Child of the Prophecy (38 page)

"Fainne!"

Perhaps I had shut my eyes. Perhaps I had been swaying, or my crooked foot had slipped just a little on the treacherous surface. As Eamonn called out, I felt his arms around my waist again, grasping me firmly, pulling me backward.

"Careful," he said sharply. "Don't frighten me like that."

But I was the one who was frightened now. For he had not let go,

now that we were safe back on the grass. His hands still held me fast, and he was close, so close I could feel the warmth from his body, and hear his breathing over the sound of the water.

"I would not want to lose you, so soon after I have found you,"

he said softly.

"I—I don't know what you mean," I whispered. I wanted to pull away, to break free of his grip. But I feared to offend him. He turned me to face him.

"I thought—for a moment I thought—no, forget I spoke."

"You thought I would jump?"

"Fall, perhaps. You are unsteady on your feet today."

"I told you, it's nothing."

"I'm concerned that I have asked too much of you. Let me see this foot. Perhaps we can improvise a little padding for the boot, or—"

"I told you. It is not an injury. My foot is malformed, it has been always. I will never walk straight."

"Show me." He took his hands from my waist and went to seat himself on the rocks, folding his arms and observing me calmly.

"I—" How could I tell him this was the most painful thing anyone could ask me to do? How could I explain how it shamed me to reveal this deformity? If Clodagh was right, this marked me as a child who should never have been born. And the man hardly knew me. He understood nothing.

"Why are you afraid, Fainne?" Eamonn asked softly.

"I'm not afraid!" I snapped, and with shaking hands I untied my boot and eased it off my foot. I unrolled my stocking, and hobbled over to sit by him. "There," I said abruptly. "I can't imagine why you would want to see." My cheeks felt hot with embarrassment.

Then he was kneeling beside me, and his hands were moving against my bare foot, seemingly heedless of its oddity, stroking the arch of it, following the inward curve, his fingers moving to encircle my ankle, warm and strong.

"This is not such a deformity that it would blind a man to your other charms. But it troubles you, I see that," he observed, still looking down at the foot, though his hand seemed to be moving up my leg, under my skirt, in a way that was quite unsettling. "So much that you seem different today. More remote. Like a creature poised for flight. Are you frightened, Fainne? I have told you, I am a good teacher. I would be gentle with you, and go slowly. There is no need to shy away."

Still his hand moved, stroking my calf, lifting the skirt, straying as if by chance to the knee, and higher.

"I-I-"

"You are afraid." He withdrew his hand, and came to sit by me once more, but closer. I hoped my sigh of relief was not too audible. "I will not rush you. Only—you must understand, for a man, there is an urgency in such matters, a—a need that is hard to deny. It can at times be painful to exercise self-control."

"But you will do so," I managed, my voice squeaking with nervousness.

"You might meet me halfway."

"I—I don't understand you."

"No? You cannot be unaware of my meaning, Fainne. Your words, your glances, have led me to believe you would not be averse to my attentions. Do not deny it. Since first I met you at Sevenwaters, I have seen it in your face, and in those mysterious dark eyes. In the lift of your brow and the toss of your head, in the way your body sways as you walk. A man would have to be a monk not to want you. A man would have to be mad, not to wish to touch that snow-pale skin, to feel the purity of that flesh against his own, to look down on you lying in his bed, with only the dark flame of your hair to hide your nakedness, and to know that you were his alone, a bright jewel never to be shared. I have not the strength to deny that longing, Fainne; I must make this plain to you, fear or no fear."

I was quite unable to form a reply. My heart thumped with shock. I had done this, without even trying? I had made him feel thus, without even employing the Glamour? Surely I misunderstood his words.

"I have shocked you, and for that I am sorry. But here, there are no prying eyes, no listening ears. You spoke very plainly to me. You seemed to be saying it was time to forget; time to move on. I don't know if I can do that, Fainne. But you could help me. With you, I might begin to wipe away the past."

"I—I don't think I—" I had folded my arms tightly around me, as if to stop myself doing something I would regret forever.

"Come now. I give you my word. I will do nothing you do not

enjoy. You need but tell me and I will stop. But you cannot lie to me. I know you want me. I see it in the way you blush, like a sudden flare of fire under the translucent skin of your cheek. I hear your need for me in your breathing."

He was well practiced. Before I could say a word, I was neatly trapped in his arms, my hands against his chest, my legs across his own so that I was almost on his knee, and he was giving me a kiss that seemed quite expert, not that I had any grounds for comparison. It was a kiss that began gently and became harder; a kiss that started with a soft meeting of lips, and grew into a wet, intimate probing of tongues, a hungry, suggestive kiss that left me breathless and shivering. Under my hand his heart was racing, and his own hands were moving adeptly, one on my back, holding me to him, the other on my inner thigh. There were some very odd sensations in parts of my body I did not want to think about, and the touch of his fingers made me gasp and shudder.

"Oh, Fainne," he murmured. "Come, come closer. Put your hands on me, sweetheart. Put your hand here, let me show you."

And suddenly, Grandmother's teaching was no help at all. Indeed, so shocked was I that I could scarce remember a word of it. I simply knew this was wrong. It was so wrong I simply could not allow it to happen. To scream or fight would be undisciplined, and give great offense. I made myself focus; made myself treat this as a puzzle to be solved, while his hands caressed my body and his lips strayed to my ear, and to my neck, and down toward my breasts. I could feel, under my hand, that part of his body he had urged me to touch. It was interesting how it changed under my fingers. I was not ignorant of such matters, despite my strange upbringing. Once, at the cove, I had seen a mare brought to a stallion; had observed the act with a great deal of wonderment, and decided it did not appear very enjoyable, for the mare at least. I had been aware, in Dan Walker's encampment, of secret trysts in corners, under blankets, or out in the night beneath the trees; of sounds and movements one learned to pretend to ignore. But now, with Eamonn's body hardening against me, and his breathing becoming harsh and uncontrolled, and his hand untying my bodice to bare my breasts to the winter sun, I knew I must make this stop.

Eamonn was reaching to undo his belt, he was pressing himself against my hand. Whatever the solution was, it must be quick. I could use the craft as I had once before, and cause him a lancing pain in the gut, a sudden weakness in the stomach. That seemed a little unkind; and arbitrary enough to be viewed with suspicion.

Now I was lying on the ground, and the whole length of his body was up against me, and his hands were becoming very insistent indeed. Across the grassy shelf the little horse gave a soft whinnying sound. Horses. Something about horses. If I could just think straight for a moment. A stallion could not perform, could not enter a mare, unless his equipment was altered by desire into a more useful sort of tool. An impressive sight indeed it made, when it was. Evidently it was the same for a man. And while I knew no specific spell, I could adapt one quickly; a charm used to modify the forms of things, to make soft hard, for instance, or hard soft. Not too sudden though; there must be no suspicion.

"Eamonn," I gasped. "I can't do this. It's not right. I always—I always said I would wait." Under my breath I muttered the spell, even as my hand touched that most secret part of his body. "That I would wait until I was wed." The spell seemed to be working with alarming rapidity. I saw the expression on his face change from intense excitement to astonishment to acute mortification. He lifted himself quickly away from my touch. "I'm sorry," I said. "I know how difficult this must be for a man."

"Indeed," he said after a moment or two. "Indeed."

"I—I just can't do it," I said, sitting up and beginning to refasten my gown with trembling fingers. "I was always brought up to believe such actions were sacred to the marriage bed. For a lady, I mean. I don't wish to offend you, or to—to cause you any distress. But I vowed I would never give myself to a man, save after he set his ring on my finger."

Eamonn seemed to be having a little trouble getting his breathing back under control.

"I'm sorry," I said again.

"No. It is I who should apologize. I expected too much of you, too soon. I forgot how young you are. You make it easy to forget that, Fainne."

"I had no intention—"

"Ah. Now you are not quite telling me the truth. For I think, at

heart, we speak the same language, you and I. Come, it is best if we return home. You misunderstood, perhaps."

"Misunderstood what?"

"My position. My obligations. My intentions in inviting you here

to Glencarnagh."

I felt humiliation, closely followed by a rising anger, and I spoke without thinking. "You had better be straight in your words, Eamonn. Why trouble to protect me by veiling the truth? You mean, you thought I would come here, and give myself to you, and be honored that such a grand man would bother to lie with me? You mean, your intention was merely to bed me and have done with it? A man enjoys an untried girl from time to time, does he not?" I could not keep my voice steady. My lack of control troubled me. I had thought myself so clever, with my little spell. Now I felt cheap and dirty, and worse still, I had really insulted him. He was not a man I would wish

as an enemy.

But I had underestimated him yet again. I had read him as a great

deal simpler than he was.

"You are very beautiful when you lose your temper," he said quietly, staring at me. "Your hair seems like flame in the sunlight. Your eyes glow with feeling. How can a man look at that, and not want you? You are dangerous, Fainne. Very dangerous. But I've always liked a challenge. Now let us enjoy the ride home, for it is a fair day. This is not finished between us. We are two of a kind, you and I. Let us speak further of this later. I'm sure we will find room

for—negotiation."

He helped me up onto the horse, and we started back down the hill path, with me in the lead this time. The men-at-arms would be waiting. Our time away had been rather brief. I could imagine how they might interpret that. It would do nothing to improve my reputation among these folk. The thought sickened me.

"I told you." Eamonn's voice came from behind me, just audible over the fading roar of the great waterfall. "I don't take kindly to losing. But I think you will find this is a game in which both of us can be winners in the end."

Chapter Eight

That night I retired early, and Eamonn asked no questions. But sleep eluded me. My head ached, and I tossed and turned, one moment cold as ice, the next burning hot. There were creakings and rustlings in the house, and the sounds of guards changing shifts outside, a quiet exchange of words, booted feet trudging off to the kitchen, their owners perhaps hopeful that there would still be a fire on the hearth and a bite to eat. In the end I got up and slipped a cloak over my nightrobe, and went out along the hallway myself, knowing I would not sleep if I lay on my bed willing rest to come. I would seek out some chamomile tea, and I would visit the privy, and if I still could not sleep I would simply sit by candlelight and try to put my thoughts in order. It was not as if I had any real duties here. I could rest all day if I wanted to. Why else had I been brought here but to provide Eamonn with a little amusement, a piquant diversion in his well-ordered existence? That was all it amounted to. I had been stupid not to realize that. No wonder I felt cheap.

The house was asleep. Farther along the hall, faint light glowed from the kitchen fire, through the open doorway. Perhaps there were still folk about. But the passage was in shadow, lit only by a candle here and there in a small alcove, to make the way safe for such as I who felt the need to wander at night. The side chambers were dark. I walked softly in my door slippers, careful to disturb no one. I was not in a mood for company.