LITMIR.BIZ

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I left you to die you would have been cast into the bowels of hell,” she continued. “Old Ethyl knows quite a bit about these things and she assures me that a Celt must be struck down with a weapon in his hand, not a woman, in order to reap the rewards of eternal life.”

      So this was the water sprite he had discovered at the water’s edge and held so briefly in his arms. He remembered the wet, slick body. The proud, silent face that asked no quarter. The long, dark hair like a sodden veil, and the moonlight catching the droplets of water clinging to lashes that shielded bottomless eyes.

      His eyes flickered, and of their own volition lifted to behold the woman who had been at once his defeat and his salvation.

      He saw her expression turn from serenity to surprise.

      “You’re awake!”

      “A stupendous observation,” he said dryly.

      “How do you feel?”

      “Weak and thirsty. There is a bitter taste in my mouth. What is this place?”

      She seemed to be glancing over her shoulder, and Rory tried to see past her into the shadows of the room, to no avail.

      “You are in Sheffield Manor. I am the Lady Serine. What is your name?”

      The woman acted somewhat flustered, and the voice he had found so sensuous and soothing in the depths of the netherworld now was edged with anxiousness.

      “I am called Rory.”

      “From whence do you come?”

      She asked the question so casually she almost caught him in her trap. He had already opened his mouth to reply when a misty memory told him that he must keep the name of his village a secret if he valued his life.

      “I come from across the sea,” he said non-committally.

      “Does your home have no name?”

      He watched her face brighten with hope, then cloud as he continued. “It is not a large estate, but I am satisfied with my lot.”

      “Is that where you have taken my...the children?”

      He watched as her eyes shifted away from his steady gaze and knew she was wondering just how much of her little soliloquy he had heard.

      “The children were taken to the village, where they will be well kept,” he assured her.

      “They were well kept here,” she challenged, “and we want them back.”

      “There is little hope of that.”

      “We could pay...”

      He lifted his hand to silence her. “It is not money we need, but the children themselves. Youth to repopulate our village. Our women are barren.”

      “Surely a few years without the birth of a child should not cause brave men to resort to destroying the families of others.”

      “It has been more than a few years. It has been almost a decade. The plague struck and took over half the village. Men, women, children, babes in arms. None were spared. Those who recovered rebuilt their lives, took in the orphaned children and remarried, but there was no issue. Within the past months the last surviving children have grown to adulthood. There was nothing left but to steal the children our women cannot bear.”

      “You had no right to take my child or the children of my serfs.” Serine met his eyes now and challenged him openly.

      “We had no choice.”

      “You have taken the heir to Sheffield. When my husband returns from the Crusades he will appeal to the king, and the brave men who have fought to free the Holy Land from the infidel will take up our cause and destroy your village.”

      “By the time they could discover where the village is located, your children will be grown men and women, and will fight to defend what they have inherited. Think you the son of a serf would not rather live as a thane’s heir with plot and property to be inherited rather than come back here to serve as a serf?”

      Serine had no answer for that. Her breath caught in her throat and she found herself unable to answer. If what this man said was true, the majority of the children would be far better off if they stayed with their captors.

      “What you say holds merit, but my son is heir to Sheffield and does not need your charity. He is the son of a landed knight and a lord in his own right. I demand that you return him to me.”

      Rory raised his eyebrows. This woman had spirit, but he had expected no less. Any woman with the courage and cleverness to create a diversion that confounded dozens of Celts and sent them packing would have spirit as well as beauty.

      “Will you send a message to your overlord to tell him that you live?”

      Again her question seemed innocent enough, but Rory sensed the underlying threat. He could not help but admire her clever persistence as she continually rooted for the name of his village.

      “When I am strong enough to travel I will give thought to your request. Until that time it behooves you to keep me well or you will never see your son again.” With that he turned his face toward the wall.

      The woman was quick and sharp. In his weakened condition it was only a matter of time before he made a slip and told more than was prudent. His mind raced forward to the time he would spend with this woman, who interested him as well as piqued his admiration.

      He empathized with her over the loss of her son. He had lost a son to the plague. Perhaps he would add his voice to hers and petition for the boy’s release. One child could not be so important to the survival of the village, and as that one child was the son of a knight, and heir to an estate, it was very possible that the English king would, indeed, come to the aid of his vassal and retaliate against the Celts.

      Rory nestled down into the soft furs that encased his body. His thoughts for the woman were as soft and warm as the sense of well-being. The pain had subsided and he could feel strength and energy begin to surge through his body.

      He heard a voice murmur and thought to give the Lady Serine reassurance that he would, indeed, be party to her quest. Easing himself onto his back, he opened his eyes to find himself staring into the malevolent glare of a one-eyed crone. Suppressing a gasp, Rory decided the fever must have come on him again, for the nightmares had returned.

      Shutting his eyes tightly against the aberration, he determined to sleep until it disappeared.

      * * *

      It wasn’t until Rory awakened the next morning that he first realized something was amiss. His face felt clean and he could feel the air touching his skin. Still half asleep, he ran his hands over his cheeks. The next moment he emitted a bellow that resounded throughout the building.

      “My beard! You’ve stripped me of my beard!” he shouted as Serine ran to his side with Old Ethyl in her wake.

      “I did but clean you up a bit,” Serine told him. “Your beard was matted with blood and I could not tell whether or not your neck was still swollen with all that hair in my way. Besides, you look better without it.”

      He could not know how much better he looked, Serine thought as she allowed her eyes to feast on him. His hair, clean now, curled in a mass of midnight ringlets about his face, falling to his shoulders like an ebony cloud. Each curl an invitation to run her fingers through it and let the curls trap her hands and hold them against his head while she memorized his face.

      Her reverie was broken by his continued harassing over her action.

      “Be still,” Old Ethyl said threateningly, “else my lady’s work will have been in vain, for I’ll bloody you again.”

      “But she cut away my hair and stripped me of my manhood!” he protested.

      Old Ethyl snorted in derision. “How was she to know?” she asked. “Most men don’t wear their manhood on their chin.”

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