Irish: The Irish Princess Part 34

Gaelan took strength in her words and kissed her, quick and deep and greedy, then buried his face in her throat, inhaling her scent, remembering it. "I love you."

"Be safe and come home," she said, stroking her fingers through his hair.

He would. He had a wife and friends and a family waiting for him. He would vanquish these marauding b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. And this time he warred with his heart.

A shrill cry split the air and Gaelan turned from her. Connal ran, slamming into his legs, hugging them, and he felt his insides soften to powder. No one ever worried over him before now, he thought, bending to lift the boy in his arms.

"I want to go with you."

"I need you here, to help protect the castle and your mother."

Connal's gaze s.h.i.+fted between them, his vision narrowed with the moments of youth. Finally he nodded and Gaelan, so moved by the child's heart, clutched him to him, then wrapped his arm around his wife, pulling her close.

"Arm yourself, my love."

"Here?"

"Please, for me." It was killing him to leave her, and if he did not think she would get hurt on the journey or want to jump into the fray of battle, he would take her with him.

"I will."

Culhainn barked, darting around the warriors and knights, whining to join the brigade. Gaelan forced himself to leave her arms, lowering Connal to the ground, ruffling his hair before he mounted the stallion and rode to the rim of the ward.

"You!" He pointed to Culhainn, and the dog stilled and sat on his haunches. "Do not ever leave her side. Understood?"

Culhainn barked.

Siobhan stared at the dog, then her husband. "When did you learn Gaelic?"

He flashed her a quick smile, of a.s.surances and white teeth. "Whilst I was falling in love with you," he said flawlessly, winking.

Gaelan wheeled the mount about, ordering three squads to join him. He would not leave his wife unattended, nor would he depart until the O'Niell was out the gates. He remained back as Siobhan bid Tigheran's half brother good journey, watching them.

"I must go, but I do not like leaving you alone like this."

She scoffed with a small smile. "I am surrounded, Lochlann." She hugged him, brushed a kiss to his cheek.

He studied her for a moment. "You are happy, aren't you?"

"If there were no one betraying us I would be more pleased, but"-her gaze swept past him to Gaelan as he donned his helm, the face guard up-"aye, I am well pleased with the outcome."

"'Tis amazing how the death of my brother has brought such good fortune, eh?"

She didn't care for his brand of humor. "I wanted to love him, brother, but Tigheran saw me only as the enemy's child."

"And me as a nuisance," he said with a wry twist to his lips. He kissed her cheek once more and mounted, his men in a line behind him.

She stood in the center of the yard, gripping her son's hand. With one hand and his knees, Gaelan controlled the high-strung mount, the blue plume s.h.i.+vering, and Grayfalk's powerful legs cutting the earth as the destrier threatened to bolt. He beckoned Sir Niles and Andrew, entrusting them with the care of his family, and bid Sir Mark join them and show the location of the last ambush; then, with a quick glance at her, rider and destrier lurched, trotting between the torchlit ranks of soldiers and knights leaving the outer ward.

Slowly, guards pushed the gates closed and she stretched to catch a last glimpse of him before he led his army south. And she pitied anyone who crossed him this night.

Chapter 24.

Siobhan closed Connal's door, pressing her forehead to the wood. She was thrilled he and Gaelan had formed a bond, yet his innocent questions about Rhiannon were like blows to her heart. His aunt was hiding the truth, and if she did not know the root of the evil spreading across Donegal, she knew who did. For that reason Siobhan did not go to the tower. Rhiannon chose to protect the Fenians with her silence. She could suffer the consequences alone. She'd been duly warned.

After peeking in on Meghan, who'd slept through the entire ruckus, she stoked the fire and cracked the shutters to freshen the air, then left the girl to rest, descending the winding staircase. The hall was empty but for the two servants on their knees, scrubbing Brody's blood off the stones and replacing the rushes. Her throat closed miserably, her mourning silent for the man she'd known since she was a child. Culhainn trailed her heels as she moved aimlessly into the solar, evidently taking Gaelan's orders to heart. Inside the room she sank into her husband's padded chair, curling toward the fire scarcely stirring. Resting her cheek against the beaten leather, she inhaled the scent of him, of sandalwood and man, and prayed he would find the culprits swiftly and return by morning. But she knew he would not.

She feared Ian was at the root of it. Yet beyond the two prisoners who'd refused to speak, they'd no evidence beyond hearsay and some sc.r.a.ps of tartan. Was Ian so bitter that it would twist him enough to kill her clansmen to see Gaelan fail? Without fealty to the king, Ian could lose all he had. And the Fenians ... by all that was holy, she prayed they'd naught to do with this but helping curtail the raids. Hurting the villagers and attacking patrols served no purpose but to brew hatreds and hasty reaction when regardless, the king and his lords would be the final hand of power. With the exception of fifty or so men returning to England, her husband's army was still formidable. And undefeated.

A reckoning is coming and you cannot stop it, the Fenian had said.

Was this the dark pain Rhiannon spoke of, or was there a grand attack on Donegal castle planned? Were these renegade English attacking simply to stir war or to push Ian into giving his fealty? Siobhan wondered, rubbing her temple. The possible avenues were growing quickly.

"M'lady?"

Bridgett stood in the doorway with a goblet in her hand, a length of blue fabric under her arm. "Some sweet wine?"

Siobhan smiled, nodding, and Bridgett came to her, offering the cup. She laid the blue cloth on the table close by and Siobhan sighed, fingering it briefly and wis.h.i.+ng she could have shown the work to Gaelan. "You love Sir Andrew?"

Nearly at the door, Bridgett stopped and turned. Her lips curved. "I like him. He's fine to look upon, but I know he sees me as naught but a serving maid and partner for a single night, not a lifetime."

The hopelessness in her voice caught her attention more than her words, and Siobhan's brows drew down. "Think you because he is knighted he cannot wed you?" She sipped, the warmed wine soothing the knots in her stomach.

"Aye, that." Bridgett glanced at the floor, worrying her ap.r.o.n. "And I'm Irish."

Siobhan knew the girl was in love and since she, Meghan, Driscoll and Brody were the only people who'd come with her from her father's household, she would see that Bridgett was treated fairly. "Do not view each other on steps above or below another, Bridgett. Or he will. And if his heart is true, it will not matter."

Bridgett c.o.c.ked her head. "You hated PenDragon when he arrived. How did you find your heart?"

Siobhan's lips curved. "He showed it to me." Her eyes danced with mischief. "And he started with the kissing."

"Stole a few, did he now?"

She half laughed. "More than a few." Oftimes she could sense more of him than another, feel his gaze, his presence, as if she wore him like her skin, and constantly marveled at how deeply his touch sank through to her bones. She was forever bound to him, beyond her heart and into her soul, and she gloried in it. "I think I have always loved him but was afraid," she finally said. Afraid of its strength, she thought.

"After the O'Rourke's way of treating you, don't be thinking any of us is surprised."

Her gaze turned haunted, her tone bitter. "Tigheran planted more babes in a year than he planted crops."

Bridgett agreed. "At least you've got your Connal. Such a bright lad."

Siobhan smiled tremulously, finished off the wine and stood. Culhainn perked up, alert and on his feet. "Tell the guards I go to my bed, will you? Meghan is ill and sleeps in our chamber."

Bridgett nodded, taking the empty cup, and Siobhan bid her good night and crossed the empty hall, the fabric tucked to her chest. The sounds of people finding a spot to sleep were spa.r.s.e, every able man on duty at the walls. With each step she mounted, she felt the strain of the day, her body demanding rest, and Siobhan wondered where her usual stamina had gone. Culhainn trotted ahead of her, scouring the area for intruders that did not exist. She paused on the landing, staring up at the next level, where Rhiannon remained locked behind stone and was tempted to go to her. Gaelan would not be pleased over that, but that was not what stopped her. A night in the cold, dank room would likely push her to confessing aught she knew.

Overtaking the remaining steps, she turned toward her son's chamber, slipping briefly inside, nodding to the guard watching Connal sleep. They exchanged a nod, a whispered word that she would return there to sleep after she checked on Meghan. She turned to her chamber, frowning when Culhainn sniffed madly at the floor inn front of the door. Pus.h.i.+ng the latch, she let it swing wide, letting him in first. Culhainn's nose made a wet path over the stone floor, the carpet. Erratic, seeking.

"There are no bugs who wield swords, beast," she teased uneasily, withdrawing her knife. Was it Meghan's scent he sought?

Suddenly he growled, his white fur rising on his back like a blade. "'Tis Meghan; cease." On the far side of the bed, he continued to growl, his hind legs crouched to spring. Siobhan glanced back at the open door, aware of the guard close enough to lend aid, then moved to Culhainn, frowning into the dark.

The breeze struck through the partially opened shutter, bringing a familiar scent she could not name. She stepped, and Culhainn crossed her path, nearly tripping her.

He bared his fangs, his growl intensifying.

"Who's there?" Siobhan held her dagger in front of her. "Meghan? Speak up."

The wind stirred the bed drapes, pus.h.i.+ng open the shutter, and moonlight spilled, illuminating her bed. Her breath snagged, her eyes growing wider by the second.

"Mary mother of G.o.d." She dropped the fabric.

Meghan lay in a pool of blood, her face shredded.

The wind gusted, and her gaze snapped to the drapes. The next moments pa.s.sed like a flash of light, quick and startling.

The figure, shrouded and hooded, moved. A thick hand, trembling, gripped a stained blade, and the familiarity of it rooted her to the floor. Her gaze jerked up. He stepped, and Culhainn leapt into the air with a vicious roar. A pain-filled grunt, the growling tear of fabric and a second later, Culhainn yelped, then dropped to the floor, motionless.

Siobhan backed away, her dirk in her fist. The figure lurched and she turned to escape, calling out. But before she uttered a syllable, his body impacted with her back, sending her hurling to the floor. Her chin struck, her teeth cutting into her tongue, her small dirk jamming in the floor between stones and snapping off at the hilt. Blood pooled in her mouth as she struggled beneath his weight, trying to throw him off, trying to call out, yet his fist smashed into her temple, once, twice, his murderous blade clattering to the floor in his effort. Firelight flickered off the dagger, the crest, and she reached, crawling across the floor, knowing naught would save her from this twisted rage. But the intruder was fast and uninjured, on his feet and crus.h.i.+ng her fingers beneath heavy boots, English boots, ripping the knife out of her reach, then driving his toe into her throat. She choked and heaved for air, her throat burning. She screamed, yet naught came but a dry croak as he dragged her to her feet by the hair. She drove her elbow into his stomach and twisted, trying to see his face. He slapped her away, sending her into the mirror.

The valuable gla.s.s cracked like splintering ice.

Siobhan staggered, breathing hard against the pain. Blood trickled into her eyes. He shoved and she fell into darkness, her back, elbows and shoulders colliding with stone, the musty odor of dirt and dampness filling her nostrils.

The tunnel, she thought dizzily, an instant before blinding pain erupted in her skull. Her legs folded and her world went blessedly black.

Rhiannon paced the small chamber, a thick blanket over her shoulders. This night bodes ill. Images flashed behind her eyes. A river of blood. A woman with no face. Connal crying. She dropped to the cot, holding her head in her hands and rocking, trying to clear the images, praying for guidance. A chill that had naught to do with the room crept over her skin and she lurched off the cot, moving to the window, yanking at the shutter. Cold air blasted her face as she scanned the yard below for aught unusual. She saw only guards and little movement, most of the inhabitants forced inside.

Who lurked, waiting to hurt her family? The choices were varied and vague, and fresh sensations of coldness drew her skin tighter. Panicked, she rushed to the door, calling out to the guard, pounding the wood when he did not respond. In a gentle voice, he told her to please cease before he would have to bind and gag her. Rhiannon pressed her head to the wood and sighed, helpless, blinking back hot tears, then returned to the narrow window. She continued to watch, praying G.o.d would give her enlightenment-before her premonition came true. Too many, too late, she thought, resting her head on the cas.e.m.e.nt and cursing her foolish heart for believing in a man again.

Soldiers walked with torches, searching the ground for a clue. It was torn from battle, but the bodies of the dead had been carried away. To where and why? And why attack a patrol?

"Armor, swords, they are not easily come by."

"Aught can be forged, Raymond." A tense silence and then, "I found a spur when the third village was attacked."

That he'd not been privy to this showed in his dark look. "The one we had to burn?"

Gaelan nodded, gesturing for Driscoll to come closer. "Who knows this land better than the Fenians?"

Driscoll's eyes widened. "None, I'm afraid. They are our best."

Gaelan rubbed his chin, thoughtful.

"You do not think the Maguire did this, do you?" Raymond asked, eyeing him.

"I withhold judgment, but Rhiannon was right. Wearing a plaid only implicates. It does not prove the crime." He addressed the Irishman. "Know you well Ian Maguire?"

"Since he was a lad." Driscoll straightened in the saddle. "He loved her deeply since they were children, my lord," he said, as if apologizing. "And he never forgave her for giving herself to O'Rourke for peace."

"Or to me."

Driscoll shrugged his broad shoulders. "He wanted her to run away with him, even tried to kidnap her when she refused."

Gaelan's brows shot up. This was news to him.

"His family paid dearly for his recklessness in honor price and his parents sent him away in punishment." He sighed, tired. "His arrival at your gates was not a surprise."

"And understandable."

Both Driscoll and Raymond looked surprised. "Sympathy, Gaelan?"

"One does not walk away from a woman like my wife without feeling the loss."

Driscoll hid a grin.

Gaelan dismounted, taking a torch and covering the ground himself. The armor hampered, and without hesitation he stripped off all but the breastplate, vambraces and mail, harnessing it to the saddle. Driscoll smiled with approval, himself garbed in furs and padded tunic and braies. Gaelan continued his search, wis.h.i.+ng for daylight. He rubbed his hand over the broken ground, coming back with bloodstains.

"Fan out and search for a cave, a cottage, anywhere they could have fled so quickly. Have a caution with the torches." The squads spread out immediately and Gaelan turned back to Grayfalk, swinging into the saddle. But again, they found nothing.

Continuing on, they rode into a border village, portions of homes crumbled black from fire and still smoldering. The inhabitants hissed at him, but fear kept them from flinging the stones they fisted. Gaelan scowled, twisting in the saddle to Driscoll, and bidding he question the nearest man.

"He wants to know why you sent men to attack them."

Gaelan guided the mount nearer and the man back-stepped, his expression fierce with rage, a pitchfork brandished like a s.h.i.+eld. "Did they look like these men?" Gaelan gestured for two of his knights to come forward. "Tell me exactly what they wore."

The man started spouting, too fast for Gaelan to translate with what little he knew. He glanced at Driscoll. "I caught blue and broken."

"They wore blue tabards, my lord. And the armor was not as well tended as your men's."

Gaelan focused on the ma. "Aught else? Did they take livestock? Women?"

The man shook his head, his bleak eyes holding more question than trust.