Conquer the Mist

by Susan Kearney

  Her breath came in long surrendering moans. She wound her legs around his hips, abandoning herself to the whirl of sensation. The hot tide of passion raged through her, drove her into a frenzy. She gasped in sweet agony as she was drawn to a peak of delight she had never known. She screamed and was dimly aware of his own groan of satisfaction. Every muscle in her body contracted, then released, shooting ribbons of pleasure through her.

  When she could again breathe, when a semblance of order returned to her swirling thoughts, she realized he was still inside her and gazing at her with concern. “Are you all right?”

  She blushed in remembrance of the noises she had made. Her ears still rang with the sound of her scream. “Why do you ask?”

  “You were unusually vocal,” he teased. “I am pleased you enjoyed yourself.”

  She turned her head away from him. She’d enjoyed herself, all right. She’d enjoyed herself so much the passion had overtaken her senses. Despite all her pretense otherwise, she was her mother’s child, and the thought made her stomach sicken.

  How could she have allowed her feelings to overcome her good reason? And now that she’d experienced the fierce and exquisite pleasure of making love, it would be harder to resist temptation. At the thought of being enslaved by her own passions, bile rose in the back of her throat.

  Placing her hand flat on Strongheart’s shoulder, she shoved him, and he allowed her to push him away. She ignored the puzzled look on his face and his outstretched hand that would only draw her back into his clutches. Scrambling to her feet, she grabbed her clothes and bolted for the cave’s entrance.

  “Wait,” he called to her. “Dara, what is wrong?”

  STRONGHEART stood slowly. Why had she raced from the cave? By the rood! Would he ever understand her? She’d been so passionate he’d had difficulty holding back. Never had a woman given herself so freely to his touch, and to think she’d done so on her first time had intoxicated him, increasing his pleasure tenfold.

  He could no longer think of her as a bonus to making a home for himself in this land. She’d become special. With passion like hers, they would have magnificent sons, spirited daughters. He wanted her with him, always.

  But why had she run? He frowned as he quickly donned his breeches and grabbed his sword before following her from the cave. When she’d given herself to him, she’d given herself completely, and she had not held back. She hadn’t been afraid when he’d undressed her, caressed her—not even when she forced him past her maiden’s barrier. He suspected she’d felt little pain. She’d experienced pleasure—after her ecstatic scream, there could be no doubting that.

  His brow furrowed. So where had she gone without shoes and without her dirk, racing away as if the very devil himself had chased her?

  From the cave’s entrance he could not see her or hear her. Dawn came later in the mountains, and the first early rays of sunshine had risen barely high enough to filter over the peaks and through the trees, not yet hot enough to burn off the early-morning mist.

  Hurriedly he skidded down toward the creek, the only route available. In England, an untried maid might have worried about losing her virginity before going to her marriage bed, but he had learned the customs of Eire were different. Here, it was considered a boon if a woman entered the marriage with her belly already swollen with child, for then the woman had proven her ability to conceive.

  So why? Why had she run from him? He’d been grateful this time she’d listened to her desire rather than her head, since once he’d taken off her tunic and seen her beauty, he’d wanted all of her.

  He reached the stream. In the basin area the mist was a thick fog. Over the sound of water trickling into the pool, he thought he heard a piercing sob. “Dara?”

  “Go away,” she demanded, her voice hoarse.

  “Tell me why,” he insisted, hoping to keep her talking and track her by the sound of her voice. When she didn’t answer, an eerie sensation prickled the hairs at his nape. Her actions didn’t make sense. Why would she make love to him and then run away?

  “Dara?” he called again. “Come back to the cave. ’Tis not safe for you to be out here alone.”

  “’Tis not safe in the cave,” she protested. “You touched me.”

  Her last words sounded like a wail of accusation—as if she hadn’t asked for his touch. She must be close to hysteria.

  Quickening his pace, he hurried along the bank and stumbled over her clothes. She’d gone into the water. With the memory of her voice fraught with panic, terror for her safety seized him. Was she trying to drown herself?

  He lunged into the water, seeking her through the fog. Suddenly a breeze parted the mist, and he caught sight of her, a sight he’d never forget. With a handful of gravel and sand from the bottom of the pool, she scoured her skin. She stood silent and naked, blood running down her arms and legs.

  By the rood! Had he caused her such pain that she would harm herself? That he might have brought her to this madness sickened and saddened him.

  His first instinct was to force her to stop hurting herself. But she stood close to a ledge, and he recalled that this pool dropped into another. If she meant to harm herself, he needed to calm her—not send her over the edge.

  Clearly she was in deep inner turmoil, the agony inside more unbearable than the mutilation of her flesh. He kept his voice mellow, as if her continual scrubbing didn’t pierce him to the core.

  He stepped toward her. “Did you not like it when I touched you?”

  Her voice turned hard, but he still heard her agony. “Of course I liked making love. How could I help but like it?”

  Her answer confused him, but he still took several steps closer. “Then come to me, Princess. I will be gentle.”

  “No. Do not touch me. If you ever touch me again, I will slice out your heart.”

  She scooped another handful of gravel and smeared it over her breast. He pounced, grabbing her wrist before she could do herself more harm.

  She screamed at him, kicking, biting, and scratching as if crazed, but he did not release her. The noise could alert MacLugh’s men to their location if they still searched nearby, and he had to take her to safety quickly. He was about to fling her over his shoulder and carry her back to the cave when she slumped and meekly allowed him to lead her from the water.

  Her trembling skin was icy to his touch and her teeth chattered, but she did not seem to notice. After throwing her tunic around her shoulders, he led her back to the cave. They stopped only once, when she bent over to retch.

  Could the food have been bad? He thought not, or he, too, would have been sick. Besides, bad food would not account for her scouring her body with gravel.

  Once inside the cave, he dried her, taking care to clean her wounds before dressing her, and finally wrapping a blanket around her. Still, she shivered, and her lips were blue. Hurriedly, he built up the fire and boiled water for tea.

  He looked into her haunted eyes and wondered if she’d lost her sanity. She’d withdrawn into herself and didn’t take much notice of him. Instead, she sat hugging her knees and rocking. When he handed her tea, she swallowed. When he gave her food, she ate. But she didn’t speak or explain.

  As much as he wanted answers, he recognized now was not the time to pound her with questions. Suspecting her hold on reality was much too fragile, he straightened her blanket, hoping she’d sleep. She didn’t. Perhaps if he spoke of normal things and of the future he could draw her back to him. “We’ll leave here in another day. Within a fortnight, we shall meet your father in Wales.”

  Her eyes widened and her lips thinned. “You need not lie to me, Norman.” She spat the words as if he were her vilest enemy and not the man with whom she had just made passionate love. “Da would never go to England.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  STRONGHEART raked a hand through his ha
ir and paced from one side of the cave to the other. “Your father has no choice. Where did you expect him to go?”

  Dara spoke in a monotone. “I thought we would remain in Leinster until he recruited more men.”

  At least Dara was speaking to him, an improvement over her former silence. But like a wolfhound gnawing a bone, she could not let go. Her eyes flashed, and he welcomed the spark, even if she did disagree with him. This feisty woman was the Dara he knew, enjoyed, and respected. The woman by the river, sanding her skin until it bled, had been like an apparition tortured by the demons of hell.

  “Where would Conor find additional men?” he asked softly.

  Her hands twisted in her tunic. “He could appeal to the Ard-ri to pick my husband. I cannot marry both O’Rourke and MacLugh, so the loser of the Ard-ri’s decision would leave Ferns. Then my father could reclaim Leinster.”

  How many times must he tell her she would never marry anyone but him? He’d had enough of her nonsense, but one glance in her direction reminded him how vulnerable she was. With a sigh, he calmed his tone. “After what we have shared, you would marry whomever the Ard-ri chose?”

  She met his gaze without flinching. “I do not have a choice. I have never had a choice.”

  Since her father had given his permission for a Norman to marry his daughter, she had no choice but to obey the King of Leinster. So then why could she not accept she belonged to him?

  Although he knew she had not faked her pleasure, perhaps she had not been as willing to make love to him as he’d first thought. “Did you give yourself to me because your father said we may wed?”

  She remained silent so long he thought she might revert to her former withdrawal. But finally, she spoke, her eyes filled with pain. “You got what you wanted. The reason does not matter.”

  With another long sigh, he took a seat behind her, grabbed her comb from her pouch, and worked on the wet snarls of her hair. It was not unreasonable for her to keep her thoughts to herself when he in turn did not confide in her. Still, she needed to know the plans he and Conor had made. Wrestling with his conscience, he decided how much to tell her.

  The truth. He would tell her the truth. Or most of it. “You were right about me—I came to Eire seeking an opportunity to build my home and conquer this land.”

  She stiffened beneath his fingers. “And now?”

  He stopped combing, wishing she faced him to see if she would believe his words. “I cannot deny the opportunity to win a kingdom holds a certain appeal. A thousand Normans could take this island.”

  “We would fight you.”

  “And you would lose. Your men are brave, but they lack the armament and skills of modern warfare.”

  She swung round to face him and snatched the comb from his hand. “Damn you! I have already lost my home. Now you say I may lose my entire land to invaders. Why threaten me?”

  Although she hadn’t spoken of it until now, he’d known she was homesick and sought to reassure her. “Since I met a beguiling Irish princess with hair the color of fire and eyes more precious than emeralds, I have changed.”

  She threw down the comb, squared her shoulders, and did not retreat one inch. “You are good with pretty words to flatter a woman. But I have seen you fight, Norman, and know you are a man of war.”

  “Men change. I have changed,” he repeated. “You have made me change. After we regroup in Wales, then return and retake Leinster, I will settle down and raise a few bairns.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her fists rested on her hips. “You do not seek to be Ard-ri?”

  “You have made me reassess my goals.” He tugged her onto his lap, and she did not object. “I would spend my nights in Castle Ferns with you in my bed rather than fighting and sleeping in cold skins on the ground. While I will not run from a fight, I no longer glory in battle. Perhaps I am getting soft—”

  She chuckled and lightly pounded his thigh with her fist. “Aye, your muscles are as soft as a baby’s. Why, you have grown so weak, next time your woman will have to make love to you while you lie helpless on your back.”

  “An idea with merit. But as much as I would enjoy such a pleasure, you may be too sore for—”

  She flushed. “Sir, let me be the judge of that.”

  “I think not.” Hardness entered his tone. “Not if you must scrub yourself with sand to feel clean after I make love to you. Did you accept me because your father so ordered? Did you find me so distasteful? Because if so, you need only tell me, and I will not touch you again.”

  As he spoke, her jaw dropped, the flush receded, and she paled. “Surely you do not think . . . you were responsible?”

  “Do you see anyone else here?” He threw his hands wide. “I do not know what to think. I know only that I’ve never been more scared in all my life, thinking I caused you injury.”

  Strongheart gathered Dara to him, and she snuggled against his warmth, unsure whether to believe his words. She decided Strongheart had two hearts, one as hard as a diamond, the other as soft and pliant as warm wax. Had he truly changed his plans, or was he lying so she would accept him? Could this warrior give up his dreams and goals to live with her in peace? For a moment she envisioned them together in the rock pool, swimming with their children. And later, when they were alone, making love.

  The vision of them together, living happily at Ferns, was so perfect, she doubted the truth of his words. Life never worked out so well. She was a fool to think she could have what she’d always wanted: a home, children, and the peace to watch them grow old.

  Had making love to Strongheart already changed her way of thinking? Did she now seek to fulfill her dreams instead of facing facts? The passion they’d shared was so much more compelling than she’d imagined. It was as if he were a wizard, and he’d woven his spell, captivating her by spinning magical dreams and fairy-tale promises. As she leaned against his chest, her head resting beneath his chin, the sensation of being loved and cherished was so delicious, she feared her own feelings had already prejudiced her judgment. She so wanted to believe him, and yet it would be foolish to trust him.

  She had to be careful. For now, she would accept his change of heart, but she would watch him, ready to spot deceit.

  He waited for an explanation for her former actions, and she could not have him continue to think it was he who had caused her pain. Neither could she speak of the truth, for if what she feared proved true, he would not want her.

  Perhaps she could tell him part of her fears without his guessing the whole. She snuggled against his chest and smoothed her fingers over the skin of his shoulder. “I was afraid to experience passion.”

  “Because you saw Sorcha’s rape?”

  “I know men can be cruel. But ’twas not pain I feared but pleasure.”

  “You make no sense, woman.”

  She sighed as she summoned the words to explain. “Remember the story I told you about my mother?”

  “Aye.”

  “She could not control her life because her passions controlled her. I was afraid I would be like her. I sought a disciplined life, so I would never forget my duty. I avoided intimacies with men, hoping I would never feel passion.”

  “You believed if you didn’t experience passion, you wouldn’t be led into temptation?”

  “Aye. And then you came along.”

  “And?” he prodded.

  She flung her hair back and looked at him. “You were different from the others.”

  She thought he would ask her how he was different from her other suitors. She would tell him of his willingness to listen to her, his small gifts, his tenderness. When he was with her, he never looked at other women. Even when she’d refused to give in to his advances, he’d made his wishes known that he wanted only her. How could she not help but feel cherished?

  His hands moved to rest on
her shoulders. “Now that you have experienced passion you are afraid ’twill affect your judgment?”

  She’d guessed wrong. Apparently he knew he was different from other men and didn’t require her to flatter him. Instead, he’d asked a question much harder to answer.

  Her heart waned with her mind. “Already I want to believe you. Trust you.”

  “Why is it so difficult to believe I’ll help retake Leinster? I would win back your land for us. I, too, would see our children raised at Castle Ferns, our sons and daughters riding across the lush fields.”

  “Trust does not come easy to me, Norman.”

  The question was not whether he chose to retake Leinster, but how he would do it. Besides, would Leinster be enough for him, or would he use their land as a base to conquer the rest of Eire?

  The devastation they’d left behind would take years to rebuild. Her stomach clenched, knowing the castle and its people would never be the same. Not everyone would have survived the battle, and she didn’t relish the thought of rebuilding while her husband and father went to war. But her thoughts were jumping way ahead, frightening her more because normally she thought in an orderly and pragmatic manner.

  First they had to concentrate on escape without MacLugh and O’Rourke catching them, then meet with her father and form a plan to retake Castle Ferns without involving all of Eire in a war. With a sigh, she climbed from Strongheart’s lap and packed her belongings. The sooner they left, the sooner she could return to Ferns.

  They rode north toward Dublin, staying within the cover of the forest. Strongheart caught game, and she foraged for berries and herbs for tea. Since leaving the cave, they had seen horse droppings and cold campfires, but their luck held, and they did not come across another hostile force.

  They traveled along the side of a lough, the clear waters reflecting the cool green from the mountains and the gray, clouded sky. Avoiding the small herds of cattle had been easy, since in summer, the herds stayed in the rich valleys.