Wild Angel (43 page)

It soon became clear when the meal was nearly done that
Ronan was enjoying himself far too much yet to leave, Triona noticing the looks
his people were casting him as if astonished to see him smiling and laughing as
easily as Niall. Yet they appeared wholly pleased, too, and for that reason
Triona guessed Fiach O’Byrne had chosen to remain at the back of the hall with
the two guards who’d entered with him.

She had seen them at once, her heart lurching in her
breast as she wondered if Fiach would make his terrible announcement to the
entire clan. But he merely ate his supper, apparently loath to disrupt the
night’s merriment. But she didn’t doubt for a moment from the somber way he was
staring at her that if he found Ronan alone, he would tell him.

She had one more scare when a clansman came to their
table, a cloaked guard as drenched and muddy as Ronan had been earlier that
day. Just to hear the man mention the name Maurice de Roche was enough to make
her blanch, her fingers trembling as she gripped her wine cup. But she relaxed
the tiniest bit when she heard that the guard had just come from Kildare with
news that the baron would be returning to his castle as soon as King John
sailed home from Dublin.

"Did you hear that?" Ronan roared to his
people after he’d bade the man to go warm himself by the fire. "The Norman
king is receiving homage from his vassals at Dublin castle. Mayhap the loyal
Donal MacMurrough is there as well, licking that dog’s stinking feet!"

Triona winced as the hall erupted in jeers; she dropped
her gaze when she saw that Fiach was watching her. She said nothing, even when
Ronan leaned over and whispered, "We’ll have our vengeance soon, Triona.
Even if I have to flush the good baron from his castle by setting fire to his
fields just as you suggested. That I vow. And if it pleases you, you may send
de Roche to hell with one of your arrows. It would be fitting."

She had no time to dwell upon his offer, for in the
next moment his voice had sunk to a whisper. "Sing for me, Triona."

She was stunned, though it made sense that he would
make such a request. Yet she shook her head, her emotions too frayed to bear
it.

"Aye, woman, you must. You know how much it would
please me."

She swallowed hard, his slate gray eyes burning so
intently into hers that she could not refuse him. As Ronan gestured for the
gaunt harper to come forward, Triona rose and went around the table to join the
man, her cheeks afire at the knowledge that Ronan’s gaze was upon her.

She could not sing of love. Not when hers was being so
horribly threatened. Instead she sang of Cuchulain and his heroic
deeds,
and of his noble death on the battlefield, his back
to a rock and his face bravely to the foe.

When she was done, the last shimmering strains of the harp
fading into the air, there was a great silence in the hall. All faces were
turned toward her as if spellbound until at last, the harper’s voice shattered
the stillness.

"If ever fairer singing has been heard in Eire,
let me cast down my harp and play no more!"

Immediately the hall erupted in cheers, Ronan’s people
using their silver cups, their cutting knives, their shoes to bang upon the
tables. It was such a wild din that Triona didn’t hear Ronan walk up behind
her. She jumped when she felt his strong hands encircle her waist.

"Aye, woman, you’ve pleased me well," he said
against her ear, embracing her as the deafening tumult raged around them. "Come.
It’s time we take our leave."

If he’d pronounced a death sentence upon her, the
effect would have been the same. Stricken, Triona somehow made her legs carry
her from the hall after he’d settled her cloak around her shoulders, Ronan
leading her by the hand. And this time he noticed her distress. As soon as they
stepped outside, he faced her, concern etched upon his handsome face.

"Triona, are you feeling well? You’re so pale."

"The . . . the hall was overwarm." She
shrugged, mustering a smile to reassure him. "Or mayhap the wine was too
rich."

"Or too plentiful. You emptied your cup four
times."

If she had, Triona possessed no recollection of it. She
had been so preoccupied with what lay ahead, she was surprised she hadn’t drunk
more.

"Here, I will carry you."

She didn’t protest. When he lifted her, she wound her
arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder, his clean male
scent doing little to soothe her. She didn’t look up again until they were
almost to their dwelling-house, when Triona glanced back toward the hall. She
saw a dark male shape standing outside the doors and guessed at once it was Fiach,
her stomach twisting into knots as Ronan carried her into the house.

At least the main room was empty, Aud nowhere to be
seen. Ronan set her down gently just inside their room and then left her for a
moment, Triona watching him as he went to Caitlin’s door and pulled the key
from the lock. He was frowning when he returned, his jawline set angrily in the
orange glow of the hearth.

"I long for the day when that accursed wench is
finally gone from Glenmalure."

Triona felt suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe. She
stepped out of his way as he tossed the heavy key onto a bench against the
wall. But she gasped when he suddenly pulled her into his arms, kicking the
door shut behind her. His breath was warm and scented with wine as he looked
down into her face, though they couldn’t see each other at all in the dark. Yet
she knew when he spoke that his lips were very, very near.

"Forgive me, Triona. It wasn’t my intent to spoil
our evening."

She remained mute, tears welling in her eyes when he
reached up to stroke her cheek.

"Woman, when I said I loved you before, it was
nothing to what I hold in my heart this night. You are everything to me. Life.
Hope. Happiness. . ."

As his mouth tenderly covered hers, Triona could hold
back her tears no longer. She let them come, the low sob breaking from her
throat causing Ronan to draw back in surprise.

"What’s this?"

"I . . . I have something to tell you," she
began, only to fall silent as memories of the past days suddenly flashed
through her mind. The hatred written on Ronan’s face whenever he spoke of
Caitlin. His cruelty toward the young woman . . . the way he’d dragged her
through the mud and rain just that afternoon. The rancor in his voice only
moments ago.

"Triona?"

She started, grateful for the darkness so he couldn’t
look into her eyes. She doubted she could have hidden her misery from him as
she swiftly decided to do now. She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Not yet! In the
morning she would, but first let them share one more night where he knew her
only as his Triona O’Toole.

"You’re everything to me, too, Ronan O’Byrne,"
she whispered brokenly, a low chuckle sounding in her ear as he bent his head
close.

"So many tears for those few words?" he
teased, his warm fingers cradling her chin. Again his lips found hers, his kiss
so achingly tender that Triona went limp against him. She felt him lift her,
then
she was laid gently upon his bed, Ronan leaving her for
a fleeting moment to shed his clothes before returning to her side.

"You looked so lovely in your gown that I hate to
take it from you," he whispered, slipping the silk past her thighs and
over her hips. "But what’s underneath is lovelier still." He slid
both her gown and camise up over her breasts. "I need no lamplight to see
it."

Ronan drew his arm beneath her shoulders and lifted
her, a gentle tug freeing her of the garments to leave her lying naked beside
him.
Naked, that
is, except for the gold bracelet and
the jeweled necklace which he drew slowly back and forth across her nipples.

"Can I tell you what I see?" he asked huskily
when Triona moaned deep in her throat. The smooth gold beads and precious
stones were cold against her heated flesh, the sensation nearly overwhelming
her. Somehow she murmured a breathless "Aye," but already his fingers
were sliding along the inside of her thigh, his voice low and seductive.

"Begorra, I see a woman so beautifully formed"
—his hand slid higher— "with silken legs honed and lithe from years of
wild rides through the forest." He chuckled wickedly, his warm palm
gliding along her hip to her waist. "Soft curves that could defy Eire’s
finest poets to do them justice—wide here and narrow there, aye, just as they
should be, and this tempting hollow in the middle . . . so deserving of a kiss."

Triona gasped as his lips found her navel, his hot
breath tickling her belly and making her arch beneath him. But she began to
tremble when he tunneled his fingers into the thick wet curls at the juncture
of her thighs and tugged gently.

"Ah now, this is one of the sweetest places of all—"

"Ronan!"

She cried out at the same instant his fingers slid
deeply into her, his tongue no longer toying with her navel but swirling around
and around a swollen nipple that he’d taken into his mouth. She couldn’t say
how long the exquisite torture lasted for she had grown quite dizzy, either
from the pleasure, the wine she’d drunk or both. All she knew was one moment
she was lying on her back and the next she had been rolled over on top of him,
his hard body stretched out beneath her.

"Straddle me, Triona. I want to feel your thighs
gripping me as when you ride."

She obliged his raw-spoken demand, her hair spilling
over her shoulders to cover her breasts as she sat upright upon him. Trembling
uncontrollably now, she wasn’t surprised at the turgid bulge pressing between
her legs, his body straining to enter the hot wetness her woman’s flesh had
become.

And she wanted him inside her, deep, deep inside her,
tears springing to her eyes as fresh misery assailed her. But somehow she
swallowed them back, lifting her hips as Ronan groaned raggedly in the darkness
and guided his swollen flesh into the very heart of her.

With a broken cry she sank down upon him, enveloping
him in her tight heat while he drove upward to fill her body. There was such
power in his movements as he began to thrust inside her, such power in his
hands as he caressed and gripped her bottom. She held onto his thick wrists as
she rode him, her breasts bobbing, her breath panting, until her wild craving
to be closer to him made her sink forward upon his chest.

"Hold me, Ronan!" she pleaded, but she hadn’t
needed to say a word, his arms going around her to clasp her fiercely even as
his body began to tremble and stiffen beneath her.

She was quaking, too, her body being consumed by the
fire blazing outward from where their flesh was joined. One moment she still
had some semblance of conscious thought and the next she was engulfed entirely,
the heat, the ecstasy overwhelming her, overwhelming him.

It was wonderful and yet terrible, for somewhere in the
midst of her mind-shattering pleasure the pain began again, Triona finally
collapsing upon Ronan’s chest in mute despair. She said nothing, could say
nothing, beginning to wonder if she would ever say anything at all. To see his
love become hate would surely kill her.

That thought remained long hours later, Ronan sleeping
sated and peacefully beside her despite the violent thunderstorm raging
outside.

But Triona had only dozed fitfully and now
lay
wide-awake, watching the jagged lightning cut across the
sky and wondering what she was going to do. A particularly blinding flash was
followed by such a rumbling of thunder that she didn’t hear the loud pounding
upon their door until the sky grew still.

"Lord, it’s Flann O’Faelin! Lord!"

Chapter 39

HER HEART RACING in her throat, Triona gave no answer.
She hoped desperately even as Flann kept pummeling at the door that he might
give up and go away. But already Ronan was roused, his arms going from around
her as he vaulted from the bed.

He seemed alert at once, and though he said nothing to
her, Triona could sense that he felt something was wrong. Wondering if Flann
knew the truth of her birth and was about to expose her, she could only watch
frozen, her hands clutching the sheet, as Ronan flung open the door.

"Lord, an entire quarter of the outer embankment
is close to washing away! And still more of the ramparts are threatened, those
damned posts no match for this storm. We need to sink more of them—"

"Aye, call out every man if you have to,"
Ronan commanded, Triona feeling relief so great she could taste it. But it was
horribly short-lived when he added, "I’ll meet you there."

As Flann disappeared, Ronan began searching for his
clothes. Triona, gone numb from the thought that he might soon run into his
clansman Fiach, somehow managed to throw aside the covers so she could rise and
help him. But Ronan came over to her at once, pushing her back down upon the
mattress and pulling the blanket up under her chin.

"Stay here, Triona, and keep warm. I’ll return as
soon as I can." He brushed a kiss upon her cheek and then he was gone from
her, dressing swiftly. With a last glance toward the bed he left the room, the
sound of the front door slamming an instant later followed by another deafening
thunderclap.

Triona lay there for long moments, stricken, until
finally she tossed back the covers. She had never felt like a coward before in
her life, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear Ronan looking at her in any
other way than with the love he had last night in the hall.

She rose, stepping over the gown lying in a silken heap
upon the floor. Instead she found the shirt and trousers that were still damp
from yesterday’s rain. But it made no difference. Soon she would be soaked
through to the skin, no matter the cloak she settled around her shoulders as
she hurried to the bench by the door.