Wild Angel (14 page)

Startled that Aud had spoken so sharply, Triona
shrugged. "All right, Aud, if you say so—"

"Aye, I do, and it’s time now that I went on to
bed." Then, as if to make amends, Aud leaned forward and brushed a kiss on
Triona’s cheek. "Good night, sweeting. Sleep well."

"And you," Triona murmured. Only after the
door had closed behind Aud did Triona drop her gaze to the wolfhound lying
beside the bed. "What do you make of that, Conn? I’ve never seen her act
so strangely."

As Conn thumped his tail upon the floor, Triona lifted
the dagger to the lamp so she could inspect it better. Slim-bladed and light,
it seemed to fit her palm perfectly as if fashioned for a woman’s smaller hand.
And it would be easy enough to conceal . . .

Her gloating smile quickly faded. Mayhap that was why
Aud had become so moody. Seeing her again with a weapon in her hand must have
reminded her maid of Triona’s determined plan for vengeance. And her dear
superstitious Aud had already made it quite clear how she felt about—

Conn’s sudden growling made the hair prickle on the
back of Triona’s neck.

"What is it, Conn?"

The wolfhound just as abruptly ceased his growling as
if recognizing the approaching footsteps, his tail
thunking
a friendly welcome against the floor.

Triona didn’t hesitate. She shoved the dagger under the
mattress, blew out the
lamp
and dove under the covers.
She listened breathlessly as Conn got up and trotted eagerly across the room.

"Easy, Conn, it’s me."

The spawn! What was Ronan . . . ?

Triona squeezed her eyes shut, her heart thumping in
double time with Ronan’s footsteps as he approached the bed. But her heart
jumped to her throat when she suddenly felt his hand sliding along her thigh.
Gasping, she bolted upright, scaring Maeve with a wild howl from her pillow,
Conn sent into a fit of barking by the door.

"You . . . you—" Triona sputtered, outraged. "Just
what do you think you’re doing?"

"Checking,"
came
Ronan’s disembodied voice in the dark, its deep huskiness sending shivers
racing through Triona in spite of herself.

"Checking? What, if I might ask? If I’m too plump
or too thin?"

"That you’re where Aud said you’d be. Sleep well,
Triona."

"That’s all you have to say for yourself? Sleep
well?" Her voice rang shrilly as he left the room. "I hope you don’t!"

Just as she doubted she would now, Triona fumed,
falling back onto her pillow. Obviously he must suspect that she was plotting,
and for that she had her own loose tongue to blame. If she was going to be able
to seize her chance, she would have to be very careful of everything she said
to him from now on . . .

"Aye, you may capture our Norman quarry, O’Byrne,"
Triona whispered vehemently to herself. "But he’ll be dead of an arrow
long before you find a tree to hang him."

Determined to think of nothing but revenge, she tossed
onto her side and tugged the covers up to her ear.

But to her dismay when she closed her eyes, all that
came to mind was the unsettling memory of Ronan’s hand upon her thigh.

***

It was still dark outside when Triona awoke with a
start, her stomach yowling so hungrily she swore it was soon to devour itself.
Even Conn must have heard it because he was standing beside the bed, his head cocked
as another loud rumbling sounded.

Jesu,
Mary
and Joseph, she’d
never last until the morning meal! Throwing back the covers, Triona knew she
had to get something to eat or she wouldn’t get any more sleep either, her vow
to stay in her room be damned.

"Come, Conn. Let’s find the kitchen."

As she stole out the door, Conn tagging after her like
a four-legged shadow, Triona knew it must be early. The peat fire in the hearth
was very low, casting a dim orange glow over the vast outer room. She paused as
she passed Ronan’s room, but thankfully she didn’t hear a sound. Lifting up her
gown, she ran on tiptoes to the main door. She breathed a sigh of relief as
soon as she stepped outside.

The yard was dark. A few scattered torches sputtered
about the stronghold. She imagined there must be guards on patrol, but she
hoped she wouldn’t run into any of them.

"Quiet, Conn." She tapped his nose once as
she’d trained him so he wouldn’t growl or bark. "Like we’re hunting."

Stealthily, they made their way across the yard;
although she’d never been to the kitchen, she was certain it must be near the
feasting-hall. Conn did know the way. Every few steps he sniffed the air, his
tail wagging faster and faster as they drew closer to a low wooden building
flanking the hall.

Triona, too, smelled the unmistakable fragrance of
honey glazed pork as they approached the door, and she wondered as her stomach
grumbled painfully if that’s what she had missed for supper. Damn those O’Tooles!
Why couldn’t they have packed a meal and left for Imaal yesterday instead of
leaving her to starve?

Her mouth began to water as they crept inside the
building,
Conn’s wagging tail becoming a blur. The yeasty
scent of rising dough hung in the air, the morning’s bread waiting to be baked.
That mingled with the pungent smells of spices and salted meats was so
deliciously unbearable, Triona was certain she had died and gone to heaven. Or
at least her stomach thought so.

She wished she had a candle, but once again, her eager
wolfhound seemed to know the way. And there were a few coals still glowing
beneath the iron roasting spits lining the walls that cast a bit of light. She
grabbed Conn’s ruff, allowing him to lead her deeper into the room past hulking
cauldrons and long trestle tables—until he stopped abruptly.

"In there, Conn?"

His scratching at the low side door was her answer; she
knew they’d found the room where the evening’s leftovers must be kept. Yet her
attention was drawn to a row of oblong tarts on the table just ahead, the
crusts gleaming eerily in the meager light. Oh, she loved fresh baked tarts,
especially ones made of berries!

"Stay, Conn," she ordered, as she hurried to
the table.

She knew it was a piggish thing to do, but she was so
hungry. She dipped her hand into the nearest pastry, the fragrant aroma of wild
raspberries topped by a buttery crust overwhelming her senses. But she had no
sooner taken a bite than Conn broke from his sitting position—no doubt tempted
beyond endurance—and bumped impatiently against her, causing the tart to slip through
her fingers and tumble down the front of her sleeping gown.

"Oh, Conn," she whispered with exasperation,
wiping her chin and licking her fingers. If she had looked a mess earlier that
day, she could just imagine how she appeared now with bright red berry filling
staining her face and clothing.

Beckoning for Conn to follow her, Triona led him back
to the larder and let him inside, knowing he’d soon find something to satisfy
him. As for
herself
, she hurried back to the tarts but
it was so dark that she snagged her foot on a table leg, crying out as she
barely managed to catch herself from falling.

"All this trouble for a wee bit of something to
eat," she grumbled, testing her weight on her aching ankle just as a door
slammed nearby.

"Who’s there? Who’s in my kitchen?"

Triona froze, not knowing which way to run. Someone
with a candle came rushing toward her. The next thing she knew the light was
thrust in her face, then a horrified scream rent the air. She stared back in
astonishment at a stout, florid-faced man who appeared to be choking, his plump
hand pressed to his chest, his pudgy cheeks growing redder and redder.

"God help me . . . Lady Eva! Bloody . . . back
from the grave. Saints protect me!"

"No, no, I’m Triona O’Toole!" she cried even
as a terrible rattling noise came from the man’s throat, the candle tumbling
from his hand. She had no sooner stomped out the flame when he pitched forward,
almost knocking her down as his bulk crashed to the floor.

Stunned, Triona stood there for an instant, not knowing
what to do. She should send for help . . . She should

"See if he’s breathing," she told herself
shakily, falling to her knees beside him and pressing her fingers to his
throat. Yes, that’s what she should do! See if he was . . .

Gasping, Triona thought her own heart was going to
stop.

Jesu,
Mary
and Joseph, she had
killed him! Or something had killed him. Panicking, she lunged to her feet and
began to run, paying no heed to the sharp pains shooting through her ankle.

"Conn! Conn!"

She had only reached the front door, when she ran
straight into something hard that seized her by the arms and shook her.

"By God, woman, now what have you done?"

Chapter 12

IN THE NEXT instant, several guards running up behind
him with blazing torches, Ronan felt the color drain from his face as he spied
the bloody splotches staining the front of Triona’s gown. He didn’t wait for an
explanation, but swept her in his arms, shouting to his clansmen, "Fetch
the healer! Run with you! Go!"

"But Ronan—"

"Sshh, you must keep still, Triona," he bade
her, holding her tightly against his chest as he ran with her toward his
dwelling-house. His heart was pounding. His stomach cramped in gut-wrenching
knots.

By God, what terrible thing could have happened to
cause such wounds? Had she been attacked? If so, he would throttle the wretch
himself with his bare hands!

"Ronan . . . !"

"I said keep still, Triona," he repeated
firmly, surprised that she would have the strength to wriggle so strongly in
his arms after losing so much blood. Or maybe she was growing delirious, her
injured body going into spasms. He had seen such a thing before . . .

"Where is that damned healer?" he roared into
the night as he neared his dwelling-house. By now, clansmen and their wives
were running from their homes, crying, bewildered children stumbling at their
heels. Everywhere people mere shouting for the healer as fresh torches were
lit, the stronghold ablaze with light and confusion.

Ronan kicked in the door, swallowing hard at the
stickiness between his fingers as he rushed toward Triona’s room. She had
ceased her struggling, an ominous sign. God help him, he would never forgive
himself if he had failed in his oath to Fineen to protect her! Never!

"
Lie
still, Triona,"
he commanded softly, a catch in his voice as he lay her gently upon the bed. "The
healer will be here soon, but you mustn’t move. It will only make the bleeding
worse, the pain worse—"

"But I’m not bleeding! That’s what I’ve been
trying to tell you! It’s tart filling. Raspberry tart filling!"

In shock, Ronan had no time to reply as the room was
flooded with bright torchlight, the balding healer’s eyes very round as he was
practically carried to the bed by two strapping clansmen. Spilling behind them
came more clansmen, Niall among them. Shoving her way through them all, her
knobby elbows jabbing and poking, came a stricken-faced Aud.

"Out of my way! My sweeting needs me! Out of my
way, I tell you!"

"Aye, I want everyone to step back!" demanded
the healer, apparently having recovered himself from his rough handling. "Step
back so I can see what needs to be done—"

"Silence!"

Triona started as all faces turned in astonishment to
Ronan.

It had been an amazing thing to watch his expression
grow more thunderous by the moment. She was all the more anxious because she
knew his mounting fury was directed toward her. She could just imagine what he
was thinking, that once again she had roused his people into chaos and
commotion. And he didn’t even know yet that—

"Make way, make way! I must speak with the O’Byrne!"

Triona sank back upon the pillows, wishing desperately
that she was a thousand miles away as a flush-faced clansman pushed his way to
the front of the room.

"Lord, I’ve terrible news! It’s Seamus, the cook!
He’s dead!"

"Dead?" Ronan’s voice was so ominously low
that Triona felt a chill plummet down her spine.

"Aye, Lord, we found him in the kitchen! There’s
no mark upon him, but his face. . ." Shuddering, the clansman continued in
a hushed voice, "His eyes were wide open, Lord, as wide as they could be—like
something had frightened the wits from him. I’ve never seen such a look upon a
dead man’s face . . . as if . . . as if . . ."

"As if what?" Ronan demanded when the man
fell silent. Everyone in the room was listening intently.

"Why, Lord, as if he’d seen a ghost."

As shocked gasps filled the air, a few clansmen hastily
crossing themselves, Triona blurted out, "It was me, not a ghost! I was
going to tell you what had happened, but then you thought I’d been wounded and
you wouldn’t listen—"

"You killed my cook."

She gaped at him, stunned and actually hurt that he
would accuse her of so cold-blooded a thing until indignation bubbled up to
save her. "I did not kill him! Mayhap if you’d allow me to explain instead
of interrupting me . . ."

"Then explain, Triona, and quickly."

Glaring at him, she continued. "I was hungry so I
went to the kitchen, and there were these fresh tarts—"

"Raspberry." Ronan’s gaze fell to the bright
red splotches on her gown, then to the fingers of his right hand which were
practically stuck together from the sweet stuff, his expression growing even
darker.

"Aye, raspberry. But I tripped and Seamus must
have heard me because he rushed into the
kitchen,
and
the next thing I knew . . ." She paused, shaking her head. "I don’t
know what he thought, but he screamed and then he was dead. Just like that."