Storm Maker

  The Dawn of Ireland 1

  Storm Maker

  The impetuous Caylith meets her match. Liam O'Neill, strongly attracted by the sultry promise in her green eyes and by her bold mouth, calls her his “Storm Maker,” and yet she learns that he, too, has ways to stir up a whirlwind.

  The more she tries to stay chaste, the more her passions increase. The sexual tension builds as she faces the clash of her desires and her promise to Patrick—to remain a virgin until marriage. When an old enemy seizes Liam as hostage for all her lands, she first confronts the scheming druid brothers Loch and Lucet, pagan priests of the high king himself, and then she faces the malevolence of her old nemesis Owen Sweeney.

  Finally, on the verge of marriage, Caylith is confronted by the other man who loves her. Now she must choose between the lover who has waited for her and the untamed, mysterious Liam.

  Genre: Fantasy, Historical

  Length: 108,466 words

  STORM MAKER

  The Dawn of Ireland 1

  Erin O’Quinn

  ROMANCE

  www.BookStrand.com

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  A SIREN-BOOKSTRAND TITLE

  IMPRINT: Romance

  STORM MAKER

  Copyright © 2012 by Erin O’Quinn

  E-book ISBN: 1-61926-600-8

  First E-book Publication: April 2012

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the editor, Stephanie Shea, who was the first to read it and thus the first to look upon the naked souls of Caylith and Liam. Her insights and sure touch have made the book far better than when it crossed her desk, and I am grateful.

  STORM MAKER

  The Dawn of Ireland 1

  ERIN O’QUINN

  Copyright © 2012

  PART I:

  In the Wild

  Chapter 1:

  Touching

  I lay on the longship sailing from Britannia back to Éire, eyes closed, my back resting on the fresh-cut timbers. Already I missed Kevan—the touch of him, the sureness of him, the honest love of him. He was helping me discover worlds I had never even dreamed of, and my body still felt him in little, secret places.

  I was trying to avoid any contact with the clansman Liam, whom I had discovered on board that morning. We had been apart for too long. Too many misunderstandings had set a wall high between us, and I was glad to let him go.

  On the other hand, I had been thrilled to find my old friend Michael. He was the genius who had built not just this graceful ship but the currachs my people had used to escape from Britannia and Faerie. Those little crafts, no more than wickerwork covered by tanned animal skins, had been our way to escape the coming Saxon invasions.

  Michael was returning to his homeland after a five-year period of self-exile, convinced by his cousin Liam to come back.

  All the time I knew Michael, while he was making the cunning little currachs, he never once talked about his homeland. I confess I was so absorbed in myself and in my own affairs that I hardly noticed his torment. But I had found out several months ago, quite by accident, that he was Liam’s cousin who had fled from Éire to Britannia in self-exile, grieving over a lover whom he thought had betrayed him. And now he was radiant, nervous, hopeful—all the words that describe a man returning to a lost love. I looked forward to talking with him on this two-day trip across the Sea of Éire.

  About fifty emigrants were sailing on this maiden voyage of Michael’s sleek vessel, all seeking refuge in my newly established holdings in Derry. Mostly seasick and silent, they were clinging to any hold they could find as the ship alternately careened against the wind or scudded before a favorable breeze west to Éire. Just now, the sixteen rowers were resting as the wind filled our proud mainsail.

  Now, settling back comfortably, I was dreaming about my second night with Kevan at the old Roman command post in Deva. After supper, he had walked me to his bedchamber. His quarters turned out to be the same bare room where he had carried me the previous evening, before leaving me to sleep alone. It was no more than a soldier’s bunk, a low bench, a table holding a candle in its holder, a ewer, and a water basin.

  I looked around in some dismay at the hard, little cot and the bleak, peeling walls. “Kevan, why do you live such a…Spartan life? You are the commander.”

  He looked honestly puzzled. I thought he had been a soldier a bit too long or that he had completely forgotten his upbringing in the diaphanous royal pavilions in Elfland. “My needs are few, Cay. Would you rather I find somewhere else for you to sleep?”

  “No, dear one. I did not mean to sound ungrateful. Just being with you will make this room into a palace chamber.”

  “I will bring us a bit of wine. Just, um, get comfortable.”

  I supposed my needs were few, too, for I had not brought any change of clothing, nor any sleep tunic. I hung my pretty dress over the little bench, wishing for a clothes chest or a wardrobe of some kind. I wondered how Kevan managed to keep his dress tunics looking neat.

  My garment, called a “léine,” was Éire’s answer to the dress tunic, and its most striking feature was long, trailing sleeves. The tunic itself was traditionally belted, and the wearer would gather all the extra skirt material up into the belt to any desired length. My friend Magpie had made this léine especially for me. Instead of the traditional wool, she had used yards of specially dyed silk—iridescent green to match my eyes.

  I stood in my undertunic. It was rather sheer, and it was cut low, almost too revealing. I had not given it any thought until now, but I suddenly felt as exposed as I did months ago when the clansman MacCool was staring boldly at my emerging breasts.

  I saw that Kevan’s cloak was hanging on a hook near the door. Embarrassed by my own chest, I pulled it down and slipped it over my tunic.

  When Kevan entered the room and saw me in his long mantle, he laughed. “Are you so cold?”

  I looked down and saw that several inches of material were trailing on the floor. I supposed it did look foolish. “No, I, um, I have no sleep tunic.”

  “And what is wrong with your—whatever you are wearing under that i
mmense cloak?”

  I did not answer him, for I did not have an answer. Up until now, any touching that had taken place between Kevan and me—or any man—had been without looking.

  Kevan walked to the little table in a dark corner and lit a candle. He set an earthenware jug down, and two cups. I walked to the table and accepted a cup from him, and when he had poured his own, we silently lifted our cups to each other before drinking.

  Still standing, I looked at him across my wine cup. He wore a leather training tunic, lightly belted, open at the arms and neck. His skin seemed to glow, candlelight playing across his fine features, the hollow of his throat catching the shadow. “I feel like ordering you to give up your commission altogether so you can come with me back to Éire.”

  “We have talked about that,” he said slowly, and his eyes now caught the shadow.

  “The time will come when we are both ready at the same time.”

  “Cay, I am ready now. I swear it. But you are not.”

  I sighed. How could I give up seeing this remarkable man every day, every night, for the rest of my life? Yet how could I promise to love only him when my heart was so hungry to discover the unknown?

  “I—oh, I do want you, Kevan. More than I have told you.” I set my cup down and stood in front of him, looking up into his marvelous face.

  Then he surprised me by kneeling in front of me. I was short, and he was tall. That put his mouth dangerously close. He did not try to force me. He kissed me lightly on the lips, just a hint of a real kiss. I responded instantly, opening my mouth to him. He explored the inside of my mouth with his tongue tenderly, and yet I said “No” without knowing why. His hands were on my shoulders, and he stopped and looked into my eyes.

  “What are you afraid of, Caylith?”

  I was lost for words.

  “Do you think I will hurt you?”

  “No. I think you love me.”

  “Then what?”

  “It is just—it is what I told you last night. Only eight or so months ago, a man kissed me for the first time. I knew not enough even to kiss back, not until you kissed me. Now you—you must think I am capable of making a decision about the rest of my life—both our lives.”

  He was silent for a long time. He raised one hand to my hair and played with a strand, twisting its red length around his finger just as he had done last night. “You are right, little Cay. I keep forgetting that you have just begun to live. I am sorry.”

  His head bent low, and he buried it in my chest. I felt myself start to shake then, afraid of my own sudden response to his intimate touch.

  He lifted his head and looked at me again. His blue eyes seemed to take on a darker tone. His voice now changed into a kind of huskiness I was just beginning to recognize. “Has no one ever touched your breasts, Caylith?”

  “No.”

  Starting a few months back, I had become very sensitive about my breasts. At first, it seemed they would never catch up while the rest of me was becoming a woman. Then, almost overnight, they had begun to swell and push, almost more than I could keep hidden beneath my training tunic.

  He slowly unclasped the top of the oversized cloak and let it fall to the floor, keeping his eyes on my face.

  “May I look?”

  I felt suddenly shy and did not speak or move. He reached out and put his hands lightly on my behind and drew me into him. He was still kneeling, and my breasts were in peril of his mouth. He began to kiss my shoulders, and the tunic slipped down a bit until my breasts began to stand up, shy, from their hiding place.

  Then, leaning into me, his mouth touched the place where my right breast began to swell from the tunic, but lightly, as though he were only grazing. And then he gently nuzzled the left. He looked up at me.

  “Now, Caylith. I want to put your nipples in my mouth. Will you let me?”

  My body answered him, for his words and the timbre of his voice made both nipples harden instantly. Finding first one breast, then the next, he suckled and licked my nipples while his hands caressed my buttocks. Soon I was moaning and almost crying. My legs shaking, I pressed as close to him as I could. The heat and wetness of his mouth was devouring me. His hands seemed to play my buttocks like a lute until a secret flame became a wild fire.

  When it was all over, I could not move. He stood and picked me up, then laid me down in his bed. He bent over me and put his mouth close to my ear, speaking very low. “You are right, Caylith. I would never hurt you. I love you.”

  “Come lie with me, Kevan.”

  “I think I should not, Cay, not tonight.”

  “I will not hurt you.”

  He graced me by laughing. “We still have two days together, and two nights. Let us try to make it last a long, long time.”

  “All the more reason to stay here by my side. Please.”

  “Will you promise to be well-behaved?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I must leave again.”

  “Where did you sleep last night, Kevan?”

  “In my brother’s room.”

  His twin Shawn had gone to Éire to attend the wedding of my best friend Brindl—his old friend, too. “But why?”

  “You told me you are trying to follow your priest’s words. I know how hard it is to hold back. But let us try until you are sure.”

  “Then why did you…touch me a while ago?”

  “Some things are hard to hold back. Others are impossible.”

  I saw by the wavering candlelight that he was sad again, just as last night when his tears touched my mouth. And then he stood up straight, blew out the candle, and left the room…

  * * * *

  “I found the sassy redhead—I could not believe me luck, Michael.”

  I was still lying in a sensuous half dream, and the sudden interruption annoyed me.

  “I had been sent to keep me eye on the strangers, and I struck out for the coast. Me boys and I found the head of the gentle River Lagan, there in the still little cove. Then we saw their currach. Its sail was all orange and rose somehow, and I tell ye, lad, it had a magical look about it. If only I had known, Michael, it was made by your very hands!

  “The MacCool boys, your own brothers, had been following the currach’s progress up the coast for two days now. We could read the clan’s fire signals at night, but I did not believe we would find the strangers so easily. Were they asking to be caught?

  “T hey were a puny bunch, no more than thirty. Sure enough, an’ that short, scrawny, redheaded girl was the very head of them, would ye believe?”

  It was the voice of the shipbuilder Michael, translating almost at the same time as his cousin Liam spoke. He was sitting in a squat position while Liam walked about the deck, hands now on his hips, now waving and gesturing. This was as close as I would ever come to hearing Liam speak my language, and in spite of my irritation with him, I could not help but listen.

  He was wearing a light woolen léine tucked up into a plain leather thong. The tunic itself was a natural light brown, and the long, trailing sleeves were a combination of colorful checks and stripes. His footwear seemed a cross between boots and leggings, moulded to the shape of his calves. I noticed that he carried no shillelagh as he once did.

  Liam’s hair was shorter now than I remembered, less than shoulder length, and the frizzled ends he had affected were gone. I had always liked the way the auburn streaks fell from the crown of his lighter brown hair in waves onto his forehead. I also liked his shorter mustache, the way it framed his sensitive mouth. I felt like reaching out and touching his short, downy beard…What was I doing?

  I turned my head away from him and watched the flapping and swelling of the longboat mainsail instead of his impudent face. So to him I was “short and scrawny,” was I? The ill-bred lout.

  Michael’s translation continued, and I snapped my attention back to hear what Liam had to say, all the while contemplating the wind-swollen sail.

  “She stood on a high rock, looking all boldly about
, and she saw us. Not that we wanted to hide, ye understand. It were best they knew right away that we meant no harm—at least not yet. An’ sure, if they attacked us, they would feel our spears up their bums. So we came up on them slow and easy. I told me boys, ‘Far enough,’ and we stopped well short.

  “The redhead said something to her people, and they lifted their dark crosses to us, as though in worship. They must have thought I was the pagan priest, for they shouted his name—‘Pádraig! Pádraig!’”

  I was dumbfounded. The fool thought I had mistaken him for Father Patrick? Not likely! It seems that Liam and I had misunderstood each other from the very instant we met, and the situation had hardly improved since.

  “She said a word—something like ‘kotch-len,’ and I thought it must be her name. Caitlín. So I told her me own. Me lads repeated our name—“O’Neill,” though some were Murphys and a few other cousins. Then we sat and waited to see what these strangers would do. She stood on the high rock and spoke with her mate, a man all tall and pale…”

  My mate? Did he mean my armsman, Gristle? Liam continued to talk in his lilting language, and I stubbornly continued to regard the mainsail.

  “They must have decided to show us their spunk, for the redhead left her rock and approached us, all bold an’ sassy as ye please, and she pointed to Ian’s wounded arm. He held it out, and she poured something on the bloody gash. Would ye not guess, the festering dried up in an instant, and the wound disappeared before our very eyes!

  “The druid Loch had warned us, these strangers would try to sway our minds. But they did not tell us the strangers were druids, too! The girl was sure and true a priestess, more powerful even than Loch, for I never saw him heal a man.”