Lord of the Isle (12 page)

She thought she had learned it all then. But never had she been more wrong. The point of joining was only the beginning.
The touches, the tastes, the sounds, the sensations and the raging emotions continued to build and increase and drive both of them to the brink of madness and beyond.

Her climax in the beginning was child’s play, compared to the hard, physical work of his. Each and every time she thought Hugh had peaked and spent himself inside her, he hardened again. He pulled back, switching tactics, changing focus, drawing out the pleasures that could be wrung from them, like the last drops of precious honey squeezed and scraped from a comb.

He switched moods like lightning, changing from tender to demanding and finally to pure driven need that sent them both over the edge, into wrung-out exhaustion. He collapsed upon her, buried deep, his member throbbing and pulsing, his seed filling every empty crevice inside her.

Nothing, nothing Morgana had experienced in her lifetime, could compare to this. How she kept from crying, she would never, ever know. Or how she kept from babbling out her ignorance before, as compared to her insight and knowledge now. Somehow she kept her tongue behind her teeth, instead listening to the wonderful sounds of his ragged, exhausted breathing.

A full quarter hour ticked away before Hugh could bring his head up from collapse upon Morgana’s shoulder. Before he could summon the strength to take his crushing weight off her body, soft and squashed beneath him.

He rolled off her, pulling her against his chest, one possessive arm refusing to part with her or give her any space. Sweat held their bellies together. The chamber was ripe with the heady scent of raw sex, great sex, the best he’d ever had. He scraped his fingernails across her belly, gathering the tangles of red hair and looping it across her damp shoulder.

He smoothed his hand up her stomach, gently cupping her breast, and bent his head to kiss each orb one more time. He turned his face up, studying hers in the womblike darkness. Her eyes were open, her lips were parted, and from
what he could tell, she looked replete. “Are you still awake, Morgan?”

“Yes, wide-awake, Hugh.”

He laughed and caught a handful of the top sheet, using it to wipe her down, to dry the dampness from her skin, so that she wouldn’t get chilled. “Then I won’t tell you that a man’s natural inclination immediately after lovemaking is to drop off in a stupor of sleep.”

“Oh?” She didn’t waste her breath contradicting a known fact.

“Oh, yes. Surely you’ve noticed that one outstanding male fact over the years.”

“Possibly.” Morgana sat up and took the sheet from his hand, doing for him what he’d done for her. “I can’t say I’ve paid any particular notice. Men seem to sleep any time of day or night, without any trouble. I suppose that’s just one of the ways in which we’re different.” She paused in her ministrations at his loins, to ask permission before she continued. “May I touch you…here?”

“You may do anything you like…there.”

“Kiss you?”

Hugh’s breath caught inside his chest. It wasn’t possible that he could return to life after his last strength-sapping climax. “Anything you like, Morgana.”

Her fingers slid around the base of his shaft, gently cupping him, holding the flaccid organ erect as she bent her head and kissed him. Her tongue came out and licked him, then circled around and around.

Hugh shuddered from the pure pleasure of her touch, but even when she took all of him into her mouth, suckling much more tentatively than he had suckled her breasts, his rod remained soft.

He let her continue, because it delighted him and there was some pleasure to be gained from the touch of her mouth upon him. It was a pointless exercise, and he knew the reasons why. He just thought better of telling her she was wasting her time.

The clock banged out the hour of five. Hugh drew her off and put her glass in her hand, saying, “Suckle on this. I’m going down to the lake for a wash. There’s water in the pitcher at the basin, do you care to use it.”

“It’s too dark to see what I’m doing.”

“Fine. I’ll light one of the lamps for you.”

Hugh rose from the bed, searched the Welsh dresser for his flint and iron. He found a plaid first, and draped that over his shoulder. Morgana watched him strike sparks against a twist of lint, then touch the flame to the lamp’s wick. He adjusted the flame, then closed the lantern’s glass door.

Hugh glanced to the bed, where she sat, wrapped in sheet. He caught a small spurt of laughter behind his teeth and smiled wolfishly at her. “I’m tempted, lady.” He nodded to indicate her fetching position, long legs exposed, plump breasts pressed up by the clasp of her arm across her chest and that splendid head of red hair spilling all around her in flaming curls.

Tempted, yes. But not hardened enough to act on the temptation. What man could be? He’d just spent three hours in a constant state of erection, spilling his seed inside her five separate times, only to come back moments later as hard as he’d been before. That sort of performance put him in the same category as a randy goat, and hadn’t happened since he’d passed the age of nine-and-ten.

He caught up a wedge of soap and slung the tartan around his body, tucking it once at his waist for modesty’s sake. As he fastened the plaid, he spied the object that had made so much noise when it hit the floor several hours ago. The gold-handled dagger he’d pried out of her fingers the night before.

Hugh bent and retrieved it with his own hand, marveling at the few hours that had passed since then. It felt like much, much more, felt as though he’d know this woman named Morgana for an eternity. He picked up his belt and his sheathed dirk, taking those with him from the room, too.

Last, he took his key from his doublet’s pocket and headed for the door.

“I’ll be back,” he promised.

“Will you?” Morgana asked, doubt and remorse echoing in her voice.

Hugh looked to see whether there was a pout on her mouth. Damned if there wasn’t. That halted his progress. He stood a moment longer, staring at her, thinking of the exact words he wanted to say. A current of underlying tension formed between them during the wait. Finally, he had it all organized.

He moved his eyes in the direction of the glass in her hand. “Finish your drink, Morgana. All of it. I can’t stand waste. When you’ve done that, clean yourself up, make the bed up decently and take a nap. I may be gone a couple of hours—more or less I can’t say. When I do come back, I expect you to be as willing and eager as you were a few short hours ago. Don’t try to manipulate me with sulks and pouts or tantrums.

“To make your status perfectly clear to you, you’re my leman now. You’ll do as I say or have cause to regret it.”

Morgana didn’t blink, or allow a single muscle anywhere in her body to react. As hard as it was to do, she met his penetrating stare without flinching. After a long delay, she lowered her lashes, then looked up at him, saying, “By your command, my lord.”

“Exactly,” Hugh snapped, angered by the sarcasm implied in her words, although vacant in her tone. “By my command!”

He jammed the key in the lock and twisted it, opened the door and slammed it shut behind him. He’d been going to give her the freedom of his house, let her roam at will. But not now. He thrust the key into the lock again and turned it. Just maybe, he’d leave her locked in till noon. That might cool her heels. He put the key on the nail above the door and went down to the lake for his morning swim.

Hugh O’Neill’s daily schedule was as well regulated and predictable as the quarter-hour chime of his imported clockwork. At a quarter past six, he was in chapel, to hear Loghran O’Toole say mass and to receive communion with his sisters and Inghinn Dubh.

By seven-thirty, he had had his breakfast and stood behind his uncle’s chair as the boards were cleared and morning hall assembled. The ladies retreated to see Inghinn on her way home. The day’s cases consisted of a dispute over payment between a landlord and his tenant in the village and one over licensing of the beggars allowed to work inside the village precincts. A widow had petitioned the laird to dispense rough justice to her unruly son, and a dispute between two unneighborly neighbors took up the majority of the morning’s session.

Hall ended at ten, giving Hugh the first chance he’d had to meet with his kerns since they’d returned to Dungannon the night before. Kermit reported that James Kelly was doing his best to antagonize his jailers and pick fights with other detainees bound over for trial at Fort Tullaghoge.

Donald the Fair gave a tally of the weapons collected and coin taken, and displayed jewels and other odd trinkets on a felt cloth for inspection by all participants in the raid.

It was left up to Hugh how to disseminate the wealth, including eight horses. The Arabian, having been judged the property of Morgana of Kildare, was removed, along with her tack, back to Hugh’s section of Dungannon’s stable. Hugh kept the unopened saddlebags at his feet during the meeting. Before they broke up, he handed Morgana’s knife to Art Macmurrough and asked what he made of the blade.

The elder took the finely crafted dagger in hand and examined it, testing its weight and balance and remarking upon the superb skill of the Irish goldsmith who’d made the handle.

A walnut-size bead of amber encased in a circlet of pure gold formed the base of the handle. The gem gleamed the
way the fiery sun did at the summer solstice. In the center of the bed was a blooming cinquefoil, perfectly preserved.

Macmurrough turned the jewel so that the sunlight shined through, illuminating the ancient flower. He grunted deeply, then said, “Cinquefoil—the most potent herb. Carried in a pouch, it gives one eloquence when asking favors of officials, and ensures that favor is granted the bearer.”

“Aye.” Hugh nodded approvingly, adding, “The points of the five leaves of the blossom represent love, money, health, power and wisdom.”

What he did not add to the Irishman’s summation was that to the queen’s alchemist, John Dee, amber stood for the element of fire. To an astrologist like Hugh, it represented the planet Jupiter, the most powerful planet in the heavenly constellations. Truly, the amber gemstone was a rare and potent jewel, as unique as the knife itself.

“Can you tell who it belonged to?” Hugh asked.

Macmurrough made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat, clearing it. “Aye, the ogham inscription on the blade names it as property of Gerait Og Fitzgerald, ninth earl of Kildare. How did you come by it, my lord Hugh?”

“I took it from my guest, Morgana.”

“The woman the soldiers were after?” Macmurrough asked.

Hugh took the knife in hand again. “The same.”

“That’s no mere trinket,” Macmurrough said uneasily. “It’s a ceremonial knife.”

“Oh?” Hugh said, impressed with the scope of Macmurrough’s knowledge. “How so? What sort of ceremony?”

Macmurrough’s brow pleated deeply, and he cast a sideways glance at Loghran O’Toole, which Hugh took to mean that Macmurrough had misgivings about speaking frankly before the priest. Whatever his reservations were, he overcame them. “I’m only judging by the ogham inscription, my lord. Knives like this come in a set, with various tools, pens, blades, and certain other magical paraphernalia. Wizards
use them in conducting their black masses and wickedly evil ceremonies. The ninth earl of Kildare was a warlock, Lord O’Neill. You should destroy the knife before it brings you evil.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hugh said. He slipped the blade back into his sheath, the discussion over, as far as he was concerned.

“It’s no’ ridiculous,” Art argued heatedly. “If you’re of a mind to keep the knife, take it to Sir Almoy at Dunrath Temple. Ask him to exorcise the evil from it before you use it. Blood spilled with that blade will come back to haunt you, unless you are a Fitzgerald and have the right to use it.”

Deliberately changing the subject, Hugh asked, “What happened to the man Brian brought down with his musket at the crossroads?”

Macmurrough scratched his head. “Didn’t find any trace of his body, just his horse. Brian says he put the bullet in his chest. I looked for a trail of blood, but the rain pretty well washed that from sight.”

“So we don’t know if the man’s alive, or whether he’ll show up at some later date with a full battalion, looking for the rest of Kelly’s patrol,” Hugh concluded.

Kermit Blackbeard scowled. “Odds are he’s dead.”

“Kelly’s got a son in the regiment. Young one, wet behind the ears. Corporal John Kelly. Some say he’s another crack shot.” Rory offered that bit of gossip to chew. “Does any investigation occur, young Kelly will be behind it.”

“Any chance that he was the seventh man taken down at the crossroads?” Hugh asked.

“No chance, O’Neill,” Macmurrough insisted.

Their business completed, Hugh adjourned the meeting, after telling the men to be ready to ride north with him the next morning, May the seventh. Knuckles cracked in anticipation of traveling into Antrim, a province in a state of turmoil. Any chance of sighting Francis Drake’s warships appealed greatly to Hugh’s ready kerns. Hugh shouldered Morgana’s heavy saddle packs and headed for his tower.

It was not yet noon, so he went up to his study. Her weighty packs thunked heavily on his worktable when he slung them off his shoulder. Hugh unbuckled one of the paired sacks and dropped out its contents. He had to pull hard on the tightly packed mass of clothing in order to remove it from the pack.

Hugh O’Neill prided himself on being thorough and leaving no stone unturned—in any endeavor. Still, he almost missed the most important find of all by not unrolling the assorted and uninspiring clothing in the second bag.

Seven documents had been carefully concealed inside the rolled skirt of Morgana’s only complete change of clothes—a black serge convent habit.

The documents, the deeds, the map and the letter from Bishop Moye of Armagh paled beside the revealing importance of the clothing itself.

Morgana Fitzgerald was a consecrated Arroasian nun.

Her heavy wooden rosary and crucifix dropped from Hugh’s hand as if made of molten lava. He sank onto the stool beside his worktable, deeply shaken by the enormity of the great sin he’d committed. All he could think from that point on was,
Dear God, what have I done?