Time After Time (98 page)

She glanced away, but his fingers lifted her chin until their eyes met.

“I have no interest in any other woman.” His thumb brushed across her lips. “Since you crossed my path.”

She rolled her eyes, and jerked her head away from his touch.

“’Tis true.” His voice sent shivers down her spine. “And you will feel the truth of my words.” He leaned forward, and then caressed her lips with his.

She did not succumb to the heat spreading through her. Instead she clenched her fists.

His nibbling on her lips drove her to madness. She thought about punching him.

He pushed back and winked. “Our marriage night will chase away your lack of belief.”

“I have told you, we will have no wedding or marriage.” Perhaps she could get Rebecca to play proxy for her. She would have to convince them both that it was not by proxy afterwards.

She could run away. There were enough jewels in her possession to pay for a journey to Scotland and a small cottage with a few servants at least.

“Aye.” He chuckled and used the staff to stand. “You will believe come the morning after.” With a slight bow of his head, he turned to leave.

Her mouth worked but no sound came as he limped out of the kitchens. Aye, Bram was dangerous.

Chapter Ten

The Lochlann would cause trouble,
Feoras thought as he cut the roasted duck on his trencher. The high table stretched before him, Bearach at his father’s right hand, and he on his father’s left.

His spy heard rumors in her circles with the Lady Liannon. The Lochlann rushed his men from across the seas to work on Kaireen’s holding. They would arrive after the wedding feast.

No doubt, Feoras and his men must strike before this. Otherwise a score or more warriors would descend upon the O’Neill clan, swaying the battle in Bram’s favor. The less men, especially Vikings, that the Liannon clan had on their side the better his outcome.

Battles never succeed exactly as planned. Feoras hoped to renew the bitter resentment of his clan against the Liannon’s. Pity his father wanted peace and had worked so long to grasp its slippery garment.

Feoras’ marrow boiled to rule both clans. His mother told him that although the younger son, he would accomplish great things.

Did not Jacob from the bible surpass his elder brother? She had asked when he questioned her. Would not Abel have the inheritance if he had slain his brother first?

Kaireen. How he hated the chit. This clan rejuvenation of unity was her fault. Women must be taught their place, lower than man and chattel, lower than slugs, which oozed from underneath his boots in the morning. Kaireen dared to fight with the men as though she were equal. She would be shown her place soon enough.

Resentment festered in his blood at the sight of her waving his father’s sword at the Lochlann enemy. And the memory of her arrows shooting through the air turned his bowels.

He gulped his wine to quench his dry mouth. When he won the battle, he longed to smell her blood, in its pungent metallic aroma. Her defiant blood.

If he were given a moment alone with her after the battle days ago, she would have begged for death.

As though it were Kaireen in his hands, he tore pieces from the turkey leg. He stuffed the pieces in his mouth, his eyes rolling into his head at the pleasure of wishing this so.

For touching the weapons, he would rip her arms from their sockets. For speaking against him in front of his father he would carve out her tongue.

“Another leg of turkey, Feoras?” His father broke his concentration and he wrestled with not displaying his anger. “No father, ’tis enough for me here.”

“We were wondering,” Bearach added.

Always his brother had to contribute to anything his father said. As though he feared their father would forget his first born and allow Feoras to usurp his position. “We must compliment the cook, Feoras.” He grinned. “For I have never seen you enjoy your food as much as now. But I have a liking for my meal as long as ’tis not alive.” He patted his stomach and the others at the table laughed.

“We will see, brother,” Feoras whispered during their joking. “Who is the victor of the battle.”

“Wench!” Bearach bellowed, addressing their servant. “Tell the cook she has Feoras’ heart through her cooking. Does she have need of a husband?”

“No.” Feoras clenched his teeth. “She be too fair for me.”

Men pounded their fists on the table. The serving wench laughed with them and then spun on her heel to the kitchens.

Moments later, the hunchbacked cook entered. Time and labor molded her back to its humped shape. Her blush was nauseating. She was thin, but her hands and feet swelled like they belonged to his brother and not a woman.

“Dance with her.” The crowd cheered.

Tables scooted across the great hall, making room for the musicians and dancing.

He was in no mood for either. But his mother’s words often filtered through his mind in times like these. “A laird must make his clan content, occasionally at his own expense. Do your duty once and they will remember you. Neglect it, and they will remember you not on the battlefield.”

With a wink, he stood and then turned away from the high table. He approached the cook, and then offered his hand.

The cook reddened, but accepted his offer. Her hands felt as they looked, like greasy bloated meat. Instead of his grimace, he donned a grin.

As the musicians played, he swirled her round the room. Because of her bent back, her head met his stomach. For effect, he bent and then kissed her forehead. She swooned in his arms.

When the first song ended, the crowd whooped their approval. He should have ended it there. But he had not forgiven his brother’s ridicule.

“Since this maid is so fair,” he addressed the crowd. “All I have for her is…”

Baited, the crowd roared. But he waited until their attention was upon him again. The musicians ceased their playing. The men leaned forward to hear.

“I give her only what I can, another dance.”

The music jerked into another song, and Feoras twirled the cook around the room.

“I fear they mock you and I,” he whispered to her.

Never anger a cook, his mother had told him. For they might remove an offender with poisons, if they so choose.

“No worry.” She smelled of pungent meat when she spoke. “Best time I have had since I was a young thing.”

He nodded instead of commenting, because he doubted he could stomach another whiff of her breath.

At the end of the second song, she panted.

“At last fair maid.” He swept into a bow. “You have put my dancing to shame with yours.”

His brother and father were in conversation at the high table as though their interest in his affairs had already waned.

She giggled and curtsied back.

With a nod, he strutted away and then headed back to the high table. His plate and goblet were full. But eating now would keep him awake all night. He needed his strength for the upcoming battle with the Liannon clan.

Instead of eating, he tossed his turkey leg to the dogs. Then he swigged the wine in hopes his headache would ease.

How dare they mock him in front of everyone. Well, soon his father and brother would pay. Without a word, he bowed his head to his father. But his father did not respond. Infuriated, Feoras tugged on his wool cloak and then hiked to the gate tower.

Outside, his cloak caught the wind and billowed behind him. His boots hit the groove of the well-worn path to the gate tower. Days ago, his spy within the Liannon clan had sent word after seeing his father’s sword in that abomination’s hands. He climbed the tower steps, eager for the peace offered inside.

This was his refuge when his mother had been driven away. It was here he saw her face for the last time through the tower’s south window.

Elias, his manservant, slept in this tower. Though missing his teeth and eyes, his ears heard the change of color on the autumn leaves.

When Feoras opened the wooden door, Elias snapped to attention. Before a word was spoken, he bowed.

“Leave me.”

Elias jumped, apparently sensing his mood. In no need of prodding, he rushed away, closing the door behind him.

At last, Feoras was alone. His shoulders relaxed at hearing the bolt slide into place.

He moved to the window kicking, aside dusty bowls. Elias liked rats. Fed them from his hand. Filthy creatures, and they knew to hide when Feoras entered.

He gazed across the Irish landscape. Dusk had settled, casting the last golden glow on the oak, spruce, and ash trees. The whole land stretched before him as though in supplication before him.

His hands clenched. He missed his mother so, but she willed him to be strong. And so he would be.

Movement across one the rolling hills caught his eye. He backed from the window and rubbed his hands in anticipation. The spy’s message was three days late; no doubt this would be great news for their battle.

The messenger bird fluttered through the open window of the tower. Around a leg, a fragment of parchment tied with a string. He opened his hand and the bird flew to him. It cooed as he stroked the grey and black feathers.

When the bird calmed, he worked at the knot round the leg. Frowning, for the knot twisted into more knots like a Celtic braid. Eagerness caused his hands to shake.

Whatever this said it was important, as his spy ensured the message would not fall from the journey. The writing would be in code, readable only to Feoras and his spy.

Elias left the bird and any messages alone. He knew the price of defiance, which was why he limped.

The bird danced on the stone floor shaking the tied leg.

“A moment more, little one.” The knot gave way to a loop. Then he eased the bird’s foot from the twine.

He unraveled the parchment then devoured the code. Thrice he read the words, and gooseflesh raced along his arms.

With this news, he would proceed with the plans for battle. With this, he planted the seed of revenge in his clan, and the blame swift to the foe.

His father’s sword was in Kaireen’s room. A meeting place was arranged for tomorrow evening.

However, diversions were necessary for his spy to steal the sword and meet him among the boulders to the west. She would not fail.

She promised. It would be good to see her again. Tomorrow could not come fast enough. And no one would know that he had his father’s sword back. All would think it would still be with Kaireen. Perfect.

Feoras offered the messenger bird her cage. Elias would see to the bird’s food and water. He tore the message into pieces and let them litter the stone floor. The rats would gather them for use in their nests.

It was a fitting end, rats to collect the Liannon clan’s scraps. Feoras swept from the room. His cloak waved on the steps behind him.

The only lack was his father’s death. His eyes watered at the thought. Not for mourning, but for eagerness. Everything he waited for was now in his grasp.

Instead of taking the path back to the keep, he strode to the stables. It was time to pay the witch a visit. She had failed in her duty these past weeks.

Aye, his father’s sword would bring Feoras into battle at last. Bring him what the witch had not: good news.

Chapter Eleven

Kaireen slumped into her room. Muscles along her back, arms, and legs knotted while each step shot shards of pain through her legs and into her back. The back of her head burst open every time the heel of her leather shoe hit the stone floor.

She had forgotten her misery when Bram was near her. What magic did he possess to affect her so? Whatever it was, she did not like it. She would need to speak with Rebecca about him. It wouldn’t take many words of encouragement to have her interested in him the way she gawked at him during the dance.

Tapestries lined the walls along the hallway. She brushed her hand across the weaves. Ages hardened the threads so the coarseness made her palms itch. Threads of gold, green, and blue colored the scenes. Red splashed through to mark a long ago battle between the O’Neill and Liannon clans.

Coolness of the night chilled her. She dragged her feet along, hoped the motion would ease the stabbing pain of walking to her chambers.

Her stomach rumbled and she could not remember if she had eaten. Little matter, she grew more weary than hungry. Never would she grumble about a meal again. She rounded the last corner, and then pushed open her oak door. In front of the hearth candles flickered in a circle. Fire chewed on cedar logs, filling the air with their scent.

In the middle of the room, steam danced across a large barrel. She closed the door behind her. Rubbed her eyes, and then looked again at the barrel.

It was wide enough for three people to lie in. Purple linen lined the edge, padding the barrel’s rim. She shuffled closer. Her finger tips stretched to touch this dream.

Out of the shadows, Elva stepped, drawing her eyes to her. Kaireen jumped back, as if intruding on her handmaid’s private ritual.

Elva tsked and strode forward. “Off with your clothes ’afore the water cools.” Her fingers eased Kaireen’s stew-stained gown off.

Then her shift and each of her leather shoes removed. All her coverings lay in a crumpled pile outside the circle of flames.

Elva led her to the barrel, and Kaireen stepped inside.

She slid beneath the water. The warmth and the lingering scent of honeysuckle caressed her. The bath massaged her skin, easing her soreness.

A sea sponge floated by her foot and she snatched the edge with her toes.

After washing her body and hair, she was amazed to find the water held her in a warm embrace for such a long time. Normally the water would be chilled by now. She settled lower. Her hair spilled along the back of the barrel. Purple lining padded her head from the sharp edge.

She heard Elva shake fresh sheets for her bed, but she closed her eyes, letting the bath lull her to sleep. Moments later her eyes flew open. The candles had been removed and snuffed. The logs, burnt to embers, lit her room. Her once warm water now stung with cold.

Elva stood before her with a towel. Kaireen eased out of the barrel and then grasped the towel from her handmaid.