Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
As soon as he left the great hall Cath changed direction, heading directly into the seldom-used back passages used by the maids and sculleries, who lived in the very back of the stronghold.
Most slept in the garrison hall with their lovers rather than spend their nights alone, so he didn’t expect to encounter anyone.
He stopped outside Sheona’s room when he heard splashing from inside, and walked in without knocking.
"Och, Garia, I told you–” As she turned around, bare to the waist and holding a wet cloth over her large breasts, she gaped at him. “My lord.”
Cath seized her and carried her over to the small pallet, dropping her onto her back. “Bid me go, wench, for if I stay, I shall fack you senseless in a moment.”
“Stay.” A cunning look came into her eyes as she cast aside the cloth and raised her skirts, baring her naked quim. “I’m ever clean and ready for you.”
He could barely manage to unlace his trews, his cock had become so swollen and stiff, and he nearly spilled the moment he thrust inside Sheona’s soft, slick quim.
The need inside him, unlike any he’d ever experienced in the past, made him crave to fack the maid wildly, with words of deep affection piling up in his throat.
Savagely he bit his tongue as he took her, plowing into her as his body shook with unfamiliar emotion as well as desire.
She seemed not to notice, her eyes screwed shut and her mouth stretched wide as she squealed and begged him to go deeper.
Cath rubbed her pearl with his finger to assure her pleasure came before his own, and then finally roared as he emptied his balls inside her, pouring as if to drown her in his seed.
Sheona gasped and opened her eyes as he jerked out of her. “My lord?”
“’Tis naught, lass. Forgive me, and rest now.” He straightened his garments and walked out of her chamber before she could speak another word.
Cath made his way out of the stronghold without being seen by going through the underground tunnels, which led out into the forest. There he walked to one of the weathered, abandoned shacks where the original inhabitants of the island had salted their catches to preserve them for the long winters.
Inside the shack he lit a lamp and squatted down in the center of the dirt floor.
Placing his hands on either side of him, he murmured a few words in Fae language.
The dirt paled, turning to crystal beneath his boots as bands of copper-violet power rippled through the ground.
The scent of icy fire enveloped him as the old magic awakened, and spires of liquid silver shot up all around him to form curving, reflective walls.
His skinwork loomed large and dark on every surface as his skin began to crawl in response to the spell.
“Dinnae interfere,” he told his protectors.
The jagged patch of ruby that formed in front of his face was a magical archive of sorts, prepared by Rune as his final gift to Cath after they had left Elphyne for good.
When Cath asked it a question about the mortal realm, it would show him an image it possessed as an answer, or remained blank when it had none.
It never offered any insight into the dark Fae, their magic or their whereabouts in this world.
He’d asked it repeatedly to show him where to find the cluet, with no luck thus far.
Still, for the first few years he had lived here without his sire, the archive had kept him from going mad and slaying anything that moved.
“What caused me to go to the maid just now?” he demanded.
The red surface shimmered with copper and violet lights before it showed him an image of Lucy hurrying toward Tair in the great hall.
“She did thus to me?” That he knew to be impossible, for while the cluet had made the laird’s wife immortal, she had none of the strengths or weaknesses bestowed by the clan’s halfling blood. “She cast no spell. She possesses no power over me. How could she cause such lust in me?”
The image changed, showing Cath sitting at the laird’s table with Lucy just a few moments before the unruly hunger had seized him.
As she spoke he noted the slender fingers of her right hand drumming on the table as was her habit, and then noticed his left hand tapping in the same manner.
When she frowned, he did the same. The flush that reddened her cheeks as she hurried off to her husband also appeared on Cath’s face.
I mirrored her.
He stood up, causing the archive to collapse back into the ground.
As he walked outside the crystal faded from view, once more becoming the unassuming dirt floor of the shack.
It seemed impossible to him that he could mimic Lady Lucy’s emotions, but her desire had become his.
He’d noticed he’d become keenly attuned to her moods since her arrival on the island, but this was the first time he’d shared them.
How could she infect him with her emotions?
Sorry. Don’t let it bother you.
As she’d said that, the laird’s wife had touched his hand.
She sometimes showed such harmless gestures of affection to those among the clan she favored, and while he found that inexplicable he hadn’t minded the contact.
By touching him while she experienced desire for Tair, could she have transferred her emotion to Cath?
No. ’Tisnae so simple. How could such happen to me after so long in the mortal realm?
He paced through the forest, his head filled with a tangle of anger, dread and fear.
His sire had warned him that he was not immune to the weakness from possessing a mortal màthair’s blood as well as dark Fae, but never once had any trouble manifested for him in the past. He’d always assumed Rune had been mistaken about him.
A chilly sweat inched down Cath’s spine as he recalled Lucy touching him. She had never once done so before that moment.
Of course he’d avoided contact with mortals since leaving Elphyne—he’d been almost entirely disgusted by them for decades—except on the frequent occasions when he chose a female as a bed partner.
He knew himself to be a cold-hearted man but a heated and enthusiastic lover, which now seemed for the first time incongruous.
Could his lusty bouts with the wenches he’d bedded been spurred on by absorbing their desire for him through touch?
Mayhap I’m as much a heartless brute as my sire.
He nearly walked into another man before he stopped and stepped back. “The fack.”
“War Master.” His expression dark, Sgathan made to go around him.
“Wait.” Cath caught him by the arm, and narrowly dodged the fist that came flying at his chin. “Hold, you stupit bastart. I need your coun–”
The seneschal’s other fist connected with the side of his face like a war hammer, flinging him sideways into an oak tree’s wide trunk.
He nearly lunged back at Sgathan as he staggered to his feet, and then saw his face.
He looked shaken and disgusted with himself, as if he’d lost some of his famous self-control for the first time.
“Do you wish end me, Brother?” he asked, striding up to him.
“No. You caught me in a mood. My apologies.” The seneschal folded his arms. “How may I serve, War Master?”
Cath saw how quickly he shuttered himself, and wondered if the burst of anger might have been telling of something far more dangerous. “Anger, ’tis a feature of your mortal weakness?”
Sgathan’s mouth twisted. “No. Like you, I’ve no mortal weakness. Dorchad received the greater part of our lady màthair’s blood when we shared her womb, as the druids we met ever claimed.”
“Magic folk may lie, you ken,” he had to point out.
The seneschal’s gaze grew stern. “They had no motive to do thus. What’s amiss?”
“Naught.” Cath dragged a hand through his hair. “You saw Ronan this morn?”
He nodded. “Aye, earlier. What of him?”
“He’s ever in a sour mood of late. The same today?” When he nodded he muttered his thanks and headed for the stronghold.
In the kitchens Ronan stood before three weeping maids, each one twisting their hands as he found fault with them.
“You’re to serve the men, Abby, no’ sit on their laps for fondling,” the cook said. “And if you two spill anymore platters or pottage I shall see you eat off the rushes for a moon, do you hear me?”
The three maids rushed to answer with “Ayes” and bobbed before fleeing the kitchens. Ronan then turned to Cath and scowled at him.
“If you want food you’ll need fetch it from the cold pantry,” he warned. “We’ve cleared the last from the tables and put it away.”
“I’m no’ hungry, Cook.” He put a hand on the old man’s neck, and expected a rush of emotion, but that didn’t happen. “My thanks.”
“Get on with you,” Ronan grumbled, but the tight line of his mouth eased.
Obviously he had been mistaken, Cath thought, so cheered by the experience that he whistled as he walked into the passage and headed toward the garrison hall. As he did he passed one of the maids scolded by the cook, and took pity on her.
“’Tis no need to weep, lass,” he told Abby. “Tell me which clansman plagues you during the morning meal, and I’ll deal with him.”
“Och, you neednae, War Master.” She sniffed and then smiled wanly. “’Tis my lover who put me on his lap. We ken better, but of late cannae help ourselves. I need only have a good cry.” She bobbed and went on, brushing her arm against his as she did.
Cath stared after her as embarrassment filled him, and tears began to slide down his face. “Fack me.”