Wild Angel (24 page)

"You’ll grow used to those tears, miss,"
Flann murmured, the huge Irishman clearly sensing her thoughts. "Just
remember one day that Norman whelp will wear armor and fight against us, rape
our women, rape our land. Unless we can drive the spawn back across the water,
saints help us."

Triona said nothing, looking away from the boy. Instead
she focused upon the door where Ronan had
disappeared,
wondering what was keeping him so long. Struck by concern more acute than she
could have imagined, she glanced at Flann. "Mayhap we should go after
Ronan . . ."

The clansman’s nod made her look back at the door,
relief flooding her as Ronan strode into the hall, the pale lady of the house
rushing ahead of him to embrace her sobbing daughters. But Triona’s relief
became alarm when a Norman guard suddenly appeared upon the balcony and aimed
his crossbow right at Ronan.

"Ronan, duck!"

Triona released her bowstring at the same moment Ronan
fell to his haunches, the Norman’s arrow skimming over his head to embed with a
sickening thunk in the wood floor. The Norman wasn’t so fortunate. A terrible
gurgling noise came from the man as he clutched at the arrow sticking from his
throat. An instant later, he slumped dead over the railing as the women below
began to scream at the blood dripping down upon them.

"Out of here! All of you!" Ronan roared to
his clansmen, his eyes burning into Triona’s as he straightened. "If that
guard escaped our notice, then others could have gone to alert the castle!
Move!"

Triona wanted to run, but her feet were stuck to the
floor as if in warm pitch. She stared at the Norman, at his thick fingers
twitching even in death. She had never before killed a man. Deer, wolves,
waterfowl, but no, never a man . . .

She scarcely blinked when Ronan jammed her bow back
into its leather case and then swept her into his arms, running with her from
the hall. Only when she was hoisted with a jolt onto Ronan’s stallion, Ronan
mounting behind her, did she rouse enough to murmur, "Where’s Laeg?"

"Flann has him."

No more was said as Ronan wrapped his arms around her
and kicked his horse into a hard gallop. The air was filled with the wild
thundering of hooves as threescore O’Byrne clansmen burst through the gates,
the night wind whistling around them.

They rode and they rode, for how long Triona couldn’t
say. But at last Ronan drew his heaving stallion to a stop, waving his men to
continue on without them. Triona reasoned they must be at a safe distance from
the manor or else Ronan would never have done such a thing. It was her last
thought before she began to retch, Ronan dismounting and dragging her from his
horse’s back so she could vomit upon the ground.

When she was finished, she felt weak. She just sat
there, doubled over, her forehead on her knees. Until she felt Ronan gently
lift her to stand beside him, his arm supporting her around the waist.

"Can you walk, Triona? There’s a stream . . .

She nodded, setting one foot shakily in front of the
other as he led her to the water. Then he helped her once more to sit, leaving
her for only an instant to soak one end of his cloak before returning to her
side.

"Here. This will help."

Triona felt him lift her chin, the wet cloth cool upon
her skin as he wiped her forehead, her face, her mouth. Gradually, she began to
feel better, except for the pain in her abdomen from retching.

She began to grow embarrassed, too; aye, and angry for
reacting as she had . . . more like a Lady Emer than the strong, clearheaded
woman she had always prided
herself
to be. She pushed
away from Ronan, imagining he must be gloating. She had fallen apart at that
manor, no more able to take care of herself than a mewling kitten.

"There’s no shame in what happened tonight,
Triona. Many have suffered so after killing a man . . . some more than others."

Astonished that Ronan could have read her thoughts,
Triona was struck, too, by the heaviness in his voice. But instead of being
soothed by his words, she bristled.

"I suppose now you’ll suggest that I shouldn’t
raid with you anymore since I can’t hold my own—"

"No, I was going to thank you for saving my life."

Struck dumb, Triona could only stare at him, his
handsome face half-cloaked in shadow,
the
moonlight
glistening off his midnight hair.

"If you hadn’t reacted so quickly, I would have
been dead. You’ve instincts that any man would envy, aye, and an aim as true as
I’ve seen."

Triona couldn’t believe her ears. Ronan had
complimented her . . . not on her appearance, her eyes, her legs, but on her
skill! Her instincts! She was so
stunned,
she didn’t
know what to say. She—

She was being a blessed fool, is what she was being!
Triona scolded herself, suddenly understanding exactly what he was doing when Ronan
reached out to touch her hair. How could she have so easily forgotten that she
couldn’t believe anything he said or did? He was only telling her what he knew
she wanted to hear, to trick her, to deceive her. As soon as his warm fingers
grazed her cheek she was on her feet and backing away from him.

"I—I’m pleased that I could help, but I would have
done the same for any O’Byrne. That Norman just happened to be aiming at you."
She turned and pulled herself onto Ronan’s horse. "We should catch up with
the others. I’m fine now."

She heard Ronan’s sigh in the darkness as he got up and
walked toward her; she held her breath as he mounted behind her and thrust his
arms through hers to take the reins. But he said nothing more, their ride a
silent one all the way back to Glenmalure.

Chapter 21

RONAN’S WEARINESS WAS great, but it was nothing
compared to his frustration. He rolled onto his side and stuffed his pillow
beneath his head.

Four damned weeks! Almost an entire month now he had
waited for some sign that Triona might be growing more inclined to wed him,
certainly twice as long as he had ever intended. But he would swear she was no
closer to accepting his offer of marriage than he was to regaining his own bed.
By God, and it didn’t help that this was the lumpiest mattress he had ever
slept upon!

Ronan thrust himself onto his other side, this time
jamming the down pillow against the headboard with such force that tiny white
feathers burst from one corner. But he barely noticed them drifting around him,
his frustration become like a raging fever.

Aye, even calling for three times as many raids had
done him little good!

He had told his men that it was because they might
never have a chance at such rich pickings again once King John quashed the
rebellion among his subjects and left Eire. Even now the Norman army was still
waging battle far to the north while to the south lay countless manors so
poorly guarded they were like chickens waiting for the slaughter.

Yet behind that sound explanation
lay
the fact that he’d wanted to prove to Triona that he meant to stand by his
word. And what better way than to raid so often that there had been barely time
between to catch a few hours’ sleep before they were up and riding again.

Or so he had thought. But obviously it hadn’t worked
for here he was, still sleeping alone while the woman he wanted no doubt hated
him as much as before.

Ronan lunged from the bed, cursing his foolishness.

Damn her, he should have forced her to marry him. He
would have forced her to marry the O’Nolan if the chieftain had wanted her. So
why, then, hadn’t he spared himself this torment?

Ronan thrust his legs into a pair of trousers, giving
up for the moment any notion of sleeping. Instead he went outside.

The night was warm. A light breeze ruffled through his
hair. He doubted a walk would help, but it was worth a try. He turned and
headed away from the dwelling-house where Triona was sleeping—his own damned
house!—deciding it was best not to go too near. It was dangerous, given his
mood.

"Lord?"

"Aye." Ronan said no more to the guard who’d
approached him, pleased to see that his men were being vigilant about their
duty.

He walked on, nodding to the clansmen standing at their
posts, their numbers doubled of late. It was unlikely that any Normans would
dare stray into Glenmalure, the cowards preferring to fight their battles on
the open plains. But he and his men—and Triona, had stolen some MacMurrough
cattle a week past, and though Ronan was certain much of that traitorous clan
had ridden north to join King John, it never hurt to be cautious.

"Brazen wench," he muttered, remembering how
fearlessly Triona had plunged Laeg into that herd even as arrows had been
flying all around her. Mayhap recklessly was a better word, his gut cramping at
the memory.

His concern had hardly lessened over these past weeks,
in fact, it had grown worse. Yet time after time, Triona had proven that she
could look out for herself as well as his men. He had only to think of how
narrowly he had escaped death thanks to her quick instincts to know she had
earned her place among them.

Aye, he could not deny it. Triona O’Toole was a wonder,
as courageous and adventuresome as any man. Yet he couldn’t allow her to go on
raiding forever. One day there might be children who would need their mother
with them. Maybe there was even a babe now.
His
babe . . .

Ronan’s low oath rent the night silence, his
frustration hitting him again with violent force. Deciding that Triona was as
much a woman who could drive a man to drunkenness, he turned around and strode
for the hall. But he hadn’t gone far when a stirring sound carried to him,
lilting and yet huskily soft. He realized it was coming from the stable, dim
light shining beneath the doors.

"The woman should be abed," he bit out,
though his heart had begun to pound. Wondering what Triona might be up to at
this late hour, he drew closer then stopped altogether, listening just outside
the doors to the bewitching sound of her singing.

Aud hadn’t exaggerated. Triona had the most beautiful
voice he’d ever heard. As her song of ancient heroes spun out into the night,
he felt his throat tighten.

Conor’s little sister.

How could he have known this bold hellion would give
him hope where only gnawing emptiness had been before? That she could make him
feel as if there were a chance the terrible weight he’d carried for so long
could be lifted?

Aye, he could still force her to marry him. But what
would she think of him then? By God, he didn’t want her hate! He wanted her—

"Is there anything wrong, Lord?"

Ronan swung to face the guard who had come up behind
him. "No, nothing. I was listening . . ." He didn’t finish, realizing
Triona’s singing had stopped. She must have heard their voices. His voice.
Pained, he waved the guard away as he shoved open one of the stable doors.

The interior was full of shadows and warmer than
outside, the still air smelling pungently of hay and horses. His gaze
immediately went to Laeg, the magnificent animal swinging his great sculpted
head to look at him. But Ronan didn’t see Triona, and he guessed she must be
hiding. That pained him, too.

He slowly approached Laeg’s stall, searching the
shadows, his senses alert for any clues that might give her away. He even
stopped twice just to listen. But still he saw nothing, heard nothing. It wasn’t
until he was almost to the stall that he caught a flash of movement, lunging
just in time to grab the back of her shirt as she darted from behind a stack of
hay.

"Let me go! Damn you, let me go!" Triona
demanded, flailing her arms wildly and on purpose as she tried to free herself.
She felt her fist connect with Ronan’s ribs, his sharp intake making her swing
at him all the harder. "I’ll tell the O’Byrne, I will! I’ve a right to be
here if I want—"

She gasped as she was suddenly spun around to face him,
his hand sweeping the tousled hair out of her eyes. "It’s me, woman!
Ronan!"

"What?" She blinked. "I—I thought you
were one of the guards come to make me leave the stable." She dropped her
gaze to where Ronan was rubbing his side. "Begorra, I hope I didn’t hurt
you," she said, feigning dismay.

"Would it have made any difference if you had?"

Triona didn’t answer, disconcerted by the searching
look in his eyes as well as the steely pressure of his arm locked around her
waist. He was bare-chested, too, a heart-stopping sight she’d only seen a time
or two, which didn’t help matters.

Jesu,
Mary
and Joseph! Here
she had managed since that first raid to avoid getting too close to him . . .
to avoid being left alone with him only to find
herself
once more in his damnable embrace. Grateful when he released her, she
immediately went to Laeg’s stall, putting a good safe distance between them.

"If you were worried about the guards finding you
then you shouldn’t have been singing."

Triona shrugged as she picked up a brush and set once
more to grooming Laeg’s back. "It wasn’t that loud."

"Mayhap not but it carried all the same. And fair
singing it was, too. The prettiest I’ve ever heard."

Triona’s hand fell still for a moment. An unexpected
compliment. She flushed to her toes, wishing in spite of herself that he might
have meant it.

"You’re up late tonight," she said stiffly. "I
would have thought you’d gone to bed hours ago."

"I could say the same for you, Triona."

Bristling, she glanced over at him. He’d come no closer,
but now he was leaning against a timber support post, his arms folded over his
chest swelling all too noticeably with hard muscle. He looked to her annoyance
as if he fully intended to stay.

"You gave me the right to do as I wish, did you
not?"