The Emerald Isle (33 page)

T
he next morning Cahira rose and dressed under the hot light of Sorcha’s disapproving eyes. From the wardrobe trunk she pulled a simple long-sleeved gown of blue, then slipped into a sleeveless white overgown. The colors, she remembered, were those the knights had worn in honor of their lord. Perhaps today Colton would notice her effort to please him.

When she had finished dressing, she sat at the little stool and picked up a mirror, momentarily startled by the odd reflection that met her gaze. So little of her hair remained it seemed pointless to even attempt to dress it, but Sorcha insisted on brushing the ruddy tresses until they shone and fell smoothly to Cahira’s shoulders. The maid also produced a blade and evened up the untidy ends, then disguised the absence of hair with a wimple, hat, and veil—far more headgear than Cahira usually wore at home. When Sorcha placed the mirror in Cahira’s hand again, she had to admit the result was pleasing. Different, definitely, but far from repulsive.

When all matters of toilette had been completed, Cahira and Sorcha slipped down to the hall where her father and his men were breakfasting. Rian sat at her father’s right hand, as usual, and as Cahira entered he lifted his head and gave her a warm smile. “How lovely you look today, Cahira,” he said, the warmth of his smile echoing in his voice. “That hat suits you. I have never seen you wear that one before.”

From lowered lids, Cahira shot a commanding look at him. “I
doubt you’ve ever seen me wear
any
hats, Rian, but I thank you for noticing.” Cahira sat down at her father’s left side and motioned for Sorcha to take the seat next to her. Frowning, Sorcha shook her head, and when Cahira looked up, she understood why the girl had balked. Murchadh, tall and towering, stood opposite the king, his face a study in fierce displeasure.

“My king,” he bowed his head slightly in Felim’s direction, “the horses are saddled, and all is ready.”

“Very well.”

Cahira glanced up in surprise as her father and the rest of his men stood. “Going out so soon, Father? Is something amiss?”

“Nothing that can’t be handled.” Her father bent for a moment to kiss her cheek, then he straightened and gestured toward her kinsman. “Rian will remain here to look after you and your mother. Murchadh and I are out to do a little hunting.”

Frowning, Cahira turned her attention back to her bowl. Her father did not lie well. If he truly intended to hunt, the hunting party would include nearly every man in the castle, including Rian. If he intended to hold a meeting with the other chieftains of Connacht, Rian would attend as well. So where was he going?

She glanced toward her mother for some clue, but Una kept her head down as if she found her porridge utterly fascinating. The king and his men stalked out of the hall with a great clattering and gathering of weapons, then the wooden door closed with a sound like thunder.

Cahira saw her mother flinch at the sound. She lifted her gaze from her bowl, stared at the door for a moment, then turned to Cahira and forced a smile. “Rian will say prayers with you today,” she said, standing. “I will make my morning prayers in solitude. I feel the need for a special time of—supplication.”

Cahira lifted a brow in Sorcha’s direction, but her maid only sank to the bench and propped her head on her hand, blocking Cahira’s view.

Was this a conspiracy? Cahira dropped her spoon and pressed her
hands together, glancing around the nearly empty table. Her father’s men had all vanished; only Rian and a handful of serving women remained. Her father was not likely to purposely exclude Rian from any venture, so the fact that he had been left alone with Cahira must signify—

She stiffened, abashed, when the truth hit her. This was matchmaking, pure and simple. Hadn’t Sorcha plainly said that her father had Rian in mind for her? Apparently her parents had decided that nineteen was a ripe age for marriage, and today a propitious day for proposing.

She pressed her hand to her forehead as her thoughts flitted back to the previous evening. “Rian is a good man,” her mother had whispered, and Cahira naturally agreed. Her agreement, apparently, was tantamount to assent.

Sure, and hadn’t she gotten herself into a fine mess? Cahira rubbed her temple and took a wincing little breath. She had no desire to hurt her parents or her dear kinsman, but she could not marry Rian, not as long as a man named Colton lived. She would just have to explain the situation to her parents. Sorcha and Murchadh had met the knight, and they would understand, even if they would not approve.

A knot formed in her stomach at the thought of Murchadh. Even now he rode with her father, and at this very moment her father might be asking for more details about the tournament at Athlone. Would he speak of Colton? Would he reveal her secret?

“Rian, I will meet you in the chapel when you are finished breaking your fast,” Cahira whispered, her voice sounding weak and tremulous in her own ears. “I will engage in private prayer until you are able to join me.”

“But I am ready now, Cahira.” Rian nearly toppled the bench in his eagerness to stand. “I lingered at the table only to keep company with you.”

“Then let us begin our prayers.” Cahira stood and moved away from the table, then fairly sprinted into the chapel. She collapsed on the kneeling bench before Rian even entered the room, but her apparent
panic did not dissuade him from joining her. He knelt at her side only a moment later, the manly scents of peat and horses filling her nostrils as he leaned toward her.

“Is something troubling you, Cahira?” His voice broke in an awkward gurgle, and she realized he was as nervous as she.

Cahira shook her head and gripped the railing. “Nothing that need concern you, friend. I’m just feeling a sudden need for God’s grace.”

“You call me friend now,” Rian’s warm, damp hand fell upon hers, “but surely you know I would have you soon call me husband.”

Cahira felt as though she had swallowed a large, cold rock that pressed uncomfortably against her breastbone. This painfully sincere man was her kinsman. She would not willingly hurt him for the world, but she would not marry him either. Before yesterday she might have eventually accepted his proposal. But in the bright light of Colton’s glory, Rian seemed completely ordinary.

She took a deep breath to quell the leaping pulse beneath her ribs. “We must pray for wisdom, Rian,” she finally managed to whisper, “so God would clearly reveal his will to us.”

She sighed in relief when Rian lifted his hand and turned toward the prayer book on the altar.

As soon as morning prayer ended, Cahira slapped one hand atop her hat and veil, then sprinted out of the room. Rian would probably think she had lost her wits, but as the morning office dragged on and on, Cahira had convinced herself that Murchadh’s overbearing sense of loyalty would overrule his promise to keep silent about Colton’s approach last night. The warrior seemed ill at ease this morning, his face more troubled than it should have been if he were only concerned about Rian’s ill-fated proposal of marriage. Perhaps his conscience had kept him awake during the night; perhaps even now he had resolved to tell her father about Colton’s bold pursuit on the road from Athlone.

“Cahira!” Rian’s voice echoed in the hall behind her, but Cahira
flew through the doorway and into the courtyard, desperate to know the truth before anyone had a chance to soften or convolute it. Lifting her skirts, she forfeited her hat and veil to the wind, then hurried across the courtyard toward the main gate. A guard from atop the rampart saw her and called out a warning, but Cahira ran on, too desperate to heed his call. Let them chase her. By the time they caught up, she might have learned what she needed to know.

She had no trouble discerning the path her father and Murchadh had taken, for fresh hoofprints led in only one direction from the gate. Her head down, Cahira walked swiftly over the trampled trail, her nerves strung as tight as a fiddle string. Her heart had congealed into a small lump of dread, yet her mind was cold and sharp, focused to an awl’s point. If her father would not allow a Norman to court her, she would defy him and marry Colton anyway—unless Colton had no desire to marry. If such was the case, she would enter the convent at Clonmacnois and devote herself to prayer and good works. But never,
ever
could she marry Rian. With one look in those faded blue eyes this morning, she had known that her red-haired kinsman could never be her husband.

The wind caught the hair at her neck, blowing it forward toward her face. Her fingers absently flew upward to catch her hat, then she remembered that she had lost it somewhere between the door and the gate. All that remained was her wimple, which doubtless looked silly without a hat and veil. She had intended to meet Colton dressed as a proper lady, but the wind and her own impetuosity had ruined all chance of that. In a wave of irritation, she yanked the long wimple free and sacrificed it to the wind too, her steps growing unsteady as her vision clouded with tears of frustration.

Oh, how unjust, to discover the love of her heart and then learn her parents intended her to wed another! Her parents would not be so cruel as to make her marry a man she did not fancy, but only last night her mother had insisted that love
followed
marriage.
As long as you like Rian
, she would insist,
happiness and love will grow.

Not with Rian it wouldn’t. Cahira knew that as surely as she knew
the sun would rise on the morrow. Yesterday she met the man God designed to fit her temperament and taste, and it was no matter that he was a Norman…

The sound of voices caught her ear, and she froze on the trail, then ducked behind the hedgerow bordering the road. Behind the closest hedge she saw a blur of movement in the pasture. Normans?

She moved closer and parted the greenery, peering through branches and leaves until she saw a pair of horses snuffling the earth, searching for some overlooked bit of grass. She could not see the men, for the horses blocked her view, but her stomach clenched when she recognized her father’s robust voice. At one point the horse turned his head, and she caught a glimpse of her father’s flushed face. By heaven, what had Murchadh told him?

Cahira parted the branches of the hedge further, insinuating herself into the bush. One of the horses heard the rustling of the evergreens and lifted his head in curiosity, then whickered softly and went back to his search for greenery.

“’Twas the Normans,” she heard her father shout, his voice rolling with thunder and indignation. “Who else would take advantage in this way? When I find the guilty party, I will have his head, no matter who defends him!”

Cahira clung to the branches of the hedge, her heart pounding in her chest. What had Murchadh said to rouse her father to such a state? Colton had done little but
speak
to her, and in all things he had behaved with honor and great civility. He had not taken advantage in any way.

Her father’s horse stepped to the side, moving on to a more profitable bit of pasture, and Cahira gasped. Her father and Murchadh were standing in a field of carnage unlike anything Cahira had ever seen. At least ten of their prized longhaired cattle lay dead on the ground, their bloody entrails coloring the faded winter grass with congealed crimson blood. Someone—or something—had descended in the night to wreak this bloody havoc, for the herd had
been alive and well when she and Murchadh passed at dusk the night before.

Her father was pointing now at a slaughtered animal whose great head had been split. “Only a Norman and his broadsword would do this,” she heard him say. “Look, no one has taken the carcasses; not a single skin has been carried away. This deed was committed for sport. ’Twas born out of sheer evil and recklessness. I shall demand that Lord Richard de Burgo pay for every animal.”

“You’ll have a time persuading him one of his men did it,” Murchadh answered, turning toward the hedge. “He’ll blame everyone from a rival
tuath
to your own people.”

Cahira ducked as her father turned as well.

“My own people wouldn’t kill the cattle they need to see them through the winter, would they now?” A thunderous scowl darkened her father’s brow. “I’ve tried to hold my tongue and keep my distance from Lord Richard, but this will not be borne!”