“What story did the tracks tell you?” Cuchulainn asked softly.
She glanced at him, and then looked away, back into the fire. “They told me that the five centaurs had chased the wagon. That the horses that were pulling it had panicked, and that the centaurs purposefully herded the stampeding team toward the timberline and the cliff that the creek and time had eroded. Then I didn’t need to read the tracks anymore because I heard her. I followed the sound of her cries as I slid down the side of the cliff to where the wagon had overturned, spilling out its driver, as well as the bolts of brightly colored cloth that she had been bringing to the centaur herd for trade. I remember that most of the cloth was dyed rich jewel tones—reds, blues, emerald-greens—so when I found her at first I thought that the bottom of her body was swathed in yards of ruby-colored linen.”
Brighid shook her head, her eyes far away, seeing that day in the past.
“The wagon had rolled over her, crushing her body just below her rib cage. She lay there on the ground, the rain mixing with her blood, and she was still alive. She was crying. When she saw me she tried to drag herself away, begged me not to hurt her anymore. I told her I didn’t want to hurt her. I don’t think she believed me, but when she moved the bleeding got worse. A lot worse. Like something within her had snapped and broken loose. She knew she was dying and she didn’t want to be alone, even if it meant breathing her last breath in the arms of a centaur.” Brighid lifted her eyes from the fire to the warrior beside her who was so silent and attentive. “Oh, Cu, she was just a girl. She said she’d snuck away from her merchant train and come alone to trade with the Ulstan Herd to prove to her parents she could do the work of an adult, but she’d gotten lost. Then the centaurs—young males, she said—had surrounded her and scared the horses and laughed and whooped while they ran her over the cliff. Then they’d left her alone in the rain to die.”
Brighid took another long pull from the wineskin, forcing the trembling from her voice. It was important that she tell the story clearly—that he understand everything.
“She clung to me. There was nothing I could do for her except hold her and be with her at the end. She kept saying, over and over again, ‘Tell Mama not to be mad at me. Tell her I’m sorry that I’m late.’ Afterward I cared for her body quickly. The rain was heavier, and I didn’t want to lose their tracks.”
“You followed them?” Cuchulainn asked.
She nodded. “Yes, I followed my brother and his friends back to our home. In my heart I’d known it had been his tracks from the moment I’d found them. But I didn’t want to believe…I didn’t want to think that…” Her body shuddered and she spoke between gritted teeth. “I tracked him home and I watched them laugh and make merry, as if nothing had happened. When I dragged him before my mother and confronted him with what he had done he said that the silly human girl should have controlled her animals better. That’s what he said, Cu. In front of my mother, the High Shaman of our herd—the centaur who should have been exemplifying honor and integrity.”
“She did nothing?” Cuchulainn’s voice was rough with emotion.
“She said nothing. She did much more than that. From that day on her attitude and actions toward my brother changed. She no longer ignored him—she went to the other end of the extreme. My mother petted and spoiled him outrageously. His friends were awarded her favors, too.” Brighid’s lip curled in disgust, making it clear what kind of favors her mother granted her brother’s young friends.
“I went back the next day to get the girl’s body. I was going to try to find her parents…take her back to the mother she’d died crying out for…but all I found was a burned shell. My mother wouldn’t speak of it, but I knew she’d had it done. It wasn’t long afterward that I left the Dhianna Herd. Since then I have wandered the Plains, staying as far away from my herd as possible. When I heard Elphame wanted volunteers to rebuild MacCallan Castle I turned to the north and let the call carry me to her.”
“Goddess…” Cuchulainn choked out the word.
Brighid wiped a shaky hand over her face. “I should have told you before. I should have told someone before…I just didn’t…” She looked wildly at his face as if she could find redemption there. “All I could think to do was to get away from that life. To change my future and to try not to look back. But I understand. Now that you know you might…might not be able to stay with me…might not want to care about me and—”
“Stop!” Cuchulainn’s voice was sharp as he grabbed her arm. “I’m not going to leave you. What they did was not your fault. What they are today is not your fault. By the Goddess, do you think I’d let you go back into that alone?”
“I don’t know what I think. I’ve never told anyone. Didn’t think I ever could. And now I’ve told you. My husband. My husband who is a man.” Her breath hitched on a sob. “What dream were we living when we thought we could be together? How can this possibly work?”
In an instant Cuchulainn had swiveled to his knees and was facing her. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. She stiffened, feeling the oddness of his torso against hers—the unfamiliar sensation of the muscular width of him that was just man and not melded with the equine body of a centaur male. He ignored her stiffness and didn’t relinquish his hold on her. When he spoke he turned his head so that his voice was a warm breath against her ear.
“It will work because we are bonded, the two of us. Because somehow, miraculously, Epona fashioned your soul to match mine. We are not defined by our bodies alone, Brighid. You and I know that only too well.”
“It seems impossible,” she said.
“No. It’s not impossible—it’s just difficult.”
She pulled back, and this time he loosened his hold on her so that she could look into his eyes. “How can you be so sure? I’m from a different world. We’re different species. We can’t even consummate our mating tonight.”
“My father is a centaur, Brighid. Don’t forget that I have his blood running thick in my veins. We’re more alike than we are different.”
“But your body is human.”
“That it is.” He sighed and rested back on his heels, letting his hands slide down her arms. “Does that repulse you?”
Brighid frowned at him, hearing the echo of his sister’s words in his voice. “Of course not! How could you even ask me that? I wouldn’t have handfasted with you if you repulsed me.”
“There are many different reasons to handfast. Physical attraction is not always one of them,” he said. “You mated with me. That does not automatically mean that you’re attracted to me.”
Her frown deepened. “I’m attracted to you. You’re not like most men.”
His brows shot up. “I can assure you that I am very much like most men.”
Brighid felt her cheeks heating. “I didn’t mean that you’re not…uh…not…”
“Yes…” He drew the word out. “Go on. I’m not what?”
Her frown turned into a scowl. He certainly wasn’t making this any easier for her. “Most men seem too small.”
His brows disappeared completely into his hairline. She shook her head, trying to figure out how to explain it to him without sounding patronizing or offensive.
“Remember the first day we met? You were with El and Brenna in the Main Courtyard of MacCallan Castle. You’d just uncovered the fountain.”
“I remember,” he said. “You said you were of the Dhianna Herd and I may have reacted badly to that.”
“May have?” She snorted. “You wanted El to kick me out. You were defensive and overprotective of your sister.” Before he could protest, she hurried on. “And I thought you were intriguing. You weren’t some small, weak man. You were a warrior, and everything you said and did was filled with such confidence and power that I never thought of you as just a man. From the first I’ve thought of you as a warrior, without the label of ‘centaur’ or ‘man.’”
“So you didn’t hate me on sight?”
“No. I just disliked you.
” His amused expression made her smile. “But part of me agreed with you. Had I been another member of my herd, you would have been wise not to trust me.”
“I learned to trust you,” he said.
“And I you.”
“Don’t you see that that’s it, Brighid? Our relationship is based on trust and respect, which grew into friendship.” Slowly he took one of his hands from hers and lightly, just using the tips of his fingers, retraced the path up her arm to the roundness of her shoulder. He felt her skin prickle under his fingers and he heard the sharp intake of her breath. “And then that friendship changed. I’m not even certain when.” In a long, slow caress, he drew his hand across her shoulder until he found the softness at the base of her throat. There he let his thumb trace a light, sensuous pattern along her delicate collarbone. “I remember how the part of my soul that came into your dreams teased and kidded with you. You thought I was playing…only pretending desire for you…” His thumb moved to the hollow of her neck and he felt her pulse beating fast and hard against the smoothness of her skin. “It was no pretense. You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. And I don’t care what form your body takes. I will always desire you.”
39
ALL BRIGHID COULD do was stare at him. She was trapped by his slow, intimate caress. For all the strength of her body, this one gentle touch had completely unnerved her.
“May I ask you something?” he said, stroking his thumb up and down the sensitive skin of her neck.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“After we kissed in your room when you breathed my soul back into my body, did you ever think of touching me? Of me touching you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
She wet her lips with her tongue and saw his eyes go hungrily to her mouth. “I thought about your hands on my body, and I wondered what it would be like to touch you in return.”
“If you touched me now, you wouldn’t have to wonder,” he said.
Hesitantly she lifted the hand that he had so recently been holding, and touched his hair.
“I’m glad you cut it again,” she said. “I like it short.”
“Then I will always keep it short.”
She touched his cheek, and quickly pulled her hand away. Then, with a self-conscious little laugh she touched it again, rubbing the back of her knuckles along the roughness of his day-old beard.
“Centaurs don’t have facial hair,” she said.
“I know. I’ve told my father many times that I envy the fact that he doesn’t have to bother with shaving.”
“It feels strange,” she said. Her eyes lifted hastily to meet his. “Not bad strange, just different strange.”
He smiled. “You’ve already told me that I don’t repulse you. You’re not going to upset me by telling me that there are things about my body that seem strange to you. I don’t want you to be afraid to tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Agreed. But you have to tell me what you’re thinking, too.”
“Right now I’m thinking that your skin is so soft and smooth that it feels like water—hot water. I can feel the heat of you from here. Logically I know that’s because you’re a centaur and your body generates more heat than mine. But when I get this close to you, logic leaves my mind and all I can think is that I want to be consumed by your heat.”
She knew he could feel how his words made her pulse leap under his fingers. His voice was as seductive as his touch and she couldn’t stop her hand from moving to his chest. He was wearing a simple white linen shirt and a kilt made of the familiar MacCallan plaid, the end of which was thrown over his right shoulder. Her hand strayed to the plain round brooch that held it in place. Before her skittering thoughts could stop her, Brighid took her other hand from his and unpinned the brooch. Carefully, she pulled the plaid from his shoulder. Then she unlaced the front of his shirt, so that it fell open, exposing his muscular chest.
Except for the thumb that continued to caress her neck, Cuchulainn held very still as she splayed her hands over his bare chest and up to his shoulders where she lifted the shirt. In a few quick flicks of her hands, he was naked from his waist up. He shivered.
“Are you cold?” she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
“No!” He half laughed, half moaned the word.
She met his eyes and saw that their turquoise depths had darkened to the azure of a turbulent ocean. “I like the feel of your chest. It’s hard and powerful.” She paused, running her fingertips purposefully over his puckering nipples, which caused him to suck in a quick breath. “Ah.” She breathed the word. “Your centaur blood is showing. Did you know—” she continued to circle his nipples with her fingertips “—that a centaur’s nipples are one of the most sensitive parts of his—or her—body?”
“No, I—” His body jerked and his words broke off in a moan when she bent and flicked her tongue across one of his nipples.
When she raised her face, he met her lips with his own, surging up on his knees so he could press his naked chest against her. She opened her mouth willingly and welcomed his tongue. He had said that the heat of her body drew him to her, and his bare skin felt alluringly warm and hard against hers, too. She explored his broad back as they learned the secrets of each other’s mouth. Then the roughness of his palm was under her vest and pressing against her naked breast, and it was her turn to moan and fight for breath as he teased the sensitive bud of her nipple. When his lips moved to her breast she arched against him, closing her eyes and thinking of nothing except his lips and tongue and teeth.
When their mouths joined again she shrugged out of her vest, pressing her hot breasts against his chest. Both of their bodies were slick with sweat. By the Goddess, she wanted him! More than she’d wanted anyone in longer than she could remember. He made her feel alive and liquid and she wanted more and more. Her hand slid down his back to his waist, and then beyond. Her eyes jerked open in surprise at the alien feel of the hard swell of his buttocks.
What was she doing? She’d actually forgotten that he wasn’t a centaur male—forgotten that there was little he could do to quench the raging fire that his touch was igniting within her.
Feeling the instant change in her body, he broke their kiss and pulled back to look into her eyes. What he saw there had him running a shaky hand through his hair as he made an obvious effort to slow his breathing.
“I’d forgotten that you’re not…that you can’t because you’re only a…that we’re…” She sputtered to silence at the clear look of hurt that flashed over his face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think,” he said, his voice as flat and expressionless as his face had suddenly become.
“No, Cu. I meant—”
He didn’t let her finish. Instead he pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his shirt from the ground, pulling it on with quick, jerky movements.
“The fire’s almost out. We’ll need more wood. I’ll get it.” Without looking at her he turned and walked into the forest.
Brighid pressed her hand against her chest where her heart battered itself like a caged bird against her ribs and cursed herself sincerely and fluently. Wonderful. As if the situation wasn’t difficult enough—now she’d insulted him.
Cuchulainn took his time in coming back to camp. He felt like a fool. Worse than a fool actually—a randy, frustrated fool. What, in all the levels of the Otherworld, had he thought he was doing? Had he thought he was going to actually make love to a centaur Huntress? No. That was the problem. He hadn’t thought at all. Her skin…her heat…the taste and scent of her…it had all worked on him like a hypnotic spell and he’d stopped thinking. He’d only meant to get her used to his touch—like she was a wild filly that had needed to be tamed. Fool was too simple a word for what he’d been. Brighid was no filly. She was a passionate Huntress and she needed the power of a centaur male to match that passion.
But he was just a man, as she had made abundantly clear.
Now
what? The only thing he knew for sure was that he wouldn’t leave her. He searched his heart. He wasn’t staying with her only because he’d given her his oath before his mother, their Clan and the Goddess. He wanted to stay with her. Truly. Beyond his physical desire for her was a loyalty that had been founded in friendship and respect—just as he’d told her—and that had grown into something more…something richer. He loved the Huntress. It was that simple. And that complicated.
And it was so different from what he’d had with Brenna.
Brenna…The thought of her still had the power to sadden him. He had loved her—he still loved her, but it was a different feeling than his love for Brighid. The physical part had been easy with Brenna, at least it had been easy once he had overcome her shyness. But, he admitted to himself, it had never been as easy to talk with her as it was with Brighid.
Compassion had drawn him to Brenna. Respect had drawn him to Brighid. Respect and passion. From the first the Huntress had fired something within him. Even when he used to mistrust and argue with her, she always drew him. He just never let himself think of it—admit it. And now he was handfasted to her and he could think of little else. And do nothing about it.
Brighid had called their relationship impossible. Maybe she had been right.
If he had been gone any longer she would have gone after him. Instead she felt sick with relief as he tromped back out of the forest with his arms filled with firewood. She’d been pacing nervously, trying to figure out what she was going to say to him. Then when he was finally there she felt her mouth grow dry and her words evaporate. Without speaking, he fed the fire and then stacked the rest of the wood not far from where he’d left his saddle and packs. Silently, he dug through the larger of the saddlebags and retrieved a woolen blanket, which he wrapped around himself like a cocoon. With a sigh he settled onto his side, facing the fire. Unbelieving, she watched as he closed his eyes.
The damned man was going to sleep!