.
“You already are,” she said softly.
His mouth thinned. “I will be after I face Urcal, and once I make peace with Galan.”
He pulled back from her then, and a sense of loss flooded over Eithni. She was suddenly aware that the sky had clouded over and that the afternoon had turned cold. She and Donnel had been so taken up with each other, they had not even noticed.
“Come,” Donnel said, adjusting his clothing and taking her hand. “We’d better get a move on if we want to reach An Teanga by nightfall.”
Eithni nodded and stepped away from the tor. Her legs wobbled under her. She was exhausted, and she could have easily made a bed for herself and taken a long rest. However, she knew Donnel was right.
Her gaze shifted behind him, to where the stallion was sedately cropping grass a few yards away.
“Luckily the pony didn’t run off,” she observed with a smile. “Or we’d be in trouble.”
Donnel grinned back. “Not Reothadh. I’ve had him since he was a colt—he’d never stray far from me.”
Eithni held his gaze, her smile widening. And neither will I.
Chapter Twenty-six
Into The Boar’s Lair
NIGHT HAD ALMOST fallen when they reached An Teanga at last.
Seated before Donnel, Eithni spied the broch rising against a sparkling sound. The fort sat upon the western side of a bay, upon a velvet-green spur of land that jutted out into the water.
Fertile farmland stretched around the fort: a patch-work of tilled fields and low stone huts with cone-shaped turf roofs. Smoke rose from the roofs, and Eithni inhaled the scent of peat and aroma of stewing meat and frying oatcakes. Saliva filled her mouth.
How I miss oatcakes.
The closer they got to the outer walls of the fort, the tenser she felt Donnel become. She sat side saddle, curled up against the wall of his chest. The events of the day had drained her, and she had even dozed in his arms during the journey from The Valley of the Tors. However, despite her weariness, Eithni’s senses sharpened as they approached An Teanga.
Urcal mac Wrad had been enraged and grieving the last time she had seen him. He would not give them a warm welcome.
As if reading her thoughts, Donnel shifted in the saddle. “We must tread carefully here, Eithni,” he murmured in her ear. Up ahead the warriors keeping watch over the gate had spotted them. Tall dark silhouettes,
spears in hand, moved to bar their way.
“Don’t lose your temper then,” she warned him.
“No chance of that,” he whispered back. “Do you think I’d give Urcal further cause to gut me?”
A rough voice called out, as one of the warriors stepped forward brandishing his spear. “Halt. Who goes there?”
Donnel pulled up his stallion. “I am Donnel mac Muin.”
A stunned silence followed before the sentry spoke up again, his voice aggressive. “What’s your business here, Battle Eagle?”
Eithni felt Donnel grow tenser still although his voice was steady in reply. “I’m here to see your chief.”
The Boar warriors led them into a massive two-tiered broch that reminded Eithni of Dun Ardtreck. Built out on the edge of the spur, a row of twisting stone steps led up to the entrance. Peat braziers burned around the base of the broch, gilding the grey stone. The flames guttered in the cool wind that gusted in off the sound.
Donnel and Eithni walked into a vast circular space lined with curtained alcoves. Like the broch of Dun Ardtreck, a set of steps led to the upper level where the chieftain, his wife, and children would sleep.
A massive hearth dominated the space below, where chunks of peat glowed red. There were a number of people inside seated at tables that formed a square around the hearth, although Eithni’s gaze did not linger upon their hard, unwelcoming faces. Instead her attention shifted to the chieftain’s table at the far end, where Urcal mac Wrad watched their approach.
His wife, Modwen, and his daughter, sat to Urcal’s left. There was no sign of the young boy Eithni had seen with them at The Gathering—Urcal’s son. However, Eithni did recognize the bald barrel-chested warrior who sat to Urcal’s right from The Gathering.
None of those seated at the chieftain’s table watched Donnel and Eithni approach with friendly eyes.
Misgiving twisted in the pit of Eithni’s belly. She had never been enthusiastic about Donnel’s decision to come here—but now that they were standing in the broch of An Teanga, her instincts told her it had been a grave mistake.
“So the Battle Eagle has flown in, has he?” The bald man next to Urcal drawled. Eithni watched him, her gut clenching tighter. Urcal scared her—he was a huge bear of a man with arms like tree branches and a forbidding face—but this warrior had eyes that truly frightened her. They appeared almost black in the flickering light of the cressets burning behind him.
“Aye, Gurth—it appears so,” Urcal murmured from next to him.
Eithni noted then that The Boar chieftain’s hand grasped a cup. She watched his fingers flex upon it as if he wished he was gripping a sword.
Fear slithered down her spine. We shouldn’t have come here.
But it was too late to run. They stood in the midst of The Boar’s lair, trapped on all sides.
“Good evening, Urcal,” Donnel dipped his head respectfully. “I know I’m the last man you wish to see tonight.”
Urcal grimaced. “Now that isn’t strictly true, Battle Eagle. I’d love to see you squirming on the end of a pike. I’d like to ram it up your arse myself.”
These words brought a rumble of laughter from the surrounding crowd of kin and warriors seated around the hearth.
Yet none seated at the chieftain’s table smiled—and neither did Eithni or Donnel.
“You have a grievance against me,” Donnel spoke once more, once the noise had quietened, “and I understand it. I’m here now to acknowledge the wrong I did you … and to apologize for it.”
“Apologize?” Gurth rose to his feet and spat, the offensive matter landing on the rushes a few feet from where Donnel stood. “A few glib words won’t make things right.”
“Sit down Gurth,” Urcal rumbled, his gaze never leaving Donnel. When the warrior obeyed, muttering a foul oath as he did so, The Boar chieftain spoke once more. “My cousin is more hotheaded than me … although I agree with him. What makes you think coming here and offering a halfhearted apology will make amends for what you did?”
Donnel bowed his head. “I wronged you, Urcal,” he said. Listening, Eithni heard how those words cost him. His voice took on a low rasp. “Loxa was for you and Galan to deal with … I acted rashly, selfishly.”
Urcal let out a humorless bark of laughter at this. “Listen to you, the proud warrior attempting to humble himself before me. I see through you, Donnel mac Muin. I heard what Galan said to you—never to darken his door again unless you made amends for what you did. You think a bit of groveling will suffice so you can fly back to your eyrie and join your people again.”
Donnel lifted his head, his gaze meeting Urcal’s. “That’s not it. I know I wronged you … I knew it two moons ago but I didn’t care. My words are sincere.”
Urcal’s mouth twisted while beside him his wife shifted in her seat, her gaze nervous. “What’s changed then?”
Donnel reached out and beckoned Eithni to him. She stepped close, and he put a protective arm around her shoulders. “I’ve changed.”
Eithni tensed against him. She was not happy about this at all—this whole scene seemed wrong to her. Loxa mac Wrad had been a brute, just like his brother before him. Donnel had done the world a great favor by cutting him down. She hated that this strong warrior was having to humiliate himself like this before Urcal.
Donnel did not deserve it.
Urcal’s gaze narrowed as he noticed Eithni for the first time. His attention till now had been riveted upon Donnel; he had been blind to all else. “What have we here? Is this the woman Loxa rode off with?”
“My name is Eithni,” she spoke up. “I’m sister to Tea, wife of Galan mac Muin.”
Gurth snorted. “A Wolf bitch then.”
“She is my woman,” Donnel spoke up, a warning edge in his voice for the first time.
In another time and place a thrill would have gone through Eithni at hearing Donnel stake his claim on her. But not now, not tonight. Urcal and his warriors would only use it against him.
Urcal leaned back in his carven chair. For the first time Eithni noted that the armrests were sculpted in the likeness of boar’s heads with long tusks. The Boar chieftain considered Donnel for a moment, scratching his thick beard as he did so, his brow furrowing.
“I don’t understand you, Battle Eagle. I never took you for a fool—but coming here you’ve just put your neck on the chopping block.”
“I’m not offering myself up as a sacrifice,” Donnel replied, holding Urcal’s gaze. “I came because the peace between our tribes is too important to be put at risk over slights and grievances.”
“You sound like Galan now,” Urcal mocked him. “So noble and fair-minded compared to the rest of us blood-thirsty savages.”
“I fought with Galan over his quest for peace—but I understand him now,” Donnel countered. “He sees beyond all of this.” Donnel swept his arm around the broch. “If we fight amongst ourselves we’ll grow weak. I was at the Wall … I saw the men who threaten this isle. If the Caesars ever cross the water and step upon our shores, we need to stand united.”
Urcal’s heavy face creased into a scowl. “That’s a different matter entirely. Right now, we aren’t talking about that … this is about you making amends for killing my brother.”
“He can’t,” Gurth spat out. The big man lurched to his feet, yanked an axe off the wall, and went to lunge across the table.
Urcal’s meaty arm shot out, and he pulled his cousin back.
Gurth shook him off, turning on Urcal in a rage. “Let me finish him … for Loxa.”
The Boar chief shook his head, his face thunderous. “I tire of others taking matters into their own hands,” he growled. “I rule here—I decide who lives and dies.”
Gurth glared down at him, but Urcal stared back, his face unyielding. Long moments passed before the bald warrior did as commanded, although he sank back down upon the bench with ill grace.
Urcal shifted his attention from his cousin, back to Donnel. “I’m not a merciful man. You
made a mistake coming here.”
“My father respected you,” Donnel replied. Eithni was surprised at how steady his voice was, how calm he looked. Both of them were moments away from being attacked, but he appeared utterly unruffled. “He said you were a proud but honorable warrior. A good friend but a formidable enemy.”
Urcal grunted. “Muin was my friend. What of it?”
“Tarl and I have done a lot of damage—but Wurgest and Loxa also played their part. I’m here to see if we can bury the past.”
Urcal watched him. It was a predatory stare that made the hair on the back of Eithni’s forearms prickle. She could see The Boar chieftain was thinking, calculating.
“You want to make amends, Battle Eagle?”
Donnel nodded, although Eithni could feel the tension rippling through him. He too would have noticed the shrewd look on Urcal’s face. Neither of them would like what was coming next. “Then show yourself worthy of that name.”
A muscle ticked in Donnel’s cheek. “How?”
“Tomorrow at dawn you’ll fight four of my fiercest warriors—one at a time. Four to represent all of the tribes you dishonored at The Gathering.” Urcal’s face twisted as he spoke these words. “If none of them succeed in killing you, I’ll spare your life and make peace with The Eagle.”
Donnel watched him. “And if not?”
Urcal’s gaze gleamed. “I’ll throw your body to the pigs,” he growled. “Then I’ll whore your woman to my men, and consider your people my enemy.”
Eithni’s heart started hammering. Nausea rose within her, and bile bit at the back of her throat. She squeezed Donnel’s arm hard. “No,” she whispered. “Don’t—”
“Agreed,” Donnel cut her off. He released Eithni’s arm and stepped forward, his gaze locking with Urcal’s. “Do I have your word you will honor this?”
