Read Online Sing Me Home by Lisa Ann Verge - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Ann Verge
Tags: Medieval Ireland, sexy adventure, Irish warrior, warrior poet, abandoned baby, road trip romance, historical romp
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groped in the darkened corners, cups fell to the floor, feet shuffled, the door squealed opened as someone left in search of a convenient tree.
She stood there pressed against the post letting Colin run his fingers through her hair, her voice lost, her mind gone fuzzy. Long, languid strokes. The stroking brought to mind those evenings when the laywoman Sabine would try to comb her hair into submissiveness before the darkness winked away the day. But this wasn’t the silent cloister, and this wasn’t Sabine’s ivory comb raking its way down Maura’s shoulders. Rather than making her sleepy, every stroke of Colin’s warm fingers generated a crackling in her body.
He said, “You shouldn’t keep this riot of hair so bound up under that coif, Maura. That wasn’t God’s intent.”
“What … what … do you know of God’s intent?”
“Hair like this is meant to tempt a man.”
She meant to push him away, she really did, and that’s why she flattened her hands on his chest. It had worked before, this kind of push, it had sent many a day-laborer skidding through the turnip peels, or tripping into the washing trough, but slapping Colin’s chest was like banging against a wall of solid rock, and suddenly she found herself leaning into him and flexing her palm to better feel the throbbing of his heart.
Then thick fingers curled around her arm, and they weren’t Colin’s.
“Bed her after,”Arnaud said, his brow gleaming with sweat. “Right now she must earn her keep.”
Maura found herself tugged into a golden circle of firelight, into the haze and noise, the twins passing her as they scampered off with a flash of blue silk. Padraig Smallpipe scuttled away from the trestle table to give way to Fingar, coming to the center with his harp in hand. Arnaud released her and left her standing there alone in the light with the stained cloth of the trestle table before her, with the men and women of the clan laughing and drinking mead from their horns. A man gestured toward her and said something she couldn’t hear amid the noise.
Little by little, the talk faded. Pair by pair, all those eyes fixed upon her. She glanced in panic at Fingar. The harpist lifted his blind eyes to the light pouring through the smoke-hole. A smile shimmered across his face as he stroked the first strings. Maura breathed in, let her eyes flutter close. She opened her mouth. The music of the harp strings shimmered in the air. Fingar stood, poised, waiting for her to begin.
A log snapped in one of the hearth fires. A cup dropped, clattered on the floor and then skidded across the reeds. Clothing rustled. Fingar strummed the opening to the song anew and the harp’s strings vibrated to stillness again. Maura heard Arnaud wheeze somewhere in the darkness behind her.
She blinked her eyes open. The O’Dunn turned into a boar before her eyes, all tusks and drool. The weasel grew teeth and a temper and all but slithered across the table. The rats pressed in upon her. Arnaud’s gaze pierced the bones of her spine. She’d felt the lash of Arnaud’s tongue enough to know this was her last chance to redeem herself, the last chance she had to stay on with the troupe.
Maura flattened her palms on her thighs, felt the silk slip smooth beneath her hands, then turned back to the darkness, seeking out something, not knowing what it was until she lay eyes upon Colin. There he was, leaning by the roof-tree, wiping mead off his chin, that maddening half-smile upon his face. There he stood, one shoulder abutting the pole, one ankle crossed. He swiped another horn of mead off a tray and raised it toward her in a toast, then pressed his other hand over his heart.
You know nothing of love.
She narrowed her eyes, thinking of the feel of his lips upon her mouth, thinking of the dream she’d had last night, the one she’d been trying so hard to forget, the one where she’d let him slip his rough, scar-nicked hand between her open thighs.
And then she turned
She stood there pressed against the post letting Colin run his fingers through her hair, her voice lost, her mind gone fuzzy. Long, languid strokes. The stroking brought to mind those evenings when the laywoman Sabine would try to comb her hair into submissiveness before the darkness winked away the day. But this wasn’t the silent cloister, and this wasn’t Sabine’s ivory comb raking its way down Maura’s shoulders. Rather than making her sleepy, every stroke of Colin’s warm fingers generated a crackling in her body.
He said, “You shouldn’t keep this riot of hair so bound up under that coif, Maura. That wasn’t God’s intent.”
“What … what … do you know of God’s intent?”
“Hair like this is meant to tempt a man.”
She meant to push him away, she really did, and that’s why she flattened her hands on his chest. It had worked before, this kind of push, it had sent many a day-laborer skidding through the turnip peels, or tripping into the washing trough, but slapping Colin’s chest was like banging against a wall of solid rock, and suddenly she found herself leaning into him and flexing her palm to better feel the throbbing of his heart.
Then thick fingers curled around her arm, and they weren’t Colin’s.
“Bed her after,”Arnaud said, his brow gleaming with sweat. “Right now she must earn her keep.”
Maura found herself tugged into a golden circle of firelight, into the haze and noise, the twins passing her as they scampered off with a flash of blue silk. Padraig Smallpipe scuttled away from the trestle table to give way to Fingar, coming to the center with his harp in hand. Arnaud released her and left her standing there alone in the light with the stained cloth of the trestle table before her, with the men and women of the clan laughing and drinking mead from their horns. A man gestured toward her and said something she couldn’t hear amid the noise.
Little by little, the talk faded. Pair by pair, all those eyes fixed upon her. She glanced in panic at Fingar. The harpist lifted his blind eyes to the light pouring through the smoke-hole. A smile shimmered across his face as he stroked the first strings. Maura breathed in, let her eyes flutter close. She opened her mouth. The music of the harp strings shimmered in the air. Fingar stood, poised, waiting for her to begin.
A log snapped in one of the hearth fires. A cup dropped, clattered on the floor and then skidded across the reeds. Clothing rustled. Fingar strummed the opening to the song anew and the harp’s strings vibrated to stillness again. Maura heard Arnaud wheeze somewhere in the darkness behind her.
She blinked her eyes open. The O’Dunn turned into a boar before her eyes, all tusks and drool. The weasel grew teeth and a temper and all but slithered across the table. The rats pressed in upon her. Arnaud’s gaze pierced the bones of her spine. She’d felt the lash of Arnaud’s tongue enough to know this was her last chance to redeem herself, the last chance she had to stay on with the troupe.
Maura flattened her palms on her thighs, felt the silk slip smooth beneath her hands, then turned back to the darkness, seeking out something, not knowing what it was until she lay eyes upon Colin. There he was, leaning by the roof-tree, wiping mead off his chin, that maddening half-smile upon his face. There he stood, one shoulder abutting the pole, one ankle crossed. He swiped another horn of mead off a tray and raised it toward her in a toast, then pressed his other hand over his heart.
You know nothing of love.
She narrowed her eyes, thinking of the feel of his lips upon her mouth, thinking of the dream she’d had last night, the one she’d been trying so hard to forget, the one where she’d let him slip his rough, scar-nicked hand between her open thighs.
And then she turned
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