Fey Born Page 8

  Her smile faded a wee bit, a slight tremble in her chin, but she nodded bravely and took the goblet from his hands. With narrowed eyes, he watched her walk away, watched the seductive flow of her, his senses slowly shrouding in lust until all he saw, smelled, and sought was her. He muttered an oath and looked away. He wanted to lie down with her in a bed of sea foam waves and ride the tide between her legs until this terrible craving in his loins was sated, but she did not belong to him. He must remember that.

  During the time it took her to return with his mead, his mood continued to turn dark. A single beaded strand was the only thing holding the gown in place. With a simple gesture of hand, the fey gown would respond to him and pool at her feet, freeing her body for his use. Dragging the warm air into his lungs, he angrily crushed down his lust and looked around at the merrymaking. The sword spirit claimed Lana long before he ever did, and he must abide by that decree or face the consequences. He was not a fool. If he took her virgin sheath, there would be consequences.

  He moved away from where he stood to a small group of bushes. To mark the celebration of the handfasting, tar barrels were set ablaze in the spring night air, adding to the sense of life’s promise and joy. Ropes, dipped in tar, hung from stakes, which were securely placed in the ground, but at a safe distance from the trees and homes. Even the animals were secured in their stables, mews, and pens. All precautions had been taken so the fire spirit would hurt no living creature while it gave blessing to their union.

  He had watched in fascination while Lana lighted the ropes with a torch. An easygoing cheer echoed among her tribesmen as the fire, a tribute to both light and elation, raced across the ropes with the swiftness of lightning.

  Her people milled about in their finest garments and adornments. Young revelers held twigs of oak high above their heads with streaming white ribbons. Maidens giggled curiously among themselves, reminding him that all females were alike in their feminine mystery. Locking his hands behind his back, he watched three boys play a game of tag and chase. He could never truly be part of this, he reflected darkly. Always, he would remain separate from them because of what he was. He scanned the tribe, noticing a few men who drank more than their share of mead and lay prone on the ground, muttering gleefully of their many conquests in love. He bit back a smile, remembering the tedium of his long life. He turned to the mortals for distraction, participated in their wars and in their ways, and found a strange contentment in it. The answers he sought for his restlessness remained elusive to him, and he reluctantly accepted it.

  “Keegan? I have brought you your mead.”

  Turning to Lana, he resisted the urge to smile and took the goblet from her hands.

  Lifting the goblet to his lips, he was surprised when a small finger inserted itself between his mouth and the fruitful drink.

  He looked down at the foolishly naive owner of the dainty finger.

  “Would you care to eat something?” Her smile was faint.

  “Remove your finger,” he said in a whisper of breath, not at all amused.

  Blushing pink, she did as he bade, dropping her hand to her side.

  He followed the way her hands twisted in the folds of her gown, marking her anxiousness. Eyelids lowering, he lifted the goblet to his lips, and once more, a small finger came between him and his liquid intention. He experienced a peculiar urge to take her finger into his mouth.

  “Keegan.”

  Tilting his head in acknowledgement of her, he waited for her explanation.

  “My father’s mead makes men… do strange things.”

  “Does it now?”

  “Aye. Mayhap you should eat a wee bit.”

  “I am not hungry for food,” he said with restraint. Taking a step back to dismiss any further intrusion on her part, he lifted the goblet to his lips and drank deeply of the golden liquid, enjoying the warm glow entering his bloodstream.

  He handed the empty goblet back to her.

  “More, Lana.”

  She looked at the goblet and then back at him in that female way of silent reproach and he knew, without a doubt, he displeased her.

  “More,” he said.

  Biting her lip, she walked away and refilled his goblet. He drank that one too, eyeing her warily. She smiled tolerantly back at him, which perturbed him even more.

  He thrust the goblet back in her hands. “More.”

  “I think you have had enough, Keegan. You are swaying on your feet.”

  He looked down at himself. Not only was he swaying, but he also felt exceedingly warm.

  “You do not drink mead often, methinks.”

  “Nay,” he mumbled, his upper lip feeling a peculiar numbness. The fine blue tunic and laces became uncomfortable against his chest and back. He looked around. Couples were forming, as was the tribe’s manner. The scent of the desire and the lust in the air added to his boiling frustration.

  With two hands, he jerked the tunic over his head and tossed it aside where it landed on a bush.

  “Keegan, what are you doing?”

  “I am hot.”

  “I can see that,” she said, and grabbed his forearm for some reason.

  He shoved her hand away. “I have waited long enough,” he declared in a rather loud voice. Grinning faces turned to them and he knew what they all thought. “Time to go, Lana.” Without further announcement, he flipped her over his shoulder and to the cheer of the men carried her off into the night.

  Lana found herself dangling from a broad naked shoulder, the beads in her hair chiming lightly with her guardian mate’s purposeful stride. The unsteady step and swaying were gone, her mate seemingly back in control. For a moment, she thought he was about ready to topple over on his face.

  They were in the back meadows heading toward the druidess’s home. Darkness and the silence of a starlit night surrounded them with false comfort.

  “Keegan, please put me down. I can walk.”

  Immediately, he stopped. Leaning forward with scarcely a slip, he set her gently on her feet.

  Lana looked up at the imposing presence before her. Her guardian mate stood in the moon’s shadow, a tall, unmoving shape which smelled of rain, mead, and anger. Lana could just make out his face. “Are you feeling well?” she asked, leaning toward him, trying to see his eyes.

  “I am well,” he replied curtly, and stepped back.

  Before she could say anything more, he strode around her, heading for the druidess’s candle-lit roundhouse.

  Hiking up the gown so she would not stumble on the hem, Lana raced after him. Weaving around the druidess’s small herd of white goats, she tripped on a… man’s boot?

  Slowing down and picking her way more cautiously among the grass and rocks, she found the second boot, and then a few paces further she found a pair of fine blue breeches.

  Reaching down, she picked the breeches up by the waist and felt his body’s heat still contained within the weave. Keegan had shed all his clothes.

  “Lana,” he called from the amber darkness ahead.

  She dropped the breeches guiltily. “I am coming,” she answered, trepidation and excitement sweeping through her.

  “Make haste for I wish to begin our journey.”

  She stopped in mid-stride. Now?

  “Doona stop,” he commanded.

  Lana forced her legs to carry her forward and found him near the old table behind the druidess’s home.

  He stood naked and unconcerned, slipping the sword scabbard onto his back. He did not even acknowledge her presence.

  “Keegan,” she said after a long tortuous moment.

  “The druidess has clothes for you inside. I wish you to change.”

  She held on tightly to the folds of the gown. “Do we not spend some time together before the journey?”

  “Nay. Go inside and change. We leave now. “

  With a solemn heart, Lana walked around the roundhouse to the front. For a few precious hours, she had forgotten the true reason for her trial marriage and why a
n enigmatic guardian had chosen to handfast with her, a lowly farm girl.

  At the entrance to the roundhouse, Lana stepped around the pail of water and peered inside. “Derina?” she called out softly.

  No answer. The roundhouse was empty. She entered and walked over to the table lit with five candles. Two food bags had been prepared for her journey, one large and one small. There had never been any intention of a wedding night. Tightness welled inside her chest. She did not know if she was happy or sad.

  Sensing a presence behind her, she glanced over her shoulder.

  In the doorway, her guardian stood in silent observation. He had donned a pair of worn green breeches; the strap of the scabbard lay diagonally across his muscular chest.

  “ ‘Tis time to go, claíomh host.”

  He put distance between them by calling her that name. And so it begins, she thought sadly, and nodded in response. Turning away, she reached for the jewel clasp of the fey gown above her left breast.

  “If I may?” he prompted.

  She turned to see the sweeping gesture of his right hand.

  A warm breeze suddenly flowed across her face, lifting her hair from her shoulders.

  The fey gown shimmered gold and then pooled around her ankles; the golden beads in her hair tumbled to the floor one by one in a chiming melody, followed by the beautiful hair combs. The bracelets on her wrists and ankles came next, landing on the gown with dull thumps. Then, as she watched, all his gifts dissolved into the air, leaving her heart chilled and her body unclothed. For some unknown reason, she thought of her beautiful Tara brooch and wondered if Keegan had reclaimed it, too. She had given it to the druidess when she removed her cloak before the ceremony. Only the ancient knew now if the guardian had taken it back. Out of all the fey gifts, she formed an attachment to the brooch almost immediately. The thought of it being gone saddened her greatly.

  She shivered, turbulent emotions locked in silence.

  He left her nothing, his wedding gifts reclaimed.

  Without looking at him, without showing how he had hurt her, she reached for the familiar brown breeches and tunic resting on a bench beside the table. Her mother must have brought another set of clean clothes for her as she had not found the time to replace those she usually left at the druidess’s cottage. She dressed quickly, slipping her feet into her boots. Reaching over, she hiked both food bags on her shoulders securely. Catching hold of her resolve, she turned and walked past him, only to be pulled up short by a hand on her upper arm.

  Without comment, he removed the larger food bag from her shoulder and released her. Lana forced back her tears and headed out into the night, her direction north.

  ———

  The air turned cool with the coming of the third twilight. They had walked for three days and Lana felt the weakness of her heart keenly.

  “Claíomh host.”

  She stopped. Her guardian mate paused near a small grove of trees. Dressed in a sleeveless green tunic laced up the front and sides, he looked more like a warrior of her tribe, than a creature of the fey. However, the odd diagonal slits slashed into the back of his tunic with his dagger to make way for his wings reminded her he was indeed a fey born guardian. His breeches, though worn, were made of the finest weave and his brown leather boots were snug on his feet, an item of clothing he sometimes complained about but did not remove.

  “You are tired, claíomh host” He adjusted the single shoulder strap of his scabbard. “Come, let us rest here for the night.”

  She wished he would stop calling her a sword host. “My name is Lana,” she said glumly.

  “I know.” He pulled out a blue blanket from beneath the food bag. Kneeling, he spread it upon the ground, checking for any offending rocks or pebbles, which would bruise her flesh. He was careful of her comfort, she noted, gestures that did not live up to the legends of spitefulness of the fey born.

  She wondered what he would say if he knew she had a blemished heart. The fey valued beauty and strength above all else and were cruel in their rejection of the weak. She tried to imagine Keegan being harsh and cruel, and failed miserably.

  “Come.” He held out his right hand, beckoning her toward the blanket. “Twilight and shadows are all around the rolling hills, giving way to a full moonrise. It is time we rest.” She walked over to him, feeling used up from the long day’s travel.

  “Lie down.” He took the smaller food bag from her shoulder and guided her down onto the blue weave. He had wanted to carry both food bags, but she refused. She would carry her own weight for as long as she could.

  “Are you hungry?” he inquired in that aloof tone she had come to know so well.

  “Nay.” She shook her head. Lying on her back, her legs flopped open. The breeches allowed her ease, allowed her legs to fall open in rest.

  From the corner of her eye, she watched her guardian mate remove the scabbard from his back and lay it on the ground within easy reach.

  “I have never traveled this far north before,” she offered by way of conversation.

  He managed a wry smile. “It is land like any other.”

  The shine of the moon spilled down upon them in streams of amber. “The moon’s brightness dims the luster of the stars this eve.”

  He sat down, nearly a man’s length from her hip, and looked up at the dark sky. “Do you like the stars?”

  “Aye,” she whispered, and her thoughts drifted homeward. “Sometimes at night I would walk out to the high meadows and stand on the hill with Lightning, my friend. If there are no clouds, you can almost reach out and touch the stars.”

  “I know that animal, big sorrel stallion with the jagged slice of white lightning down his forehead.”

  “Four white fetlocks and battle scars across his chest,” Lana added in confirmation.

  “A courageous spirit that one has.”

  “Aye,” she agreed and then added, “he has a fondness for apples.”

  Her guardian mate chuckled unexpectedly, startling her. “An understatement for sure.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked defensively, pushing up and resting on her elbows.

  A small silence followed her outburst and then he shifted, a leg lifted, a wrist came to rest upon a knee, and Lana found herself staring at long blunt fingers.

  “Sitting beneath the branches of a tree and admiring the moon goddess one eve,” he explained slowly, “I was content to eat my apple drizzled with fresh golden honey.”

  “Bee honey?”

  “Aye, I like my apples drizzled with raw honey and it appears Lightning did, too. That eve a horse’s soft muzzle came sniffing around my hand. I looked up and found myself staring into the brown eyes of a very large horse. I have shared my apples with him ever since.”

  Lana relaxed. “He has his ways.”

  “That he does.”

  She sat up and pointed to the moon. “The moon wears her golden cloak of honey this eve as well.”

  “Aye,” he agreed in a voice that seemed rough to her. She could feel his warm presence in the core of her being and Lana felt regret she had not even a small place in his heart.

  They watched the sky and stars in silent harmony, a hush of nocturnal melodies surrounding them. A strange sense of peace came upon her and her attention unerringly moved to the tantalizing allure of him.

  His face was turned to the nighttime sky, ropes of dark hair spilling down his back. Even in this light, she could see the gleam of reds and golds in the thick strands.

  With a single finger, he pointed to the stars and moon as if to redirect her interest away from him. “The moon goddess returns near this position in the night sky every twenty-seven nights or so,” he said with soft authority.

  Lana looked up at the moon. “Every twenty-seven nights?”

  “Or so,” he added.

  “How do you know this?”

  “I have lived a long life,” he murmured with mocking amusement. “She only returns to the exact position in the sky, in the exact s
ame way, every nineteen years. So enjoy her splendor for she will not be this precise way again for a very long time.”

  Her lips parted slightly in breath and Lana studied the position of the moon against the stars. She probably would not be alive to see the moon goddess’s splendor in this precise way again. The hair on the back of her neck stood up and Lana felt his strong contemplation of her. Her gaze slid to his and she saw a flash of yearning in his eyes before his long lashes lowered and he turned away. She could feel herself falling hopelessly in love with him.

  It was a physical reaction, her body humming and responding to the maleness of him, his movements, his scent, his breathing. Her spirit coveted him now and never would she be able to give him up.

  “Sword host,” he whispered in a tone of ache and warning. “Doona look at me that way.”

  “What way?” she challenged softly.

  “Needful.”

  She had a difficult time thinking with his harsh tone ringing in her ears and the fatigue of her body pulling her down. “I know you have handfasted with me because of this sword quest. I know you need me to guide you to something I doona understand. I will help you in any way I can, but I wonder, will we be sharing a bed together?”

  “Go to sleep,” he commanded sharply.

  Hurt, Lana laid down on her back, reluctant but obedient.

  “Take your rest. It has been a long day,” her guardian mate said in the dimming reaches of her mind. Lana gave into the fatigue and closed her eyes, a veil of blackness quickly enveloping her.

  Keegan felt his resolve slipping. He watched her with a strong inclination to do exactly what she so innocently asked for. She took a shaky breath now and again as if some mischievous faery had stolen her air. It unnerved him.

  “What weakens you?” he murmured gloomily into the night. He frowned down at the dark shadows under her eyes, reaffirming the frailty of her.

  “Keegan, the horses need feeding,” she said barely audibly, idly dreaming in her own little world.

  He drew in a deep breath. “I have fed them. Sleep, Lana.”

  She gave a little shiver, the chill of the spring night seeping in.

  “Cold?” He moved himself closer and pulled the border of the blanket over her small form.