Chapter Twenty-Seven
What I Fancy
Aedan, April 26, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
Aedan stared, sightless, at the bare wall of his new study, taking long draughts from his flagon. A dark frown stole across his face. He was setting off for Pale on the morrow with all his gallowglasses, to return in time for Beltane festivities. The whey-faced queen may have plundered his home and heart, but not his might. He’d hack through the place from dawn to dusk and raze it to the blasted ground. And may the Lord help those who’d stand in his way.
He blinked at the soft knock on the door, and the world shifted into unreality at the flash of long, golden hair. But it was only Goldie. Too weary to care, he’d given in to Kian’s urgings to let her remain at Benburb. His brother had argued she’d come handy when his need returned. Aedan scoffed and slugged another draught. She’d come handy many a time, though not to him.
“M’lord.” The girl closed the door with a coy smile.
He set down his flagon with a soft thump. She’d painted her face and dropped her neckline to reveal the high rise of her breasts. Her firm body bounced as she strode toward him like a hound eager for her game.
“I never thanked you, m’lord—” She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a practiced silken timbre, “for bringing me here. And I am glad to be of service to your men.” She grabbed a strand of her heartbreaking hair. “A strong and handsome lot they are.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Hair or not, nothing stirred in him at the sight of her. And nothing would.
“What is it, Goldie?” He fingered his flagon. It was nearly empty.
She gave him a twitchy smile. “You alone have not come to my chamber, m’lord, yet I keep my bed warm for you each night.”
He studied her in the light of day. In truth, she bore no resemblance to his Neave. His Neave. When would it end—this miserable brooding, this depleting, unendurable longing? Damn it all to hell. The harlot had contented him once. Why not now? Better a woman’s caress than wasting in drink.
Aedan trained his gaze on her. “Why wait for the night?”
“Why indeed?” She raised her brows, deftly undoing her laces. “What d’you fancy, m’lord?”
What I fancy you cannot give.
He glanced at her lips, plump and berry-stained. “Get down on your knees, a pheata.”
An uncertain smile creased the corner of her mouth.
“There’s space enough for you under my bureau.”
She tilted her shoulders, and her neckline fell to reveal her breasts. Like the rest of her, they were firm and bouncy, tips taut and rouged.
But no fire burned within his loins.
“My bed awaits your pleasure, m’lord.” She cupped her breasts, teasing and stroking. “Won’t you come to my chamber?”
Such a thing used to bring him to full readiness. He took the last draught from his flagon to fill the bottomless void inside and pointed to the floor. “You asked what I fancy, a pheata.”
She pulled hard on a strand of hair, uncurling golden threads of silk. “If it please m’lord.”
Was that chagrin misting her eyes as she squeezed into the space at his feet? He leaned back and closed his eyes—the lass came to offer pleasure, so pleasure he would take. Did he mind that she would find him deficient? He did not. He minded very little these days.
As she rubbed his placid flesh, he conjured Neave’s wrists tied above her head with a long cord, her pink tongue running along her lip, her sky-blue eyes smiling into his. Not into two cold, watery cavities of Tiernan O’Donnell.
He opened his eyes and twined his fingers in Goldie’s hair, but it was her hair, mocking his ineptitude in all its golden splendor.
“Look upon me, a pheata.”
The lass peered at him, tending his impediment with her mouth, hands, breasts. But it was no use. They must have arrived at the same conclusion, for she abandoned her task.
“Does m’lord find me lacking now?” She dropped her gaze, voice low and shaky.
He took her by the hand and drew her up to stand.
“Goldie—the name suits you, a pheata.”
“Does it, m’lord?” she squeezed out, face flushed, eyes glittering.
He softened his voice. “I’m far too gone in drink, Goldie. No man of sound mind would find you lacking.”
Her smile grew impossibly bright against her trembling chin. She gasped and dropped her face into her hands.
Christ. “Come, a pheata.” He rose, swaying. “Haven’t you had your share of incapacitated drunkards?”
She stood before him—a desolate girl, confronted for the thousandth time with her fate’s rotten hand.
“Begging your forgiveness, m’lord, since when does drink incapacitate you?”
A worthy question, but not one to be given voice. He shook his head. “Goldie—”
“I wished only to please you...” She rubbed her eyes, smearing coal all over. “Like I had when you—” Her gaze fell on the floor between his legs. Abruptly, she looked up. “You! With your honeyed words, ardent ways, and vulgar piles of shiny coin! But I took no coin for my Aedan’s love! They said I was a fool, naught but a stand-in—” She clamped her fingers over her mouth, remembering herself.
A ray of sun pierced through the window and touched on her eyes. They burned with an incurable affliction.
“Men unmask themselves when given leave with women, but the flesh heals. Yet you’d come for my heart!”
Aedan raised a hand in warning, but the girl had crossed the threshold.
“Didn’t you know it, m’lord? Or are you so entirely blind and deaf to the world outside yourself? Send me back, then, so you don’t have to witness the ruin you’ve wrecked!”
He sank down on his chair, unseeing. Another straw, and he’d collapse in a motionless heap.
“M’lord...?” A whisper of hope and agony mixed with fear.
He stood, staggering, and picked up Goldie’s gown from the floor. Then he dressed her, tied her laces, and wiped her tears, coal, and rouge with his handkerchief. He bent readily when she raised her face to kiss him. And he nodded and said something gentle as she stroked his face and begged forgiveness for her indiscretion.
Reaping in winter what I sowed in autumn.
Her breath hitched when he pulled free of her embrace. “Unburden yourself to me, m’lord. Like you used to do.”
He swayed with drink and fatigue—he had naught left to give.
“You need not indulge my men,” he muttered, on the brink of tumbling. “I’d not removed you from one brothel to install you in another, Goldie. My brother fancies you. Petition him for concubinage next you find yourself in his embrace.”
Pale as a sheet, the girl dipped her head and headed to the door. She turned at the threshold, affecting a smile, her voice thin and shaky. “Gratitude for your counsel, m’lord. I’ll not disturb you again.”
He balled his hand into a fist after she left. But before he could knock himself unconscious, the floor rushed up toward him, dark and beckoning.