AN: Oooof... I'm going to regret updating so soon, but the story's coming along nicely for now, and I wanted to share a bit of a flashback. Anywho, let me know what you think and please enjoy!
Chapter Six
Concord, Virginia
1774
The air was electric. It was charged, like the air just before a massive storm. It pulsed with a life of its own, vibrated and even tasted different.
It was the taste that brought a smile to her lips as she walked down the darkened streets, past the drunks and vagabonds that littered the old city. It was the taste of blood –the taste of a fight on the horizon. It might have been the bits of the Revolutionary War that were trickling through Virginia, but she doubted it. This was something else.
Her gown fluttered over the muddy roads while it supped up the dirty water. It would stain the lace and fabric, but it didn't matter. She had to follow it, follow the taste of the fight to wherever it would manifest.
The rich, brown bottle held an equally rich liquid. The whiskey was different than that of home –sweeter. It was something the Americans did, some ingredient they used that didn't grow within the rolling green hills of Ireland. He couldn't decide if he liked it or not, but he would drink it regardless.
The burn trickled down his throat where it landed in his belly. Warmth spread from it that touched his cold limbs. It was false, but the Mad King relished it regardless.
As he sat at his table, hidden in the shadow just to the left of the roaring fire, the door to the small pub opened, and something more than a vision walked through. A woman, every bit as tall as the men she passed, glided in. Her feet made no sound as she crossed the bowed wooden floor, and he'd have heard if they did. The entire pub had gone deathly silent.
She was without description, and belonged miles away from the situation in which she found herself. She wore a gown made from the finest silk, so soft that he could only assume it felt like a cloud. The pale blue fabric was embroidered with a multitude of equally pale blue flowers, only visible when the light caught the dress at the right angle.
The collar of it was square and low which displayed just a hint of her breasts, the globes presented to the room by the restrictions of the corset that cut her figure tightly. Her skin was milky white, her neck long and slender like a swan's, and her hair blacker than a raven's wing. But it was the eyes that he found most distracting. They were bluer than blue, like the color of a pale sapphire held up to the sun.
His jaw went a little lax while he watched her move. There was grace to her steps, a fluidity that he didn't see in most anyone because they were pushed down, beaten by the New World. She wasn't. Her back was still straight and her shoulders strong. She looked like she could bear the brunt of whatever was thrown at her.
The stranger approached the man behind the bar and said something the man in the corner couldn't hear, but Sweeney knew it was delicate like the rest of her. The bartender nodded and reached for a bottle of something. He poured it into a cloudy glass and offered it to her.
She threw back the alcohol with ease, swallowing half of it without the slightest hint of a grimace. Sweeney couldn't help but arch a curious brow at the sight. Few women, and none that looked so posh, should have been able to drink what could (later in time) be compared to gasoline so effortlessly.
Minutes ticked by and the atmosphere in the pub took a sharp turn. His gaze danced around the multiple dirty faces, across the men that lived hard lives. They were the sort of men without decorum, without restraint, and without remorse. They were the sort of men who, because the world had been so cruel to them, were cruel in return.
And they were no longer content to linger in the background staring at the woman at the bar.
He noticed a table's worth of them rise, four men who were caked in more mud and filth than they had clean skin. In truth, none of them looked as though they'd ever touched water, like the rain itself would divert path just to avoid them.
They stalked toward her. Either unwilling or unable to sit back, Sweeney rose to his feet and, wrapping his fingers tightly around the neck of his whiskey bottle, he slinked toward her, too.
The closer he drew, the more he heard of their conversation.
"Yer gonna be comin' with us." One of them grumbled.
She couldn't have been less bothered as she replied, "That isn't going to happen."
Her voice was as enticing as the rest of her and it forced a shiver to trickle down his spine. He continued to approach, light on his feet and surprisingly invisible given his size.
The banter continued back and forth, the men attempting to get her outside and away from the lights of the pub, and her rebutting their advances with a cool detachment. Finally, her attitude seemed to have struck one chord too many with one of the men, who promptly reached out and snatched her arm. She reacted instantly.
The Mad King never saw it happen, but heard it, and witnessed the aftermath. Small shards and chunks of glass exploded from beneath the hand she had against the side of the assailant's head. Blood poured from a dozen small gashes and he stumbled. She'd hit him in the face with the glass she'd once been drinking from.
Silence. It was deafening and so thick that it weighed on his shoulders, but it was the calm before the storm.
In a blink, the pub erupted into an all-out war. Everyone sprang into action, swinging fists and lobbing chairs and tables at one another.
Every muscle in his body tingled and without the slightest hesitation, Sweeney let loose a furious roar, and leapt into the fray.
Swinging fists smashed into weak jaws. Blood sputtered from cuts and broken noses. Men groaned in pain, while some shouted like a mad man. He was one of them.
As bloodlust pulsed through his body and brought with it the familiar, he would periodically catch glimpses of blue. A wisp here, a flash there. It wove through the chaos, right in the middle of it all.
His balled fist slammed into a fat man's side. Layers of squish did nothing to keep Sweeney's knuckles from making sharp contact with the ribs beneath. They couldn't withstand the force and cracked like dried twigs. He spun in the spot and saw her, fully for the first time since the fight had begun.
Milliseconds lasted minutes and in those minutes, he watched as her fist sailed through the air. Her mouth was opened wide as she unleashed a warrior's cry. Even in profile, Sweeney could tell her expression was fierce.
Her fist finally made contact with the man who was too slow and too lumbering to hit her first. He saw the drunk's nose collapse beneath her delicate knuckles, and saw the ripple of the hit wobble across his face.
Real time returned as the would-be attacker fell away, landing in a heap feet from her. He'd somehow taken another man with him to the increasingly dirty floor. She twisted in place and Sweeney saw her fiery eyes, blazing with the battle that surrounded them. They met his and something he couldn't identify surged through his very being. It touched something deep inside, something that had been dormant for decades. No, not decades –centuries.
The pub disappeared around them. Sweeney saw only her blazing eyes, her chest heaving as she breathed heavily, the tendril of dark hair that had come loose from the rest dance across her face, and that smile. Full lips quirked at the corner, twisting into a wicked smirk.
And it was all for him.
His feet took him closer, helping close the distance between them, and hers did the same. Their eyes remained locked, but the fight still raged. When someone ventured too close, she threw her elbow back where it connected with the side of their head with a disturbing crack. A prickle of excitement trickled down his spine.
As they neared one another, someone stumbled into Sweeney's left shoulder. He reacted instantly, dragging his gaze from her only briefly enough to grab the guy's shirt and smash his forehead into the nose of the other. When he looked to her again, he was instantly relieved. Those few seconds were enough to worry him, as though whatever spell held them both would vanish in the meantime.
With less than twenty feet between them, her pace increased. His did the same, prompted by her quick walk. Almost the same instant, she ran. He did the same. Not two strides later, she leapt at him, and he didn't hesitate to catch her. She threaded her fingers through his long hair and immediately attacked his lips.
Mad Sweeney groaned from deep within his throat as he kissed her. His hands, still firmly grasping her ass, pulled her even closer. The heat between her thighs burned him through the thin fabric of his clothing and forced whatever blood that hadn't made it to his groin to surge to the spot. He was fully rigid in seconds.
She suddenly fisted his hair and yanked his head back. She had bit down on his bottom lip, dragging it between her teeth as she forced his head away from hers. He growled at the sharp ache of it, but it made his body tingle even more.
She stared down at him, eyes still blazing, bee-stung lips parted as she panted.
"Outside," She said breathlessly. "Now."
He immediately complied, somehow making his way outside while still holding her body to his. No sooner than they were, he shoved her against the exterior wall. She let out a soft gasp, and then kissed him again.
They pawed at one another, their hands exploring and tugging bits of fabric out of the way. He'd set her on something, something that didn't even enter his mind, but was grateful for because he had free reign.
Gasping breaths, stifled moans, tearing fabric; all sounds that met his ears until, without warning, people were shouting.
Angry voices screaming very specific words brought him almost violently back to reality. Soldiers, he couldn't tell how many, were storming the pub to try and regain the peace that the woman currently wrapped around his body had instigated.
"Bollocks," He growled through a tight jaw. He knew they couldn't remain, else they be arrested, too. If anyone was sober enough inside, the bartender likely, he and his warrior would be easy to find.
She suddenly bit into his neck, forcing him to suck in a sharp breath through his teeth. He looked down at her.
She raised a delicate brow. "We're not finished."
He grinned, a groan vibrating in his throat. He was glad to hear it.
As the ruckus within the pub grew louder and closer, the pair knew they had to leave quickly. He stepped back which allowed her to hop off the thing she'd been sitting on. It caught his attention and he couldn't fight the chuckle.
It was a large barrel of hard cider with a twin inches away. Hard cider might have tasted like piss, but far be it for him to pass up a chance.
Still grinning, he stepped forward and heaved the roughly forty gallon cask onto his broad shoulder. He glanced to her and saw that she was smiling back. Together, they fled, racing into the darkness with their loot in hand.
The morning woke him.
It wasn't bright. Instead, it was more like the early morning sun doing its best to try and pierce a thick veil of clouds, but it was morning nonetheless.
His head ached and his body was sore, and Sweeney had no idea where he was. Through bleary eyes, he noticed that he was naked, lying in cold, damp sand. Behind him was a slowly running river, the sound of which helped sooth his head a bit.
A few feet to his right were the remnants of a fire that was still smoldering, but nearly burnt out. Not far from that was a broken, busted up barrel, some of which was the smoldering bits in the pit.
He sat up to get a better look. The light may have been relatively dim, but it still hurt so he had to squint.
For some reason, he was lying within a circle that had been drawn in the sand. It was wide, and a bit sloppy, but undeniably round. His clothes were on the outside of it, as well as a pair of swords that were stabbed into the soil and crossed.
When he stood, the blood ran from his head. He groaned, eyes drifting shut while a wave of nausea swept through him. His stomach kicked and shifted, but gradually settled. When it did, he forced his eyes open again and approached his crumpled clothes.
Somehow, without managing to tumble face-first into the sand, Mad Sweeney tugged his trousers on and stepped towards the swords. One was his. He recognized it, the wide spread of steel, the angry edge dented from previous battles, and the hilt with a flourished curl. It was his, no denying it, but the other was a stranger. It was a similar design, but lacked the bronze of his. Instead, it was simpler, bright silver steel with leather wrapped around the hilt. The leather was worn and the blade's edge was chipped.
He reached down and yanked his weapon free. Eyes, slowly clearing the longer he was awake, continued to scan the area and no sooner than they landed on a mass of pale fabric did he hear splashing water. In an instant he was low, his sword raised high and his body primed –for a second.
A woman rose from the river, facing him as she ran her hands over her head to smooth the water away. It wasn't until she opened her eyes that the previous night began to pulse within his mind.
A torrent of black hair tumbled from the knot that once kept it at bay. She slammed herself down on him repeatedly and he met her in stride. His fingers bit into the soft flesh of her thighs. In the orange light of the nearby fire, he saw the way her bare chest still glistened. The expensive dress had long-been discarded and the thin chemise she wore was tattered and torn, little more than pieces after he'd tried greedily to get it off her body.
Her head fell back as she rode him with a strength he hadn't felt for as long as he could remember. She couldn't have been entirely human, not with the way she consumed his every sense.
He struggled to keep his eyes open and watch as she cried out in pleasure and he followed her into oblivion.
The Mad King shook his aching head as though it would help straighten his memories in the least. It only seemed to add more.
Naked beneath him and staring up through glowing blue eyes, he slammed into her with a blinding strength –harder than he ever had before. And she loved it, begged him for more.
Then another flash -his hands slid up the length of her spine. Her skin burned beneath his palm. He drove into her sharply from behind and she clutched at the ground. Her fingers bit through the soft sand while his fisted the hair at the crown of her head. He pulled, drawing her back to his chest, all the while moving inside her. He continued to fuck her while he groped at her naked chest.
He remembered licking hard cider off her body, and her lips on him. It might not have been entirely clear, and he remembered the evening through a drunken brain, but he knew he hadn't made that up.
They'd spent the whole night drinking and fucking.
A grin twitched at his lips.
The stranger continued to draw closer to the shore and very quickly, Sweeney was aware that she was completely naked. The grin faded immediately and his brows rose in shock.
Rivulets of water cascaded down her milky skin, over her curves and down her legs as she emerged like some sort of ethereal nymph, but he knew that wasn't right. She was a Viking. He could tell by the tattoos on her body and the sword that had been with his. The tattoos were a bit distracting, the wolf on her arm and the serpent on her thigh, but they weren't alone. Connecting the pair were thin, winding tendrils of Nordic chains and banners of runic words. They were substantial, delicate, and somehow vicious. They tugged at the warrior in him, the warrior who knew only the fiercest women wore ink.
As she neared and her feet sank into the sand, she met his gaze and smiled. She never shied away, never bothered to hide her nakedness. She was comfortable in it, and he was glad for the chance to ogle. She was perfect, like she'd been sculpted out of marble with a body pulled straight out of his fantasies.
"Good morning, Irishman." She said as she passed him.
Still gripping his sword, he watched, turning in his spot to keep her in his sights. She made her way to the mound of pale clothing and began to sift through it.
"So," She said as she lifted what was left of her under-things. She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Any idea as to what happened last night?"
He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Fuckin' and drinkin'."
Her smile broadened as though she was amused instead of offended by his comment. That was a rare enough instance.
"I remember that." She said with a glint in her blue eyes. With a skirt in place, she decided to forgo the corset and simply stepped into her gown while she faced him. "I mean beyond that. Why were our hands bound in lace?" His brows furrowed. "And our swords crossed."
He didn't speak at first. Instead, he took another look around and noted the circle he'd been lying in. The evidence was there, but he couldn't quite put the pieces together. Until there was another flash.
He was lying on top of her, her soft chest crushed beneath his hard, muscular one. Her cheeks were pink and her skin glimmering from a mixture of cider and sweat. She stared up at him with adoration, satisfaction, and something he couldn't quite identify.
Her hand tenderly touched his cheek, sifting through his beard with ease. It tickled when her finger glanced across his bottom lip.
"You're beautiful."
The words lingered in the air and it took his drunken brain a minute to register that she'd said them at all. His brows furrowed, but he didn't linger. Instead, with an arm snaked beneath her body, he lifted her. He sat up with her in his lap. She continued to stare at him with that strange, foreign expression.
"I want to keep you." She whispered softly. Her words still vibrated through him.
He lingered without responding. No one had ever wanted to keep him before and instead of being offended by the stupid offer, he was intrigued. The thought of a woman, of this woman wanting him as much as that caused some dead little thing inside him to spark with possible life.
Undeniably drawn to her as much as she seemed drawn to him, an idea came to him. Swimming in gallons of alcohol, it was a brilliant idea.
He'd torn a piece of lace from her dress and stood with her. He pulled his sword from the depths of his hoard. To his surprise, one magically appeared in her hand as well, though he was too drunk to think of how. Together, they walked in a circle, closing themselves inside it. She stabbed her weapon into the soft earth. He did, too, crossing his in front of it.
And then, grasping her hand in his, he proceeded to tie them together in a piece of lace. After it was secured, they kissed once more and fell to the ground, filled once again with that intense desire that accompanied them since they met.
"Christ," He muttered as he continued to look around. Hesitantly, he met her eye. She was dressed, but the gown was loose in need of being tied. "I think we're hitched."
She arched a brow and looked around as well. Her gaze lingered on her sword. "Did I give you that?" She asked as she pointed at it. He shrugged. "If I gave you that, and you gave me yours, then I think you're right. Is that what the lace means in Ireland?"
"Aye," He nodded. "Blue dress an' all. Even the circle."
Her brows rise in surprise. She chewed on her bottom lip slightly while she nodded. "Alright." She stepped toward him, exuding that same 'thing' that drew him the previous night. "I'm Tove."
"Buile Shuibhne," He told her.
She grinned a little. "Mad Sweeney is your name?"
"Aye," He nodded briskly.
"Well," A soft giggle touched her words. "There are worse things than waking up married to an Irish warrior."
Sweeney didn't bother hiding his sarcastic surprise. "That what I am, hm?" He joked.
"That's why I chose you." She slowly approached him. "I knew I wanted you the moment I saw you." Tove stopped her advance when she was near enough to reach out and tenderly hold his jaw in her hands. She drew him closer. "That's why you're mine now."
She gave him a mind-clearing kiss, wiping away the drunken stupor and surprise of her declaration in little more than a moment. Sweeney felt that same need that fueled him the night before surge. He wrapped his arms around her body and held her close while he reciprocated the kiss.
He believed her. He believed that Tove had claimed him and he was entirely okay with the thought.
It was a hard thing to describe. Sweeney didn't feel owned, even though it sounded like that was what she'd done. Instead, he felt desired. Somehow, he knew she'd marked him, and he was more than content with the knowledge.