“I do no’ intend to hurt ye. That is, unless ye should force me to. There are guards about, prepared to handle ye in a manner which is not as pleasant as mine. Ye would do well to cooperate,” she added as she began massaging his neck and shoulders gently, after having thoroughly drenched her hands in the lavender and sandalwood oil. Up and down she kneaded his neck and shoulders, and she reached over ever so lightly to draw her hands across his cheeks to feel the day-old stubble.
From behind, she could tell he was a brawny man indeed; chiseled, high cheekbones, prominent nose, strong chin, long elegant neck that housed a thunderous pulse—that grew more thunderous the more she rubbed his neck. He clasped his hands together in his lap so hard that she sensed they were losing feeling, as he was forced to release them and shake them, mayhap they had gone to sleep?
He grunted and leaned forward on the stool and she gave her attentions to his long brown hair, wavy and sun-kissed, it touched nearly to the middle of his back.
“I’ve only need of some information from ye, ye ken?” she asked, knowing he would not respond. “As soon as I have me information, dear sir,” she added, “I will be on me way and this torture, will stop.” He struggled to sit upright and she let him, backing away for a moment before the sound of ripping linen caught his attention.
Taking a piece of her thin yellow chemise, she raised it to her neck and wrapped it languidly about her, ensuring her scent and that of the lavender was ingrained in the fabric. She rubbed it between her breasts one last time before securing it about his eyes and fastening it behind his head in a crooked bow.
“I realize that yer hands are no’ tied, my fine sir, but I would request that ye honor me by not seeing my…uh …person. Ye will agree that most inquisitors maintain a bit o’ privacy by covering their faces?” she asked. “Ye see, it makes it hard for me to do my…uh…work, if me face is covered. Therefore, it only makes sense that should I wish to go unseen, ye would oblige me by not watching me and wearing this blindfold?”
He nodded in apparent understanding or submission or other some such acknowledgement, and grunted and sighed at the same time, frustration rising again through his body, sending him bolt upright and rigid on the stool. She walked towards the front of him and spoke in soft tones.
“As I said, I have no intention of hurting ye, although I am more than capable. It will be therefore, up to ye, sir, to trust me as we get through this unpleasant torture—together,” she added as she placed both of her hands on his shoulders again, this time from the front side.
“I am going to touch ye now, I do not want ye to jump, or be startled. I am going to take ye by both of yer hands,” she said grabbing his large strong hands in her own small delicate ones and turning them palm up by the wrist so she could look at them.
“I very truly hate to see what becomes of a mon’s hands when they are tied. It pains me so, the unnecessary force one must take when others will no’ simply cooperate.”
Still holding his hands by the wrist, she turned them and placed both of them on her hip bones, one on either side. “Now…let us get to know one another. Since ye canna’ see me, I think mayhap ye would like to know…at least…who ye are being tortured by.”
She inched towards him, standing between his knees, placing both of his hands on her hips and grew even closer. Her breasts were mere inches from his face, and he inhaled sharply at her scent. She raised his hands from her hips, up her sides towards her shoulders and resting them atop her shoulders, she let go.
“Now, see,” she said. “This is more fair, wouldya’ no’ agree?’ Ye know me size and where I am and I can see yer…uh…size from here, as well.” By this time, the man was turning white from holding his breath, and she reached down to touch his cheek with her right hand. He gasped and let out the long-held breath, causing himself to choke and go into a coughing fit.
“I dare say, me sir, that ye must breathe if ye hope to survive me torture,” she giggled, and placing both her hands at the nape of his neck, forced his blindfold covered face upwards. Grasping him by the hair, she nuzzled his neck with her check and whispered in his ear, “Is this becoming too much for ye now?”
He vehemently nodded otherwise and she relinquished her rein on his neck.
“Now then, I’ve need to make ye presentable to the council. That is should ye survive me inquest,” she added. Leaving the boundaries of his legs, she stepped to the side and began rattling about with the items on the table, her flowing shift rubbing his bare legs as she went by. Adorned only in his kilt, bare feet and all, she could see the hairs on his legs stand straight-on-end. ‘Tis working, she thought to herself.
The muscles in his chest striated and heaved up and down with his every labored breath, growing more determined each second. As if the spell had been broken now, he unlocked the tight grip he had on his own fists and placed his hands on either side of his enormous thighs, unsure what to do with them.
Before long, the sound of dripping liquid across the floor revealed that she was coming back up behind him. He straightened his back and flexed his heels which were no doubt falling asleep, considering the position he had sat in for so long. Placing his feet flat on the ground, he crossed his arms across his chest and waited. For what, he didn’t know, but he waited nonetheless. More relaxed now, he took a deep breath.
“Do no’ move,” she whispered into his right ear, as she placed her left hand around his neck as if she would strangle him. He jumped at the familiarity and gulped.
“Do no’ move, sir,” she added, “else I will cut ye.”
With her left hand she began washing what part of his face was not covered by the blindfold. Thinking better to herself, she warned, “I’m going to remove this tie for a bit, do no’ turnaround.”
Tucking the blindfold around his neck, she washed his face from behind with a cleaning linen and warm soapy water. After rinsing, she gripped his jaw and turned it to the left exposing his neck. He flinched and she gently nipped his ear this time, “I said do no’ move.”
He stopped breathing when he felt the cold blade of the knife at his neck. She fisted his hair in her left hand and held it tightly, then ran the blade up and under his neck in one quick moment. She dipped the knife in a watery vessel then ran the blade up and under his neck on the other side, continuing this pattern on both sides of his ruddy cheeks until he was clean shaven.
“Ye are a brawny one, me good sir,” she said as she cleansed the remnants of her handiwork from his face and replaced the blindfold. He jumped under her touch when she returned with a large fabric and draped it about his shoulders. Grabbing his hair in both hands she insisted, “Now lean yer head back a bit for me.”
He did as instructed and muscle rippled into more muscle as his back arched like a jungle cat and his shoulders tipped into her breasts. He shifted abruptly and sat back straight up.
“I told ye to lean yer head back,” she whispered into his ear. Easing his back to lean his head against her pillows, she grazed her hands over his head and pulled his hair back and away from his face. With her right hand, she drizzled water from a pitcher down the length of his golden-brown locks and began to untangle the tresses. Reaching for a bottle on the table she poured a musky-scented concoction into her hands, lathered it and massaged it into his hair.
She grabbed his right hand and brought it up to his forehead, “Here,” she said, “hold yer head this way, so this willna’ get into yer eyes.” He complied, now holding himself atop the stool with his left hand splayed under the base of it and his right hand holding his head against his arching shoulders.
Continuing her assault on the length of his hair past his shoulders, she rubbed the tendrils together and against each other as the aroma filled the chamber. “I must apologize, I am sure this is most uncomfortable for ye,” she said as she reached his head to grab at the loose ends of some wayward hair. Rubbing her protruding nipples against his shoulders, she was sure her shift was completely wet at this point, and she knew tha
t he knew it as well.
“I’m going to do something completely awful now, but I beg yer forgiveness me kind sir,” she added. “I must needs to rub on yer…uh…scalp.”
He blew out a long sigh and began to breathe deliberately. “Now ye can sit up if ye like, no need to strain yer shoulders. But if I am to make sure ye are good and clean—then I must get the top of yer head as well, ye ken?
He nodded and she warned, “I’m a going to leave yer blindfold off and I need yer assurance that ye willna’ look? Else, I may have to get rough with ye.”
He nodded again and clenched his thighs together as tightly as he could. To his shock, she walked around to his front. Unable to contain himself, he peeked through his eyelids just enough to make out the outline of a wet chemise hanging seductively off the peaks of round, bountiful breasts.
Clenching his eyes tightly, he made the sign of the cross in front of him and put both hands on either side of the stool, holding on as if for dear life. With her knee, she pressed his legs gently apart and stood in front of him to do her worst.
Long, lithe fingers glided mercilessly through his hair. Lathering the musky-scented oil through his hair and over his scalp she grew closer, closer, so much closer that he could almost bite her neck when she reached back to gather the length up on top with the rest.
“Here,” she said, “ye will fall off that stool if ye are no’ careful.” Prying his tense hands from either side of the stool, she raised them once again to rest on her hips. “That’s better. Just ye hold on to me and I won’t let ye fall,” she said.
Like a blind man searching for structure, he gripped her hips and relaxed, then gripped harder with each motion she made washing his hair. Unsure whether it was better to hold tight or loosely, he wavered between the two, sending chills up and down her spine.
She stepped back a bit and he loosened his grip on her hips. “Now, don’t let go, me prisoner,” she said, confirming her intention with a squeeze to his hands on her waist. “I must needs rinse yer hair now, and ye will need to hold on verra good, let’s ye tip over backwards and take me with ye.”
She brushed the left side of his cheek lightly and cupped his temple and forehead, giving him a good long look. Beautiful was not the right word for the creature she was holding in her hands. Beautiful didn’t begin to describe him. Doubtless, there were no words. Thankful she had told him to close his eyes, she secretly wished she could get a look at them anyway. Shadrae be damned, she had to see. She imagined what color they might be. Green probably, but no—not on this man. Dark, wild and powerful…they had to be blue …and she knew she couldn’t take it if they were.
She sighed audibly and reached over to grab the rinsing pitcher from the table. Rising up on her tiptoes, she stretched up and over his torso, tipped his head ever so slightly backward and poured the warm water through the length of his hair. With her breast pressed gently into the curve of his neck she repeated the motions over and over and over again, feeling the heat rise in his face. So hot it nearly scorched her.
He tightened his grip on her hips, not so much because he thought he would topple backward, more so that he thought he might be overtaken by a wave of passion he would be unable to control. He moaned audibly and let out a breath.
“I see me torture is working,” she whispered playfully into his ear. “Are ye no’ ready to talk yet?” she asked.
He shook his head from side-to-side sending water splashing everywhere, drenching her in the process. “I shall punish ye for that,” she said as she bit into his neck causing him to jump, startled.
She finished wiping his wet face with a cloth and spread his legs apart with her own as she stepped back. The top of his kilt fell from his lap leaving rigid evidence of his reaction to her torture in its wake. He blushed and relinquished his hold on her hips. Deliberately forgetting to replace his blindfold, she worked her way behind him and began combing the tangles from his freshly washed hair.
“If ye shallna’ talk, I must persist in mine endeavors to break ye,” she said sardonically.
“Will ye no’ talk?” she asked.
He shook his head again, pulling it from her clutches and sending the brush flying to the other end of the room. “Now keep yer eyes closed,” she said, “while I get that brush, ye ken?” He nodded.
Stepping in front of him slowly and sensually, she sashayed towards the lighted candelabrum allowing the illumination to cast shadows on her form as she did. He peeked through his eyelids as she walked in front of him to stoop for the comb. Near to soaking wet, with her shift clinging to her wet form, she smelled of lavender and sandalwood. Reaching with her right hand to remove the comb from her hair, she used her left to retrieve the brush. Her chestnut tresses fell to her shoulders and framed her lithe neck in the candlelight. The contrast of dry hair and wet form tickled his innards and he groaned in delight.
“Yer no’ looking are ye?” she asked with her back turned toward him.
“Uh uh,” he grunted. An audible reply, she thought. Won’t be long, now.
“Now, close them tight,” she demanded. “Here comes the worst part,” she said. “Are ye sure we canna make an agreement?”
He shook his head again in silence. He was not to be broken apparently. At least that’s what he thinks.
TWENTY-NINE
O’Malley Territory
Darina sat in the warm afternoon sun, twiddling her dagger between her fingers. Payton was not happy with her decision he should remain behind under the first ridge of the plateau, but he relented when she threatened to separate him from his head. The fact she was wielding her broadsword when she said so, drove home the point.
Uncertain she could accurately retrace the steps she had taken with Patrick in the dark, her fears were eliminated when she found the level spans of green clover between the rocky formations—which were set about in a circular pattern. The ridge looked much different in the daylight. How does one go about calling an otherworldly being? she thought to herself, fear and trepidation rising to the surface.
“Oh—what am I doing?” she shouted out loud as she threw a rock between the rocky arches. “I am such a fool.”
Staggering to get up, she lost her footing and the ground began to jiggle around her. An ominous humming noise assaulted her ears and she collapsed back down to the soft, green ground and held her head with both hands. A bright light shone in front of her and a familiar chatter greeted her. Tiny orbs of light swarmed her neck and shoulders and she sat, face to shin, in front of a very amused Covar.
“Covar,” she said startled. “How did ye know to come?” she asked.
The striking, tawny god-like creature reached down a hand to assist her up, slapping her with his long golden tresses in the process. Stable and on her feet, she became lost in his eyes for what seemed minutes and just stared.
What need have ye, Darina? he asked her with his mind.
She stood still, dumbfounded and unable to speak or think. He reached down and touched her on the shoulder, and a sudden surge of electric-like power jogged through her body. From the base of her spine to the nape of her neck, fire shot through her being and froze her blood. Every element of her being was on alert and she felt alive. So. Alive.
Unable to take her eyes from Covar’s, she simply asked, Where is Patrick?
Patrickme husband, Patrick. He has been gone six days hence and has not returned. I and his brathair have searched and have found nothing. I fear for his safety. I believe ye are the one…person…who can help me locate him,” she said audibly.
Why have ye not searched with yer mind? he asked.
“I have, but he has blocked me somehow. I canna sense him any longer,” she said as she began to cry. “And…I fear that…something horrible may...”
“Stop,” Covar said as the ground shook around him. He held up the palm of his hand to her in demand. It was the loudest, deepest, most authoritative voice she had ever heard. It was as if the heavens opened up and God himself spoke to her.
“Fear is not a useful tool, Darina,” he said. “Fear is not for ye my child. Fear comes from a very deep, dark place, so negative is its form, it leads only to destruction.”
Darina bowed her head and wept loudly, “Can’t ye please help me, Covar,” she begged.
The magnificent giant reached a hand down and laid it upon her shoulder. A soothing wave of calm, warmth and peace surged through her and she looked up into his eyes, pleading, begging for resolution.
Taking his hand back, he stepped away and turned around, heading in the direction of the stone circles. Disillusioned, Darina took off after him, anger rising in her. Are you just going to leave me…
Wait! he responded, still heading away from her. She stopped dead in her tracks and watched in astonishment as Covar rose off the ground, levitating, about four feet above the rocky ledge, with arms outstretched to his sides and fingers pointed upwards. Soon, a mighty wind arose and he began spinning as if he were a tornado, turning in increasingly advanced speed, taking the flowers, clover, grass and anything close to him with him in the funnel.
Darina stepped backwards, never turning, leading herself away from the twister, so as not to get caught up in it. The earth shook again and she was sure this time it would be felt at the castle. Water spouts littered the coast and she could the see the waves growing high and crashing towards the shoreline. The wind was so loud and her hair thrashed about her face in an almost painful fashion, as if she were literally being whipped.
Finally, she edged herself back down on the ground, grabbing hold of a nearby jutting rock and praying she wouldn’t break loose. As quickly as the funnel had appeared, it disappeared. In a magnificent implosion of light and melody, Covar’s form disappeared in midair leaving only glittering dust particles floating about.
Silence. Unbearable silence broke the ridge and she was alone. She straightened to a sitting position to survey the empty plateau. Save for herself and the rocky formation, there was nothing. Covar was gone and she had no better idea how to find her husband. Tears turned into burning wrath and she screamed, a bloodcurdling, rage-induced scream that sent a gaggle of grouse reeling into the sky.
Celtic Shores, Book 2 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 17
