Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (28 page)

Maryssa's stomach wrenched, her eyes flicking to the block of light from the arched doorway of the library. "G-guests?" she repeated. "At this time of night?" Her fingers nervously smoothed a wisp of hair back from her temple. "Father, who has come?”

"The good colonel, Quentin Rath, has driven over from Roantree," Bainbridge snapped. "But more importantly—"

A footstep echoed along the corridor, and it was as though the chill of the night had suddenly seeped into the walls.

"But more importantly," echoed a cold voice, "your eager bridegroom has come to wait upon you."

The sickeningly familiar voice crawled over Maryssa's flesh, and she felt it like the brush of a corpse's hand. Dread and fear knotted in her stomach, then were forgotten in a surge of savage protectiveness. She folded her hands across the slight swell of her abdomen as an almost unearthly sensation of evil seemed to permeate the corridor. Reluctantly she dragged her gaze from her father's face to where Sir Ascot Dallywoulde's rapier-thin body slashed the candlelight.

The shadows of the night clung to his death-hued skin and to the sparse blond hair clinging about flesh as shrunken as any cadaver's. His thin lips parted in a cruel smile beneath eyes that burned with hellish zeal.

"Sir . . . Sir Ascot . . ." Maryssa choked, battling the hideous feeling that those fanatical eyes could pierce her very soul, gaze through the folds of linsey-woolsey into the sanctuary of her womb. She leaned against the carved banister in an unconscious effort to shield her stomach from Dallywoulde's sight. "You—you're supposed to be—"

"Watching Jeremy Bludgeon's execution?" Ascot paced toward her with a dangerous stride. "The cowardly villain decided to cheat his judges out of their due. He hanged himself in his cell the evening after sentence was passed."

Maryssa stifled a sick gasp. "How—how horrible!"

"Horrible? Aye. He robbed us of an afternoon's pleasure."

"I meant that the poor wretch was so desperate he—" Maryssa cut the sentence off, seeing the varying degrees of anger, disapproval, and disbelief on the faces of the two men.

Dallywoulde shrugged. "In any case, Bludgeon's well-deserved death enabled me to conclude matters in London sooner than I had hoped, so it was possible to be reunited with the woman who made the season past in London so . . . memorable. I assure you that I hastened to your side the moment my business was concluded." Light glinted off his small, sharp teeth, and Maryssa shuddered at the hate that was scarcely concealed in those ice-pale eyes. She forced herself to meet and hold the Englishman's gaze.

Stiffening her quaking knees, Maryssa forced her lips into what she prayed would pass for a smile. “It is a pity you tired your horse so. I can't tell you what a comfort it was knowing that you were being so satisfactorily entertained—so far away from me that I could not be forced to join in your revelry."

Sir Ascot's thin lips curled in menace, icy anger staining his cheekbones with color. "Oh, I intend quite a revel, my dear, after you wed me. I shall exact from you just retribution for the sins you committed at Thorndyke Place."

Maryssa flinched, then steeled herself, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her jerk away as his bony fingers closed over her hand, lifting it to his damp lips. She felt the sharp edges of his teeth beneath their thin veil of flesh, felt the barely hidden threat within as Dallywoulde's eyes glowed like pale slits in his white face.

"I assure you I have a long memory." Ascot smirked. "And in giving me your hand in marriage, your father has made clear his desire that I curb your wayward impulses and mold you into womanly obedience. Uncle Bainbridge has allowed you too much license, cousin, but once you are under my rule, you will learn your place."

Maryssa glanced at her father's face, expecting an outburst of anger directed at Dallywoulde for the insult just paid him, but Bainbridge Wylder's craggy features were as impassive as stone. “It is her mother's blood that taints her thus," he growled, his eyes narrowing on Maryssa. "But I have faith that you, Ascot, have a will strong enough to crush her cursed rebelliousness with as much ease as you do the lowly scum who stir violence in these lands."

Dallywoulde's lips stretched into a wintry smile. “By the time I sail for England, I will have had much practice in snuffing out rebelliousness—what with clearing the countryside of priests, aye, and snaring the Black Falcon in my noose. It will be child's play for me to quell the sinful stubbornness of one woman."

Maryssa’s throat tightened at the vision of this evil knight hunting down Tade and gentle Devin, but she firmly pulled her fingers from Dallywoulde’s grasp. “Perhaps, Sir Ascot, you will find your quest not so simple, once you brave the Donegal wilds," she said, leveling her gaze on his cruel eyes. "And I promise you, tearing out my 'sinful stubbornness' will prove a worthy challenge, once you have murdered your way through these lands."

Her father's furious gasp mingled with a menacing hiss from Dallywoulde, and Maryssa's courage nearly faltered.

"By God, you impertinent—" Her father's beefy hand flashed out to strike her, but before the blow could land, Ascot Dallywoulde's tensile fingers closed around her chin, digging deep into the tender flesh.

"Nay, Uncle Bainbridge." Dallywoulde's moist breath dampened Maryssa's skin. “It will be my task to drive the wickedness out of this vassal of Eve. Always it has been thus—men, carved in God's image, preyed upon by temptresses with their sinful bodies and lying smiles. But I promise you that as soon as the papist scum that infests your land lies rotting in hell, I shall drag your daughter through cleansing fire as well. Make her a humble servant of the light." Dallywoulde's gaze flicked to the furious countenance of her father. "If you would leave us for a little, good uncle."

Maryssa cast a pleading look at Bainbridge Wylder's implacable face and felt anger snap through her at her father's scorn. With a grunt of disgust, he spun on his heel and stalked back toward the door, where a cunning-eyed Quentin Rath lurked.

Resolve coursed through Maryssa, born of the new strength and sense of worth Tade had blessed her with, and of the knowledge that she had little left to lose. She flung her head back, the heavy seal ring on Dallywoulde's finger gouging her cheek as she broke his hold on her chin. "I have nothing to say to you, sir, be it in the company of my father, or here, alone," she said, stiffening her spine. “I’m no longer the shy girl you terrorized at Thorndyke Place."

Dallywoulde's eyes glinted. His lips stretched into a sneer. "I have found that cleansing sins from the souls of the fallen is much like breaking men upon the rack, milady. When one level of suffering no longer suffices, I only need to twist the wheel tighter.''

Those evil eyes flicked in a cold path down her body, pausing for terrifying seconds on her slim waist. It was as though some devil had given his minion the power to see every sweep of Tade's hands on her skin, as if those chill white lips sneered at a union of the flesh, which this cold knight regarded with nothing but revulsion.

Maryssa felt the stab of those pale eyes, fear tearing like talons at her courage. If Ascot Dallywoulde suspected she had joined her body with Tade's . . . if he knew of the child she might carry, he would shower her and her babe with vengeance in the name of his wrathful God, crushing them beneath the weight of his fanaticism.

Fear cut through her as she turned and fled up the stairs, the hideous sound of Sir Ascot's laughter filling her with dread.

“It will not always be so easy to elude me, milady," Dallywoulde said. "Soon it will be my estates through which you flee, my power that will hold you captive." Ascot licked his lips, a twisted pleasure stinging along his veins as he watched Maryssa's slender form dash up the huge stone stairway. The wench had always seemed like a weakling of a chit, her eyes round with fear, flinching when he had dragged her to his favored spectacles at Tyburn Tree and within Newgate's walls. Never had he expected his whey-faced cousin to turn on him like a raging kitten, claws spread. He steepled his fingers upon his brocaded waistcoat, a sensation of eagerness stealing over him.

Dallywoulde had decided to wed the chit in exchange for Bainbridge Wylder's vast wealth. He had taken pleasure in tormenting her, watching her writhe on the blade of his justice. How much more entertaining it would be to watch the budding spirit he had seen within her fade and die, crushed beneath his boot heel when she was in truth his wife.

His dearest cousin had a secret, Ascot thought slyly. He had seen it in her eyes, which were now shadowed with fear. But then, Ascot mused, taking his snuffbox from his pocket and flicking it open with a manicured finger, the most dreaded priest hunter in all Christendom was most adept at wrenching secret from people.

A knock on the outer door made Sir Ascot stride to the portal and fling it open.

There on the step stood a weasel of a man decked out in Quentin Rath's livery. "Beg pardon, sir." The man gave a stiff bow. "I bring a message for my master, Colonel Rath."

"Give the message to me. I'll see it reaches his ear."

The man squirmed, his cheeks turning a dull red. "F-forgive me, sir, but I vowed I'd give it to the colonel himself. It is a most important matter. One that I dare not trust to anyone but—"

"Symington?"

Dallywoulde's teeth clenched as Rath's voice grated along his nerves. The incompetent peacock was striding toward the servant with a look of such pomposity Dallywoulde had an urge to boot the colonel in his wide buttocks.

"Aye, sir." Symington's pointed features revealed his relief. “There is a message, sir, I dared not hold until you arrived back at the barracks. Itis regarding an informer who—" Symington bit his lips, glancing nervously at Sir Ascot, and the knight couldn't resist frightening the oaf with one of his most chilling stares.

Rath glanced from his distressed servant to Dallywoulde, and Sir Ascot could see understanding dawning on the colonel's dull face.

"Pay no heed to Sir Ascot, Symington," Rath said, then faltered as Dallywoulde turned his frigid gaze upon him. "I—I mean, Sir Ascot Dallywoulde is privy to all that concerns the affairs hereabouts. The most noted priest hunter in England, he is, and kind enough to journey here to aid us in crushing that scoundrel, the Black Falcon."

“It is no act of kindness," Sir Ascot cut in. "Your cursed highwayman is but another scrap of filth to scoop into the devil's basin. 'Tis the priests' blood I hunger for. Now, what message is it this lout has dragged in?"

Symington's Adam's apple bobbed in his gangly throat. "Sir, I am told that an informer awaits you at the Devil's Grin."

Rath snorted. "More often than not these informers are but beggars expecting the Crown's good coin."

"Nay, sir, not this time. I heard tell that this one is different. A woman, sir. Aye, and a Catholic."

Dallywoulde's eyes narrowed. "A woman," he said, fingering the gold cross dangling from his watch chain. "No one can be more vicious than a woman, Colonel Rath. Aye, and no beast of prey proves more eager than a member of the gentler sex to sink its fangs into another."

Rath started to bark a command to a sleepy-eyed footman, but Dallywoulde's harsh voice cut him off.

"Nay, good Colonel." The knight's lips snaked over his teeth. "This time there will be none of your bungling."

Rath blanched, his cheeks puffing with outrage, but Dallywoulde plunged on, scenting the kill. "You have emptied a sizable purse into bringing me here to flush out the vermin that beset your lands. It is time I began to ply my craft." Dallywoulde turned and strode to where his mantle hung. "This papist informer," he said, swirling the gray folds about him, “she'll betray to us even more than she suspects. She'll betray her own mother before I have done with her."

Dallywoulde drew the mantle closed about his skeletal form, sensing the fascinated fear emanating from the colonel and his servant—the same sinister fear he had engendered in scores of secret Catholics—and in the changeable eyes of Maryssa Wylder. He gloried in it, reveled in the terror he could spawn. He threw back his head, and rare, grating laughter echoed through the corridor as he stepped into the night.

P
osted as sentry
, Tade stared down into the valley at Christ's Wound, his throat raw from the two dozen leathern jacks of ale he had drained the night before, his eyes burning with bitterness. The spirits of Samhain were banished. The demons had been cast back into their hell, and the bonfires' brands lay cold, ground to ashes beneath the cart wheels that had rumbled through the crossroads. But even here, with the November sun blessing the hidden glen and the ragged crowd of faithful who had come to attend the All Hallows Day mass, Tade could find no peace. He doubted he would ever know peace again, tormented as he was by the memory of haunted eyes flecked with sea green, sapphire, and gold.

"Damn her!" he swore beneath his breath, his eyes stinging with hurt and betrayal. "Damn her to the same hell she consigned our love to, condemned me to. It was her choice to leave me, her choice to turn coward and run."

Yet, even as he cursed the day he had placed his heart in Maryssa Wylder's hands, he felt a horrible emptiness, as though his heart had been ripped from his chest, leaving only a barren wasteland—a wasteland filled with memories of sable hair spilling over breasts the hue of alabaster, of a tremulous mouth tipping up in a smile, and of laughter, such wondrous laughter, all the sweeter because he had been the first to draw it from her.

His gaze blurred, casting the bowed heads of the worshipers, Devin's earnest face, even the mass rock with its crude wooden crucifix, into a haze of pain. The first. Aye, he had been the first to make Maryssa laugh, to romp with her and tumble her in sweet meadow grass, to lie with her beneath the coverlets and coax cries of ecstasy from her. And in bringing these wonders to her he had felt a greater joy than he'd ever known, a passion so fierce, so consuming, that he had been willing to sacrifice all he loved—the wild lands, his family, aye, even his honor, to carry her away with him.

"But she turned coward," Tade growled under his breath. "A coward, who dared skulk about in the bushes, mating with me like a furtive creature of night, but lacked the courage to throw off the veils of secrecy, to declare our love before all, and to cleave to me as my wife."

Why should she take a landless wretch to husband when she was already betrothed?
a voice mocked inside him.
Betrothed to a velvet-bellied popinjay with perfumes and silver to shower down upon her.

Talons seemed to claw at Tade's belly, twisting and tearing as he shut his eyes against the remembrance of this last, most agonizing betrayal of his love. During that long-ago night, when he had woven garlands of roses to bring Maryssa joy, when he had drawn her into the fairy world he had formed for her as a gift of love, she had belonged to another man. Pledged to wed since she lay in her swaddling clothes, she had claimed the union was a matter of properties to be joined, wealth to be gained. Well, damn it, Tade Kilcannon had no wealth to offer her except the pistol jammed into his belt. The lands that had been his to inherit were now in Bainbridge Wylder's thieving hands.

A bitter laugh tore at Tade. What a sick, twisted irony it was that the lands he should rightfully have inherited were to bind the woman he loved to another. Aye, the very stones his ancestors' kerns had hewn would be Maryssa Wylder's marriage portion; the lands in whose defense his father and grandfather had spilled their blood would be her dowry.

Would Tade, then, in years hence, be forced to watch her driving in her fine carriage up to Nightwylde's gates and alight there upon the arm of the man who was her husband?

A curse breached his lips, the oath so savage that he heard Greenan O'Toole's grunt of disapproval and caught the censure in the golden eyes so like the man's eldest daughter's. Tade's gaze flashed away from the glowering older man, fleetingly aware of the absence of Sheena's tawny head from among the O'Toole brood. His mouth set, grim. It was a relief to him that the chit was not there to turn her injured pout upon him, to gaze at him with infuriating reproach, as though he had played her foul. That would be all he needed to drive him past sanity.

Pain twisted in Tade's throat, misery that would not be denied. If affairs had gone as planned last night, he would be holding Maryssa in his arms now, her body so warm and soft, her cheek pressed trustingly to his shoulder. Her eyes would be shining up at him as though he were some hero of legend come real.

But that could never be. It was only a misty fantasy, as unrealistic as the tales his mother had spun for him in her castle room a lifetime ago. From the first he had known that his love for Maryssa was impossible, and he had defied the fates, God, aye, even his father to grasp at a dream. But like the warriors in the bards' ancient tales, he had been left with nothing except his honor, his quest, and the keen edge of his sword.

His fingers tightened on the butt of the pistol secreted beneath the folds of his mantle, and his gaze swept out toward Nightwylde. Nay, he thought. Even if Maryssa did return to Ireland in some distant future, it was likely that the Black Falcon would have taken the penny road to heaven by then, having failed to rob the gallows of its due.

His eyes swept the crowd below, espying the O'Donnel twins, Ryan Moynihan, and the three O'Byrne brothers in the midst of their families. All but four of Tade's rebel band knelt on the ground in prayer, their knives and pistols tucked beneath their threadbare clothes.

Tade clenched his teeth. They had lost three men in the raid that had freed Muldowny, and since then the Sassenach soldiers had been hot for vengeance against those who had made them look like fools. How long would it be before the English wolves snapped the jaws of some trap shut, to rid them of the Falcon forever? How long before some miscalculation threw the rebels into the Sassenachs' grasp? Tade's fists knotted, his gaze shifting away from the men who had entrusted him with their lives.

A blur of movement in the distance made him curse, as he recognized Greenan O'Toole's gray mare cantering toward the rise, Sheena astride its sway back. But his irritation vanished as his eyes narrowed against the sun, fighting to block out the sharp spikes of brightness that obscured the hillside to the west with splashes of color—vivid color that stung his eyes, the crimson of fresh-spilt blood.

A sick, knifing sensation drove itself into Tade's gut as the hill seemed to move, rushing forward amid flashes of black, bay, and roan. “Sweet mother of God,” Tade hissed, as the forms snapped into sharp focus. He caught a fleeting glimpse of Sheena wheeling her mount around, assumed that she had been riding to warn the tiny congregation and knew she was too late. Aye, too late, as his own warning would come. Tade bolted toward the valley, sliding down the hillside as fear surged through him, horrified at what his mind's wanderings had allowed to come upon the quiet glen.

"Raid!" His voice shattered the sound of Devin's gentle Latin. "Flee, for God's sake, it is a raid!"

Never in his life would Tade forget the faces that turned up to him, pale, terrified, frozen for an instant with a horror too great to comprehend. He saw Devin grab up the crucifix, his voice, resonant with authority, urging the people to scatter, run.

Gun barrels glinted in the hands of the O'Donnels and the O'Byrnes. Ryan Moynihan dashed with them to shield the retreating crowd as the vale, so tranquil but a heartbeat before, erupted into madness. Mothers scooped up babes, fathers fought to herd their families toward what safety might be found in the rocky countryside. Strong arms locked about the aged, the crippled, and the young.

Tade caught a glimpse of Rachel among the sea of humanity, struggling vainly to cling to Tom and Brody, while Kane Kilcannon forged ahead, his arms weighted with a wriggling, sobbing Katie and tiny baby Ryan. Even through the screams of fear, Tade could hear his father's gruff voice shouting encouragement to Shane and Deirdre, could see Kane battling to shore up the courage of the little ones.

Tade called out to Devin, seeing his light hair farther ahead in the crowd, the crucifix still clutched in his hand. "Damn it, Dev, run!" Tade cried, desperation sending fire through his muscles as he surged forward. He turned, yanking the pistol from his belt as the wave of soldiers crested the hill. A dozen weapons blazed, spitting death into the ragged crowd as the horsemen charged down on them.

With a cry of rage, Tade leveled his own pistol at the raiders' leader in a desperate hope that if he could down the stout Rath, the troops would fall into confusion. He felt the powder flare to life as he pulled the trigger, saw the blaze of orange, and Rath's hands closing over his belly.

But there was scarce time to feel even the feral rush of pleasure in killing the man who had tormented the Catholics for so long. For even as Rath tumbled from his mount, Tade's eyes locked on another man, a man who was bearing down on the crowd like a rider from the Apocalypse. Tade stared at the figure but an instant, yet in that moment the rider's face burned itself indelibly into his mind—fanatical eyes, fleshless lips taut over sharp teeth, and a face, so thin, so evil, it seemed to have been spawned by the Dark Reaper himself.

Then suddenly a cry of pain from the rear of the retreating crowd drew Tade's gaze to tumbling copper curls and a tangle of skirts. Deirdre. Sick horror wrenched his soul as he saw Rachel stumble to Dee's side, saw his sister struggle to gain her feet.

"Rachel, nay!" Tade shouted, racing toward them, dodging pistol fire and the wounded who had fallen. "I'll get her!"

Scarce pausing in his flight, Tade snatched up his sister, her cry of pain tearing at him as his hand closed over the hot flow of blood from her shoulder. He gritted his teeth, burying Deirdre's sobs of terror in his chest as he ran into the wild lands that would prove their only hope—praying that the others whom he loved had been spared the soldiers' wrath as well.

T
ade bit
the edge of muslin, rending his bedding into strips with which to bind the wounds of the soldier's victims. The cave that had been Devin's haven seemed now a scene wrought from the Last Judgment—masses of the damned clawing hopelessly at stone, writhing in pain, cowering in terror, or worse still, staring at the wall with faces blank of all emotion, devoid of all hope.

They had been straggling in for the past hour, some scarcely able to crawl, others nearly hysterical as they searched for their loved ones in the crowded cave. Tade yanked at the cloth savagely, gritting his teeth against the most horrible sounds of all . . . that of mothers crying for their children and of little ones, their faces stiff with fear, sobbing for parents who would never come again. He glanced at the cave opening once more, tortured by his own fear of loss. The Kilcannon family had been among the first to reach the cave. Rachel and the little ones had spread out the coverlets to form beds for the injured; Kane had barked orders to the men as they arrived.

Tade had seen the scarlet stain on his father's side the moment the earl had charged into the cave and had hastened to him, meaning to bare the wound and tend it. But the earl had roared at him to aid the others first. Tade's fears for his father's life had eased, and he had turned to help the others, certain that his father's wound must be but a trifling one. Yet as he labored over the slashes and bullet wounds left by the Sassenach onslaught, the absence of one Kilcannon grew increasingly terrifying—Devin's golden head and solemn, gentle face were nowhere to be seen.

Tade's gaze flashed back to the bandaging, and he gritted his teeth. The last survivors of the massacre in the glen were still making their way toward the cave, winding through the wild lands like terrified deer as they tried to evade the patrols the soldiers had doubtless formed to sweep up any who had escaped. Devin had to be among them somewhere, aiding those who had been hurt, shepherding them toward safety. Yet with each moment that his slender form failed to darken the cave's entryway, the coil of dread tightened in Tade's belly.

He started, his gaze leaping to the figure beside him as a shaky, pale hand grabbed the bandage from his fingers, his gaze fixing upon the strained countenance of Deirdre. A score of freckles stood out stark against her chalky skin and her mouth was set in resolve as she turned to wrap up little Andrew MacGary's wounded leg.

"Dee, I told you to lie down," Tade snapped, snatching the bandages away from her. "That shoulder could well get putrid, or break open and start to bleed again."

“It is only a scrape," Deirdre shot back, but the tremor in her voice betrayed the fire Tade knew must burn in the fresh wound. "There are scarce enough to aid the others, and someone has to.”

Little Andrew looked up at them with sorrowful eyes, his tiny mouth puckering in a way that wrenched Tade's heart. "Dedra, hurts," he whimpered. “’Drew hurts."

Tade saw tears glisten on Deirdre's lashes. Her mouth trembled. "I know, Andy love. Deirdre will fix it right up."' She knelt down beside the child, and Tade felt a twinge of sorrow as he saw the carefree impish face he had loved and tormented grown suddenly far older than her fifteen years. He put the bandages into her hand, his voice catching as he chided, "don't push yourself too hard, Dee. That was no scrape Rath dealt you, and you'll do no one any good if you're stricken with fever or exhaustion."

She nodded, her tangled curls falling in a curtain about her face as she bent over the child. Tade pressed his fingers against his eyelids, remembering Deirdre's courage as he had cleansed the slash the pistol ball had cut into her flesh, remembering the rigid clenching of her jaw as she had insisted that he allow her to walk, claiming he'd need his strength later to tend to the victims of the raid.

If there had been in Maryssa Wylder even a fragment of such bravery he'd be halfway to France by now, not buried here among filth, blood, and hopelessness. Tade drove his fist into the cave wall, feeling his skin split on the stone.
You belong here, astride your stallion
... Maryssa's tortured words echoed in his mind.
With your silken hood and your pistols firing. What would become of these people if you were to run off with me?