The Collector 3: Cauldron Read online

  For a moment ‑‑ just for a moment ‑‑ she felt sorry for Queen Maeve.

  Chapter Nine

  Evening fell. Matt prepared to go to the queen’s chamber, a broad space he’d only glimpsed behind the tapestry behind which she’d withdrawn when they’d first arrived. Kate helped him, a set expression on her pretty face. He paused in his ablutions and touched her arm. She turned dark, haunted eyes to him. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

  “I’ll be just fine,” she said, giving him a forced smile.

  “I don’t want to do this,” he began to say, but she jerked her arm in a brusque gesture.

  “We’ve been over all this!” She straightened one last fold of the woolen tunic she’d managed to clean by the stream. “No more talking, Matt. Just you go in there and do your duty.”

  He wanted to say more, but contented himself with cupping her face and kissing her. “Okay, then. I’ll be back.”

  “Be sure that woman doesn’t take the term man-eater literally!” she said, and pressed close. “I care about you, Matt.”

  “And I care for you, Kate.” He kissed her brow, and then, holding her hand in a loose grasp until the last moment, went off into the unknown.

  Kate watched him go, to disappear through the gap in the tapestry. Her heart felt heavy in a chest tight with anxiety.

  “He’ll be fine, Katherine,” a quiet voice said by her side. She jumped and looked to see Fergus had come up unheard and was watching her with sympathy. “Other men have passed through there and lived to tell the tale.” He raised a hand, hesitated then let it drop lightly on her shoulder. “He’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure he will be, but this isn’t easy for me,” she said.

  “I can see that.”

  She gestured to their baggage. “I’m going to begin packing. As soon as he can walk out of that bedchamber, we’re leaving!”

  “I’ll come with you ‑‑ if you’re sure you accept my company?” he said, a spark flaring in his eyes.

  “It’ll be dangerous,” she said, giving him a dubious look.

  “I’m used to danger, Katherine.” He flashed a smile and spread his hands. “This Eirin of ours is no peaceful land of plenty. There’s danger and discomfort even for a respected bard such as I. Did I not have to fly from my own homeland because of an injustice?”

  “I don’t know. Did you?”

  “Yes. I’ll go back there one day.”

  His voice was low and dangerous, but she was distracted. “Help me pack then, and you can come.”

  As he stooped to lift a pack she noticed a flute thrust through the woven belt about his waist, the slender instrument showing as his cloak gaped open. “May I?” she asked, pointing to it.

  He blinked and looked down. “Oh! I thought you meant something else.”

  She slapped his arm. “Behave, or we’ll leave you here!”

  “What a dreadful thought!” He smiled, drew the flute from his belt and presented it to her. “My main instrument is the harp, but I’m competent enough with this.”

  “So am I, I think.” She examined the flute. It was smooth tube carved with Celtic knot work motifs. Putting the mouthpiece to her lips, she played a few bars of “Gary Owen.”

  Fergus listened with his head tilted to one side, and nodded approval when she finished. “A lovely tune! Do you mind if I use it?”

  “Go right ahead.” She offered him the flute back, but he waved it away.

  “Keep it for now. Perhaps we can play together later, for the entertainment of the household?”

  “Sure thing.” She glanced at the tapestry. “It’ll help take my mind off things.”

  * * * * *

  The bedchamber was large, but still seemed quite stuffy to Matt. Two large bronze braziers burned on either side of the room, and he looked around, perspiration breaking out under the thick wool. The rough thatch had been shaved close and covered with fine woven cloth in shades of orange and green and russet red. A broad bed made up mainly of what appeared to be throw cushions occupied the center of the room, a small low table standing beside it. The effect was remarkable, and he was still staring at the sumptuous furnishings, wondering at their significance when a light footfall sounded behind him, and he turned to see Maeve enter.

  “You like my chamber?” she asked, gesturing around.

  “It’s very nice, Majesty,” he said, polite to the last.

  “Nice,” she repeated, and smiled. “I set out my best and richest things to impress you and you call them ‘nice.’ Oh, I suppose I can live with that. You men don’t appreciate the finer things, it seems.”

  “I trust I’m a man of taste and refinement,” he said, and she laughed.

  “Don’t be so pompous, Matt O’Brien!” She pushed his chest. “I’m not looking for taste and refinement; I just want you to fuck me.” She stepped close, and pressed against him, her scent rich and intoxicating in his nostrils. “I want to be fucked beyond all reason; I want you to pleasure me until I faint!” Her hand began to run over his chest, until it slipped under the tunic, and she could feel her fingernails raking through his hair. “Can you do that for me, Matt O’Brien?” she purred.

  “Hell yeah!” he growled, but hesitated. Now that push had come to shove he felt awkward. It was necessary to seduce Maeve, but thoughts of Kate surged in his mind and it felt like a terrible betrayal, for all her understanding. A crease appeared between Maeve’s brows and her eyes began to narrow. He sensed her anger at his hesitation beginning to ignite. One second of delay more and all bets would be off.

  Grasping her arms and drawing her hard against him, he kissed her, tongue probing, holding her as she struggled and fought to escape his clutch. Whether she was acting reluctant or if it was real, he resolved to hang tough and give it his best shot.

  Eventually he let her up for air. She leaned back and regarded him with her glorious green eyes. Up close, he saw they were flecked with silver and gold, magical eyes that held a look of amusement mixed with uncertainty. “Well!” she said as she gasped, and plunged straight into another all-consuming kiss.

  He staggered but held her assault until something thumped against the back of his knees, and he fell. Maeve let him go, smiling as he dropped back onto the bed. “A little trick I learned from my husband,” she said with a grin.

  “Your husband?” he said, looking around.

  She waved her hand and prowled around the bed, forcing him to turn and twist his head to keep her in sight. “Don’t worry about him, the oaf! He’s far away from here.”

  “I’m glad to hear it!” he said, as she came to stand at the foot of the bed once more. “And I’m sorry I had to kill Rory Mac Grath.”

  “Why?” she snorted. “He was seeking to become King in my husband’s place. I’ve had enough trouble from boorish men who think they can outdo me. Rory outlived his usefulness.” She looked down at him and began to undo her robe. “Now you fill his place in my bed, and you will give me pleasure.” The robe fell, revealing her lean and powerful body in all its nakedness. “And that, my friend from over the sea, is a royal command!”

  He stared up at her, taking in the high pointed breasts, the flat stomach honed from years of exercise and ‑‑ if the legends were true ‑‑ single combat, and down, to the tight knot of gold and russet curls at the union of her thighs. She stood with her hands laid upon her flanks, letting him gaze his fill, before slipping a hand between her thighs. She rested one foot on the edge of the bed and spread her pussy lips for him, letting him gaze right up into her petals of coral-colored flesh. He could smell her feminine odor, and felt his cock stiffen.

  Maeve saw the bulge in his pants and grinned. “Now that’s the kind of reaction I want,” she said, and snapped her fingers. “Undress! Now!”

  He untied the knot of his belt and slid the pants down his legs, watching her face as his tumescent cock emerged from cover. She blinked, and her jaw dropped. “Dear Aine, preserve me!” she gasped. If she’d lived a few thousand year
s later, he knew she would have crossed herself. A look of wonder crept across her face, and the underlying uncertainty reappeared as she knelt on the bed and reached out to touch his cock. “Which god favored you so?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m thankful,” he lied.

  The queen grasped Matt's cock, and her fingertips were an inch away from the tip of her thumb. He growled deep in his throat, and she smiled, a silly expression replacing the wonder. “And so am I!” she said.

  With feline grace, she stretched out beside him, lying half upon her side as she continued to manipulate his cock. From somewhere outside a flute tooted through a few bars of music, and he recognized the tune as “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” He grinned, in spite of the seriousness of the moment, and Maeve of Connacht smiled back.

  “You have beautiful teeth, Matt,” she said, leaning closer until he felt her breasts brushing his chest, and she kissed him.

  “I have a good dentist,” he said.

  “Den-tist?” She drew back and gave him a puzzled smile. “You O’Brien’s surely do speak oddly!”

  “Hmm, yeah.” The sound of a flute playing in the hall brought thoughts of Kate to mind, and those thoughts led to memories of making love to her. Right here, right now, with the great, tawny-headed queen lying beside him, he found it hard to keep thoughts of Kate’s spiky personality and delicious body from intruding. When he’d told her he cared for her it was no lie, and probably was not the entire truth. Yet here he was, within an hour of making love to her, fucking another woman. As beautiful as Maeve was, as alluring in her predatory way, she was one dangerous individual, and the sooner he and Kate were out of her clutches the better. He set his teeth and forced his mind to turn to the task in hand ‑‑ for the cause.

  “It’s not the time for talk, O Queen.” He cupped a breast, rolling it back and forth in his palm, then squeezing it tight until she gasped and shivered. “This is a time for action, for deeds in this bedchamber that will last you your whole life through.”

  “Mmm, yeah!” she growled, snuggling closer still and sliding a leg between his. He felt the rasp of her pubic hair on his thigh as she straddled him, and then she reared up, a proud and magnificent creature with her hair spreading like a cloud about her head, light and floating and shining in the light from the braziers. She reached underneath and felt for his cock, clasping it and placing the tip against her pussy. He could feel the heat of her quim, and when he glanced down he saw her juices were already flowing onto his cock, moistening him for entry.

  And then she eased her luscious body down, bracing her hands against his chest and fixing her eyes on his as he slid deep, deep inside. He watched his cock slip into her, watched her pussy lips spread to accommodate his new girth, and looked back up at her face to judge how she was taking it.

  A look of extreme concentration came over that haughty, beautiful face as she came near to taking him all in. “Holy Aine,” she muttered again, “help me take this brute inside, and I’ll dedicate a shrine to you. There!” His shaft was entirely enfolded by her. “I owe the goddess one shrine!”

  “Let’s make sure you get your money’s worth!” he grunted, clasped her hips, and began to thrust up into her.

  She rode him like a trooper, the look of pain and exquisite pleasure filling her face all the reward he needed. A certain level of complacency settled in his mind. He knew he would only cum when he so desired. From the look of Maeve’s flushed face and throat, she was already closing in on the first of many orgasms this night ...

  Soon she was keening in the back of her throat. Her head tilted back, and her eyes closed, and he watched, fascinated, at the way her breasts jiggled. Bending up into a sitting position, he caught a nipple between his lips on the third attempt and sucked at it, hard. Maeve moaned and clasped his head with one hand, the other braced behind her on his thigh. Her teeth were gritted, and she growled, grunted, and moaned. He dropped back onto the bed again, seized her tightly about the waist and thrust upwards, lifting her high until her knees were only just touching the bed. She cried out and added a curious half-twist to her riding action as if trying to screw herself onto him.

  Maeve came, her head flung back, her scream of release echoing throughout the chamber. Matt settled back, slow and steady, letting her weight carry him down, until she sagged against him, still impaled on his cock.

  * * * * *

  Kate saw the old crone watching her from across the hall and nudged Fergus. “If looks could kill, I’d be dead by now!” she said.

  He glanced up and gave a crooked smile. “Yes, that one needs to be watched. Rory Mac Grath was a protégé of hers; it put her long, sharp nose in a sling when Matt killed him. It’s not beyond the bounds of reason that she’ll seek revenge.”

  “What is she, anyway?”

  “She’s a Druidess ‑‑ after a fashion. No one quite knows from where she sprang, or which misbegotten creature squeezed her out into this world. All we know is she attached her grubby self to this court some years back when all the trouble with Ulster began and has hardly left it since.”

  “With any luck we’ll be far away from here by this time tomorrow.” Kate said it with confidence, remembering the travel spell she’d cast to get them here. Fergus cocked an eye at her but declined to ask questions.

  * * * * *

  Fergus and Katherine of the Susadi entertained the crowded hall most of the evening, their music harmonious and loud enough to overcome all but the wilder cries and screams from the queen’s chamber. These drew admiring glances and ribald chuckles from the multitude, and Fergus was interested to see Kate’s face grew longer by the hour.

  When they had done a few numbers, he excused himself. “I need some fresh air if I’m to keep playing at my best, so,” he told Kate.

  “Understood.” She nodded to his harp, which looked plain and functional but had a beautiful sound. “That’s a real nice instrument you got there.”

  “It was inherited from my father, gods rest his soul.” He touched the strings and released a glissando of notes. “She’s a magical thing, so she is.”

  Kate moistened her lips with a drink and fell into conversation with one of the women. Fergus went outside and relieved himself, then made his way to his real appointment.

  Mór’s hovel stood a short walk from the hall, within easy calling distance if Her Majesty required her. Fergus had seen the old hag scuttle inside the place some time before. He knew the crone had a croft up in the tangled woodlands where she retreated from time to time. It was said she conducted strange spells by the light of the moon or on the holy days, and brewed potions that could send a man mad or wild with desire. Few knew for sure, for none of those whose curiosity outweighed their sense had returned to tell what transpired in that dark place.

  He knocked on one of the carved wooden pillars that formed the doorway. A ragged piece of sacking covered the opening, preventing him from seeing inside. Something stirred within, and he would swear it sounded like slithering, as if a massive scaled body were moving scant feet from where he stood.

  “Who calls on Mór?” The crone’s cracked voice came from behind the sacking.

  “Fergus Mac Nessa,” he called back in a low voice.

  “Good. Come inside.”

  He thrust aside the rudimentary curtain and went in. The interior was dark, lit by a single red glowing brazier which only seemed to emphasize the depth of the shadows. He remembered the first time he’d entered the place. Expecting the rank odors of an ill-washed body and strange substances, he was surprised to find it neat, tidy, and made sweet-smelling by fresh rushes on the floor. It was no different now. The crone squatted on a rug in the middle of the floor, her bony knees showing pale through the rags of her clothing. Deep-set, dark eyes glared up at him. Fergus looked around, nervous of encountering whatever creature had made the slithering sound.

  “What are you frightened of, Mac Nessa?”

  “You, old woman!” he retorted, dragging his attention back to her. />
  “That’s just as well, boy,” Mór said her tone quite mild. “It saves me so much bother.” She gestured. “Sit down, and give me your news.”

  He sat, copying her cross legged pose and folded his hands in his lap. “I’ve gained the confidence of the Susadi woman.”

  “That is good.” She cocked an eyebrow. “And?”

  “She has magic, and intends to use it to reach the tower.”

  “That much I surmised,” she said, sounding bored.

  “Her grandfather ‑‑ if such was their relationship; he seemed far too young ‑‑ he didn’t possess the power.”

  She smiled; her teeth were brown and stained, and he tried not to shudder. “He did, but he didn’t show it much. If anything he seemed scared of it.”

  Fergus stared at her. “That would explain much,” he said at last.

  Mór shrugged. “Indeed, but that’s not your concern. Has she spoken to you of their plans?”

  “They plan to leave as soon as the O’Brien has ridden the queen senseless.”

  Mór gave a throaty laugh. “An ambition many men have espoused but none have achieved!”

  “This one may do just that.” Fergus shifted his seat; an irritating ache was setting up home in his legs and buttocks. “The Susadi cast a spell on him so he could, ah, perform without constraint.”

  Mór’s pale face turned dark under its coating of dirt, and she glared at him. He shuddered when he met her gaze, for her eyes were like corpse-lights shining at the bottom of a deep, dark bog. “That girl is riding for a fall!” she snapped and shook her head. She seemed distracted, a condition he’d never seen her in. Mór had a mind like a sharp bronze knife, bright and deadly. “I cannot comprehend these Susadi,” she went on. “The land they come from must be rich in magic for them to be able to cast it without being trained in the lore.”

  “She has another form of magic she seems intimately familiar with,” he said, seeking to divert her wrath. “It seems her people have formulated music itself so it becomes a kind of magic which any can use.”