Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (27 page)

"You claim that you lack courage," he spat. "Fine, then, Maura-love, slink away to your safe castle, parade about in your bloody velvets and silks, and take between your legs a man whom you can scarce endure. It would be a shame if you dared to dirty your cursed Sassenach hands by living like the rest of us."

Maryssa couldn't stop her hand from reaching out to touch the whip-tight muscles in his arm, but Tade yanked away from her, his lip curling in a grimace of disgust that scarce hid the desolation in his eyes. He reached up to his throat, his fingers closing on glinting gold, and jerked savagely on the chain she had placed there but days before.

"Here," he said. "A woman gave me this. A woman I loved. Thought I knew. But it seems her vows were as false as those of her father." Tears blinded Maryssa as he jammed the necklet into her palm; the swan's delicate wings gouged into her flesh.

"Farewell, Miss Wylder," he mocked her, his face savage. "We'll not meet again, unless of course it is on the highroads."

He spun away, his mantle swirling, his long stride filled with fury and danger as he stalked around the circling dancers. Maryssa took a stumbling step toward him, wanting to cry out that she would storm the very gates of hell if she could stay at his side. But he never so much as glanced back. She winced as she saw Sheena O'Toole break from the ring of dancers and reach out her arms to ensnare him. Her lush curves pressed against the taut plane of Tade's body as her full lips strained to press seductive kisses along the rigid line of his jaw.

Yet Tade seemed not even to see the girl; he merely pushed her hands aside with suppressed violence and brushed past her, not seeing the fury that lit the girl's tilted amber eyes, not seeing that the mouth, which had been parted in hot invitation, was now pursed into a grimace of outrage and humiliation as those nearest her burst into guffaws and taunting laughter.

But Maryssa saw it as she watched Tade stride out of her life and into the grips of the fate for which he was destined. She stumbled to where her own mount was tied, no longer able to stem her sobs. He had believed her, accepted her whining about fear. He now held her in contempt and loathing. Someday, when his wound had healed, he would remember her as only a weak-willed child who had cowered from the reality he embraced with such reckless abandon.

Aye, Maryssa thought. Tade would despise her. But she would love him more than her own life for all eternity. Her numb fingers opened over the gold chain, letting the pendant, still warm from Tade's skin, slip to the Donegal stones, abandoning the tiny swan to his mountains along with her own shattered dreams.

S
heena O'Toole glared
Tade Kilcannon’s broad back, her cat-gold gaze seething with humiliation and outrage as he strode out of the circle of light cast by the flames. The sniggers and cutting mockeries of the dancers, who had seen her fling herself on the chest of the heir Kilcannon and had witnessed, too, Tade's dashing her aside, ate like acid at the lush curves of her body. Her fingers curled into claws as she fought the urge to rake the sly, sneering expressions from the faces of those nearest her, or to fling an orange-hot brand at the disappearing back of the man all of Donegal had once expected her to wed.

There was a kind of triumph in the sparkling gaze of the other girls now ringing the fire—those insignificant chits over whom Sheena had played the queen in the days when Tade had come to take her riding or caught up her hand in the dance. It had been fitting that the son and heir of the greatest Irish Catholic family in Donegal should mate with the daughter of the O'Toole. Both families had desired the marriage; the mountain folk had expected it. Tade Kilcannon cut the most dashing figure in the mountains. That had made Sheena certain he would choose the most beautiful of all from among Donegal's eager maidens.

She dashed the flowing tawny curls back from her shoulders, her flawless complexion flushing crimson. She had even burdened herself with the adoration of that tiresome child, Deirdre Kilcannon, in an effort to gain Tade's loyalty. And it had seemed that Tade was at last ready to throw aside his rakehell ways, to do his duty, and to provide heirs to the Kilcannon legacy, sons to battle for the lands that had been stolen from them, sons to rule the mountain wilds. Aye, Sheena thought fiercely, sons in whose veins would flow the blood of the O'Tooles as well. He had been near to taking her to wife until that Sassenach witch had twined him in her spell.

Sheena cast a fulminating glance at where the Wylder bitch stood, her hair straggling about her pale cheeks. It could only be black arts that had lured Tade to Maryssa Wylder's side, Sheena thought, her gaze narrowing on her rival's stricken face. What else could there be in those plain features, that pale skin, those wide, frightened eyes that could hold a man like Tade?

On the day of the hurling match, Sheena had quelled her irritation at Tade's attentions to Maryssa Wylder, dismissing them as just another of his numerous passing fancies, full certain that before the sun set whatever spark of attraction he might have felt for the girl would be smothered beneath the Sassenach doxy's mealy-mouthed shyness.

And when the distraught Deirdre had fled to the O'Toole cottage, railing that Tade claimed to be in love with the Wylder heiress, Sheena had just gritted her teeth, knowing that nothing could come of such a mésalliance and that this English milk-sop would soon flee back to her candlelit ballrooms and her perfumed beaux.

But when Sheena had glanced up at the hillside at Christ's Wound and seen Tade bending protectively over Maryssa Wylder's slight frame, his incredible eyes glowing as though she were an angel dropped into his palm from the heavens, Sheena's hauteur had vanished, leaving in its place desperation and a raw, burning fury.

She had boasted for months about Tade Kilcannon's favors, dangling her tales of his attentions before the other mountain girls' noses like a honeyed confection before the starving. She had seen their eyes narrow with envy, had loved pricking at their vanity while puffing up her own. She had comforted herself with the knowledge that once Tade did betroth himself to her, none of the girls she had goaded would dare to even whisper against the wife of the heir Kilcannon.

Yet now—now that all in the parish had seen Tade dare to incur the wrath not only of the mighty owner of Nightwylde but of Kane Kilcannon as well in order to shower Maryssa Wylder with the love plain-written on his handsome face—Sheena's bragging would be held up to ridicule. Those whom she had slighted would take the greatest pleasure in jeering at her, rejoicing that Sheena O'Toole had been brought low.

Her jaw clenched as the lame Jamie Scanlon raked his bow across his fiddle strings. The dancers, stilled by the spectacle Tade had created, started their feet to flashing in time. The gay music seemed like a grating reminder of the other women's joy, the sound more infuriating still as it blended with the trilling laughter of Caitrin MacVee. The rival beauty shook out masses of rich brown hair, her pixyish face fairly bursting with triumph as she swirled past Sheena's rigid form.

"Tade seems to have lost his lust for the flames, Sheena," Caitrin giggled, "be they Samhain fires or otherwise." The girl's blue eyes swept Sheena from lips to toes, and she tossed her head as Brian MacGary caught her in his sinewy arms.

"Most likely poor Brian will be singed enough for all of us before the night's past, the way you're hanging on him," Sheena snapped. But even Caitrin's gasp of irritation brought her no pleasure.

Gold eyes flicked to Maryssa, hate sluicing through every pore of Sheena's skin. Nay! She would not be cast out like yesterday's wash water in favor of some English slut—even if the cursed witch's father owned half of Ireland!

Sheena moved farther away from the fire and closer to the slumped figure in the shadows. The flickering light dripped gold on the Sassenach girl's cheeks, stroking orange into the moisture that clung there, revealing in stark relief that delicate mouth contorted with . . . what was it? Tears?

Sheena's eyes narrowed, her lips pulling taut over small white teeth. Perhaps it was time to close in on the weakling bitch and teach her the danger in snaring a man already spoken for.

Holding her chin high, she paced toward the shadows, eager to humiliate Maryssa Wylder the way she’d been humiliated. But Sheena had scarcely stepped out of the fire's glow when a hand closed on her arm, staying her.

"Leave her alone."

Fresh rage surged through Sheena as she wheeled, and she was stunned to see the tear-swollen eyes of Deirdre Kilcannon, her tangled coppery locks curling about a face torn with confusion, sorrow, and an unsettling shading of guilt.

"Leave her alone?" Sheena sneered. “It is time the witch was taken to task for dangling after Tade! It is a wonder she's not gotten your fool brother hanged by now, or worse! I vow she'll regret the day she—"

“Leave her alone.''

Sheena's jaw dropped at the steely Kilcannon stubbornness glinting from beneath Deirdre's dark brows, the chin, so like Kane Kilcannon's, jutting out in a dangerous line.

"Deirdre, by Saint Jude! You should want her to pay—"

"For loving Tade?" Tears welled up in Deirdre's eyes. "I vow I'll hear no more of your poison. Both—both she and Tade have already paid overmuch!"

Indignation ripped through Sheena as she glared at Deirdre's face, the desire to slap the cursed Kilcannon pride from her countenance nearly overwhelming her. "You had no trouble supporting me these weeks past! You aided me in foiling your precious Tade's grand passion."

"Aye. I lied to my brother and nearly got Devin captured by the priest hunters. Tade wanted to murder me after I sent him out to gather fool's wool when he got back from Derry, and he had every right to slip a noose around my neck. My idiocy nearly put one around Devin's."

"You stupid—" The sound of retreating hoofbeats brought Sheena's head snapping around, her tirade dying in her throat as her gaze locked upon Maryssa Wylder's mare vanishing into the shadows.

With a cry of fury, Sheena yanked herself from Deirdre's grasp, all pretense of friendship and sweetness gone as she turned on the girl. But with the same arrogance as her brother, Deirdre Kilcannon had spun away from her and crossed the ring of light with the innate pride that had been in Tade's broad shoulders moments before.

Sheena started to stalk after her, but the laughter of Caitrin MacVee drifted in the air. Nay, Sheena O'Toole would not be subject to ridicule yet again this night at the hands of a Kilcannon. She'd find a way to make them all swallow the insults they'd dealt her this night—Caitrin, Deirdre, Tade, aye, and that Wylder witch with her pale skin and her fears.

Sheena chewed on her lower lip, a dozen schemes darting through her mind. There must be some way to regain Tade's loyalty while shattering any illusions of love he still held for the Sassenach slut. Theirs was an alliance ripe to be corrupted by betrayal . . . and by hate.

The sound of Deirdre's voice above the music rasped across Sheena's taut nerves, and she glanced up to see the girl running to embrace Devin Kilcannon's tall, slender figure, his hair a pale halo in the firelight.

Sheena's eyes narrowed to slits. Aye, there was a way to be a heroine to all the mountain folk, a way to win Tade's gratitude and love. And yet . . . A shiver coursed down her spine. She would be throwing, not only her life into peril, but her immortal soul as well. If anything went awry . . .

Nay, she would take care. Be clever, cunning, do no lasting harm to anyone except the English heiress who threatened to steal the man who rightfully belonged to an O'Toole. Sheena tore her gaze away from Devin Kilcannon's gentle face, shifting her eyes to where Maryssa Wylder had stood moments before. Her amber eyes caught the tiniest glint of gold on the ground. She stepped toward it and snatched it up, holding the delicate swan high in the firelight. With a sneer of disdain, she flung the fragile necklet into the writhing flames and smiled.

If she was cunning and clever, she would stand as Tade Kilcannon's bride before the seasons turned, and the heir to Donegal's wild lands would look upon Maryssa Wylder, not with the adoration reserved for an angel, but with the contempt set aside for a witch born of Satan himself.

M
aryssa forced
her chill-numbed feet up the steps to the wide oaken door, slipping one shaking hand from beneath her bedraggled cloak to turn the heavy latch that barred the entrance to Nightwylde. With all the stealth her aching limbs could muster, she forced the portal open, terrified that some servant kept late at his duties might hear the creak of hinges, or that her father, hovering over his ledgers and accounts, might still lurk in the library.

Still, she thought, it would be worth incurring her father's wrath to huddle beneath her coverlets, bury herself in her pillows, and sob out the grief that threatened to tear her in two—a grief she had suffered for hours as she had ridden aimlessly among Tade's night-shrouded vales, a grief she knew she could never escape.

She stepped out of the rising wind. The tapers set in sconces in the wide stone hallway oozed inky shadows along the floor, the candle flames fluttering as the midnight breeze crept around her cloak, batting at the wicks.

The very stones of Nightwylde seemed to taunt her, as if the spirits loosed on this demon night were cackling on the rising wind, mocking her. Yet even the devil-spawned specters of All Hallows Eve could not torment her more than her own heart, as it cried out for the healing touch of Tade Kilcannon's strong hands. For as she had watched Tade stride into the embracing shadows of his mountains, Maryssa had known that he carried with him every joy she had ever known—the promise of a future bright with his loving, sharing his bed, bearing his children, babes he would cherish and guard with the same fierce tenderness he had lavished on Maryssa.

Here, among the stones of Nightwylde, and even in the gardens of Carradown, there would be no haven to turn to, no succor except what strength he had left within her, and the unspoken, half-wild hope that his seed might have taken root in her womb.

One hand fluttered down to her stomach, savage joy springing forth at the thought that a child born of their love might even now be clinging to life inside her—a part of Tade no one could ever take from her, a part of him that would be hers forever, that she could shower love upon during the dismal days that seemed to stretch into eternity.

It had been more than two months since she had had her last bleeding, yet never had she considered that she might be with child. The queasiness that had beset her during the weeks of Tade's absence had seemed the result of her terror that he might lie dead. She dismissed the excruciating sensitivity of her breasts as evidence that her nerves were yanked wire-taut with the tension of waiting. But now Tade's words echoed in her mind and heart, blossoming into hope:
Even now you might carry my babe . . .

Maryssa started, berating herself for her careless preoccupation as the latch clacked shut behind her, the metallic sound ricocheting off of the entryway walls. Her pulse leaped as she scooped up her skirts and darted for the safety of the wide staircase as the sound of fast-approaching footsteps filled the hall from some distant doorway.

Her slippered toe had touched the first step, her cloak unfurling behind her, when suddenly a hard fist knotted in the billowing folds, jerking her to a stop. Unable to stifle a scream, she wheeled toward the hand, her gaze fixing upon the raging visage of Bainbridge Wylder.

"F-Father!" she stammered, her skin stiff with fear.

"Where, by God's blood, have you been?" The words hissed through her father's teeth, his lips blue with fury, his face mottled red.

Maryssa searched desperately for some excuse, some lie to save her from the menace beneath those woolly brows. "I—I wanted to see the Samhain fires, and—"

"Those satanic fires!"

"I overheard the servants whispering about them," Maryssa interrupted despairingly. "And it—it sounded so curious I decided to ride out to see them."

"Hold your lying tongue, girl! You expect me to believe that you, who possess not an ounce of courage, hied yourself off in the middle of the night to watch a horde of pagan wretches dance about fires?"

"Father, I—" Maryssa winced as the blunt fingers closed on her arm, cutting deep into the soft flesh. "I only thought to see what the fuss was about.”

"You'll be seeing the rough side of my hand before this night is over unless you can conjure a more believable tale than that," Bainbridge snarled, ripping the tie of her cloak loose with a force that burned her throat. "Unfortunately, I haven't time now to tend to you as I'd like. You've kept our guests waiting long enough." He hurled the cloak into a heap on the stones, his eyes raking in a derisive sweep over her linsey-woolsey petticoats, honey brown against the muslin modesty piece set in her plain bodice.