Chapter Thirty-One
Among Other Things
Neave, May 8–15, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
I’d not gotten a winkas I lay on my narrow bed, haunted by the visions of Aedan growing despondent and hurling something against the hut’s crumbling wall, then slamming the door and riding away. But by the time the waning moon had reached its zenith, I’d convinced myself he was still there, waiting for me.
Soon as my husband left at dawn to tend to clan affairs, I rode to the abandoned hut.
The sky grew changeful as I crossed into Tyrone—now clear and bright, now dark and foreboding. Yet flowers bloomed unconcerned amid the emerald grasses: golden buttercups and marigolds, blue squills and sheep’s-bits, pink clover and fragrant thyme. Their sweet aroma flooded me with hope. Untroubled by the bursts of darkness, wrens, thrushes, and finches sang their May calls, wild and carefree. Their songs filled me with longing. But my reveries vanished the moment I reached the abandoned hut—no horse stood hobbled beside the lush trees, no footsteps disturbed the plush carpet of grass.
I dismounted and tethered my husband’s unremarkable sorrel to a willow.
Eyes burning, I ran my fingers over the gnarled door—Aedan’s hand touched it when I ought’ve been here and wasn’t. The rusted hinges groaned as I pushed the door open, and my mind raced with images better confined to the past. Unblinking, I stared at the familiar wall. Would he come now if I disrobed and unplaited my hair? If I waited for him, shivering and athrill by the rough stones? An illicit tryst gone awry, a stirring love game turned fatal. I bit my lip to stay the tears and stepped to the cold hearth that reeked of hopelessness and despair.
The sight of the small bed, shoved into a corner brought me up short. Gone were the tattered homespun, the moldy straw. The new covers were coarse but neatly made, save for the heavy rumpling at the edge. I sank into it and closed my eyes, conjuring up Aedan’s warmth. Did he sit here yesterday, hoping, yearning, waiting?
I said I’d burnt all his letters. I told him to let me go.
I couldn’t swallow past the mounting lump in my throat. What a miserable fool I’d been to have come here! He’d not waited, nor would he return. Why would he? Letter or no, he had a comely young wife at home, warming his bed and carrying his child. A child I could never give him—one that would foster peace between Ireland and England. My heart squeezed with the implacable truth—neither would he want me for a concubine after our Beltane encounter. What chieftain would keep a quarrelsome, bitter woman for pleasure? He’d had the bed made with one purpose—to sully what now belonged to Tiernan O’Donnell.
I wiped my eyes and stood. The fog had cleared, and I’d none to blame but myself. Only the blind couldn’t see—while his marriage had been compulsory, mine was voluntary. I could have still been with him if not for my recklessness. As his concubine, I could have held sway over my fate. But by my own hand, I punished him for a crime he didn’t commit, and by doing so, inflicted on myself punishment I couldn’t bear.
Cold and numb, I bent to smooth out the bed cover, and a vision of Ciara and Fiadh awaiting in my husband’s bed in their unlaced shifts cut through me like a blade. A low wail escaped my lips, withered in the crumbling walls, died in the muddy dirt floor.
Shameful. Unbecoming. Pitiful. Even if I’d not wed O’Donnell, I’d never disgrace myself so.
I staggered to the door, then stopped, and returned to the bed. On a whim, I pulled out four long golden strands and dropped them into the pillow crease.
***
The sennight followingmy fruitless trip passed awash in unrelenting hope and fevered dreams. Even before returning to Tyrconnell, I knew I’d go back. It mattered not that Aedan had a wife, nor that I’d not be his concubine. I needed to see him like I needed air to breathe.
And I’d reasoned he’d understand I couldn’t meet him on the appointed day, not being a free woman. He’d know we’d have to meet another time. But when? The answer was only too obvious for his exacting mind—on the same day, a sennight thence.
After breaking my fast in haste, I rushed to the stables. The gods must have conspired to grant me this new chance, for my husband was still gone, expected to return in three days’ time. Or was it Aedan’s God of love and mercy who watched over me now?
It was a cool, misty day. The wind slapped my skirts against my legs as I galloped; it flapped my cloak, ruffled my braids. I drew the heavy fabric round me with one hand. The wind picked up, tearing at the leaves, bending helpless branches beneath the plummeting sky. I crossed into Tyrone when it darkened another shade. Indigo-gray. Steel-blue. It would soon rain. And he’d come to be with me. He’d be there, awaiting me.
Frantic with longing, I closed my eyes and let my mount carry me to him—
There it stood, the abandoned hunter’s hut. The sun rays caressed the mossy roof, colored the tall grasses bright emerald, sparkled every hue of the rainbow in the fragrant May blooms. And my Aedan waited inside, his hair flowing past his shoulders, eyes shining with blue fire. He lifted me in the air, spun me round, fastened me against his hard body. His lips tasted of warm honey, his hands on my waist were at once firm and gentle as he laid me on the narrow bed. He removed my gown, his mouth rediscovering my every curve.
“My Aedan...”
The exhilarating heft of him, the warmth of his skin, his hard, urgent need. Nothing mattered now.
“I’ll take you home, my Neave.” He smiled into my eyes after.
“But what of your wife?” I smiled back—she was of no consequence.
“I’ve annulled the marriage and sent her home.” He ran his fingertips along my jawline, steady and firm. “Never to return. And you’ll be my wife again like I promised, my Neave.”
“But what of my husband?” I laughed, scarcely able to contain my overflowing joy—he was of no consequence.
Aedan stroked my hair. “Don’t fret. I’ll put it all to right.”
“But what of our wee Aine?” I traced the shape of his heartbreaking face, wishing to touch my lips to every fingerbreadth of it.
He lifted a wry brow. “Our daughter is on her way to Benburb sure as you lie here in my arms. I’ve taken care of it all, my Neave.”
The sun shone brighter, the thrushes sang hymns fit for angels, and the light summer breeze caressed our faces with gentle kisses as we rode home together. Never to be torn apart again—
I opened my eyes, shivering in the biting wind that chilled me to the bone. No horse waited outside the hut.
My vision shattered into fragments, phantom laughter turned to ashes in my mouth, illusory smiles to dust. Knees wobbling, I dismounted and nearly took a tumble. I oughtn’t have worn my best kirtle and flaunted my disdain before the O’Donnell clan. I ought’ve found a way to slip out unnoticed.
My chest pounded with numb, crushing emptiness. I felt neither cold nor wind as I pushed the door open. It groaned in protest. You’re not welcome here. The cracked hearth, the ruined furnishings, the empty bed—a hideous place, bursting at the seams with sorrow. The dirt floor had turned to mud from the multitude of roof leaks. I staggered to the bed, careful to step round the worst of the puddles.
Then I stood there, still and unblinking. My hair strands were gone, and in their place—inside the same pillow crease—lay four chestnut ones.
My heart stopped, then fluttered like a bird, its wings beating against my ribcage. The hut came alive with thousands of hues I hadn’t seen before—the bright green of the moss adorning the roof, the rich brown of the earthen floor, the many hues of gray of the stone walls.
I picked up the strands with trembling hands and wrapped them round my ring finger, where my Claddagh used to preside. I’m here. My soul floated to the ceiling, light and breathless, skin singing with bright tingles. Come, my Aedan. I brought the finger to my lips, tasting salt. Come to me, a chroí.
Outside, it began to rain—a deluge that beat down the tall grasses, the old leaky roof. Plink, plink, plink.
I lay down, clutching the strands to my chest, and watched the raindrops hit the rotted table, fall to the dirt floor, seep from the cracked hearth. Then, the water filled the hut, warm and salty, and I drowned, drowned, drowned in it.
I woke with a start. The rain drops dotting the clouded window were drying in the sun. It had climbed to noontide, high and bright. A horse whinnied, and a man’s deep voice hushed it. Rich like ale. Heart pounding, I surveyed the rusty door hinges, the ruined floor, my dress. The mud had caked on my shoes and hem and lay scattered in crumbles across the linen coverlet.
An illicit rendezvous. A stealthy tryst. What was I to say? Forgive me for marrying your foe to punish you? Beg my forgiveness for not heeding my warning? We’ll never be together again, save for now?
I removed my cloak, smoothed my skirts, and stepped to the door, trailing my hem through the mud anew. Shameless adultery.
I backed away with a yelp when he kicked the door open, blade in hand—a tall, imperious peasant in rough homespun, his face concealed by a large hood, the incongruous gold of his torque glinting at his neck.
Forbidden. Clandestine. Doomed.
He sheathed his blade with a scoff. “That horse outside isn’t Fionna.”
“This homespun isn’t your saffron,” I mumbled.
His steel-blue gaze rested on me for a long moment before he spoke. “Why didn’t you come when I said, my Neave?”
Why, my Aedan, I was to seek the favor of my husband’s concubines.
Amid my unrelenting nightly visions that seeped into day and my demented need to see him after reading his true letter, I’d given no thought to our first unencumbered meeting. What would it be—shouting, talking, heartfelt apologies? I took in his large frame, muscular legs, strong hands. Had I fallen into another daydream?
“I’m here now,” I whispered. There would be little talking and less shouting.
He pushed me against the cold stone wall—the same wall—his rigid bulk as undeniable as his racing pulse. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
I struggled to wrench free; I strained to pull him closer. The head-spinning mixture of thyme soap, leather, whiskey, and him swirled round me, filling me with warm glow. Him. Unblinking, I stared into his pools of blue lest he vanish like an apparition. Shadows had settled beneath his eyes, and his cheekbones appeared sharper. His skin had taken on a ruddy tinge of a man fond of his drink.
I dropped my gaze. “I’d...come upon your letter. The one that was to reach me first.”
“Ah.” There was a new note in his voice—something between satisfaction and indignation. “You’d not burnt it after all.”
I glanced up. Wouldn’t he remove his hood?
“But you relished in telling me otherwise.” His words turned heated and frantic like my very blood. “And rejoiced in my torment.”
I bit the inside of my lip. “I thought I’d burned it...along with the rest.”
He grabbed my neckline, his hand cold and trembling. “What cheered you most, my Neave? My madness at learning of your marriage or at being forced into mine?”
My breath hitched at his touch, heart surged into my throat. I willed my mind to quiet. “You fancied me cheered? I tell you true—” I made to push him away. “I’d not read your letters!”
He pulled on my neckline with such force it fell open. My breasts spilled out—voluptuous, goose-fleshed, tawdry. My arms flew to my chest, dropped. Shame. Lust. Hope. I never belonged to myself with him. Only with him, was I truly myself.
His hair fell about his shoulders in all its chestnut splendor as he threw back his hood. His fingers skimmed and caressed, warm and steady. “You’ll get no reprieve for your candor, my Neave.”
He waited, uncertain, for my “won’t I, m’lord?” but something about his large hands on my exposed flesh made my ears pound. Denuded and abandoned due to his foolish pride, impaired foresight, careless acts. And surrounded by foes while he delighted in his lovely “ward.”
I jerked from his grip but only succeeded in scraping my left shoulder on the stone behind. The sharp pain killed lust and hope, laid bare shame.
“D’you fancy—” I dug my fingernails into his hands to pry them off, “I’m here to throw myself at you!”
He bent to my ear, shaking as if with fever. “Among other things.”
I slapped him so hard, he swayed. But before I could blink, he snatched my hand and brought it to his lips. Oh, how well I knew this blue twinkle, this lifted brow.
“Let go!”
But he was always faster than me. I’d managed half a step before he twisted both my arms behind my back and shoved me against the stone again, scraping my right shoulder. I scarcely felt it this time.
“I loathe you—” I choked out, shivering from the heat of his gaze, the answering flame shooting into my every corner, flooding me like a tide. “More than you could fathom!”
His lips at my breasts were warm and soft, barely there, his tongue—a hint of touch. Light as a butterfly wing, it fluttered so unbearably close. My chest arched toward him against my will.
He drew back.
“Not nearly as much as I loathe you, my Neave.” He smoothed a strand from my face with his free hand. Grabbed my chin.
I’ll not! Never!I pressed my back into the rough stone instead of toward him, the treacherous heat rushing into my chest, neck, cheeks.
His need was a wild thing, humming like a beehive, roaring like thunder. His kiss was unfamiliar, brutal and punishing, laced with pain and agony as he bruised my lips and took my breath away. As he held me in place against the stone, my breasts chafing against his homespun, his hand twining my hair.
I inhaled his scent. Brigid, his scent. Bright, shimmering tingles surged through me, engulfing me whole. He was the very air I breathed even if it had turned to peat smoke.
“I’m not...your Neave...” The words sputtered out, thin and choked. A flagrant tale.
In one swift move, he rent what was left of my neckline down to my navel. “Another falsehood, and you’ll enter Benburb unclothed. It would serve you right.”
His gaze darkened, and I didn’t know whether to weep or laugh, beg forgiveness, or urge him to relieve me of my gown and take me where I stood. He spared me the decision. My wrists fettered by his hand, body immobile against his bulk, he thrust his free hand underneath my skirts, slid it up my thigh.
I lurched, but it was too late.
My body pulsed and ached, breath came in swift, fevered gasps. Brigid, I’ve nowhere to hide.
He sank his finger into my overflowing warmth.
“Liar,” he growled at my neck. “Shameless liar.”
He twisted his wrist, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, there were two fingers, large and unrelenting, his thumb stroking apace with their escalating cadence. His every movement was impeccably tuned, flawlessly timed. I stepped each foot to the side, moaned his name. The climax, hard and shattering, swept through me, escaped my lips, surged into him.
“My Aedan...” A desperate invocation, a frantic plea. I would have sunk to the floor had he not stayed me with his palm on my waist.
Eyes blazing, he brought his hand to his lips and licked his fingers like he’d dipped them in honey. “Go on then, my Neave, tell me again you aren’t mine.”
He tossed me over his shoulder and headed to the narrow bed, and my future flashed before me, dark and crushing. I’d die of loneliness in Tyrconnell. I’d not recover from this. What cruel twist of fate made me hurl that blasted letter into my trunk instead of the hearth while raving mad in my father’s castle? It would have been a thousand times easier to live with the notion of him as the self-serving, heartless Earl.
“Let go, listen to me!” I screamed, kicking my feet on his thigh and raining blows on his back. “Put me down!”
He ignored me.
I twisted to wring free, and to my shock, he slipped and tumbled, releasing me to steady his fall.
Swiftly, I pressed my hands into the mud to stand, to flee, but he yanked me back with all his strength. My knee glided through the muck, and I slid and fell face first into his hard arousal. My teeth jammed into my lip. A metallic tang of blood rushed the tip of my tongue, spilled into my throat. Chest heaving, I licked my lips and looked up. The mud was everywhere: on my fancy kirtle, on his crude homespun, on my bare skin, on his burning face.
Earth, rainfall, blood—to humble his vainglory and purge my wrath. To blot out our sins and make us one again—if only for a spell.
He brought me up with him as he stood, then pushed me down on the bed. “Fancied you could leave me, did you?”
Breath quickening, he tossed my legs over his shoulders, my skirts billowing down. How could I fancy such a thing? Even dirty and shamefaced in this awful hut, he was all I wanted. True. Mine. His narrowing eyes, his warm mouth, his solid arms.
Outside, the sky darkened once more. His eyes turned wintry, mouth unfeeling, arms distant. And me—not even his concubine. A harlot cavorting in filth with a married man in disguise. And savoring every heartbeat of it. He’d achieved what he must have been after—I’d gone mad.
“You’ll be the ruin of me, my Aedan,” I whispered. “You’ll be the death of me.”
He pulled his homespun over his head, and I saw at last what he’d strung onto the leather cord over his torque—my Claddagh ring.
“If you’ll not be the death of me first.” He drove himself into me; my back arched with unbearable fullness, with breathtaking completion.
“You can never. Leave me. My Neave.” His words punctuated each thrust, hard and punishing, unconcerned with anything save laying claim. My ring beat a silent roll against his chest—time slipping away. Time—an indifferent, callous foe.
I drew him closer instead of pushing him away. “I never have.” My voice was a whimper as his love reverberated in the marrow of my bones where I’d yearned for him night after lonely night.
“I’m yours,” he breathed. “Say it, my Neave.”
He overwhelmed me thus: a dull ache radiated into my womb, an irrepressible desire escalated apace with his frenzied clip, the need for more of him mounted higher and brighter. I wished to fuse with him, to disappear into him—pleasure or pain, pleasure and pain—so naught could ever rip us apart again.
“You’re mine, my Aedan...” I whispered, the fever of being with him obliterating all that wasn’t him.
His clip heightened. “Louder, my Neave. Like you mean it in your heart of hearts.”
“Mine!” I screamed, wishing to weep with bitter sorrow, to laugh with unbridled joy.
He was my very life singing in my blood. He was in my soul, in my fingertips, in every strand of my hair. He was too much this way, more than I could take.
I bucked my hips.
He came to a halt, eyes narrowing to gray slits between rows of dark lashes. “Sore, are you?” His voice turned low and strained as he left me so abruptly, the separation dizzied me. “Does he take you every night, my Neave?” He spat, nostrils flaring. “D’you take your pleasure?”
My heartbeat climbed into my throat, pounding and exploding in stunned gasps. Would he have me do penance now? Owning to him, I’d done it in strides!
I gulped, parted my lips, but naught came forth.
He turned pale as a sheet, save for the bright red splotches flooding his neck. “D’you, then!”
My head swam as if with wine. “Pleasure!” I squeezed out through my quivering lips. My skin, suddenly too tight for my body, crawled about my flesh and sinew. “Pleasure—when you!— and your blasted gall-bitch-ward-wife—”
I was on my belly before I could finish, his implacable hands driving my hips upward.
“Don’t you dare!” I yanked free with inhuman strength and reached for his face with curled fingers. “I’ll show you sore—” I swiped but missed as he jerked away. I tried again, brushed my fingernails against his cheek. “Still think my warnings endless blubbering?”
Shaking like an oak in a deadly squall, he caught my wrist before I could make gouges. “Callous wench!”
“English lackey!” I thrust out my free hand.
He flipped me over again before I could strike.
“Spiteful bitch!” In one move, he pushed me down and threw back my skirts as I sputtered and panted. “You’ve earned more chastisement than I can mete out in a lifetime!”
Savagery, then! Savagery—to rid me of this incurable affliction.
“Do your worst! Pig-headed ox! Arrogant bastard—”
One iron hand pinning me down, his palm landed on my right buttock, hard and heavy. “This—is for fleeing Benburb against my wishes!”
The flame, bright and steady, surged from outside in. Livid with my body, I made to squash it, but it only burned hotter.
His hand slammed down on the left side, leaving a burning trace. “This—is for taking my daughter from me!”
My sappy daydream flashed before me as an incomprehensible mixture of outrage and yearning turned me into a raging storm. Fast as lightning, I rolled over and sank my fingernails into his shoulders.
“This—is for returning to Ulster with a new wife!” I panted, rending his skin with relish.
He grabbed my hips in an attempt to flip me, but I braced my legs round his waist and raked him again. “This—is for having her take my place in your bed!”
He shook himself, open-mouthed and wide-eyed—I’d carved in the same place twice—then flicked me without ceremony.
“My Neave,” he rumbled. “This—is for marrying my foe for no reason other than to torment me!”
The impact was so hard, I flinched, my earlier spike of lust forgotten.
“I’ll flay you for this, my Aedan.”
The menace in my voice brought him up short—but only for a spell.
“I don’t doubt it.” He pushed down on the small of my back, holding me in place. “This—is for sharing his damn bed!”
He’d been my husband for over five years, and I didn’t know his true strength. He no longer held me down, and neither did he need to. His strength was his unflinching truth—the scorching blaze that roused in me the deepest longing and burnt me to ashes.
He didn’t stir when I dug my fingernails into his shoulders again. “This—” I choked on the foulness of my words, “is for putting your child into her... her belly instead of...”
I meant to flay him, or at least to ensure he’d feel me for days as I would him. And he’d oblige me, silent and immobile as he’d grown. He’d do the remainder of his penance with no protest. But the words spoken aloud had filled me with such sorrow that all heat drained out of me in a single tide, leaving me empty and deflated.
I buried my face in my hands. So this was our last meeting—an annihilation to remember us by. What cruel plight to revel in the bitter remnants of our love, in the cruel chastisement, given and taken, that still trumped anything I would find in Tyrconnell.
“I’m not yours,” I whispered. “And you’ll never again be mine.”
“Hush, my Neave.”
He pried off my hands, tucked a lock behind my ear—a sharp intake of breath, a pained wince. It was the strand turned white, come undone from beneath the braid I’d hid it under.
“Such talk will earn you more chastisement,” he choked out, “but I fear you’ve had your fill.”
The unguarded pain in his eyes betrayed another kind of truth. To her he would return. To her, heavy with his new child, the heir to the earldom. To his new wife, to plant gentle kisses and stroke her belly. And to him I would go. To my husband, whose sole remaining purpose for me was payback for his failed revenge, for his unceasing humiliation. And there, in the bowels of Tyrconnell, I would wither to a shadow, the reverie of this hour my only sustenance. A glum, unrelenting atonement with no hope of redemption.
But I needed not rush my fate yet.
“Have I, m’lord?” I dropped my gaze to hide my tears, let my knees fall apart.
I welcomed him as he pressed my thighs into the straw mattress. Harder, a chroí. I raised my hips to meet his every thrust. Make your claim before I lose you forever.
“We’re wed in God’s sight, and upon my word, you’ll be my wife again in men’s, too, my Neave—” His breath grew ragged and heavy as he rocked me against the coarse sheets, the rustling mattress, the wailing bedframe. “Until then—” He pulled so far back, I almost lost him, “you’ll be my concubine.” He bored into me hard, making me scream. “And if you’ll not be my concubine—” he withdrew completely, “then, you’ll be my illicit lover—” His advance was so powerful, I dug my fingernails into his shoulders, unthinking, but his pace only escalated. “And if you’ll not be my lover—then you’ll be my whore... Fancy it a love game, a rún...”
Concubine, lover, whore—not a wife.But this was no game. And men’s sight was the only one passing judgement in this world. I forced this down. There would be time for sorrow yet.
“You’ll come home with me, my Neave—” he breathed, seeking his release, giving me mine, “willingly or by force...for I’ll drag you to Benburb if you fight me...in your ripped gown...for all the world to see your beauty...”
The bed moaned beneath our weight, lonely and woeful.
“You belong to me, and I to you,” he growled, reckless of his strength, filling me with his brilliant presence to the rim. “You’re mine, my Neave, mine alone, and you’ll always be mine, and I yours. Always and forever.”
Our climax hit us like a tempest. Merciless, pounding, unending. Fleeting.
He rolled off, panting, half-mad, and I turned on my side, toward the cracked hearth. How could I go back now? How could I bear it?
He scooted down. “Christ...” His warm breath caressed my chastised skin. “Are you in much pain, a rún?”
I twisted my neck to find two pink impressions of his palm across my pale backside. It didn’t hurt, in truth, only burned—less and less so by the moment—not unlike our love games of old. I turned away. “I’m not, a chroí.”
His featherlight kisses grew heavier as they descended. “I’ll make amends, a mhuirnín. I’ll make it right.”
From the somberness in his voice, he wasn’t talking about the chastisement. Yet he made good on his promise. My brilliant lover, the love of my heart, my Aedan. He made me fly. He made me drown. He made me whimper with pleasure. The dark, lonely months melted away.
But this, too, was a short-lived distraction. For while we may have vanquished his ill-conceived trip and my reckless betrayal, words uttered in the grip of passion held no water. I, Neave of the clan McConway, wed to the King of Tyrconnell, would be neither a concubine, nor an illicit lover, nor a whore of the King of Tyrone, the Prince of Ulster. And neither would I elope with him to Benburb in my ripped gown or otherwise.
For even if I were mad enough to contemplate such shame, naught in this world would make me leave my babe—our daughter—in Tiernan O’Donnell’s clutches.