Claire Delacroix (7 page)

No doubt she thought Luc would miss her single backward glance.

He saluted her with a single wave when she did look back and was nigh certain he could hear her snort of disapproval. “I shall learn your secret, my lady,” he called softly after her. “Make no mistake about that.”

Though he knew his words must have carried across the silent bailey, Luc was not surprised that Brianna did not answer him.

A tuneless whistle on his lips, he turned toward the stables, acknowledging that Tullymullagh was proving much more interesting than he had expected.

Not to mention a certain princess. ’Twas Brianna’s cleverness alone that snared Luc, no more than that. And the puzzle of whatever scheme she had concocted, of course.

Though, oddly enough, ’twas the taste of her kiss that kept him awake long into the night.

The audacity of the man!

Brianna stormed through the hall, not caring who she troubled in her passage. How dare he insist upon a kiss? A
nagging voice in her mind insisted that ’twas her own fault, but Brianna ignored it.

What else could she have done but insist he was her favorite? The man was too perceptive by half! Who else would have discerned that she wanted merely to have him gone and cared little for the quest?

And now, he was determined to remain at Tullymullagh and ferret out whatever plan Brianna had.

She could just spit.

Brianna climbed the stairs to the solar, seething all the while. Surely, Luc could not unravel her plan further? ’Twas bad enough he refused to leave, ’twas quite disconcerting how he delighted in denying her, but surely, he would never figure out her true plan?

Unfortunately for her peace of mind, Brianna was not nearly as certain of that as she might have liked to have been.

Her fingertips rose to her burning lips as she reached the second floor and in the shadows there, Brianna confronted another unwelcome truth.

She might not truly have been lying when she called Luc her favorite of Gavin’s sons. He was by far the most interesting of the three, for he alone defied expectation.

’Twas just a first impression, no more than that, and Brianna knew well enough that such impressions could be deceiving. After all, even the mercenary Gavin thought his eldest son unworthy of note.

All the same, Brianna could not help but wonder why Luc was no longer a knight.

No less what he would do on the morrow.

Connor of Tullymullagh stood at the solar window and watched the waxing half moon rise over what he had wrought. The pale moonlight fell over the bailey below, the
curtain wall, the village beyond, the spire of the parish church, and rows of fields lying fallow for the winter.

Connor’s roving gaze came back to the curtain wall over and again. Not one, not two, but three places there were where the wall was yet incomplete. Three breaches—beside the gate—to hold against attack, three weaknesses in Tullymullagh’s defense.

Three reasons why the keep had fallen into alien hands.

Too late, Connor cursed his own foolish trust. He had thought himself secure in his pledge of fealty to the high king, thought Tullymullagh too minor an estate to attract an avaricious eye, thought Ireland a kingdom of peace.

And he had been wrong.

In the wake of that error, Connor could not help but wonder whether his secret had been breached. He had been so very careful for so very many years, but had he merely fooled himself? Had it been his secret that brought Gavin and England’s king to his gates? Connor fought the urge to turn, fought against even looking, let alone checking that all was secure.

A man like Gavin Fitzgerald could not possibly know.

Connor took a shaky breath, frowned, and studied the holding spread before him. The keep that he had spent two decades building, the keep that housed his memories and treasures, would soon be occupied by the spawn of Gavin Fitzgerald.

And there was naught he could do about it. ’Twas a bitter root to swallow. Connor had long planned of Brianna continuing here. He had planned upon Ruarke de Rossiers taking Brianna’s hand and the pair of them bringing son after son to light.

Connor scanned the long empty road for some sign of his champion knight, but found only stillness. He gripped the
sill, feeling suddenly old and ineffective. Aye, Connor had had plans aplenty and now had naught to show for it.

He ran his hands across the smooth stone that formed the lip of the window, letting his mind flood with memories of better times instead. Connor felt the heat of a foreign sun upon the back of his neck, tasted the tang of alien spice within his belly, watched a king’s ransom in gems catch the light as they filtered through much younger versions of his hands.

And Connor heard a much-loved voice instruct him upon the differences in pearls, as those same gems—those marvels who snared the very moonlight in their sheen—rolled across his tongue.

Salt from the Red Sea, the precious rarity of sweet from Oman.

Connor stared at the vacant line of the road and wondered whether he could yet taste the difference. This window looked at the distant sea, and beyond, to Outremer, and Connor scanned the horizon in recollection.

He remembered all too well the first stone keep he had seen. By the time he had travelled all the way to Outremer, Connor had seen castles more wondrous than ever he could have imagined. The castles had seized hold of his imagination and, by his return, Connor had been determined to build his own fortress of stone.

As he had. Still he marvelled at the cleverness of the garderobes hidden in the corner of each floor and the wooden ramps outside that guided the refuse to the river swirling around the north side. Basins there were, carved into the very walls, and designed to snare rainwater for the occupants’ use.

The hall itself was high and massive, lofty enough for any king and large enough for any gathering Tullymullagh might
host. The floor in the hall was fitted stone, a massive fireplace was nestled into the north wall, its mate into the south.

A stair rose on the wall farthest from the dais, climbing to the second floor with a heavy door at its summit. This tier, with its heavy wooden floor, was divided into three, one of which was occupied by Brianna, the others used for maids and retainers.

The stairs rose again to Connor’s own solar, a lavish chamber that filled the third floor and overflowed with memories for him. Each plank had been laid with care, each stone placed with perfect craftsmanship. The windows here, as elsewhere, were small openings fitted with wooden shutters. By and large, they faced east and south, to diminish the bite of the winter winds.

A tiny staircase wound against one wall of the solar, leading to Connor’s own private chapel at the peak of the tower. The bishop himself had blessed the cross that rose from the roof.

Below Connor’s window was spread the bailey itself, a large courtyard filled with activity each day. The well was here, the armory, the smithy. He could see the portcullis of the gates to this sanctuary.

Connor’s gaze fell on the cursed curtain wall and he knew now that he should have built it first, not last. Though indeed ’twould have been inconvenient for moving the great quantities of stone.

But experience taught the lesson too late.

Behind Connor, to the east of this high tower, lay the garden his beloved Eva had treasured. ’Twas a sign of the differences between them—that he had to look to the mysteries beyond the horizon while she was content within the circle of her garden walls.

’Twas a tribute of a kind that he let the garden tumble into disrepair after Eva’s passing. In truth, Connor had not been
able to bear the possibility that the garden Eva so loved continued to flourish after she was gone.

Perhaps ’twas good he could not look upon its tangled waste from here. Perhaps its neglect—and the reason for it—was not a fitting image for a man to carry to his dreams.

Connor frowned. Beyond the gates, a ribbon of road wound through the tightly clustered homes of Tullymullagh’s village, the smoke of peat fires meandering skyward on this chill night. The cross on the roof of the parish church was etched in silhouette against the darkness of the sky, the outlines of distant hills could be seen in the moonlight.

If he squinted, Connor imagined he could see the glint of the sea. It had been so long since he had ventured away from Tullymullagh. Now, he remained by a mercenary’s whim. He might well be forced to leave.

Connor did not know where he would go.

He looked down at his hands, the moonlight making them appear more frail than he knew them to be. He was no longer young; he was no longer idealistic, for time had taught him otherwise.

Aye, he was tired and aged indeed.

There were but two things Connor had left to do in this life. He would see Brianna safely wed to a man of honor, and he would see the legacy he had saved for her safe within her own grip. His eye strayed of its own accord to the stairway rising to the chapel and he turned back to the window with an effort.

A hue and cry burst on the stairs, tearing Connor away from the jeweled treasury of his memories. He spun in dismay, just in time to find the rough Gavin Fitzgerald bursting into his chambers. Connor’s steward, Uther, raced behind him, his expression echoing the horror Connor was feeling.

“My lord! I do apologize!” Uther declared, nearly breathless from a quick climb. “He
insisted
upon coming to
the solar and there was little I could do to stop him!” The steward’s expression was scathing, but the mercenary clearly cared naught for such disapproval.

“Ha!” Gavin declared with satisfaction. “That fool child of yours left the door unlatched. Now I shall claim what should be mine!”

And Connor’s heart clenched in fear.

Did Gavin know his secret?

Gavin’s very presence in Connor’s chamber was offensive, every rough line of his being in marked contrast to the grace of the solar’s decor.

Never mind its precious secret.

Connor’s heart hammered with the fear of discovery. “Nay!” he argued with rare vehemence. “This solar is
mine
, at least until one of your sons wins Brianna’s hand.”

Gavin swaggered into the room and waved dismissively to Connor. “Nay, old man, I have been patient enough. King Henry divested you of Tullymullagh and granted its possession to me.”

Connor could hardly argue with that, though he dearly desired to do so.

Gavin poked himself in the chest proudly. “ ’Tis
my
keep now, it has been my keep for a month and ’tis time there were changes made within its walls. I shall savor each one of Tullymullagh’s pleasures, as its rightful lord.” He openly ogled the fine chamber. “Including this one.”

All the same, Connor was not at all prepared to vacate his abode for this savage excuse for a man. And certainly not immediately. ’Twas imperative that Connor see his last two objectives realized.

He folded his arms across his chest and rose to his full proud height. “I shall not move from this chamber. ’Tis to Brianna and her spouse I will yield and none other.”

Gavin sneered. “You have little choice, old man.” He
hauled his blade from its scabbard with unexpected speed, then smiled as he touched the tip to Connor’s throat.

Uther gasped. Connor held his ground, letting his contempt for Gavin filter into his gaze.

“Unless you would care to settle the matter with steel upon steel?” Gavin taunted.

Connor stood in regal silence and seethed. His keep might have been granted to Gavin, but ’twas clear enough the man was devoid of chivalrous intent, or indeed any grace.

Yet ’twas also clear that he was younger and more fierce than Connor could hope to be. ’Twas not a swordfight Connor could win, as much as he hated having the truth made so bluntly clear.

But, despite the odds arrayed against him, Connor would only abandon his chambers on his own terms.

Indeed, he could risk no less.

“ ’Tis indeed a bold knight who confronts an unarmed man with Toledo steel,” he commented and valiantly tried to summon the quelling glance for which he was reputed.

Gavin inhaled sharply but before he could rant, Connor pushed the blade aside with one determined fingertip. He was not at all certain Gavin would permit the move, but breathed a silent sigh of relief the other man did.