Page 1 of Celtic Love and Legends (Lords of Eire)

CHAPTER ONE

Year of Our Lord 1323

Leinster Coast, Wicklow County

Ireland

T he invasion had been a disaster from the beginning.

Waves crashed and thunder rolled. The English never stood a chance as the vicious storm bashed them against the rocky Irish coast. More than that, an entire army of five thousand angry Irishmen had been waiting for them, boarding the foundering ships and killing anything that moved. As the Irish forged deep into the belly of the rolling vessels, even the rope boys and cooks were targeted, one raggedy rope boy in particular. But this boy wasn’t a boy as much as it was a young lady in a very bad way.

Slammed against the hull of the lurching ship, the sharp movement gave her enough of an edge to duck the big fist that was flying at her head. She tried not to scream, knowing that the Irish rebels would hear her woman’s voice and focus on her like flies on honey. They would discover she was a woman and the moment they pulled off her disguise, they would quickly figure out that she was a very beautiful one. It would give them cause to do unspeakable things and, at this moment, she was very much coming to regret stowing away on Kildare’s invasion fleet.

It had been a bad decision. But she was in the habit of making bad decisions. As the Irish warrior with the red ochre smears across his face made another swipe at her, she fell to her knees and crawled between his legs, escaping the hand that grabbed at her ankle. But she’d been forced to kick at him to keep him away and the woolen Montgomery cap on her head came loose, spilling forth long golden-red hair. When she realized that tendrils of curls were tumbling down the right side of her head, she panicked and tried to shove them back under the cap.

The woman began to run, thrusting herself between fighting Irish and English, dodging blades that were cutting through flesh and bone. She stumbled over dead bodies, becoming covered with their blood as she fell, scrambling to her feet and sprinting through the dark hold of the ship in her desperate quest to reach the upper deck. Perhaps she could throw herself overboard when she drew near the rail. She knew for a fact it was her only chance to escape this hell she had put herself in the middle of.

The ship she had stowed away upon was nearer the shore than some of the others. It had been one of the first attacked by the waves of angry Irish waiting for them. The rain was pounding when she reached the deck, gangs of men fighting on the wet wooden planks with blood running in rivers off the side of the boat. She could see the boat rail through the driving rain and she made her way towards it, terrified, slipping on the blood beneath her feet and trying not to get hit by the heavy broadswords that were swinging around her. She had no idea if the big Irish ruffian was behind her but she wasn’t going to take time to look. The rail was within her grasp and she reached for it.

The wood was wet and slippery. She had a good grip on the rail but her hold was violently broken when someone grabbed her around the waist, tightly, swinging her up into the air. As she kicked and struggled, the boat lurched heavily to the starboard side and everyone seemed to roll in that direction. The woman and her attacker rolled with the ship, surrounded by the pounding rain and the sounds of battle, and both were pitched off the side of the ship and into the swirling surf.

Fortunately, the sea wasn’t particularly deep. The woman struggled to find her footing and her head broke the surface as she gasped for breath. Coughing, she labored against the strong sea and wind to make her way to the rocky shore. She could see it several feet away, trying to keep away from the surging boat. It was pitching violently and she was sure she would be crushed if she drew near it. So she scrambled across the rocky sea floor, drawing on every last ounce of strength she had to reach the shore. She fell at some point, cutting her knees on the sharp rocks, and the salt water stung the open wounds. Just as she reached ankle-deep water, she was grabbed from behind.

Exhausted and terrified, she hadn’t lost her fight. She began to kick ferociously, swinging her fists until her abductor managed to grab her arms and pin them. He made his way onto the shore, staggering when she kicked at his knees, but he maintained his grip. The woman was shrieking now, struggling to break his hold on her as he carried her off. She could only imagine what horrors awaited her and she was determined to fight for her life. No Irish bastard was going to rob her of her innocence, perhaps her very life, and expect an easy target. She was going to give him hell.

He trudged off the shore and into the land beyond. There was so much rain and wind from the storm that she couldn’t see where he was taking her. Water was in her eyes, lashing her, and her hair was now sticking in great wet clumps across her face. She couldn’t see through the soaked hair and bad weather, but she could smell the dark Irish earth and the scent of wet grass with a hint of mold. The salty smell of the sea was mingled with the storm.

The man slugged across muddy ground and eventually, they were moving up a hill; she could feel the change in elevation, in the angle of the ground as he struggled to gain traction. Although she was growing increasingly weary, she drew deep on her inherent strength and began to fight him in a new round of struggles. It was like a lamb fighting against a bull, the pathetic struggle of a weary woman against a bear of an Irishman.

The terrain leveled out. The man’s grip slipped a bit and he ended up lifting her up and slinging her over his shoulder. She fought and kicked, her vigor renewed, as he carried her roughly. The woman pounded on his back and tried to kick him, but he slapped her on her arse, hard, momentarily stunning her. Although her hair was hanging in her face, she could see the rocky ground as he moved quickly. As she twisted and pounded, she began to see stone beneath his feet, then wood. Warmth hit her in the face and the smell of dirty, sweaty bodies.

Men were shouting all around her and the harsh smell of smoke filled her nostrils. There were dogs barking but she couldn’t see much from the way he was holding her and the hair hanging in her face. Suddenly, the man threw her off his shoulder and she stumbled as she hit the ground, falling to her arse. Frightened, she scrambled to get away as men around her roared with laughter.

Hands were grabbing at her, yanking at the wet tunic she wore, pulling at her legs. Someone yanked a leather shoe off and she screamed, slapping at the hands that were grabbing at her. She brushed the wet hair out of her eyes, seeing that she was in a smoky and cavernous great hall, an enormous fire burning in the hearth and smoke belching into the room.

Big men with big weapons were all around her, blocking out the light from the hearth, crowded around her, laughing and grabbing at her. More men were pouring into the room, shouting about victory and glorious death. Dogs yipped. The woman screamed again as someone made another swipe for one of her legs, pulling at the woolen leggings.

She cowered against the wall, looking desperately for an exit but she couldn’t see any way out. The walls were solid stone and men were everywhere. But she did spy a great and heavy banqueting table, cluttered with weapons and remnants of food. When someone else thrust another hand at her, she kicked the hand away and skittered like a spider across the floor, disappearing beneath the giant table. Hidden by table legs and benches, she huddled in fear.

The Irish barbarians thought it a great game to grab at her and try to chase her from underneath the table. She would dodge from side to side, avoiding hands and swords they were poking at her. One sword tore her hose and scratched her leg. Weeping, she kicked in terror at the men grabbing for her and promised God she would never do anything so foolish again if he would only allow her to make it out of this situation alive. She had her doubts.

Most of the Irish eventually grew tired of the game as more men poured in from outside. A couple of the men, especially the one who had captured her, were still trying to chase her out from underneath the table but shouts eventually caught their attention. A group of heavily armed men had just entered the hall, shouting war cries of victory, and the entire room took up the cry.

As the woman huddled and softly wept, the Irish of the dank and smoky castle lauded their victory over the English invaders. On this dark and stormy night on the Ides of March, the Earl of Kildare’s English forces had been defeated and their ships either burned or confiscated. It was an Irish victory in a long line of them against the English as of late.

As the men celebrated, they seemed to have forgotten about their quarry trapped beneath the table. The woman stilled her frightened tears, watching the dozens of legs moving around the table, listening to the men speak in the harsh Irish tongue. She didn’t understand their language. No one seemed to be paying her any mind and her fear eased as her courage was fed. She could see the open doorway of the hall and she could smell the wet air from outside. It told her that the entry door was close. She knew she had to run or die trying.

But there were too many men surrounding the table, blocking her path. The last thing she wanted was to have obstacles in her way. Therefore, she huddled in the center of the table, listening to the men laugh and drink, eyeing the big dogs that drifted too close to her, sniffing. She was watching the entry of the hall so intently that she never noticed one of the dogs coming up behind her, sitting down politely. She was startled when she felt the heat from the dog’s body, turning to see big brown doggy eyes looking back at her. She went to shove the dog away but realized he was furry and warm. She was wet and freezing. She scooted next to the dog to have some of his heat and the dog didn’t seem to mind. He lay down against her.

The night wore on. The heat from the hearth was intense, even under the table. More men had entered the hall, all shouting and happy. By this time, the woman was becoming drowsy with heat and exhaustion, struggling to stay awake, fearful of what would happen if she fell asleep. But her exhausted state also lowered her guard and she was unprepared when a hand shot underneath the table again and grabbed her firmly around the ankle.

Someone pulled her free of her protective little prison. Shrieking, the woman found herself surrounded by enormous Irishmen, all leering down at her. In a panic, she scrambled to run but the man who initially captured her grabbed her around the waist and carried her over to the far end of the table where a small group of men were gathered. Roughly, he tossed her to the ground.

The men laughed when she sprawled on the floor. Terrified, the woman picked herself up and, on her knees, pushed her hair from her eyes to see what was happening. Her gaze fell on a massive man seated at the head of the table, partially illuminated by the light from the flickering hearth. She couldn’t see him very well, but she could tell he was looking at her.

“What is this?” he asked, flicking a finger at the woman, his Irish brogue deep and rattling.

The man who had captured the prize beamed with satisfaction. “I am not entirely sure, m’lord,” he said. “I found her on board one of the ships. I do not think she is one of the usual crew.”

“So you bring her to me?”

“A gift, m’lord. A reward after your decisive victory.”

The men around them cheered and the woman shuddered in fear, pulling her wet tunic more tightly about her slender body as if it could protect her from the enemy. The enormous man at the head of the table was watching her steadily and she inspected him in return; even in the dim light, she could see that he dressed in a well-made leather tunic and pieces of mail. He sat upon a very big chair, like a throne, and a dark bird of prey perched ominously on the high back of the chair. The man’s hand, gripping the wooden cup, was as big as her head.

He had milky-pale skin and a big red mustache that blended into a neatly bearded chin. The rest of his pale face was shaved and smooth. He wasn’t old, nor was he particularly young, but seemed to have that wise and ageless countenance. When he shifted in the firelight, she could see his chiseled and handsome face. He didn’t look like the rest of the filthy barbarians around him. The eyes, glittering, stared at her.

“Who are you, lass?” he rumbled, as if he had no patience for such a thing.

The woman met his gaze nervously, defiantly. “I will not tell you.”

The men snickered as the big brute who had captured her lashed out a foot and shoved her, hard. She yelped and fell over. The man was going in for another kick but the enormous man in the chair stopped him.

“Kick her again and you shall answer to me,” he rumbled, watching the man back off before refocusing on the woman. “I asked you a question. Who are you?”

The woman pushed herself off the floor, meeting his gaze. Resistance was written all over her. He could see it in her expression as well as her manner. After a moment, she simply turned away and closed her eyes. A lone tear trickled down her face but she made no move to wipe it away.

The enormous man stared at her without making any move to punish her for her insolence. She was a little thing, no doubt, with ashen and creamy skin. Her features, from what he could see through the mussed hair, were fine and clear. Certainly not the features of a whore or servant.

After a moment, he set the cup down and stood up, moving to where she was huddled on the floor. He loomed over her, carefully inspecting her. He was, if nothing else, an extremely observant man and the five words out of her mouth and the accent that delivered them told him something of her background and breeding. He eventually crouched beside her, snatching one of her hands to him. As she yelped and tried to pull away, he examined her palm.

“Not a mark on her flesh,” he said, looking at the very fine flesh of her tender arms. “This woman has not accomplished a day of work in her life.”

By this time, the woman was shrinking from him, quivering from fear. Their eyes met and he lifted his free hand, brushing back the damp hair from her face. She tried to pull away from the hand near her cheek but he was undeterred. He seemed rather passive about the whole thing. Sapphire-blue eyes studied her fine features.

“Tell me your name,” he asked quietly.

She looked at him with eyes the color of the sea. They were pure and crystal clear, an unnatural shade of bluish green under delicately arched eyebrows. Her nose was pert, straight, and her lips were lusciously full and pale. She was, upon close inspection, absolutely exquisite. He’d never seen such soft and delicate beauty. He was in the process of lingering on her flawlessly pale complexion when she shook her head.

“I will not,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

She didn’t like how close he was to her, the heat from his big body scorching her tender flesh. She tried to pull away.

“Because I will not tell you Irish hounds anything,” she said. “You are all animals. Filthy, barbaric animals!”

The calm expression on his face faded and he stood up, yanking her off the floor and throwing her over his shoulder. As his men cheered his brutal move, he hauled his squirming, fighting quarry out of the great hall and into a very narrow stairwell near the entry. With his considerable size, it was difficult to maneuver, made even more difficult with her struggling. At one point, he turned sharply and she hit her head, causing her fighting to wane as she saw stars dance before her eyes. But the lull in her twitching allowed him to take the top of the stairs without dropping her, moving into the only chamber on the floor and slamming the rotting door behind him.

She was still dazed when he threw her down onto a mattress, stuffed stiff with old and smelly straw. Realizing he had put her on a bed, she began to scratch and kick, knowing this position only meant pain for her and she was frantic to get away from him. It was cold, wet and dark in the room, her fearful grunting mingling with the sounds of the storm outside the open lancet windows.

He easily trapped her flailing arms with one massive hand, using the other to pull at her tunic. When she violently twisted away from him in an effort to dislodge his hold, he simply threw his body down to trap her. Ensnaring her with a body that was nearly three times her size, he ripped the wet tunic down the front, exposing a soft linen sheath beneath.

He could see the shape of her figure outlined in the damp fabric.

With her body sufficiently pinned beneath his big one, the woman stopped trying to fight him. She was horrified, exposed, and frightened beyond measure. She resorted to the only tactic she had yet to employ.

She began to beg.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Please… I beseech you. Do not do this. Do not…”

His eyes were on her, his face an inch or two from her own. “Do not do what ?” he asked quietly, although he had to admit, he was not feeling as calm as his voice sounded. The little witch had his blood burning. “You will not tell me who you are. I can only assume you were on the ship to satisfy the men’s needs. Now you will satisfy mine, English whore.”

“I am not a whore,” she snapped, the tears coming.

“Then who are you?”

Her jaw worked furiously as she struggled not to weep. He could tell that part of her wanted to tell him, but the defiant English part of her, the stubbornness, would not allow it. He shifted, wedging his legs between her slender white ones, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. The other, a massive mitt, was free to roam and it moved to her hip, suggestively.

“Nay,” she gasped. “Please… please…”

He fingered the flesh at her hip. “Tell me and I may show mercy.”

She was weeping loudly by now, terrified. But in spite of her fear, she kept her mouth shut. He watched her face, the tightly closed eyes and rivers of tears, before moving a hand to her belly, stroking the fabric and the flesh beneath.

“Nay,” she begged tearfully. “Please stop. Sweet Jesus, have you no sense of decency?”

“Nay,” he said flatly. “I am an animal, remember?”

She opened her eyes, looking at him. “I… I did not mean it,” she whispered urgently. “Please forgive me. I did not mean it at all.”

He lifted a red eyebrow at her, now dipping his head to lick the soft skin of her cheek. “I forgive you,” he said. “But you will tell me your name.”

She was back to weeping again, closing her eyes tightly and turning away. His response was to suckle the flesh of her chin, feeling her squirm beneath him. She was soft and sweet, much more than any woman he had ever known. He had only started the game to coax forth her name, but now the game had overtaken him and he was lost in a haze of the most powerful lust he had ever known.

But he controlled himself.

He didn’t want to be that animal she accused him of being.

“Tell me your name,” he breathed, his voice quivering with desire. “I want to know who you are and why you are here. I promise I will not hurt you if you tell me the truth.”

She gazed up at him, so terrified that she could hardly speak. But she could not allow her stubbornness and pride to be the cause of her downfall. It was time to push that all aside to save herself from this terrible folly.

“Do… do you swear it?” she asked.

“I swear it if you will tell me your name.”

“I am Lady Emllyn Nesta Isabella Fitzgerald,” she whispered after a moment’s hesitation. “My brother is the Earl of Kildare and it is his fleet that the Irish destroyed this night.”

He gazed down at her, believing every word. She was far too fine and beautiful to be anything other than a noblewoman. Still, his lust had the better of him and the hand moved back to her hip moved, stroking it gently. There was something terribly personal about his touch, enough to have her quivering with terror.

Or perhaps it might even be desire.

It was difficult to know.

“Your brother is the Earl of Kildare?” he repeated in a ragged whisper.

“Aye.”

“I find it difficult to believe that your brother would allow you to sail, considering this is a battle fleet.”

Emllyn was terrified that hand on her hip was going to move somewhere more personal even though he’d not made the attempt.

Yet, anyway.

“He did not allow me to sail,” she said. “I… I came without his permission.”

His brow furrowed. “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

She hesitated and he could see the stubborn streak rear itself again. The hand on her hip moved slightly, just to remind her what could happen if she didn’t cooperate.

“ Why did you come, Emllyn?” he asked again.

She could feel his fingers brushing against the side of her buttocks now. “Nay… please..!”

“Tell me now.”

She yelped as he pinched the flesh of her hip, but the message was obvious. “I wanted to come because…” She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her wits. “Because Trevor was on the ship. I… I wanted to surprise him. I wanted to be with him.”

“Trevor?” he repeated. “Who is Trevor?”

“The man I love.”

“Are you betrothed?”

She shook her head. “Nay,” she breathed. “I was hoping… hoping to show him what a worthy wife I would be.”

“And your brother has no knowledge of you coming with his fleet?”

“Nay.”

“You followed a man you hoped to become betrothed to?”

“Aye.”

“That was foolish. Stupid and foolish.”

Her eyes lolled open, red-rimmed, to look at him. “I took the risk,” she whispered, the defiance back in her tone. “I had no way of knowing that the Irish would be waiting for the fleet to destroy it.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps he should not have tried to invade,” he said. “The sons of Eire are stronger than the English. ’Tis time they realized that.”

“Did you have to kill them all?”

“I did.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t dissolve into more tears. Her gaze was steady. “I heard that man say that I was your gift for a decisive victory,” she said. “You led the battle. You must be the one they call Black Sword.”

“Your brother has lost two things dear to him this night,” he muttered. “His sailing fleet and his sister.”

She grunted as that hand on the side of her buttocks grew bolder, although she had to admit that it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. In spite of their tense situation, it was almost… gentle.

“ Are you Black Sword?” she asked.

His eyes glimmered in the dark room. “I am the Lord of Black Castle,” he said softly. “My name is Devlin de Bermingham. If that name means nothing to you now, it soon will.”

She turned away from him, feeling his hand as it began to caress her hip and buttock. It was so large that his fingers could reach down her thigh. Whatever he intended to do, she knew she couldn’t stop him.

That was perhaps the most painful realization of all.

“It does not matter,” she whispered, closing her eyes as the tears started to come again. “After this night, Trevor will not want me even if he has survived the battle. No one will want me. Do what you must and get on with it.”

He gazed down at her, struggling against any pity he might be feeling. For the moment, all he could see was the most desirable woman he had ever known, her soft body and exquisite face the most potent aphrodisiac he had ever experienced. He was torn between finishing what he had started and walking away, although he did not know why he was so indecisive. He should not have been.

His night of dominance over the English was not finished, not in the least, and this moment would finally seal his hatred against the Earl of Kildare, the man grossly despised by his people for the inequities and injustice he had spread among them. By pure luck, he had the earl’s sister and he intended to take advantage of it. His mercy, at the moment, did not include her.

At least, he hadn’t thought so.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He should have been coiling his buttocks and ramming into her tender body. Every stroke would have been for Irish freedom, something he lived and breathed every day against the hated English. It would have been better for her had she lied and told him she was Scots or French. Perhaps he would have let her go.

Perhaps not.

When there should have been anger in his movements, there was indecision. Hesitation. The hand on her hip remained there as he pondered his next move. He made no move to bruise or hurt her. She was too exquisite for that and he did not want to damage her any more than he already was, even if it was only emotional. She was frightened out of her mind. But he should have been dominating and humiliating Fitzgerald.

He should have been sending the English a message.

But he wasn’t.

Eventually, he released her wrists and her little hands slapped at him, eventually falling still on the mattress as if disgusted by the very feel of him. But he remained where he was as if frozen in that position, unable to make a decision as to how to proceed. His men thought he was ravaging her and he very well should be.

Frustration swamped him.

“For years, the English have practiced the immoral act of taking Irish brides on their wedding night,” he said, pushing himself off her. “English lords have demanded first right with the bride if she hails from his lands. Many English bastards have been born in Ireland and Scotland because of this deviant law. You are fortunate that tonight I did not punish you for years of English abuse. But keep in mind that I still might. Displease me and my mercy is at an end. Your brother will come to know what it is like to have someone he loves bear the bastard of the hated enemy.”

Emllyn’s eyes rolled open, gazing at him as tears streamed down her temples. She lay curled up, rolled on herself as if to hide from the world.

“If that is your intention, you will be sorely disappointed,” she whispered. “My brother will not care. If you believe you punish him by harming me, he will laugh at you for it.”

Devlin left her lying on the mattress without another word.