Faerie Fate (7 page)

He spread his arms
to encompass the entire room. “I see no one else,” he snarled.

Becca dipped her
face to her hands and rubbed her temples. She was getting a raging headache,
probably from those two fiends arguing in her head. Another deep breath helped
steady her nerves. “There is no time, Ciaran, to convince you, and I’m not sure
I could if we had all the time in the world.”

You could,
a voice whispered
, with the covenant.

She shook her head,
but wisely refrained from retorting to that voice in her head.

“I don’t want you to
leave, though I know you must. I...I don’t want your anger between us.” She
walked toward him warily, watching his fury build like a thunderstorm on a hot
summer afternoon, all sound and fury as it boiled higher into the sky. Emotions
flickered across his face as quick as lightning. Standing in front of him, she
had to tip her head only slightly to look him in the eye. A muscle jumped along
his clenched jaw but he remained silent. “There is something between us,
something I don’t understand, and it frightens me. I fight
it
, foolish
as that may be, but I do not fight you.”

She touched his
cheek and felt him shudder all the way to his toes. His arms hung straight at
his sides, while his fists clenched and unclenched. She wondered if he wanted
to embrace her or throttle her. “Forgive me, Ciaran. I would not see you hurt.
You have been nothing but honorable toward me, and I have repaid you badly.
Please do not turn away from me because I am dimwitted at times.” Her hand
traced his strong jaw, then trailed down his chest to lie against his heart.
She could feel its strong, steady beat beneath her palm. “Stay safe, Ciaran,
and return to me so we may resolve what is between us.” She waited a heartbeat,
then two. He was still angry and refused to reply. Disheartened, she turned to
leave again.

As her hand
withdrew, he snatched it and brought it to his mouth. His lips placed a searing
brand in the exact center of her palm. With a growl, he loosed her hand and
stormed out of the room after grabbing his leather satchel.

Her knees shook so
hard she sank to the floor as the door slammed behind him. Tears streamed
unheeded down her face. Becca’s heart had been ripped out. No, she amended. Her
very soul had just stomped out that door.

Ciaran found Niall
in the stable trying to bring order to chaos. The older man took a good look at
his liege. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d seen the man this angry but
could only guess at what had made him so. As he opened his mouth to ask, Ciaran
spoke up.

“Why, Niall?” he
snarled. “What have I done to the gods that they would do this?”

Niall rocked back on
his heels, surprised at the vehemence in Ciaran’s voice. “But, Ciaran, you’ve been
spoiling to fight.”

“Nay, Niall,” the
other growled. “I welcome the clean battle of war, for that is a fight I
understand.
’
Tis the other I don’t comprehend. Why is it the only woman
to ever stir my blood is an addlepated waif who beguiles me on the one hand and
rebukes me on the other?” Ciaran let out a huge sigh.

Niall choked back a
snicker. “She’s a woman,” he finally managed to say, almost choking on his
suppressed laughter. Ciaran just looked pained. Niall allowed himself a brief
moment of familiarity by putting his arm around the other man’s shoulders. That
love should come so late to his
Taoiseac
was entertaining, despite the
misgivings he felt about the tie between the two. Remembering the circumstances
in which they’d found Becca, he reminded Ciaran. “We don’t know what befell the
cailín before you rescued her. She still heals. Leave her to Siobhan and the
Druid. We will go fight glorious battles against the O’Brien. When we return
victorious, you can settle what is between you.” He thumped Ciaran heartily and
led him off to finish preparations. “When we return, yee need to tup her before
either of yee can think about it,” he counseled with a knowing chuckle.

Siobhan found her
huddled on the floor. Becca felt completely drained and her brain threatened to
cease functioning. Overwhelmed, she could only look up at Siobhan helplessly.
Giving her a hand up, the older woman led Becca down to the kitchens. Cooks and
maids bustled about, getting provisions ready for the march. Siobhan found an
empty bench near one of the hearths and parked Becca on it. In a few moments,
Becca had a bowl of stew and a slice of cheese melting on a hunk of hot bread.
Grateful, she tasted the stew and decided it was the most delicious thing she’d
ever put in her mouth. When she expressed that opinion, Siobhan just laughed.

“It’s been so long
since you’ve eaten, week old gruel would be a feast,” the woman teased.

As she ate, Becca
watched, fascinated by all the activity. Life in a medieval castle wasn’t
anything like she’d imagined. Maybe this wasn’t a dream. When she’d mopped up
the last bit of liquid in her bowl with the last crust of bread and wolfed it
down, she looked around for Siobhan. Her nurse was nowhere to be found. A maid
hurried by, saw the empty bowl in Becca’s hands. She dropped a curtsy and
snatched the bowl before sailing away. Feeling in the way, Becca slipped out of
the kitchen. She found her way back to the great hall. Men rushed around, and
she was afraid she’d get run over. Deciding her room was safer, she wearily
climbed the stairs.

She found Siobhan
directing the filling of a tub with hot water. A dozen buckets lined the
hearth, gently steaming. As Becca entered, Siobhan shooed out the men who had
carried up the tub and the buckets.

“Come, cailín, out
of those clothes and into the bath,” she directed.

She didn’t need a
second invitation. Siobhan had her out of her dress in moments and Becca peeled
off the shift underneath. She trailed her hand through the water, relishing its
warmth. Stepping into the tub with care, she sat down and sank up to her chin.
This was pure heaven. Warmth seeped into her muscles and she relaxed. The
fragrant steam rising from the water smelled of roses and something spicy she
couldn’t put a name to. Once she was settled, Siobhan scurried out the door,
intent on some mission of her own.

Half asleep, Becca
didn’t hear the door open, nor did she hear Ciaran’s sharp intake of breath
when he saw her.
By the gods, but she is beautiful,
he swore. Her
breasts were full but firm. Her narrow waist flared to hips perfect for
cradling a man. Ciaran grew so stiff his trews actually strained the laces.
Golden curls nestled at the top of her thighs. Then he got a good look at her
legs—long, muscular, with dainty ankles. He yearned to have those legs wrapped
around his middle as he plunged into her time and time again. A strangled cry
tore its way from his throat.

Becca knew without
looking who’d made that sound. She held her breath waiting for him to speak,
hoping he would, afraid he wouldn’t.

“Ah, cailín,” he
cried. “If yee’d but let me love yee...” His anguished voice trailed off.

Becca wanted nothing
more than to jump up and run to him, throw her arms around him, and kiss him
until the hurt went away. She’d never felt this way about any man before, and
it bewildered her. Still, she longed to comfort him.

“Please,” she
whispered, “don’t let me blow it this time.” Louder, she simply said his name,
trying to put all of her feelings into the one word.

“If I touch you now,
cailín, I’ll never leave.” He groaned. “My honor—” His voice thickened with
emotion, and he couldn’t finish.

“Then go, Ciaran. Go
quickly so you can return to me that much sooner.”

Before Becca could
voice her next thought, Ciaran scooped her out of the tub and kissed her. His
heart pounded an urgent rhythm against her breast as his mouth devoured hers.

She responded,
cupping his cheeks in her hands. He carried her to the bed still ravaging her
lips with his. She squirmed against him, her hands working inside his shirt,
seeking bare skin.

Ciaran laid her on
the coverlet then broke away. He stood swaying with the effort it took to
release her. “Ah, cailín.” Those two words whispered across her naked skin, a
caress as warm and seductive as a lover’s touch. His eyes memorized her body.

Becca closed her
eyes, waiting for what she was sure would come. She opened them when she heard
the door close quietly. Her body didn’t feel like her own. She was hot, achy,
and her middle was tied in knots. Her breasts ached for the feel of his hands,
and her lips felt cold without the touch of his.

“Wow,” she sighed.
“Nobody should be able to kiss like that.”

Chilled and stark
naked, she wrapped up in what she thought was a dark plaid blanket tossed
carelessly across the foot of the bed. Woven of rusty red and gray wool, with
touches of yellow and lavender, it smelled of Ciaran—wild, woodsy, clean—like
the outdoors, but with an underlying musky scent, too, one that was all man.
That scent twisted her insides all over again.

The blanket was
warm, as if Ciaran had just thrown it aside. Becca found an intricate brooch
pinned to one corner. This was Ciaran’s mantle—more than a cloak, less than a
blanket—a very practical combination of the two. She buried her nose in it and
inhaled, wanting to keep Ciaran’s scent with her always.

Shouts from outside
and down below in the great hall propelled her to her feet. The men were
leaving.
Ciaran
was leaving.

Becca wrapped the
mantle around her like a toga. She ran from the room but stopped on the top
step of the stairs, unaware her guard had stopped behind her. Men milled about
the great hall, Niall and a few others shouting orders. Ciaran stood in the
midst of it all, a wild warrior tall and strong.

Becca couldn’t
breathe. He wasn’t just handsome. He was beautiful in the way the Rocky
Mountains were with their rugged majesty, the way a desert sunset was all
crimson fire, blazing across a blue sky, so brilliant one had to squint. Her
eyes filled with rainbows as she blinked away tears.

Ciaran looked up and
stopped breathing. Like some ethereal
fae
, Becca stood at the top of the
stairs wrapped in his mantle. Her hair framed her face and bare shoulders in a
golden nimbus. The subtle reds and grays of his plaid suited her. His chest
swelled as he remembered to breathe. The sight of her standing on the stairs
wearing nothing but his colors was one he would gladly take to his grave. He
touched his heart with his fingertips then made a fist. Extending his clenched
hand toward her, he opened his fist, hoping she’d understand.

Becca recognized
what Ciaran’s gesture meant. She stretched out her hand and envisioned it
gently wrapping around his. She drew back her fist, laid it above her heart and
then spread out her hand. Ciaran had offered her his heart. In return, she’d
taken over the safekeeping of it in her own.

Ciaran smiled at
her, lust, need, and something deeper, more profound shining in his eyes. Becca
kissed the tips of the first and second fingers on her left hand and blew him
the kiss. He caught it and pressed his hand to his lips. Abruptly, he turned
away from her, his voice rising above the babble around him.

“We ride!”

Chapter Five

Realizing she’d be
able to see the courtyard from the window in Ciaran’s chamber, Becca sprinted
back down the hallway. Stretching up on tiptoe, she could just barely look out
the high window. Frustrated, she grabbed the bench by the hearth and tugged it
over. By standing on it, she could lean out the window to see the gate and most
of the courtyard. Two detachments of mounted men awaited their commander. One
group carried shields and either long swords or lances. The other detachment
had bows and quivers full of arrows. These were the famous Irish
hobelars—mounted archers who could dash from one crucial front to another in a
battle.

Becca recognized
Niall as he gracefully vaulted onto his warhorse. Her heart lurched, and her
throat closed off as Ciaran came into sight. Already mounted, he was utterly
magnificent, like some pagan war god.

Their eyes met
across the distance. As foreign as the idea seemed, she truly cared for this
man. He was a stranger, yet that mattered little. She was afraid for him. Would
he be safe? Her emotions were in turmoil. She feared he wouldn’t come back even
as she was afraid he would. Once Ciaran returned, all that was between them
would break open like some raging flood smashing through a dam.

She finally
understood this man held her fate in his hand, just as she did his. She laid
her hand against her heart to show him she was keeping his safe. He smiled and
she watched the stormy ocean blue of his eyes soften to the color of the summer
sky.

She returned his
smile even as she raised her chin in a show of bravery she didn’t necessarily
feel. She would survive this as she’d survived everything else in her life. She
held his gaze until he wheeled his stallion and called his troops together.

Horses snorted and
stamped, kicking up a fine coating of dust. Metal jangled and leather creaked
as the troop lined up for departure. A few wives darted forward for a last
kiss. Children and dogs milled around creating little eddies in the tide of
people.

Ciaran watched the
controlled turmoil with a practiced eye. In his heart, he was a soldier. Until
this moment, he’d lived for the call to arms. Now? Now, his heart ached at the
thought of leaving Becca.

Earlier in the great
hall, his men had been too busy to notice her dressed only in his mantle
standing at the top of the stairs. He’d forced himself to turn away and
chuckled, now thinking,
Aye, and I would
have had to kill any man who noticed.

As he was about to
give the order to ride out, movement in the window of his chamber caught his
eye. She was there, framed by the dark stone of the castle walls. The wind
caught the golden web of her silken hair and playfully tugged it toward him, as
if she were casting a net to catch and hold him. His stomach clenched. Only his
willpower and devotion to honor kept him in the saddle. Every muscle, every
sinew, every part of him longed to rush to her side, to hold her and kiss her
and bury himself inside her, making her his for all time.

Gods, but she was
beautiful. She drove him to distraction with her vacillation, but once he
returned from this campaign, he’d have her one way or another. The thought of
her lying beneath him rode him hard, a burr under his saddle festering into a
sore spot. Then she touched her hand to her heart. Ciaran steeled himself to
turn from her, to tear himself away from the promise in her eyes.

He rode through the
gate at the head of his troops, not once turning to confirm she was there.
Ciaran knew. He could feel the warmth of her gaze burning into his back. He
planned on making short work of the thieving O’Brien so he could return to his
golden witch.
Nay,
his heart whispered,
not witch but fae.

****

The troops had long
since passed from sight and the people gathered in the courtyard to see them
off dispersed but still Becca stayed at the window, hoping to catch some stray
glimpse, some whispered echo of Ciaran. Shadows lengthened, the sun sliding
past midday. Clamoring down from the bench, she wandered around the room
listlessly.

Becca needed to get
dressed. She finally opened the wooden cupboard and noticed some of Ciaran’s
clothes were still there. Without thinking, she pulled out one of his shirts
and put it on. It swallowed her, but she didn’t care. It carried his scent and
her skin craved the feel of fabric that had once touched his. Rummaging around,
she found a soft leather strap and wrapped it around her waist like a belt. She
rolled up the sleeves and searched for footwear. His boots were obviously too
big.

She grinned
lasciviously. She couldn’t wait to find out if the old wives’ tale was true—the
one about the size of a man’s shoe and hi... She forced her salacious thoughts
away from that riddle and back to the situation at hand.

His shirt fell
almost to her knees but Becca also needed something to cover her legs. There
was a pair of trews in the armoire, but they would swallow her. Not to mention,
she’d probably set the castle on its collective ear if she showed up dressed as
a man. She eyed the gowns for a brief moment. Just not her style. At least not
until Ciaran returned. As a last resort, she bunched, knotted, and hitched the
mantle until it made a passable skirt. She looked like a fashion disaster but
didn’t care. Screwing up her courage to face the outside world, she was saved
by a soft tap at the door.

“May I come in?”
Siobhan’s voice called.

Becca rushed to the
door and pulled it open. The older woman’s eyes were red-rimmed. Becca’s heart
went out to her. Siobhan was married to the master-at-arms and likely felt even
more bereft than she did. Once Siobhan got a good look at her attire, a wicked
smile creased her face, chasing away any lingering sadness.

“Ah, cailín,”
Siobhan chortled fondly. “Yee can’t go wanderin’ around dressed like that.”
Despair welled up in her chest and she saw a shadow of her own feelings flit
across Siobhan’s, too. “Do you miss him that much, then?”

Becca nodded. The
flood of tears she’d been holding back for so long suddenly broke the dam of
her self-control. She sank to the floor, tears streaming down her face as sobs
wracked her body.

Siobhan joined her.
With their arms wrapped around each other, the women bawled until they had no
more tears. Becca finally hiccupped and giggled. A bit embarrassed yet relieved
by their crying jag, they washed their faces in the basin of tepid water and
put on brave expressions.

“Yee still cannot go
traipsing around in the
Taoiseac’s
clothes.” Siobhan’s tone and the
hands firmly fisted on her hips were insistent. “
’
Twouldn’t be seemly
for you to go about dressed like a ragamuffin.” She arched a brow. “Nor dressed
like a man.”

“But the dresses,
the gowns... They’re too fine for me,” Becca protested.

Siobhan looked
shocked. “Do yee not understand, cailín? When the MacDermot returns, the two of
you will be wed, and you’ll be the mistress of the castle.” That almost made
Becca start bawling again. “Nay, cailín, he’s a good man and ’twill be gentle
with yee when it comes to the tuppin’,” Siobhan hastened to reassure her. “
’
Tis
obvious for all to see that he cares about you, and I’m thinkin’ you might feel
the same about him.”

“It’s not that,”
Becca stammered as she drew in a ragged breath. How was she going to explain to
this woman what the real problem was? How could she explain that she was from
hundreds of years in the future? “I don’t know a blasted thing about running a
castle,” she finally blurted out. Then she thought a moment. What the hell was
tupping? If it was what she thought it was, she wasn’t going there.

Her partial
confession rocked Siobhan back on her heels. She stared at the girl, shocked.
“Y’er well bred, cailín,
’t
is
obvious to see by looking at yee. How can it be that yer dam dinnit teach yee
what a mistress would be needing to know?”

Without thinking,
she exclaimed, “Because my mother lived in a two-story ranch house in Aurora,
Colorado.” As soon as the words burst out, Becca clapped her hands over her
mouth.

Siobhan stepped away
from her, the woman’s hands going to her chest in a protective gesture.

“I’m not from here,”
she admitted, daring to trust this woman. “I’m not from now.”

“ODHRAN!” Siobhan
yelled at the top of her lungs. She dashed across the room and tore open the
door. Grabbing the burly guard, she ordered, “Bring me Odhran the Druid now!”

A few minutes later,
the old Druid was pushed through the door. Disheveled and stunned by the
suddenness of his summons, he stared at the two women. Siobhan dismissed the
guard, telling him to go get something to eat and not to come back until he was
called. His dissent died on his lips as she firmly shut the door in his face.
Siobhan whirled to face Becca. “Tell him,” she ordered. “Tell him what you just
told me!”

Becca’s brain
whirled. Had she made a huge mistake? “That I know nothing of running a castle?
I’m just a peasant girl, Siobhan. How could I know what I’ve never been
taught?”

“Bah,” Siobhan spat.
“Do not hide the truth, cailín. This is too important. Now tell him.”

She remained silent,
so Siobhan turned on the Druid. “Then you tell her, Odhran. Tell her what is
Imrama
Anam
.”

Becca sucked in her
breath, suspecting she was about to learn something very important.

“Why that lesson,
Siobhan?” The old man tilted his head, his gaze darting from one woman to the
other.

“Because she asked
me,” the woman hissed.

The Druid took her
right hand and led her to the bench still positioned under the window. “Sit,
child, and tell me. How do you know of
Imrama Anam
? This is not common
knowledge these days.”

“I don’t know
anything,” she replied. “That’s why I asked Siobhan. I don’t know who I am or
where I am.” After a moment, she added in a quiet voice, “Or
when
I am.”

The Druid silently
stared into her eyes for a long moment then nodded his head. “She speaks the
truth, Siobhan. She knows nothing of the old ways, though there are traces of
power within her.”

Odhran spoke then,
keeping his voice soft, spinning a spell, entrancing Becca. He told her of the
old religion and the gods of the Celts, of the
Tuatha dé Danaan
, the
mythical people now called faeries who settled Ireland and then withdrew,
leaving the land to the mortals. Odhran told her of
Imrama Anam
, the
journey of the soul as it traveled through eternity seeking
Tír Nan Óg
,
the Land of the Ever Young. He revealed his own thoughts about her predicament
and questioned her about the voices in her head.

“Oh, hell.” Becca
jumped up to pace the floor. “I’m screwed. I didn’t major in quantum physics,
and I sure didn’t study history. I know enough to understand that if I mess up
here, then the whole future is out of kilter. This can’t be happening,” she
groaned. Then her stomach growled.

Odhran and Siobhan
stared at her, totally perplexed. “Quantum physics,” Becca reiterated. “The
study of... Oh, never mind. I’m so hungry I can barely think. Look, the point
is that where I’m from...
when
I’m from, there is a theory about time
travel. If a person goes back in time and changes things, then things are also
changed in the future.”

Odhran beamed.
“Exactly. That is the whole point.” He smiled proudly, the professor praising a
student who finally understands.

“No,” Becca argued.
“You don’t get it. It always changes things for the worse.”

Siobhan exchanged a
long look with Odhran, then left. Odhran patted Becca’s hand. “Cailín, the
timekeepers will not allow that to happen.”

“Timekeepers? Who or
what are they?” Becca was losing this argument. Even so, it was important she
at least try to win.

“The timekeepers.
Certain
Tuatha dé Danaan
shepherd our souls through our lives. It is
they who make things right when they go wrong. Your being here is not a random
act, Becca. In fact, I think you were plucked from your time for a very
specific reason.”

Becca’s mouth opened
and closed several times, making her look and feel like a fish out of water.
She grinned at the analogy. She
was
a fish out of water.

Siobhan returned
with a platter laden with bowls of stew and crusty bread. She passed them out
then settled on a stool by the fire to eat.

Becca was so hungry
she all but swigged the soup from her bowl. When she’d finished, she looked at
the older woman across the room. “I really am fifty years old,” she told
Siobhan, flashing a sly grin. “And old enough to be his mother.”

“He doesn’t need a
mother,” Siobhan reproved, but with a chuckle lurking just below the surface of
her gruff words. She arched an eyebrow and stared at the bed, her meaning plain
to see. “Let us hope the young pup can teach his old dog new tricks.” Her lips
quirked in a lascivious smile.

“Siobhan!” Becca
blushed crimson all the way to the roots of her blonde hair.