Wild Angel (28 page)

She gave no answer other than the stiff jutting of her
chin,
then
she turned and walked away.

"You mean a wife to snare, aye, brother?"
Niall said in a low aside, jabbing Ronan’s ribs not-so-subtly with his elbow. "The
two of you all alone in a deer trap. I hope progress was made."

"I’d like to think so," Ronan murmured, the
salty taste of Triona’s lips haunting him. "But who can say."

***

"I was so worried for you and Ronan, Triona. When
Ita
brought me word that you were safe, I wanted to grab my
crutch and find you, but that would have surely spoiled our secret."

Triona kept her silence, knowing Maire wouldn’t have
gotten very far on her own. Not yet. But even now, as she helped Maire walk
across the bright candlelit room, the crutch Chunking alongside her, Triona
could tell it was only a matter of time before Maire would need no assistance.

Maire was so determined, her fair brow knit in
concentration as she placed one foot fearlessly in front of the other, fighting
the stiffness in her legs and the pain of working muscles long unused, that
Triona was able to swallow some of her regret that she wouldn’t be here to see
that day. Maire would be all right without her. Aye, Maire would be all right.

"A deer trap, too. It must have been terrible to
see Ronan lying down there."

"Aye, it was," Triona admitted, but she
decided she would say no more on the matter.

She’d forgotten herself entirely in that damned pit,
giggling like a ninny with Ronan, teasing him, enjoying those lighthearted
moments as if there could be more of them. But there wouldn’t be, so she didn’t
want to build any false hope in Maire, especially when the younger woman—only
by a year, Triona had discovered—had expressed several times how much she
wanted Triona to be happy here at Glenmalure. Happy with Ronan. But thankfully
Maire had never pressed too hard and she didn’t now, as if sensing that Triona
was anything but happy.

"I think I’ve had enough for today, Triona. Aud
was here earlier, so I’ve had more than my share of walking. You’ve both been
so good to me."

Triona shrugged as she helped Maire to settle herself
at the window seat, big drops of rain drumming against the Norman glass. "And
you’ve been braver than any woman I’ve known—"

"Few women could be braver than you, Triona,"
Maire cut in gently, picking up her embroidery after she’d draped the fur
blanket over her legs. "To jump into that pit after my brother. Niall told
me how deep it was."

Niall again, Triona thought with an exasperated sigh.
It seemed he had been apprising Maire of every detail for weeks. But then
Triona supposed he didn’t want Maire feeling left out of the goings-on about
the stronghold. Aye, that wouldn’t be fair.

"I’d . . . I’d rather not talk about it,"
Triona said stiffly. "I should go."

"Oh no, Triona, sit with me for a while." An
understanding smile lit Maire’s face. "I know it’s been a trying day for
you, so we don’t have to discuss it anymore. Here, I could show you a few
embroidery stitches."

Triona gave a wry laugh in spite of her dark mood,
imagining what Ronan would think if he ever found her with a needle in her
hand. He would tease
her,
taunt her, just as he’d done
with that damned toad. But she sat down anyway.

She had come here to visit Maire, but she had also
wanted to take her mind from her own troubles. And Maire’s goodhearted kindness
always helped her to feel better. And if talking about sewing would hold her
unsettling thoughts of Ronan at bay, aye then, she would do it.

Late in the night, Triona burrowed deeper under the
covers as lightning lit the room, the rainstorm that had been raging for hours
only making it that much more difficult for her to fall asleep. But she
supposed it could have been a calm night, and she’d still be fighting the same
familiar battle. There’d be no escaping her thoughts now.

Were your tears
for me, Triona?
How could she have allowed herself to become so weak-kneed
and rattled?

"Mayhap I
am
an impressionable dolt," she muttered, throwing aside the covers in
frustration. She heard a muffled yowl and quickly flipped them back, smiling
apologetically as her cat darted to the safety of a pillow. "Sorry, Maeve."

Her smile didn’t last long. As lightning flashed, the
rain drumming even harder now upon the roof, Triona sighed with resignation and
climbed out of bed.

A pity it was pouring so viciously or she could have
gone to the stable. Yet with her luck Ronan might be there, and she’d already
taken supper alone with Aud rather than at the feasting-hall just to avoid his
company. Maybe if she sat for a while by the hearth in the other room, she’d
grow drowsy. It had worked before.

Triona whisked a robe over her thin sleeping gown,
pausing to pat Conn’s head before she went to the door. The poor dog was so
exhausted that he didn’t try to follow her. And what a loyal day’s work, too.
Who knows what Ronan might have done if Conn hadn’t brought help when he did?

Her flesh dimpling, Triona railed at herself again for
being a fool as she left the room.

"Begorra, did I wake you? I was trying to be
quiet," said a familiar male voice.

Triona stopped short, staring openmouthed at Ronan. She
barely noticed the fire already stoked and blazing in the hearth as a blush
raced across her cheeks.

Jesu,
Mary
and Joseph! With
only that linen towel slung around his hips, the man was standing there
practically naked! Astonished, she swept him with her eyes; she’d never seen so
much of him before. And never that midnight line of hair trailing down a lower
abdomen as magnificently honed and hard-muscled as the rest of his body.

Triona felt her face burn all the brighter. It didn’t
help when she met his eyes to find he was appraising her as well.
Instinctively, she drew her robe more tightly around her, not knowing her
action only accentuated the generous outline of her breasts.

"What . . . what are you doing here?"

"I was wondering when you were going to ask,"
he said, his tone as warm as the look in his eyes.

"Aye, well, you can imagine that I’m surprised to
see you," she replied indignantly. "You’re supposed to be staying at
that other dwelling-house—"

"The roof sprang a leak. Right over the bed, in
fact."

"Then why didn’t you just move the bed to another
part of the room?"

"The mattress was already soaked, Triona. Sleeping
in it tonight would have been akin to swimming."

"But—"

"This
is
my house," he broke in, his voice firm. "Actually, I’m enjoying being
back. I never liked that other bed."

"Aye, you look to be enjoying yourself,"
Triona said stiffly, noticing the brimming cup of wine set near a chair that
had been drawn closer to the fire.

"I was just drying myself," Ronan continued. "I
got a bit soaked running over here." He toweled his hair for a brief
moment,
then
flung the drying cloth over his shoulder.
"That should be enough."

Her pulse thrumming crazily as he took a draft of wine,
Triona hoped so. The
devil take
him. With his thick
black mane damp and tousled, he had a wild look about him that she found all
too compelling. Dangerously so.

"I . . . I think I should go back to bed."

"Should? I hope not on my account. This house is
as much your home as it is mine."

Now what did he mean by that? Triona wondered,
then
she just as suddenly stiffened.

There it was again, that blessed cocksure attitude.
Ronan must truly believe she was close to marrying him, especially after she’d
been fool enough to let him kiss her again. And now here he was planning to
sleep in the next room. She doubted that the roof had sprung a leak any more
than he was innocently walking around with only a towel draped around him!

"Well then, since you’ve put it so graciously,
mayhap I’ll join you for a while," she said, deciding she’d be damned if
she would allow him to intimidate her. "I was having trouble sleeping
anyway."

"You were?"

"Aye, the thunder and lightning."

"Oh."

Taking gleeful note that he seemed disappointed, she
hoped she’d pricked his overweening confidence. The arrogant, prideful spawn!

"Actually, the storm isn’t the full reason I
couldn’t sleep. I’ve been thinking about what happened in the deer trap."

Ronan had been pouring her a cup of wine, but he
stopped to look at her. She quickly rushed on, grabbing at a topic that she
had, in truth, been wondering about, but which had nothing to do with tears or
kisses.

"That bad dream you had today. You shouted out my
brother Conor’s name, you know. At least I think that’s who you meant."

Ronan’s grip had tightened around the cup, but he
willed himself to stay calm. Triona had a gift for taking him by surprise, but
he should have expected one day she might wish to discuss Conor.

"You might be more comfortable if you sat down,"
he suggested, pulling another chair next to his own. "Here, near the fire.
You look chilled."

"Very well."

She sat, accepting the wine. But she didn’t drink.
Ronan could feel her watching him as he stood staring silently into the flames,
a painful lump welling in his throat.

God help him, even though this moment had come, that
didn’t make it any easier. Just thinking about that terrible day made him feel
as if he were reliving the horror. But finally he faced Triona, her beautiful
eyes wary, her lips drawn together.

"You know your father forgave me for Conor’s
death."

She frowned, visibly stiffening. "Aye, but that
doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten—"

"Nor have I forgotten, Triona. Even without that
dream to haunt me, I could never forget that it was my arrow that killed him."

"Murdered him, you mean."

Ronan wasn’t surprised by the vehemence in her voice,
but her charge cut him to the quick. "Is that what you truly believe? By
God, woman, Conor was my closest friend! I would never have deliberately done
anything to hurt him."

"But you did that night! My father rarely spoke of
you after Conor’s death but the few times he did, he said your recklessness
killed my brother. You knew the Norman manor was heavily guarded, but you went
ahead all the same, your hotheaded lust for vengeance overwhelming your reason.
If that wasn’t deliberate, leading Conor and the rest of your men into certain
danger with your eyes wide open, I don’t know what else you’d call it!"

"It was a mistake," Ronan murmured, the lump
in his throat almost choking him, his palms gone clammy. "A horrible
mistake."

"Aye, a mistake that was paid for with Conor’s
life when the Normans mounted a counterattack."

"I was aiming at the man behind him," Ronan
said hoarsely, staring past Triona and her accusing eyes to a memory that had
leapt to agonizing life in his mind. "I was trying to save him. A Norman
was bearing down on Conor, his sword raised to strike. I shouted a warning,
Conor ducked, but another Norman’s horse slammed into his mount, knocking him
back into my range of fire. My
arrow struck him . . . God
forgive
me, it happened so fast." Remembered rage filled Ronan. "They
came after me next, laughing and taunting me for slaying one of my own . . .
but they weren’t laughing when I sent them both to hell."

Triona shuddered, Ronan’s expression so tortured that
she wished now she’d never mentioned his nightmare.

She regretted it even more when he hurled his cup at
the wall, bright red wine splattering the whitewash. Yet when he fixed his gaze
upon her once more, her chest grew tight at the despair in his eyes. And,
glistening there, were tears.

"You’ll never see beyond this, will you? You’ll
never see me as anything other than the man who killed your brother. By God,
Triona, do you hate me that much?"

She didn’t know what to say, utterly
stunned
by this side of him. It was as if he had laid himself bare to her, the emotion
in his voice like an open wound, bleeding and raw. Then he just as suddenly
turned from her, his face inscrutable.

"Leave me."

"Leave . . .?"

"Go, damn you!"

She fled, his tone grown so ominous that she upset the
chair in her haste to reach her room.

Chapter 25

TRIONA AROSE THE next morning before Aud had even come
to wake her. Not that she would have needed rousing.

When she had finally closed her eyes in the wee hours
of the night, exhaustion conquering her, she had slept hard. But only for a
short while. A pale dawn was barely streaking the windows as she
dressed,
her mind once more consumed by Ronan.

Yet that was nothing new. He had plagued her thoughts
since she’d come to Glenmalure. But this morning there was a marked difference.
For the first time, she wasn’t angry that she could think of little else but
him. She was angry at herself for thinking of him so unfairly.

Aye, she’d been a banshee, saints forgive her. Mean and
hateful and cruel. And if Ronan never spoke to her again, she’d deserve it.
Especially after last night.

She remembered wishing as a girl that she hoped Ronan
was suffering over her brother’s death, just as she and her parents had
suffered. But if time had healed her grief, it was clear Ronan was tormented
still. Horribly.

Why hadn’t she seen it before? All along, it had been
as plain as the red of her hair.

No wonder Ronan wasn’t the devil-may-care young man she
could recall so clearly, but stern and sometimes forbidding—aye, as he’d been
to her those first few days at the stronghold—and cautious almost to a fault.
Conor’s death had changed him.