“We’ve just opened a new cask,” Daimhin said, extending a gilded cup to him. “Only the best for ye.”
There were at least two smaller clans present this eve. Marcán suspected his unplanned arrival, demanding the release of Astrid and her mother along with the missing sheep, had disrupted whatever Pádraig and his father had been planning. Doran had been in such a hurry to see Marcán gone, they’d returned the sheep and even helped find the missing women, who, it turned out, had suffered a mishap on their way to retrieve the sheep.
Marcán accepted the vessel. Daimhin quirked a brow and went toward the seat her brother was just leaving. Though small in stature, she was solidly packed with large, heavy breasts and an arse to match. She behaved like a lass who knew how to please a man, but Marcán seriously doubted she was not a virgin. After all, she was daughter to their king and valuable as a prize for the right alliance. If she did not prove chaste, any such alliance would be broken and bring shame to Doran. Her flirtatiousness only increased her value, for it could deaden the good sense of a lustfulri túaithe. The message from those swaying hips was as well received as if she’d cupped his balls in her hot little hand. But while he was admittedly a man with strong needs, Marcán alone decided with who and when.Thisone was never.
Marcán took a full swallow to soothe his suddenly parched throat before walking to the far center of the circle. A hush fell over the room. Even the voices of the lasses who had been in a quiet, ceaseless conversation since just after the meal finally went silent. It wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to. The women liked to watch him, assess him, consider if the stories they’d heard about him were true. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but definitely something he would put an end to if only he could tempt the lass he desired above all others to become his wife. He also knew it was never going to happen. Astrid refused to see him as a man.
His mug was quickly refilled by a lass with dark eyes and fine black hair. She’d met him at the door, her eyes passing over him with far too much interest. Even now, when he took the spot still covered by Pádraig’s fur, she snuggled closer to him while Daimhin sat on his left, at a discreet distance.
“What of the caves?” It was Pádraig’s younger brother. “Tell us aboutárd ríin our caves!”
Ian was a charming lad and very smart. Smarter and more circumspect than the rest of his siblings and quick witted, too. Oftentimes his humor was overlooked by others in the clan because it was beyond their grasp. Marcán found that most amusing.
He set all other concerns aside to smile at the lad. “Ye like the stories of the caves?”
The boy, nearly a man now but still awkward, nodded eagerly.
“The caves it is, then.”
Marcán’s eyes scanned the quiet room, looking at all the faces turned up to him with expectant expressions. For the smallest second, he felt a fit of fear down in his gut. His panic. But he’d overpowered that when he was much younger with the help of hisDa—God rest his soul—even though it still liked to poke at him every now and then. Marcán smiled, and all the women, save one, immediately returned the gesture.
“The caves are as dark as they are long, heading deep inside the ground, but ye can still hear the ocean crashing against the hills. The relentless waves from a thousand years past, coming finally to our shores, pounding here just as they did in that faraway place. But the sound is over ye, and around ye, and ye can feel the heaviness of the water pushing down on ye…”
Little concentration was required to keep the story going as Marcán had told this tale, or some variation on it, more times than he could count. Still, the eager faces of those around him, enraptured by the legends of Brian Boru, held his interest. The pride in their expressions was the same as his own, and truth be told, he loved to tell the stories.
As High King, Brian Boru had united the clans. A strong force, they had moved across the island, subduing any who thought to resist. And all these warriors had that same fighting blood in them. It was why they kept the old legends alive. The stories of the way things had been and could be again. The stories of their past.
The small, eager hand sliding up the underside of Marcán’s bare leg demanded his attention. A glance at the black-haired lass beside him showed her wetting her lips with a long, slow tongue. An effective gesture, and she’d find more than a handful if she continued her journey up his thigh. But Marcán shifted his legs away from her, offering his best look of disapproval without missing a single detail of his story. Her pout was for his eyes only, as was the seductive smile she flashed him as she shifted, the action disguised as an attempt to get more comfortable, and dropped her hand alongside his hip, waiting for a second try.
Again his mead was refilled, and as the story came to an end, Marcán glanced at the empty spot where Astrid had been not a second earlier, ignoring him completely. Thanks to the determined lass at his side, standing would be an issue. She smiled at him. A knowing smile. A smile that promised much.
He finished the story and then tipped a hand to his head in thanks. The applause was louder than usual, and he chose that moment to turn to the comely lass. “Choose yer ministrations for a better time if ye’re wanting anything to come of it.”
Marcán grabbed Pádraig’s fur to wrap around him and stood. He moved toward the door, which was now open.
“Another, Marcán!” a man’s voice called out, but Marcán ignored him. Astrid was nowhere in the room, a realization that put him in a near panic.
Daimhin came up beside him, watching as he turned this way and that, searching for Astrid. She put a small hand on his arm. “That is my favorite story. My thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
Daimhin smiled up at him. “Is it Diarmuid’s sister ye search for?”
Marcán’s eyes fell to her. “Did ye see where she went?”
“I believe she followed my brother outside.”
His chest tightened, and in five long strides he was through the door and outside, the air surprisingly cool against his face and other parts that had become heated.
“Astrid?” he called into the darkness. There were several groups gathered about. Some glanced at him, but he saw no sign of her light hair.
Approaching the first group of men to his left, he yanked back on the shoulder of a red-haired man.
“Hey!” The young man’s protest was quickly cut off when he caught sight of Marcán. Instead, he raised his hands up before smiling. “D’ye wish to join us?”
It was Eric, one of their young warriors. A pup! But smart enough to know not to mess with Marcán. Beside him a tall, dark-haired woman was undulating against Eric’s twin brother. Their mouths were locked together, and Eoghan’s hands were making free with her body. Two other men were watching, mesmerized and no doubt aroused.
Marcán glanced back at Eric with disgust. “Have ye no care how ye treat yer women?”
