Storm Maker [The Dawn of Ireland 1] Page 12

  Glaedwine spoke a few apt words in Gaelic, and Liam actually flushed. I thought he had already discovered that thorn, but he was wise enough to keep an air of innocence as he smiled blandly back at her.

  Later that same day, Brindl and Thom stood on the portal. I heard a quiet knock, and when I opened it I saw my closest friend and co-conspirator from our heady youth. We enveloped each other in a close embrace while Thom stood, his face suffused with red, somehow embarrassed to be here.

  “Brindie! I am joyed to see you. And Thom, I have missed your strong, quiet voice.”

  I should not have complimented him so directly, for now he seemed completely devoid of any voice at all.

  By now, all the furniture had been placed back on clean floors, and I bade them sit on the little benches. I made a mental note to find more benches right away, for it would be increasingly awkward to receive guests sitting with Liam on our newly woven bed.

  The day I left was the day these two attractive people had married, so I had not seen them in almost a fortnight. I looked closely at Brindl. Her sun-flecked eyes held the same warmth and humor as ever, but there was something—was it satisfaction?—that was reflected in her face. She and Thom had spent almost two years in a complicated juxtaposition as sword opponents mingled with close friendship. Now at last they had been able to release their long-bridled attraction.

  “I know you have both seen Liam, for he was the clansman who, er, guided us to Glenderry when we first arrived…”

  Brindl graciously filled in the blanks. “Liam, you give such joy to Caylith. I saw it from the beginning. Welcome.”

  Liam, who understood not a word, nevertheless understood her sincerity. He shyly reached his hand out to her, and when she took it, he raised it to his lips and bowed.

  Thom, by now recovered from his fit of awkwardness, held out his own hand. He and Liam clasped hands strongly and smiled at each other across the chasm of silence. Both young men were warriors, and I knew they would find a common ground soon enough, even without the ability to speak each other’s tongue.

  “Liam and I are betrothed,” I told my friends with no preamble.

  Brindl, bless her heart, looked up at Liam and smiled as radiantly as I had ever seen her smile. “I am glad, Liam,” she said. “One day we will be able to talk with each other.” Then she stood on tiptoes and kissed him on his downy cheek.

  For the second time that day, I saw Liam flush deeply. I was stunned, for never had I seen him even close to a blush. I knew then that I was beginning to sense more of the complex feelings that lay under the surface of this enigmatic young man. Do not ever take him for granted, I sternly told myself.

  We had no more visitors that day—or if we did, Liam and I were out on the river fishing for salmon and were not aware of it. I stood now with my cultivator poised over a patch of entangled grasses, still thinking back over the last few months, and I was warm in spite of the autumn chill.

  Outside of my mother and Brindl, the people I most wanted to meet Liam did not visit us that first week. Tending my garden, thinking about friends, I began to think about the little people

  One day, weeks after we had reached Derry, I had taken Liam in search of Jay Feather, his delightful daughter Magpie, and the rest of his large family. When we finally found them, I realized why they had not come to see us. They were deeply—very deeply—involved in digging dwarf enclaves.

  I already knew that they preferred their labyrinthine tunnels to be located in an area of trees, but thinly spaced trees instead of a forest setting. As they burrowed, they carefully dug around the tree roots, allowing them to keep plunging as deeply into the nourishing earth as necessary for vigorous growth. The finished effect would be roomy tunnels and caverns filled with strong, sinuous roots from ceiling to floor and thrusting somewhere deeply beneath.

  As they constructed their tunnels, they brought the earth up in a cart-like contraption attached to a pulley. Then they carted it in barrows to other locations where pilgrims needed soil, either for gardens or for defensive embankments. Their excavations uncovered rich minerals and gems and other treasures that they casually threw into other barrows, against the day when we would need treasure to barter for lands or favors on behalf of Father Patrick.

  We stood at a little distance watching the activity. When I spotted Jay Feather, I clasped Liam’s hand and guided him to where the little man stood, directing family members in some task.

  Jay stood somewhat shorter than I. He had the appearance of a man in his late-middle age, although by his own admission he knew not how old he really was. His short, well-shaped beard was gray mixed with brown. I had often wished his beard did not hide so much of his face, for he had all the stunning good looks of every dwarf I had ever met.

  “Jay,” I said softly at his back. “Have you forgotten me?”

  He turned around, laughing, his jaybird feather cocked at a jaunty angle in his woolen cap. “I knew you were behind me, Caylith, for I have felt your presence since early this morning.”

  We hugged warmly, and I said, somewhat unnecessarily, “You remember Liam.”

  Jay regarded Liam with his ageless, deep blue eyes. “Young man, you have caused Caylith no end of tears and smiles both.” His smile was as heartfelt as his words, and I saw that Liam responded deeply to my tiny friend. They clasped hands and looked into each other’s eyes, and that seemed to be sufficient for both of them.

  “Jay, where is—”

  “Caylith. This is SoothTeller.” I should have known that Magpie would read my thoughts, as usual, and tease me with the result. She seemed to pop out of nowhere, her red, dandelion-top hair standing at every angle, her jade-green eyes snapping and dancing.

  Magpie was as darling and attractive a woman as I had ever known. Although mature and long married, she had a certain girlishness about her, enhanced by her dusting of freckles and wide, easy smile.

  “I was waiting for you today,” she said in her wind chime voice. “I knew you would bring a special friend.”

  “Magpie, this is Liam,” I said. “He is soon to be my husband.”

  Magpie grasped both of Liam’s large hands in her own tiny ones and looked up at him, craning her neck to take in his large frame. “I already knew, of course,” she said. “I am very happy for both of you.”

  Liam stood looking down, his own mouth smiling as widely as Magpie’s. Anyone could see that he was utterly, completely captivated by her. I felt no stab of jealousy. In fact, I was deeply happy, for it had long been a source of pain to me that people seemed to hate and shun the little people, no doubt envious of their dazzling beauty. I wanted my friends to be close. So far, I could see that Liam had himself captivated the people I was closest to.

  I snapped out of my reverie, for a sudden, cold wind blew in from the lake and river, setting my hair to flying. The time was drawing close to Liam’s return from trench building, hungry for an evening meal. I gathered a generous number of carrots and onions for our stewpot and hurried inside.

  I had been afraid that routine would weaken our bond. But it happened that the predictable flow of days served only to bolster our feeling for each other. The evening meal was such a routine. Liam would come home each night before dusk, his days full of lifting and straining with the river rocks he and the other workers brought from the Foyle. Even tired, he would invariably try to help me with the meal, in case I thought he was somehow expected to prepare our meal, too. No matter how often I chased him from the fire pit, he was at my shoulder, stirring the kindling or testing one pot or another.

  Tonight was such a night. He stood behind me, his arms encircling my waist as I browned our salmon in the cook pot. He rubbed his downy cheek on mine and put his tongue into my ear. “Mmm,” he said, perhaps a reaction to the savory smell of the fish, or perhaps a prelude to exploring a bit further with his hot mouth.

  I turned in his arms and put my arms around his neck. “Shoo,” I said. “Go away.” But I said the words into his mouth, my lips
moving against his questing tongue. I pressed myself into the length of his body, feeling his rising passion. After a minute or so we pulled away from each other, but the strong attraction between us had already guaranteed a later repetition of our sensuous kiss.

  He moved to the washbasin and poured water over his head, then washed his hands. We sat on our twin benches and ate salmon stew, enjoying the meal and each other at the same time. Somehow we both managed to tell the other about our day while speaking hardly any words at all.

  That night he surprised me by pulling a mouth organ from a pouch at his waist. I had not known he could play as well as sing. In fact, Glaedwine was the only one I had ever heard play that instrument. My eyes questioned him, and he answered, “Glaedwine.” I nodded. Glaed had taught him, and perhaps he had also given Liam this little instrument to keep.

  I found out the next day that Glaed had been working alongside him on the perimeter defense, and the mouth organ had once belonged to one of his merry mercenaries. I already knew that Glaed and Liam had picked up quickly on each other’s language and had devised a way to speak quite intelligibly to each other. I envied their quick skill in communicating. Liam and I still relied on language of the body—although that was a long conversation all by itself.

  He sat on our bed and played the little, wooden, comb-like instrument, one hand holding it and the other fluttering and moving like a bird’s wing, creating the sinuous sounds. The tune was a ballad, I could tell, for it weaved a story. I was drawn to the narrative as a butterfly to a flower, and I sat near him, captivated, as he played.

  I made up a story, and I began to sing.

  Once upon a distant time

  I had a love, a love all mine

  and he played and he sang and he danced for me.

  And once upon a day gone by

  he stole my heart with a kiss and a sigh

  and he played and he sang and he danced for me.

  When the song ended, he set the mouth organ aside and reached for me. “Tá tú álainn, a chroí.” I had learned that bit of Gaelic easily. You are beautiful, my heart.

  No matter whether he played music or sang, it caused all my reserves to melt away, with much the same effect as wine had on some people. I let him lift and remove my léine and my undertunic, too, without even trying to conceal my breasts. They were swollen, the nipples stiff and ready.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, and his mouth headed straight for my breasts. Already I was burning and shaking in expectation. His mouth widened to envelop not just the nipple but a large portion of my breast besides. Without using his hands, he drew his mouth back off and seized the other in the same way, starting with almost the whole breast and slowly drawing his mouth off in a long, wet, sucking motion.

  By now, I was almost frantic with anticipation, and he had to hold my shoulders to keep my body still. “Stop it, stop it,” I cried, trying to break free. He grinned and released me as I bade him do. And I was surprised when he did, for it was actually the last thing I wanted. He slowly removed his tight breeches, sliding them partway down his long thighs and revealing his stunning body.

  By then, he had built up such an excited expectancy in me that I could not wait for him to remove his own breeches, and I started to pull them down before he could get them past his thighs. I jumped up and sat on his legs, frantically kissing and biting his thighs and his bum. He lay back and let me.

  I heard him say, “Póg mé,” and when I looked up at his face, I saw a smile playing around his mouth. Then I seized him with a fierceness I did not know I was capable of. I knew my nails were digging into his skin as I bit and sucked him. I spoke angry love to him, and I heard his moan just as the wave crested.

  Later, straddling him, I applied a healing potion to the wounds on his back and thighs. “This serves you right, you know,” I said, scolding him. As it often happened, he did not understand my words, but he had no doubt of what I meant. Laughing softly, he rolled over and embraced me again, pulling me down on top of him. This time, he started with my mouth, slowly, and moved his mouth to the hollow of my throat, his tongue trying to taste as much as possible. By the time he reached my pendulous breasts, I was stiff with tension, needing a release. He held me above him and let them hang into his mouth. I let him suck my nipples for a few minutes before I arched up in his arms and cried out, releasing completely.

  We lay closely embracing afterward. Somehow I was still on the verge of taut readiness, for his love play had tapped something deep in me. Bringing me almost to the edge and then putting it off had provoked me to the point of wounding his skin. And then his laughing about it made it worse, until I was ready to be rough with him again.

  I knew he could feel my entire body still trembling, and he put his mouth in my ear. I know not what he said—Tá tú mo rhós—but he began to lick my ear, and then his hot, wet tongue began to slide in and out of my mouth until I was moaning again.

  “Now, Caitlín,” he said, his voice husky, and again my swollen breasts became his playthings. He knew just when to stop sucking my nipples and seek every sensitive place on my body. At last I could put it off no longer, and I wrapped my legs around him and cried out again and again until I was completely spent.

  He had told me once, on board the Brigid, that he would kiss me in a thousand different ways. After that night, I stopped counting.

  Chapter 12:

  The Monster Within

  The next morning, I saw that the marks on Liam’s skin had disappeared. The healing potion had done its job. I lay next to him, running my fingers over the places where I had wounded his skin, thinking about what had happened.

  Every time Liam and I challenged each other—usually with our shillelaghs—the same feral hunger flared up as I had felt last night. His eyes would become a shade darker, his voice huskier, almost as though our combat were a kind of prelude to lovemaking. His kisses would become hungry bites. And last night I had finally unleashed my own fierce urges. He had not actually challenged me, but he had deliberately withheld my moment of pleasure and seemed to taunt me. Angry, I had fought against his willful neglect.

  I wondered whether I should apologize for the bite marks and scratches, but I knew I would not. I was glad somehow, for he needed to know some of the thorns that lay beneath the rose. I remembered the words he had murmured in my ear last night, “Tá tú mo rhós.” I knew suddenly what he had told me—that I was the rose. So he did understand a bit of my nature, after all.

  And I was just beginning to explore his own warrior ways, his half-wild impulses. No wonder, I thought, that he had never stopped long enough to build a teach, or to settle long enough on a patch of ground to call it home. How was he going to respond to the bally wall of marriage?

  I slid out of bed and back into my undertunic. First I opened the tinderbox and started a fire for our morning meal, and then I lit our solitary candle. I carried the water ewer outside and emptied it, then went to the river to fill it.

  This was my favorite time of every day—the hour or so before dawn, when the birds were only beginning to sense the coming warmth of the sun, when the morning star stood just above the tree line and its fellows winked out one by one.

  The trench Liam was working on, in addition to being a defense, would divert a part of the swiftly moving Foyle for our use, for its currents were almost frightening in their rush to the lake and to the sea beyond. I stood as close to the bank as possible, now naked, letting the cold river water swirl around my legs. I knelt in the reckless currents and washed completely, using the ewer to splash water over my hair.

  Without seeing him, I knew when Liam entered the river with me. I turned slowly and gazed on his lithe body as he stood, his head raised to the sky. I waded toward him, taking my time, enjoying him even before I touched him.

  “Dia duit,” I said, my voice husky.

  He tried out his new tongue. “Hello, I love ye.”

  Laughing softly, I reached up and traced his mouth with my finger. “Tá t
ú mo stoirme,” I told him. “You are my storm.”

  “Agus tá tú mo rhós,” he answered, telling me I was his rose, with the hidden thorn. He took my finger in his mouth, as I knew he would, and we stood that way for long minutes, until our mouths joined in a sweet kiss.

  “I would go with you today,” I told him.

  “With…me?”

  “Yes, I would see the new trench.”

  He smiled as if he understood me. I refilled the ewer and returned to our teach, leaving him to wash in the river. I decided I would wear my old training tunic, for its soft deer skin would be warm against the growing autumn chill.

  After morning meal, we went back outside to take care of our horses. We had quite a collection by now, four fine steeds. I wondered whether NimbleFoot was ready to try to mount Macha or Clíona, not knowing that he was not quite the size to take them on. I asked Liam, using rather graphic sign language.

  He laughed out loud and shook his head. Did that mean “No, NimbleFoot is not ready,” or did that mean “No, he will not succeed”? Or perhaps he meant to tell me that it mattered not, for we would welcome new livestock. I decided that his answer was the all-inclusive b’fhéidir—maybe.

  Together we had made an enclosure, a haggard, for dried grass, and now we stood throwing handfuls of fodder to them. I took a curry comb to NimbleFoot first, then Macha. I would comb the gelding Angus and my mare Clíona after I returned that morning.

  When he left to work on the bally defenses, I walked alongside him. Then Glaedwine approached from the other end of my river holdings, where he and my mother shared a small house. He and Liam exchanged greetings and a few more words besides. Then he tilted his beard down to me and shared his conversation with Liam. “We are more than halfway finished,” he told me. “Half the Glaed Keepers are helping.”

  “So it will take only eight or so weeks before the trench is completed,” I said. “Well before the winter sets in.”