Warrior's Secret (The Pict Wars Book 2) Page 14

  Ailene inhaled the scent of him. His warm skin was damp and smelled faintly of lye and rosemary. He too had bathed.

  Grasping the hem of Ailene’s tunic, he hauled it up, over her head, his mouth fastening greedily upon her breasts when she raised her arms high.

  Ailene gasped, leaning into him. She closed her eyes as he suckled her, pleasure darting straight down from her swollen nipple to her core. Throwing her head back, she groaned his name.

  Muin shifted toward the furs then, drawing her with him. He seated himself upon them. Ailene knelt astride him as he continued to feast upon her breasts. And as he did so, his strong hands explored her body, stroking down her ribs, to the soft curve of her belly, the dip of her waist, and the swell of her buttocks.

  His fingers brushed the nest of dark curls between her thighs, and Ailene let out a soft whimper. She ached for him to touch her there. Even so, it was a shock when he slid a long, thick finger inside her. She was tight, and the sensation made her gasp. Then, as his thumb stroked her, she whimpered once more.

  “I love the noises you make when I touch you, mo chridhe.” Muin’s voice was low and husky.

  My heart.

  Ailene let out a long, shuddering sigh. She could barely think, let alone form coherent sentences, not when his finger now slowly slid in and out of her. She trembled against him, and then moments later she bucked against his hand, a cry escaping her. “Muin!”

  She reached down, her fingers wrapping around his shaft. It was hot and hard, the skin unbelievably smooth. She stroked his length, mirroring his earlier gesture.

  It was Muin’s turn to groan then, his head falling back, his eyelids fluttering as she pleasured him.

  And then Ailene could not take it anymore. She had to have him inside her, or she felt as if her chest would explode from want.

  She lowered herself to him, positioning his shaft at her entrance. The sensation of him sliding inside her was almost too much. He was big, and this position meant that she took him deep. Yet Ailene did not falter; she sank down upon him, impaling herself to the root.

  Her breathing was coming in short pants when their gazes met and held.

  She felt full, stretched to the limit, a deep pulsing ache of pleasure flowering inside her.

  Muin leaned back on his hands, his gaze never leaving hers. “Ride me, Ailene,” he growled. “Take your pleasure.”

  Heat flooded across Ailene’s chest at these words. She had never realized Muin had this side to him. She felt completely safe with him, and yet at the same time the predatory gleam in his eye gave their coupling a thrill of danger.

  Obeying him, Ailene rotated her hips, groaning as pleasure throbbed through her loins. Biting her lower lip, she began to ride him, rocking back and forward. She slid up and down his thick, slick rod.

  Cries filled the tent, and Ailene was vaguely aware they were hers. The sensation of him filling her, stroking her deep inside, took her to the brink. She shuddered against him, gasping.

  A heartbeat later Muin reared up, his arms fastening around her. He flipped Ailene onto her back, lifted her legs over his shoulders, and drove into her. His face was savage, his eyes black with lust.

  The sight of him losing control shattered the last of Ailene’s restraint. She arched up toward him, writhing as he thrust into her. Her cries grew wilder, louder. The whole camp would be able to hear them now, yet Ailene did not care.

  The only thing that mattered was the pair of them.

  Muin took her to the edge, and then together they toppled over it, both crying each other’s name as they came.

  “Gods, I can’t move.”

  Ailene huffed a laugh against Muin’s chest. “What? Have I injured you?”

  “Only temporarily … I hope.”

  Ailene smiled, her fingers tracing designs across the sculpted lines of Muin’s chest. He was beautifully built, stronger and broader than many other men. Up close, she noted how intricate his eagle tattoo was. She remembered when he’d had it done. Talor had teased him for days about the fact that Muin had not had the mark of The Eagle inked upon his arm like most folk.

  The young warrior, just out of boyhood, had wanted something different.

  Muin had always been his own man.

  Ailene’s fingers slid down his right arm then, to the leather bracelet studded with tiny turquoise stones around his wrist. “You still wear this?”

  “Aye,” Muin replied softly. “I’ve never taken it off.”

  Ailene’s smile widened. She had spent days finding all the stones for the bracelet and weaving them securely into the leather. It warmed her heart that he was so attached to it.

  “We’re meeting again tomorrow morning,” Muin said after a long pause. “Varar and my father will change their plans.”

  Relief suffused Ailene at these words; she had known that Varar and Galan would not be able to ignore her warning, but it was reassuring to hear Muin confirm her hopes.

  “Will you tell them about what I saw … in your future?” Ailene asked.

  She felt Muin’s big body tense against hers. “Is there any point? If we change our attack, then doesn’t the future change too?”

  “Aye,” Ailene admitted cautiously. She propped herself up on Muin’s chest then, meeting his gaze. “But maybe you shouldn’t fight tomorrow.”

  Muin’s mouth lifted at the corners. “That’s like suggesting I stop breathing, Ally. Of course I will fight.”

  Ailene swallowed. “But what if I’m wrong? What if even changing the attack won’t save you?”

  He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing her palm. “Then, it’s my time to go.”

  Ailene’s pulse quickened. “How can you be so fatalistic? Don’t you want to live?”

  His eyes shadowed, and his grip tightened upon her hand. “Of course I do.” He reached up with his free hand, tracing her cheek with his fingertips. “But you know as well as I that the will of the Gods can’t be escaped. The Reaper comes for us when he decides. When my time in this world is at an end, I will have little say in the matter.”

  His voice faded away then, and the pair of them watched each other for a long moment. Muin’s mouth quirked. “Don’t look so worried, love,” he murmured. “I’ll not be reckless tomorrow; I’ll not throw my life away.” He traced her full lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Not when I have so much to live for.”

  Hearing his reassurance, the panic that had tightened into a fist around Ailene’s heart eased.

  Holding her gaze, Muin’s mouth curved into a smile.

  Ailene gave him an arch look. “What are you looking so pleased about, Muin mac Galan?”

  “I can feel my strength returning,” he replied, a wicked gleam lighting in his eyes. In one swift movement, he rolled over so that Ailene was pinned under him. “And that means we’re done resting.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Let Them Come to Us

  GALAN MAC MUIN frowned down at the map Varar had drawn in the dirt. “Taking the broch from the water was our best idea,” he admitted. “Getting in any other way will be much harder.”

  A few feet away, Varar glanced up from where he had hunkered down to scratch out the outline of his fort. The group had gathered in a clearing in front of the meeting tent. A pale sunrise greeted them, mist wreathing the surrounding hills. “I agree,” he murmured, “but with your seer’s foretelling, I will not risk an attack from the water.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that,” Galan replied, his brows knitting together.

  Watching the two chieftain’s interact, Muin tensed. His father and Varar were allies these days, although there was still a lingering tension between them. Varar was much younger than Galan, and there were times when Muin realized that his father chafed at having to share leadership of this army with him. Even if it was Varar’s stronghold they were about to take back.

  Muin’s lips thinned. It was no surprise then that his father stone-walled his own son every time he came up with a sugges
tion. Galan liked being the one to lead.

  Heaving a deep breath, Muin stepped forward. “I have an idea.”

  Both chieftains glanced toward Muin, as did Calum and Moira, who stood opposite him. Fina flanked her husband, her grey eyes narrowing as she met Muin’s eye. Muin suppressed the urge to smile; she was likely remembering what had happened last time he had spoken up during a council.

  Muin cast a look over his shoulder then, at where Ailene stood a few feet behind him, silently watching the discussion.

  She wore her formal ‘bandruí’ countenance this morning; a different woman from the lusty lover who had ridden him, her cries spilling out into the night. Lying with Ailene had been better than his wildest imaginings.

  Of course, he had spent many nights over the past few years pleasuring himself as he imagined what it would be like to lie with Ailene. But he had never expected her to be so wild, or for his own response to be so unfettered. She completely shattered his self-control. He felt like a different man this morning; even the grey dawn had a rosy glow in the aftermath of the night he had spent with her.

  Their gazes fused for an instant, and then Muin turned back to where his father and Varar were watching him intently.

  Muin moved forward and hunkered down next to Varar. “Our numbers more or less equal theirs,” he began. “The attack from the water was only going to work if the warriors inside the fort were evenly distributed … but we now know that they aren’t. Most of them are guarding the broch itself.”

  He then took the stick The Boar chieftain passed him and drew an arrow outside the north-eastern perimeter. “I suggest we attack the village first from this direction. We won’t be hemmed in there … and it will draw the warriors out of the broch.” Muin glanced up, his gaze fusing with his father’s. “Let them come to us.”

  Silence fell over the clearing. Muin watched Calum and Moira exchange glances, before a smile stretched Varar’s face. The Boar chieftain glanced over at Galan. “I like this plan.”

  “So do I,” Fina spoke up. “I think it might work.”

  Muin continued to hold his father’s gaze. Galan’s expression was stern, his face hawkish. For a moment Muin feared that The Eagle chieftain would disagree with him, and then Galan smiled.

  It transformed his father’s face—and Muin realized how rarely he saw his father smile these days. Life for The Eagle had been hard of late, and Muin knew how much the duty weighed upon his father’s shoulders. Galan had always taken responsibility for things that were out of his control. It had wounded him to take his people from Dun Ringill. He would not be himself again until they returned to their home.

  “It is a wise plan,” he said finally. “Well done, son.”

  The murmur of voices, punctuated by the rasp and clang of iron, shattered the morning’s stillness. Ailene walked through the camp, weaving her way through tightly-packed clusters of hide tents. She passed a group of warriors who were painting each other’s faces and limbs with woad.

  The siege of An Teanga approached.

  Ailene waved to one or two warriors, but left them to their preparations. She had some time alone, for Muin was taken up finalizing the details of the siege with Varar and Galan.

  Up ahead she spotted Tea seated upon a rock in front of the tent she and Galan shared. She was sharpening her sword. Tea had come on the campaign, not to fight in the coming siege, but to oversee the camp once the other warriors left. Should the battle go ill, it would be up to Tea to get the few warriors who had remained behind in the rear-guard to safety.

  Spying Ailene, Tea stopped sharpening her blade and raised a hand, waving Ailene over.

  Heat rose in Ailene’s cheeks as she approached. She had not cared if the whole camp heard her and Muin’s lovemaking the night before. But suddenly, in the cold light of day, she felt embarrassed. She had made a lot of noise.

  Her face burned when she saw Tea was smiling, a knowing glint in her midnight-blue eyes.

  “Don’t look so worried,” Tea greeted Ailene with a soft laugh. “I’m happy for you both.”

  Ailene let out a slow exhale, relief filtering through her.

  Tea’s expression grew soft then. “Muin’s only ever loved you, Ailene. There’s never been anyone else for him.”

  Ailene went still. “You knew how he felt?”

  Tea’s mouth curved. “Of course … a mother always knows.”

  Deep in thought, Ailene returned to Muin’s tent.

  Tea’s words had left an impression upon her. It seemed that she was the only one who had been blind to Muin’s feelings. She had not welcomed the vision of Muin’s death, yet it had forced her to face how she really felt for him. Following Muin here was the best decision she had ever made.

  The brazier had long gone out, and the sight of the pile of furs, where they had lain together, made Ailene’s breathing quicken. She could not wait to couple with Muin again, to curl against him in the aftermath and hear the steady thud of his heart against her ear.

  Digging into the pouch at her waist, Ailene withdrew her telling bones.

  She had not cast them in days, not with everything that had happened. But it was time now. She needed to know what the coming days would bring—especially since the battle for An Teanga would begin after dark.

  Ailene knelt on the deerskins and tested the weight of the bones in her hand. Then, inhaling deeply and whispering a plea to the Gods, she cast the bones. They tumbled across the deerskin, clinking and clattering together until they came to rest upon the red deer pelt.

  Watching them, Ailene’s breathing caught.

  The mark of The Boar had rolled far from the other bones, making it impossible for her to gain any knowledge from its position. But it was not that which made foreboding tickle the back of Ailene’s neck.

  Not again.

  The mark of the Eagle had fallen next to the sickle and The Hag. The bones refused to change their story. Dark times still lay ahead for her people. But even more worrying, there were two other bones that had rolled together.

  The mark of the crow had fallen directly above a crescent moon.

  Ailene sat back on her heels. “The Death Tide,” she whispered.

  She had never cast such a combination before, although Ruith had explained the meaning of these two marks to Ailene years earlier.

  “The Reaper will sharpen his sickle and stride out into the world.” Ailene’s hoarse whisper filled the tent. “A red tide will rise, and when it recedes, it will leave death in its wake.”

  Ailene’s throat constricted. She ran a hand over her face, the other hand splaying across her breast where her heart now pounded. This was the last thing she needed to see, not now, not right before her people went into battle.

  Her belly contracted. “Calm down,” she hissed to herself, scooping up the telling bones and depositing them back in their pouch. “Aye, death is coming … but the bones do not tell me who will die. It may be that this sign is not for us at all, but for The Serpent.”

  Counselling herself aloud calmed her, kept the panic at bay. Ailene rose to her feet, sweat suddenly beading her skin.

  What should I do?

  Her first instinct was to go to Galan and Varar, to tell them of the ‘Death Tide’. However, she checked herself. Was that wise? Would they even call off the attack based on such a warning, especially since the sign had not fallen near any of the markings of their tribes? The sign, although terrible, was not specific in its meaning.

  No, I won’t tell them … not even Muin.

  She did not want to risk panicking them, or worse still, lowering morale. Muin’s plan was a sound one, and they needed to go into battle confident, not with the shadow of doom trailing over them.

  Ailene dragged in a deep breath, her resolve hardening. She needed to trust her own instincts.

  This time she would remain silent.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Turning the Tide

  Balintur

  Territory of The Eagle

>   “ANY SIGN OF the enemy?”

  Talor turned from his station upon the wall, to see his half-sister Bonnie approach. Small, with a pert, heart-shaped face and long braided hair, she wore little more than two bands of leather covering her breasts and loins, despite the icy wind that howled down the valley surrounding Balintur.

  “None,” he replied. “The Serpent won’t be slithering in today … with any luck, they’re finding this isle too cold.”

  Bonnie snorted. “They looked hardy enough to me … I’ve never seen such big warriors.” She paused then, frowning. “Da told me that war drove them from the mainland.”

  “Aye,” Talor grunted. “That Boar traitor who lives with them suggested they move here instead.”

  Bonnie’s eyes gleamed. “A decision they’re likely regretting.”

  “And if they aren’t … they soon will be,” Talor replied, his gaze sweeping over the bleak hills that rolled south in the direction of Dun Ringill. The end of his watch was drawing to a close, and he was looking forward to retiring to his hut and downing some warmed mead. After a moment he glanced back at his sister. “What are you doing up here … you’re not on the watch today.”

  “Ma wants to know if you’re joining us for supper this eve?”

  “It depends,” Talor replied with a grin. “What’s she cooking?”

  “Blood sausage and eggs.”

  Talor’s mouth filled with saliva at this news. His step-mother, Eithni, knew he adored blood sausage. She would have sent Bonnie out to find him especially. Guilt arrowed through him then. Since coming to live at Balintur, he had been so taken up with preparations for war that he now spent little time with his kin.

  The round-house that his father and Eithni shared with his two half-sisters, Eara and Bonnie, was cramped enough as it was without him taking up extra space. It had been a relief to move in with Muin. But Eithni had missed him—and this supper was her way of letting him know that a visit was long overdue.