Twice Upon A Time (The Celtic Legends Series) (2 page)

She felt a strange, hot flush rise up over her face
. She told herself that if this man had wanted to do her harm, he’d have done it by now. Certainly she had no reason to fear for her maidenhead. She had known since her first blood flow that she was destined for something greater, and no man could change the roll of fate.

“There will be no killing here,” she said.
“No man can lay claim to me.”

“Then the
men of these parts are all blind or fools.”

“The men of these parts know better
than to give me trouble.” She was too proud to tell him that she had not lived among the villagers since she was banished from the tribe seven years ago. Instead, she shrugged one shoulder, as if it didn’t matter. “I am my own mistress. I go where I will, say what I will. And I dance for whom I will.”

His low and seductive laughter ignited an unfamiliar heat
deep inside her.

She said,
“You’re laughing at me?”

“Nay, lass.”
He edged around the clearing, his sword gleaming dully in the growing dawn. “I’m pleased that you danced for me.”

Brigid felt the rise of her pride
. Did this creature think, just because he found her unprotected in the woods, that she would just fall into his arms? Nay, not Brigid of the Clan Morna, by the gods. “Listen to you. You’re like a rooster who thinks the sun rises just to hear the sound of his crowing.”

“You’ve a temper as fi
ery as your hair, wood sprite. Good. I like my women as bold as they are beautiful.”

“Tell me,
what would a king’s daughter be doing dancing for a common cattleman?”

“Bondswoman or kin
g’s daughter, a woman so full of passion must have a powerful need for a man.” He eddied one step closer. His bold gaze dared her to back away. “You did summon me here.”

“It’s a wonder your head doesn’t
swell to bursting. This meeting was not my work. It was yours.”

“My strength lies in my sword arm, not in magic. Had I the power to s
ummon such a one as you,
bean sí
, I would have done it long ago.”

Secretive tittering bubbled from the outskirts of the ring of oaks
, and suddenly she knew who had brought them together.

She
said, “There’s a bit of mischief afoot.”

“Be it mischief or not,
I’m glad of our meeting. I’ve a powerful wanting for you, lass.”

His words robbed her of s
peech. No man had ever uttered such sentiments to her. Even when she had lived among the tribe, ripening into a woman, no man had ever courted her with pretty words. She had been feared as much, if not more, than her own priestess mother. She remembered many a day working in the corner of her hut, endlessly carding or spinning wool, listening enviously, head-cocked, to the flirtations of the others just outside the wattle-and-daub walls. For all his boundless arrogance, this man before her was treating her like a woman and not like a carrier of a plague. Her heart swelled at being wanted, even if only for a swift tumble in the dew.

He murmured,
“What say you, woman?”

She glanced up. He had trailed a wide circle around her, like a warrior assessing the wiles of an unbroken horse.
She toyed with the herb sack hanging from her hip. Suddenly, she stopped and dug her fingers into the calfskin.
Foxglove.
The enormity of the discovery filled her with excitement. The key to the door of the Otherworld lay in her hands.

“Come,” he coaxed, h
is voice as soft as fur. “The day is fine and my blood as hot as fire. Lie with me in the dawn.”

She wasn’t listening
. Possibilities whirled in her mind. It would be glorious to go to the land of the
Sídh
, to live among the fairies. Perhaps her destiny lay therein and not in the silent loneliness of these woods. It would be glorious to belong to one world instead of forever living on the edges of two. All she had to do was coax this warrior-king to her side and then capture his soul.

She l
owered her eyes, as she had seen the other young girls do, when she was living in the village
.
She eddied around him, wary. “You’re a bold one,” she murmured, “to speak so plainly to me.”

“I won’t simper an
d grovel and spout false praise like a poor bard at a king’s table.”

“If your
loving is as blunt as your speech, sirrah, then you’ll have no more art than a bull.”

A grin blossomed on his face. “What the bull lacks in art, he makes up in other ways.”

Her steps faltered as color washed her cheeks. “Can you get your mind off your dangle for a moment?”

“It’s a dangle
no more, rather a sword at the ready.”

She glanced at the iron
sword lying against his thigh and ignored the other bulges of his body. “I wondered why a common cattleman saw fit to carry such a mighty weapon.”

“What matter? I wield it well.”

“Are you so sure of yourself?”

“I always get what pleases me, o
ne way or the other.”

She tossed her head
, willing him to come closer. “Would you take what’s not freely given to you?”

“
Nay, I make sure it’s given freely.”

She should be frightened
. He looked upon her as if she were a tasty morsel to nibble on before breaking the fast. She knew nothing of him and he stated his intentions plainly enough. A woman could lose her soul if she drew near such flames. But she knew it was
he
who should be frightened. For beneath her cloak she tugged at the ties of her calfskin sack and let the foxglove chain spill into her hand.

Such a chance as this came once in a hundred thousand lifetimes.

“You should not pluck a fruit before the branch willingly gives it up,” she warned, filling her palm with the knotted blossoms. He had wandered behind her. She refused to turn to him and thus show her fear. “The taste of unripe fruit grows sour in your mouth.”

“I like a bit of
tartness in my women.”

“Seems to me you’ve a belly full then, so you don’t need me.”

“At the sight of you
it’s like I’ve never touched a woman before.”

She turned her face to him as he rounded to her other side.
“You’re quick with the answers.”

“Has no man ever sung your praises?”

“Not in so sweet a voice. But I’ll listen to none of your deceiving. The emptier the drum, the louder the noise, and your rattling is deafening me.”

He threw back his head and laughed.
The sound echoed through the woods and startled the
Sídh
into silence. His laughter was a roaring bellow, fearless and full of mirth, the laugh of a high king or a war god.

His eyes sparkled when he looked again upon her. “I’d
wager a field full of cows that many a man has been bloodied from tangling with your thorn bush of a tongue.”

She tilted her chin, too proud to admit the truth, pleased nonetheless with his statement. “I
don’t see a scratch on you.”

“I am not like other men.” His gaze ran swiftly from her hair to her muddy feet. “As you, clearly, are not like other women.”

“You’ve only just laid eyes on me.”

“Before this is done, I’
ll know every sweet bit of you.”

An image flooded her mind, a forbidden, earthly image of the two of them wrapped in each other’s limbs, his muscular arm
s around her, his hips pumping against her spread thighs. She sucked in a swift breath as her body tingled with prickly heat from her scalp to the soles of her feet.

“Aye, lass.” His voice dipped low and throaty. “It’ll be better than you can imagine.”

In her momentary distraction, he had drawn closer to her, so close that if she reached out, she could touch the fine weave of his
tunic. Coming so close to this man was like drawing close to the sun. His presence blazed upon her. Every blade of grass, every drooping leaf, stilled in the clearing. She could no longer hear the patter of dew from the trees. It was as if the drops hung suspended in air, waiting for the meeting of these creatures of two worlds.

A thought flashed through her mind, swift and disconcerting. It was one thing for mortals of this w
orld and the immortals of the
Sídh
to converse; it was another altogether for them to reach across the veils and touch. Now that the worlds had drifted so far apart, surely such a thing went against nature; surely such an act would ripple the smooth fabric of life and have consequences beyond the moment. Hesitancy seized her. Her fingers froze over the chain of foxglove.

He
said, “Tell me your name, or I shall kiss it out of you.”

To
give a man your name was to give him a part of your soul. She felt the gossamer threads of her own web turning in upon her.

She said,
“I am called Brigid.”

“Brigid.”
He rolled the flavor in his mouth. “It’s a fitting name. The name of a goddess.”

Suddenly, the d
istant clang of monastery bells pierced the air. The clamor reverberated through the deepest shadows of the woods. The
Sídh
disappeared like smoke dispersed by a sudden wind. Brigid’s heart constricted.
Och, those wretched bells must not drive him away.
Her uncertainty dissolved. She seized his wrist and twined the chain of blossoms around it three times. She gripped the loose ends until the last echo of bells vibrated into silence.

It
was done. He remained, earthbound, before her.

Bemused, he turned over his hand and looked upon the bracelet. “What magic is this?”

“A chain of fairy foxglove.” The blossoms looked pitifully weak around his muscular forearm, too fragile a chain to bind such a giant to the earth. “You’re bound to me now. You must do my bidding.”

His chuckle jarred her ears. “You don’t need spells and flowers for that, Brigid. You’ve pu
t such a fire in my blood, that I’d willingly do your bidding, for no more than the price of a single kiss.”

The breeze gusted, lifting her hair from her nape and blowing a rogue strand across her check.
A new suspicion blossomed in her mind. She felt his breath on her head. He radiated warmth and strength. He smelled as crisp and clean as any newly-bathed mortal man.

He commanded,
“Look at me.”

The clouds above shifted, growled, and released a spattering of rain. With a quiver in her heart, she lifted her lashes to look upon him.

Something jolted her from within. White-hot lightning arced between them. Brigid curled her fingers over the chain of foxglove. The clear, silvery depths of his eyes were as familiar to her as the morning mists, as the expanse of the white-bright winter sky. She would have known this man anywhere, though she’d never laid eyes upon him before.

He murmured,
“What enchantment is this?” He scraped his finger down her neck to rest on a throbbing pulse. “Not a sprite. Warm as any woman. Flesh and blood and passion.”

His touch burned, but it was not the searing, forbidden embrace of creatures o
f separate worlds. This was an earthly fire, and she knew in that moment that all her enchantments were for naught. The foxglove chain slipped out of her hands. This was no gossamer creature of the Otherworld. His hands were tight on her shoulders, determined and possessive. A tingling rushed through her blood, the liquid swell of an unfamiliar longing.

“You’ve the Sight.” His eyes, those eyes of silver,
crackled like lightning. “Your eyes could drain the soul from a man.”

Her eyes.
Dread flooded through her. She had forgotten her wretched eyes.

She
lowered her lashes and struggled away from him, stumbling back to glare at him at arm’s length. “Are you the one who’s afraid now?”

“I’d never fear
a lass even if she wields the power of ten Druids.”

“You
won’t be afraid that your cows will leave off giving milk? Or I’ll strike you blind or deaf? Or bring a powerful storm to muddy your way?” She waved to someplace deep in the woods. “You won’t believe that I’ll steal the seed from your wretched bull?”

He made a gesture of scorn. “Why would you waste your power on such mischief?”

She said nothing. She could not tell him that the people of Morna blamed her for every calamity.

“Ah.” He nodded slowly
. “Now I understand why you dance alone. The men of these parts are cowards.” He scraped his sword out of the scabbard and held out the gleaming length. Swirling, pagan designs etched the metal hilt. “Me and mine have not blinded ourselves to the ways of the world, Brigid. And I fear nothing.”

She knew it was true. He sti
ll stared deep into her eyes, unflinching. She clung to his gaze, waiting for his mask to fall and the true extent of his horror to show, but still, he held her gaze, and a strange hope blossomed in her heart.