The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (18 page)

Suddenly, Nia stopped dead in her tracks. Although she could barely see past her own nose, white puffs of warm air bil owed out before her with every breath. Her ears tuned in to the verra noise that stopped her.

Footsteps. Moving through the brush. Faster. Heavy.
Closer
.

Her heart slamming into her ribs, Nia took off, the frosty air biting her cheeks. She didna look back to see which o’ the guards neared – she merely ran. The muscles in her thighs burned as she made her way deeper into the wood and, just when she thought her predator had given up, a weight of steel crushed her to the ground, the air in her lungs whooshing out in one big breath. A large hand slipped over her mouth and, even though the breath had been knocked clean out o’

her, she shivered at the strange, deep voice whispering in her ear.

“Dunna move.”

Nia didna. She couldna breathe, much less move.

Then, at once, the ground beneath her bel y shifted, and an odd cracking sound split the air.

Before the next second, the earth gave way, the heavy body atop her swore in a language unfamiliar to her ears, and then they were both fal ing, tumbling downwards in a passage too smal for their bodies. Sharp roots snagged Nia’s cloak, rocks, pebbles and dirt scattered, until she fel no more. With a heavy thud, she landed, the steely body stil wrapped about her. Pain shot to her shoulder as she heard a smal pop. What air was left in her lungs was crushed out and little lights flickered behind the lids of her eyes like fireflies.

Then everything went pitch black.

When Nia cracked open her eyes, everything
remained
pitch black. Where was she? She couldna see a thing. The pungent smel of earth and peat permeated the cave. And the moment she pushed up on her elbow, she cringed and bit back a yelp as pain shot to her shoulder. No doubt she’d dislodged it again. Amidst the hurt, she managed to sit upright. Whoever had fal en with her may stil be about. She drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Hel o?” A wave of nausea washed over her. She needed to fix her shoulder. ’Twould be difficult to do alone, but she’d managed before. “Is someone there?”

“Who are you?”

Nia jumped as the verra same deep voice from before now sounded at her ear. It was a harsh, unfriendly tone – more like a wild animal growling – and she shuddered. The movement jostled her shoulder, and she winced from the jolt, her heart pounding. She held her arm close to her body, stil ing the shoulder. “I am . . . Nia Donovan . . . of Clare.” Silence. Then, “What is wrong with you?”

At first, that annoying fear which niggled at times gripped her. Had the stranger seen her horrid face? How could he have? The wood had been nearly as dark as the place they now were in, and she’d had her cloak pul ed tightly about her. Once again, she noticed his voice – cold, angry, threatening and barely under control. Nia couldna decipher why, and it somewhat angered her, as wel . “You fel on me, sir,” she said. “And my shoulder is dislodged.” Scooting her booted feet beneath her bottom, she tried to rise without the use of her arms. Before she could manage it, the stranger’s hands were there, intimately on her hips, steadying her until she was standing. Strong, heavy hands remained against her, and Nia was shocked at how her skin flamed beneath her cloak and linens where he touched.

“Which shoulder?”

She could barely speak, so intense was the throbbing. “Right.” His hands left her hips, only to find her right arm, which hung limp by her side. Rough cal uses skimmed her skin as the man felt upwards, until he had her shoulder clasped in his palms.

“’Twil hurt,” he said, his breath brushing her cheek.

“I know,” Nia whispered, and squeezed her eyes shut. A fierce wave of pain ripped through her as he pressed hard, and just that fast her shoulder popped into place.

Nia drew several deep breaths to keep the tears away. When the nausea passed, she rotated her shoulder several times. “Thank you,” she said to the darkness. “Can I know your name, sir?” It seemed strange, being in such close contact with a stranger – a
man
– without knowing who he was, or even what he looked like. ’Twas a mite unnerving to say the least.

“Cyric.”

His voice, not quite as hostile as before, ran of an accent unfamiliar to Nia. “Thank you again, Cyric.”

“Aye.”

Nia felt a shift in the air as Cyric moved away from her. “Is there a way out?” she asked.

“Nay.”

This Cyric answered just as calmly as he had her other questions, and she now felt the first niggles of irritability settling in. Running away from her tyrant father’s control ing grasp was one thing; dying of starvation in a pitch-blackened cave was quite another.

Her stomach growled loudly, and Nia placed a hand over it.

“When was the last time you ate?”

In the darkness, Nia felt her cheeks grow warm. “It has been a while.” Air in the cave shifted once again as Cyric silently moved about. How could he see? She held a hand up, a mere breath from her own nose, and wiggled her fingers. She saw nothing but blackness.

“Give me your hand,” Cyric instructed.

Nia stil ed. “Why?” What was this strange man about? Did he plan to rape her, mayhap kil her?

“I could do both, but wil do neither.”

Anger rushed through Nia’s veins. She’d endured a lot in her twenty-two years, and threats from a stranger weren’t going to rankle her. Smal in stature, she would indeed be easy prey – but she’d put up a fight for sure. “Your attempts to frighten me are useless,” Nia said, wondering how she’d managed to say her thoughts aloud.

Silence, then, “Give me your hand. I have food.”

“Oh.” Nia held out her hand.

“Dried meat. ’Tis al I have.”

Wel , now she felt like a fool. “Thank you. Again.”

With a sigh, she lowered to the ground and sat. The coolness seeped through the wool en trousers she’d stolen from the guardsmen and now wore, but she couldn’t just continue to stand in the darkness. She ate in silence, grateful to have something in her bel y. She only prayed it wasn’t smoked rat. It was wel cooked, and salty, so she wouldna complain.

“You were running away.” Cyric’s deep, steady voice reverberated within the cave’s wal s.

“I was, aye,” Nia replied. She finished her meat and pul ed her cloak tightly about her. “I wil na go back, no matter what you do or say. I’d rather die in this cave.”

“That may verra wel happen,” Cyric said in a low voice.

Nia ignored the threat. “Why did you jump on me?”

“To keep you from fal ing into this pit.” His voice was closer now. “Who are you running from?” Somehow, it caused a shiver to course through her. She wasna sure if ’twas the closeness of his voice, or the fact that she was trapped in a pit. “I’m no sure if my personal matters need be discussed. I dunna know you.”

“You may no’ ever leave this dark place alive, Nia of Clare. But suit yourself.”

“There is no way out?” Nia asked.

A sigh escaped Cyric. “Aye, but ’twil take time.”

The thought of dying didn’t exactly appeal to Nia, but somehow, she wasna fearful. And she wondered briefly why he referred to
her
dying, yet no’ himself. “Who are you, Cyric? Do you live close by?”

Silence fil ed the cave for several moments – so verra long that Nia thought the man wouldna answer. Then, he did.

“I’ve lived in Kil arney Wood the whole of my life.”

Nia pondered that. Certainly he didna mean
in
the wood. “Then you must have heard of the legend, then? Of the Beast?”

A low laugh – more like a growl – escaped Cyric. “Aye. I have.”

“Have you e’er seen him?”

Al at once, the warmth from Cyric’s body grew intimately close, crowding Nia in the already smal enclosure. His breath grazed her neck as he whispered in her ear. “I
am
him.” Another shiver coursed through her. “I am no’ amused, sir, nor scared.” Cyric gave another low laugh. “You should be, girl. And I dunna mean to amuse. But we are trapped here for now. I am confessing a secret to you, Nia of Clare, and you are the only soul I’ve e’er told.” Silence, then, “I am what they cal the Beast of Kil arney Wood. And wi’ good reason, I suppose.”

Nia’s heart quickened. “The Beast I’ve heard tales of skinned men alive and ate their innards. It craves human flesh and fights with a fierce rage,” she said softly.

Cyric laughed. “Aye, and the Beast rips the heart out of a man wi’ its bare clawed hand as wel .”

“Aye,” muttered Nia. “That too.”

Silence fil ed the darkened cave, only their joined breathing made any sound at al . What if his claim was true? She’d never believed in such childish lore before, even when it was used to frighten her as a smal girl.

“Nia,” Cyric said, his voice low, even, “do you think me a beast?”

“Give me your hand,” Nia said. The air moved beside her, and she reached out. Her fingers grazed Cyric’s arm, and she slid her hand down until she grasped his hand in hers; she inspected it with her fingertips. Large, strong, with long fingers, she gently searched. “No claws,” she said as she touched his blunt nails, and ran her fingers over his palm. “Cal uses I see,” she said, and examined the back of his hand. With her middle finger she found a plump vein, pressed it and noted its spring, and then traced it up his arm. “You seem rather strong like a beast,” she confided.

“But I am no’ easily convinced of fairytale creatures.” She let his hand drop. “Or of brave knights who would die for the woman they loved, for that sil y matter. Neither exists to my notion. Nay, methinks you are merely a man o’ the wood.”

Only then did Nia notice how Cyric’s breathing had quickened, and how verra close he sat to her. She was aware of his body and, somehow, she wanted more than anything to feel his touch. It surprised her to know she was fiercely attracted to him, without even laying eyes on him. Heat flamed her cheeks at the thought of it, and she smothered a smile.

“Why do you wish my touch?”

Nia’s mouth slacked open. Had she said the like aloud?
Again?
“If we weren’t in a life or death state o’ affairs, Cyric the Beast of Kil arney Wood, I would die right here of mortification. Why must you sit so close that you hear my whispered words?”

Again, Cyric gave a light laugh. “I heard no’ a whisper – ’twas in your head that I heard your confession. What else might you wish to tel me?”

Nia blinked in the darkness, speechless. Slowly, she placed her fingers over her lips and pinched them shut – just to make sure she didna speak aloud. Then, she thought, If you can hear me, Beast of Kil arney, then tap the top o’ my head.

A chuckle, then a single, solitary tap to the top of her head.

Nia jumped where she sat. “Oh! How did you do that?” He could hear her thoughts? He’d certainly just given her proof ’twas true. She’d have to be much more careful now.

“I dunna crave the innards of men,” said Cyric, his tone grave, “but I am no’ an average man. I do have a beast within me.”

Nia found she wasna fearful of this. She instead fancied his voice. It sounded young, vibrant –

and ancient at the same time. Odd. “That much I can see. What are you, then? And cease entering my thoughts. ’Tis rude.”

“Why do you accept such witchery so fast?” he asked. “Most would either run away screaming, or no’ believe me at al .”

Nia sighed. “I see no reason no’ to believe. You’ve already proven you can read my thoughts.

Besides, what grown man would make up such nonsense to a complete stranger if it weren’t true?

Now, tel me your story.”

Cyric grunted. “Aye, ’tis so.” Silence, then, he said softly, “I am the last of my kind. And cursed to the wood for eternity.”

Nia kept quiet, waiting breathlessly to hear the rest.

“The English cal ed us ‘berserkers’. Your ancestors cal ed our blood-frenzy
ríastrad
. Our bloodlust becomes as such that we recognize neither friend nor foe. We just fight. Fight to kil .” Wel . That certainly was something. Hardly believable, but something indeed. She couldna imagine this gentle man, who’d cautiously popped her shoulder into place turning into a bloodthirsty beast. “So with al that, you canna get us out of the cave?” Cyric laughed. “Nay. I’ve ne’er been able to control my strength. It seems only to become useful whilst I am in battle.” He seemed to think for a moment. “We were from the painted warriors. The Picts. And wi’ al that strength and fury, nay, I canna get us out of the cave.” Nia pondered that. ’Twas nigh unto inconceivable, the thought o’ it. She’d heard of the Picts. An ancient Celtic race of fierce males. “I remember stories of the Beast of Kil arney from childhood,” she said. She leaned back against the cave wal and rested her head. “Do you have markings of indigo upon your skin?”

“Nay,” Cyric said. “Black.”

“I see. Have you been here long?” She rubbed her arms vigorously. ’Twas getting colder in the cave and she began to shiver.

The sound of earth and pebbles grinding met her ears as Cyric moved next to her. Immediately, his warmth comforted her. “Centuries.” He moved closer stil , and his hand found hers and stil ed it.

“Your skin is like ice.”

Nia ceased rubbing her arms. “Centuries? How is that possible?” She couldna fathom it.

“You’ve . . . no one?”

“Nay.”

That admission saddened Nia to the bone. Didna matter that she, too, had been alone most o’

her life. Especial y since her mother died . . .

Nia began shivering again, and this time her body shook uncontrol ably. Then Cyric slid behind her, pul ing her body against his, and he wrapped his arms about her. She let him.

“I wil keep you warm,” he said, his deep voice against her ear. “Rest, Nia o’ Clare.” Never had Nia been so intimately close with a man the whole of her life, and yet with ease she settled against Cyric’s chest, soaking in his warmth. She could tel he was quite powerful, as hardened muscles pushed against her own softness. Steel arms wrapped about her, and powerful thighs held her in place. If he was centuries old, he must look like an old man indeed; yet he felt very strong, vibrant, and she cared not about his looks. He was kind to her, and now sat trying to keep her warm. But would they truly just sit in the dark until death claimed them? Rather, claimed
her
?