The O'Madden: A Novella (The Celtic Legends Series) by Lisa Ann Verge Read Free Book Online Page B

the basket off her arm but he couldn’t read her expression across the distance.
    “Time will tell, my lord. Time will tell.”
     
    ***
     
    Maeve frowned into the churn as she ran a hand through the mess of curdles. She sucked her finger into her mouth and frowned. The sourness burst on her tongue as if she’d bit into an unripe apple.
    “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now.” She wiped her hands upon her apron and met t he frightened eyes of two young servants. “Don’t be staring at me like that. It isn’t the first time the butter hasn’t come on the milk, and no doubt it won’t be the last. Go to old Aileen and ask if she can spare a bit of her butter.” Her eyes narrowed on a thought. “And take one of the furs on the lord’s bed to trade. It’s sure he has no need of that mountain, and won’t miss one or two.”
    The girls skittered out, bumping into another woman bustling into the kitchens from the castle.
    “ They are here, my lady,” the servant whispered. “They’re coming up the road now.”
    “Well, what good is it to tell me?” Maeve tipped the churn on its side and rolled it across the dirt floor with her foot. “Go and tell the master—it’s him who’ll be receiving the tribute this year.”
    “He’s off doing something again.” The servant wrung her hands. “I heard Seamus say the master was fixing the hurdles around the sheep pen.”
    Maeve frowned as she bumped the churn over the threshold into the open yard. Last week, Garrick had braided new thatch for the barn. Three days ago, he’d fashioned a new hinge for the door of the henhouse. Yesterday, she’d come upon him cutting back the ivy which had begun to send roots into the castle mortar. That man had lived in this castle for two weeks. Already, he’d dripped more sweat into the earth than all of the other English lords combined.
    “If you don’t mind me saying so, my lady,” the servant ventured, “he’s a better man than the others. Strong and hard-working. And he doesn’t snap and order us all about like the others.” She paused. “A pity he’s English.”
    “Yes. He’s English.” Maeve heaved the churn u pright. “Mind you remember that today when he accepts the tribute and steals the life from all of us.”
    Maeve strode toward the sheep pens, jarring her heels with every step. Black clouds scudded across the sky, threatening another day of rain. A crafty one, this lord. For the price of a bit of sweat, he wins the admiration of a people used to crueler masters. How quickly their loyalty drifted. She kept wondering when he would give up this mockery and start acting like the lord he was, instead of the rough-handed, hard-working Irishman she’d lain with on All Hallows’ Eve.
    She stumbled over her own thoughts. She mustn’t resurrect that ghost again . No, no, it must lay dead and buried in her heart. She’d lain with an illusion that night. Oh, so she still shivered with hot pleasure every time she heard him laugh in the mead hall. She still felt her body melt every time he approached to ask her some simple question about the running of the castle, or to tease her with that look in his eye. She was a woman now. She knew what kind of pleasure a man could give. The kind of pleasure this man could give.
    She faltered to a stop as she caught sight of him on the other side of the sheep pens. He’d discarded his cloak. It lay in a careless heap over one of the hurdles, next to a tumble of wood that lay on the ground next to a chaff-flecked axe. A splotch of sweat stained his tunic between his shoulder blades. It trailed to a point down the long, strong length of his back as he straddled the fence, wrapping rope tight in the joint between hurdle and strut.
    Her throat parched. Aye, she was like a woman who had had her first taste of wine and now struggled with the thirst of a drunkard. How greedy could she be? She’d had her one night of loving. That was all she had asked from the Fates. She