For Love Of Rory. Barbara Leigh

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СКАЧАТЬ of anger from the ship told them that their plan had succeeded. The men on the shore jumped into the little boats and sent them catapulting across the water, leaving the children virtually unguarded. Confusion resounded from shore to ship, and Serine managed to lift her head from the water long enough to see an empty space where the children had been held.

      As the guards called for help from their comrades the women shot their fire arrows from the cliffs.

      A short distance from shore Old Ethyl drew Serine to a halt. “Here I leave you and go to join the others,” she said. Then, unable to hold back her emotion, she continued. “You are a fine, brave woman.”

      “As are you,” Serine replied breathlessly as the women went their separate ways.

      Serine smiled despite her exhaustion as she pulled herself toward the bush where she had left her gown.

      She found her legs unable to hold her weight, and crawled from the water. Her hand groped beneath the bush as she felt blindly for her clothing. It was impossible to see, and she almost cried out when, rather than the rough material of her gown, her hand fell on the sinewy warmth of human flesh.

      A hand clutched her arm and drew her from her hiding place. She found herself face-to-face with a man. In the shadowy light she could make out the bearded face and the strong, virile body.

      Was he truly a man, or had one of the Celt gods come to earth to mock her success in burning the ship and freeing the children? For truly he looked like a wild heathen god as he glared down at her, vengeance written in each line of his countenance. And her heart beat madly as her cheeks flamed in anger and embarrassment, for the expression in this man-god’s face was clear. And, heaven forgive her, for the briefest moment she wondered what it would be like to be loved by a pagan deity.

      In the shadowy light Rory could see the naked body of a woman—slim and sleek, with thrusting breasts, a flat belly and long, shapely legs. Was this the Freya, of whom the wise man Drojan often spoke? A goddess come from the sea to taunt him for his failure to safeguard the children they had taken? Did she come to rebuke him for failing in his pledge that this would be a bloodless raid?

      No, this woman was flesh and blood, with defiant eyes and a determined set to her chin. Yet the supple body formed to his so sweetly he could not help but wonder if her lips would do the same.

      In truth, there was nothing to lose. His raid had failed and many of the children had escaped. The ship was crippled, and his men would be forced upon the mercy of the sea with only the dubious protection of the little boats.

      What matter if he tasted the lips of this water nymph? Who was she to argue if he took the pleasures that her body so graciously offered?

      It was possible that she had been a part of the plot that had so successfully sent his comrades into confusion. For that alone she deserved a Celt’s wrath and a Celt’s revenge.

      Would those firmly set lips beg for mercy? Or would they part to welcome his kiss? What sort of woman would place her life at risk against not only the Celts but the gods of water and fire? There was but one answer...a woman with the soul of a Celt, and it was such a woman he held in his arms.

      He gripped her tightly and pressed her sleek, firm body against his. Perhaps, should she please him, he would take her back with him to warm his bed. And warm it she would. If not with her love, then with her hatred. With such a woman, either emotion would prove entertaining during the long winter nights.

      He bent toward her. She did not flinch or beg, and once more he felt grudging admiration. As their lips touched, sparks shot before his eyes and exploded into nothingness. Rory pitched forward, Old Ethyl’s arrow buried deep in his back.

      Chapter Two

      “Serine! Are you hurt?” Margot asked as she rushed to Serine’s side.

      “Only frightened,” Serine admitted, struggling to roll the Celt off her body.

      Serine scrambled to her feet and looked down at the man. Blood trickled from his mouth and disappeared into his beard.

      “My arrow is stuck in his lungs,” Old Ethyl cackled as she hurried over to survey her handiwork. “A death blow, I vow! No need to worry about that one again.”

      “The children?” Serine asked, trying to forget the heat that had raced through her body as the man held her in his arms.

      “The children are safe,” Margot assured her. “I saw them reach the hills and came back to find you.” She looked at the younger woman’s state of undress and added, “And well I did.”

      Old Ethyl regarded Dame Margot with disdain. “We had everything under control,” she said bluntly.

      Serine grabbed her woolen dress from beneath the bush and threw it over her body, ignoring the scratch of the coarse material against her skin. The rough woolen garment did nothing to warm her. Her whole being felt as cold as death. As cold as the man lying at the water’s edge.

      “Come now, we must go,” Margot urged.

      “But what of...him?” Serine motioned toward the inert body.

      “Leave him,” Old Ethyl said, pulling her away. “Perhaps the Celts will return for him. I might stay and see if I could skewer a few more.”

      “There’s no reason for you to put yourself in more danger,” Serine assured the woman. “‘Tis best we leave.” She willed herself not to look back.

      “It was a good job we did of making them think they’d been attacked. Look there!” she cackled as the Celts struggled to set the sails on the little boats. “The whole lot of them on the run. They must make it back to their godforsaken land as best they can in their little skiffs while their ship sinks. And good riddance!” Old Ethyl added as the women made their way through the deserted camp and hurried after the children.

      Only when they reached the rocks that would block the sea from view did Serine pause. Cursing herself for her weakness, she allowed herself one last look at the man, lying like a pagan god in the moonlight. It would not have surprised her to see the figure of a Valkyrie come to take him to Valhalla, or heaven, or perhaps hell. It occurred to her that it was the Viking warriors who were said to be taken to Valhalla when they were struck down in battle. God only knew where Celts went after death. Regardless of his beliefs, or lack of them, this man had held no weapon, and Serine could not help but wonder about the fate that awaited a warrior shot in the back while he dallied with a woman.

      Not that she cared! Not that she cared in any way! Only, it was too bad the Celt would not receive his just reward.

      But then, perhaps he already had.

      * * *

      Day was breaking when Serine reached the place where the children had been hidden. The sun crested the horizon and the women called out their welcome, hailing Serine and her companions as heroes.

      Exhausted from the rigors of their escape and the trauma of abduction, the children slept in the hall of an ancient monastery hidden deep in the forest.

      “And there’s no question in my mind,” the alewife boasted, “the men could have done no more, nor done it better.” She beamed at her lady and cast a loving glance at her sleeping son.

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