Chapter Three
The Queen o’ Faeries, she caught me
— Ballad of Tamlin
Aithinne landed on her back with a thud, the shift occurring so fast she had trouble grasping how it happened. One instant, she was kissing him. Oh, how she kissed him! Then in a blink―she slammed to the bed’s surface. The breath had not left her lungs, though the whirling in her brain increased, effects of Oona’s concoction. She closed her eyelids to still the dizziness. Slowly, she opened them.
The gorgeous stranger loomed over her―his knees on either side of her thighs, his palms flattened on the bed at her shoulders―pinning her. Her eyes widened as she felt an odd thump against the apex of her legs, heat pooling in her body as she understood what that thump was.
Gray-green eyes, the shade of the passes of Glen Shane on a foggy morn, fixed her with an intensity inherent to predators. Mysterious fey eyes that could see more than mere mortals bore into her soul with the power of The Kenning. Long, thick lashes ringed them, while heavy ebon brows emphasized their mind-piercing hue. When she stared into them, the world narrowed. Nothing else existed. There was only this man with a warrior’s beauty far beyond words.
This rattled her. Never had she met a man with such power pulsing through him. Never had any man so affected her senses, her body. Made it hard for her to think.
Oh, this man was very special indeed.
Formed with sensual curves, his lips could be given to satyric smiles. Smiles that could coax a woman to do his bidding with nary a hesitation. His jaw was strong, bespeaking of a man of great strength and determination, while high cheekbones lent a balancing hint of thinness, softening the arrogant lines.
Used to the neat beard and mustache Phelan wore, or the scraggly white-blond chin whiskers of Dinsmore, it pleased Aithinne her stranger was clean-shaven. Lack of facial hair permitted the intriguing planes and shadows of his face to show to its full advantage. Moved by awe this man provoked within her heart, her hand reached up to cup his cheek.
Wavy, black hair glistened in the moonlight with a dark auburn cast, a shade seen in people with blood of the Picts. That caused her to again question if he were English or Scot. Three curls fell over the hairline. Her hand itched to reach out and brush them off his forehead.
The stranger’s face was sinful…in ways no mere man had right to be. The Kenning whispered, Selkie blood. The seal people of Scotland were said to possess such allure mortals could not resist them. But surely, this made him a Scot?
The pale eyes showed signs the herbs coursed strong within him. Clearly fighting their influence, the long lashes batted several times as he focused upon her face.
“Where...how...” Befuddled, his voice trailed off.
He reached out with one hand, tracing the outer edge of her lips with his first finger. It shook, but The Kenning said it was not from the mandrake her brothers fed him, but some dark emotion within him akin to reverence. The finger edged along the seam, parting her lips, dipping into the moistness of her mouth.
Eyes widening, she cautiously swirled her tongue around it, watching his reaction play out in the pale eyes. The lids lowered halfway as though he reveled in the sensation, held it within his mind. Pulling his hand back, he lifted his finger to his tongue, then closed about it and tasted her, savoring her flavor as one might relish mead.
Oona had instructed her to feed him some the Beltaine mix―it would sharpen his mind, fight the lethargy of the brew. Aithinne scooted up, stretching to reach the pot by the bedside, only to have him block her with his left arm, indicating he had no intention of letting her off the bed.
“Shhh…I but reach for this.” She gestured to the nearby pot before dipping her fingers in to scoop out a swirl of the balm.
Black brows lifted, perplexed, yet he made no move to stop her. With shaking fingers, she carried the silken lotion to his sensual lips and spread the salve slowly over their fullness. His tongue swirled out, sampling the herbs―Oona’s magic. Then, he surprised her by sucking on her first finger, drawing on it rhythmically.
Swallowing hard, her breathing grew shallow, raspy. She tugged it back and touched it to her lips. Tasting him.
His brow creased, obviously in pain. “My head…”
Her hand trembled when she reached for the goblet left by Oona, nearly spilling some of the liquid as she lifted it to him. “Here. Drink. It shall ease the pain.”
The black brows lifted almost in challenge. “What manner of brew do you ply?”
“Beltaine mead.”
“Mead?” He rocked back on his haunches, his pale eyes shifting to the ornate cup, and then back to her. He finally put his mouth on the rim and drank while she held it for him. With it only half-gone, he paused.
“Drink. ’Tis best if you drink it all,” she urged.
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “No half-measures?”
“Half-measures never see the deed done.”
“I should not wish to disappoint my lady by leaving anything half-done.” With a faint nod, he drank the rest of Oona’s mixture. As she put the empty cup on the stand, he glanced about the room, confused. “How? I do not understand?”
Aithinne silenced his questions by putting her fingers against his lips. Warlock eyes glowing, he kissed them, sending shivers up her spine.
She advised, “Do not ask, dark knight. Just accept.”
“But―”
“No questions this night…only Beltaine magic.”
“Either I am drunk…or mad,” came his raspy whisper, as if he spoke more to himself than her. “Mayhap both.”
The moon’s pale rays illuminated the warrior’s intriguing countenance. Her reasons for having her brothers steal this man were so mixed she grew dizzy just thinking about them and the possible outcome. Nonetheless, as she stared up at his face cast in half-shadow, she knew the Auld Ones had blessed her with his coming.
“Does it matter?” She placed her trembling hands on his muscular shoulders, reveled in the contours, a soul deep ache for this man rising within her.
He smiled crookedly. “Damned if I know…damned if I care.”
Leaning forward, he closed his lips over hers, moving with the gentleness of butterfly wings. The pressure was too light. Looping her arms about his neck, she arched to him, trying to capture his taste. Shaking in need.
Part of the hunger was the potion. Still, she was wise enough to sense it was this man. As if conjured from her deepest wishes, he pleased her. Oh, how he pleased her!
Inside, her body coiled tighter, craving, burning. As she surrendered to his warrior magic, vivid images swirled through her mind. She saw herself carrying his bairn, her body full from nurturing his seed within her, giving his child life and watching it grow. Aye, ’twas the man, not the concoction, a spell more potent than any witch’s brew.
The mating need awakened, the scorching fire rolling throughout her body, driving her. Having no experience, she nearly panicked, wanting it all at once and not knowing where to begin.
Running her hand over his flesh, she rasped, “Show me.”
He pulled her against his chest, letting her feel his heart thunder its rhythm. Kissing her hair he whispered, the desperation raw, “You are no dream…but flesh and blood. Tell me you are real…oh, please…be real.”
“Aye, I am real.”
His hands cupped her neck, his thumbs brushing lightly along her jaw. “Then, let me worship you…as I have yearned to do for so long…as I have a hundred times in my deepest dreams.”
He chained kisses along her neck, as his hands splayed over her shoulders and then down her bare arms. Reaching her hips, he skimmed along her outer thighs, until he found the hem of the chemise. Slowly, agonizingly, he ruched up the fabric, the soft gauzy material rasping over her sensitized flesh to her hips, then waist, over her breasts, tormenting her pebbled nipples to the point of torture. Finally, he whipped it over her head and tossed it aside, leaving her naked.
Maiden modesty flared in her mind, urging her to cover her full breasts with her hands, hide from his devouring eyes. Only, with Oona’s love philter flaming her blood, she throbbed with needs and sensations she never dreamt of. She wanted those pale eyes to look upon her breasts, wanted him to stare at her with unveiled desire. Unsure of the ways of men and women, she trembled, afraid he did not like what he saw before him.
Barely breathing, he just gazed at her.
Fear surged within Aithinne. She crossed her arms over her breasts and allowed one side of her hair to fall over her face to veil her shame, her sadness at failing to please him as much as he delighted her. Pressure built in her heart. It moved up her throat as a tear formed in her eye. Bloody hell, she could not even blame it on those blasted freckles in this dim light!
His right hand lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his stare. His finger caught the tear as it trickled down her cheek. “You cry. Why, my lady?”
Her shoulders lifted in a shrug.
He took hold of her wrists, gently prying her arms away from her breasts. For several heartbeats, he did not move. She couldn’t tell from his expression whether he found her lacking in some way.
Finally, he uttered, “Beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.”
Her breasts tightened, yet felt heavier, fuller. Setting his hands on her shoulders, he eased them up the column of her throat, his thumbs brushing ever so softly. She sucked in a ragged breath, finding it hard to get enough air. He smiled, then leaned to her and brushed his mouth against hers.
His lips were firm, warm and dry, not sloppy and wet as Phelan’s were in his rough attempts to steal a kiss. She craved to close her eyes and enjoy the conflagration he spread within her flesh, relish the sweet cider and mead on his lips. Wanted to watch him, see the reaction in his bedeviling eyes. The why he was here with her was long gone from her thoughts. She only wanted to touch him, stroke him.
His arms were beautiful. Granite hard, clearly shaped from years of wielding a sword and lance, yet they were not bulky like Einar’s. There was a sleekness to his body, a warrior’s elegance, which set him above all men.
Breaking the kiss he gasped for air, his eyes searching hers as though he spoke to her mind with The Kenning. The warmth in the pale gaze spoke adoration, love, a soul deep wanting―emotions that astonished her.
The mobile lips closed over hers once more. Slanting his angle, he worked her mouth, teaching her the skills of pleasure. Control shattered as the kisses went on. And on. Aithinne felt a low moan echo in her, yet wasn’t sure if the sound came from him or her―didn’t care as long as he kept kissing her.
Heat rolled off his flesh, blistering her, branding her as the kiss deepened, more demanding. His tongue pressed along the seam of her lips. He did naught to compel her to open for him, though when she sighed, the questing tongue seized the advantage, spearing in to stroke over, then around hers. The concept shocking. In spite, she quickly learned the rhythm, the play.
She recalled Dinsmore cornering her once as she came out of the garderobe and trying to force a kiss upon her using his tongue. It was sloppy, made her think of a piece of calf’s liver shoved into her mouth. There was no comparison. This man showed her just how pleasurable, how varied kisses could really be.
Leaving her breathless, he trailed his mouth along her jaw, then down the side of her neck, pausing to lave his tongue against the spot where her pulse frantically jumped. Her heart slammed against her ribs, but also felt the force of his in his chest, and knew the power of this magic between them reached him with the same measure.
She remained motionless, anxious by the dark craft he wielded so easily. Even so, he drew her, called by instincts older than the dawn of time.
Sliding down the bed, he pulled her under him, the solid weight of his warrior-honed muscles pressing her into the bedding. Her body conformed to his solid planes, her rounded softness met in perfection. He was heavy, yet she found she relished the sensation. The surrender.
His body moved lower, and in rising hunger, his mouth feasted on her breast. At first, his tongue circled the hard peak of her nipple, flicking it playfully. Then, sucking it hard, he drew on it in a rhythm that echoed in her body. Hands clutching his upper arms, she arched to him―wanting it all.
For an instant out of time, he paused to stare at her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, suddenly scared he would not take her.
He swept the hair away from the side of her face. “I want to capture your image in my mind’s eye. When I am old and gray, I shall conjure this memory and recall the power. Recall you, so beautiful with your golden hair kissed by fire, pooling around you. Recall how I have dreamt of this for so many long, cold years.”
His fingers traced through the soft curls at the apex of her thighs, finding them damp from her body’s desire, preparing her for his invasion. He moaned as he slid a finger into her, then two, her hips bucked in reaction as he stretched her body. “You are so tight. I do not want to hurt you.” Then, he moved the fingers in and out slowly, opening her, stretching her.
“Please…” She seemed unable to gasp anything further.
Taking Aithinne’s hands, he interlaced his fingers with hers and pushed them up beside her head, his body aligning to hers. His erection nudged against her opening, moistening the mushroom tip with the honey of her need.
“As a virgin, you might feel pain when I breach your maidenhead. I wouldst have pain be no part of this special time. Do not be afraid…pleasure is on the other side. Kiss me, brand me, own me. Become one with me,” he whispered as he flexed the muscles of his hips and slid into her. He paused when he bumped against the virgin’s veil. Withdrawing partially, she felt him readying his muscles to apply the force needed to break through the maidenhead.
Aithinne almost yelped. “Wait…”
“Wait?” came his strangled reply.
“Aye…you must speak your deepest wish.”
He echoed the word as if foreign. “Wish?”
“Aye, for what your heart desires most.” She kissed the column of his neck, while silently asking the Auld Ones for a child born from the fire of their passion. The child born of her plans to protect Lyonglen and Coinnleir Wood…only, she now wanted that child.
Wanted his child.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his voice rough. “You are my wish. I want to see your eyes when I take you…when I make you mine.”
Aithinne batted her lashes, staring into his shadowy countenance, stunned by the conviction in his words. She heard forever in his declaration. Her heart clenched knowing that could never be, no matter how her soul cried out wanting it.
His male hardness stretched her. She marveled at the hot, pulsing flesh pushing, prodding against her barrier. The fullness was startling, but she recalled Oonanne’s instructions to breathe deep and slow, relax until her body conformed to accept his flesh within hers. Surely, this joining was fire magic. Confused by his hesitation, she felt him pull back, but then he plunged forward. A cry escaped her lips, but he caught it, kissing her until the pain receded. Lying still, she reveled in how deep he now was within her, how connected their bodies were.
Lifting slightly, he stroked inside her again going even deeper, causing her to moan in pleasure, desire, not pain. He whispered against her lips, “My wish―to have you, own you, possess you…forevermore.”
Her beautiful stranger set a rhythm of plunges that had her clinging to him, her fingernails biting into the flesh of his shoulders. Then clinging was not enough. She picked up the pattern so she could arch to meet his frenzied thrusts. The pace quickened, as wild and furious as a summer storm.
Her body exploded into a thousand white-hot cinders, nearly blinding her vision as he pulled her into a maelstrom of fire. His body tensed as he vibrated, the agony, the beauty etched on his face as her eyes focused on his countenance. She clung to him as the scalding heat of his seed poured into her body.
The splendor of their bonding summoned tears to her eyes, so humbling she hid her face against the curve of his neck. To her surprise, he was not done. With a smug grin, he suddenly flipped her over, onto her stomach. Aithinne was puzzled what his intent was, but he began by trailing kisses down her spine. He leaned forward, reaching for the unguent, and in strong strokes he kneaded her back, her hips, her legs. Pure ecstasy. When his warrior’s hands worked their way back up, his thumbs skimmed the inside of her thighs, then maddeningly traced circles on her soft flesh. His care was both relaxing and provoking in the same breath.
He rolled, taking her with him, until she was sitting astride his hips. It took her several heartbeats to comprehend that she could ride him, but when she understood what he wanted, she seized the chance to be in control. Or so she thought.
Undaunted, his sensual mouth curved into a devilkin grin, as he pushed upward within her. The intensity of it, the fullness, caused Aithinne to shatter inside. Colors, like shooting stars, flooded her mind, overpowering her to the point she nearly slipped into a velvet oblivion.
“Have…mercy,” she panted out.
“Not a chance.” His white teeth flashed, the grin wicked. He reared up and wrapped his arms around her, driving into her again and again, each explosion building into another, his strong body bucking against hers, slamming up into her, harder, deeper, more frantic, until she could only obey his wizard’s bidding. Until she lost track of how many times he forced her to find her woman’s surrender.
She yielded everything. He demanded and she gave, then gave more. Not just her physical release...but her heart. There was no shielding against him, against the dark words of love he whispered to her, weaving his own Beltaine enchantment.
She may have made a captive of him, but this dark knight ensnared her soul.
Aithinne’s body echoed with the hot vibrancy of their coupling. Still pulsing, shimmering with his possession, she craved more. Leaning her face into the strong column of his neck, she clung to him, wanting to prolong the sensations. So very right, she felt a part of this special man.
All of Oona’s teachings failed to hint of the mysterious power that rose between a man and woman, how quickly she pined for more. How it bonded her to him. Now she understood why women so willingly surrendered the small control they had in their lives, giving over their fate to a man.
This time with him was precious, to be treasured. She thrilled knowing there would be more nights like this one.
Six more.
Her heart squeezed. Only six. Then, he would be gone, back to his life. A life that did not include her or the child they would make. When she sent him away, he would take a piece of her with him. A piece of her heart.
How could she ever let him go?
In her mad scheme, could there be a possibility he might wish to remain with her? Foolish yearnings. Yet, her heart cried, make it so.
All of Scotland knew how Marjorie, Countess Carrick, had made prisoner of Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale. Annandale had traveled to pay his respects, and inform the lady of the circumstances of her husband’s death in the Holy Lands. As he rode away at the end of his visit, he was unexpectedly beset with the countess’s guard. They escorted him back to the castle where she kept him captive until they wed. The union produced enough Bruce children to say it must have been a happy marriage.
Dare she do the same? Was she audacious enough to hold him longer than the time Oona said she must to insure he bred a child upon her? This night had been founded on a need to control her life, keep her safe from the men determined to use her for their material gains. Only, could this special man stay? Be her knight protector? Logic said such a wish could never be, yet the seed of hope took root in her heart.
He stroked her hair and then pulled her to him as he rolled, holding her close. “So long… I have loved you. I had begun to think you were not real.”
“I am real.”
His words were low, softly spoken against her hair as he nuzzled the side of her face. “I dreamt of you. When I closed my eyes I wished for the dream to visit me. Even when I did not dream, I sensed you, wanted you, craved to be near you. So long, I nearly gave up hope of finding you. Then I saw you, saw you were mortal. Only, it nearly crushed me to know you would never be mine.”
Aithinne could not speak, so awed by his heartfelt words. A side effect of the potion he had been fed―a man could only speak honesty when under its influence. The words he offered came from his inner heart, where all truths lived.
“You have seen me in your dreams?” Barely able to breathe, hope surged within her. Could this be? Oh, please let it be!
He leaned halfway over her, wrapping his thigh over hers as if to anchor her, make sure she did not slip away from him. Rubbing his cheek along her jawline, he nuzzled her as a cat would. “Since I became a knight. Before my dubbing, I spent the night in reflection. Fighting exhaustion, I prayed long into the dark hours of morn for God to guide me to be a knight true, and show me the path of my destiny. A face came to me in the darkness, barely more than mist. Details were not strong and I was so startled, I nearly lost the thread of the vision. But I could see the eyes. Your eyes. I had no idea what your coming meant then. Later, you appeared again―when I was wounded in battle, your presence visited me. This time my sight was clearer. I saw your golden hair, shimmering as if kissed by fire. When I thought I might die, you soothed my brow and told me I could not give up. I have loved you, hunted for you. No man could love a woman as I love you.”
He kissed her. Not the gentle kiss of worship, this kiss was full of passion, born of the fire of their coming together. His knee shifted her thigh so he could slide over her and into her. He linked his fingers with hers and pushed her arms over her head, arching her body to conform to his, to meet his thrusts eagerly.
The perfection of him being within her, knowing their joining was done with love, moved her so profoundly she could hardly breathe. He had seen her in his dreams! Oh, how beyond belief was this! This man was destined to be hers, willed by the Auld Ones.
His body pounded into hers as he brought them to a shimmering release. Their reaching this pinnacle in the same breath only amplified the sense of their belonging to each other. Oh, this night was indeed miraculous, more than she could have ever wished!
He rained gentle kisses over her face, between gasps for air. “I love you…love you…love you…”
Her heartbeat pounded harder, more erratic, with each declaration, knowing she loved this man. They were destined to be; together they could forge a magnificent future.
“Forevermore. I will always love you…Tamlyn.” With his final words, he drifted into an exhausted slumber.
Aithinne could not draw air. The pain was too much. She laid there, frozen, tears sliding down her cheeks. How could she have not recalled seeing Tamlyn’s face within his thoughts?
Devastation rolled through her, the hurt burning until she feared she might puke. Her beautiful stranger loved her cousin, Tamlyn! He thought she was Tamlyn! She pushed him away from her, curling into herself and choking back silent tears.
Tears of anguish that his heart would forever belong to another.