Chapter 11 #3
“No lesson,” he smiled, prying the jug from her fingers and raising it to his lips. “I merely thought it might entertain you, my lady – that it might please you, as I have sworn to do.”
“So you have.” Her free hand drifted up, the tips of her fingers trailing down his doublet, playing with the brass buttons, and his stomach tightened painfully yet agreeably at the coolness that flooded through his chest at her touch. “Perhaps I should tell you a story.”
“Perhaps you should,” he said, throat dry, as one by one, she undid the buttons, one by one, her fingers drifting against his chest and his stomach as she went.
“Perhaps,” she said, low and humming with something that sounded a lot like desire, and Locke licked hungrily at his lips. “Perhaps, while I strive to think of one, you might help me with my gown. I should like to slip into something a bit more comfortable, if it pleases you.”
“Oh, I imagine that it will,” he said, then stole another sip of whiskey before setting it aside, reaching around her back with his unbound hand to loosen the ties of her gown, his fingers brushing against her spine.
“What a dutiful husband you are,” she whispered, and his fingers stumbled a little as they worked their way down the neatly-knotted ties of her gauzy gown when he felt the shiver of her breath against the shell of his ear.
“I shall tell you the story of the jealousy of Emer, the wife of Cúchulainn – unless you, scholar that you are, are already familiar with the tale.”
“Believe it or not,” he said, nose nuzzling against the smooth column of her throat. “I do not think that I know this story, my lady.”
“I think that you are a liar, Lord Locke.”
“Only one way to find out,” he said, lips brushing against her skin as he spoke. “Tell me, and we shall see.”
“Very well.” The sleeve of her gown slipped off her right shoulder, and he sucked in a breath, the sight of her skin gleaming in the soft glow of the lantern-light.
“Emer was married to the great warrior Cúchulainn, and though he had taken many lovers, Emer never worried, for she knew his heart remained loyal to her, and that she outshone even the brightest beauties that éire had to offer, for she had been blessed by the gods with six great gifts – pulchritude and song, eloquence and needlecraft, fidelity and wisdom.”
“Pulchritude?” Locke murmured, his mouth intent on exploring the curve of her bare shoulder. “Such fine language.”
“Well, I am speaking with a scholar the likes of which éire has never before seen,” she said, and he grinned again, face pressed against her skin.
“Emer never once cared that her husband had known many lovers, until Fand. It began one day as he and his men set out to hunt by the river, each one desiring to slay two birds, so that their wives might adorn their gown with the feathers of the birds. One by one, the men brought down their prey, all save Cúchulainn, who was determined to kill the largest, most beautiful of birds to present to his wife, so that she might have the most glorious gown of all.”
Locke pulled back slightly, his fingers moving to her other shoulder, easing the loosened sleeve of her gown down her arm. Oisín’s beard, she was lovely. “I would slay,” he said, a little breathless, “the most magnificent bird in all the world for you, my lady.”
She smiled, silver eyes dark with hunger, with wanting. “How quickly you have made your peace with being wed to a monster, Lord Locke.”
“Any monster that looks like you can have my soul, and gladly, my lady.”
She laughed quietly, her head tipping back, hair tumbling down her back as his lips latched onto her bare shoulder.
“It was then that Cúchulainn spied them,” she said, and Locke noted with no small satisfaction that she was as breathless as he.
“Two birds of impossible stature, with sun-bright wings, huddled together in the branches of a rowan tree, joined together by a slender golden chain, their luminous voices lifted together in song. Cúchulainn drew back his spear, eager to strike, but Emer caught his sleeve. ‘Husband,’ she warned. ‘Do not slay such creatures. Their song is not of this world.’ But Cúchulainn was determined to honor his wife above all other women, and thus cast his spear at the birds high in the tree, piercing their wings with a single throw.”
“I see,” said Locke against her skin. “The lesson you wish me to learn – always, without question, heed the orderings of one’s wife.”
“Very good, Lord Locke, that is exactly the moral to take away from this little tale.” She turned her head, her nose brushing against his, then gasped as Locke’s kisses along the side of her neck became more insistent, more demanding, her unbound hand reaching up to thread through his hair.
He made a low sound, then nudged her back, gently yet firmly, down onto the soft bed of furs and linens, their joined hands pinned together above her head, entwined in her silken red locks, his free hand bracing himself above her as he stared down into her silver-dark eyes.
“And?” He said, chest heaving. “Then what happened?”
“All sorts of horrible things,” she said, breathless and flush-faced. “But Cúchulainn betrays Emer with Fand, and abandons his wife, until eventually, Emer travels to the other-realm in search of her wayward husband, accompanied by fifty women with long, sharp knives.”
“That sounds like my last summer solstice.”
“Indeed,” she said, nipping at his mouth. “What an interesting man you are, Lord Locke.”
“Yes, I’m full of surprises.”
She smiled again, not at all soft, but hungry and sharp with promised delights.
“I hope so,” she said. “Emer finds her husband in the bedchamber of Fand, unclothed and playing at fidchell. Retrieves her husband Cúchulainn, and together they return home after drinking a potion of forgetfulness given to them by the famed druid, Cathbad, so that neither remembered the betrayal of Cúchulainn, or the jealousy of Emer.”
“Fascinating,” Locke managed to say as her hand freed itself from his hair, trailing down his body to play with the belt of his breeches, a tantalizing meandering. “Truly a fascinating tale, my lady. Well done. Can you manage that all right, or do you need my help?”
“You’re very eager, Lord Locke.”
“I am, yes, so eager.”
“To bed a nightmare?”
“Not just any nightmare,” he said. “My wife,” and then his lips were on hers, merciless this time, unrelenting, their bound hands entwined, fingers digging into one another’s skin in their urgency, their need.
He didn’t even notice as the lantern-light in the far corner of the tent flickered once, and then went out, shrouding them in shadows.