The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (20 page)

A slow smile started on his beautiful mouth. “I am indeed.” Nia blinked. Only then did she take in the features of Cyric of the Wood. For a moment, she nearly forgot the anguish he was causing her by looking at her face, so overcome was she by his.

Her gaze searched his features. She’d never been more intrigued in her entire life.

Standing wel over six feet, Cyric was bare to the waist. Broad shoulders cut into a muscular chest, narrowing into a rock-hard abdomen. His skin was flawless – where you could actual y see skin at al . Intricately etched black markings covered his body and sinewy arms – even up the left side of his jaw and face. To some, ’twould be menacing. Frightening. A beast. To Nia, he was—

“Beautiful,” Cyric said, barely above a whisper. “My God, Nia.” He moved closer and stared directly into her eyes, searching. “How could you think yourself otherwise?” Nia, stil mesmerized by the ancient Pict warrior before her, continued her perusal, ignoring him completely. Cyric’s hair was as black as the markings burned into his flesh, and hung wild and tousled nearly to his waist. The front was braided into two long strands and hung on either side of his temples. She even noted how the markings crept up into part of Cyric’s lip. How she remembered those lips tasting hers . . .

A slight grin lifted one corner of Cyric’s mouth.

Stil , Nia ignored.

Green eyes. Cyric of the Wood had the smokiest green eyes she’d e’er seen on a man, with long, black lashes and perfect black brows. She could do little more than stare at his al -too perfect features.

Again, the corners of his mouth lifted. Nia noticed for the first time a deep dimple in either cheek. God Almighty, no’ only was he mythical, he was bloody beautiful.

That awarded Nia with a deep-throated laugh.

Even his teeth were straight and white. And those lips?

Heat flooded Nia’s face. She knew the fool listened inside her brain. She didna care. She wasna finished yet.

Slowly, Nia walked around Cyric, inspecting each and every inch of his exposed skin. The markings fascinated her. Ancient markings started at his chest and wound around his abdomen, his back and spine, and disappeared below his waistline. Down the length of his muscular arms and on to his hands – even down each long finger.

Nia couldna imagine the pain he’d endured to receive such intricate markings.

She thought him to be the most beautiful creature she’d ever laid eyes upon.

“Are you quite finished yet, madam?”

Nia, surprised at the ease she felt in Cyric’s presence, faced him. She tilted her chin. “Aye. And now you see why I didna wish for you to neither see nor touch my face.”

“I wish to now,” he said, those green eyes burning into hers.

“Drink your fil ,” Nia said, a bite to her words even she could hear. She held her gaze to his, and Cyric did exactly that.

She watched his green gaze slowly move over her face before he lifted a hand to her cheek.

Inwardly, Nia flinched, but she wasna going to shirk his inspection. He’d saved her life. If he wanted to see the horror of her scars for himself, she’d let him. Then, she’d leave.

Cyric’s eyes flashed as he firmly but gently grasped her chin. “Do you think so little of me, Nia of Clare?” Slowly, he released her, and let the back of his knuckles drag slowly over the very skin marred by the fire that took her mother’s life. His eyes softened, and when they moved to her lips, turned even smokier. “You’ve no right to judge me by others, Nia,” he said quietly. His thumb grazed her lower lip, and his eyes fol owed the motion, seemingly fascinated by it.

Then, he cupped her face on either side with both of his hands, tilted her head just so, and lowered his mouth to hers.

She al owed it.

His lips were a whisper away from touching hers when he stil ed. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said, his lips brushing hers softly with each word. “The way you look at me – you didna fear the beast.” He brushed his lips over hers. “I’ve waited for you my whole life, Nia of Clare.” He pul ed back and searched her eyes. “I think you were meant to be mine.” He kissed her again, his thumbs brushing the puckered skin on her face. “Ne’er has any mortal been able to tame the Beast, but you did. I knew who you were last night,” he said. “And you feared me not. You were so verra brave.”

Nia was lost in his touch and his words. Ne’er had she been looked upon with such love. “My da deemed me unworthy of a husband because of my face,” she said. “I was being sent to the abbey to live a life worshiping God, alone.” She cocked her head. “Why have so many men before you seen my face and thought me ugly, yet you find me beautiful?” Cyric’s gaze stared down at her, and the sincerity Nia saw in the green depths rocked her to the core.

“Fools, for one,” he began, and lowered his head once more. He brushed a light, teasing kiss across her lips. He leaned back, just far enough so his eyes weren’t crossed at being so close.

“And I’ve seen inside your head,” he said proudly. “What’s in there has a powerful beauty, as wel .” He cocked his head and stared directly at her scars. For once, she didna cringe. “When was the last time you saw your face, Nia?”

Nia had to think – quite difficult whilst being held in the arms of a half-naked marked man, centuries old. Then, she laughed. “I don’t recal .”

Cyric smiled. “Come. Let me show you something.” He tugged her hand and pul ed her away from the window. Then, he suddenly stopped, wrapped his arms around her and pul ed her close, lowered his head, and covered her mouth with his. Everywhere his hands touched, her skin burned, and Nia slid her hands over his marked skin to clasp her fingers behind his neck. He moved her slowly until her back was against the aged wal , and they kissed until breathless.

Final y, Cyric pul ed back and rested his forehead against hers. “Come,” he said. He pul ed her out of the ruined room, down a stone corridor, then down a narrow flight of steps. “Careful,” he warned, leading the way.

Nia smiled at that. Cyric could turn into a bloodthirsty, frothing-at-the-mouth fanged beast that could rip a man in two, and he was tel ing her to be careful of the stone steps.

Final y, they reached the bottom. The roof of the castle was mostly gone, with wooden beams and sky exposed overhead. Cyric guided her to a wal where an old knight’s shield hung askew.

He reached up, grabbed it and, with the tail of Nia’s cloak, polished it. He stared into it, grinned, and turned it around and held it up.

“See for yourself.”

Nia stared into Cyric’s mischievous eyes, then slowly let her gaze settle on the polished metal.

Although no’ a perfect mirror by any means, she could certainly see her reflection.

Nia blinked and drew closer. She felt her mouth slide open in surprise, and she lifted a hand to her marred cheek.

Rather, the cheek that was once marred. Now, ’twas just a bit pinkish and ever so slightly puckered.

’Twasna nearly as bad as it used to be.

Then, Cyric’s image edged into the shield as he looked on with her. “Beautiful,” he whispered and, for once in her life, Nia felt it to be true.

He then set the shield down and walked Nia to what once was a massive landing overlooking the sea. He pul ed her close and tucked her head beneath his chin. “You and I make quite a pair,” he said, holding her tightly. “I dunna ever want to let you go.” He lifted her chin, forcing Nia to meet his gaze. “Wil you stay wi’ me? I canna offer much, other than warmth, food and safety—”

“Aye,” Nia said, joy fil ing her soul. “I never dreamed of finding someone who loved me as much as I loved them.”

A wide smile stretched across Cyric’s breathtaking face. Nia noticed how it curled one tip of the black Pict marking in his lip. “You love me, then? Beast and al ?” Nia wrapped her arms about Cyric’s waist. “I do love you, Cyric, Beast of Kil arney Wood.” She raised on tiptoe and pul ed his head down to her. She kissed him. “I’l love you forever.” Cyric embraced her tightly, then kissed her back with just as much fierceness as she. “I love you too, Nia of the Wood.”

With a deep laugh that reverberated off the wal s and cliffs of the sea, Cyric scooped Nia up and kissed her some more.

Beyond the Veil

Patricia Rice

Connacht Region, Ireland – 161 AD

One

A blast of wind and hail burst from the roiling black clouds, battering bodies crumpled in a sea of red. Rain lashed at the val ey and the grassy mound rising above the fal en warriors, as if to wash away the stench of death. But the carrion crows already gathered.

Mortal y wounded and bleeding profusely, one soldier determinedly staggered up the greensward, away from the battle scene. Caught sideways by a fierce gust of hail and rain, he sagged to one knee. But his wil was mightier than the storm. With gasping breath, he dug his fingers into a boulder and hauled his big body up again. A cut across his cheekbone bled freely down his square jaw and into his long, wet hair, staining it a deeper shade of auburn.

The great sword slung across his back dripped with the blood of his enemies, but Finn mac Connel knew, in the end, they had kil ed him. Others like him, warriors al , the kind of which legends are made, lay slaughtered in the val ey below. The battle had been won, but at a high cost.

Finn lurched on to a rocky path, his gaze fixed on the wooden fort at the top of the hil , where he’d left his wife. The women and children had fled with the cattle to the woods and hil s when the battle arrived at their doorstep. But Niamh had been in childbed.

He had fought furiously to protect his home so he might return to the woman who owned his heart, and the child she was about to bear.

He prayed to al the gods that she was safe. In response, the gale blew so wildly, Finn stumbled backwards, but he fought for his balance and pushed onwards. The gnarled Druid Oak sheltered him momentarily, al owing him to fil his lungs, giving him the strength to continue, although the gash in his side was deep, and he’d lost more blood than any normal man could survive.

No smoke curled from the chimney. She would be freezing in this blustery damp air. He would start a fire for her before he left – because he knew he was not long for this world. But Niamh must live. And his child. Without them, he had no home to defend, and brave men had died for nought.

Using his sword to hold himself upright the last few steps, Finn pushed open the crude plank door of his home.

At the sight within, his roar of rage and agony surpassed the thunder, bringing him to his knees at last.

Niamh, his beautiful black-haired Niamh, lay in a bed of blood, her usual y rosy cheeks now as pale and stil as the winter snows. Her once flashing eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. Her warm smile would never greet anyone again.

The warrior crossed his arms on the timber bed and buried his face against them. He was not a man who wept, but his heart howled like an infant—

Like an infant.
His head shot up, causing his long hair to swipe the tattered shoulders of his tunic. The cry was real! Alive. Bel owing with hunger and rage – the cry of a warrior’s son.

Pressing his hand to Niamh’s cold forehead, he blessed her, kissed her cheek and closed her eyes.

With his last fading breath and hope, he lifted the cover concealing his son. Niamh had wrapped him in swaddling clothes and kept him warm for as long as she’d had life in her body, sacrificing her fading strength to save their child.

Hugging the howling babe to his chest, the newly widowed warrior wept, and prayed, “Aoibhinn, please, save my son, take him to your bosom, care for him as your own so that I may fol ow my heart.”

“And lose the finest warrior that ever walked this land?” a harsh voice asked from the doorway.

“I think not, Fionn mac Connel . If you wish to save the child, you must do so yourself. Stand like a man and come with me.”

He had no choice. Much as he’d rather die beside his beloved Niamh, he could not let his son, Niamh’s flesh and blood, die here cold and alone. With the last of his strength, Fionn stood, huddling the now quiet babe.

The wraith in the doorway gestured impatiently.

Accepting that he left the mortal world for the one beyond, Fionn fol owed the cloaked figure in grey out of the door he’d just entered – into a world that looked like his own but wasn’t.

The wind and hail that had rattled the wal s miraculously vanished – to reveal a sun shining in a sky of bril iant blue. Flowers danced in the val ey where blood had moistened the trampled earth.

The Druid Oak stood young and healthy, shading the richly garbed fae on their fine horses, awaiting his arrival.

The wound in Fionn’s side had already begun to heal. He knew he had to pay a price for this peace, but for his son – for Niamh’s son – he would forfeit whatever they demanded.

On the other side of the Veil, in the real world, a high keening shrieked over the roar of thunder.

Connacht Region, Ireland – 1161 AD

Anya O’Brion listened to the keening of the
bean sí
and shivered. She feared, in another few minutes, the wraith would have reason to wail again. The fine tapestries, rich panel ing and precious gold adorning the high-ceilinged chamber could not stop Death.

Tears sliding down her cheeks, Anya sat on the bed beside her sister-in-law, holding Maeve’s frail, cold hand. The keening could be dismissed as the wind on a blustery night such as this, but Anya knew it was not. The
bean sí
always recognized the death of an O’Brion, and the stil born child in the cradle was the last of them, except for Anya herself.

The priest cal ed the
sídhe
“fal en angels”, but Anya had been born with the caul, and had seen the Other World before she’d breathed her first breath. She would not cal the fae ones by any name but “Good Neighbours”. She did not worship their ancient gods of the earth, but she respected their ways.