“I’m leaving ye here now,” Payton whispered into the darkness.
“Leaving me here? By me self?” replied Darina. “Why are ye leaving me here, what is this place?” she asked.
Having tirelessly trekked by horseback for several hours; Payton steered them off the main road through Burke lands, secured their horses and they journeyed on foot a’ways through steep terrain, over rocky outcrops and through a hay field, until they arrived at a broken down remnant of a structure set alongside a bubbling stream between foothills.
“Payton, what are ye talking about?” she asked. “Ye can’t leave me here, where is…here…?” she begged.
“He told me to bring ye here, ye ken?” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “Ye will be safe here, and Patrick will return shortly. Wait for him here,” he commanded.
She watched in shock as Payton started a fire between two walls, no doubt which were the remnants of an antechamber in the crumbled building. With pieces of thatched roofing missing overhead, she could see the light of the rising moon and the twinkling stars. It began to sprinkle and she pulled her cloak over her head.
“Payton, what is this place?” she asked again in barely a whisper.
“Patrick was here, ye ken?” he said, pointing at what was left of the stony wall. He ripped a portion of his tartan and wrapped it around a piece of wood to fashion a torch, and he pointed again—this time with the fiery scepter.
Along the small section of knobby rock wall, Darina could make out the outline of a symbol, or an image, she wasn’t sure. Grabbing the torch forcefully from Payton, she bent low at her knees to examine the image further. It was red. Tracing it with her fingers, she slowly moved her hand up and over to the right, back down and finally back to the starting point.
“It’s a dragon,” she gasped, clasping her hand over her mouth. “A red dragon, but how did he…?”
Payton placed his hand on her shoulder. “It’s his blood, Darina. He left ye a message in his blood. He means to find ye, lass, and bids ye to remain here in wait.”
“And what are ye to do?” she asked.
“Aye, I am to return to the piers and get me brathair’s ship.”
“Patrick has a ship?”
“Nay, lass, Parkin does,” he said as he walked away.
***
Odetta recognized the stench of burning human flesh instantly. How she became trapped in the burning armory, she wasn’t sure but of one thing she was. Eaton was to blame.
There was nothing more she could do for Dirk. He had prayed for death and she became his death angel. One swift grip on his neck, a forceful turn, and he was in agony no longer. The fact that she did not burn alongside him perhaps frightened him more than his own distress, she could not be sure as he was unable to speak.
The flames died and she stood, completely unscathed in the center of the armory, awaiting her fate. She would not cry, she would not beg for death, as she was certain that was as impossible as killing the Visitor. She would wait, and she would devise a plan. Her only interest at this time had to be the safety of Orla, a child she raised as her own, the only reason she breathed, the future of her clan, if there ever would be one.
It was dark now, and she could make out the faint footsteps overhead, and see between the wood planks as passersby crossed above. No doubt they smelled the smoke, as it wafted upwards into the night. They went about their business, intent on leaving due to the impending war she had proclaimed. Dutiful always, she was secure in her decision—to send them away—should have done it years before. Eaton, now Easal, would show no mercy, and she would permit few victims. A formidable match, she would make his plans difficult and she would die, if only she could. Immortal, she sighed. How do ye kill yerself when ye are immortal?
It was too soon to think of that. Even suicide wasn’t a valid option, at least not until Orla was safe and as far away from Burke lands as possible.
Her head rattled and she screamed. The earth shook around her and her blood boiled in her veins, as if on fire, or frozen, or both she wasn’t sure.
Odetta.
It was him.
Odetta, darling.
Her skin prickled and she shook violently as if she were to implode.
Odetta, I found yer manuscripts, at the monastery. I ken what ye are about.
Her manuscripts! She forgot about the ancient texts. All of the writings, the spells, the curses, all of it—he had it and he knew.
Odetta, I am not amused. Witchcraft? Ye think to use witchcraft—against me?
“Where are they?”, she screamed into the darkness, balancing herself on her knee, still grasping her head.
Here me dear, he said, and from nowhere, a near to three foot stack of manuscripts, scrolls and other writings appeared on the ground before her.
Odetta reached forward to touch the priceless artifacts when they suddenly burst into flames. Her right hand blistered and boiled, the skin peeled and fell off and she screamed in agony.
She could hear him laughing. A sinister swell of devilish triumph echoed through the armory. And then, the roof caved in.
THIRTY-THREE
O’Malley Territory
Payton shrugged his shoulders and turned to Murchadh, “I dare say they may have left.”
“Nonsense,” grumbled Murchadh.
“Are ye sure they came up here?” Payton asked for the third time.
“Aye, I’m sure. Seems yer brathair intended to invoke the doctrine of reciprocity and Kyra chose her chamber for the…uh…ministrations.”
“Reciprocity? Did Kyra harm me brathair?” asked Payton in astonishment.
“It seems as much. He was taken prisoner on the Isle and she was the last to question him,” replied Murchadh. “And they’ve been up here ever since, with the door barred.”
Payton chuckled and turned his head so that Murchadh would not see his reaction. “The sun will be out in a few hours, we need to get that ship on course straight away. Just ye let me handle this, will ya?” he asked as he waved Murchadh on, indicating he should leave the corridor. “I know me brathair, and I’ve a way to get him up and about.”
Not twenty minutes later, Macklin met Payton outside the doorway to Kyra’s chamber, carrying a very sleepy-headed Winnie.
“Thank ye ever so much, Macklin. Now ye can be gone back to yer slumber. I’ll make sure to get Winnie back to Atilde a’fore the sun raises.”
Payton whispered softly into Winnie’s ears and straightened her nightshirt. Setting her down on the stony floor before the chamber door, he patted her on the butt for encouragement, and made motion to knock on the wood.
As expected, Winnie let loose, “Da! Da! Dada!” she yelped in her toddler voice, pounding the door with all the force she could muster. Sucking her left thumb, she sat down before the formidable barricade and reached her chubby fingers under the opening at the bottom. Payton turned and concealed himself to the side of the doorway, sufficiently out of view of the soon to be opening door.
“Blewdy Christ,” he heard from inside the chamber. “’Tis me bairn.” It was Parkin’s voice. Muffled grumbling and innumerable swear words pervaded the chamber and the roust and tumble of someone attempting to hastily exit the bed, but falling instead in tangled linens, tickled his ribs.
There was a brief silence before the chamber door flung open and Winnie began her joyous screaming of, “Da, Da, Da.”
Not one to miss an opportunity, Payton clambered around the shutting chamber door and appeared inside, at the foot of the bed, before Parkin could blink twice.
“Hello Brathair,” Payton said, scaring the life out of Parkin and causing him to nearly drop Winnie. Eyeing the remnants of clothing strewn about the floor and an empty trencher of food left waning on the side table, his eyes quickly moved to the bed.
Winnie had the same notion and scampered to the large four-post bed, intent on climbing atop, when a whimper sounded from the same general direction. Payton eyed Parkin, who blushed and then straightened, g
iving his brother a warning glance.
Winnie was not as easily convinced Instantly, she was at the foot of the bed, promptly peeling back layer upon layer of linens and pulling them down towards the foot of the bed, an inch at a time.
The whimper became an audible, high-pitched squeal, and Payton raced Parkin to the head of the bed, where misplaced linen soon revealed a delicate wrist tied loosely to the bedpost with a long strip of plaid.
“What have we here?” asked Payton, pulling the bedclothes away from the other side, revealing a similarly tied wrist.
“Help,” yelped Kyra, her face now clearly visible and the bedclothing inching their way down her neck and shoulders, dangerously close to her heaving, bare breasts.
Parkin gathered Winnie in his arms, pulled a heavy quilt up over Kyra’s form and gently released the ties that bound her. Utterly self-conscious, Kyra raised her eyes to meet Payton’s look of surprise and shrugged her shoulders as she pulled the quilt all the way up to her neck.
“Reciprocity,” said Parkin, grinning satirically at Payton. “Reciprocity,” repeated Kyra from under the quilt.
***
Kyra assisted the portly priest aboard the ship docked not far from where the group’s cave had been; gratefully cognizant that his stay in Burke lands resulted in some weight loss. Shanleigh was all but asleep, lying against the side of the ship’s galley. Orla, ever vigilant, now stood at the helm, listening intently to three ship hands explain the intricacies of sailing to a mildly accommodating priest.
Naelyn sat off to the side by herself, painfully aware that there would be much explaining to do, knowing she was too mentally exhausted to sleep.
Rory interjected, “How long until we dock at O’Malley port?” he asked again.
Parkin spoke up, “By my observation, based on the waves and the tide, no more than an hour or two. We should arrive just after sunup.”
“Good, good,” he retorted. “Patrick said not to expect him for at least another day. Made mention, he did, of some business he intended to take care of or the what-not.”
Parkin burst out laughing and Payton jabbed him in the side.
“Reciprocity,” said Payton.
“Reciprocity,” repeated Parkin.
THIRTY-FOUR
The border between Burke Lands and O’Malley Territory
Darina tossed and turned in the darkness, waking in short intervals to survey her surroundings, check the height of the moon and confirm that the stars were in fact, still twinkling. It was quiet there in the broken down ruins she had since determined to be an abandoned abbey. An appropriate sanctuary she surmised, and made note to thank her husband at some future date for his choice.
No need to thank me.
Darina sat bolt upright in the dimly lit ruins. Groggily rubbing her tired eyes together, she peeked out into the darkness, and save for a scampering field mouse, saw nothing of import.
“Patrick?” she spoke softly.
Aye.
“Where are ye?” she asked.
Not far, a good ways, but not far. I’ll be there soon. I’ve missed ye.
She sighed heavily and tears sprang to her eyes. Before she could contain herself she was weeping loudly into the bottom of her nightshirt and she sat back with force against the stony wall, nearly knocking the breath out of herself.
Do no’ cry, luv.
Patrick, I was so worried and angry and upset and I though ye had abandoned me and I asked the council for an annulment, and I’m so verra verra sorry, she sobbed. Oh Patrick, did ye find me brathair?
“Aye,” he said audibly, standing before her now in the crowded dimly lit corner of the abbey.
“D-do no’ b-be an-angry with m-me, D’rina,” he began, falling to his knees in front of the fire. “I h-had to g-get Br-Braeden, and I d-did no’ want y-ye c-coming after me. He is s-safe n-now and on h-his way b-back to th-the castle.”
“Patrick, I could have helped, I could have helped, I swear it,” she pleaded as she ran to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, cradling his head against her chest. They sat there like that, for what seemed long moments, before he raised his head and pressed his forehead to hers, searching, longing for something.
Covar.
“Aye,” she replied. “I didn’t know where else to go, and he did no’ speak to me, but he told Payton what to do. And Payton brought me here and then he left, but I couldn’t understand why until he showed me the sign, the dragon ye left on the stone,” she said pointing to the image.
“Patrick, did ye hurt yerself to do that?” she asked turning his wrists and his hands, not finding anything.
He let out a long breath before standing to remove his sword and his belt. He pulled a blanket from his satchel and laid it out in front of the fire as he motioned for her to lie down. Sitting down next to her, near the fire, he placed one hand on each side of her face and placed the gentlest of kisses on her lips.
Ye are my heart, Darina, he spoke to her mind as he gasped. Pulling off his linen shirt, and returning to the fire, she saw it. Crudely etched between his breasts, above his heart, was carved a triquetra. It had broken his skin and was still pink and weeping, tainted with crimson remnants, threatening to finally scar over.
“Patrick” she gasped, lightly touching the skin around the three-cornered knot. “Patrick, by the gods, what have ye done?” she asked softly.
Ye are me heart, luv. Like the triquetra to our people. Like the earth, the sky and the ocean, I exist only for ye. This symbol will remind me always, that ye are my heart. When ye see it, ye will know it is true…
Patrick, why are we here? Why did ye choose this place? It is an abbey, isn’t it?
Aye, Darina. It was. I knew I wanted, nay, I needed to be alone with ye. I ken that if we returned together, we would not have that luxury with the excitement of the return, the questioning, the council meetings, the celebrations. I had to have ye all to myself.
Why this place, Patrick? she asked.
There was no priest to bless our bed. The priest was gone, and Galen was otherwise occupied. I intended to take ye, luv. But, not without a blessing. I ken ye wanted a blessing.
Darina nodded her head and tears poured down her cheeks. Patrick pulled her into his arms and stroked the back of her neck with his right hand.
Darina, as best as I can gather, this is a holy and sacred place, at least it once was.
She nodded against his bare chest, and he flinched at the motion of movement across his wounded skin. She pulled away and his eyes met hers, Do not pull away Darina. I need ye, I need ye like the birds need the wind, like the fish need the sea and like the trees need the sun. Ye’ll no’ hurt me lass, each stroke will only remind me where me heart belongs.
He dipped his head down to meet hers and tongue met tongue in a fevered frenzy which threatened to overtake them. Slowly, he pulled away and gestured to speak.
Darina, this place is sacred. It is because it once was, and it is because I prayed it so, and it is because we are about to perform the most sacred of rituals, here, this night, in front of these witnesses, he said as he pointed to the heavens above and glided his hand down the length of her long arm, tracing the moonlight in his path.
Darina, I bless this bed, he spoke to her heart and he rolled her over onto her back. Lightly outlining the contour of her check with his left hand, he looked her in the eye, “If ye will h-have me as y-yer p-priest,” he spoke slowly.
She quivered and buckled under him, arching her back against his now rigid member. Moaning audibly, she said breathlessly, “I will, Patrick. I will.”
Needing no further encouragement, Patrick raised himself from the tartan. A golden god, that’s what he was, standing bare-chested in the moonlight, with the outline of the red triquetra glittering off his burly chest.
Mine, she thought, before she thought better of it.
“Mine,” he repeated audibly, looking down at her as if she were prey. Never taking his eyes off of his wife, Patrick remov
ed the last of his clothing, and stood unmoving for a moment, under the amber moon, graciously conscious that he was exposed, completely, and strangely vulnerable in her presence.
“Patrick,” she breathed, raising the quilt and exposing her own silken flesh to his eyes. Clad only in a nightshift, her creamy legs beckoned to him and he relented, joining her under the stars.
You couldn’t call it a kiss. That wouldn’t do. It was more like a conquest. He lead his tongue into battle, and she waved a white flag of surrender, ripping her shift from her own body. Such sweet affliction, the wanting of him, it would be her death, and such a sweet death it would be, she thought.
Darina, stay with me.
She wept against his chest and he rose to face her, tenderly turning his mouth to her ear and uttered a strange and erotic tune. It wasn’t Gaelic, but it was something ancient, of that she was certain, and it was meant to entice her.
The heat between her thighs rose and she felt as if she were on fire. Moisture pooled beneath her as Patrick traced the tip of his pulsating member over and around her throbbing mound. Finding her tiny bud, he lingered for a moment, overtaking her mouth again with his own. She gasped and clawed at his back, pleading for more, more.
He placed his forehead on hers again and froze.
Please, she said with her mind.
His eyes darkened and he grunted, tortuously positioning the tip of his cock at her entrance. She rose to meet his hips, but found she was completely immobilized, paralyzed under his weight.
She whimpered and turned her head to the side, exposing her neck. He began his verbal assault again, uttering words that had no meaning. His large hands now cradled her head and his words turned into fire as he swept his hot tongue down the length of her neck, over her pulsating arteries and back up to her ear, repeating the ritual over and over again. He began rocking back and forth again and rubbing her nub mercilessly.
She felt his sack tighten and his cock throbbed, rising above and then thudding back down against her wet petals.
Celtic Shores, Book 2 in the Celtic Steel Series Page 20
