Gaelic Goddess

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Glaze72
Glaze72
3,349 Followers

"Fools. They did not look under Phelan's pleasant facade to see the monster who wore his form. So I was forced to come away with him.

"I have been his slave since that day."

Tom took her hand, no desire in him now, only horror and pity.

"So why are you here?"

Rhiannon raised her brows, arching delicately. "You are your grandfather's heir. Your grandfather had three male children, did he not?"

Tom nodded. "My Uncle Matthew, my father, and my Uncle Mark."

"Matthew would have been the heir. But he died." Her lips curled in vicious satisfaction. "Your father would have been next. But he killed himself, poor man." Her hand squeezed his in sympathy.

"What about Uncle Mark?" Tom asked. "Wouldn't he be next?"

"He was," she said. "But I have learned a thing or two. Once your grandfather grew ill I set myself to the task of choosing who my next mast..." she caught herself. "Who I needed to hold my contract. It had to be you, Tom. You are the only male Phelan who I had thought might be able to withstand the temptation to make himself a master.

"And you have, wonderful man," she said, daring to place her hand on his cheek. "So I had to rig the game.

"When I appeared to your uncle, is was not as I appeared to you. I came into his house early this morning, screaming and wild, throwing things at him and breaking everything I could see.

"He had no idea who I was, and demanded that I leave his house.

"That was enough," she shrugged. "He had refused my service and cast me out. You were the next one in line."

"But what if I do that? And the twins? Wouldn't you be free?"

"Tom, would you wager the next sixty or seventy years of your life on Scott and Sean doing the right thing?" Her lips curled in mockery.

"I took a gamble with your uncle, because the reward outweighed the risk. He is a cowardly drunk with no offspring. I will not roll dice when it means that I may be forced to spend decades with those two pieces of filth."

Tom nodded grimly. Three years younger than him, Sean and Scott had already racked up five arrests between them, including one for sexual assault and a DUI. He would not care to place a bet on how Matthew's poisonous sons would react to the thought of having Rhiannon as their own.

"OK. So you came to me. How did you know I would be any better than the evil twins or Uncle Mark?"

"Because of your father. And your grandmother. And much later, your mother." As Tom blinked in confusion she explained. "Your grandmother, Mary, could tell soon enough that your Uncle Matthew was just as vile as your grandfather. So she put all her efforts into her second child, your father. Before she ran away, she gave Dougal the strength of will and character he needed to survive. For a while. I was sorry to hear of his death. Very sorry. I had put all of my hopes into him, you see? I had watched over him, silent and invisible at your grandfather's order, while I watched him grow. Every day I woke with the prayer that somehow both Mick and Matthew had died, and that Dougal now held my contract.

"When Matthew died, choking on his own bile, it was the happiest I had been in decades. By Nuada's Arm! If somehow I could have reached out to your father, convinced him to be strong, to ease his pain...but I could not.

"And then he died by his own hand, driven to despair by your grandfather's hate. If it was possible, I would have killed myself that day. But then I thought of you. Your grandfather had spoken of you, on occasion, and never well. So that gave me some hope," she said with a wry smile.

"But then I heard you had taken his money and agreed to become a lawyer," she stated angrily, eyes fierce with condemnation. "How could you? After seeing what he did to poor Dougal, how could you agree to follow that path?"

Tom raised his brows. "I bet on his death," he said simply. "My father didn't leave us much. When Mick came to me with his offer, he was already in poor health. I made the gamble that he would die before I had the chance to work for him and have to take a case that would put me under his thumb forever.

"It was a close-run thing," he acknowledged. "If the sick old bastard could have hung on for another six months I'd probably be as trapped as Dad was. But I am free and clear with a degree from a good school, and I can go into the branch of law that I really want."

"Which is?" she asked, voice low and dangerous.

"Environmental law," he said simply. "There are companies that are...are defiling our planet, for no more reason than that they are rich and the government has crippled itself. I can't fix the whole world by myself, but I can give it a fucking good try."

She smiled at him, and he found himself drawn to the dark pools of her glorious eyes. God, he thought, I could sink into them and drown.

"Care for the wide green world," she said softly. "Now that is a noble purpose indeed."

****

Tom drummed his fingers nervously. Several hours had passed, but he had not grown used to Rhiannon's presence.

It wasn't that she was irritating, or drew attention to herself. It was that she was always there. Whenever he glanced up from his books, she always seemed positioned precisely in the right place to catch his eye.

He sighed and rubbed his face, smiling ruefully

If I can't deal with this for one afternoon, imagine how I will feel after forty or fifty years. What could the senile old prick have been thinking, to bind an immortal to his service? He's lucky they didn't turn him into a charcoal briquet.

Binding...

A contract runs two ways. What did it say?

He got up and went into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of tea.

"Rhiannon?"

"Yes, Tom?" she answered.

Well, at least I have broken her of this 'Yes, Master,' crap. Otherwise I would be thinking I was trapped in an old episode of 'I Dream of Genie'"

"You signed a contract. Do you still have it, or a copy?"

"Of course," she said. "It is there on your desk."

Tom blinked. He would have sworn the desk had been empty of everything except legal pads and empty bottles of Diet Mountain Dew. He sat down in his chair and began to leaf through the papers.

Not too long, Thank God. He had heard stories of contracts that were as long and as indecipherable as dissertations on Marxist philosophy. This one, by contrast, seemed relatively short.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

He swung his feet up so that his chair tilted back and his legs rested on the corner of his desk, only a good sneeze away from falling over backwards.

"A contract is an agreement between two parties. In this case, between yourself and my grandfather. You signed away your freedom. However, the second party, in this case the disgusting bastard who was buried yesterday, also had to agree to something.

"Even in the days where slavery was legal in this country, slave-owners had certain responsibilities. They weren't written out in something as legally binding as a contract, of course, but they were still there. Food. Clothing. Some semblance of shelter. Somewhere in this contract has to be language which describes what Grandpa Mick was trading in exchange for your service.

"And if we can find out what it is, then we can break it."

Rhiannon's face lit with joy, and for a splintered instant he thought she would embrace him. But then the pall of despair fell back over her.

"My family looked, Tom. They could find nothing."

"Your family," he said loftily, "was not trained in the traditions of the American legal system." He grinned. "I am. If it's there, I 'll find it."

She nodded and walked away, aimlessly pacing between his kitchen and his small living room.

She doesn't believe me. No. She doesn't trust me. And why should she? All that she has known at the hands of my family is shame, betrayal and abuse.

A thought struck him. "Rhiannon," he said, holding out his now-empty glass. "Could you fill this back up with tea, please?"

She took the glass from his hand and walked back to the kitchen, eerily silent. When she returned with his refill he looked her square in the eyes.

"Thank you," he said, making sure his words were clear and distinct.

Her eyes widened as she stared at him. Her legs shook, and she abruptly sat down, collapsing onto the worn beige carpet.

"Stupid, foolish mortal," she breathed. "What have you done?"

"What I had to do," he replied. "I have power over you. Too much power. Power I don't want. If we are ever going to deal with each other fairly, we need to do so as equals.

"I can't make myself your slave. And I don't want to. But by thanking you, I have shown my trust in you. That you won't abuse the power you have over me. As I hope," he said softly, "you trust I won't abuse the power I have over you."

Her lips trembled, and suddenly her eyes overflowed with tears. She sobbed bitterly, shaking, huddling on the floor.

Awkwardly, unsure of his actions, Tom slid off the chair and gathered her in his arms, trying to comfort her. Unsure of where to put his hands, he settled for stroking her back.

You could take her now, a disgusting, loathsome part of his mind chuckled. Was it him, or did it bear his grandfather's voice? You can enslave a person by kindness as much as by cruelty. Treat her well, and it will be such a change from her prior life that she won't even realize she is still a prisoner.

Uncertain of what action to take, Tom hesitantly patted Rhiannon on the back as she sobbed into his chest, soaking his shirt with her tears. Her dark hair spilled over his hand as he tried to soothe her. Unwillingly, he noted that she wasn't wearing a bra, and as she clung close to him, the collar of her shirt gaped open, allowing him to see deep into her cleavage.

To his discomfort and embarrassment, he found that he was growing erect inside his shorts. Her physical beauty and her emotional need spoke to a protective urge within him. Nervously, he tried to hide his arousal.

Go away, he told it angrily. The last thing she needs to see is me with a hard-on. It'll just remind her of my grandfather.

He turned his body so that they sat side-by-side, his arm around her shoulders. Wiping her eyes, Rhiannon pulled away from him, and he let her go with a feeling of relief, adjusting himself quickly when she momentarily looked away.

"I'm sorry," she said, wiping her eyes with the tail of her t-shirt, momentarily exposing the flat curves of her belly. Tom glanced aside. The pale skin of her face was blotchy and flushed, and she was still heart-stoppingly beautiful.

"Don't worry about it," he replied. "I think you're entitled to a good cry every now and then. If I had spent nearly fifty years with Mick," he continued, "I wouldn't be crying. I'd be dead. Because I would have killed myself, like my dad."

"Don't talk like that!" she said fiercely. "If I had been capable of suicide, I would have. But it was hope that kept me from despair all those years. Hope that your father, and later, you, would be able to release me from this imprisonment."

"Well, if I'm going to do that, I better get to work," said Tom, reluctantly moving away from her. He sat down again at his desk, and got to work

%%%

Three hours later, Tom slapped the contract on the desk with a grimace of frustration.

It was everything he feared it would be; clear in some places, maddeningly opaque in others, and disgusting throughout. It was comprehensive in how it detailed the ways in which Rhiannon was to be completely subservient to Mick's desires. There was no act too petty, no degradation too small, no humiliation too great, that was not meticulously written down and made horrifically clear. It was obvious that he had seen a golden opportunity to impose all of his perverse desires on Rhiannon, and had not shied away from doing so.

If there's a worse place than hell, I hope he's in it.

He rubbed his tired eyes with his hands. On the sofa, Rhiannon looked up from a book, face hopeful.

He shook his head. "Nothing yet, I'm afraid," Her face fell. "I read the whole damn thing straight through, hoping something would jump out at me. I should have known better than to think it would be something obvious or easy.

"Later on tonight I'll go through it one line at a time. But I don't think that will do much good. Then I'll read it through again. Sometimes if you can find...find the rhythm of a legal document, things that you don't notice at first will fall into place.

"Right now, though, I'm going to take a shower. I feel like I've walked through a sewer."

"Not a sewer," she said softly. "Just his mind."

"Like there's a difference," he muttered, and went into his bedroom and closed the door.

Thirty minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed, he stood in front of the wasteland that was his refrigerator.

Should have had Mom help you with the grocery shopping like she suggested, he thought. Nothing but pot-pies, frozen pizza, and tater tots as far as the eye can see.

"Rhiannon, can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly, Tom."

"Without being too crude about it, what are your...physical needs? Do you eat? Sleep? Will you need to use my...plumbing facilities?"

Rhiannon smiled, showing a dimple in her cheek. "I enjoy eating very much. It was the one physical pleasure that Mick didn't take away from me. Sometimes he would take me out for dinner, when he wanted to impress someone. Of course," she said, her face falling into shadowed lines, "those nights usually ended very badly for me.

"I can sleep if I wish, and if I eat I will certainly need to use your toilet. And if you do not want me to stink," she said with another small smile, "I will need to use your shower as well."

"All right, then," he said, closing the door of the fridge. "We are going out to eat. How much time," he asked, turning around, "do you need to get..."

Ready.

Wow.

In the time between he spoke and the time he turned around, she had somehow changed her clothes from a simple t-shirt and shorts to a stunning evening gown. Blue and silver, it fell nearly to her ankles. Seemingly held up by nothing more than pure thoughts and good intentions, it cradled her breasts in front, then fell away in the rear as she spun for his enjoyment, the fabric dipping in a deep vee to the small of her back. Her hair was gathered and held at the top of her head, small tendrils artfully allowed to escape and to curl around her cheeks. She wore little jewelry, but a strand of pearls collared her delicate throat. A pair of high-heeled shoes in shades of black and silver completed the ensemble.

"Do you like it?" she asked, blushing faintly.

"It's...very nice." The words came out in a strangled rasp. "But it's a little fancy for what I have in mind. Maybe you'd like to wear something a little less...eye-catching?"

Rhiannon lifted her eyebrows, but nodded her acceptance. From the twinkle in her eye, Tom began to suspect she was enjoying the way her presence unsettled him.

All the better, he thought. The less she fears me the happier I am going to be. I won't be able to handle it if she's afraid to talk to me, or constantly shying away.

When he looked back, she was dressed much more appropriately, though she was no less beautiful. She wore a plain white t-shirt, cut off just above her waist, with a faded pair of hip-hugging blue jeans which left a tantalizing strip of her stomach and back exposed. As he followed her out the door, trying to pry his eyes from the delightful view of her rear, he sighed to himself.

Well, I suppose the next best thing to going to bed with an Irish goddess is living with one.

&&&

He took her to Portillo's, a Chicago burger chain he loved. Standing in the heat and the noise of the restaurant, people thronging around them, she grasped his hand hard, on the verge of panic.

He gently eased her forward to the head of the line as their turn came to order. "What would you like?" he asked softly.

Her eyes darted from side to side, resting for a moment on the menu, then to his face. "It has been so long," she said, voice quivering. "Can you help me?"

Idiot! He snarled at himself. Brilliant idea! Take a woman who hasn't been able to make a choice of her own for fifty years to a restaurant! Moron!

He smiled at her, squeezing her hand in apology, then addressed the server, who was waiting impatiently.

"One double-cheeseburger, American, onions, pickles, lettuce, no tomato, add bacon. One cheeseburger, American with everything. One large fries. One large onion rings. One large chocolate shake. One medium diet Coke." She nodded and rang up the order. Taking the receipt, he and Rhiannon moved to the side so that the next customer could order.

"Everything's so...loud here," she said quietly. Her voice was nervous, almost fearful.

He smiled at her. "That's why a lot of people like it. You can come here and have a conversation without being worried that everyone is listening to you."

Her look was pensive. "Privacy in a crowd. Hmm."

Their order was quickly up, and Tom and Rhiannon wove their way through the tables to a semi-private booth at the back. Rhiannon looked apprehensive as Tom unwrapped the food and tipped the fries and onion rings out onto the tray.

"Here," he said, handing her a hamburger. "This one is yours."

She frowned at him. "Why this one and not that one?" she asked, pointing her chin at his double.

"Because your burger has tomatoes on it. And I don't like tomatoes. And my burger has bacon, because bacon is awesome," he grinned.

"Well, you could have gotten me bacon on my burger, too," she scowled.

Good, he thought. She's starting to stand up for herself. He wasn't stupid enough to think that decades of abuse could be reversed in hours, days, or even weeks. But the sooner she stopped seeing him as an authority figure and started seeing him as an ally in their mission to break the contract, the happier he would be. The memory of the groveling subservience with which she had greeted him earlier in the day made him cringe.

He sighed theatrically and pulled a couple of strips of bacon off his burger and handed them to her with a deep nod of his head, almost a bow. "Happy now?"

She smiled and lifted the bun to place the bacon on her sandwich. Tentatively, she took a bite, then ate with growing enthusiasm.

"Good, huh?" He took an onion ring and crunched it happily, making a low sound of satisfaction. Rhiannon tried one as well, and wrinkled her nose.

"Too greasy," she said.

"That's why we have napkins," he replied, and put one to good use, wiping off his hands and picking up his burger.

By the time they were done, Rhiannon had decided she quite liked onion rings after all, and had eaten all of hers and half of his. Cheerfully grumbling, Tom wiped the last of his fries through a pool of mustard and finished his shake.

"Ready to go home?" he asked.

Rhiannon started, then blinked. "Yes. Definitely."

By the time they got back to his apartment, it was nearly dark, the late spring day slowly turning towards night.

"I'm going to pop in a movie," he said. "Would you like to watch with me?"

She smiled. "Before I was captured, I used to love watching the movies your people made. I tried to tell my family about them. About how it was human magic. But they just laughed."

"You'll have to tell me about them soon," he said. He popped a DVD into his one luxury, a home theater system with a large-screen high-def TV and surround-sound. As the opening credits of "The Fellowship of the Ring" came up, he dimmed the lights.

Glaze72
Glaze72
3,349 Followers