THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Braced over her, he took, his arm trembling, his heart choking him with its frantic beat. And hers answered, growing stronger and stronger by the moment. It throbbed inside him. Fueled him. And his hunger would not be abated, not yet, and she offered him a bountiful feast of her mouth, to take and keep taking. God above, he wanted to take it all.

  And when she arched in the bed, her hands finding their way under his tunic, Connal knew he was lost. Her fingers touched his skin and he scooped his arms beneath her, his hands clasping cool, flawless flesh as he pulled her close, mindful of her wound, mindful of the danger this moment carried.

  Only a sheet lay between them, a thin layer to be ripped away and the prize shown. He could not taste enough of her and yet remembered she was as weak as a kitten. That she was dying only this very morn.

  Yet her response denied it with a ferociousness that drew him tightly into a lush world of her passion. 'Twas unequaled, naught spared from him, and in the back of his mind he heard the sound of the wind, felt its caress, the rushing of the sea.

  Sinead drew on his strength, feeling its power lace through her blood as he kissed her and kissed her. The energy pulsed between them, the scent of earth came alive and came to her, a cool mist playing over her skin as she sank her fingers into his hair and feasted on his mouth. Years she had waited for this moment. Years of denying her heart. Of telling herself this could never be, and he would never want her.

  The perfect joy of it sang in her ears, and when she wanted more music, he drew back.

  A whimper caught in her throat and she kissed him again.

  "Sinead, ah, lass, nay, do not taunt me." He tried to slow his breathing and ease her onto the bedding. "This does little for your recovery."

  "It does more."

  He groaned weakly for her and, catching her wayward hands, pressed them down, calling himself stupid to deny himself and noble for doing just that. "You need to rest."

  She scoffed. "My wound bothers me not, Connal."

  God above, hearing his name was a sweet victory he would savor.

  His gaze drifted around the bed and he frowned at the faint scent of moss and earth, and where had the breeze come from? he wondered, then cast it off to drafty castles. He looked at her and groaned. Settled into the mound of pillow, her lips were swollen from his kiss, her color high, which was good, but she rushed to catch her breath.

  As did he.

  Then she touched him, a simple thing, the whisper of the back of her hand across his scarred jaw. He wanted to turn his face into it, to nibble his way down to her arms, her breasts. And lower.

  "I am well. Your blood is in me," she whispered. "'Twas your strength you gave that healed me."

  He was humbled. And yet he wasn't going to question what Quinn had done. Nor the matching cuts they both bore. He simply accepted it for the gift that it was: her life.

  "I did very little," he said for lack of better words.

  "Modest, are you now? When you've been preening like a cock on mid-summer's day since you returned home."

  He scowled. "I do not preen."

  "Not in those garments. By the goddess, have you been in those clothes since I took the arrow?"

  "Aye." He looked down at his bloodstained clothes and the moments when he'd earned them came flooding back. She'd bled so much. He met her gaze and knew he must be honest with her. She deserved it.

  He rose, refilling the goblet they'd let fall to the floor. Connal frowned at the softness of the stone and tapped it with his toe. It hardened under his touch.

  Sinead only smiled, noticing the mist still lingered, even if he did not. "Speak your mind, PenDragon."

  He handed her the goblet, then crossed to the table and returned with a half loaf of bread, breaking off a piece for her. She made a face at it.

  "You have not eaten in four days and lost some flesh. Slowly," he said when she ate too fast.

  Sinead felt the air between them shift with change. "You avoid me now when in my arms you took me into yourself. Why?"

  "I cannot speak of the love you desire." You deserve. He expected hurt, expected anger, not the sympathy in her blue eyes.

  "Tell me of her."

  He looked shocked.

  "'Tis a woman who has left your heart so barren, am I right?" She knew she was.

  "Aye." Mostly.

  He sat on the bed, gripping the post and forcing himself to put distance between them. He should tell her. Mayhaps she'd understand him. He rubbed his face. "This was not the conversation I wanted with you when you woke."

  "'Tis time, then."

  "I have seen much, Sinead, done much that I am not proud of."

  "Nahjar told me of the prison."

  "Talkative, was he now?"

  She smiled at the lilt in his voice that had been missing for so long. "He spoke of the torture you'd suffered."

  "That was the least of it."

  "Tell me of this woman you loved." She tried to keep the jealousy out of her voice. But for a moment, inside, she was the small girl he'd scolded, told that he would never love and she meant naught to him.

  He stared off at the tapestry-covered walls, then forced himself to look at her. "I see none of Pinar in you." His lips curved tenderly. "She was dark—her hair, her skin—and bound by strict customs. She spoke mayhaps a handful of words to me and always whispered quickly." His features lined with pain. "She should never have even looked at me. But she did more. She left her father's home to come to me one night. A woman alone on the street of Syria is fair prey to be killed or taken as a whore."

  Sinead frowned.

  "She is unclean to them and is blamed for it. Even if she is still pure. She must at all times be with a man of her family till she is wed. And then always with him in public"

  "You married her?"

  "Nay." Was that jealousy in her eyes just then? "Before that moment, she had no more than smiled at me passing in the market with her family. Her father was the vizier and hated us all, with good reason. We'd taken his power and his city. Whilst I slept, she crawled into my bed." He stood, and when she expected him to pace, he remained rigid, his fists clenched at his sides. "He hunted her down with dogs, and her brothers, and when they found her with me, she was crying, for I was sending her back. Nahjar heard us and came, pleading with the father. I did not speak the language well enough and did not understand the gravity of what she'd done by coming to me. Nahjar told me to let her go. I couldn't and tried to protect her. By God she was terrified, begging me to claim her. So I did." Connal dropped to the bed again, pushing his fingers through his hair. "Her father said naught, spitting on her. Then her brothers grabbed me, held me prisoner. They made me watch as her father … cut off her head."

  "Great Mother, nay!"

  "Aye." He blinked, trying to clear the image. But it still haunted him. "I'd seen battle that was as ugly, but never a simple young girl cleaved for no reason other than for smiling at me behind her veil."

  Sinead shifted, dragging the sheet around her and sitting next to him.

  "You should lie down."

  "Shh," she said and slipped her hand in his and leaned against his shoulder. "You blame yourself for this; why?"

  "I encouraged her."

  "You've a nice smile, Connal, but naught so bright I'd say a lass would fall all over herself to see it."

  He smirked and said dryly, "I am agog over your flattery."

  She nudged him. "She knew the customs of her people and 'twas forbidden to leave her father's house." She looked up at him. "Did you know the customs?"

  "Some, aye."

  "Would her father allow you to visit with her?"

  "Nay, never."

  "Then her death was her own making."

  "'Twas a dammed execution!"

  She held him down when he would have stood. "She knew the rules, Connal. She chose to risk her life for a man she did not know. How can you blame yourself?"

  "I must take some of it."

  "For being under the comman
d of Richard and in that place in that moment in time, aye. Take that and live with it. But not for that single death. I know you have taken lives for the king. But this one—" She shook her head. "'Twas a burden she gave unjustly." She rubbed circles on the back of his palm, and Connal felt himself relax. "Pinar has already found another life to live, reborn again."

  Connal turned his head and pressed his lips to the top of hers. She made it so simple. "You truly believe that?"

  "Of course, 'tis the circle within the tree of life. In each death, life is reborn. From the dying flower comes the seed for more. From the last stag, left behind is the young doe to breed anew. Mother earth gives back as she takes. Winter hides the life that is reborn in the warmth of spring." She reared back slightly and frowned. "Did your mother not teach you this as a boy?"

  He smiled, feeling old burdens slip away. "She was too busy ruling Donegal in my stead and trying to keep the clans from killing each other." Connal frowned, thinking of the rights that were hers and no longer his.

  "The gleanns are fortunate not to have that trouble."

  "Except with Westberry."

  "Aye. Yet I had not a wee bit till you arrived, you know this."

  He sighed. "You tell me often enough."

  "'Tis so neither of us forgets that what we do affects more than ourselves."

  "Me thinks you have other reasons."

  "Aye, but being a woman I shall keep them secret."

  "Tell me a secret of yours, Sinead."

  The words came tenderly, with sweet patience, and she tipped her head to look at him. "I…"

  Connal waited, almost breathless to hear a mystery revealed.

  Then she said with all seriousness, "I … am hungry and you stink of the dungeon."

  He laughed, and with it came a freedom he'd not known he wanted.

  And like Sinead, once tasted, he wanted more.

  * * *

  A single figure leaned against the stone wall and watched the festivities. They were not easy to find, the swath PenDragon's soldiers cut through Ireland like swiping a hand in the dirt. He'd been only a day or two behind them till the attack and easily learned of the witch taking a bolt meant for PenDragon. Heroic little pagan, he thought, and was pleased that he'd not been denied his justice on the king's personal mongrel.

  Prince John still coveted the woman and someone to use against her. He feared 'twas the Irish knight, and anger stewed in him like boiled beef. Take her father, take one of her sisters, he thought, but PenDragon … his death belongs to me.

  He'd no second thoughts of his betrayal, of the damage it would do to his name, to his family. For most of his kin were dead because of PenDragon, for his need to drag others in his fight for the English king. He would die for his vengeance. Besides, Prince John had already rewarded him with a taste for killing. He'd taken Westberry to hell for his failure. The Englishman had begged like a girl and died just as quickly.

  The man's gaze flicked to the staircase as PenDragon descended, his smile bloody dammed pleased. His knights rushed forward, the one called Monroe leading them. Whatever he said made them sigh with relief.

  So. The witch lived.

  The weakling prince would be pleased.

  Yet when it came time to kill her, the Irishman wanted to wield the blade. That and to bring back the prize of PenDragon's head.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  "What do you mean, you still will not marry me?"

  Sinead kept her gaze forward as she gathered the length of her gown and walked to the staircase. "I think I've been clear, Connal."

  Beside her, he descended the stairs into the great hall. "But the other night—"

  So like a man, she thought. "Did you not hear your own words?" She waited till he remembered. I cannot give you the love you want. "I see you have. And 'twill take more than a kiss to sway me to marry you. Besides, I do not need a husband, and—ah!" she said, putting up a hand to stop the grand decrees of the king she knew were coming. "And then there is the matter of your torture of those prisoners."

  He should have known she'd learn of that. Damn. "That has naught to do with a marriage."

  A thin red brow lifted as she paused on the steps and regarded him. "Respect for human life does."

  That was like a slice to his pride. "I gained important information the only way I could." He stopped her at the landing, waving back the men coming toward them to greet her. "Divide and conquer."

  "You could have done that without cutting them to ribbons," she hissed.

  His features yanked taut and he pulled her into a nearby hall. "You were dying! I had your blood on my hands, Sinead. Blood they spilled! I will not put that image aside for some time."

  "Do not blame me for your savagery! You could have learned that information without inflicting such pain. Can you not see the ease your gift of magic would bring if you would simply put it to use?"

  He hushed her, drawing her farther from the impatient crowd and catching a glare from Monroe, who obviously wanted to see for himself that Sinead was well and Connal had not kept her prisoner in the tower.

  "I warned you not to speak of that. 'Twill destroy the trust I have, and then where would we all be?" His glance shot to the right to the Irishmen gathered and staring at him. He'd felt their hatred when he had arrived, and he'd pushed it aside to focus on her. Yet now that she was healing, rather quickly, 'twas harder to ignore. And if he did try, if he did open himself to it, what proof would he have other than caution? This dammed gift of the senses was more of a burden and he loathed that it had grown stronger once he was near her again. For he could feel her turmoil, sharp and on the surface, and that it was coupled with hopelessness bit into his skin.

  She did not trust him to keep Ireland in his thoughts. She was resigned to it. And he suspected naught shy of abandoning his knighthood and starting a war would change that. No matter how good her kisses felt.

  "You secure the king's oath, you do the king's work, and I know 'tis duty, I understand you cannot break such a promise."

  "Good."

  "But what of yours to Ireland?"

  "Oh, so I am no longer a traitor and unwanted brother of Erin?"

  She waved that off with an impatient sound. "Before all eyes, you represent the king. We were attacked because of who you are."

  So they could take you, he wanted to tell her but refrained. Connal was terrified at what Prince John, a dangerous man of such power, could do to her if he did take her. "What would you like me to do, Sinead? Hide till Richard has what he needs, leave so you can go back to ruling peaceably while the rest of Ireland suffers?"

  Her gaze narrowed with barely checked anger. "You tread upon weak ground with that, PenDragon."

  He took a slow, deep breath to ease his temper. "I am not Ireland's enemy; how often must I speak this? I want what is best for peace, but in finding that we are both in danger now. There are men with power playing games around us and we are their targets."

  "Why? I am no threat."

  He laughed unkindly. "You are because you wield the elements and they cannot. Because your mother does, and because of our families, Sinead. The armies have always been a threat to Prince John's throne," he said with disgust. "My trust with Richard is a threat he cannot overcome, even if he kills me, for Galeron is sworn to step forward to complete my duty. But 'tis you he wants. That is what I learned last night."

  These men obviously did not know the extent of her powers. "They said this?"

  He nodded. "They do not want us to marry."

  Her lips twisted wryly. "Then so would it not behoove us not to marry?"

  "That will matter little; wed or nay, they will try more than arrows before I secure the oaths and put them in Richard's hands."

  Sinead winced suddenly, pain tripping over the back of her skull with the image of Connal on the battlefield, a sword piercing his side. "Then it makes no difference." Not to him, she thought sadly. She was still a duty, a mission to
perform for his king before going on to the next obligation. Sinead tried not to feel the sting of it; but then, she'd known this for so long. And her heart once again ruled and left her bleeding.

  "Must I tell you again—"

  Her temper flared and the hot scent of spice suddenly filled the area. "Spare me the proclamations of the king against those of your heart!"

  She drew her arm high, the sleeve blocking her face. Then she was gone.

  "Damn." He glanced around and found red flowers at his feet. He picked up a handful, inhaling her scent. "Sinead," he said, looking to the ceiling. "We are not done."

  "Lose her again, did you, lad?" Galeron smiled as Connal walked from the corridor.

  "Find her."

  Galeron nodded and, motioning to Nahjar to follow, went to search.

  As Connal moved to look elsewhere himself, Monroe approached. "Where is she?"

  "Off throwing something, I imagine, and wishing 'twas at my head."

  Monroe's gaze narrowed. Connal waved it off tiredly, then noticed a guard rush from the steps that curved toward the back of the castle and into the dungeon.

  "Christ on a cross, Monroe, go below and see if she is there." Connal knew he'd throttle her if he saw her now.

  "Why would she be?"

  "Trying to save my eternal soul, I suspect." At the man's frown, he added, "I believe she's attempting to heal the prisoners."

  "So they can be executed?"

  "I doubt that thought ever occurred to her."

  "Then tell her."

  "And have her defend her attackers to me?"

  "She would not."

  "Monroe, your lady covets life in all things, be it her enemy or nay. 'Tis her nature. Bloody hell, she is nature."

  Monroe folded his arms over his chest, listening patiently. "You wish to reveal something I do not know, my lord?"

  Connal scowled. "She thinks magic can protect her always, and the past days have proven to me that weakened, Sinead is as helpless as any woman."

  Monroe stared for a moment. "I agree."

  "Then you can understand my troubles when she refuses to obey me. Even if to protect her from herself, her magical ways."