Chapter Two

The day was ending. Liam remained in the field under the long shadows of the solitary ash tree.

Most of the afternoon had been spent in a rejuvenating sleep, dream free and undisturbed. In the evening he had arranged to meet Ned at the Bearna Arms. Liam briefly considered returning to his home, shaving the two day old whiskers and searching for fresh linen. He decided not to bother. The social elite of Galway were not usual patrons of the Bearna Arms and who was there that he wanted to impress? Anyway, in a few hours a fresh cravat would only be worked loose by the first passable doxy to claim his attention or, even more likely, the first gin sodden brawl.

Let be. No need to risk his parent’s gentle solicitudes by going home at the dinner hour. He laughed aloud. Gentle solicitudes be damned. Mother lamenting, father openly raging, little Cathy silently watching and aching. And Lorcan - if his dearest cousin was there he would be supporting his mother, nodding in agreement with his father and stroking Cathy’s soft hair.

He had been living in Lorcan’s cunning shadow for the last twelve years. Liam’s father’s nephew. Four years older than Liam, Lorcan had been taken into his father’s trade as a clerk and now served as his immediate assistant - indispensable, meticulously fawning, usurping. Lorcan’s ambitions now extending to Cathy, a suitable wife, as Lorcan had tauntingly whispered to Liam, in three or four years.

Liam rolled over on the springy grass. He should simply leave - board the next merchantman to sail into Galway Bay. Sail off to the East Indies, the America’s, damme - even Glasgow sounded exciting.

Too much thinking. Time to hide once more from the mocking voices.

Liam closed his eyes and, from the dark places, he brought forth his ceaseless designs to lure Aine into his lusting embrace.

The thought of her fresh young flesh sent a hum through his body. Eily had been teaching him the interesting past-time of tonguing and licking her pud. Liam was eager to try his new skills on a maiden cunny - soft, tight and untouched - unlike the voluptuous, slackly quenchless Eily.

Liam idly wondered if his tongue could reach Aine’s hymen. He did not have any experience with a virgin, his vague but colourful information gathered from doubtful stories whispered over in long-gone school days and a giggly, drunken session with a draggle-tail, full of maidenhead rending anecdotes and advice.

The presence of his mother and young sister in the house - or rather, their absence - was always a consideration in the planned seduction. Opportunites were scarce but, every month, Lorcan took Liam’s mother and Cathy to visit Grandmother Corrish, over on the Dublin road. Liam was not included in the visits, his paternal grandmother preferring Lorcan’s sympathetic company to his own shyly morose silence.

The day of the ‘visit’ would be the day, although, truth be told, many ‘visits’ had passed uneventfully since Liam had begun daydreaming about Aine, but - one day.

Liam was reticent by nature, but years spent in the company of toadying barmaids and harlots had given him an overwhelming sense of proficiency in the art of captivation. Liam was confident that he could sweet-talk Aine into sharing her deliciously plump body with him. The girl might be an innocent but, without doubt, in Liam’s befuddled, love-longing mind, the seduction and capitulation would both be willing. Why would it be otherwise? Aine always smiled pleasantly at Liam, regardless of the warnings and admonitions she had received from his parents - obviously she found him charming, attractive and available.

In his imaginings Liam could feel her soft yielding flesh under his body - opening, widening, inviting. Lying on the silky grass, one outstretched hand teased at the green strands, as though running Aine’s golden hair through his fingers. Liam eased his stiffening cock from the front-flap of his breeches and began a slow, rhythmical stroke as the seduction developed in his mind.

Loosen the cords of the bodice, unfold the cheap cloth of her shift and find the plumpness of her breast, feeling the even smooth nipple flush against his palm, savour the puckering and tightening as the tit firmed next to his skin. Eagerly undressing her to see her quivering, pink and naked before him. Fresh enough to eat.

Liam yearned to taste Aine’s crisp, untried body, to push his tongue into her taut quim, moistening the way, seek the virginal membrane as her hips squirmed under his embrace. Licking at one long finger he would prepare the way for his cock, stretch her cunny with his finger - Liam wasn’t averse to being considerate when time and opportunity were favourable. She would be so tight. Nagging at her hymen with his finger tip, wriggling another finger inside the warm passage, Liam whispered some soothing empty words as the maid began to fret at the increased intrusion.

Tell her to fondle her breasts, beguile her anxiety, let her enjoy the moment. Liam moaned and rolled his body into the grass, pressing his impatient cock into the cool, springy turf before pushing once more onto his side. “Mmmm,” he relished the sight of a woman pulling and teasing her own nipples, squeezing and stroking the pale lushness.

As soon as Aine began to play her hands over her nipples, Liam knew he would have to enter her before long. His engorged cock was plainly straining against the firm fabric of his breeches. Liam smiled to himself at the thought of Aine’s first sight of his erect cock, she would be impressed, awed and fearful - her mouth dropping open - oh, and that pink, moist mouth would be so tempting, a treat to save for later.

His desire increasing, Liam quickly pushed the plump legs up into the air and poked a pillow under the rounded buttocks - he wanted the easiest access to burst through the fragile hymen. With a hand under each knee, he urged Aine’s legs back until they almost touched her shoulders, the movement parting the fair curls around her slit, opening the pink folds, exposing the glistening depths of her pud and even the pinky-brown crinkle of her arse-hole. Liam licked his lips - so many joys to look forward to.

Liam’s penis, rock-hard and ardent, positioned at the entrance of the strained cunny, his eyes fixed on Aine’s pretty face - he wanted to savour the expression on the face of his first virgin. Liam leant into her tensing body, slowly, persistently until the delicate barrier firmed against his sensitive tip. This was it, she would be his.

Liam withdrew until only the purple head remained inside the warm pud, balancing himself for the onslaught - quick is best, he had been told. He saw Aine’s blue eyes widen in surprise as his cock burst into her, remaining submerged in her depths for a moment before thrusting in and out - pushing in and dragging out against the tense canal - Lord, what sweetness. The heady rush increased with each deepening plunge, and another, and another.

The rush muffled distant sobs. Who was crying? She should be happy. This was his day-dream, she should be damme well ecstatic. Liam’s hand faltered in the rapid caress of his cock. He had begun the deflowering gently, what more could she want?

Liam concentrated on re-capturing the interrupted fantasy. An end to the sobs, Aine was going to enjoy this day-dream.

Aine gasped in delight as Liam’s rigid cock pounded into the stretched cunny. His shirt was plastered to his chest, moisture beading over his forehead and damping strands of hair. Glossy dark hair tumbled starkly against the white sheet. No! No, not black. No, it was golden hair, Aine had shiny fair curls. He had the dark hair.

Driving into her as she writhed and bucked, her fingers and hands still pulling at her luscious breasts and nipples. Harder, unrelenting as the moans and panting increased.

But he wanted her hair to be dark, damme, her tresses should be dark and free and flowing.

Harder, deeper, fuller. Leave his mark on Aine’s swollen, ravaged pud, ignore the gasps of delight turning to cries of distress. Deeper, faster, harsher. Fucking Aine. Fucking fair-haired Aine. Fucking fair-haired Aine because she wasn’t her.

“Don’t hurt her,” came a faint whisper over his cheek.

Don’t hurt her? Christ, he wanted to rip into her, tear her open, damme her virgin cunny to Hell. Shove his cock into her - Aine would do, or Eily - any woman , and keep fucking until they begged him to stop - no, not then, keep fucking until they were hoarse from pleading and crying and all because they weren’t Orla.

Liam fell onto his stomach, panting, confused and enraged. It was all her fault. How the shite did Orla get into his head when he was imagining fucking Aine? He lusted after Aine, didn’t he? Not Orla. He didn’t even want to think about Orla, let alone imagine.... No. Whenever his mind strayed to Orla she reached into him, grabbed his entrails and twisted and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe. How could you lust after a woman who reduced you to a twitching mess?

Liam’s penis was limp and unspent in his hand. He cursed himself for a babbling, puling idiot and turned his face into the turf. He couldn’t control his own day-dreams, how could he possibly control his life? With fingers clenched around the tufted grass and a mouth full of herbage and dirt, he quietly screamed his despair at the earth below.

---

Liam struggled up the back stairs to Eily’s bed chamber. In yet another gin fog, he hazily convinced himself he could find comfort and consolation in the older woman’s arms and forget the black-haired witch.

Stumbling into Eily’s brightly candle-lit room he found the blousy blonde busily and noisily comforting some other, unknown, and almost as noisy, young men.

Her feet on the floor, Eily propped herself on the bed, a cock in her mouth and a cock in her cunny. Liam was unsure as to whether the sloshing noises arose from the sloppy pud or the dripping mouth. Both holes were being energetically filled to capacity by, from what Liam could judge by the strewn bits of uniform around the room, two town guards.

He watched them silently and unheeded for several bemused minutes. The guard in Eily’s mouth had begun to tightly grip the blonde’s hair as his body tensed in expectation of release. At the other end, large tight-gripping hands on Eily’s hips brought her full buttocks slamming against a set of low hanging balls with resounding, and obviously satisfying, slaps. Like a well trained strategic manoeuvre, the two guards withdrew engorged and pulsing cocks from their respective dripping cavities. Creamy jets of semen, glistening in the candlelight, spouted and curved over Eily’s back as Liam quietly closed the door.

No-one noticed as he fumbled down the flight of steps and staggered back into the night.

---

Chapter Three

The drab cloak covered her hair and enveloped her small body. Liam had been searching for the familiar blue, but he found her, dull and alone, cloak billowing in the early evening sea breeze. The merchant seaman “Gotheborg” groaned and creaked alongside the quay, bare masts stark against the sunset.

Two small clusters of people stood on the quay, huddled in their farewells. Orla remained apart, an isolated figure surrounded by trunks, boxes and small valises, watching from a distance as her father’s steward ineptly supervised the loading of the larger luggage.

The rumour must be true. She was leaving for London with her father. So what did it matter if she left Galway. Wouldn’t that be good? An end to her uncanny, unwanted presence in his thoughts? No more of this pathetic, childish yielding to her unbidden requests? No more fear?

Liam moved away from the narrow window of the “Claddagh Quays” and turned his back on Orla. The warm, stuffy room was close with familiar locals - talking, drinking, laughing, yelling. Why did they have to be so noisy? Didn’t they know how obnoxious they were? Scratching and screaming?

Liam pushed his way through the crowd to the front door. He wasn’t drunk, not yet, but he needed to escape the noise, to breathe some salty air. The cool rush as he opened the wooden door made him catch his breath. He stepped onto the cobblestones.

Orla was still there, close to the stone steps, wind-flustered and alone near a rope twined pylon. Without conscious consideration, Liam quietly made his way onto the Quay, and merged into the shadows near the girl.

“Orla!” he called quietly.

She looked around quickly. With a glance back at her old nurse, Bridie, and her father, still engrossed in their individual leave-takings, Orla stepped closer to the pylon.

“Liam? Is it you?”

“Yes. Orla - you will be returning? Soon?”

“No. At least... I don’t know... Why are you hiding Liam?”

“I don’t want to awaken that screeching macaw of a maid of yours over there.” What should he tell her? I am pleased you are leaving? Never come back? I yearn for you? She was such a young dab of a girl. “I’ve heard London is a big place...don’t let yourself be lost, Orla.”

“You will have to come to England ...one day...when you can,” she said.

“No. No, London may as well be the other side of the world for the likes of me.”

“The likes of you? Liam - you are as good a man as any, if you would but...”

“No! I am nothing and I never will be. Ask my father! I’m a lazy sod, a drunkard, a wastrel, a thieving sm....and, and others - less than nothing!” Liam kept his voice low but his determination to be exactly as his father expected was clear.

“If you would try - Liam, your father, ... if we are told a thing often enough we come to believe... it does not....”

“There is no doubt! Don’t think to give me hope, Orla - I have nothing for you. I don’t know you, I don’t need you,” Liam almost spat the words.

“Then why are you here?” she asked calmly.

The familiar clenching apprehension had begun creeping along Liam’s intestines, creeping and clenching. Liam desperately staunched the rising dismay. Not now, not yet. It was only right that Orla explain why and how she caused him to cringe and cower; why he alternately desired and dreaded her presence - real and imagined?

“Why do you do this to me? I would never harm you - yet you! You bewitch me!”

“No, no, oh Liam...” Orla blanched at the accusation. She was leaving, sailing away on the morning tide, what did it matter now? Before tonight she had met this man twice, spoken to him only briefly, yet she had worried over his welfare constantly. Liam’s failings and many sins were well-known to Bridie and the old woman had not hesitated to issue frequent warnings to Orla. To the girl he was a handsome face, a striking figure and a troubled soul. How could she help him - in this - a whispered, shadowed, already doom-laden encounter? She had one wish for him. “I hope you will find love...one day...”

"Love? Why do you mention love? I have no need for such a weakness!" The unseen, clenching hand turned to twisting and tearing. Perspiration beaded plainly on his forehead, his breath came in shallow gasps.

"A weakness? Don't fear love, Liam - it can be your strength."

Liam stepped back hurriedly from the girl, stumbling over in his haste. Falling noisily to his backside attracted the attention of the old maid. The sea breeze carried the sound of Bridie's hissing intake of breath as she prepared to launch into a tirade.

“Liam, let me help you...” The small hand reached out to him, but Liam avoided the touch by scrambling hastily to his feet.

“Don’t touch me,” he whispered hoarsely. In the dim evening light, Liam’s last image of Orla was a pale face and widened, saddened eyes.

Liam turned and ran up the stone steps. He ran from Orla and he ran from the fear.

---

Ned, wait for Ned. Wait and forget. She’ll be gone and I can forget. Forget the pain .... and her hair .... and this ache.... and the green-blue of her. Empty. Fill up the hole, lad. Why did she leave a hole in me? Little witch. No, no Liam - stop. She’s gone. Have another drink. Fill the hole with some ale. Why not? What else is there?

This ale looks as pale as piss, ....pfah....tastes like piss too.

To hell with women, they only want a man for the bulge in his breeches. All of them the same...wanting me dick-hard ...crawl inside my mind...and when I’m not looking...they let her into my dreams...even when I am awake...now...she’s here....Whatever you want, I can’t give...has she gone?...drink Liam, before you remember too much.

Her gentle look - no....crap, Liam, she was nothing...an Englishman’s daughter playing at charity...what could be worse. Go to London? No hope, no way out, no change. Father said so. Wasn’t dear Father always right? Right about me? Didn’t I leave home this morning because Father was right? I’m good for nought but spreading my debt and shooting my seed into the wind.

Damn Ned for being late...or is it me? Christ, I don’t even remember if it’s the Head or the Shamrock I’m meant to be in. Ah, stick, the lazy shite will have to find me for a change. Am I in the Head? Let’s see....Pad...Paddy...Padraig by the chimney...must be the Shamrock. And this is good, yes? With pissy ale and no Ned? No, no, no - let’s get your legs to the Head, Liam. Legs to the Head?

“I’m taking me legs to the Head, Paddy!......Ah well, a pox on your ale, you old sozzle-dick. Legs to the Head....I thought it was funny.”

Shite it’s cold out here. Coat, coat, left my coat. What’s the old weasel done with my ...

“Give it here, Paddy, you can sell it when I’m dead, not before...... Well then, stop your whining, I’m taking my debts elsewhere aren’t I? Hey Rosie, caught yourself a young one there. Be nice or you’ll have him crying for his mam!”

Where am I going? Eily’s? No, no that’s all done. Yes, the Head, going to the Head....legs to the Head! I’ll have pure, fresh little Aine soon....one day...soon...you wait and see Eily....don’t need you. Don’t need anyone. Don’t need her! I was ready for you this time....didn’t let you touch me...forget her, give us a song, Liam...

Oh, row, the rattlin’ bog, the bog down in the valley-o,
Oh, row, the rattlin’ bog, the bog down in the valley-o.

Well in that bog there was a tree, a rare tree, a rattlin’ tree,
Well, a tree in the bog, and the bog down in the valley-o...

---

The King’s Head on the Dominick road was crowded with the usual sozzled gaggle. But no Ned.

“Evening Colm, ...have you set eyes on Ned this evening? No? Give us a jar... Ned will pay you later.”

Colm reluctantly handed over a jar of ale, attempting once more to extract the coin from Liam but failing.

“Thank you Colm....yes, yes, yes...see Ned.”

Liam squeezed himself into a corner bench and sat, one hand fondling his jar of ale.

Had it only been a month since he had fallen at Orla's feet? Outside Skerett’s, where he had spent the night curled up under a table. Young Skerett, sweeping the floors that morning, had found Liam snoring peacefully. Skerett ignominiously hurled the dazed Liam out the door into the lane, to flounder at her feet like a fawning dog.

---

“Ohhh, such pretty feet!” Liam reached a hand out to touch the toe of the green kid boot.

“Get away there, you filthy beggar!” A loud raucous voice pummelled Liam’s sozzle-tender ears and invaded his hazy head.

Liam grimaced, leant a hand on his knee and attempted to push himself to his feet.

The girl, ignoring her strident companion, put her hand under Liam’s elbow, to help him. Liam gazed at the small hand in surprise. She was far too dainty to touch.

“I don’t know you,” he muttered.

“And you never will - the like of him...” the grating noise hadn’t stopped.

Liam glanced at the old woman, but the girl remained steady as he struggled upright. The green kid shoes were topped by grey-blue petticoats. As he slowly stood, swaying slightly, his eyes travelled to the girl’s fair face, framed by flowing dark hair. The eyes were the same colour as the gown, or so it seemed to Liam, a pale, penetrating blue.

“I’m no beggar,” he looked down at his open shirt, grimy waistcoat, stained breeches, his coat lying at his feet. “I know I must look like one.”

“A drunkard...”

“Bridie! Please!....What is your name?” asked the girl.

“Liam Corish...”

“Hah! We need to hear no more...”

“....from Claddagh,” he finished, with a blood-shot glare at the girl’s companion.

“Mister Corish, I am Orla Prentiss.” She held out her hand once more, to politely exchange a touch of fingers. “I must go, my... Bridie is anxious to get to the fish market.” Orla smiled and waited. Gradually Liam realised Orla was expecting him to move from her path.

“Of course, yes ... good day.” Liam stood aside and watched the girl as she made her way down the narrow lane, petticoats scooped to avoid the muck. With a growl, Bridie took a poorly aimed swipe at Liam as she passed by.

Liam headed for the west gate and the fields beyond Claddagh. Eily would have to wait. He needed to walk - over the bridge and out of Claddagh. Liam wanted to think about Orla. A respectable young woman who helped him to his feet. A simple gesture, but amazing to Liam when he knew any female of good standing crossed the street to avoid meeting his carnal eye. He felt compelled to make the girl fit into the main emotion he reserved for the women in his life... lust.

---

Liam did not see Orla again until the next Thursday. He had been at the markets early, helping Ned and Ned’s Uncle to offload several small trunks of silk smuggled into Galway the previous week.

Since the age of fifteen, with Ned’s introduction, Liam had skirted the fringe of Galway’s thriving smuggling trade, earning himself an occasional fistful of coin to help pay for his amusements. His father’s wrath had dampened the escapades for a few years, but now Liam no longer cared. No attempt to appease his father was ever quite enough. His cousin, Lorcan, was the measure against which he continually failed.

With some loose coin jingling in his coat pocket, Liam wandered the market, absently inspecting the wares on the crowded trestle tables. Between a framework of trussed chickens and a barrow of salted pork he stopped to pick up a small bag from a bundle piled into a basket. Liam held the gathered linen to his face and inhaled the spicy scent of sandalwood.

Tossing some coins to the young boy with the basket, Liam pocketed two bags of the fragrant shavings - one for Cathy and maybe, possibly, one for Aine - if it would help his cause.

A flash of blue in the corner of his eye and Liam turned on his heel. Orla was there, scrutinising the row of waiting chickens. He should leave, avoid embarrassing the girl by reminding her of their first meeting.

Liam stood still.

She wasn’t a beautiful woman - attractive at best. The dark, flowing hair was eye-catching in its novelty as well as for the strands that glinted in the sun. Her face, pale and fine, the light blue eyes topped with straight brows that gave her a look of perpetual concentration. The small button nose wasn’t to his taste and would, he thought, have benefited from some patrician blood. Solemn rosy pink lips. Not beautiful at all. The gown of blanched blue was too glacial in Liam’s opinion but he surprised himself by approving of the creamy lawn fichu, modestly draped over the young woman’s shoulders and fastened securely with a Celtic cross brooch, obscuring any possible glimpse of cleavage.

Liam continued to gaze.

Orla decided against purchasing one of the scrawny chickens and moved away, straight into Liam’s path.

“Mr Corish! Good morning,” she said lightly and without any trace of the awkwardness Liam had expected. “I almost didn’t recognise you!”

“Oh,” was Liam’s only reply as he rubbed at his chin, relieved that he had chosen this morning to start the day with a shave, clean linen and a fresh coat. Even his hair was neatly tied for a change, with a clean black riband to contain the unruly locks.

“Mister Corish doesn’t sit well on me,” was the only comment he could find.

“I should call you by your name?” she asked.

“Please.”

“Then it is only fair that you call me Orla!” A truly pretty smile lit her face. Liam made a frenzied attempt to find a non-idiotic comment to make. He stood, slack-jawed and empty-headed.

“I still have quite a few errands on my list, Liam.”

“Of course - I don’t mean to delay...”

“Would you be kind enough to accompany me? Bridie had the head ache this morning and I made her stay at home to rest. Can you, do you think, offer an opinion on the freshness of a haddock or determine the best quality linen for table ware?” Orla peeked a quick glance up a Liam’s subdued face.

“Um....yes. At least, I know a little about fabric. The fish, well...” he murmured uncertainly.

“Good! Though to be honest I don’t need a haddock today!”

“Oh,” said Liam. Relief flooded the befuddled young man as he walked by Orla’s side.

“You do not have a lot to say, Liam.”

“No. Not when I am sober,” he apologised. “I do have a question, if I may?” Liam looked down and saw Orla’s smiling assent.

“Your name. I thought you were English?”

“Orla was my grandmother’s name. My mother was Irish. She died when I was a baby,” she replied with a friendly frankness.

“Oh,” he said.

“You should respond with ‘I am sorry to hear of your loss’,” she teased, gently.

“Oh,” said Liam. The emptiness was spinning around inside his head. He made another desperate attempt at conversation.

“Do...do you...like your father?”

“Why, yes. I love my father,” she replied with genuine warmth.

“Oh. I...don’t... I mean I...” his voice trailed away. Orla glanced at him with some dismay. Liam really seemed to be struggling in her presence.

“You don’t have to keep me company... I am sure you must have other business to attend.” Orla suggested a means for his release.

Liam considered taking advantage of the opening to make his excuses. He was, after all, wasting his time with the daughter of a member of the corporation, English at that. A Catholic merchant’s son would be an unacceptable guest in her father’s house. Add to that description ‘whoring drunkard’, ‘sometime smuggler’ and ‘idle wastrel’ and he was sure to never receive an invitation to dine.

Leave now Liam, he told himself, but his obstinate feet kept step with Orla’s meander through the bustling market.

“It’s just...I’m not quite sure how to speak to you,” he said.

“I know - I have a disorderly tongue,” she offered as an apology, “Father says it is enough to frighten any sensible man.”

Liam’s face finally relaxed into a genuine smile at the girl’s candid remark. Orla took a deep breath and quickly turned her attention to some ridiculously extravagant trinkets at the next barrow.

Liam remembered the sandalwood in his pocket, purchased for an intended seduction. Hardly much of a gift, but it might help to sweeten the apology he had yet to make.

“I have this for you Orla,” he said and pulled the small bag from his coat. Holding the sandalwood in the palm of his hand, he held it out towards the girl.

“It’s in way of an apology...for my behaviour....last week...it is sandalwood.” Liam moved his hand closer to Orla. She carefully removed the linen purse and held it to her face.

“You can put the bag in with your clothes...your gowns - to keep them smelling nice....not that you need to...I don’t mean that you don’t smell pretty...I just...” She was smiling at him again, the gleam dancing in her eyes.

Liam started to return the smile but the first affliction of the many gut-wrenching, fear-riddled knots was kneading on his insides. He caught his breath as a hot poker rammed through his ribs. His innards were cavorting in Hell. He wanted to run, find a dark corner, hide until the disturbing dread disappeared.

“I have to leave,” he gasped.

The light faded from Orla’s face. “Thank you for your company, Liam. I hope we meet again soon,” she said politely, effectively masking her disappointment.

Liam avoided the questing eyes, murmured a confused ‘good day’ and pushed his hurried way through the market day crowd.

---

Over the next few weeks Liam did his best to shut Orla out of his head. He shunned contact with the girl though perversely, he did his best to seek a glimpse of the blue-garbed, black-haired figure, frequently seen walking in company with the old woman.

Silent and persistent, she returned in his dreams, in his fantasies, in his drunken sozzlement, in the quiet hours. Nothing kept her away. The gut-churning had become an expected sensation whenever he saw the girl or thought about her for too long. The agonizing fear grew almost daily.

At first he had tried to dispel the images and sensations in his own fashion, reducing the girl to a whimpering mass of squirming anonymous flesh between his legs and under his pressing, plunging body.

That method didn’t have the usual leavening effect. Certainly Liam found he could visually pin a struggling Orla beneath his weight, push her reluctant legs wide with a ravaging hand and a sturdy knee, but always - always - the struggle would end when he looked into her eyes. The icy grip would return and, even in the control of his own imaginings, he would start to act like some simpering love-sick calf - releasing his hold, kissing her gently, sinking into an enveloping oblivion of light until his eyes started open, bringing an abrupt end to the fantasy coupling. Afterwards Liam would berate himself, disgusted at his powerless inaction. Either he would take her in a proper man’s fashion, or not at all. And the ache would continue.

Have another drink, Liam.

---

“Colm! Colm! Another jar, Colm!”

Not drunk enough. Hell, I think I’m getting un-drunk. Gone, all gone, gone to damme England with all the damme shiting English. So why won’t she let my head alone? Has she enchanted me somehow? You idiot Liam, are you some supersititous peasant? Forget Orla and take note of the real enchantress ogling you across the room. Christ, she’s dressed like a fashion plate from one of Eily’s French periodicals. And she is smiling at you. Her sort can only be here for one reason. What they can’t get at home, a good fuck. Well, she can wait, make her wait, she’ll enjoy the poke all the more.

“Colm! Colm, I’m parched here, you fool!”

Such small, dainty hands to reach out to me....me, unclean flesh. I could have snapped each finger in an instant. And to try and touch me again tonight. I was ready for her. No witch’s touch tonight...such a light touch...as light as a butterfly...huh! and as easily crushed. Her talk of love... a strength! What would she know of love? I am weak enough now without adding puling woman’s love to my failings, a pitiful illusion. She knows nothing. Why is it so dark in here? Damme the woman. Empty. Damme her to Hell.

Ned! At long last!

“Which bog have you been stuck in?.... O Feeney’s! Last time I drank at O Feeney’s I was shite-ing through my teeth all night.... Shut your gob and get us some jugs. Colm’s ears are full of wax.”

---

The evening progressed in its typical, predictable manner. Ned, endowed with a pocket of small coin, provided the means to enable Liam to guzzle several jars of ale in a row. In a short time he was cheerily molesting the prettier of the two tavern maids and enjoyed a brief scuffle with Ned and an old, and equally sozzled, smuggling mate.

The enchantress had continued to stare flirtatiously. Liam eventually rewarded her wait with a large, leering grin. Time for a fuck, he thought. He had drunk, brawled - what else was there to do except fuck? The woman nodded, smiled and rising elegantly, swept her elaborate skirts over the dusty floor on her way out.

Liam hoisted his breeches and followed.

---

In the dim light of the lane, the woman's face looked odd. But odd as in different. Different was good. He needed different and new. Anything to forget them all, stop them nagging at his head - Orla, Father, Lorcan. Liam felt that his luck was about to change.

The pain was brief.

A flash of floating blue and black and a glimpse of sad, wide eyes filled his head. Orla? He reached his hand out to the dark, but she was gone. Liam sank to his knees and greedily suckled at the blood dripped breast.

He was alone, inside, with his fear.