Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (40 page)

The force of the blow nearly shattered the bone sheathed beneath, the momentum slamming Tade's shoulder into the rail guarding the opening in the floor.

Tade felt pain shoot into his ribs and slice deep in his wrist as he fought to force himself to his feet and shove himself away from the gaping maw that threatened certain death. But it was as if the sword still clutched in Dallywoulde's skeletal fingers had taken on a life of its own. Tade leaped to one side, feeling the tip of the blade rend his breeches and rip into one narrow hip.

Greedy lips pulled back from Dallywoulde's teeth, and for the first time Tade fully understood the raw terror the man had struck into Maryssa, fear beyond reason, beyond sanity, a fear of the knight's cruelty and of an evil mind fueled by the twisted belief that he was doing God's work.

"Aye, Kilcannon," Dallywoulde hissed. "You're bleeding now, with but a taste of my blade. One more blow and you'll dance with the devil."

"Only if I drag you there beside me." Gritting his teeth against the pain that pounded in his arm, leg, and side, Tade steeled himself for Dallywoulde's charge, summoning every last ounce of strength to meet the bastard's sword.

Ice cold and triumphant, Dallywoulde's eyes were fixed upon him, both hands clasping the hilt of the sword.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tade caught a flash of movement, then heard Maryssa cry out as she lunged toward something at the far end of the platform. The sound of wood splintering and steel slashing split the air as Dallywoulde lunged toward him, both hands clutching the blood-tipped sword.

Tade's gut clenched as he awaited the agony of steel splitting his flesh, praying for the strength to evade the blow but one last time, hurl both himself and Dallywoulde down to their deaths. Yet in that instant it was as if the earth spun off its axis.

A scream, fierce, savage, and furious, cut through the haze of pain, and he caught a glimpse of wide eyes, tangled mahogany tresses, as something heavy and wooden crashed down on Dallywoulde's skull. Tade saw his foe’s soulless eyes snap wide with shock as Maryssa's hands drove the heavy stool into the Englishman's head. The coils of rope on the floor jerked beneath Tade as Dallywoulde's boot tangled in the twisted lengths of hemp.

The knight pitched forward, and the bell rope snarled into a perilous web about him as he thrashed at the entrapping coils. A hideous scream split the night. The railing shattered as Dallywoulde collapsed against it. Tade felt the blade of the sword whisk past his ear, then heard it clatter into the gaping hole as the man who had held it a heartbeat before catapulted into the abyss.

Dallywoulde shrieked, then the sickening sound wrenched to silence as the rope jerked taut, the belfry echoing with the gut-racking crack of his neck snapping, followed by the deafening peal of the bell.

Tade staggered to his feet, one hand clutching what was left of the broken rail, his eyes locking on the horrible sight limned by the light of the candle.

The lifeless form of Ascot Dallywoulde dangled there in the flickering shadows, his eyes bulging from their sockets, glazing with death, his neck, caught among the hempen coils, twisted at an angle that turned Tade's stomach.

He heard Maryssa run the few steps to where he stood, saw her waver on the edge of the precipice, felt her hands clutch at his shoulder. But despite the burning of his wounds, the sickness clenching in his belly, Tade turned to catch her in arms that trembled.

"Tade. I—oh, thank God he didn't . . ." Her words were broken, threaded through with terror, aye, and love. And he wanted to kiss her, hold her, as he saw those fragile features struggle against the sobs that he sensed were clawing at her chest. But there was no time for anything except to flee the church with its pealing bell, flee the London streets, which in minutes would be crawling with watchmen and guards searching for the escaped Tade Kilcannon.

He reached out, curved his arms beneath Maryssa's knees and shoulders, scooped her up against him, and hastened down the stairway with her caught against his chest.

But already the sound of scurrying feet drifted up from the streets, distant shouts echoing through the night.

He kicked open the heavy door, rushing out into the street, relief washing through him as he saw Dallywoulde's ghost-white mount pawing restlessly with its hooves. Tade caught a glimpse of shadowy figures bursting from the darkness, heard voices, cries, as he flung Maryssa up into the saddle and swung up behind her.

He clutched her tight in his arms as the watch rattles clamored alarm. Muttering an oath that was half curse, half prayer, he pressed his heels into the gelding's barrel, urging the beast into a dead run.

T
he rose
-draped cottage nestled in wreaths of mist, its windowpanes spilling fire-glow out into the shadows of twilight. Tade shifted in Curran's saddle, straining his gaze over Maryssa's slumped, tousled head to where a single taper shone gold in the window—the candle placed as always on the weathered wood sill to beckon him home.

A dull ache swelled in him with each thud of the stallion's hooves, tightening his throat with tears he could not shed.

It was unjust, aye, unjust, he thought numbly, leaning his jaw against Maryssa's sleep-softened cheek. Unjust that now, with Devin dead, it should all look the same.

Yet the crowded cottage rooms would never again be blessed with the joy of Devin's laughter, and the tiny Kilcannons playing on the rugs would not feel those gentle, steadying hands caress them or hear that solemn voice spinning tales of Erin's long-dead heroes. Little Katie and Ryan would remember only shadings of their oldest brother, and even those vague memories would fade at last into nothing.

But the greatest sorrow, perhaps greater even than Tade's own at Devin's death, would be that of Kane Kilcannon, who had treasured the son who had inherited the sweet face and gentle solemnity of the lady-wife he had buried a lifetime ago. And when the only other son born in the majestic halls of Nightwylde turned traitor by taking to wife the daughter of Kane Kilcannon's most hated enemy . . . Tade's jaw was set and hard. Aye, it would nearly destroy the father who had always held his heart despite the rages that had ever beset them.

But there was nothing else he could think to do, nowhere else to go. Tade moved his numb arms, settling the sleeping Maryssa more securely against him, the sound of her weary sigh tugging his heart. His teeth clenched as his gaze swept over her pale features, taut with exhaustion, and the dark circles beneath her eyes.

In the weeks it had taken them to reach England's coast and secure passage on a ship bound for Dublin, the babe Maryssa carried seemed to have doubled in size, thrusting out against her stomach until Tade had had to slit the waist of the ragged breeches she still wore to ease the tightness that had crushed her. And as their babe had grown larger and stronger, Maryssa's own strength had seemed to ebb, the endless journeying in the wind and winter rain washing all color from the cheeks that had always seemed too pale.

She had never complained, always urging him to push onward in their flight. Even when she had been limp with exhaustion, quaking with cold, he had fairly had to force her to lie among the feather quilts of some hospitable farm wife.

He winced, stung deep by the memory of the times he had called her a coward, judged her nothing but a weak, fragile babe, cringing from the shadows. Never had he known anyone who possessed such courage and strength. A strength far deeper than any he could lay claim to. He loved her, this woman who had shed her chrysalis of fear and shyness and blossomed into the most beautiful of brave, bright angels. Loved her with every fiber of his being, every breath he drew, aye, loved her more even than the Donegal hills that had been his mistress for so long.

And yet, the nearer they had drawn to his home, the more deeply these feelings of unease had cut him, for despite the certainty that his love for Maura, and hers for him, now grew strong, one truth yet remained. No matter where they tried to carve out a life together, be it here in Ireland or in England's huge manors, the hatred and prejudice that had threatened to rend them apart for so long would tear at them, leaving one or the other loathed, outcast by those around them. Tade's jaw clenched. He could endure whatever fate could deal him and be content as long as he had Maryssa at his side. But to condemn his Maura and their babes to the life of shadows, clinging always to the edges of love and joy was unbearable.

Tade's gaze swept the oaken cottage door, closed against the encroaching night, and reined Curran to a halt. Nay, there had to be a place—some place free of the loathing that caused men of faith to murder, kill, and hate in the name of a gentle God. During the nights he had tipped ale with the rest of his rebel band in scores of different inns all across Ireland, he had heard tales of the colonies that lay an ocean away—raw, wild lands, rich with the promise of wealth to any man with the courage to wrest a fortune from those fertile fields.

True, those colonies were under English rule, but the people were a mingling of displaced noblemen, tradesmen, and adventurers seeking to devise their own laws and struggling to throw off the chains of the old ones—a nation of men well used to battling for what was theirs. As soon as Maura was well, as soon as the babe thrived sturdy and strong, he would take them away from the despair that was his Ireland. He would hew out a life for them in the distant Carolinas or the tobacco fields of Virginia. But until then he would seek to shield her here, within the walls of the cottage in which he had grown to manhood.

Careful to jar her as little as possible, he eased from the saddle, cradling her in his arms. A tendril of mahogany hair drifted across her parted lips, and he nudged it aside with his chin. "Tade?" His name was slurred upon her tongue, blurred with sleep, as she nuzzled against his chest, her lashes scarce stirring upon the pale curve of her cheeks.

"Shh, sweeting, it is all right," he breathed gently. "Sleep, just—"

His soothing words were lost in the sudden thud of the oaken door as a whirl of rose-colored skirts hurtled from the opening. The freckles bespattering the impudent little nose were the same, as was the gladsome cry Deirdre uttered, but Tade felt a tug of sadness that aside from those two features, his sister seemed much changed. She hastened toward him, catching his arm in a quick, loving squeeze, her eyes filling with tears of happiness. But the wild red curls he had always loved were no longer tangled in disarray about her shoulders; the unruly tresses were now plaited in a crown of woman's braids.

"Dee." His voice sounded rough on his tongue as he stared at her, sensing—in the new consideration that made her pause instead of flinging herself upon him and shrieking—a maturity that wrung his heart.

"Tade, did you—Is Maryssa—" Dee reached out to touch Maryssa's pale cheek. "Dear God, she's not—"

Fragile eyelids fluttered open, a tired smile tugging at the corner of Maryssa's mouth as her gaze flickered to Deirdre. Tade's heart twisted.

"Nay, Dee, I'm not an invalid yet, though your brother seems determined to treat me like one.” Maryssa wrapped her arms about his neck and struggled to get him to ease her to the ground.

He saw her legs wobble, scarce able to support her, and his arm curved tight about her waist. "She's half dead with weariness," he said. "We've been fleeing the blasted Sassenachs since she broke me free of Newgate.”

“It was Maryssa who wrested you from Newgate? Reeve Marlow had scarce gotten word that the Falcon—that you had been taken when we heard all of London was agog over your escape. Reeve was half crazed with worry, what with Christa scaring him out of his wits in childbed.”

"Christa?" Maryssa cut in, and Tade could feel her alarm. "Is anything amiss with her?”

"Nay. She's the proud new mother of twins, I fear. Rebecca and Alicia Rose. It was quite an event hereabouts," Deirdre said with a wink. "But I'd wager the gossip will shift from Reeve's little fillies the instant the biddies get wind of how you wrested Tade from a Sassenach prison! Maryssa, how did you ever do it?” Deirdre stopped with a laugh. "Nay, you can regale us all with your tale later, once you've had a bit of rest. It is a wonder you have the strength to stand, the way you've been forced to flee. But you needn't fear the chase any longer, either of you."

Tade caught a hint of the old sparkle in her eyes and saw her nose crinkle in amusement. "Dee, what the devil do you mean?"

"It seems that in the time you were in England, the Falcon's nestlings have been fledged."

"Nestlings?"

"Aye. While you were in Newgate, there were three different Falcons raiding here in Ireland. I'd not swear who they are, but the one I saw upon the road bore a decided likeness to Gilvarry Beagan."

"Beagan? Raiding?"

"Aye, with Phelan Fitzpatrick at his side. But the wonderful thing is that, between their raids and the tales of the Black Falcon who freed you from Newgate, the Sassenachs are in total confusion. Phelan read in an English newspaper something about the men who guarded you swearing under oath that Tade Kilcannon could not possibly be the devil Falcon, that the one who rescued you melted through the walls like mist."

Tade laughed, remembering Hezekiah, imagining the wizened guard spinning out excuses to his superiors.

Deirdre's gaze flashed to Tade's, and he could see the warmth and relief there as her eyes searched his features. It was as though his sister saw in him something that pleased her, comforted her. A hint of her old saucy smile played about her lips as she arched one brow at Maryssa. "So it was you who melted through the walls, then," Deirdre said. "The way this great dunderhead was acting when last I saw him, I'm astonished you didn't lock him in Newgate, instead of freeing the undeserving wretch!"

"We had discussed matters at my father's estate earlier," Maryssa said, slanting Tade a glance tinged with mischief, "and your brother had proposed marriage so prettily I couldn’t let him slip away.”

Tade had the grace to feel his cheeks burn, but before he could whip out a rejoinder, he caught the tremble in Maryssa's smile, saw in the glow from the window the blue circles staining her fragile eyelids. His mouth tautened, and he railed at himself inwardly for allowing her to stand out here in the chill while the three of them bantered like beaux at a garden party. Best to get her inside, snuggled warm in a feather bed. But first, Tade thought with a grimness settling about his mouth, he needed to know the temper of the lion within. "Is Da about?"

Deirdre's brow furrowed in distress at his abrupt question, and Tade saw her hands knot in her apron. "Aye. Ma and the little ones went off last Tuesday last to visit at her sister's in Kerry, but Da stayed behind. His shoulder still pains him too much to wander far, though he nearly got out the donkey cart to follow the babes when Sheena—" Deirdre's eyes darted to Tade's, and she nibbled at her lip.

"Sheena?" He cursed, and he felt Maryssa stiffen against him.

"Aye. Sheena. She's haunted our hearth nearly every eve since her father and Dev died. Nearly drives Da crazed, the way she sits, staring into the fire, but Ma won't forbid her to come. Says Sheena most like misses her da. Greenan O'Toole—he doted on her so."

Tade grimaced. "Aye and he showed it by turning her into a spoiled, spiteful little—" He stopped, his memory filled with the image of Greenan's body twisted and bloodied upon the soil of Christ's Wound, the irritation—nay, anger—he had felt at Sheena's intrusion this night softening.

"Get her out of here as soon as you can, Dee," he said. “It would be far better if Da and I were alone when first I see him. And the last cursed thing Maura needs is to endure Sheena's sniping."

“It is all right, Tade," Maryssa said. He could see her attempt to force a reassuring smile to her lips, but the effect was ruined by the troubled light in her eyes. "Sheena has lost her father, and if your fireside gives her some comfort, I'll not drive her from it."

"Drive me from the fires?" The raspy, terror-filled voice made all three spin to face the still open door. "You've come to drag me deeper inside them."

Tade's gaze fastened upon the figure framed by the wooden jamb, his eyes locking but an instant upon features he scarce recognized as those of Sheena O'Toole. The look of the preening, well-tended cat had wasted away till she now looked more like a starveling, all flesh shrunken from her face until her bones thrust at the meager flesh that remained, threatening to pierce the skin. The tawny masses of hair that had been her pride now hung matted and snarled beyond the power of any comb in Christendom, while her eyes, once seductive and inviting, burned with a haunted light that bordered on insanity.

Unconsciously, Tade's grip tightened about Maryssa, every nerve in his body snapping with wariness and challenge as he met Sheena's gaze. "Get out of the way, Sheena," he commanded, starting toward the door. "I need to get Maryssa inside."

"Maryssa," Sheena shrilled. "Let her rot out here—freeze. You'll not bring that murderess into this house! Not bring my da's killer and Devin's betrayer to the very hearth where—"

Tade took a step toward her, anger flooding his veins. "Sheena, stop, or by God I'll—"

"Nay, Tade," Maryssa's voice cut in, strong, firm, despite the weariness in its tones. “It is obvious Sheena is tired, overset—"

"Overset? Don't you dare to play my defender, witch. Sassenach witch!"

Tade stepped in front of Maryssa, the light of madness and hate in Sheena's amber eyes setting every nerve in his body on edge. "Sheena!"

"Nay! She is a witch! Aye! And she's dragging me to the Dark One! I saw her in the flames. Knew she would come. And you—" Those white-ringed eyes rolled wildly to Tade. "She used you—used you to entrap your own brother. Aye, and to tangle me in her evil web."

Only Maryssa's hand tightening in a silent plea on his arm stayed Tade from flinging the distraught girl out of the doorway bodily. His jaw clenched, hard as granite, and thrice as unyielding as he shouldered the girt aside, easing Maryssa and Dee into the softly lit room. "Sheena," he said, forcing a reasonable tone, "I know that you are grieving. You loved your da greatly, as deeply as we loved Devin. But I'll not stand here and let you batter Maryssa with your ravings. She had nothing to do with your father's death or with Devin's."

"She did, fool! Witling fool! Has she so bewitched you that you can't see the evil in her eyes? Can't see that she forced me?"

"Forced you to what, damn it?"

"The night—the night of Samhain. She forced me into the fires . . . Hell . . . forced me."

Tade caught a glimpse of Maryssa's stricken face, and fury drove deep within him. He grasped the shrieking Sheena by the arm and shook her. "Enough of your railing! Maura did nothing to you, and the devil himself couldn't force you to turn one hair upon your head if you had not the desire to. Now get out!"