Wild Angel (37 page)

"You won’t believe what the O’Byrne’s been doing,
Triona. He’s had the feasting-hall bedecked with herbs and flowers, aye,
primroses and bluebells and the sweetest smelling honeysuckle. He’s had the
finest casks of wine tapped, the stronghold swept from top to
bottom
and everything put in order, and he’s even been twice
to the kitchen to see how your marriage feast is progressing. You can well
imagine how nervous he’s making the poor cook—"

"Aud!"

Startled, her maid spun to face her.

"Have you seen my clothes?" Triona repeated
impatiently. "I left them right here by the bed."

"Why, I sent them to be washed, sweeting."
Aud suddenly looked dismayed. "Surely you’re not thinking to wear a shirt
and trousers on your wedding day, are you? And here I’ve just laid out this
lovely silk gown for you—look, the green one that so matches your eyes—"

"I’ll be wearing a gown when I marry, Aud, don’t
fret," Triona said distractedly, sweeping the linen sheet around her as
she rose from the bed and headed for the door.

"Where are you going, then? There’s nice hot
bathwater coming soon from the kitchen and . . ."

Triona didn’t hear the rest of Aud’s words as she
rushed into her former room and made straight for the clothes chest.

As she flung aside the sheet and hurriedly tugged a
clean shirt over her head, Maeve watching her from the bed with drowsy eyes,
Triona imagined Conn must have tagged along with Ronan. But it wasn’t Ronan she
was going to seek out this morning, at least not right away. First there was
something else she had to do.

"Sweeting, what of your bath?"
came
Aud’s reproachful voice from the doorway.

Triona spun and fastened her trousers. "I shouldn’t
be gone long, Aud. Have them keep the water warm for me on the hearth."

"Keep the water warm for you?" Aud propped
her fists at her thin waist. "You’re up to some mischief, Triona O’Toole.
I can tell, you know. Did you and the O’Byrne have a quarrel last night?"

"No quarrels. Everything’s fine." Triona
shrugged into her leather jerkin. "Have you seen my belt, Aud—no, never
mind, I won’t need it."

She didn’t bother with shoes either, but darted past
Aud as the older woman threw up her hands.

"It’s your wedding day, sweeting! What else could
be so important?"

Nothing was more important, Triona thought as she
hastened outside. Yet she couldn’t ignore that someone was suffering so
wretchedly only doors away from her. It wasn’t right.

Triona was so intent upon her purpose that she gave
little notice to the bustle of preparations as she made her way to the grain
house. Seeing three guards standing sentinel outside the doors, she wondered if
they were the same ones from last night but then imagined those clansmen must
have been relieved to get some sleep. These new guards looked very surprised to
see her, glancing in puzzlement at each other as she approached.

"I’d like to go inside, please. To see the
prisoner."

"Sorry, miss," came the response she’d fully
expected from the stout bushy-bearded clansman who appeared to be in charge. "We’ve
orders to allow no one—"

"Am I not soon to be the O’Byrne’s wife?"

"Aye, miss."

"Then I demand to be given entrance. Or mayhap I
should scream for the O’Byrne so he can tell you. And I will scream, I promise,
loud enough to make everything in this place come to a stop. Ronan won’t be
happy that you’ve upset me on the morn of our wedding."

Obviously growing nervous, the clansmen still appeared
reluctant. But Triona wasn’t daunted, lifting her chin.

"Very well, then. You can’t say you weren’t
warned—"

"All right, miss, don’t be calling for the O’Byrne!
You may go inside, but only for a moment."

Grateful that they had succumbed to her bluff, Triona
waited impatiently as the doors were opened, the burly clansman who’d granted
her permission following her into the building. Other than the sunlight
streaming behind them, the place was dark as a freshly dug grave, the walls
lined with huge sacks of grain.

"Where . . .

The clansman gestured to a side door, opening it for
her. Triona was relieved to see as she stepped closer that light emanated from
the tiny room, however dim, a sputtering oil lamp set in the middle of the
floor. At least the poor woman hadn’t been left completely in the dark

A frightened whimper drew Triona’s gaze to the corner
and she froze, staring in shock.

Chapter 33

"BEGORRA, SHE’S ONLY a girl!"

"Hardly a girl," the clansman said with a
snort. "She may be a slight little thing, but she’s seen at least sixteen
winters if I’m any judge. You can’t tell when she’s all huddled up as she is
now, but when she’s standing—"

"As if she could with her feet trussed like an
animal’s!"

"Orders from the O’Byrne
himself,
miss. She’s to remain bound hand and foot except for the times when she’s given
leave to eat and see to her personal needs."

"And how often is that?"

"Once in the morning and then again at night."

Sickened that Ronan’s hatred could make him treat a
defenseless young woman so wretchedly, Triona exploded. "Jesu,
Mary
and Joseph! What’s the poor thing to do if she can’t
wait until nightfall? Sit in
her own
filth?"

When the clansman shrugged callously, Triona had heard
and seen enough. Silently cursing that she hadn’t worn her belt with the dagger
she could have used right now, she looked instead at the clansman’s belt.
Before he’d guessed her thoughts, she’d wrenched out his hunting knife,
brandishing it at him.

"I’d wager you’ve heard of my skill with the bow?"

His Adam’s apple lurching, the man nodded as he took a
few steps backward. "Aye, miss, I was in the hall that very day—ridden on
raids with you, too."

"Then I’m asking you not to try to stop me for I
can wield a knife as well. If I’m to be the mistress here at Glenmalure, I’ve a
right to say when I feel something is unjust. And I say that this hostage
deserves better, no matter she’s a MacMurrough. Are we understood?"

The man bobbed his head but Triona was already moving
to the corner where she sank down on her haunches, so close now that she could
tell in spite of the meager light that the young woman was of unsurpassed
loveliness. Yet even silky blond hair and large green eyes hadn’t spared her
from Ronan’s wrath.

Triona saw, too, that the young woman had begun to cry
albeit silently, for she could do aught else with that disgusting gag in her
mouth.

"Aye, I don’t blame you a bit for weeping after
what you’ve been through," Triona murmured as reassuringly as she could. "Don’t
be frightened by the knife. I’m going to cut away your gag, is
all.
"

She did so quickly and with a deft hand, tossing the
sodden cloth to the floor. Then she made short work of the cords tied far too
tightly around chafed ankles and wrists, flinging them away in disgust. She
looked up to find the young woman staring at her, fresh tears filling her eyes.

"Th-thank you . . ."

"Triona. Triona O’Toole."

The young woman
nodded,
a
trembling smile on her lips as she gestured to herself, saying brokenly, "Caitlin
MacMurrough." But she just as quickly sobered, tears tumbling down her
pale cheeks as she rubbed her reddened wrists. "My father is Donal—"

"Aye, so I guessed, but that’s certainly no sin of
your own making." Triona rose, saying over her shoulder, "Could you
come and help me lift her to her feet?"

When she got no answer, Triona turned around to find
that the clansman had fled. Imagining the alarm he must be raising, she felt
nervousness bubble inside her, but she did her best to tamp it down. "Well,
Caitlin MacMurrough, it seems we’re on our own. Your ankles look like they must
be hurting you. Can you stand?"

"Aye, I think so."

"Then take my hands."

As Triona pulled the younger woman up in front of her,
she saw at once that Caitlin stood no taller than herself which made her grin.

"You must come from a family of short women."

"You, too."

Glad to hear that Caitlin’s tone had brightened if only
a little, Triona gave a shrug. "I never knew my true mother, but aye, I
suppose she was small like me. Lots of copper hair, too." She took Caitlin’s
arm. "How about a bit of Wicklow sunshine?"

Triona wasn’t surprised when Caitlin held back, fear
shining in her eyes.

"You . . . you can truly do this? What if Black O’Byrne—"

"I’m marrying the man this very day," Triona
broke in, hoping she sounded confident. "Once I explain things, Ronan will
understand it’s only right that you should be treated better during your stay
among us. A wife’s feelings must stand for something."

With that, Triona led Caitlin from the tiny room,
hoping too, that the young woman wouldn’t sense that her nervousness was
mounting. It didn’t help either that there was a silent crowd of clansmen
standing outside. Caitlin cringed at her side.

"Your father’s a proud chieftain, aye, Caitlin
MacMurrough?" she gently chided as they drew closer to the door.

"He—he is."

"Then hold your head high as if you were walking
among your own people . . . and don’t forget I’m right beside you."

Triona wished she had someone to bolster her courage as
they stepped
outside,
the clansmen’s stern faces truly
a daunting sight. But it was the hostility in their eyes that struck her most
acutely, as if all the resentment the O’Byrnes had ever felt for the
MacMurroughs and their traitorous past deeds was directed toward this one poor
girl. Triona could hardly blame Caitlin when she hesitated again.

"Don’t worry, Caitlin, I’m going to take you to my
house. We’ve an extra room where you’ll be more comfortable—"

"Triona!"

She stopped as Ronan strode toward her through the
crowd, his face thunderous. Bracing herself, she held onto Caitlin’s arm that
much more firmly, certain that if she didn’t the young woman would bolt like a
terrified rabbit right back into the grain house.

"Ronan, if you’d let me—"

"By God, woman, have you lost your senses?"

He’d gestured to his clansmen before Triona had a
chance to speak, Caitlin yanked from her grasp and surrounded by guards.
Immediately the young woman burst into tears.

"Now look what you’ve done!" Triona shouted
indignantly, only to have Ronan seize her by the shoulders and shake her. Shake
her! In front of his clansmen, some wives, even wide-eyed children.

"Damnit, Triona, you’ve no leave to countermand my
orders! None!"

"Even if your orders are unjust and cruel? She’s
barely more than a girl, Ronan!"

He shook her again, not as roughly this time although
his voice hadn’t grown any less ominous. "There’s no such thing as cruel
when it comes to dealing with a MacMurrough. The wench’s treatment here is no
less than she deserves—"

"She deserves to be trussed like a wild animal?
Her bindings so tight that in another day’s time, her wrists and ankles will be
bloody and raw?"

"Aye, if it prevents the chit from causing any
trouble." Ronan jerked his head toward the grain house, his clansmen at
once hustling their weeping prisoner through the door.

"No!" Furious, Triona wrenched free of Ronan’s
grasp and spun to race after the clansmen. But Ronan caught her again, pulling
her around to face him.

"Come away from here now. Do not shame yourself,
woman.

"Shame myself?" Incredulous, Triona felt
tears searing her eyes. "You’re the one who should feel shame, not me! I
thought you might understand. That you might care for my feelings. Damn you,
Ronan, I’m to be your wife! Have I no say in what I think is right or wrong?"

"Aye."

"Then allow Caitlin some better treatment. Surely
you can see the wisdom in releasing her to her father unscarred from this ordeal.
She could have my old room until the ransom comes—the door can be locked after
all and guards posted at the windows—"

"No MacMurrough will ever sleep under my roof!"
Ronan cut in so harshly that Triona flinched. "I’d burn the place to the
ground
first,
just as they helped the Normans torch
our homes in Kildare. Just as they did to all that once belonged to the O’Tooles,
Triona, a fact you’d do well to remember." He took her by the arm, pulling
her along beside him. "The hostage will remain at the grain house. A
fitting place since her ransom is going to help fill it."

"Then I have no say,
do
I?"
Triona demanded, angry tears slipping unchecked down her flushed cheeks.

"Not in this matter."

"Aye, well, then you have no bride!"

Her vehement outburst breaking through his fury, Ronan
stopped to face her, incredulous. "You would let this mar our wedding?"

"What wedding? There won’t be one as long as
Caitlin MacMurrough is being treated like an animal."

His ire rising again, Ronan tightened his grip on her
arm. "Everything will soon be in readiness, Triona. I’ve been up since
before dawn to ensure that it would be so. And the priest is here—"

"Then he can damned well go back to Glendalough! I’ll
even help him to his horse! Do you think that I could enjoy this day knowing a
poor defenseless girl was suffering so miserably right in our midst?"

"Others are suffering, too, Triona. Don’t forget
that her clansmen nearly killed my brother."

"Caitlin had no hand in the crime. Her only
offense is that she was born a MacMurrough, and for that she’s already been
wrested from her home and people. Are we such barbarians that we can’t show her
some compassion?"

Ronan heaved a sigh of utter exasperation, the tears
drying upon Triona’s face moving him more than her words. "Very well, you
can visit her if you’ve a mind to. But she’s to remain bound and at the grain
house!"