Celtic Mist Ch. 02

She made no response, but a glint momentarily appeared in her eyes.

"You took up residence with your sister's family a month ago," he stated.

Still she spoke not.

Mr. Bruckton arched a thick, black brow. "The bylaws of the Kilmaedan estate require that all occupants of tenant farms be registered at the castle. Your sister and her husband have been remiss in their duty."

The lass raised an eyebrow back at him. "And the standard punishment for this offense is execution and rape, is it?"

Declan's breath caught at her audacity.

Mr. Bruckton stared at her for a moment, then a broad grin overspread his face. He looked at the Captain. "Methinks the Duke will be well pleased with this one. This one has spirit...she promises him a worthy and rousing battle." The next instant, Bruckton took a step forward and seized her chin in his hand. He lifted her face to the light and turned it from side to side, studying her.

Aoife O'Farrell still did not falter, by God! Her strange, pale, baleful eyes remained locked to the chamberlain's.

Mr. Bruckton continued speaking as he examined her. "I must confess, Blaylock, I feared you had taken leave of your senses when you entered with this bedraggled guttersnipe. But the longer I look at her, the more my faith in the keenness of your eye is restored. This one indeed has the makings of a rare gem if all is in order...and I must say that my enthusiasm to further investigate the question is expanding by the moment."

There was a snuffling sound from behind the girl as Lynch stifled a laugh. The Captain was grinning. Mr. Bruckton released her chin and turned to the gilded round table next to them. Behind her back, Declan observed Aoife's knuckles tighten as she clenched her fists...then saw her eyes darting about, clearly assessing the possibility of escape. Declan sternly reminded himself of his duty: he should be less worried about the lass's plight --- and more attentive to keeping the captive secure.

Mr. Bruckton opened the lid of a small ebony box upon the table --- the only item on the table apart from a lit oil lamp. From the box he withdrew a slender metal object that Declan could not identify from where he stood. He watched nervously as Mr. Bruckton resumed his position before the lass. The chamberlain's expression was bland as he said, "Bow your head."

Aoife remained as she was, her eyes icy.

Bruckton shook his head with a half-smile. "Foolishness." Over her shoulder, he nodded at Lynch, who at once took a step forward and clasped her head between his hands, his fingers splayed over her temples. She struggled to no avail: the large hands tilted her head down. When Bruckton addressed himself to her head, Declan realized that the metal object was a fine-toothed comb. He was using it to part her thick red hair in multiple spots to inspect her scalp, lifting her braids and bending her ears forward.

Lynch released her head when Mr. Bruckton stepped back to the table. The chamberlain returned with the oil lamp and held it close to her ears as he tugged back the rims and peered inside. Next, he selected another metal tool from the box...this in the shape of a narrow paddle. Holding it and the lamp he commanded her to open her mouth.

Declan gazed in suspense at her pink lips.

"We shall be happy to assist you," Mr. Bruckton offered when she moved not.

She raised her chin and slowly opened her mouth...slightly.

He brought the light close and wielded the tool to open her jaw wider and examine the inside of her mouth --- pressing upon her tongue, moving it from one side to the other to see her teeth, and surveying the inside of her lips.

Setting aside the lamp and tool, he faced her again and put both hands round her neck. Declan started, fearing Bruckton meant to strangle her. But he merely palpated the flesh of her neck as he looked into her eyes.

As he witnessed this ongoing scene, Declan presently became cognizant of two facts. First, this examination did not comport with her purported detainment for suspicion of sedition. Second, the proceedings gave every indication of following an oft-repeated protocol. Instead of feeling enlightened about the happenings at the farmhouse, the scene before him only augmented his bewilderment.

Mr. Bruckton now ordered Lynch to free her hands. Once done, the chamberlain lifted each mud-smudged hand to inspect her palms and nails. Finally, he nodded as if satisfied. Wiping the dirt from his own hands with his handkerchief, he walked back across the room to the writing desk. Over his shoulder he said, "Remove your gown."

Declan froze. Had he heard true? His eyes flew to the lass. She stood rigid, her face gone white under the mud daubs. The others, however, were wholly unflustered. Lynch was coiling the rope that had been round her wrists, Captain Blaylock was standing with his arms crossed, calmly observing her, and Mr. Bruckton was next to his desk, pouring an amber colored liquid from a crystal decanter into a goblet.

The silence lengthened as Aoife stood motionless.

The clink of the glass stopper against the decanter seemed unnaturally loud. Declan's eyes darted between the girl and Mr. Bruckton, in unhappy anticipation of how this point of contention would be resolved. Bruckton's demeanor was all serene patience as he took a draught of the liquor. With a simple raising of one finger from the goblet, he signaled Blaylock.

The Captain uncrossed his arms and stepped in front of the lass, where he met her cold glare with an amused upward twitch of his lips. The next moment he drew his dagger. Declan's belly tensed and his fists knotted involuntarily. Christ! What was he going to do?! Blaylock seized her hand and slashed the tied cuff of her nightgown sleeve...then repeated on the other sleeve.

With an economy of motion, the dagger was resheathed --- Blaylock's hands grasped the neck of the gown and yanked it towards her shoulders. The tie at the neck placket snapped and the fabric below ripped to her waist. So fast was his motion that the girl's instinct to grab the garment was too late --- the mud-sodden linen crumpled at her feet.

Silence.

Don't look...don't look. Declan kept his eyes upon her face. She was as still as a statue --- her eyes distant. He could see, under the dirt smudges, fierce red spots burning upon her cheeks. No...don't look!

He looked...he did. To his shame, his gaze lowered to her nakedness. He could not help himself. Never before --- not even in his handful of erotic adventures --- had Declan beheld a lass completely unclothed, in the dark or no. Now here before him was this beautiful maiden, stark-naked and gloriously illuminated in the glow of the candles from the chandelier and candelabras. Oh, did he look! God forgive him!

He felt the heat in his own face as he stared at her. A furtive glance at the other men told him that this compunction was his alone, for the others' gazes were unabashedly roving over her bare body, open lechery upon their faces.

Mr. Bruckton downed the contents of his glass and approached the girl. "Splendid!" he said.

Declan could do naught but concur. Her face, hands, and legs to her knees were bedecked with mud, but her skin otherwise was milky...luminous even. Her petite body showed the evidence of a life of toil in her lithe, strong limbs and flat belly --- devoid of luxuriant fleshiness. Yet Nature's will had not been smothered by hardship, but had in harmony with the forces of work, graced her slim figure with the marks of blossoming womanhood.

From his side view of her, Declan's eyes traced over the proud projection of her small, but plump breasts and her delicate pink nipples. Below her narrow waist, her arse curved out...round, pert, succulent. Then his breath caught as he took in the graceful little hillock at the base of her belly with its lovely patch of bright red hair licking over it like a flame.

Oh, what it would be like to tumble with this girl...to stroke and squeeze and kiss all her treasures...!

A tumult of emotions possessed him: indignation at her treatment, shame at his share in the proceedings, shame at gaping at her nakedness...and, God help him...arousal at her sweet, nubile charms! Fortunately, the former emotions sufficed to keep the latter in check...and thwarted a full sprouting of libidinous sensation.

Bruckton was standing directly before her again, his eyes gleaming as they traveled over her body. Aoife's soul seemed as if departed --- she stood motionless and her pale eyes were fixed straight ahead. When the chamberlain lifted his hands to her shoulders and turned her round, her body submitted stiffly. Declan's guilty eyes admired the full exhibition of her naked beauties --- a rear view of her creamy buttocks, swelling firm and supple below the small of her back...a front view showing the curve from her waist to her hips and the start of the split of her cunny...he swallowed hard as his cock stirred in his breeches.

Once Mr. Bruckton had viewed the full circuit of her and she was facing him again, he lifted each of her arms, revealing a wisp of red hair in her armpits. His fingers palpated each hollow. Next, as Declan watched enviously, the chamberlain felt her teats. His motions, however, suggested not so much a lecherous fondling but an examination --- despite the undisguised enjoyment upon the man's countenance. One at a time he squeezed each breast and milked the firm flesh outward, finishing by compressing her nipple. Declan shifted uncomfortably as his eyes lingered upon the resulting erection of her pink buds.

Mr. Bruckton stepped back to the round table and picked up the ebony box and oil lamp. "Right, men," he said. "Table."

Before Declan could even absorb the words, Captain Blaylock and Lynch had seized the girl under her arms, and between them lifted her off the floor --- her hostile detachment disintegrating into violent struggling as they carried her backwards, her legs kicking furiously in the air.

They heaved her onto her back upon the small, gilded table, where she continued to fight them as one possessed --- clawing, hitting, and kicking. The ornate table rocked and wobbled under the force of the struggle.

"Quickfist! Grab her arms!" the Captain barked.

Declan started out of his shocked state and the well-trained guard in him leapt towards the table. His hands scrambled among the flailing limbs and soon captured her wrists. He wrestled her arms above her head and pinned her hands down against the gold inlaid tabletop, whilst the Captain and Lynch overpowered her legs. At last, they stilled her thrashing, but under his hands Declan felt her yet tensing muscles as she strained against their imprisoning hands.

When he looked up at the sight before him, Declan's stomach twisted sharply and his heart began to race. Captain Blaylock and Lynch were restraining her legs with her knees bent at a right angle and her thighs raised and spread obscenely open. To anyone at the opposite end of the table, her cunny must be blatantly on display! Nay, not just at the end of table, for Blaylock and Lynch with their tilted heads and shared leers were clearly gazing directly at her bare privates from their present positions at her sides.

From Declan's own position at her head, he had an unobstructed view down over her face, breasts, and belly, but the rise of her mound with its adorning sprig of red curls was as far as he could see...what beauties lay beyond were not within his sightline.

Declan's agitated eyes turned away from the disturbing vision of this violation, and he had to remind himself to simply follow orders till the mission was over. He looked down at her upside-down face below his and realized that the lass was staring straight up at him...her eerie eyes boring into his. His face flushed hot and his eyes veered from the onslaught of her stare.

Just moments before, he had been ogling her, but his actions had seemed less reprehensible to himself in contrast to the lewd grins of the other men surrounding her. Now leaning over the table and holding the lass's arms above her head, 'twas himself alone in her line of sight...their faces some two feet apart...and she could see where his guilty eyes were looking. He averted his eyes and tried to focus on the thick, red braids curving over the decorative inlay of the tabletop between her raised arms.

Declan's stomach wrenched again as Mr. Bruckton stepped up to the opposite end of the table and looked down between Aoife's open legs. He had rolled up the cuffs of his elegant shirt, showing his thick, strong forearms. The chamberlain placed a hand upon her belly --- making her jump --- and proceeded to methodically press his fingers along the crease of her groin on both sides.

Next, he swung a chair up to the table and seated himself, placing his face nigh a foot away from her exposed cunny. He set the lamp upon the table between her thighs.

Fighting the turmoil in his body, Declan's shifting eyes now fixed upon the mud smudges on the lass's face. Over her nose and upper cheeks, he noticed a scant sprinkling of freckles --- on her left cheek mimicking the pattern of stars in the constellation Corvus. Yet even as he grasped at this distraction, Declan could not ignore the sights in his peripheral vision.

Mr. Bruckton was using the metal comb to inspect Aoife's little tuft, which was a glowing red halo in the light of the crystal chandelier above her. "Not yet fully fledged," he commented with crude chuckle. Now he was employing both hands...doing something to her cunny. Declan could not see what from his angle, but he felt her wrists straining in his grip...saw her pink-tipped breasts quivering and shaking as her body arched. Bruckton peered intently between her legs.

In consternation, Declan's eyes darted to hers --- now grown dark from her expanded pupils. Inexplicably, he began to feel lightheaded...he swayed slightly. His hands, now strangely cold and clammy, seemed in danger of losing their hold upon the lass's slender wrists as she pulled against him.

"Quickfist, hold her fast," Blaylock reprimanded.

Declan squeezed tighter, drawing her arms further along the tabletop. He inhaled deeply, fighting the giddy feeling, and braced his knee against the table leg below him to steady himself.

From between Aoife's spread legs, a triumphant grin expanded upon Bruckton's face. "Intact," he announced.

Blaylock's cheeks creased as he grinned too. "Excellent."

Bruckton produced a square of white linen from the ebony box and pressed it against her cunny, or so it seemed from Declan's vantage point. The man twisted his wrist back and forth a few times, then withdrew the fabric and studied it in the lantern light. Bringing it to his nose, he sniffed at it. The smile reappeared, and he leant forward, his nose nigh touching her, and inhaled deeply. "Ahhhh...splendid! A fresh, young virgin. And such a lovely little cunt she has too...nary a blemish, a nit, nor a wart. I tip my hat to you, sir." He bowed his head in exaggerated homage to Blaylock, then turned back to the girl. "Let us forge ahead. Heave and up, men."

In synchrony, Blaylock and Lynch rotated her raised legs back, bringing her knees toward her shoulders and rolling her hips off the table. She writhed for a moment till the force of their grip stilled her again.

Declan, briefly raising his eyes, saw that the new position tilted her cunny up and he could now see the beginning of a pink rift below her curls. Adjacent to that, he observed in dismay the repeated hollowing of her belly with her agitated breathing.

The three other men silently contemplated the new scenery of her ruthlessly exposed privates. At last Mr. Bruckton spoke. "Upon my word, what a charming little arsehole."

"Looks like it shits only tiny rabbit turds," Lynch remarked.

"Let us explore the possibilities," Bruckton said. He put his hands to her, his thumbs close together, and his fingers splayed. Declan could not see what he was doing, but quickly deduced what he was about, and his breathing grew as perturbed as the girl's. Bruckton's exploration continued for several moments.

"Look," Bruckton prompted at last. "With proper encouragement, it can open very prettily."

"Damn! See how tight it squeezes!" Lynch chortled.

Bruckton nodded. "Yes, 'twill be a delightful battle, to be sure, given the fundamental discrepancies of proportion --- but with some blunt persuasion I am confident that his lordship will eventually find it most deliciously and reluctantly accommodating." The three men laughed.

Declan ducked his burning face...only to meet Aoife's distressed visage. Her teeth were gritted, and her eyes were shining with tears that she refused to let fall --- the welling tears magnifying her pale blue irises. There was an anguished thud in Declan's chest, then his heart pounded against his ribs, more and more vigorously with each passing second. His stomach knotted, and vibrating blood rushed into his limbs --- as if he were about to step into the boxing ring.

"A resounding success, men," Bruckton proclaimed. "This one is a rare prize indeed. The Duke will be most pleased. A fresh, young country lass with fire in her veins and never a cock in her cunt."

The Captain grinned. "Indeed --- a girl with a face as lovely as her cunt and arsehole --- 'tis miraculous. I'm tempted to keep this one for ourselves." He shifted one hand to lewdly cup the projecting bulge in his breeches.

"Yes," Bruckton said, his hands repeating the spreading motion again and again as he, Lynch, and Blaylock intently watched. "But the Duke's reward for this one will be considerable...'twill be no mean recompense for delivering her to him unspoilt."

The blood thrummed in Declan's ears and his body shook as he heard Lynch's oddly echoing voice. "And we'll have our turn when the Duke is done with her."

Bruckton nodded. "On the morrow, we'll bathe her and make her ready for the Duke's return from Dublin in the evening."

Declan raised his face and beheld in vivid color the three men's leering faces, the arms restraining the lass's widespread legs --- the midnight blue uniform sleeves jarring against her pale thighs --- and a scar upon Blaylock's brawny forearm where his sleeve had ridden up. 'Twas some seven inches long, in the shape of a crooked cross...startlingly white amidst the black hair.

A ringing rose in Declan's ears, swelling louder and louder and drowning out the others' voices. The light fluctuated about him, growing so bright that the figures round the table were naught but glowing outlines...then clarity returned in a red aura of fury...Blaylock's cross-shaped scar flared crimson.

The spring of tension in Declan's gut burst into his limbs.

He yanked on the lass's arms, nigh dislodging Blaylock's and Lynch's grip on her legs. The three men's heads snapped towards him. "Quickfist! What the fuck?!" Blaylock snarled.

The decorative table shook as a momentary tug of war ensued over the lass --- then Declan kicked in the table leg below him. The table collapsed towards Lynch, spilling Aoife to the floor, where she scrambled to escape. Lynch threw himself upon her legs and Declan dived on top of him, driving his fist into Lynch's face.

The Captain leapt round the upturned legs of the table. Declan spun on his knees, his left arm cocked --- too late. There was an explosion of pain in his head and the pulsing red and white light dissolved into blackness.

*****

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WHAT old, old pain is this that bleeds anew?

What old and wandering dream forgotten long

Hobbles back to my mind?

--- Francis Ledwidge

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Every breath was excruciating --- raw, burning pain. He inhaled in short gasps, restraining the expansion of his chest.