was the matter with him?
Not sure why he’d kissed her, he contemplated his actions. No woman had ever gazed at him like that. Although the tale the lass told was not pleasant, Ciaran could not remember the last time he actually sat and spoke with a lass. He and Beathag never really had words, nor would he ever think of being that compassionate to her. Simply, they took their pleasure from one another and then took their leave. That was all he ever desired, nothing more. He had to admit he enjoyed speaking with Rosalia. Was it pity he felt for her? It was definitely not pity. He admired her courage.
As he lay in the darkness listening to her gentle breathing, his mind wandered. How much had actually occurred before Rosalia decided finally to take her leave? She’d cut her tresses and dressed in lad’s clothing. He did not know too many lasses who would attempt such a feat. And who was this English lord she was supposed to wed? That was a mystery in itself. Ciaran finally closed his eyes and had fallen into a deep sleep when a piercing scream echoed loudly in the silence of the night.
Startled, he sprang to his feet and grabbed his sword, ready to defend against whatever nightmare had awoken him. He found Rosalia thrashing violently on the bed. Ciaran dropped his sword and quickly approached her. “Rosalia, ye are dreaming,” he strongly whispered, grabbing her by the arms.
Surely this commotion would bring the attention of the entire inn upon them. He did not want to think about that outcome. He needed her to stop—now. As he restrained her arms, she shook violently. The lass clenched her fists and tried to hit him. His grip was intense, but she managed to free her legs from the blankets and kick at him, almost hitting him between the legs. As Ciaran repositioned himself, he relaxed his grip on her arms. It was too late. He realized his mistake. She squeezed her hand into a tight fist and took another swing at him. This one landed squarely on his jaw.
He placed his body weight upon her and whispered soothingly into her ear until she started to calm. She was still shaking, and he could feel the dampness of her tears upon his chest. “Rosalia, are ye awake? Ye were dreaming,” he whispered.
She was actually trembling now. “Aye.” Her tears choked her.
The innkeeper’s voice echoed in the hallway as he told everyone to go back and seek their beds. Ciaran closed his eyes at the inevitable.
There was a knock at his door.
“Everything is fine. My wife was only dreaming,” he called out with sternness in his voice.
There was a brief pause. “Aye,” said the innkeeper as he paused and then walked away from the door.
Ciaran moved to get up, but she wrapped her arms around him and cried into his shoulder. “Please stay with me, Ciaran. Donna leave. I need ye here with me. I donna want to be alone. Please…” Her voice faded to a hushed stillness.
“I willnae leave ye, Rosalia.” He moved to her side and wrapped his arm around her waist as she nestled her bottom against his groin. He pushed stray tendrils of hair back from her cheek. “Shh… ye are safe.” Her breathing calmed and her tears finally stopped, but he continued to hold her well into the night. Although he was reluctant to admit it, Rosalia felt damn good in his arms. He swiftly pushed back the notion.
He really would like to know what the hell was wrong with him. Maybe he’d had more ale than he realized or perhaps it was simply having a warm woman cradled next to him. He had not bedded Beathag for some time. He could not understand why he was drawn to Rosalia. Ciaran knew for certain he did not pity her, and she was not the type of lass he usually bedded. She had no tresses and dressed in lad’s clothing, and he most certainly did not take to men. What was it then? It could be her blue eyes—the color of the sea. When she laughed this eve, it had felt as if the sun bathed his body in warm rays of light.
Rosalia stirred and he held
Not sure why he’d kissed her, he contemplated his actions. No woman had ever gazed at him like that. Although the tale the lass told was not pleasant, Ciaran could not remember the last time he actually sat and spoke with a lass. He and Beathag never really had words, nor would he ever think of being that compassionate to her. Simply, they took their pleasure from one another and then took their leave. That was all he ever desired, nothing more. He had to admit he enjoyed speaking with Rosalia. Was it pity he felt for her? It was definitely not pity. He admired her courage.
As he lay in the darkness listening to her gentle breathing, his mind wandered. How much had actually occurred before Rosalia decided finally to take her leave? She’d cut her tresses and dressed in lad’s clothing. He did not know too many lasses who would attempt such a feat. And who was this English lord she was supposed to wed? That was a mystery in itself. Ciaran finally closed his eyes and had fallen into a deep sleep when a piercing scream echoed loudly in the silence of the night.
Startled, he sprang to his feet and grabbed his sword, ready to defend against whatever nightmare had awoken him. He found Rosalia thrashing violently on the bed. Ciaran dropped his sword and quickly approached her. “Rosalia, ye are dreaming,” he strongly whispered, grabbing her by the arms.
Surely this commotion would bring the attention of the entire inn upon them. He did not want to think about that outcome. He needed her to stop—now. As he restrained her arms, she shook violently. The lass clenched her fists and tried to hit him. His grip was intense, but she managed to free her legs from the blankets and kick at him, almost hitting him between the legs. As Ciaran repositioned himself, he relaxed his grip on her arms. It was too late. He realized his mistake. She squeezed her hand into a tight fist and took another swing at him. This one landed squarely on his jaw.
He placed his body weight upon her and whispered soothingly into her ear until she started to calm. She was still shaking, and he could feel the dampness of her tears upon his chest. “Rosalia, are ye awake? Ye were dreaming,” he whispered.
She was actually trembling now. “Aye.” Her tears choked her.
The innkeeper’s voice echoed in the hallway as he told everyone to go back and seek their beds. Ciaran closed his eyes at the inevitable.
There was a knock at his door.
“Everything is fine. My wife was only dreaming,” he called out with sternness in his voice.
There was a brief pause. “Aye,” said the innkeeper as he paused and then walked away from the door.
Ciaran moved to get up, but she wrapped her arms around him and cried into his shoulder. “Please stay with me, Ciaran. Donna leave. I need ye here with me. I donna want to be alone. Please…” Her voice faded to a hushed stillness.
“I willnae leave ye, Rosalia.” He moved to her side and wrapped his arm around her waist as she nestled her bottom against his groin. He pushed stray tendrils of hair back from her cheek. “Shh… ye are safe.” Her breathing calmed and her tears finally stopped, but he continued to hold her well into the night. Although he was reluctant to admit it, Rosalia felt damn good in his arms. He swiftly pushed back the notion.
He really would like to know what the hell was wrong with him. Maybe he’d had more ale than he realized or perhaps it was simply having a warm woman cradled next to him. He had not bedded Beathag for some time. He could not understand why he was drawn to Rosalia. Ciaran knew for certain he did not pity her, and she was not the type of lass he usually bedded. She had no tresses and dressed in lad’s clothing, and he most certainly did not take to men. What was it then? It could be her blue eyes—the color of the sea. When she laughed this eve, it had felt as if the sun bathed his body in warm rays of light.
Rosalia stirred and he held
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