Wild Angel (3 page)

His eyes widening at her insolent command, Ronan felt
his anger pricked and his patience vanished. No one gave him orders. No one.

"
I
will
decide when to leave this glen, Triona O’Toole, and when I do, you will
accompany me. Your father summoned me for
a reconciliation
and made me swear an oath. You’re now under my protection. It was his last wish
and I intend to fulfill it." Seeing her bristle with disbelief, he added, "The
priest is my witness. If you’d been by your father’s side like any devoted and
respectful daughter, you would know I speak the truth."

"Like any devoted . . . ? Why you . . . you
presumptuous . . ." sputtered Triona, so outraged that she was tempted to
strike this overbearing rebel whose eyes glittered silver in the candlelight. "Do
you dare to think because I wasn’t his blood daughter that I’ve been any less
devoted to him? It was only because he yearned for a taste of venison that I left
his side. I just now returned from the hunt to discover I was barred from the
hall, my cousin Murchertach informing me that Father had a visitor. You!"

Triona did strike him then but not upon the face. He
was too damned tall. She balled up her fist and hit him squarely in the stomach,
but her blow might have been a feather light tap for all she hurt him. Her hand
was throbbing, however, his muscled abdomen as hard as rock.

"Did that ease your temper?" he asked
tightly, his silvery eyes gleaming. "Now I understand what your father was
mumbling just before he died. Why he enlisted his five men to keep you out
until I had sworn. You’re hardly the sweet-natured girl I remember—"

"Aye, so I’m
not,
and you’ll
get more of the same if you’re fool enough to stay in Imaal a moment longer!"
Triona shot back, although she doubted her poor hand would survive such abuse.

"Watch out for your shins, O’Byrne!" came a
warning from one of the men near the door. "And your toes! She’s a kick on
her that can splinter wood!"

"Please, please, this unseemly strife must cease!"
cried the flush-faced priest who pushed his girth between them as if
anticipating Triona’s next move. "Have some respect for the dead and take
this matter outside!"

"Aye, so we will," Triona
agreed,
eager to be done with this intrusion so she could return to her father.
Brushing past Ronan, she glared at the clansmen who had blocked her way and
especially at Murchertach who, as her father’s Tanist, was now the new
chieftain of the Imaal O’Tooles.

"I could have been with him if not for you,"
she said to him with bitterness, fresh tears
smarting
her eyes.

"Do not blame me," replied the big-boned
Irishman, his deep voice holding no apology. "It was your father’s command
that he speak with Ronan alone."

Feeling betrayed by her own clan, Triona said no more.
She dashed out of the hall and ran to her tethered horse, seizing her bowcase
from the leather sheath strapped to the animal’s broad back. By the time Ronan
appeared in the doorway, Triona had already strung her bow and set an arrow to
the string.

"Aye, Laeg, I see him," she muttered to the
tall bay stallion who tossed its great head as Ronan stepped outside, his black
cloak swirling. "Bright June sunshine and the man still looks like the
very devil."

An admittedly handsome devil no matter the stern look
on his face, she thought as Ronan stopped dead in his tracks when she took aim.
Even more so than she remembered as a young girl when it had made her heart
pound just to look at him. When she’d believed the moon, the sun and the
twinkling stars in the night sky spun around Ronan O’Byrne. But that had been
before he’d murdered her brother.

"Might I ask what you’re doing pointing that arrow
at me?" came his query, his voice tinged with just enough authority, just
enough condescension to infuriate her. "I thought we came out here to
talk."

"I’ve little more to say to you than this, Black O’Byrne.
If you think I’m going anywhere with you, think again!" She released the
deadly missile with an ominous zing, skewering the hem of Ronan’s long cloak to
the wall.

Chapter 2

STUNNED, RONAN LOOKED from the owl-fletched arrow that
had narrowly missed his calf to Triona’s satisfied smile. That wily old Fineen!
His new charge was no more a modest and dutiful female than Ronan was a lover
of Normans. The disobedient chit seemed intent upon defying him.

"You see that I don’t need your protection,"
she declared, deftly fitting another arrow to the string. "I’ve taken care
of myself for years and intend to continue! Now mount your horse and leave me
in peace!"

"And if I don’t?" Swallowing his surprise at
her skill with the bow, Ronan yanked his mantle from the wall and strode toward
her. He didn’t flinch as a second arrow winged right past his ear, piercing the
earth harmlessly behind him. "An oath is an oath, Triona, and I intend to
honor it . . . with or without your consent."

The third arrow sliced into the ground at his feet and
Ronan stopped, incensed.

"Go on, test my aim! Take another step!" she
dared him, tossing a lustrous mass of coppery gold ringlets over her shoulder. "But
I warn you, my father taught me how to shoot and he claimed that my skill
equaled his own. Try to touch me, O’Byrne, and I swear the next arrow will fly
straight to your heart. A fitting end to match the one you gave my brother!"

Wisely, Ronan didn’t move.

Cursing under his breath, he found it strange that at
such a moment he would notice the brilliant color of her eyes, now trained so
intently upon him. The hall had been so dim that he had not noticed earlier,
and he’d forgotten such a detail from her childhood.

Vivid
emerald green . . . like
a forest glade in morning sunlight. Beautiful. And deadly. He did not doubt
that she would make good upon her threat.

He decided not to lunge for her. The thought of
trussing her up and carrying her by force to his stronghold was very tempting
and no less than she deserved for such willfulness, but he would reason with
her instead.

But only this once. And he doubted she would listen to
him unless he offered something that might appeal to this misguided hoyden.

"It would be a pity if you killed me," he
said bluntly, his eyes holding hers.

"For your widow perhaps."

"I’ve no wife. No children." Ronan took a
step forward, but froze when she began to pull back the string.

"Move again, O’Byrne, and I promise you’ll be
greeting your grave."

Bridling his anger, Ronan kept his voice calm. "I’ve
an offer to make, Triona. One I believe will intrigue you."

He was answered by a most unmaidenly snort of derision.
"Offer? What could you possibly offer me other than your agreement to
leave Imaal and never show your face here again?"

"That’s not exactly what I intended. I heard your
oath to your father. I, too, am determined to seek out his attackers. If you
come with me now, we could avenge him together. You could ride with my men and
I
—"

"Ride with you?" Triona cut in sarcastically,
although she was surprised at this offer. Her father had rarely spoken a good
word about Ronan, had rarely spoken of him at all for that matter, but he had
never faulted Ronan’s crusade against the Normans. The bold raids of Black O’Byrne
and his clansmen were legendary among those Leinster Irish who still refused to
accept the invaders’ presence in Eire. In fact these Leinster Irish were
branded as rebels by other clans who’d submitted to the Normans like stupid
sheep. Aye, Ronan’s was a brave cause, but it had been during one of these
raids that she had lost her brother. "And risk falling to one of your
arrows like Conor?" she added. "Not likely."

She saw Ronan stiffen, a muscle flashing along his jaw.

"I no longer use a bow, so you’ve nothing to fear."
His eyes swept over her—not silver now but a stormy slate gray—as if taking her
measure. "Then again, mayhap you’re not as brave as you appear. Mayhap
your oath of vengeance was only a fine show for your clansmen. From the way you
hesitate, I would even venture to guess that you’re afraid to join us on our
raids—"

"
Afraid?
"
Indignant, Triona lowered her bow. "I’ll have you know that I’m a better
shot than most men and I’ve the practice targets full of holes to prove it! If
you don’t believe me, ask my clansmen. Ask them, too, if I’ve ever flinched at
the hunt. You’ll find that Triona O’Toole’s never once fled from a charging
boar. Never!"

Given what he’d seen of her thus far, Ronan found it wasn’t
difficult to imagine her facing down an enraged beast—which didn’t please him.
Hunting was hardly a fitting pastime for a young woman. Yet, for now, he would
humor her and tolerate her boasts.

"I would expect nothing less from you," he
conceded, "seeing as your teacher was the finest bowman in Wicklow. But
hunting is one thing, raiding against Normans entirely another. Who knows? In
the heat of an attack, you might decide you’d rather be safe at home than faced
with enemies who’d love nothing more than to slit your throat."

Now Triona was really angry. She must be red
faced,
her cheeks were so flame hot. How dare this arrogant
man even hint that she might shrink in the face of danger!

"My father taught me to fend for myself, O’Byrne,
and I’ve already survived enough scrapes to know that I could stand up to some
fool Normans!"

"Then prove it. Accept my offer."

Triona almost shouted that she would, damn him, but
cold reason doused her response just in time.

"I don’t have to prove anything to you," she
said surlily, once more taking aim. "I’d rather win vengeance on my own than
ride with a man who could murder his best friend—"

"Enough, Triona! You disgrace your father’s
passing with such talk!"

Startled, Triona lowered her bow as Murchertach left
the hall and stood beside Ronan.

"The good priest has told me everything, and ‘tis
true that your father and the O’Byrne reconciled before his death,"
continued the strapping young chieftain, his ruddy face stern. "The past
has been forgiven. All blame set aside. Bridle your sharp tongue, woman, or you’ll
only shame Fineen’s memory with your spite."

"I would never shame my father," Triona said
stiffly, affronted that Murchertach would rebuke her so harshly and in full
view of her clansmen. Glancing around her, she saw that her heated exchange
with Ronan had drawn many onlookers, including her longtime maid, Aud, who was
nervously wringing her hands.

But then again, Triona fumed as the new chieftain
turned to confer in conspiratorial tones with Ronan. Murchertach had held a
grudge against her since she had refused his offer of marriage. Mayhap he was
repaying her for the slight. But she’d only rejected him as she had done all
the rest; she’d marry no man who wanted to take away her freedom.

And Murchertach had threatened as much! No more hunting
or late moonlit rides or the choice to go where she pleased when she pleased as
a man might, but managing a home and servants and bowing to a husband’s every
whim, as wives were expected to do.

Mayhap if Fineen had reared her differently, she would
have been contented with such a lot. But after Conor’s death, she’d practically
become the son that he had lost. No needlework and staying indoors for
her—well, other than for occasional lessons in learning from a visiting
priest—but training in archery and the ways of the woods and its creatures.
Aye, she’d marry if she found a man who’d respect her skills as her father had,
a man who wouldn’t make her give up the things she loved. But until then, she’d
be taking no husband. Not if she had breath in her body to say anything about
it.

"I’d rather drown in a bog than settle for the
life you offered me, Murchertach O’Toole," she muttered to herself,
glaring resentfully at her former suitor.

"What was that?" he demanded, facing her. He
crossed his brawny arms over his chest, clearly reveling in his role as her
father’s successor, the clan’s new chieftain.

"I said I’d die before I’d disgrace my father’s
memory," Triona answered.

"Wisely spoken. Then I’ll hear no more dissent
when I say that you will honor Fineen’s last wish and accept Ronan O’Byrne,
chieftain of the Glenmalure O’Byrnes, as your guardian and protector."

So the two men had been conspiring against her, she
seethed, certain now that Murchertach had been waiting for the chance to wield
his newfound power over her and had finally found it in Ronan. Well, she wouldn’t
give him the satisfaction.

"Your fine speech wasn’t needed, cousin," she
said icily. "I’ve already decided to accept the O’Byrne’s offer to ride
with him and his men on their raids. A far more enticing prospect than
embroidering shirts or warming some loutish chieftain’s bed, wouldn’t you say?"
She ignored Murchertach’s vehement oath and shot a glance at Ronan. "That
is, if your offer still stands."

Ronan wondered if Murchertach’s face could possibly
turn any redder, and for a brief moment admired her for so easily quelling the
man’s smugness. "Aye, the offer stands."

"Then the matter’s settled. Now if the two of you
don’t mind, I’ll return to my father. Alone."

Ronan heard the telling catch in her voice, but it didn’t
match the look of pure disdain she threw at him as she shouldered her bowcase
and stalked back into the hall. Or had it been directed at Murchertach? He
couldn’t be sure.

All he was sure of was that she was accompanying him of
her own free will. At least that would buy him a temporary reprieve from her
hotheaded temper until they reached Glenmalure.

Or so he hoped . . .