Wild Angel (36 page)

"Damn you, O’Byrne, I said let me—"

His mouth silenced her, his kiss so incredibly
possessive that it didn’t take long for her to cease struggling altogether. Yet
when he lifted his head so she could draw breath, she blurted, "I won’t be
a Lady Emer! Do you hear me? I won’t—"

He silenced her again, kissing her more soundly than
the last time, his powerful body making it impossible for her to move. She was
dizzy when he raised his head to stare into her eyes, a taunting smile on his
lips.

"What makes you think I could ever content myself
with a docile Lady Emer after I’ve tasted the likes of you?"

Although she flushed furiously, Triona still wasn’t
ready to give in to him. "Why didn’t you answer me, then? Why didn’t you
say I’d be riding with you?"

"Because of where we’re lying, Triona."

Confused, she looked around her. "What does this
bed have to do with raiding?"

"Only that we’re going to make children here, you
and I." He brushed his warm lips against her mouth, his eyes burning into
hers like quicksilver. "A whole brood if I have anything to say about it."

"Aye, I want children, too," she murmured,
made breathless by the way he was looking at her. "But I still don’t see—"

"They’re going to need their mother with them, don’t
you think?"

Actually, Triona had never thought that far ahead,
given she’d never imagined she would find a man she could marry. She had to
admit that Ronan’s argument made sense, but even so . . .

"You hesitate, Triona."

"Only because I never considered how things might
be after a babe or two," she admitted, her face on fire, "or three."

"Ah, now, I can see it well. You’ll be teaching
the girls how to ride like wild hoydens, how to hunt and swim—"

"And the boys how to shoot a bow as well as their
father."

"Aye, woman, all that and much more. Do you think
I would ever take those things from you?" He kissed her so gently that
Triona went limp beneath him, delicious tremors radiating all the way to her
toes. But when Ronan looked again into her eyes, his expression was somber. "There
would be no raiding, is all. And I wouldn’t be worrying at every turn for your
safety—"

"But we’ve no babes yet," she broke in
softly, "and until that happens, I want to be with you, Ronan. Someday you
might be glad that I’m there to watch your back. If you could just grant me
that much . . ."

He sighed, still reluctant, but then a roguish smile
came to his lips. "No babes yet, you say? I guess I’ll have to see what I
can do to hasten matters along."

As his hips pressed suggestively into hers, Triona
somehow steeled herself against the yearning ache kindled like flame between
her thighs. "No, Ronan, not until you say that I can ride with you. . . ."

His husky chuckle thrilled her, his second taunting
thrust nearly undoing her.

"Aye, woman, you can ride with me. Right now."

She sharply sucked in her breath as his mouth came
closer and closer to hers, but he stopped as if to tease her when their lips
were only a hair’s breadth apart. "You’re . . . you’re not talking about
raiding anymore, Ronan."

"I’m not?"

She never got a chance to answer.

Chapter 32

"RONAN . . ."

Triona tossed her head, caught in the grip of a
whirling nightmare.

"Ronan, behind you!"

Her cry waking her, Triona lay trembling as she stared
at the raftered ceiling. She must have roused Ronan, too. In the next moment
she felt his arms tightening around her, pulling her close.

"Sshh, Triona, it was a dream. Only a dream."

"But you were fighting for your life, Ronan,"
she breathed shakily, burying her face against his neck. "And—and there
was someone else behind you but I couldn’t help you! I couldn’t—"

"Easy, Triona, I’m here with you and there’s no
one behind me. Go back to sleep. I’ll not have my bride’s beauty marred by dark
smudges under her eyes. . . ."

Triona tried to oblige him, but even the wonderful
warmth of Ronan’s body could not lull her back to sleep. Yet her closeness must
have lulled him. Soon she realized that he was once more slumbering soundly,
his deep steady breathing fanning her cheek.

Tenderly she kissed him, willing the troubling
fragments of her dream to go away. But still that terrible helpless feeling
lingered until
finally,
she sighed and quietly rose
from the bed.

It was easy enough to find her clothes in the soft
spill of moonlight pouring from the two windows, the garments lying in a heap
on the floor. Remembering as she dressed how impatiently Ronan had stripped
her, she couldn’t help
smiling
and at once she felt
better. But she decided to go and sit by the hearth anyway until she was
certain she could fall back asleep. Carefully she closed the door behind her so
as not to disturb Ronan.

The outer room was dark, lit only by the orange glow of
the hearth. Lying close to where it was warm, Triona found Conn, her wolfhound
raising his head as she drew near.

"Sshh, I’m going to join you for a while,"
she murmured as Conn’s long, bony tail
thunked
a
welcome on the floor. Settling into the nearest chair, she leaned over to
stroke his ears until Conn’s eyes began to close sleepily. Then she sat back
once more, drawing up her legs as she stared into the crumbling red embers.

Unbidden, that same impotent feeling returned but she
did her best to thrust it away, telling herself firmly, "You’ve always claimed
you’ve no fear of dreams, Triona O’Toole, and now’s not the time to start being
frightened." She wasn’t Aud, after all, who was as superstitious about
such things as anyone Triona had ever known.

Instead she thought of Ronan and the wondrous day they had
shared, her memories making her smile again.

He’d left her side only twice, the first time to send
an escort to Glendalough after the priest and the second, much later in the
evening, to check briefly on Niall and the other men who’d been wounded. The rest
of the time they had been together, just the two of them, exhausting themselves
with the sensual demands Ronan had made on her and those she’d in turn, made
upon him.

It was a bit wicked, really, this night being the eve
of their wedding, but they’d never before had so much time alone. They had
enjoyed a bath earlier in the afternoon, much of the soapy water ending up on
the floor, while supper—thoughtfully brought to them by Aud—had been savored
sitting cross-legged on the bed, each taking turns feeding the other
mouth-watering morsels of baked salmon dipped in honey and fresh oat bread.

Talk had been little, kisses and husky murmurings in
endless supply, the lightheartedness of the evening broken only when Ronan
renewed his vow to avenge her father now that King John would most likely be
sailing soon for England. Baron Maurice de Roche wouldn’t have his liege lord’s
royal robes to hide behind much longer. Ronan was as determined as ever to
seize him by surprise and stretch his murderous neck. But even that somber
moment had been brief, Ronan’s fierce lovemaking carrying them to the point
where they’d collapsed in each other’s arms, sleep like a sweet bliss finally
overcoming them.

Yet for all that, Triona hardly felt tired now as she
was swept by sudden excitement. Surely there couldn’t be but a few hours left
until sunrise, her wedding day having come at last.

"You were right about Ronan all along, my brave
Conn," she whispered, reaching down to pat her dog’s back. "He is a
good man. An honorable man. It just took me a while longer to see it—Conn?"

Startled that the wolfhound had gotten up from the
floor so abruptly, Triona watched as he trotted to the front door and stopped
to cock his head. She listened, too, until she heard the anxious mewing coming
from outside. Triona rose at once, realizing Aud must have forgotten to let
Maeve back into the dwelling-house.

"Some Warrior-Queen," Triona murmured,
hurrying to the door.

Aye, she should have named Maeve after Lady Emer for
all she liked the out-of-doors, the feline much preferring a soft downy pillow
to sleep upon than chasing mice all night long. But the moment Triona swung
open the
door,
Maeve darted into the yard, the
skittish creature clearly taken by surprise.

"Stay, Conn," Triona bade the wolfhound as
she dashed outside, following her cat’s sleek white shape past a long line of
dwelling-houses. "Maeve, come back! Maeve!"

Triona had called out softly, but the night was so
still she felt as if she had shouted at the top of her lungs. She saw
immediately that her presence had attracted the attention of the guards
standing watch over the stronghold.

"I’m trying to catch my cat," she said to the
first one who approached her, the clansman looking at her as if she might be
half mad. Shrugging, she rushed past him, searching the moonlit yard for Maeve.
But after long moments had passed and she still hadn’t spied her, Triona gave
up. It was ridiculous to—

Triona suddenly stopped, listening.

Jesu, Mary and Joseph, was that a woman weeping?

A sick feeling rose in her stomach as she wondered if
one of the wounded men might have taken a grave turn for the worse, his wife
now pouring out her grief. Yet surely Ronan would have told her if that was so.

Triona listened again, the piteous sobbing a
heartrending thing to hear. Whoever was crying sounded overcome by despair,
inconsolable. And it was coming from somewhere nearby.

Looking around her, Triona saw to her surprise that she
was almost to the grain house where she’d seen Ronan earlier that day. She
noted, too, that
a trio of clansmen were
standing
guard by the double doors, confirming her suspicion that the prisoner was being
kept there. Yet surely the weeping couldn’t be coming from the grain house.
That would mean Ronan’s hostage wasn’t a man as she had assumed, but a—

"I found your cat, miss."

Triona would have jumped out of her shoes if she’d been
wearing a
pair,
the young clansman had startled her
so.

"Th-thank you," she murmured, hugging Maeve
against her hammering heart as she turned and hurried away. Almost at that same
moment, the sobbing abruptly ceased. Triona glanced over her shoulder to find
that one of the clansmen standing guard had disappeared inside the grain house.

As if her bare feet were stuck to the ground, she stood
in the shadows watching . . . watching and waiting for the man to come back out
again. She felt she couldn’t breathe, wondering what he might be doing to Ronan’s
wretched prisoner. But finally he ducked outside, grousing, "That should
keep the damned wench quiet."

"You didn’t tie the gag too tightly, did you?"
asked one of the others.

"Tight enough to silence her wailing. If it’s
hurting her, who cares? The O’Byrne said to do whatever was necessary to keep
her under control. I’d wager he’d have done the same thing if he were here."

Stunned, Triona didn’t wait to hear more. She kept well
to the shadows as she raced back to the dwelling-house. She didn’t stop until
she was inside, Maeve clearly not having enjoyed the jostling and jarring at
all as she wriggled out of Triona’s arms with an indignant yowl.

But Triona barely heard her. She paid little heed
either as Conn playfully chased the spitting cat across the room. Her one
burning thought was that she must wake Ronan.

Surely he would mind if his clansmen were mistreating
his valuable prisoner, wouldn’t he?
A woman hostage, too, not
that that was so unusual, just that Triona hadn’t expected it.
And just
because the poor thing was a MacMurrough shouldn’t give them leave to be so
cruel.

Inside their room, Triona stopped cold at the foot of the
bed and stared at Ronan as he slept peacefully.

Could he have given such a ruthless order to his men?
To do whatever was necessary? Suddenly remembering the harshness in his voice
and the sheer hatred in his face whenever he’d spoken of his hostage, Triona
feared it was so. Ronan had always been merciful to women and children during
their raids, but maybe he despised the MacMurroughs even more than the Normans
and that was making him cruel. The MacMurroughs, after all, were responsible
for bringing the accursed invaders to Eire. And he probably was being driven,
too, by what had happened to Niall. So what good, then, would
waking
Ronan do?

Feeling strangely sick at heart, Triona undressed and
slipped back into bed, Ronan in his slumber reaching out to hug her close. Yet
the two of them might as well have been miles apart.

All she could think of was the woman’s pitiful weeping,
the sound echoing in her ears even as she closed her eyes to somehow try to
sleep.

***

"Wake up, Triona! Are you planning to dream away
the day?"

Triona dazedly opened her eyes,
then
promptly shut them at the bright sunshine streaming across the bed.

"Aye, sweeting,
it’s
morning and a fine beautiful day for your wedding, too."

Triona’s eyes flared wide open, her mind instantly
clear. She glanced beside her to find that she was alone in the huge bed.

"Aye, the O’Byrne’s been up for hours. I’ve never
seen a man so interested in wedding preparations, but he’s determined to make
the day as special for you as he can."

At that moment, Triona wasn’t thinking so much about
Ronan. Stunned and not a little angry with herself that she could have slept so
hard after what she’d seen last night, she sat bolt upright and looked around
her. "Aud, have you seen my clothes?" But her maid apparently hadn’t
heard her, rattling on and on as she set about tidying the room.