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Brigid’s Flame
January 21, 2010, Washington, D.C. • January 27, 1560, Ulster, Ireland
I was back in the little room, the pillow soft and cushy under my head, the sheets smooth and cool beneath my fingers. Ryan sat beside me, breathtaking in his black suit, white shirt, and a dark blue tie.
He ran a fingertip along my jaw. “You came to me in a dream, Sie.”
Did I gasp when my fingers uncurled with an acute need to touch him back?
He took my hand in his. The strength of his grip, the warmth of his skin.
“I don’t remember it well, but I think you wanted to leave me because of that... thing.” He tugged at his tie. “The thing that didn’t happen, Sie.”
No, no. I needed to wake up first. I must have made a movement because he leaned in, searching my face. “Are you trying to say something, love?”
I closed my fingers around his, and his glow flowed into me. Flaring. Sparkling. Indisputable. Mind-blowing. Maybe wrong, but still too right.
“You’re going to wake up soon,” he said, a little breathless. “I want to try something.” He clenched his jaw, his eyes brilliant amber in the fluorescent light. “Just... squeeze my hand if the answer is yes.”
He closed his eyes as if in a prayer.
“Is your name Siena?” He opened them. Bright stars shining from within.
I gripped his hand.
“Are you... nineteen?” he said, unblinking.
My other life never too far, I almost squeezed but stopped in time.
“Are you an artist?” His face was so tense, I squeezed without delay.
He bowed his head and released a long breath. “Sie, my love, do you have a peculiar obsession with Ireland?”
I dug my fingers into his, wishing I could tell him it wasn’t as peculiar as he thought.
“Okay,” he said with a slow smile, “now we get to the heart of the matter. Did you marry me for my Irish charm?”
How right he was, especially about the heart of the matter. I almost squeezed but stopped—always so full of himself.
“So it’s true, but you’re too proud to admit it.” He laughed. It was the best thing I’d seen in months.
“Do you know what I think?” he said more soberly.
I didn’t stir.
“I think you’re going to wake up sooner than expected. And when you do, I’ll carry you out of here and take you home. Squeeze if you like my plan.”
Right or wrong, I wrapped my fingers around his, holding tight. But the effort must have been too much because before long, the little room shifted into a magnificent stone-walled chamber with its own fireplace.
***
It was the thick of the night when Brigid came to my lonely bedchamber, fiery hair blowing in the wind, forest-green eyes sparkling like raindrops on a blade of grass, ivory skin luminous in the moonlight. In her hands was a small but bright fire.
“The flame still burns.” She held out her palms, her voice graceful as a birdsong.
I drew back—the fire would surely scorch me.
“Take it,” she said. “Tend to it.”
I cupped my hands, and she poured the fire into them. But it didn’t burn. Instead, its gentle glow flowed straight into my heart, flaring and sparkling.
“Keep the flame burning.”
I awoke later, my heart aflutter, my body ablaze as if with fever. I’d been dreaming of my wedding night: Aedan’s slow seduction, artful caresses, mind-blowing lovemaking. His warm mouth, sensual lips. I brought my hand to my breasts, large and heavy with my pregnancy. My heated skin craved his touch. His twinkling smile, unyielding neck. I moved my fingers to the swell of my belly, brushing past. His hard shoulders, firm hands. I gasped. I’d remove the sword now, child notwithstanding.
I opened my eyes. There was no sword to remove. The chamber stood shrouded in stillness. A single ray from the waxing moon spilled across my empty bed. I took my hand away, its ineffective jaunt unmatched to the splendor of my roused memories and just as inconsequential. For it had come to pass—Aedan and I were no longer on talking terms. We didn’t share a bed.
Four days ago, I waited for him at the entrance in the biting wind, when he returned to Eden-Duff-Carrick after being gone a sennight. But he’d only walked past. His appearance at supper had alarmed me. Hair matted, clothes rumpled and muddy from riding, he slumped at the table with his chin propped on one hand and eyes trained on some invisible spot. He drained one cup after another and touched no food.
Then he turned to me. Despite his drunkenness, the tight lines in his face betrayed the unmistakable traces of pain even as he tried to conceal them behind a frosty glare. Could everyone see this? I hid my eyes. If only I could kiss this pain away. If only I could show him I didn’t mean a single word. If only we were alone.
But I stood no chance. He’d immured himself and his officers in the council hall from dawn to dusk, leaving only for meals and always in their company. But his meals were his cup. Growing desperate, I considered finding his chamber and entering it at night, but I still had some pride.
All my pride had gone now, replaced by a burning desire to see him. Shivering, I drew my cloak about me and went to search for his chamber, come what may. I found it soon. His clothes were in it, along with two of his daggers. No doubt this was where he slept. But not today, for his bed was freshly made.
He was likely in his study, so I headed there, silent as a ghost. Empty. The dreadful council hall? Deserted. The library? The sitting room? The great hall? I returned to my chamber and sat on my bed. Perhaps he was in one of the other chambers. I checked in each one. Kian wasn’t in his bed. Neither was Fillan—Maura slept alone. Confounded, I went back to my bedchamber. All three men had been present at supper. They wouldn’t have left at sundown to ride off into the night, would they?
I went to stand by the window. It was just before dawn, the bright morning star rising above the world. Perhaps there were other places I hadn’t thought to search. In any event, the castle would awaken soon enough, and I’d see him at breakfast. I’d approach him then and request a private audience. Why hadn’t I sooner?
I was in the midst of my apology speech rehearsal when the thrum of hoofbeats pierced the dawn outside. I froze, but only seven riders appeared, Aedan’s form towering above the rest. I climbed back into bed. Where could he have gone to return the same night?
Prepared to wait until the morning for answers, I startled when he threw the door open and grabbed onto it to avoid falling. I strained to see in the dim as he came to the bed, swaying, and removed his sword and dagger. Uncommonly clumsy, he dropped both on the floor with such horrendous noise, it’d doubtless awakened the whole castle. I dug my fingernails into my palms. Was he hurt?
He began to undress—holding onto the wall, gripping the bedpost, swaying again, and nearly tumbling. Not once did he look at me. Finished, he half-sat, half-fell onto the bed, only by sheer luck not ending up on the floor. Muttering an outrageous profanity, he sprawled on his back, took a deep breath, and fell asleep, his breathing noisy and labored. He didn’t put his sword down the middle.
Was he drunk out of his mind? I drew closer, and the sharp smell of whiskey hit me like a plunging tide. The tide washed over me, leaving something in its wake that brought me to a standstill. The trenchant odor wafted from him like smoke from smothered fire, its callous notes sucking all air from my lungs. Tangy and musky, it was laced with the sickening odor of recent exertions and heavy perfume.
My heart pounded like a drum. I knew this scent. I smelled it once before when he came to Coney Island to announce his return to the mainland.
Unblinking, I stared at his sleeping form. He’d wanted to come back to Eden-Duff-Carrick. I needed not come with him. I could stay on the island as long as I wished. I doubled over like someone had punched me in the stomach. The scent of another woman mixed with his was as clear as if she were in our bed.
Never—not even on that fateful day—had I known such raw, all-consuming pain as this. It tore me apart from the inside, eating away at the last shred of hope, wiping clean the last remnant of faith.
I seized his shoulder, refusing to believe what was laid out in plain view. His hard, bare chest—the chest another woman raked—rose and fell with even breaths of an untroubled conscience. His hair, raven in the dim—the hair another woman carved—lay tousled on the pillow. His parted lips—the lips that planted breathtaking kisses on another woman’s skin—emitted whiffs that made my head swim. His beautiful face—the face another woman gazed upon—was serene and contented as he lay in my bed after having left another’s. Who had given him what I couldn’t. What I thought I couldn’t.
How I lay breathless, craving his caresses. How I wanted to remove the sword. How I searched for him all over his blasted castle.
Something braced my throat, escaped my lips, flashed in the corners of my eyes, descended on me in deafening blasts.
I rammed my fingers into his shoulder and shook him. It was like shaking a boulder.
“Mm...” He flopped on his side. “Let me sleep, lass...”
As if having taken on a life of its own, my hand rose, then crashed down on his face with force I didn’t know I possessed. He half-opened his eyes, glassy and bloodshot, and peered at me. He was drunk senseless. I couldn’t even be certain he saw me. How had he managed to stay in the saddle?
He brought a hand to his cheek. “What... are you... about... lass...?” He closed his eyes again. Then, he grabbed me. “Come now... a pheata.”
This strange name—not meant for me. His hands—rough, unconcerned. Choking on the despicable odor and indignation, I pushed him away. It was like pushing a mountain.
“Where were you, Aedan?” I buried my fingernails in the hard flesh of his back. “Answer me!”
“Would... that you left me be...” He groaned. Blinked. “My Neave—how in God’s name?”
I didn’t know what to do. “Where were you?” I repeated.
He released his hold on me and rubbed his eyes. “Ah... in Carrickfergus, with the lads... a game of dice.”
He closed his eyes. The effort of speaking must have worn on him.
“Tell me true where you were!” I demanded, as if possessed by some cruel demon whose purpose was to inflict pain.
“Why won’t you let me sleep, hm...?” He was drifting off again. “I told you...”
“Who is she, Aedan?” I choked out, my lips trembling as the words caught in my throat.
Why did I keep asking these degrading questions? What did it matter?
His eyelids flew open. He gave a low whistle.
I wanted to weep and beg him to tell me he still loved me. I wanted to scream and bring my fists down on him.
His clouded gaze swept the chamber. “It matters not.” He sighed. “It was naught, my Neave.”
I stared at him, disbelieving. He didn’t even deny it. And if he did? How foolish my apology speech seemed now! Hot tears flooded my eyes. I drew a shuddering breath. I still didn’t know what to do.
“Your golden hair...” he slurred, reaching for my strands.
I recoiled. Not from his touch, but from him.
“The lads... keep teasing... you’ve the look of my wife, a pheata...” He winced. “My wife loathes me.”
“It’s your wife you speak to!” I almost suffocated, envisioning several ways I could kill him. Perhaps that’s what I needed to do.
His gaze swam. “So it is. Her hair is the only thing like you... a tawdry substitute... but she doesn’t push me away... doesn’t recoil from my touch... She embraces me readily, willingly...” There was not a shred of soberness in his face, not a note of awareness in his voice.
I didn’t wish to, but I saw his hands on this unknown woman with hair like mine, his mouth on hers, her arms embracing him. Readily. Willingly. Not like me. Not at all like the useless burden I’d become.
My chest squeezed and burned. Another moment, and I would drown.
He dragged a rough hand over his face. It had no effect.
“Why d’you tell me this?” I regretted the question outright, the devastation inside devouring me whole. “Am I to rejoice in your whore being a tawdry substitute?”
He attempted to sit up, indignant in the undignified way of drunkards. “I’m not a monk, nor a eunuch, hm?” He hiccupped. “I’ve need of a woman, but you keep pushing me away, you keep showing me how much I repulse you. You call me loathsome names. I’m only a man, mind, even if you think me something more.” He lay down and shut his eyes.
“You deserve every name I called you! How dare you come to my bed this way?” I towered over him, futile tears rolling down my cheeks and falling on his face. “I can smell her on you!” I shouted, my voice aflame with loathing. “How dare you come here and rub my face in it!”
He opened his eyes, and something resembling shame appeared in them.
Why must he be so heart-wrenchingly beautiful? It would be so much easier if he was like all other men. Why did it still matter? I loathed him. I loathed him now.
“By God.” He blinked, raking his hair. “You’re all I want, my Neave. Even if you think me a depraved, bloodthirsty brute. Don’t weep, a rún—” He sat up with alarm, reaching to wipe away my tears, but missed, his lumbering hand going off course. “I’ll make it right.”
“Don’t call me that!” I shrank from him, from the bed, the walls, the bedchamber.
None could make it right, least of all him. I needed to leave. Set myself free of this suffocating chamber with him in it. With this smell in it. With this crippling pain, clawing at my chest.
I leapt off the bed and grabbed my cloak.
“Where are you going?” He shook himself, bewildered.
“Away from you—” I ran to the door. “As far away as I can get.”