A Love for All Time (21 page)

“Aidan! Aidan, sweetheart! Ah, my little wife, ye were so damned brave, and I love ye for it!” He was relieved when she smiled up at him, and then her eyes closed, and she fell into a natural sleep.

He drew the coverlet over them both, and with a murmur of contentment Aidan turned onto her left side, her sleep deepening as each minute went by. Lying back, his hands beneath his head, Conn smiled broadly to himself. He was astonished by her, dazzled that despite the fact she was a virgin she had attained total and complete satisfaction her first time. Not only that, she had given him incredible pleasure as well. He remembered his careless words of so short a time ago that should she prove a wanton he should consider himself blest. A small chuckle escaped him. Wanton was not a word he would apply to Aidan, but she had certainly been most eager for his loving, and not once had she drawn back in fear, or demurred in false modesty. Indeed she had encouraged him onward, and despite the pain he had seen in her eyes she had not reproached him his part in her deflowering. More and more he realized his good fortune. A title, an estate, a fortune, a charming and eager wife. He must beware of becoming smug. His eyelids grew heavy, and he dozed.

She slept perhaps an hour or two, and then Aidan awoke fully, clearheaded and acutely aware. She rolled onto her back, stretching lazily, a faint smile turning up the corners of her lips. Propping herself upon an elbow she gazed down on Conn. He lay sleeping upon his back, sprawled somewhat like a child, his right arm across his eyes, his left leg bent. Gently she drew back the coverlet, and looked upon his manroot. She was amazed that something that small and soft could have given her such delight. Reaching out she boldly took it in her hand and began to caress it. To her great surprise the little creature within her hand suddenly gained life of its own and began to stretch and grow within her grasp. Fascinated she continued her ministrations to the awakening beast, watching with widening eyes as it lengthened and thickened, a growing awareness that she had taken its bigness within her own body.

Conn had been sleeping lightly, and then he felt the cold air of the room on his naked body as she drew the coverlet back. He watched her from beneath the shelter of his arm as she stared down at him, wondering what thoughts went through her mind, tingling with delight as she began with gentle, and innocently skillful fingers to caress him. He was stunned to find how quickly she could arouse him, and when he could finally bear no more of her teasing he said softly, “Now, my Aidan, ye must pay a forfeit for awakening yer husband on this winter’s night.” Reaching up he pulled her down on him, tangling his hands in her coppery hair, brushing her lips with his own.

“Do ye remember earlier, sweetheart, that ye thought my manhood small, and I told ye ye had not yet aroused its interest? Well,
now
ye’ve aroused its interest!” He rolled her beneath him, and his mouth fastened upon one of her breasts sending darts of delight through her. She murmured her approval of his actions, and he chuckled, “Ahh, wench, ye like that, do ye?”

“Aye, my lord, but this time I hope ye will not neglect its sister as ye did before.”

He raised his head grinning. “Nay, sweetheart, now that I know yer not fearful there is a great deal more I can teach ye,” and his head dipped to her other breast to initiate it into passion.

She stroked his dark head as he did so, feeling the silky strands slip through her fingers. The back of his neck, she noted seemed particularly sensitive to her touch, the hair at the nape becoming bristly as it rose up.

His mouth moved down her long torso to her belly, pressing warm kisses upon the delicate skin, causing her to shudder with surprise. He wanted to go lower, but he feared shocking her, and spoiling what had become a very pleasant wedding night for them both. Her skin was so sweetly fragrant with lavender, so soft and so tender. Unable to help himself, he licked the flesh of her belly, and she cried out his name.

“Ohh, Conn! Conn! ’Tis too sweet!”

“Nay, sweeting, there is much,
much
more!” he promised her, and pulling himself up he found her lips again. She had the most wonderful mouth, he thought as he pressed kiss after kiss upon her lips. They parted, her moist little tongue seeking out his, frolicking with his, teasing him gently. Her loveplay kindled his ardor until he could no longer refrain from plunging deep into her warmth, and to his delight she urged him onward, all traces of maidenly modesty gone.

“Ohh, Conn, yes! Yes! Yes!” she sobbed as he drove hungrily within her sheath. Dear heaven! It was going to happen again! she thought. That incredible wild and wonderful fusing of their bodies that led to a dissolving of her entire being. She cried out her pleasure, and unable to contain his passion Conn poured himself into her, shuddering uncontrollably until he finally fell to one side of her, pulling her into his embrace.

“Aidan, Aidan,” he murmured into her hair, “what is this witchery ye surround me with?”

She laughed weakly. “I was going to ask ye something of a similar nature, my lord. Oh, Conn! I didn’t know!
I didn’t know!
”

He hugged her gently. “Of course ye didn’t know, Aidan, my sweeting. How could ye?”

“Will it always be like this, Conn?” she asked him artlessly.

“God’s nightshirt, my love, I hope so!” he answered her fervently. Then he drew the coverlet over them again. “Now go to sleep, sweeting.”

“Will we not do it again, my lord?”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Yer a greedy wench, Aidan,” he teasingly scolded her. “I’ll need a bit of rest before we love again, sweetheart, and so will ye. We have our whole lives before us. We have forever!”

My love.
He had called her “my love”! Of course, she reasoned with herself, he hadn’t really meant it. It was simply a term men used she supposed when in an intimate situation. Still, how sweet the words had sounded to her. He seemed pleased with her, with their coupling; and Lord help her she had certainly enjoyed his lovemaking. As sleepy as she now found herself she felt her cheeks grow warm with the memory of her own boldness in encouraging him onward. Yet he had not seemed displeased or shocked by her actions. She would have to ask Skye come morning for her beautiful sister-in-law certainly seemed to be knowledgeable when it came to the amatory arts. Aidan’s eyes closed. She felt warm and safe, and eminently satisfied with her lot in life.

R
ogan FitzGerald stood several inches over six feet in height, but he was, in spite of his seventy-eight years, as straight as a young man, lacking the hunch of old age. He was clearheaded, too, despite the great deal he had drunk that night. It was as if he hadn’t touched a drop. Comfortably sprawled in the tapestry-chair at the head of the high board he watched the familiar activity about him. The women clustered together gossiping; the men by the fire dicing and drinking; the children scampering about the hall at some game or other.

Outside the tall stone round tower that was his home he could hear the howl of the spring storm that lashed the land this late April night. In the massive fireplace the flames leapt and blew wildly as the wind swept down the chimney with a mournful swoosh. He could almost imagine the keening of the banshee in that wind. His time on this earth was fast drawing to a close, and he knew it, but it mattered not a whit to him. There was nothing left, and his Ceara was already gone on before him.

The door to the hall flew open, and two heavily muffled men entered the room. Since the hour was late, and the weather outside so terrible, it was considered unusual that anyone would be out in it and abroad. A silence fell upon the hall, and its occupants looked up curiously.

Rogan waved the visitors forward while shouting to the others, “Get out, now, all of ye! Get out! ’Tis still my house, and I’ll have some privacy in it, I will!”

No one argued with him for the old man had an evil temper when aroused, and had never been loath to use his fists on relatives or retainers alike. All but the two chosen hurried from the hall while a servant quickly took their sodden capes and quietly exited lest he incur his master’s wrath. The old man waved his guests toward the high board.

“Help yerselves to wine, and sit down,” he invited.

“Yer looking well, uncle,” said the younger of the two men.

“I’ll live to see the dawn, Cavan, me boy. Is this the Spaniard?”

“Aye. May I present to ye Señor Miguel de Guaras, uncle.”

“Ye may! Welcome to Ireland! ’Tis a brave man ye are disembarking in weather like this.”

“There was no choice, my lord,” the Spaniard replied. “The English are very vigilant about the coast, even in this weather. It was necessary that I leave my ship today as I did, or return to Spain and disappoint my master, the king. As my brother, Antonio, has already done that by managing to get himself arrested by the English, I must now uphold the family honor.” Miguel de Guaras lifted the goblet to his lips, and drank, putting it down with a grimace, a fact noted by his host who smiled grimly.

When the two men had seated themselves Rogan FitzGerald looked directly at the Spaniard, and said, “All right, what does yer King Philip want with me? I’m mystified as to how he even knows about me. I’m no grand lordling, just the master of Ballycoille, a town of no importance at all. What are we to Spain’s might?”

“Has it not been said, my lord, that the least shall be first?” Señor de Guaras replied, but when Rogan looked blankly at him he quickly continued, “Ye have a granddaughter, my lord.”

“I have several granddaughters, and a few great-granddaughters, too, if I recall correctly.”

“This would be yer daughter’s child.”

“Bevin’s lass?” His eyes misted over as he remembered the daughter he hadn’t seen since he had sent her to wed the rich English milord, a man his own age, back twenty-five years ago. She had been so very beautiful, his youngest child, and but for the fact he had nothing with which to dower her, and the Englishman had been willing to take her that way, he should have never allowed it. Still in all she had been happy. She had written him each Michaelmas telling him of life with her husband and children until the year she had died. Only one of those children had reached adulthood. A girl. A girl named Aidan!

“I have a granddaughter named Aidan, aye,” he said.

“She is an heiress of considerable wealth,” said the Spaniard. “Her father died last summer leaving her a ward of the crown, and she was married off this St. Valentine’s Day past to Master Conn O’Malley. Do ye know the O’Malleys of Innisfana Island, my lord?”

“By reputation only,” was the reply. “They’re great mariners, I’m told, as was their father before them.”

“They are traitors to Ireland, and the Holy Mother Church,” said Señor de Guaras vehemently. “They sail under the protection of the heretic bastard who rules England, usurping the rightful place of its true queen, Mary of Scotland, who even as we speak languishes in cruel captivity despite the righteous protests of my master, Philip of Spain.”

“And how does that concern me, and mine?” snapped Rogan. “The lass was raised to be an Englishwoman, and regrettable as I find it, she is her father’s daughter as it should be. If I remember correctly her husband is the youngest of Dubhdara O’Malley’s children which would mean he had nothing. The girl is a good match for him, and he at least is no pirate. What does all this matter to Spain, Señor de Guaras, and give me no more blather about the Holy Mother Church. It is a game of power yer master King Philip plays for all his piety.” Rogan took a deep draft of his goblet, and looked straight at the Spanish agent.

Miguel de Guaras did not flinch under the flinty gaze of the Irishman. Instead he picked up his own goblet, and managed to swallow down some of the disgusting brew within without shuddering. Drawing a breath he said, “For many years the O’Malleys of Innisfana have been a thorn in Spain’s side, my lord. Their ships have successfully pillaged Spain’s merchant fleet in the New World for the last several years, robbing us of much gold. Their sister, one Lady de Marisco, along with her business partner, Sir Robert Small, has built a trading network that interferes with Spain’s business, but worse is of value to Elizabeth Tudor. My master has vowed to bring these pirates to their knees once and for all; to take from the usurper the wealth the O’Malleys supply her with; to sow dissent between England and the O’Malleys; and to totally destroy them. My master, Spain, needs your help to do this, my lord.”

“I have no quarrel with the O’Malleys of Innisfana,” said Rogan FitzGerald.

“They are rich, my lord, and you are poor. By marrying your granddaughter to the least of them they have siphoned off her wealth for themselves when you might have had it by wedding the girl to your nephew, Cavan.

“Conn O’Malley, or Lord Bliss as he is now known, is an Anglicized Irishman who licks the slipper of the English queen as no true patriot would do.”