OF TWO MINDS

Ada

The earl donned a simple dark tunic and breeches and then watched, barely suppressing a smile, as I tried to subdue my hair. In the end, I settled for a loose plait coiled at the base of my neck.

“I suppose it will do,” I murmured.

“You are beautiful,” said he, “and endlessly fascinating. Had I such a remarkable feature, I would leave it wild for the world to admire.”

I laughed. “Had you been ‘admired’ by the world so often as I, you might hesitate in such a course. But you are kind, my lord.” I continued to use his title out of habit and also, perhaps, due to uncertainty about the nature of our relationship. But even to my own ears, the words sounded like a caress, kissed with tenderness.

Smiling at last, the earl replied, “Shall we go?”

In truth, I was loath to leave this sanctuary. The path ahead was unknown, and I longed with all my body and being for the intimacy we had aborted. “I suppose we’d better,” I replied.

“I believe we will be safe in this place,” he said. “But let us keep close to each other.”

We made our way back down the passage and along the route Caer had followed when she left us. We soon found ourselves in a central chamber with a large banquet table. Four people were seated at the table, but what first caught my attention was the tapestry that ran the length of the wall opposite the table. It depicted two figures in a close embrace in some woodland bower, which reminded me of the tapestry in Diarmuid’s chamber. I found I could not shift my gaze from the lovers—and soon discovered that the couple bore a striking resemblance to the earl and me.

Heat crept from my cheeks down my throat and across my chest.

“If it isn’t the Bog King of Connacht,” said the earl suddenly, and I felt him stiffen. “What is your business here?”

My gaze fell from the tapestry and alighted on a familiar face—and an angry one.

“Duncan!” I cried, stepping forward. He had stood up, his brow so dark I anticipated a rumble of thunder. And indeed, there was lightning in his look—his eyes were bright and strange, reminding me of Diarmuid.

“Finvara, please sit,” the lady of the house urged.

She seemed to be speaking to Duncan, and I glanced between them, confused. According to lore, Finvara was king of the fairies, and he resided in the west of Ireland. In the stories about him, the fairies went to war with the ancient Irish, lost the war, and then were said to be exiled to an underground world that was probably Faery.

But what had he to do with Duncan? And what was it that had set Edward off?

Turning to question him, I could see by the light in his eyes that Diarmuid was ascendant.

An ancient rivalry, whispered my ancestress.

Could it be that Duncan, like Edward and me, was a descendant of Faery? I glanced at him again, this time noting that beside him sat the resplendent queen of two worlds, Isolde, looking bored and annoyed.

“Must we?” she muttered.

“We must,” replied Duncan, “if he will begin by insulting me.”

“Please,” said Caer, glancing at the earl and me. “Won’t you join us?”

As we moved to take the seats she indicated, I discovered that my eye had greatly deceived me about the tapestry. The scene depicted a sword fight between two men. How could I have been so mistaken about its subject?

Then I realized that the tapestry’s combatants were the very men now bristling at each other across the banquet table.

“Welcome, friends and allies.” This greeting came from the man who occupied the raised seat at the head of the table, and it had a dampening effect on the ireful looks passing between Edward and Duncan.

The man’s countenance was kindly. His dark hair was streaked with white, and he wore a circlet of some plain, lusterless metal. But a large moonstone was set in the center of the band at his forehead. His eyes, like the stone, were a nearly white shade of gray. Caer sat at the place beside him, and I realized that this must be Angus, Diarmuid’s foster father and the Danaan chieftain at Brú na Bóinne.

Caer poured an amber liquid from a pitcher into two goblets and handed them to us. The vessel felt strangely light, and the metal caused a slight tingling in my fingertips. I placed it on the table before me.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Edward, sounding himself again. “And my lady.”

Glancing at Isolde, he continued, “I must confess that I am both confused and surprised to find us all gathered here.”

“We have assembled to discuss our plan for battle,” said the queen, frowning at him. “Had you done as I asked, you’d know that. But the important thing is, you’re here. I thought you’d gone mad entirely, jumping out the window like that.”

“I’m not sure that I haven’t,” replied the earl. “But we’re here, primarily, because we’ve caught a creature who’s sworn fealty to the Fomorian king, and he has told us of a plot to spoil Ireland’s potato crop. We foiled his attempt, but he has indicated there are others in progress—perhaps directed at other crops—and that they are too far along to be stopped. I assume this to be the blight you spoke of at Kildamhnait.”

“Potatoes?” asked Duncan—or Finvara—sounding dubious.

“We caught him carrying a sack of diseased potatoes through a Gap gate,” I explained. “We inspected and disposed of them ourselves. If other servants of Balor crossed successfully into Ireland, many people could starve.”

“Many Irishmen will die,” agreed Finvara. “’Tis but a foregone conclusion now. We are here to talk of the battle to come.”

“It could be that something may yet be done,” I countered, holding his gaze. If Duncan was also Finvara, our situation had been greatly complicated. The Finvara I knew from the lore certainly had no love for the Irish, despite his fabled penchant for mortal women. Was it possible to appeal to his Irish counterpart?

“Think of your family, Duncan,” I pleaded. “Your brothers and their families. Perhaps they would survive, but what of your father’s tenants?”

Finvara stared at me as he considered, and I prayed that my words might wake his descendant. But after a moment, he shook his head. “These ideas—they are cut from the same cloth as those that brought about our exile. I, for one, have had enough of it. For you, lady, I will fight for Ireland, but it is not my business to save her people.”

I detected only traces of Edward’s charming and high-spirited cousin in the countenance of the man sitting opposite me. It appeared that when it came to their descendants, the male immortals among us were more interested in conquest than in alliance. I could only hope that in time, Duncan and Finvara, like Edward and Diarmuid, might at least agree to an uneasy truce.

“Isn’t it possible we might find a way to stop the Fomorians without the need for war?” the earl asked reasonably. “If they are somehow foiled in their attempt to reduce our numbers beforehand, mightn’t they think twice?”

Finvara’s fist came down suddenly on the table, making the goblets jump. “You are the reason for all of this. If no one else here will say it, I will. And I’m not interested in your proposals!”

The bench we were seated on quaked as Edward lunged across the table, knotting his fist in Finvara’s shirt. “Blasted bog-crawler!” he growled, and Finvara took a swing at him, just grazing his chin.

“sit. down.” Angus’s deep voice rumbled through the hall. “Both of you.”

The combatants gave each other a shove and stumbled back from the table, seething.

I stared at them, baffled. This enmity is about the exile?

And a woman who made her choice, came the answer.

Somehow, I knew which woman, and I had a suspicion about the choice. More complications.

“Sit,” repeated Angus, and the men obeyed. “These decisions belong to the four of you,” he continued. “For Caer and me, the time has passed.” He glanced at his wife, and the look she gave him was loving and contented, yet tinged with melancholy. When Angus returned his gaze to the rest of us, he added, “But I would encourage you not to waste time playing out old dramas.”

“What is ‘old’ to timeless beings?” growled Finvara. “We are as we ever were.”

“Upon that, we can agree,” the earl muttered.

“In some ways, immortality is a curse,” Caer agreed. “Without birth or death, there can be no true change.”

“Our hall is host to beings of two minds,” Angus continued. “The Irishmen among you will, of course, desire to preserve their race. You of Faery will not abide a Fomorian takeover of Ireland. Some motives are more complicated.” He looked from Edward to Duncan. “If you cannot strive together, none will get what he wants. You will squabble and fight and accomplish nothing. It is as simple as that.”

He eyed each of his guests in turn, allowing his words to work on them. A faint smirk curled Queen Isolde’s lips, and her gaze rested briefly on me. Her disdain for our masculine companions was apparent, and I could at least empathize with her impatience at their behavior.

“As for this business of potatoes,” Angus continued, “the men and women trapped under the bogs of this country fall under your banner, King Finvara, do they not?”

Finvara gave a short nod. “They do.”

Edward—or, more likely, Diarmuid—gave a snort of quiet laughter, and I kicked him hard under the table.

“If the ground has indeed been poisoned, might not their aid be enlisted?” asked our host.

Finvara, after considering for a moment, gave another nod. “It’s possible. They have communed with the earth for centuries and are sensitive to disturbances.” He lifted his goblet and drained it. I thought I caught a softening in his expression, and he sank deeper into his seat before continuing, “Through the ages, many instruments of murder have been cast into the bog, only to be found the next morning lying on bare patches of ground in plain sight.”

I understood now what Angus and Finvara were referring to: bog bodies. Several had been discovered by farmers cutting peat, or turf, the fuel used in Irish hearth fires. The bog waters were acidic and prevented the natural process of decay. In essence, the bodies were mummified. But what these two men seemed to be suggesting was that they were not entirely dead.

“You know how to find these bog men, my lord?” I asked Finvara.

His blue eyes, bright with the light of immortality, fixed on me. “Aye, lady. But it is you yourself who should speak to them, so they understand what they must look for. I will serve as your escort.”

The earl stiffened beside me, and I, too, understood this trick—or perhaps it was Cliona who understood. At its heart, it was a bid for the lady’s companionship and attention. But it was also a compromise—or perhaps, in a less charitable light, a kind of bribe. He would help us, but he expected something in return.

My companionship was an easy price. My ancestress and I had a stake in this game, and both she and Finvara had a connection with the dead. And while a request from the king might carry force, it would certainly lack the passion of my own.

Movement behind him caught my eye, and I stared at the tapestry as the lines of the figures in the scene softened and disappeared, some colors fading while others intensified. New lines were drawn as the tapestry reorganized itself, and the scene now depicted Finvara and me, galloping on a great white horse across a wasted landscape. Did it foretell the future, or merely reflect the topic of conversation at the table?

My eyes returned to the king. “Yes,” I replied. “Of course I will accompany you.”

“No.” It was Diarmuid’s voice that now echoed in the hall.

I turned to meet his fiery gaze. “My lord,” I insisted, “I must. Do you not see?”

I pleaded silently with him, and at length he turned to glower across the table at the king. “Then I will go too.”

“You will not,” interjected Queen Isolde, stern and incredulous. “You have warriors to command, as do I. We have strategy to plan. Have you even called your fighters? Broken the seal?”

“You do not command me,” growled the Danaan warrior.

“But I do command the body you inhabit, and he shall not defy me in this.”

Before Diarmuid could retort, Caer interjected, “Queen Maeve is right, my son. Even as we speak, the minutes slip away from us. We must begin this battle on our own terms and not wait for our enemies to attack. You are two of Faery’s most renowned generals. You must set the course for battle and entrust these other concerns to your allies.”

“Let us waste no time,” Finvara agreed. The light of triumph was barely, halfheartedly concealed behind Duncan’s clear eyes. “I must rouse my own court to readiness as well.”

“The Danaan can expect the aid of the fairies?” said Angus.

“I can speak for most,” replied Finvara. “But some will have allied themselves with Balor. The Sluagh most certainly will stand no friend to us.”

The Sluagh was said to be a host of the restless dead. And there were other fairies more associated with evil doings than with good—redcaps like Billy, for example, and the púca. Aughisky, the water horse, had a dark reputation, though she appeared to answer to Diarmuid.

“Sounds like a failure of leadership to me,” Diarmuid observed dryly, and I held my breath.

“The fairies are fickle,” replied Caer before Finvara could respond to the taunt, “and their alliances ephemeral. King Finvara is to be commended for keeping what peace he could.”

Finvara nodded in acknowledgment of the praise. “We shall first return to Ireland and speak with Máine Mór, the bog man. Dana knows I would be pleased to live out the rest of eternity without traveling again under the flag of that O’Malley woman, but if we don’t, we’ll lose time in the journey to Connacht.”

“I may be able to help with that,” I said. “Unless the others have need of him, we can take Billy Millstone. If there is a Gap gate near our destination, he can guide us there.”

“Billy?” said Finvara, frowning. “What’s he got to do with this?”

I explained that Billy was the redcap we had intercepted at the Gap gate.

“The old wretch,” growled the king. “Aye, there is a Gap gate at Knock Ma. The bog man resides an easy distance from there.”

I knew of Knock Ma, or at least the Ireland version of it. There were important ruins there, said by folklorist William Wilde to be associated with the first major Tuatha De Danaan battle. More to the point, the stronghold of King Finvara was said to have been at Knock Ma.

“Gather your things, my lady,” said Finvara, rising. “Warm clothing, a weapon if you have one.”

“Hold a moment,” said Angus, his gaze on me. “What of the banshees, lady? Will they take a side in this conflict?”

The Danaan chieftain, fair minded and wise though he obviously was, presented an intimidating personage, and I hesitated in giving an answer I knew to be insufficient. But before I could inform him of my uncertainty on this point, I received guidance from my ancestress.

The banshees will follow their queen. I repeated this answer to Angus, sounding much more convinced of it than I felt.

Angus nodded, satisfied, and before rising from the table, I glanced from the corner of my eye at the still-smoldering immortal on my right, willing him to keep his peace.

I made a small curtsy to Angus and Caer. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord and lady.”

“Travel safely,” said Caer kindly.

“Finvara will take care of you,” her husband added.

I moved slowly away, more than half expecting one of Diarmuid’s eruptions in my wake.

In truth, I could sympathize with his unhappiness at this turn of events. Leaving Edward at this time was the last thing I would have chosen, but it seemed our stars had other ideas.

On my return to Diarmuid’s chamber, I made another search through drawers and chests until I’d found suitable items for the journey—a fur-lined cloak, a pair of sturdy boots, a less ostentatious gown that had chain mail sewn into the sleeves, and a leather bodice that might deflect a blade.

I was struggling with the laces of the emerald gown when suddenly the door slammed shut behind me.

I spun around. “Edward!” I cried in surprise.

He crossed the room like a rainsquall, halting a few feet before me. “Promise me you will return when this business is completed. Do not follow Finvara back to his court.”

“What is it that frightens you, Diarmuid?” I demanded, unable to keep a note of scorn from my voice.

“It is I, Ada. Edward. And I don’t want you following him back to Knock Ma, because he’s a woman-stealer.”

“Diarmuid has told you this?” I demanded. I knew, of course, of Finvara’s reputation—the story most frequently told of him had to do with kidnapping the most beautiful woman in Ireland from the home of her betrothed. But it was a severe case of pot and kettle, and I resented the earl’s sudden bluster. Which may explain why I tried to rouse him further by asking, “Are you sure this isn’t about Duncan O’Malley?”

The earl’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. He stepped closer, until the toes of our shoes almost touched. “At this point,” he replied, “there is no difference.”

I gave up wrestling the fastenings of my gown and drew myself up to my full height, little good that it did when he had a half-foot advantage. “Do you fear that he will hold me against my will, my lord, or is it I whom you do not trust?”

His hands gripped my arms. “Why do you test me?” he demanded, and I wondered at this change in him. But I could not expect him to share his mind with the Danaan warrior and not be affected.

“Why do you not answer the question?” I replied with no quaver in my voice. “Do you not trust me?”

“We have no arrangement, Ada,” he said, as if this explained everything. “You are not my wife, or even my mistress.”

“I am glad that you have remembered it.”

The argument was pointless, but my blood was rising, and not only in anger. A kind of energy swelled between us, like a gas lamp flaring to life.

“There was a time before all this when you were less indifferent to me,” he said, bending over me so I was forced to tip my head back.

He was baiting me. We were baiting each other. Which of us would first feel the hook?

“You once asked me to fortify you against the charms of another,” he continued, his thumbs hotly rubbing the insides of my arms.

The loosened gown had slipped down my shoulders, revealing the visible quaking of my chest. I followed his eye there. My heart was near frantic with desire, and a tremor entered my voice as I replied, “And were you satisfied with the result, my lord?”

He made a dark rumbling sound in his throat. “Indeed, I was.”

I swallowed past the thick, hot pressure in my throat. “Then why not test its efficacy again?”

His hand came to the side of my neck, tilting my jaw, and he covered my mouth with his. Heat, hunger, even anger—I took all of it into myself through his lips and tongue. With his free hand, he yanked loose the laces of my gown and pulled down the bodice.

Edward

Bending to her chest, I dipped my head and closed my mouth over one breast. Opening my lips wide, I took as much of the sweet, supple flesh into my mouth as I could. The hard, dark pebble I woke with a thrust of my tongue—the breath hissed between her teeth and she slackened in my arms.

I was mad. Mad with lust, mad with fear, mad with the impotence of a lover overruled by cooler heads.

Curling my hands under her buttocks, I lifted her, tucking her legs around my waist, resting her full weight atop my throbbing cock. I took three steps, luxuriating in the pressure and slow friction, before tossing her onto the bed.

Her arms and legs splayed as she fell, and before she could recover a more dignified position, I grabbed the hem of her gown and shoved it above her waist.

I watched her face as I reached down to loosen my breeches, and instead of offering protests or scooting away from me, she issued a challenge with her eyes and slid her legs farther apart. Taking her thighs in my hands, I dragged her toward the edge of the bed and fell on top of her. Reaching between her legs, I parted her silken flesh with one finger, uttering a groan as it slid inside her. I could lose myself in that warmth and wetness and never miss the light of day.

I added a second finger, and she made a sound halfway between cry and plea. The muscles of her sex closed over me.

I teased her only a moment more before pulling my hand free. Then I sank my cock into her until my abdomen was pressed up against her mound.

Taking hold of my shoulders, she wriggled until I understood that she wanted me on the bed. When we had managed this reversal, she sat up, straddling me, the green gown pooling about her waist. Thus mounted, she seemed to hesitate, as if unsure what came next. I took hold of her hips, grinding her sex down hard against me. Her head tipped back, and a long feminine moan worked its slow, delicious way out of her.

Hands bracing against my chest, she began to rock under her own steam, the center of her pleasure grinding against me, trailing moisture across my flesh. Her swollen breasts rolled with the violence of her movement, and my hands were now free to knead them, drawing from her a piercing cry, and a stronger spasm of contracting muscles.

I was not equal to this sensual attack. I could not continue to man the battlements. Gripping her hips again, I held her in place and thrust as hard as I could—one, two, three, four, five—deepening my seat with every motion, voicing a shuddering moan with my release. Her body went rigid, the muscles between her legs wringing pleasure from me, and she gave a final cry of surrender before collapsing, breathless, onto my chest.

My sense of relief at her weight resting on me, and the physical contentment of sated desire, held at bay my sense of alarm at her determination to leave me—to flee from my protection into danger, and in the care of a rival. This was a moment I would wish to hold on to forever.

On this subject, my ancestor and I were in accord. He did not trust the king, and I did not trust my cousin. Duncan would never harm her, I knew, but he had made it quite clear that should the lady feel mishandled by me, he would know how to treat her better. These possessive impulses were alien to me, and I was not proud of them.

For now, I must content myself with this victory of the flesh. She had met and matched my desire, and we had not been overcome by powerful ancestors. Diarmuid had kept to the shadows, and I believed I understood why. Only in feeling unthreatened by his presence could I give in to the demands of my body, which had only grown more insistent since the lady first gave herself to me. And if he could not be with Cliona, Ada was the next best thing. I should have been sickened by such a thought. And I might later be. But while she was here, nothing could disturb the warm contentment flowing through me.

You understand nothing, came his voice in my mind. For me, she is Cliona. And I was not about to send her away without a reminder of what burns between us.

So my ancestor’s motive had been the same as my own. Did Cliona love Finvara, I wondered? Had the choice been real, or merely a case of unrequited affection?

Only the lady knows, came the answer. I did not find it reassuring, though I did consider it a point in his favor that he had not compelled the information from her, sorely as he must have been tempted.

Had I, I would have lost her forever.

Closing my eyes, I stole a few more moments of uncomplicated enjoyment of my mortal lover’s scent, her soft skin, and her sweet sighs of contentment.

“The king waits for me,” she murmured.

I coiled my arms more tightly around her. “He’ll wait a moment more.”

“I would not choose to …” She trailed off, and I stroked her back, encouraging her to continue. Her body rose under my hand as she breathed deeply and said, “I would not choose to part from you just now.”

My heart sang with relief. “Ah, love,” I replied, kissing the top of her head, “nor would I. You needn’t go, you know. He can most certainly manage the errand on his own.”

“I think you know that’s not why I agreed to go.”

I sighed, feeling heavy and resigned. “You agreed because you thought he wouldn’t go otherwise.”

She gave no reply, but none was necessary.

“I don’t trust him, Ada,” I said. “Nor does Diarmuid.”

“I’m not sure that I do, either. But somewhere within him resides Duncan, and I trust him.”

I laughed dryly. “Duncan, I assure you, is a thorough rogue and an opportunist. But he would protect you, of that we already have evidence.”

“I shall try to call him back to us,” she replied. “I think that eventually he will find his strength, as you have.”

“Ada,” I said, and she raised her head to look at me. Mesmerized by her clear green eyes, I brushed a lock of silver away from her face. “I hope you can forgive my brutish behavior. I hope you understand that I am not entirely myself.”

“I do, my lord.”

When first we met, this courtesy title had made me feel all too keenly the distance between our stations. But for me, it had now taken on sensual connotations, and hearing it from her lips never failed to warm my blood.

“I hope you also understand how …” My courage failed me on the word “dear,” and I finished with “… how important you are to me.”

She parted her lips to reply, but I continued. “I do not ask for assurances or declarations. I merely wanted you to know it before you go. My most fervent desire is that you return safely … whether or not you return to me.”

She raised her eyebrows, and she touched her thumb to my lower lip. “Return to you I shall,” she said softly. “As expeditiously as possible.”

Another warm current of relief coursed through me, and I took her hand, kissing the palm. “Then let us reunite you with your gown and send you on your way so that you may return all the sooner.”

And before the Danaan warrior finds the strength to brutishly revoke my acceptance of this distasteful arrangement.