Skye O'Malley: A Love For All Time Part 41

Adam de Marisco's deep blue eyes grew warm with approval. "A baby, is it?" he said. "Aye, Aidan la.s.s, 'tis indeed happy news! Velvet and Dier-dre will both be delighted to learn of their new cousin." Walking over to the high board where there was a decanter of wine, and some goblets, he poured the fragrant Archambault burgundy into four goblets, and pa.s.sed them to the others. Then raising his hand he said, "A toast to the next generation of St. Michaels! Long life! Health, and good fortune to not only this child, but to all yer children!"

Conn slipped an arm about his wife, and looking down into her upturned face echoed a hearty, "Amen.I"

Chapter 18.

The sky was a peculiar and flat gray-white in color. A misty, steady rain was falling, and there was a stiff breeze blowing off the sea which pushed the coastal freighter briskly along into the mouth of the River Shannon. Lifting his face to the sky Cavan FitzGerald said a rare prayer, and thanked G.o.d that he was home in Ireland again.

He had been enormously fortunate to have gotten pa.s.sage upon the lumbering derelict which carried salted fish and hides to Spain, returning regularly with cargoes of wine filling its hold. Finding the vessel Cavan had paid his pa.s.sage, and accepted the disgusting, vermin-ridden upper berth offered him in a cabin housing five other male pa.s.sengers. He had not complained even when night after night they had blown evil-smelling farts and snored out their bad breath until the cabin was almost uninhabitable. He had paid for his water barrel in advance, and brought his own blankets and rations as had been expected of him. He did not socialize any more than was necessary, and it was quite unlikely that the captain of the Mary Margaret would even remember him, or be able to distinguish him from any other of the travelers who were forced to seek pa.s.sage aboard his s.h.i.+p.

The vessel nosed its way up the river some miles, finally dropping anchor opposite the river fortress of a once-powerful Irish earl which now belonged to an Englishman. Part of the cargo would be unloaded into the new lord's wine cellars, and Cavan FitzGerald went ash.o.r.e with the first boat. From there it was but a short walk to a nearby village where he was able to purchase a somewhat bony nag to take him to his destination He wondered if old Rogan FitzGerald was still alive, or if his d.a.m.ned cousins had at last inherited. No, the old man was still alive. He could feel it in his bones. He was alive, and sitting dead center in the midst of it all just like a spider in his web. His eldest son, and heir, Eamon, would still be waiting for his inheritance if Cavan knew his uncle. And if he knew Rogan he knew, too, that he, Cavan, would have a great deal of explaining to do; but he suspected that he would be able to talk his way out of his predicament for he had ever been his uncle's favorite. He was more like Rogan FitzGerald than any of his sons.

He s.h.i.+vered as a blast of cold wind blew over him, and he pulled his cape tighter about him, kicking his horse into a faster pace. The time he had spent in Spain had taken the edge off his native-born hardiness, and for the first time in his life he felt the damp chill. If only Ireland could have some of Spain's suns.h.i.+ne. Spain. How he had hated the place! He had never even gotten to meet King Philip. His so-called reward had been handed over to him by some minor court functionary. A barren, broken-down estate on the hot and dusty plains of that cursed country that had failed in the first place by virtue of its very location. St. Patrick himself could not have made that worthless land given him fertile unless he had been able to place a river about it. It was no reward at all, and worse had been his marriage.

The king had generously saddled him with not an heiress of a respectable family, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d daughter of one of his friends, Manuela Maria Gomez-Rivera. Short and plump and dark Manuela who was pious to a fault; and rarely if ever bathed. Making love to her had been like making love to a farmyard. Unable to escape this fate he had been quickly wed to Manuela by the king's own confessor who had afterward lectured the blus.h.i.+ng bride and her new husband on their Christian duty which was to produce children.

Fortunately Manuela did not enjoy that particular duty of marriage, and so he was able to bed her twice a week and then be left free to dally with the many attractive peasant girls in the village that belonged to the estate. He dallied until his wife found out where he was spending his nights, and scolded him loudly in a shrieking voice. Still not satisfied she had complained to the village priest who had taken him sternly to task regarding his immorality, and his duty to his good and faithful wife.

Cavan, however, had had his subtle revenge. "But, padre," he said sadly, "Doa Manuela will not grant me my spouse's rights more than once or twice a week. How can I do my duty by her, and by the church under those circ.u.mstances? It is a man's duty to procreate according to G.o.d's law. The church expressly forbids the spilling of a man's seed upon the ground, and did I not copulate with the girls in the village I should break G.o.d's law because my wife refuses me." He bowed his head with apparent shame. "May the Blessed Mother forgive me, padre, but I am weak where the flesh is concerned, and were my wife willing, I should only cleave to her."

The priest nodded sagely. It was not unusual for a bride to be hesitant, particularly if she were a pious woman as was Doa Manuela. "My son," he said. "G.o.d has made man master over woman and the other beasts of the earth. It is your wife's duty to obey you in all things, and if she does not, then it is your duty to apply the rod of chastis.e.m.e.nt to her until she admits her faults, and abides by your wishes. Have you done this?"

"Alas," said Cavan who had never considered the possibility of beating his wife for he did not care enough, "I am a softhearted man, padre."

"A soft heart is a good thing, my son, but in your wife's case you do her no kindness by appearing to condone her willful behavior. She must be made to obey!" He put an arm about Cavan. "You Irish are a race of poets, and I know that your heart is good, my son, but Doa Manuela must not be allowed to wear the breeches in your family. It is a most unseemly thing when a woman takes upon herself the duties of a man. Look to England's b.a.s.t.a.r.d queen. Surely you cannot admire her manly behavior? Your wife must be beaten until she admits her faults, and promises never to disobey you again."

Cavan had gone back to his house, and with the church's blessing he had beaten Manuela until her screams for mercy rang throughout the whole village. Then he had raped her, and went off to the taverna to drink the evening away. No one thought the worse of him. Indeed he was lauded by his peasants for setting a fine example for Doa Manuela's behavior had only recently begun to be copied by some of the bolder women of the village.

From that time on Cavan FitzGerald had made his wife's life a h.e.l.l, beating her on the least pretext, and the priest and the villagers had nodded and smiled their approval for a woman was supposed to be a docile and obedient creature. One day, however, Manuela in a frenzy of desperation had threatened to go to her father, the king's friend, with her complaints, and so Cavan FitzGerald had coolly killed his wife by strangling her, and buried her by himself beneath the dark of the moon, in a shallow grave, at the end of the house's parched and tangled garden. He was tired of her, and he was tired of Spain.

He explained Manuela's absence by claiming that his wife had run away, andI his servants who had often heard the desperate Manuela threaten such action confirmed their master's story. Now, Cavan told the irate priest, he must go after his wayward wife, and bring her home. The priest had, of course, agreed, and Cavan FitzGerald had ridden off from the hot and dusty plain never to return again; heading for the coast to find a s.h.i.+p to return him to Ireland where the Spanish authorities would be unlikely to follow him should Manuela's body be discovered.

Wisely he left what remained of the gold he had received by selling his cousin Aidan into slavery, with a goldsmith who had a cousin in Dublin. His small wealth would be transferred to Ireland, and no one the wiser. Cavan gave a grimace of annoyance. Even there he had not profited by Aidan's sale, but after the Dey of Algiers had taken his percentage along with Ras.h.i.+d al Mansur, the Spanish king, and Miguel de Guaras, there was precious little left. What there was, however, would remain in Dublin, his secret, his h.o.a.rd against the day his cousin Eamon came into his inheritance, and possibly removed him from his stewards.h.i.+p. That was if his uncle had not already replaced him.

The landmarks became more and more familiar as the day went on, and finally toward evening the tower keep of Rogan FitzGerald came into view. He pushed his tired mount onward, and as a stain of peach and yellow on the gray horizon to the west announced the sunset, Cavan FitzGerald came home. Dismounting in the stableyard he gave his horse into the keeping of a dirty-faced urchin who gaped at him as if he were back from the dead. With a surprisingly gentle gesture he ruffled the lad's head, and grinned down at him before turning to enter the keep. With almost eager steps he climbed to the Great Hall, and entered it, his eyes seeking out his uncle, and to his relief finding him, hale and hearty, a tankard in his hand.

"By G.o.d, look what the storm has blown in!" came the sneering voice of his cousin, Eamon.

Having learned long ago to give better than he got, he snarled back, "What, Eamon, no welcome home for yer cousin?"

"I thought ye'd gone back to h.e.l.l from whence ye sprang, cousin," was the mocking reply.

"Where the h.e.l.l have ye been?" demanded Rogan FitzGerald, glaring down from the high board. "Come closer, Cavan! I want to see yer face when ye feed me the pack of lies yer about to feed me. I know that ye and that Spanish weasel failed in yer mission for the O'Malleys of Innisfana still thrive, and good for them, say I! Still it would have been nice to have gotten our hands on my granddaughter's wealth for Ireland's coming battle with the English. My granddaughter writes me that she's expecting a baby soon. She writes me of her happiness with her husband even as my Bevin did long years ago."

"Ye've had letters from Aidan?" Cavan was beginning to feel as if he had entered a bedlam. "When?"

"Just last week. She and her husband were in France for almost a year, but they're back home again in England."

"She wrote in her own hand? Yer certain?"

"Of course I'm certain," snapped the old man. "I've not gone gaga yet, my lad, and I'll be a long time dead before I do!" Rogan FitzGerald's eyes narrowed with speculation. "So," he said, and there was a particularly vicious tone to his voice, "so ye've come crawling back to Ballycoille, have ye, nephew? Yer Spanish friends don't reward stupidity, do they? G.o.d knows 'twas a simple enough plan to bring down the O'Malleys, but ye couldn't do it, could ye, Cavan?

"Ye played in fast company, my lad, and ye've got nothing to show for it, have ye? Maybe now ye'll stay here where ye belong instead of trying to ape yer betters. Nothing will change the fact of yer birth." He peered down at Cavan. "I suppose ye'll be wanting yer place back? Well, yer a lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d, nephew, for ye can have it! Eamon's lad has no talent for it, the young fool, and so it's yers for life, and yer sons after ye if ye'll ever settle down and have some, but ye'd best behave yerself, Cavan. Remember that ye owe me for yer very existence, and when I'm gone 'tis Eamon ye'll owe, if he'll put up with ye as I have, but then I've a soft place in me heart for ye, my lad, haven't I?"

Cavan FitzGerald nodded, stunned, and even somewhat grateful to have been so easily accepted back into the fold of his family once again. The old man must be growing soft in his dotage. Automatically he sat down in his old place, and a serving wench brought him a trencher filled with mutton, and bread, and winter vegetables. A tankard of ale was placed by his hand.

Aidan in England? How was it possible? He needed to know more, but it would take him time, and besides he had his money put aside at the goldsmith's in Dublin. He suffered no loss. Still there was Conn. Alive he might demand revenge, but then if he and Aidan were giving out to Rogan that they had been away in France, perhaps he would be safe because they would not want Aidan's sojourn in Algiers made public. Perhaps he might even benefit from that knowledge. Perhaps Lord Bliss would be willing to pay him to keep that knowledge to himself lest the paternity of his child be in doubt. It was an interesting thought, Cavan considered, but he needed to know more.

When the rest of the family had gone to bed he sat with his uncle as had always been his habit. The old man slept but three or four hours a night, and seemed to need no more rest than that. They had come down from the high board which was now cleared, and they sat together before the roaring fire, their tankards of ale in their hands.

" 'Tis good to have ye home again," muttered Rogan.

Cavan chuckled. "Yer children bore ye, uncle, admit it. There isn't one that's really like ye for yer an old rogue."

Rogan chuckled back. "Aye," he admitted, "I am, and ye, my b.a.s.t.a.r.d nephew are more like me than any of my own get." His eyes narrowed. "Tell me now where ye've been. On the run I've not a doubt."

Cavan debated a moment, and then he told his uncle the truth, making only slight modifications in the tale. His treatment of Rogan's granddaughter was to have brought Ireland a goodly fortune had not the d.a.m.ned Spanish and Arabs taken it all. Then they gave him that G.o.dforsaken estate, and Manuela, poor girl, who died in childbed, and so he had come home. He had intended to come eventually, but he was still so ashamed that his mismanagement had cost them Aidan's wealth.

Rogan nodded. "Well," he said philosophically, "at least yer safe home, lad, and glad I am to see ye. The stewards.h.i.+p of my lands belongs to yer family, from now on. Let's find ye a nice la.s.s, and settle ye down. 'Tis past time ye had yer own children."

Cavan took a deep breath, and then he said, "There might still be a way for us to obtain Aidan St. Michael's wealth for Ireland, uncle."

"How?" The word was sharp, and precise.

"I have a plan, uncle, and if ye don't mind killing off an O'Malley or two, we can profit quite handsomely."

"Go on then," replied Rogan nodding at his nephew.

"We must bring Aidan to Ireland, uncle. She must come of her own free will."

"And how do ye think yer going to manage that, my lad? My granddaughter is English-born, and English-bred."

"There must be something here in Ireland that she wants more than anything else in the world, uncle."

"And that would be?"

"Her child," came the devastating reply.

"Jesu, yer a bad one, Cavan FitzGerald!" swore the old man, "but what's even better, yer smart. I said ye were like yer mother, but by Jesu, yer not! Ye'd hold her bairn for ransom then?"

"I'd marry her, uncle."

"What? The la.s.s is already wed. Has yer stay in the hot Spanish sun addled yer wits?"

"Aidan St. Michael was married by the English queen's own chaplain, and yet she was baptized, and raised in the Holy Mother Church. Therefore her marriage is no true marriage here in Ireland, or for that matter anywhere else but England, and a few of the German states. I, however, dear uncle, would marry her in the faith of her birth, the only true faith. Even the O'Malleys of Innisfana cannot deny the truth of that, and so when Master Conn O'Malley comes calling he will be alone, and I will kill him. Then there will be no doubt as to whose wife Aidan St. Michael really is, dear uncle. As my wife her wealth becomes mine. Simple, is it not?"

Rogan FitzGerald was openmouthed with astonishment. "By G.o.d, nephew, yer a b.l.o.o.d.y genius! 'Tis a perfect plan, and 'tis foolproof besides! I wish ye'd thought of it in the first place, and we could have dispensed with the d.a.m.ned Spanish. We've but to wait until she's been brought to childbed, and recovered."

"Did she write ye when the child was due?"

"Sometime in the late winter, or the early spring," came the reply.

"So come the summer, when the seas are smooth for travel, I'll go to England," said Cavan, "and bring ye back yer great-grandchild for a visit, uncle. I've not a doubt its mother will be right behind me," and he laughed. "Have ye written back to Aidan?"

"Nay."

"Then fetch the priest, and do so. Show our dear little Aidan how concerned ye are for her, and how happy ye are too."

Rogan FitzGerald sent for his second son, Barra, named after his brother, and like his brother, a priest. Rogan had given two other children to the church besides Barra. His second youngest son, Fearghal, was a monk; and his oldest daughter, Sorcha, was a cloistered nun. Of his three other living children, his sons, Ruisart, Dalach, and Carra, they had had the good instinct to find wives with small fortunes, and simple natures who were happy to marry with one of the handsome FitzGerald sons. All, however, including the two churchmen, were hard, sharp, and greedy men although they had not the subtle cleverness of their cousin, Cavan.

Informed of the plan to bring Aidan St. Michael to Ireland, Father Barra FitzGerald had said in a pious voice, "The church could hardly disagree with yer plans to make Aidan St. Michael an honest woman, cousin Cavan. Never fear for I shall marry ye myself. The banns will be posted and read even before she arrives so there will be no need for delay." Then he smiled coldly. "The church will expect a generous stipend for its cooperation, cousin."

"Ye'll have it," came the equally cold reply.

"Not too great a stipend," put in old Rogan FitzGerald. "Remember that my granddaughter's wealth is for Ireland. It is Aidan's gold that will help us to buy arms, and mercenaries to fight the English."

"Of course, uncle," soothed Cavan. "Of course."

So Barra FitzGerald wrote to his English niece on his father's behalf, and Aidan reading the letter was somewhat astounded by this sudden interest in her welfare shown by her mother's family who for years had ignored her very existence. True she had written to her grandfather telling him of her return to England, and her expected child, but she had only done so at the instigation of Conn and his family who hoped to smoke out the whereabouts of Cavan FitzGerald. She hadn't really expected to receive such a solicitous reply. Conn was suspicious for their past dealings with the FitzGeralds had made him wary of them. No mention, however, was made of Cavan's return to Ireland, and the agents of the O'Malley family searching for him in Spain had come to a dead end when reaching the village belonging to Cavan's holding, they learned that he was gone in search of his wayward wife, and neither of them had come back yet.

"I'm not surprised that she ran away from him," said Aidan. "Cavan FitzGerald was not, after all, a particularly nice fellow. She must be rich if he's chasing after her, or possibly," she continued with a small attempt at dark humor, "she is salable in the slave markets of Algiers."

"If she was smart enough to run from FitzGerald," remarked Conn, "she will no doubt be smart enough not to be caught by him again."

"Don't speak of my b.a.s.t.a.r.d cousin any longer, Conn. I don't want to think of him. Not ever! Particularly not today on our second wedding anniversary. Thanks to Cavan we did not get to celebrate our first anniversary, and I will not have him intruding now on such a happy occasion!"

They were comfortably ensconced in their bed on this cold and bright February morning, and now Conn leaned over, and caressed his wife's swollen belly. "Yer wish, madame, is absolutely my command. How can I dispute the mother of my son?"

"Daughter," she corrected him. "I know it is a daughter I carry, my lord, and ye cannot argue with me otherwise."

He chuckled. "How can ye be so certain?"

"I don't know," she replied, "but I am. I am absolutely positive that we will soon be the parents of a daughter."

"What shall we call our daughter, madame?" His lips found hers in a quick kiss. "Ummm," he said, "as always, yer delicious, my darling."

Aidan smiled. She was feeling more content and happy than she had felt in months. For a while until her body had become too bulky they had resumed their marital relations.h.i.+p, but as much as she loved him, that body refused to cooperate with her heart, and she continued to feel nothing of the sweet, hot pa.s.sion that she had once felt with him, and with Javid Khan. It saddened her for she felt that she somehow was cheating him as well as she cheated herself; but Conn had brushed those concerns aside.

"Once the child is born," he promised her, "it will be again with us as it once was, Aidan, my love."

A small tear had slipped down her cheek, and she had asked him, "How can ye be so certain, Conn? I am not," but he had dismissed her fears with soft words, gentle kisses, and tender caresses.

"And what do ye plan to call our daughter?" he repeated, bringing her back to the present.

"There is a Latin name, Valentinus, which comes from the verb, valere, meaning to be strong. I have learned that to survive in this world, Conn, a woman must be strong. I would therefore name our daughter, Valentina, the feminine of Valentinus. Perhaps the name will bring her luck."

"She is already lucky in having ye for her mother," said Conn gallantly, "and me for her father," he finished.

Aidan laughed, then growing serious caressed his cheek saying, "What a good man ye are, Conn."

He flushed. "Madame, what would all my fine friends at court think if they could hear ye praising me with such tender words? My reputation would be in tatters."

"Yer reputation," she teased him, "was in tatters years ago else the queen would not have wed ye to me!"

He began to tickle her in retaliation for her remark, and Aidan not to be bullied tickled him back until they both collapsed into gales of laughter, wheezing and gasping until the tears ran down their faces. Finally he regained control of himself, and leaning over her outstretched body he bent down to kiss her. His green eyes warm with the deep love he felt for her.

"Ohhh, I am so happy," Aidan declared with a deep sigh. "Is it wrong, Conn, to be so happy?"

"Nay, sweeting, it is never wrong to be happy."

"I love ye," she said simply.

"I know," he replied, "and I love ye," and then his big hand caressed her belly again, and he could feel the child stirring beneath his fingers, and it excited him. Would it indeed be the daughter Aidan insisted it was? What would she look like? Was it really his child that his wife carried, and would he be able to tell once the child was born who its father really was?

When Aidan was brought to bed on the twenty-first day of March in the year fifteen eighty, and delivered of the daughter she had said she would bear; Conn, looking into the baby's face could not for the life of him tell whether it was his own child or not, but it mattered not for he already loved her. Valentina St. Michael was a pink and white baby with the blue eyes of all newborns, and a faint fuzz of copper-colored hair upon her head. In the next few months those eyes became a wonderful violet shade, and she grew more hair which remained the copper color of her maternal parent.

"She looks like my mother," declared Aidan. "She is going to he far prettier than I ever was."

"Blurp," said Valentina St. Michael as she pushed her face into her mother's breast, and clamped her mouth around the nipple which was already seeping milk.

"She is absolutely thriving," remarked Skye who was sitting with her sister-in-law upon the camomile lawn that early July afternoon. "Ye've got rich milk, Aidan, and ye had such an easy confinement that I do believe yer meant to bear several more healthy babes before yer through. Considering yer age 'tis truly amazing."

"I'd like a lot more children!" said Aidan enthusiastically. "Look at me, Skye! For the first time in my life I've a bit of weight on my bones. I look at myself in the pier gla.s.s, and I am positively voluptuous. I can't believe it!"

"And do ye feel better now, Aidan? Is yer body responding once more to Conn?"

Here Aidan's face grew somber, and sighing she shook her head. "Nay, Skye. I still feel nothing, and I cannot understand it. I love Conn, and I thought surely when the child came my body would once more behave as it did before my cousin kidnapped me, and sold me into slavery; but alas, there is no change! I don't know why, but oh, how it saddens me. It is the one flaw in our happiness. Conn keeps saying that in time all will be well between us, but how long must we wait, Skye?"

"I don't know, Aidan, but one thing I learned in the East was that the human spirit is a strange thing. It is almost as if it possesses a secret life totally separate from what we can know and feel. Remember, my dear, that ye were really the most sheltered of girls yer whole life. Yer parents s.h.i.+elded ye, then the queen, and finally Conn. It wasn't until ye were faced with Cavan FitzGerald that ye truly learned what the face of evil looked like. That, and the year that followed must have been a terrible shock to yer poor soul."

"I think that ye are right," Aidan agreed slowly, and finis.h.i.+ng nursing Valentina she handed the baby to its nursemaid, Wenda, "but how do I heal myself now?"

"I don't know," replied Skye, "how do ye? Think on it, Aidan. Something yet frightens ye. What is it?"

"Cavan FitzGerald," came the quick reply. "I keep dreaming that he is coming back to get me, Skye. I think it's not knowing where he is that frightens me most of all. There has been no trace of him since he disappeared from Spain. I keep thinking he might come to England. Foolish, isn't it? England is the one place Cavan FitzGerald dare not show his face for fear of arrest, and yet I cannot shake the feeling that he is near, is watching."

She turned her face to the nearby hills, and seeing her through his spygla.s.s Cavan FitzGerald smiled cruelly, and s.h.i.+fted his cramped position. He had been watching Pearroc Royal for several days now in order to learn the routine of the family, and the servants. He had seen Conn going about his duties as the estate's master, and he smiled to himself. He intended doing exactly as he had told his uncle. He would kidnap the St. Michaels' child, and force her mother into following after them into Ireland. Conn would, of course, follow after his wife, and the trap would then be sprung. Once his rival was dead he would sell Pearroc Royal, and all its lands. The monies from that sale he would use to buy lands in Ireland. His estates would be far larger than his uncle's, and the old man would not be able to oppose him. Soon his sons, the sons that Aidan would give him, his sons and his daughters would overshadow the FitzGeralds of Ballycoille. And if anyone tried to stop him, he'd see them dead! As for Conn O'Malleys brat whether she lived or died was of no consequence to him. He needed her only to lure her mother to him, and after that ...

He had already begun to effect his scheme by spying upon the estate. He knew when Conn was out; when Aidan spent time in her gardens; and most importantly, he knew when the nursemaid brought the baby out for airing, and which way she walked, carrying her charge into the clover fields near the house by the woods. Once in the fields she would spread a coverlet upon the ground, and placing the baby upon it she would play with the child in the suns.h.i.+ne until the baby fell asleep. Then the girl amused herself weaving daisy chains. She was not, Cavan had concluded, very bright, and she would be easy to frighten, and keep in line for he would need her to come along to care for the child.

He had not yet decided when to take the child, and then fate played into his hands. He had been having an ale at the local inn when the gamekeeper from Pearroc Royal had come in to refresh himself. Young Harry Beal was both known and liked, and the conversation flowed readily and openly. Nursing his ale Cavan was able to learn that Lord Bliss would be going to a horse fair in Hereford to purchase new stock, and would be gone for several days. This, Cavan knew, was the ideal time for him to put into operation his plan to kidnap Aidan's child. It would be several days before Conn would be able to return, and if Cavan knew Aidan as well as he believed he did, she would not wait for her husband to return before following after her child. He would have her, and the baby in his power before Conn could get to either of them which would allow him to lie in wait for his rival without distraction, making his kill an easy one.

He was going to enjoy killing Conn, he thought. Conn O'Malley who his whole life had had everything that Cavan FitzGerald had been denied. A loving father and mother, brothers and sisters, a family, a respectable place in society, a name. Why should Conn have had all those things, and not he? Why should Conn have been given a rich heiress, a t.i.tle, and a great estate? Did he deserve it any more than Cavan did? By rights Aidan St. Michael should have been his wife in the first place, his twisted mind reasoned. She was his cousin, and it had been common practice since the beginning of time that families kept their wealth by intermarrying amongst each other. Conn had stolen what was rightfully his, and now he was going to get it back!