Rose of the Mists (27 page)

Turlough’s gaze darted away. If she was truly able to tell the future, she might prove invaluable to him. He knew that he was considered by some of the O’Neill minor chieftains to be lacking the cunning and bravery of his predecessor. Shane had borne the title of earl, yet he had continued to rule Ulster according to Brehan Law and had dispensed with the lives of other English-titled Irish noblemen with a furor bordering on mania.

I
do not lack ambition,
Turlough thought.
But neither do I undervalue the worth of compromise.

Shane had been slaughtered by an act of treachery among men he had sometimes counted as friends. Turlough did not long for a similar fate. He saw the possible and the impossible. It was possible he could live long and die a chief. The likelihood would be greatly diminished if he shed the blood of a Butler.

Then, too, the presence of the lass in his camp might cause
more trouble than good. Colin MacDonald, as stout-hearted a warrior as any man in camp, had run away in fear. Others might seek her out, following her advice above his own if she proved to be strong in the power of the otherworld. He could not afford a divided clan.

“I agree. You and the men shall go free. Tell me, lass, will I rule Tyrone a long while?”

Meghan wet her lips. She did not know the answer, but to save Revelin’s life she replied, “As long as ye draw breath, ye will rule Tyrone. Long life to ye, Turlough Luineach O’Neill.”

Turlough grunted and nodded his head. “I accept that. But I must satisfy the slain man’s widow.”

“There’s
eraic,”
Revelin offered quietly.

“How will you pay it?” Turlough demanded.

Revelin smiled. “We came to Ulster not as beggars. There was gold and silver and jewelry among our belongings. The gold and jewels in Sir Neville’s rings alone are worth the ransom of ten lives. The widow’s
eraic
could be paid from a fraction of their worth.”

Turlough reached for the flagon of wine on the table and poured it into the goblets before turning to the younger man. “I’m a reasonable man. And ye’re nae a slow-witted lad. Let’s drink to the agreement.”

“We will ride at dawn, our horses and belongings returned,” Revelin added with a genial smile.

“Oh, aye.” Turlough nodded. “Ye’ll find them unmolested.”

Revelin sipped his wine, wondering how best to tell Robin that his prized rings were gone forever.

Meghan watched them in unease. No one had mentioned her from the moment they began haggling over ransom. Did Revelin want her with him? He had not mentioned it. She stared at him but could not catch his eye. Perhaps her vision had frightened him as much as it had Colin MacDonald.

She touched her cheek. Colin had wanted her before she
revealed herself as a changeling. He had turned away—nay, fled, for fear of his life. Maybe Revelin, too, was afraid to be near her now that he knew what she was. Perhaps he regretted lying with her. Maybe he…

Suddenly she longed to be free of the stifling confines of the tent.

The fruity taste of the wine hardly slaked the dry-mouthed wonder of the last moments, and Turlough quickly refilled his glass. “A toast to the sovereignty of Ulster,” he proclaimed in a hearty tone.

Revelin drank unhesitatingly. The question of
whose
sovereignty was not mentioned.

Turlough drained his cup and was contemplating the pleasure of a third, but when he looked down over the rim his eyes were suddenly serious. “One of yer companions is a murderer, ye know that?”

Revelin shrugged. If he suspected as much he would not admit it, not when he had yet to be released.

Turlough lowered his cup. “The lass knows the murderer’s name. Do ye think he’ll rest easy with her having the knowledge?”

“If she knows, she isn’t saying,” Revelin answered lightly, but his heart was heavy with foreboding. Reade had killed the guard; he knew it though he could not prove it. Nor did Meghan possess the power to do so. But Reade might be superstitious enough to accept this nonsense about Meghan’s ability if it came to his ear.

“Turlough’s thoughts ran a similar course. “Yer Captain Reade is nae a man I would trust at me back. The lass will need yer protection every moment.”

Revelin frowned. “You needlessly frighten the lass,” he said reprovingly, and turned his head toward the bed to find that it was empty. “What? Where is she?”

Amusement pleated the corners of Turlough’s eyes. “The lass had a great craving for clean air. She slipped out a wee while ago. I saw nae reason to deprive her of it.”

Revelin’s expression hardened. “Then you’re a poorer judge of people than I thought! No doubt that Scotsman is spreading the story of her nightmare, and there’ll be the devil to pay if the people take fright!”

Turlough stopped Revelin with an iron grip on his arm. “Ye’ve a fondness for the lass, so I will overlook yer tongue, this once. She will come to nae harm. She’s Shane O’Neill’s daughter. They will remember that always. But ye’d best make it legal between ye, lad, or Black Tom will hear of the mischief ye’ve been up to on the banks of Lough Neagh. Aye, I know how you spent Beltane night.”

Taken aback, Revelin felt his cheeks burning. No one had taken him to task for misconduct since he was fourteen. He said shortly, “Meghan is my foster child; I will see to her care.”

“’Tis yer whore ye’ve made her,” Turlough returned baldly. “Ye were the man to take her virginity. Don’t deny it. She may be different from ye and me, but she’s nae a wanton, lad. Now go find her and tell her handfast will do till ye have the earl of Ormond’s blessing on the match!”

Revelin jerked free of the bigger man’s grip and left the tent with Turlough’s genial laughter ringing in his ears. Black Tom’s blessing indeed! His uncle would have him flayed alive for considering marriage to a native Irish girl and a Catholic to boot!

Revelin halted in his tracks outside the O’Neill’s tent. People still milled about the center of camp, curiosity about the recent happenings holding them to the spot, but Meghan was nowhere to be seen.

“Revelin?” Robin rose to his feet beside Reade and Atholl, who were seated between battle-ax-wielding guards. “What is going to happen to us, Rev?”

Revelin stared vacantly at Robin’s manacled wrists and then said brusquely, “We are free to leave. See to the horses and belongings. We ride at dawn.”

Without looking back, he set off toward the lake. Meghan might not have gone to Sila’s hovel but it was as good a place
as any to begin looking for her. He paused at the edge of the camp to take one of the many burning faggots lashed to poles to light the clearing.

Why had Meghan run away? She was as contrary as a spring day, all sunshine and warmth one moment, all dampness and black moods the next. If she had the least bit of common sense she would not have been led on by Turlough’s blustery combination of superstition and cunning. But it was not all her fault. She had been brought up to think of herself as different by ignorant people who feared what they could not understand. Well, he would have to put an end to that. Once she was properly dressed and learned a bit of English, she would learn to think of herself as just another pretty lass. It was unfortunate that Turlough knew the girl’s weakness and had exploited it to his own advantage.

Revelin wondered if Meghan was really Shane’s daughter. It made sense. Despite the fakery that went into the telling of the tale, Turlough had vowed in public that the lass was the unknown daughter of Shane O’Neill. The skean that Una had given him seemed to bear out the connection. Of course, it could have come into her hands through other means. Yet, he believed what he had been told, at least that Shane had saved his child by cutting her out of her mother’s womb. Turlough had said the babe had a birthmark like Meghan’s. Perhaps Meghan was that child.

If he had been considering marriage to Meghan, that fact alone would have given him pause. By allying himself with Shane’s daughter he would be obligating himself to the Irish clans: a serious breach with the queen.

Revelin shook his head briskly, willing himself to calm, rational thought. Meghan was comely. In his arms she had been uninhibited to a degree that had overridden his good sense. He had not forced her. Dear Lord! She had given him, against his better judgment, the sweetest joy of his life. But what they had shared did not necessarily lead to marriage. Just the thought
of her aroused him, but rational judgment told him that she was not a proper bride for him.

Nor is she a whore.
The thought halted Revelin outside Sila’s door. Meghan was not a light-skirt to be enjoyed and then passed on to another. So what was he to say to her?

The pulse beating insistently in his throat was a reminder that he was not as calm as he would have liked to be. He should simply turn back, leaving Meghan to the O’Neills. But he could not. He had promised to guard her life. And if he could be blamed for his lack of vigilance regarding her virtue, he would accept the consequences of that. He had known the sweetest part of her. It would serve as a just penance that he must take her back to Dublin by his side and yet never touch her again. Satisfied in his own selfless intent, Revelin rapped on the hovel.

Meghan watched from the cover of night a short distance away as Sila invited Revelin into her
rath.
A sudden decision had made her stop short of Sila’s home. Part of her had hoped Revelin would follow, yet another part longed desperately to escape him.

Now, before she had time to think of where else she might take refuge, Revelin exited Sila’s hut and picked up the torch he had laid outside her door. For an instant his face was lit by the torchlight, and Meghan’s heart skipped a beat. She saw anger in his expression, but also a desperation that matched her own. His body tensed as he searched the darkness, and then his shoulders slumped forward in defeat.

“I told ye, ye’ll not be finding her this night, lad. A changeling with the gift can turn herself into a hawk, a hare, or even a wolf. Dinna search for her. Come back in the morning and I’ll have word for ye then.” Sila’s voice was positively gleeful, Meghan noted with annoyance.

“She’s a frightened child,” Meghan heard Revelin answer. “And not even the poorest beggar’s brat deserves to lie alone shivering in the dark.”

Is that how he sees me, as a child?
Meghan wondered.

As Revelin started back the way he had come, Meghan rose, her eyes on his retreating back. He would go back to the O’Neill encampment and in the morning ride south, and she would never see him again. It was better so, she told herself, but ached anew with the thought.

She took a step toward him, spurred by an emotion stronger than her caution. The snap of a twig beneath her foot startled her. She was not so clumsy as a rule. She glanced up and saw that Revelin, too, had heard it and had paused to look back over his shoulder.

She stilled, becoming another shadow among so many. But the breeze was in a whimsical mood. It caught the hem of her white gown and surged beneath to swell the skirt like a bellows. The undulating, pristine whiteness gathered to it all the meager sum of starlight and lake reflections, and she saw Revelin spin about. “Meghan? Is it—? Meghan!” he cried in certainty and came running toward her.

As he approached her, Revelin remembered the morning she had run away and he had found her hiding in a tree. She had told him that she did not want him gazing upon her. What was the matter now? Did she think him as great a fool as Colin MacDonald and afraid of her claims to sorcery? Well, he would soon put an end to that nonsense.

Revelin halted a few feet from her. “Why did you run away?” He saw her tense as if about to flee, but she did not. “I warn you, if you do so again, I’ll not follow, I’m tired and hungry and damned short of humor!”

Meghan tilted her head to one side, suddenly shy. She no longer wished to run away. She wanted, instead, to run toward him, to feel his arms close about her. She needed more than ever before the comfort of his embrace.

Revelin waited patiently for her to speak. Her gaze wandered over him, halting pointedly at his codpiece. Her lips parted unconsciously and the tip of her tongue peeked through. With
distinct surprise mingled with a surge of answering warmth, he realized to where her thoughts had wandered. He stood irresolutely still. One moment she was a waif startled by a gruff voice or a harsh word. Now she stood before him, her cheeks flushed by desire, a thoroughly seductive woman. Damn her, she was a flirt!

“I’m going back!” he said shortly and turned away before his body betrayed to her inquisitive gaze just how effective her allure was. She had snatched the upper hand from him without a word.

Meghan watched him retreat once more, taking the light with him, and her pulse began to pound in her throat as if she were about to cry. “I—I… My lord!”

Revelin paused, the emotional break in her voice more than he had the heart to deny. “Meghan?” he asked softly.

Meghan was grateful that he did not turn to face her. She felt strangely vulnerable, more fragile than a hen’s egg. If he turned the full heat of his gaze on her as he had the night before, she knew she would flee. Never with another had she felt the dissolving of herself as when she gazed into his shamrock-green eyes. It was a little like dying, she thought, a breaking away from her own body.