Celtic Mist Ch. 06

By and by, the jig ended and Declan hastened towards her ere another lad could sweep her up. "Moll!" he called. She saw him and smiled. "Declan, is it?"

"Aye, I was hoping to see ye here." His eager gaze took in her bonnie face --- her cheeks rosy and her green eyes a-sparkle from the exercise. "Will you dance the next with me?"

She smiled up at him and extended her hand towards his. Once he put his arm round her and they began moving, Declan's agitation eased. The following reel he was obliged to yield her to another man, but then he had her back for two more dances.

At length, the Kilmaedan guards and maids, panting and sweating from their exertions, gathered at the edge of the square --- Declan's comrades calling loudly for liquid refreshment. The group repaired to the James Moore Inn where tables were set upon the sidewalk. Declan pulled a chair out for Moll, who accepted his chivalry with a humorous quirk of her eyebrow.

The lads partook of pints of beer whilst the maids drank cider. Over the sound of the music in the square, conversation was limited to boisterous commentary and laughter, thus even with Moll sitting next to him, he could scarce converse with her. When it came time to settle the bill, Declan, as was his habit, paid for everyone. Moll's eyes widened as she watched him sort through his weighty coin pouch. "What did ye do, raid the Duke's coffers?" she joked.

His roommate Branagan, seated on his other side, threw an arm over Declan's shoulders and leant against him. "Thish here is the finest lad in County Wicklow...or maybe all of Ireland," he slurred loudly. "The mosh generous lad ye'll ever find...he shares his boxing winnings with his friends, so he does."

As the group meandered through the streets, Moll walked alongside him. "So you're Quickfist, the Duke's champion?" she said. "I've heard about you from the other servants. I would have thought that as a prizefighter ye'd be more..." She looked up at him quizzically.

"More what?"

She shook her head. "'Tis nothing." Then she smiled at him. "You're a very gentleman-like lad, so ye are."

Declan restrained the urge to take her hand, instead trying to think of something to say. "How...how do you like working in the kitchen?" he said at last.

She shrugged. "It earns coin...what is there to like?"

"Did you work elsewhere before coming to the castle?"

"I helped me Ma. I have six younger brothers and sisters." As they ambled along the sidewalk, Moll briefly explained that her father was a drover, and all the children who were old enough had to work to help the family. She was sending her wages back to Athy.

Declan nodded. "Erm...what is Athy like? Does it...rain as much there?" Immediately he winced at the dull question. Fortunately, Moll's attention had been captured by something in a shop window. 'Twas the dressmaker's shop. She stopped.

"Oh! Look at those stockings! What elegance!"

Declan looked where bid. Daintily displayed upon a satin cloth was a pair of black and white striped stockings. They were indeed striking.

"Do ye think they would look pretty on me, Declan?" Moll looked up at him, then her dark lashes fluttered down, her cheeks pink.

At that question, Declan could scarce NOT meditate upon her legs, imagining the striped stockings showing off a pair of shapely calves...then the bare thighs above. He swallowed. "Oh...aye. To be sure."

She sighed. "Well...I suppose they're too fine for the likes of me."

Declan continued in his distracted state as they resumed walking. He had been striving to focus upon the lass herself, not her body...and as bonnie as she was, it had not been an easy task. The thought of the stockings was undermining his resolve.

Later that night, the guards and maids walked back to the castle together. Declan gave Moll's hand a gentle squeeze before parting.

It came to him the next day: he would buy the black and white striped stockings for her. A token of affection would not violate his notion of non-carnal respect creating a steady foundation upon which love would bloom. As much as he longed to see under her skirts, he would upon presentation of the gift, disavow any lecherous quid pro quo. Perhaps at the proper time such delights would flow.

But he was not able to return to the dressmaker's shop till his next day of liberty two weeks later. The silk stockings proved to be far more costly than he had guessed, but he judged it to be a fine use of his boxing winnings.

In the meantime, he sought out Moll when he was not on duty. Sometimes she was free, and they would stroll round the castle grounds. Discourse still proved awkward, at least on his end...most of the conversation fell to Moll...and the subject was usually the day-to-day happenings round Kilmaedan Castle.

The day that Declan eventually purchased the stockings, Moll was not at liberty to leave the castle, so he presented them to her on their evening stroll. "Oh Declan!" she cried, her face alight. "What a wondrous gift! How kind ye are...such finery for a simple country girl!" She draped them on the front of her skirts and pranced merrily. After a moment, she stopped, looking crestfallen. "Oh, but they'll only be shamed by me old, ragged garters, so they will," she murmured. "Look." With a quick glance about, she hitched up her skirts on one side, showing her leg to the knee. Her coarse woolen stocking was indeed held up by a plain, threadbare garter, but Declan's attention was full upon the lovely-shaped calf and bare knee. He cleared his throat.

The next moment she dropped her skirts as another maid stepped out of the servants' wing. After another quarter hour of inconsequential conversation, but heightened discomposure for Declan, they said goodnight. Declan swiftly bent and kissed her cheek before she stepped inside, and she gave him a coy smile.

At his first opportunity, he returned to the dressmaker's shop and requested the finest garters available. The proprietress sold him a pair of red silk garters embroidered with white flowers...aye, they would set off the black and white stripes to fine advantage. He tucked them into his great coat pocket, happily contemplating the prospect of viewing her legs in the gifts...someday soon as the courtship proceeded.

If put to it, Declan could not say with certainty that he was falling in love...never having experienced the emotion, he knew not what it should feel like.

That night he was on guard duty and could not meet Moll to surprise her with the garters, but he allowed his thoughts to intermittently stray to her as he paced atop his assigned stretch of the battlements. Tonight, he was patrolling a length along the further northwest side of the walled enclosure, far from the castle proper. In the moonlight he remained alert to sounds and motion on both sides of the massive wall.

'Twas near midnight when he heard an unexpected sound. Reflexively he drew his pistol and halted. There it was again...muted voices. He crept silently to the outer edge of the wall and studied the dark scenery below, outside the castle. A few branches stirred, but nothing appeared amiss. To the inner side of the wall he then crossed and peered down into the bailey, sixty feet below. There were several outbuildings related to the stables along this stretch of the wall, and between two of them he glimpsed a motion in the dark...then heard the muffled voices again.

From the telltale sounds and motions it did not take him long to realize 'twas a man and woman engaged in some manner of bawdy diversion. Declan holstered the pistol, turning away and grinning wryly as he recognized Rafferty's voice. Aye, 'twas no wonder...who else would it be? But when he was able to make out Rafferty's next words, Declan froze. "Aye, suck it hard...aye love...how sweet yer mouth is!"

As the clouds cleared from over the moon, Declan could see the dim outline of the pair below. In the narrow space between two buildings, Rafferty was leaning back against the wall of one...and kneeling before him was a woman...a maidservant, judging by the standard white uniform cap. The pale cap betrayed the in and out motion of the lass's head at his groin.

Declan's cock throbbed unbidden. He had of course heard of mouth fucking...and had thought on it as he frigged...but alas he had never had the pleasure of experiencing the glorious act himself. Ah...lucky bastard, Rafferty! His patrol duties momentarily forgotten, Declan, all ears and eyes, stared down at the shadowed figures as the hot pressure increased in his organ.

Rafferty pulled the lass up muttering, "Let's fuck...I'm going to stuff your cunt proper." Abruptly he turned and pushed her back against the building, whereupon she eagerly hoisted her skirts in front. The next moment, the man mounted her standing up. Declan shivered at her lewd gasp that proclaimed the stiff cock had plunged home. Their mouths pressed together, and Rafferty's hands on her bottom lifted her against the wall as he roughly thrust into her...her arms clung to his neck and her legs wrapped round his back.

Declan's vision narrowed to a tunnel...filled with the moonlit sight of the lass's black and white striped stockinged calves embracing Rafferty's hips. Over the sound of his own heartbeat, Declan heard the lecherous, rhythmic grunts of the pair...then Rafferty's groan, "Ah Moll! How wet your tight little cunt is!"

After that night, Declan ceased his attentions to Moll. Indeed, stung by what he perceived as her betrayal, he ceased his attentions to all lasses for several months...even sullenly forgoing his leave days as he focused only on his work and his boxing. He swore that he would never again open his heart to a maiden...never again let himself fall prey to their avaricious ploys...never again let his rutting instincts compromise his judgement.

Aye, by God, no lass could be trusted, and he was doomed to never find love!

'Twas that September --- some eight celibate months after the night with the Burkes --- that Declan was summoned to Captain Blaylock's office...was promoted to Crusader...and met Aoife O'Farrell.

*****

HE recited his poems readily...they with their wild music as of winds blowing in the reeds, seemed to me the very inmost voice of Celtic sadness, and of Celtic longing for infinite things the world has never seen.

--- W. B. Yeats

.

For some time after the barmaid Kate's retreat, Declan lay motionless upon his cot in the garret of the Murphys' tavern in Dublin. His arms hugged close to his chest the garments that Aoife had borrowed, and he breathed slowly, consumed with thoughts of the red-haired maiden.

In his mind's eye, he saw the mystery of her large, pale blue eyes...the sprinkling of freckles upon the translucent, milky skin over her high cheekbones and long nose. The freckles that resembled the constellation of Corvus --- the Crow! Had that too been a sign from the Morrigan?

Declan remembered her eyes right well. Neither before nor since had he beheld such a rare hue of clear aqua...and with the lush brush of thick russet lashes and brows, they were remarkable, so they were. Yet, more compelling than their striking appearance was the quicksilver fluctuation in their expression...from outright rage to curiosity to bashful embarrassment to...an unreadable, lingering contemplation of his own face.

Aoife! Where was she now?

Upon the ephemeral foundation of her enigmatic gaze and the stirring, but too short-lived episode of her snuggling against him as he carried her that last day together, he dared to allow a hopeful dream of requited sentiment to sprout.

He would carry her...carry her to the standing stones of an ancient cromleach as the caress of her fingers upon his nape urged him on. He would let her feet slide to the ground...the embrace reshaping itself into that of lovers...his arms molding her small, curved figure against his, his mouth lowering to cover hers. 'Twould be not long ere the wild kisses would be attended by his eager disrobing of her lovely body.

Declan's thoughts waxed amorous as he called to mind the images of her naked charms...her petite, lissome form...her small but impudently plumped out breasts...her slim waist...her luscious round bottom. The memory of these treasures was the only thing he took from that scene in Bruckton's chambers...transposing her erotic beauty into his fantasy of mutual desire.

Even as his fingers savored the irony of removing his own shirt and breeches from her, so would her fumbling fingers unfasten his garments.

Under the quilt, Declan tugged up his nightshirt and rubbed the breeches she had worn against his aching, swollen organ. As he again inhaled her scent on the shirt's collar, a sudden thought came to him --- he sat up and pulled the breeches out from under the bedcovers. Holding them close to the candle, he opened the front flap and partially inverted the inseam.

His heart pounded. There upon the seam junction of the garment's legs was an irregular oval smear of a pearlescent, dried fluid! The spot was about the size of a gold sovereign...in the flickering candlelight it shone like the grail it was.

With a shaking hand Declan lifted the breeches to his nose. His eyes closed as he inhaled...gently, reverently as if the telltale trace would be compromised upon close inspection. Aye! Sweet Jaysis! 'Twas not only wool he was smelling! Oh so faintly he detected the ethereal scent of Aoife's cunny dew! His cock throbbed.

With the breeches pressed to his nose, he fell back upon the mattress where he rolled about in elation, the images running riot through his mind...Aoife and himself together naked!

He would lay her upon the soft, mossy ground inside the cromleach, then stretch out beside her...their bodies pressing together, his hands roving over her naked charms...stroking and squeezing...as hers likewise explored his body.

Intent now, Declan ceased his jubilant rolling and lay flat, spreading the legs of the inside-out breeches, one upon each side of his head, with the wondrous imprint of her cunny against his nose...as if she were sitting astride his face. He seized his rigid cock with his left hand and began rubbing it, whilst his right hand pressed the fabric to his nostrils, so that his every panting breath could inhale her libidinous female scent.

As they moved together upon the ground, his fingers would caress the coy curve of her little mound and stir its soft, springy red fluff.

His hand moved up and down over his engorged cock, capping and uncapping the head.

Next his fingertip would find that pleasure pip at the front of her cunny and fondle it. Then he would put his lips upon her tender morsel and kiss it...

Declan groaned and pushed the seam of the breeches against his lips. Instinctively his tongue came out and swabbed over the magic spot upon the fabric. There was but a moment's hesitation, then he was rapturously lapping at it --- the addition of his spittle resurrecting the intoxicating essence of Aoife's lass cream. Between moans, he sucked at the damp wool. Oh, sweet Aoife! The muscles in his belly and thighs tensed with the escalating voluptuous sensation. Under his stroking fist, he felt the herald fluid weep from the tip of his truncheon.

A slew of bawdy images flooded his mind in advance of the approaching crisis:

He would mount her ...or, he would put her astride him...nay, he would lie behind her, both on their sides as they indeed had lain in the cromleach.

He could still evoke the sensation of their bodies molded together thus. Could a lad's and lass's organs join so? Assuming yes, his thoughts raced in synchrony with his flying hand.

His stiffstander would burrow between her succulent arse cheeks, penetrating her cunny from behind...opening her narrow, wet vagina...hearing the glory of her entreating groan as he filled her. His arms would hold her fast...his hand upon her belly sliding down to rub her clitoris as he thrust in and out the heaven of her body...her hips straining against him as she cried out...

His body began to shudder and his mouth opened over the wet fabric. Oh God! Moaning into the spot of her fluid, his cock erupted weeks of longing over the front of his nightshirt.

After several moments of fading spasms, his body eased back upon the mattress. Aoife, Aoife, the incantation beat in his heart. He spiraled away in bliss.