“Remember me?”
Glittering blue eyes turned to look at him. Her eyes were almond shaped, almost like a cat’s. “How could I forget? You’re so compelling.”
Brastias smiled as he sat down opposite her. “How is she doing?”
“Better. Stronger every day.”
“How much longer before she returns to us?”
The witch blinked. “Not sure really.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure?”
“What exactly do you think I mean?”
The witch’s vagueness caused the hairs on his neck to rise. He didn’t like this one bit. “Is she safe?”
The witch hissed at the insult. “Of course she is. Safer than if she were with you.”
Brastias glared at the witch. “Really? And how is that possible when you are here and she is wherever you left her? Alone.”
Perhaps it was the look in the witch’s blue eyes or the way she didn’t answer him, but it suddenly became clear.
“She’s not alone, is she?” When the witch didn’t answer, he grabbed her hand. She snatched it away as if he were on fire. She stood quickly. “Be well assured that she is safe. And soon she will return to you. You’ll be able to find me at the village from time to time should you need to get an actual message to her.” She tossed a few copper coins on the table and stormed out.
“What the hell happened?”
Brastias looked up at Danelin. He shook his head. “I don’t know. But something’s going on.”
Danelin sat down as the barmaid left the witch’s food on the table and scooped up the coins she left. “What?”
“I don’t think the witch is taking care of her. It’s somebody else.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think she’s safe?”
Brastias thought about it a minute, listened to his gut. “Yes. I think she is.”
Danelin seemed surprised by that. “Then why do you have that look on your face?”
“Did you see the way she ran out of here? Like I had the plague or something.”
“Who? The witch?”
“Aye.”
“And this bothers you because . . .”
“Well . . . it’s rude.”
“Uh huh.”
Brastias growled at his second in command. “Shut up.”
* * *
Fearghus turned the page of his book with one of his talons. He never bothered to read the story about his grandfather, Ailean, before. But Ailean spent most of his life as human. And lately, Fearghus began to wonder what that was like.
Completely engrossed in the chapter about Ailean and three bar wenches, he didn’t know Annwyl sat down beside him until she pushed herself up against his side, near his wing. She brought wine, cheese, bread, and a book. She didn’t say a word, just began reading and occasionally drinking or eating.
Fearghus watched her. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“No talking tonight?”
She smiled softly. “No. Not tonight.”
“Good.”
Tonight he didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to read his book and enjoy Annwyl being beside him.
He didn’t know when he fell in love with her. It might have been when he first saw her outside his cave, fighting for her life. Or when she yanked his tail. Or possibly when she swam naked in his lake. In the end it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter when he fell in love with her. All he knew was that he loved her now. And would love her until his ancestors called him home.
He thought of the too-short life span of the humans. Or, at least of his Annwyl. Even if she survived the Sibling War she still wouldn’t survive as long as Fearghus. The thought of living without her cut him like a lance through his heart. A very selfish part of him wished he could walk away from her. Leave her to live her human life with some human male. But when he looked at her, he realized that wasn’t possible. She dipped her forefinger in the chalice of wine, leaned her head back, and let the wine drip into her open mouth. He shook his head at the woman’s overt silliness. Still, he couldn’t help but think about that mouth of hers exploring his entire body. That finger running over his shaft and wiping the fluid off its head.
Annwyl put her finger in her mouth and sucked it clean. Without meaning to, he gave a little moan and she turned to look at him. Oblivious, she winked at him and went back to her book.
There was one thing he could do, but it risked too much and could lose him everything. He shook his head again. No. The queen would be his last resort. She was always his last resort.
The air shifted in front of her as the blade slashed by her throat. With a laugh, she danced back several steps and brandished her two swords. He attacked and she blocked the move while she swung out her leg, aiming for his groin. He stopped her, catching hold of her ankle, then flipping her up and over. She landed face down but forced her body up and moving before he could get his hands on her.
Annwyl really did have herself to blame for this. Throwing out “If you can take me, you can have me” before their swords clashed was, in retrospect, probably a bad idea. She really should stop challenging the man but she had to admit that she did enjoy a good fight.
Her father always accused her of making everything difficult. Perhaps he was right. If she wanted the knight, she could have easily taken him. From the time she walked up to him that morning, he had been more than ready. She knew it and he never said a word to her. But she realized now that she liked the challenge. She liked making him work for it. And work he did.
He knocked one of her swords out of her hand, so she backhanded him, causing the big ox to stagger away from her. She tried to charge past him, but he reached out that long arm and grabbed her. She struggled to get away from him, but his ironlike grip held fast. He pulled her struggling body into his chest with one arm. With the other he twisted her wrist until she dropped her sword.
“Seems, my lady, that I’ve got you.”
“Bastard!”
“Now I guess I can have you.”
“Let me go!”
“You made a bargain, my lady.”
Annwyl growled in frustration, loving the feel of his arm around her, his hard body pushing into her back.
He forced her up against a tree, her back still to him. He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “I’d hate to think the future ruler of Dark Plains would not keep her promises.”
Then he ripped her leggings off.
Hours he spent creating the spell that would drag Annwyl from her protective cocoon with the dragons right to his lair. Days he spent gathering all the necessary ingredients. He even had to sacrifice one of his favorite acolytes who, tragically for him, was a virgin.
But the virgin blood opened the doorway between space and time. And that’s when he saw her. Stark naked and astride some male. She rode him as if he were a favored stallion, her hips grinding against the man’s body. Hefaidd-Hen’s view took in her back and he could see her muscles flexing as she came closer and closer to release. He could see the sheen of sweat on her tanned skin, the sweat drenched hair draping across her rippling muscles. He could hear her moans and cries of pleasure. Hefaidd-Hen’s fingers neared her, about to touch her flesh. She was nearly his. But Lorcan burst in. Stormed in, actually. Pushing about his acolytes, demanding Hefaidd-Hen’s immediate response to his presence.
With his concentration broken, the doorway slammed shut and the girl slipped his grasp. He roared in anger.
And Hefaidd-Hen turned all his fury toward the Butcher of Garbhán Isle.
* * *
Fearghus snatched Annwyl’s naked, sweaty body protectively to him and sat up.
“Wait. Don’t stop.” He’d never gotten the stubborn, demanding, insatiable wench that close to begging before, but he had to ignore her. Something wasn’t right.