Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (37 page)

She wheeled to face him, hoping, praying, that his effort to warm her might also whisper of deeper feelings—hidden, yet still there. But when her eyes caught his, questioning, achingly hopeful, the wild fluttering in her heart died.

"Nay, Maura," he sneered. "I'm not prey any longer to that cursed vulnerability you're able to call to your face. I'd not give a damn if you froze to death, milady, excepting one small difficulty. Even we Irish brigands have an aversion to watching the mothers of our babes court death of the grippe."

Maryssa's breath caught, her hands flashing to where the slight swell of her stomach lay hidden beneath her gown. The unholy light gleaming in Tade's eyes made her take a step backward. "Babe . . . Tade, I—"

"Nay, milady, save your confessions for the parson once I drag you down to the Fleet Street dens. I've been tearing across half of England as if hell were at my heels in an effort to find you, and I have precious little stomach for more of your lies. Six of your thieving father's estates I had to scour before I arrived here. And I might even still be on my way to Yorkshire, had I not had the good fortune to run afoul of some farmer who was carrying his late-harvested apples to Carradown's kitchen for the fête tonight."

"Tade—"

"This much I swear to you, Maura-love," he fair spat the endearment, threaded through with scorn. "The child of the heir Kilcannon will be bred up in no Sassenach's lair, a bastard born with nothing but a lying mother and some weakling English fop to play sire to it." Tade's fingers caught her chin, yanking her face up until the full fury of his green gaze seared her. “My son or my daughter will be born with a sword in its hand, weaned on tales of Devin's death and Sassenach treachery. Aye, this child will grow strong and brave—"

"And full of the hatred that burns now in you? I remember when you despised the hate your father felt for all things, all people, English, and I remember when your dearest friend was of Sassenach blood," Maryssa cried, fierce protectiveness raging like a tigress within her. "I would have given my babe into your care then without fear, rejoicing—rejoicing that it would have you as father. But now . . . Nay, Tade, I'll not sacrifice my babe to your hate."

"You dare accuse me of hate? You who know nothing of what love is? Real love. A love that dares sacrifice all-- even life, if need be—to shelter the one who has captured your heart?"

"Oh, nay, Tade." Her voice was soft, so soft. "I know nothing of a love that would cast all to the wind to save the one who has captured your heart."

She saw his gaze falter for for an instant, his hand flashing up to rake at his hood-covered hair, The tricornered hat tumbled off. He cursed.

Damn her, his mind railed. Damn her for standing there, so pale, so beautiful, and so cursed proud, with her eyes battling tears, and the mouth that had lied to him, cheated him of his honor, trembling with sorrow. Tade glared at her, hating himself for the sudden need he felt to reach out, draw her into his arms, cradle the babe that nested within her in the broad palm of his hand. In his mind he could hear once again Deirdre's pleas and explanations as she begged him to understand, weaving a picture of Maryssa's selflessness, love, and respect for Devin's last wishes in the place where Tade's heart had seen only lying, treachery, betrayal. Nay, his heart insisted, Maura had betrayed him, through her plot to keep him away from Dev, but even more through her plan to steal the babe that he, Tade, had conceived in her.

He spun around and slammed his fist into a pillar twined with vines as lifeless as his faith, his trust. He turned his head to glower over one shoulder at Maryssa who stood like a tortured Madonna in the wintry moonlight. "You're coming back to Ireland with me," he bit out, "as my wife."

"Your wife?"

"Aye. Until the babe is born you'll stay with Rachel and Da, and then—” He looked away, unable to bear the suffering in her face, “—then, if you want to crawl back to your puling English cousin, I'll do nothing to stop you."

"But my child—"

"Nay, Maryssa, my child. My child will stay in the mountains your thrice-damned Sassenach father stole from him."

"Damn you, Tade Kilcannon!" Anger tore at Maryssa's voice, and he wheeled to see that vulnerable, delicate mouth contorted in fury. "If you think for an instant I'll condemn my babe to live with a father who despises the woman who bore it, you're mad! I spent my life paying for my mother's supposed sins. My father was scarcely able to bear the sight of me. My babe—"

"Stay in Ireland, then!" Tade, despising himself for the stirring of hope that raked his heart. He steeled himself against it. "Raise the babe beside me to make certain I don't abuse it, as the saintly Bainbridge Wylder abused you!" The words were venom. “It is none of my concern what you do with your precious life, milady. But the babe will know itself to be my son or daughter. Will know that the blood of Irish kings runs in its veins. Aye, and will know that it has the love of the man who rides as the Black Falcon."

"Damn you, Tade—"

"Don't waste your blasted curse. I've been damned since the moment I met you," he grated. "But you will not have to endure my company overlong. Since neither of us can stand the sight of the other and seeing as you and Dev, in your infinite wisdom, believe me capable of nothing but riding the highroads, I'll take to the night with a vengeance. Maybe you'll be lucky, and I'll be snared by some Sassenach bullet."

"Nay, milord Falcon,” a voice purred behind them, “it will not be so quick and painless for you."

Tade heard Maryssa cry warning, wheeled. His primal instinct was to hurl himself at the speaker, but in the fleeting instant of a heartbeat, his muscles tensed and only his lightning reflexes saved him from impaling himself upon the sharp-honed point of a sword.

Impotent rage seared through him, his gaze leaping to the six men who had trapped him within the crook of the terrace walls, pistols in hand, faces savage. And Tade cursed himself for the folly that had robbed him of instincts sharpened in scores of skirmishes and a hundred night raids, raging inwardly that he had heard nothing, known nothing, but the need to scourge Maryssa. Icy, evil, the eyes of the man who wielded the sword locked upon Tade through the crimson mask that had veiled the face of Maryssa's cousin.

The sword jabbed toward him, piercing the flesh on Tade's chest. A stinging pain cut him, but it was nothing compared to the anguish on Maryssa's delicate face.

"Nay!" She screamed fiercely, stumbling forward in an attempt to dodge between him and the point of the blade, but a shadow-veiled hand flashed out, yanking her away.

Tade's furious gaze slashed to the man who held her, and he was sickened when he saw Bainbridge Wylder's rage-bloated face.

But before he could lunge for the hated Englishman, rough hands clamped over Tade's arms from behind, dragging him back, holding him captive. He struggled for an instant and stopped, glaring into the face of Maryssa's cursed father.

"Let her go, Wylder." Tade's voice was velvet soft, menacing.

"The trollop is my daughter. I'll do with her what I choose.”

"Nay, Uncle Bainbridge. It is I who will have the privilege of dealing with my beloved cousin—and I shall take the greatest of pleasure in breaking her."

Rage and helplessness tore through Tade as those cold eyes raked Maryssa, then shifted to Tade's own concealed face.

“But first. . .” Evil lips curled into a sneer. “It is time the world learned what lowling murderer cowers beneath this Falcon's hood."

Tade's head snapped back as a blunt hand closed upon the black silken mask, ripping it from his head. He glared defiance at the men who now gaped at him, the wintry wind stinging his cheeks.

"Kilcannon," Wylder choked, paling as though a specter had risen to haunt him. "A cursed Kilcannon."

Chill blue eyes narrowed, and it was as though Tade could see some eerie candle flame flicker in the swordsman's mind. "Kilcannon," he sneered. "Kilcannon was the name of the priest at Rookescommon." Tade saw the cunning eyes flick to Maryssa. "You were trying to save your lover's kin from pain with the pistol you wielded!"

The purring, triumphant voice pierced Tade's heart. "Pistol?” Tade echoed, a sick dread and certainty twisting in his gut.

"Aye." Thin lips curled, and in his gloating smirk Tade could feel the pull of hell. "Imagine my shock at finding my weak-bellied betrothed among the crowd that had gathered to gloat over the priest's torture. And then to see her bring a pistol to bear at the condemned's chest."

"Who are you, damn it?"

“It is only fair that you should know." The man smirked again, shade-pale fingers catching the string of the crimson mask. "Though my face should be seared upon your papist soul."

The velvet-edged mask of blood red loosened beneath the man's pale fingers. Tade stared, his muscles bunching to hurl himself at the man. He caught a glimpse of Maryssa tearing away from her father, lunging toward Tade as the mask fell away. Features, pale as a vision from hell, seared into Tade's soul, tearing at him with the memory of Devin's gentle face.

Dallywoulde.

"You, " Tade snarled. “You murdering bastard!" With a bellow of rage, Tade broke free of the arms that restrained him, half-crazed at the sight of Devin's killer.

He hurled himself at Dallywoulde as Maryssa yanked at the sword, preventing the blade from slashing Tade's side. The silvery edge bit flesh, but he scarce felt the pain; he felt nothing but the need to crush the leering Dallywoulde's throat.

His hands closed over that thin neck, squeezing, crushing, but before he could wreak his vengeance, something hard cracked down, glancing off of the base of his skull. Blinded by rage and blood, he staggered, then fell, glimpsing the heavy toe of a boot arching toward him. The blow slammed into his ribs and sent him sprawling on the terrace stones, driving all breath from his lungs.

"Nay! Tade!" He heard Maryssa's cry, felt her hands catch him, hold him, as he struggled to right himself.

He caught a glimmer of steel aimed at his heart, saw Dallywoulde's cold serpent's eyes narrow, gauging the kill, but the arms that curved around Tade tightened fiercely, the voice he heard but inches from his ringing ears penetrating even the blinding pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Kill him and I'll announce to all here that I am carrying Tade Kilcannon's child." Maryssa's words were whisper soft, yet hard as the point of the sword that gouged the flesh of Tade's chest. "Aye, Father, I will."

Tade jerked his gaze into focus, seeing the strained, puffy face of Bainbridge Wylder beside Dallywoulde's evil one. Wylder's face was as gray as old clay, his eyes burning with rage and a kind of sick horror.

"With child!" Wylder choked out. "Dear God, nay."

Tade struggled to his feet, pain driving fiery spikes into his ribs, rage at the Englishman and self-loathing roiling inside him. But the point of the sword scribed deeper, biting into the sheath of muscle beneath his lawn shirt as the loathsome knight's minions closed in on him. "Damn you," he grated. "I swear I'll see you dead!"

"Nay, milord Falcon. You'll see me gloating as you dangle from a hangman's noose. Aye, and whilst you go to meet Satan, you'll know full well that your whore and your bastard lie beneath my boot heel to be crushed as I see fit."

"Touch Maura or my child and I vow I'll kill you if I have to fight my way out of the grave."

"Is that so, Black Falcon?" Dallywoulde chuckled. "Even here in England I have heard the legends your ignorant Irish barbarians weave about you. The tales of the cloak that melts you into night, and of the sorcerer's spell that changes each bullet that strikes you into a measure of greater strength. But those legends will die when you swing from a gallows."

"Nay, Dallywoulde. For each priest you murder, for each schoolmaster you hang in Donegal's hills, a hundred more the like of me will rise up to fight you. And I will be at their head. I swear it by God's own blood."

“Do you think the God of might and justice would allow one like you to defeat his servant? Nay, Kilcannon. You'll burn in hell after you suffer the death I intended for that cursed priest. And your harlot will spend her life paying for the sins she committed in your bed.'' He jerked his head toward the men circled around them. "Take him to Newgate," Dallywoulde said, "to await the traitor's death."

"Nay, Ascot, Father, for the love of God!" Maryssa's cry ripped at Tade's heart and her hands clutched him as Dallywoulde's minions closed about him, their eyes lusting for blood.

"Maura, it is all right. It will be all right, love," he tried to soothe her as the burly arms ripped him from her grasp. His eyes clung to hers as someone bound his hands, and he prayed she could see even half the emotions that still warred within him. "Maura-love." His voice rasped from his throat. "Sorry. I'm so—"

"Tade!" She struggled desperately against her father's crushing grasp as Dallywoulde shoved Tade through the breach in the pillars. One final flash of grief-laden emerald eyes caught her, held her, as Tade stumbled forward. Then the night seemed to consume him, engulf all except the echoes of savage, hungry taunts.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, stifling a sob as rage-driven hands closed about her, dragging her relentlessly off the terrace to a secluded door. She fought against her father's bruising grip, terror and horror clawing inside her, the dark, drafty stairway and the hall above it filled with images of Tade beneath Ascot's cruel hands, helpless in the twisted knight's power. Her eyes fastened on a doorway, carved gold with candlelight against the dimness, and the terror that had filled her exploded into a desperation fiercer than any she'd ever known.

"Father, don't lock me in," she pleaded, as Bainbridge Wylder stalked into the chamber that had been her prison. "Tade . . . I have to go to him. Help him. If you love me at all, if you ever loved me, don't—don't let Tade die."

"Die?" Bainbridge roared, flinging her into the chamber, cracking her hard into the carved post of the bed. "Would I had murdered the bastard when he was half-breeched before—before he could make a whore out of you. Damn you, girl, how could you lie with Kilcannon scum?"