Celtic Mist Ch. 04

The second man snickered and leant to sniff at her too.

"I love me a fresh, red-headed wench. There's nothing quite so fine as seeing a wee red brush split over me dirk!" His eyes gleamed as they roved down her coat.

Aoife strained against the imprisoning fingers whilst her free hand fumbled in the opening of the coat. The next moment she yanked the dagger from the scabbard and slashed at the man. Only air did she cleave.

"Ho now!" the second man hollered and seized her swinging arm, knocking the dagger to the ground.

"Hold her!"

Aoife screamed as he wrenched her arms behind her and held her fast against his chest. The first man drew his own knife and pressed it into the flesh of her neck. "Shut yer gob or I'll shut it for ye," he growled. Between the sharp edge of the blade and the restraining hands, she could only grit her teeth as the man before her threw her coat open.

His brows raised and he chuckled. "Dressed like a lad and wielding a knife, to boot! We'd best bring her inside and see if she's a lass true...then methinks we'll have a wild ride!"

In panic, Aoife pushed back against the man holding her, trying to escape the knife point at her throat. At that moment there was a burst of footsteps and a large figure barreled into the man behind her. Knocked free of the ruffian's hold, she sprawled to the ground with a yelp --- her heels scrambled against the ground to push herself backwards as he stumbled back nigh on top of her legs.

Before her, Declan charged at the tottering man, driving a fist into his belly. "Aaaghhh!" The man doubled over, tumbling backwards onto his arse.

The man who had been in front of Aoife leapt at Declan's back with the knife in his upraised fist. "Behind!!" she screamed.

Declan rolled to the ground, swiftly coming to his feet several feet away from the attacker. The two men slowly circled each other in a half-crouch, Declan's fists cocked --- the man holding the knife.

Aoife scrabbled for the dagger that had been knocked from her hand and jumped to her feet. Should she take the opportunity to run for her freedom...or try to help him? Torn, she hesitated, her eyes darting between the two men, her teeth biting her shaking lip.

She saw Declan jump and twist, driving his foot into the man's knee from the side. With a cry the lout dropped to the ground...but he conceded not...balanced on one knee and one foot, he stabbed at Declan with the knife as he bent over him. Declan took a slash to the arm as he grasped the man's wrist, crushing it till he let go the weapon.

The villain's other hand swung hard and caught Declan with a heavy thump on the side of his face. Awestruck, Aoife stared as Declan, undeterred by the blow to his head, demonstrated the genesis of his nickname ---- in a blur, his free fist drove into the man's eye...who gurgled and collapsed back upon the cobblestones.

Aoife shrieked a warning as the first man he had downed lurched to his feet with an enraged howl and threw himself onto Declan's back, locking an elbow round his neck. Grasping the attacker's arm, Declan bent sharply forward, lifting the man's feet off the ground, then heaved himself backwards, slamming his assailant's body into the outside of the building behind them. With a grunt, his arm flailed free of Declan's neck. The momentum of Declan's about-face continued into the clenched iron at the end of his left arm, setting the man's nose askew with a gush of blood.

Both men were groaning and struggling to their feet as Declan and Aoife raced from the alley...raced clear out of the town...swerving off the road and into a field. With the intervening foliage and hills 'twas not certain whether they were being pursued...still they ran on, panting.

Aoife managed to keep pace with Declan's long strides till, sprinting across a pasture, her foot slipped sideways off a stone, snapping the leather thong of her shoe and wrenching her ankle.

Declan halted as she crouched, gasping for breath, but finding no quick fix for the shoe, she yanked it off and began to run again. "Oww!" She winced at the pain on the outside of her ankle but shook off his helping hand. "I'm fine...keep going!" After she stumbled a few steps on one shoe and one limping bare foot, Declan bent and swept her off her feet, one arm round her back, one under her knees, ignoring her protests. He hastened on, scarce hampered by her weight.

Remembering the state of his back, Aoife ceased her squirming and curled up against his chest, wrapping her arms round his neck --- striving to be at least a pliant burden. Across the pasture, over a stone wall, and into the shelter of the woods he carried her --- here easing the headlong pace. He strode among the trees, weaving deeper and deeper into the shaded, hilly forest as his breathing slowed.

As her fear subsided, sweet turmoil began to infiltrate Aoife's heart --- never before had she been carried by a man --- in any manner, let alone in one so...intimate. Even the most affectionate embrace in her life...from her sister Clodagh...had never made her feel so safe and cherished as this young man's strong arms and solid chest did.

Then she lambasted herself for this little betrayal.

After a while, he slowed further and eventually came to a halt under a huge oak tree. "I think we're safe now," he murmured.

When she felt his lips graze her temple, she realized that she had been leaning her brow against his cheek. In embarrassment she straightened her head. A ray of light filtering down from the canopy above illuminated the green of his eyes...at this close range she noticed a few motes of brown in the irises, near the pupils. He was gazing at her...his eyes lingering as they moved over her face...to her lips.

Self-consciously her nose gave a little wiggle...then Aoife discovered in chagrin that the fingers of her arm round his neck had, unbidden, twined in the thick hair at his nape. She lifted her hand away and waved her feet in sudden impatience. "Aye, you can set me down now."

He lowered his arm and eased her feet to the ground, whereupon she at once put a few feet of distance between them. "Ta," she said. The cool air of the woods helped re-establish her equipoise after the disturbing sensation of being so closely clasped against his large, warm body. When she chanced a quick look at his face, she noticed the blood on his temple. "Oh! You're hurt, so ye are."

Declan touched the spot with a wry expression. "Sure, 'tis nothing I'm not accustomed to."

She peered up at the laceration. "But it might fester if you dinna clean it."

"'Twill be fine."

"Will you at least let me clean it?"

He shrugged with a little smile. "If you insist."

Aoife glanced at the woods round them. "Wait here, then." She shed the oversized coat and, stepping gingerly on her bare, injured foot, wandered among the trees, soon finding a small stream. Here she searched along the stones and lush blooming undergrowth for plants she knew, by and by spying prickly topped burdock. Using the dagger, she dug up one to collect the carrot shaped root, then washed it and the blade in the stream. Finding a pair of suitable stones, she returned to the old oak where Declan was sitting upon the ground among the gnarled, moss-covered roots, engrossed in repairing the broken thong of her shoe.

He watched with keen attention as she knelt, rolled up the excess length of his borrowed shirt's sleeves, and laid out one flat stone. She pulled the folded handkerchief from the coat pocket. "May I use this?" At his nod, she spread it over the stone, then employed the dagger to finely dice a portion of the root atop it. Folding the cloth over the pieces she proceeded to grind them with a second stone. She had not all the ingredients she would like for an unguent, but she would have to make do.

At length she judged the resultant mash-like paste satisfactory and scooted on her knees to his side. "Have you another handkerchief I might use?" He produced a cloth from his pocket, which she wetted from the canteen. As Aoife cleaned the blood from his temple, she kept her attention strictly upon her task, avoiding by an inch or two directly confronting his unsettling gaze...the heat of which she felt upon her face. Kneeling next to him, she could feel the warmth of his thigh where the cloth of their breeches grazed each other.

For some time, she simply pressed the cloth firmly to the wound to staunch the bleeding, feeling his steady pulse under her fingers. Her mind quarreled with itself --- she wanted to thank him for saving her from those ruffians, but to do so would force the acknowledgment of her attempt to escape him...which reminded her of the fact that she had met him through not too dissimilar circumstances from the scuffle in the alley...reminded her of everything that had happened that night.

Instead, Aoife devoted her attention to this service, filling the awkward minutes by looking aside and listening to the sounds of the woodland...robins and finches singing, wind stirring leaves and creaking branches far above, the faint gurgle of the stream. Under her fingertips, she felt the quickening of his pulse, and from the corner of her eye, saw him bend the leg closest to her, raising his knee and resting his forearm upon it.

At last, the oozing ceased. The laceration was thankfully not deep --- she applied the burdock paste to the clean wound. Clearing her throat, she said, "That should do ye."

"Ta." He smiled at her.

"Is your arm cut?'

"Nay, he only got through me coat." He nodded at the handkerchief. "What about the rest of that? Will it help your ankle?"

She considered. Her only experiences with the healing qualities of burdock had been on open wounds. With a shrug she rubbed the remaining paste onto the tender spot. As an afterthought, she tore a strip of linen from the hem of her nightgown and wrapped it snugly round her ankle. Testing the motion of the joint, she said, "'Tis no great injury...'twill mend quickly. You needn't carry me any further...I'm certain I can manage to walk without some calamity befalling me."

He was regarding her with a steady look. At length, he nodded, then returned his attention to fixing her shoe. Once it was salvaged, Aoife slipped it back on, and they resumed their journey, the pace tempered as she found a stride attended by the least discomfort. Both were silent, keeping their own counsel the rest of the afternoon.

*****

.

Brightness was drenching through the branches

When she wandered again,

Turning sliver out of dark grasses

Where the skylark had lain,

And her voice coming softly over the meadow

Was the mist becoming rain.

--- Austin Clarke

.

After the sun set, they walked for some time in search of a place to stop the night, at last finding only an ancient stone cromleach --- or what Hugh's granny Mrs. McDonnell had called a Giant's Grave in the stories she used to tell the children.

'Twas standing in a damp, grassy pasture, and consisted of parallel sides formed by upright stones, capped by an enormous, tilted roof stone that projected several feet beyond the supporting stones on all sides. Together the boulders formed an interior space approximately eight feet deep and five feet wide, with the height slanting from four feet at the entrance to two feet at the further end.

Aoife had always been mystified by these structures --- she had seen one years ago and had heard tell of many others scattered about Ireland. Some held that they were portals to faery-land (Mrs. McDonnell's view), whilst others laid the credit of their construction to their ancient ancestors.

Although most people feared them and gave them a wide berth, Aoife regarded them with reverent curiosity. When Declan suggested they rest here, she nodded her head. "You lie inside, Aoife, 'twill be more protected," he urged. "I dinna want to crowd ye. I'll sleep at the front."

She hesitated, but as he was already lowering himself to the ground at the entrance, she accepted the arrangement and ducked under the roof stone, sliding into the shelter feet first. For some time, Aoife lay awake gazing at the night sky beyond the edge of the capstone above. She slowly inhaled the cool, verdant air, listening to the intermittent hooting of an owl and faint trills of night jars. With the rhythm of Declan's soft breathing a couple of feet away, her guard at last grew weary.

Her sleep was interrupted some two hours later by a massive rumbling sound. Rising groggily to her elbow, she looked out to see sheets of rain and a jagged flash of lightning. Declan was sitting up with his arms hugging his knees, endeavoring to inch further under the overhang of the roof stone without infringing on what he had designated as her sanctuary, but was losing the battle to stay dry, given the angle of the rain.

"Come out of the rain," Aoife said before her conflicted heart could protest. "There's room enough for two inside." She scooted further to the side.

"Ta," he murmured. He uncurled his hunched frame and gingerly stretched out in the space she had made.

They lay side by side on their backs. Aoife was full awake now and conscious of the large male body next to hers...he was quite close to her...but there was still sufficient room that a few inches separated their shoulders, thankfully. After several uneasy minutes of staring at the dark stone above them, they simultaneously turned to their sides facing away from each other. Aoife forced her attention onto the soothing sound of drumming rain...gradually succumbing again to the forces of fatigue.

.

She was fighting...fighting for her life...frantically swinging her hurling stick at the innumerable glowing yellow eyes approaching from all sides. Then she realized they were not wolves' eyes, but brass buttons on the uniforms of men...men whose faces were contorted with leers as they surrounded her. Her arms were bizarrely sluggish and her swings feeble...the hurling stick was ripped from her hands and tossed aside. When she tried to scream, no sound issued. Their hands seized her...but one of the hands was different...it yanked forcefully at hers and all at once she was running hand in hand with the young man...Declan.

Desperately they sprinted across fields, over stone walls --- the other guards hard on their heels. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump, her heartbeat echoed in her ears...or was it the men's pounding footsteps? Somehow Declan had rigged a rope to swing across a river, but when it was her turn, her swing fell shy of the far bank and she plummeted into the water. He pulled her to safety, then turned to fire his pistol at the rope, shooting it down so the men could not follow them.

Still they ran...they ran till they found a Giant's Grave and crawled inside. But lo and behold...there inside the stone chamber was a hole taking them to an underground cave beneath --- a pale golden cavern oddly aglow. It made no sense, but there was wood there and Declan made a fire...then he excused himself to let her change from her soaked garments. When she stripped them off, she was strangely...most wonderfully warm, so she stood next to the crackling fire to let the waves of heat wrap round her skin. All about, her eyes took in the remarkable stone formations hanging from the roof with drops of magic, pearlescent fluid growing on their tips...and their counterparts, the sturdy pillars rising erect from the floor, streaked with faint sparkling colors.

When she looked back at the fire, she saw Declan standing there...wordlessly regarding her, his green eyes shining. Her heart was pounding again, but she did not hide her nakedness...she stood motionless and let him look at her...trembling...not with fear but with the exquisite, nervous excitement of shame...because 'twas he who was looking. She watched his eyes as they moved deliberately over her body, lingering upon her breasts and cunny hair...every spot they caressed set tingling. Their eyes met, then in two strides he took her in his arms, and her small, naked figure was crushed to his strong, fully clothed body. His mouth pressed to hers hard...and in longing she threw her arms round his neck, standing on her toes. The next moment his large hand urgently clasped her breast, squeezing and stroking it...'twas then that she felt it...the cockstand like an iron rod, pressed against her belly through his breeches...

.

Aoife started awake...recognizing her surroundings and despairing of the untimely end of the astounding dream. It felt like she needed to piddle, but a second later she realized 'twas something else...something more disturbing was transpiring.

She was still lying upon her side, facing the outside wall of the space, but now the young man was lying directly behind her, also on his side, facing her and snuggling close to her back...they were fitted together like two spoons...and his upper arm was curled round her, his hand lightly resting on her belly, under the front edge of the great coat and atop the shirt. Aoife froze, her breath catching momentarily...she heard the faint whoosh, whoosh of her heartbeat in her ear, and the sounds of his breathing as he slept.

Never had she lain so intimately with anyone --- let alone a lad! She could, with a backward jab of her elbow, wake him and remind him of his manners, but she hesitated as the heady spell of the dream yet spiraled about her. So gloriously warm and safe did she feel nestled against his big, stalwart frame...his breath was softly stirring her hair and tickling her ear. And...no dream...she could indeed feel his stiff cock against her buttocks. Even through his drawers, breeches, the coat, and her breeches, she was transfixed by the pressure of the rock-hard pillar. She ken now that the sensation she was feeling was not the need to piddle, but the long dormant fluttering in her belly, but most strangely...most disturbingly condensed as a quivery ache between her legs! Oh, what was happening?!

It soon became apparent that the provocative embrace was evolving, for his hand moved upon her belly. She had untied the leather belt when she had first lain down, to smooth the lumpiness of the gathered breeches --- the tips of his fingers were now sliding under the loosened waistband! He pressed her back harder to him whilst his hips began to slowly move, languorously thrusting his engorged organ against her bottom. Close to her ear, she felt his breaths grow short. Aoife's face flamed and her own breaths faltered as she remembered Biddy's revelation that lads' cocks could stand and discharge spunk under the influence of a bawdy dream. Aye, he was yet asleep, so he was! Was he having a bawdy dream...of her?

But some lucid portion of her mind yet remained unruffled and bade her hand creep down to her waist: in his present vulnerable state she had another opportunity for revenge --- she could draw the dagger from her belt, whip around and stab him! Aye, do it! Do it! For Clodagh! 'Twas no more than the bastard deserved! Do it!!

Aoife choked back an inexplicable sob of frustration...and stilled the murderous trajectory of her hand. Firmly clasped against his warm, moving body...his cockstand bluntly rubbing between her buttocks through their clothes...his broad hand on her belly, his fingers nigh touching her mound...she was overwhelmed by a different urge. Oh, how she wanted to place her hand atop his, to abet his unchaste undulations...or lower her hand further to press her fingers between her legs...or, Oh Medb!...push his hand lower under the breeches and press his fingers on that spot of sweet, sinful throbbing!

Her tormented hand hovered above his. But the dilemma proved short-lived. His body jerked with a sharp intake of breath. He had woken!