by P. C. Cast
Oh, goodie.
“Will you come to me, or shall I join you on your—” another rude pause “—pedestal, my Lady?”
I could feel my jaw setting, but before I could respond, Alanna stepped in. Gracefully, she took my hand and helped me to my feet.
“Lady Rhiannon will continue, as is customary.” Alanna and I descended the dais steps until we were standing on the floor. ClanFintan backed one step to allow me a little room, but he really was very close. And very tall. He seemed to fill the space above me. His scent came to me then, a little horsey, but not unpleasant, like a mixture of sweet grass and warm man.
Reaching down he grasped my right hand in his. I jumped and Alanna covered my squeaky yelp by saying, “My Lady is ready to proceed.”
The hell she is.
His hand felt hard and warm—almost hot. I looked down at it and saw that it engulfed mine. It was a burnished tan color, like the rest of the human part of his body. At the sound of his voice, my eyes shot back up to meet his.
“I, The ClanFintan, do take you, Rhiannon MacCallan, in handfast this day. I agree to protect you from fire even if the sun should fall, from water even if the sea should rage and from earth even if it should shake in tumult. And I will honor your name as if it were my own.”
His voice was no longer bordering on sarcasm. It was deep and hypnotic, as if his words painted fantastic images of our covenant in the air between us.
Then Alanna’s soft voice spoke for me. “I, Rhiannon MacCallan, High Priestess of Partholon and Beloved of Epona, do take you, The ClanFintan, in handfast this day. I agree that no fire or flame shall part us, no lake or seas shall drown us and no earthly mountains shall separate us. And I will honor your name as if it were my own.”
“Do you agree to this, Lady Rhiannon?”
With the question his hand tightened until his grip bordered on painful.
“My Lord, she cannot recite the oath.” Alanna sounded worried.
“Not an oath then, but a single word either agreeing or disagreeing with it.” He squeezed my hand even tighter. “Do you agree to abide by this oath, Lady Rhiannon?”
“Yesssss.” Purposefully I let my abused voice drag the word out.
He didn’t blink. Instead, he loosened his vise grip on my hand, and turned it in his so that it rested there, palm up.
“Then it is settled. For the length of a single year we belong to one another.” Without moving his gaze from mine, he lifted my palm to his mouth. Gently, taking the meaty, muscular area below my thumb between his teeth he bit down. The bite was quick, and, quite frankly, more surprising than unpleasant.
My eyes must have been huge as I pulled my hand out of his intimate grasp.
I’ve married a friggin horse.
And he bites.
Okay, I’m from Oklahoma and I like big horses, and I’m a John Wayne fan, so I like big men, but this was more than a little ridiculous.
And, well, shit, he bites!
CHAPTER 3
“My Lord, please allow me to show you to the Great Hall so that you and your warriors can partake of the feast we have provided to honor your handfast.” Alanna smiled and gracefully led the way from the throne room.
ClanFintan bowed his head slightly to me and offered his arm. With my hand placed lightly atop his, we followed. I could hear his men (horses?) in turn following us.
“I know how distasteful this is to you, but I am glad to see that you have finally managed to set aside your own desires and do your duty.”
He didn’t look at me and spoke low, for my ears alone. Glancing up at him, I saw his face was an unreadable mask.
What the hell had I stumbled into?
“Because we have sworn to honor each other for the next year, I will forgive the dishonor you have shown me by refusing to meet with me during our betrothal, returning my gifts and forcing me to follow you here to finalize our contract.” His low voice sounded strained.
Horse or no horse, I wasn’t going to let him bully me.
“And I will forgive the disrespect you’re showing me now by criticizing me in the temple of my goddess on the day of our handfast.” Ha!
He had to tilt his head down to hear my whispery voice. His expression registered instant surprise, and he came to an abrupt halt.
“You are correct, Lady Rhiannon. I dishonor our vows and myself when I disrespect you. Forgive me for my rude behavior.” His dark eyes held mine.
I had to clear my abused throat before I could squeak out an “I forgive you.”
He still looked pissed, but now he seemed more pissed at himself than me. At least for the moment he appeared satisfied with my answer, because he began following Alanna again, with me in tow.
Alanna had just reached another arched doorway (yes, flanked by two more bewitching guards—Rhiannon certainly had an eye for muscles) and we entered a large banquet hall. Man, this was truly weird.
Okay. This has to be a dream, but even for me it was one wicked weird dream.
The room held at least two dozen large, flat couches. Each had one side that was raised with a kind of reclining armrest, a little like old-fashioned chaise lounges. Next to the raised end of the lounges stood squatty marble pillars with flattened tops. On each flattened pillar sat a golden goblet. Endless supplies of beautiful, nymphlike young women were scurrying from chaise to chaise, filling the goblets with yummy-looking red wine. I tried not to drool.
Make that one wicked cool dream.
Alanna motioned us toward two of the strange-looking couches situated head-to-head near the center of the room. They shared one pillar. The rest of the couches were placed in an oblong circle surrounding ours.
“Shall we to dinner, my Lady?”
Guess I had no choice. And I was suddenly starving to death. So I nodded and approached the deceptively comfortable-looking dinner torture device. I mean, come on. It reeked of Ancient Rome. Please. All those Romans and their “He who controls Rome controls the world,” blah, blah, lie down to eat, eat too much, go puke. They couldn’t even figure out a dining room table. Get serious.
Well, at least reclining would make me look thin….
The instant my butt touched the couch everyone looked flustered, like I’d emerged from the potty with toilet paper attached to the heel of my pump. Please, God, let Alanna know what the hell was up. I gracefully arose and snatched a piece of her sleeve, pulling her toward me so that I could whisper.
“What am I not doing?”
She smiled and curtsied to me like I’d said the right thing, which I knew I hadn’t.
“Lady Rhiannon wishes you to forgive her lost voice. She is dismayed that she cannot bless the feast of her own handfast, but she cannot make her much-abused voice carry.” Smiling, she began to help me re-recline (was that a word?).
“Can she not whisper to you her blessing, and you could speak her words, as you did earlier?”
My new husband’s voice held a very apparent challenge. Mr. Ed was turning out to be a real pain in the ass. (And he was a biter.) Perhaps he thought he was dealing with some kind of slow-witted, cobwebby priestess.
May I just say, he was so wrong. I felt a smile begin to spread over my face.
Again my hand stayed Alanna’s intercession as I whispered close to her ear, “Repeat what I say.”
“My Lady!” Her response was filled with concern that edged on panic. She obviously didn’t realize she was dealing with a high school teacher—we make a living handling weirdness on a daily (or hourly, depending on who has or hasn’t been suspended recently) basis, and we manage to stamp out ignorance and touch the future in the midst of chaos. This was small potatoes. Thinking on my feet is the norm for me—it’s even what I consider fun.
“Trust me.” I winked quickly at her and she nodded, albeit reluctantly.
“You are correct to remind me of my place, Lord ClanFintan. Forgive me, I will repeat my Lady’s blessing on this happy occasion.”
Showtime—again. I knew all those sem
esters of European Lit would come in handy some day—I just thought it’d be on Jeopardy. Leaning dramatically (and showing a nice amount of cleavage), I whispered to Alanna lines from an ancient Irish blessing I had memorized for some useless college class. This just had to be appropriate:
“Wishing you always—”
“Wishing you always,” Alanna’s sweet voice echoed mine as I spoke the ancient blessing, smiling at my rapt audience, loving their respectful silence.
“Walls for the wind—”
“Walls for the wind—”
“And a roof for the rain—”
“And a roof for the rain—”
“And tea beside the fire—” (I felt a moment of panic as I hoped they drank tea.)
“And tea beside the fire—” (smiles all around, I guessed they did.)
“Laughter to cheer you—”
“Laughter to cheer you—”
And now the coup de grâce. Turning to my new and temporary husband, I looked directly at him as I whispered the final line, and then enjoyed seeing his eyes widen in surprise as Alanna repeated the closing of the blessing.
“And those you love near you, as well as all that your heart might desire!”
Her words echoed mine, and were met by the centaurs’ shouts of “Salute!” I swear I saw ClanFintan’s cynically twisted lips form the word checkmate.
As my favorite college prof once sagely said, “Don’t fuck with an English major. They keep lots of useless crap trapped in their heads. Once in a while they let some of it out and it bites you square on the ass.”
Alanna’s shining face was further evidence of my victory, and the smells emanating from trays being carried in by the…well…thicker-looking employees (I guess nymphs can’t be expected to hold up all that transparent gauze and dinner, too) were going to my head. I felt dizzy. Wonder how long it had really been since I’d last eaten?
“My Lady, please be seated.” Alanna saved me again with her well-timed intervention.
My temp husband’s herd of friends followed suit, and the kitchen help began setting lovely plates before us. But the supposed object of my affection executed a neat bow in my general direction and stepped aside to put his head together with a guy who must be his friend/assistant/whatever. Sipping my wine, another excellent red, this time more like a rich, smooth Merlot than a Cabernet, I used the fact that his attention was elsewhere as an opportunity to sneak a peak at him.
If I had to play the Describe Him In One Word game, the word would be Power. He was huge and muscular—very muscular, which in no way counts against him. I’m an equal-opportunity kind of a girl. I try not to penalize skinny wimps and try not to obsess over muscular Swarzenegger types. (Please note I said try.) He seemed engrossed in his conversation, so I took my time and got a good long look. Yes, I managed to allow my mouth to flop open only wide enough to catch the wine I was pouring into it.
The hair on his head was thick and black, with an errant-looking wave. It was long, but he had it tied back in some kind of a leather thong (almost bigger than the one I had on). His face was ruggedly masculine—high cheekbones, a straight, well-formed nose and a deep cleft in his chin (a little reminiscent of Cary Grant, God bless him). His neck was thick without being steroidesque and it tapered nicely to wide shoulders and—yes, I’ll just admit it—an absolutely wonderful chest smattered with just the right amount of tightly curled dark hair. His skin was a deep bronze, gilding him with a statue-like perfection. He was wearing a vest made of dark leather, which was open, giving me a lovely view of sleek, well-defined pectorals (I did very well in my college anatomy and physiology elective) tapering down to my personal favorite of all clichés: the six-pack abs. And a smooth, yummy waist. In short, the human part of him, which ended low on his abs, about where a man’s hips would start, looked like a pretty damn handsome guy in the prime of his life—eighteen—no, just kidding, he was probably thirty-something. Whatever that was in horse years.
The horse part of his body was a maple-bay color, like ripe acorns or the leather binding of old books, shading down to mirror the black of the hair on his head from knees to hooves. He shifted his stance, still deep in conversation, and his coat rippled and caught the light from the sconces. He might be a grump, but he must groom himself regularly. Like I said before, he was large, and would probably measure fifteen or sixteen hands high at the withers. He was shaped more like a Quarter Horse than a Thoroughbred, heavily muscled and built for bursts of speed.
Studying him, I realized that I was not revolted or horrified by this merging of horse and man. And I didn’t have to waste too many brain bytes pondering my acceptance. I grew up horse crazy, which definitely was the norm for an Oklahoma girl, and had my own horse until I left home for college. Actually, my dad liked to joke that I could ride before I could walk. (Wonder if being an experienced equestrian was a prerequisite for this kind of marriage? It certainly couldn’t hurt.) And, truthfully, if he wasn’t Mr. Frown Face I would say that he was actually attractive in a bizarre I’ve-lost-all-touch-with-reality kind of way.
Their discussion appeared to be over. His friend saluted him and headed toward the door, pausing only long enough to bow quickly to me. ClanFintan settled himself into the chaise next to mine. He really did move gracefully for such a big guy/horse/whatever.
In a formal, stilted voice he said, “Please excuse the interruption, my Lieutenant had matters of great import to discuss with me.”
He truly sounded like he had a cob up his big ol horsey butt.
“Not a problem. Join me in a glass of this excellent wine,” I whispered. Ignoring my abused throat I beamed him a big, gosh-I’m-such-a-nice-girl smile.
“Thank you.”
Maybe if he had a drink he’d loosen up and act human (or whatever).
Servants were spilling out of a distant doorway with platters so laden with food that they reminded me of scuttling crabs. Smells engulfed me, and my tummy suddenly rumbled so loudly that I swear ClanFintan had to fight back a smile. I would have whispered an explanation about being “just a tad” hungry, but I didn’t think my voice would carry over the ladylike roar of my stomach.
Several wonderful servants (sorry I thought of them as crabs) began offering first me, then ClanFintan, choice portions from platters steaming with delicious-smelling fish in creamy sauce, tender mouthwatering poultry (well, it tasted like chicken) sprinkled liberally with what appeared to be lemon pepper, grains that had a distinctly garlicky smell and veggies that looked like a nice mixture of pea pods, whole mushrooms and baby onions. Being a dainty and ladylike eater, I snagged helpings of everything while motioning for more wine. Yes, I realized I was drinking perhaps a tiny bit too much wine, but it was medicinal. I had, after all, recently been dead.
The meal decided it. I couldn’t be in hell; the food was too wonderful. Between bites I did manage to glance at my dinner companion, and I was interested to note that he was also eating with gusto, and not just the grains and veggies. It looked like centaurs were omnivorous. (Note to self: be careful, he likes meat and he’s a biter.)
I guess he noticed my lingering glances, because his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile as he announced, “A good appetite is a sign of returning health.”
“Well, thank you, Dr. ClanFintan.”
You’d think I sprayed milk out of my nose the way his eyes opened at my whispered retort. His look made me worry that I had a big piece of food stuck in my tooth or a big booger stuck in my nose.
“You know that I am not a physical doctor. I am spiritual High Shaman.”
I had to swallow a piece of chicken before I could whisper an answer. “I’m just kidding you.”
“Oh. I. Oh.” Now his eyes narrowed at me, and I swear he gave a very horselike snort before he returned to chowing down.
I was starting to believe Rhiannon didn’t have any sense of humor at all.
“My Lady, my Lord and honored guests. To demonstrate the Muses’ approval of your handfast, Terpsichore, inca
rnate Muse of the Dance, will perform.”
The centaurs’ ears all pricked up (figuratively speaking) as Alanna clapped her hands twice and music began. I hadn’t noticed the three women sitting in the far corner of the room, but the silky sounds of harp and flute and some kind of heartbeat-like drum were enchanting. Then, from the arched doorway nearest the musicians, in floated the dancer. She moved with a ballerina’s grace, head down, arms beautifully rounded, to the center of the room, which was, of course, directly in front of my chaise. Being High Priestess obviously meant having the best seat in the house. There she seemed to melt into a deep curtsy, head still lowered, while the music paused. As the music began again, and she raised her head in time to the beginning tempo, I was caught swallowing and I did (delicately) spew wine out my nostrils. Thankfully, everyone was watching her and not me, so I had time to wipe my nose and regain my composure.
Holy shit! The dancer was Michelle, a girlfriend I’d been teaching with for ten years! And here she was, Goddess Incarnate Muse of the Dance—that friggin figures. Michelle and I love to laugh about the paradox of two of the three passions in her life. Passion number one is dance, passion number two is science (and she really likes reptiles, which has always worried me, especially because my classroom is next door to hers and at least two or three times each school year some kind of snake escapes from its cage and gets “lost”). So she combined her first two passions by attending Northeastern Oklahoma University as a chemistry major on a dance scholarship. At our high school she combines them by teaching honors chemistry and choreographing the school musicals. Strange girl.
Watching her move languidly in time with the sensual beat, I took another gulp of wine and smiled gratefully at the little servant who darted obediently in to replenish it. There was no doubt—it was certainly Michelle, or rather, as I’m sure Alanna would have clarified, Michelle’s mirror image. Same thick, dark hair and, as in Alanna’s case, her shoulder-length chic modern cut had been replaced by waist-length tresses that rippled and glistened with her every movement. And covered her petite dancer’s body more than the totally transparent shimmery pieces of gauze she was dressed in. As she danced, the slips of fabric floated around her, exposing enticing glimpses of her tight little body with every change in movement. Her body has always been sleek and gorgeous though she eats like a sparrow—ten times her body weight per day. She’s the only person I’ve ever known who can eat a full school lunch off the Main Line, complete with every fat and carbohydrate known to man, every day, and not get violently ill or gain weight. The bitch.
