Wild Angel (5 page)

"De Roche land?" Ronan interrupted, his harsh
tone clearly meant to rebuke her. "You mean stolen land,
O’Byrne
land and Fineen, as my kinsman,
had every right to be hunting upon it! And if your father’s men hadn’t been
hunting elsewhere, but had kept him within sight instead of stumbling upon his
attackers after it was too late, the O’Toole would still be alive. Murchertach
told me there were three Irish for every Norman. That’s why the yellow curs
retreated without a fight. Three to one!"

"Aye, three to one," echoed Triona, the same
sick feeling welling inside her that had plagued her since that day. Remorse,
because like her clansmen she hadn’t been with her father when he had ridden
after that wounded buck. And crushing despair, when she had seen the bloody
gash across his ribs, his right thigh slashed to the white bone, and guessed
then that he would not survive . . .

"Enough, Triona, you cannot blame yourself,"
Ronan said grimly, her stricken expression cuing him to what she must be
thinking. At once he found himself wishing he could be as charitable with
himself,
then
he thrust his mind back to Triona. He
had learned from Murchertach that she had accompanied her father on that
fateful hunting trip, a harsh ordeal she would have been spared if not for
Fineen’s misguided indulgence. "As I told you, we’ll talk of this later."

When she didn’t answer, simply hugging her white cat
closer to her breast, Ronan almost regretted what was to come.

Almost.

The resentful look she shot at him only heightened his
resolve.

Chapter 4

TRIONA HAD EXPECTED Ronan’s mountain stronghold to be
as formidable as the man, and she was right.

They passed through two massive earthen ramparts before
they reached the inner embankment, atop which was erected a timber palisade of
stout red oak. As the final gates were opened for them, this last set so tall
and heavy that eight strong men were needed for the task, she was certain that
even if the Normans ever found this remote stockade they’d be hard-pressed to breach
it.

"It’s just as I imagined, O’Byrne." Triona
looked around her at the rugged peaks towering above the glen, the mighty
Lugnaquilla rising to the southwest. "Considering the rebel’s price on
your head, you couldn’t have found a safer haven."

That Ronan gave no reply didn’t concern Triona. From
the set look on his face, she imagined he was already preoccupied with any
number of the responsibilities that plagued an important chieftain.

As for herself, her thoughts were racing ahead to that
first raid. Aye, she was good with weapons, but she’d never before ridden on
such a venture. Her father and the Imaal O’Tooles had raided with other rebel
clans in earlier days, but after Conor’s death, Fineen had kept to the Wicklow
Mountains. So she knew little of harrying Normans. She would have to watch and
learn quickly from Ronan and his men, the better that she’d be prepared when
they finally faced her father’s murderers.

Anticipation filled her as their small band rode into
the stronghold, Conn barking at the lead and Aud jouncing along on her pony
behind Triona. The next time she passed these gates, she would be embarking on
her plan to avenge her father. Aye, she could hardly wait!

"So you’re back, brother!"

The welcoming cry came from across the yard as Triona
reined in her mount with the others in front of the stable. Distracted by the
smiling dark-haired young man striding toward them, she wasn’t aware that Ronan
had dismounted until she realized he’d come to stand next to her horse. At the
same moment two of the O’Byrne clansmen who had accompanied them from Imaal
walked up behind her and snatched away Maeve and Ferdiad, her cat yowling in
surprise, her startled falcon frantically beating its wings. Outraged, Triona
yelled out a curse that split the air, yet she had no sooner swung her leg over
Laeg’s neck when Ronan caught her around the waist, his expression determined.

"What . . . What in blazes are you doing?"
she demanded, her face burning with indignation as she tried futilely to twist
free of his grasp.

"I would think it plain enough. Helping a maiden
from her horse."

"Maiden? Have you gone mad? You know well enough
that I don’t need your help . . . oh!"

He swept her into the air so suddenly that Triona threw
her arms around his neck,
then
in the next instant her
feet touched the ground. Horrified to find
herself
clinging to him, his hard, honed body pressed intimately against hers, Triona
shoved away from him with such force that she fell backward . . . right into
another pair of strong arms.

"Whoa, what have we here, Ronan? Spoils from a
raid? I thought you’d gone to Imaal to see the O’Toole—"

"I’ve just come from Imaal," Ronan cut in,
relieved that his younger brother had caught Triona yet oddly disgruntled at
the sight of her in his arms. Shrugging off the feeling, he held out his hand
to her. He wasn’t surprised when she refused him by cursing him soundly as she
thrust herself away from his brother.

"Spoils indeed! I’m Triona O’Toole!"
came
her affronted announcement as Conn trotted over and sat
down beside her.

"Fineen’s daughter," added Ronan in
explanation, feeling the full force of her angry eyes upon him. "My
brother, Niall."

"This is certainly a surprise," interjected
Niall, his blue-gray eyes puzzled yet friendly. Then he suddenly sobered, asking
Triona more than Ronan, "And the O’Toole?"

"My father is dead."

Her throat gone tight, Triona watched as the two men
shared a glance. She knew Ronan had a brother, a younger sister, too, though
she had never expected to meet them. Perhaps ten years Ronan’s junior and not
quite as tall, Niall bore the same powerfully sinewed physique. But while Ronan’s
hair was black as midnight and brushed his shoulders, Niall’s shorter dark
brown hair had strong glints of red.

And though both men were very striking in looks their
features were different, she noted when Niall turned back to her, his eyes
holding sympathy. Or perhaps it only appeared so because his face was more open
than Ronan’s, his expression kind whereas Ronan always looked so severe.

 
"My
condolences, Triona," Niall offered, the sincerity in his voice touching
her. Strangely, she did not feel the same animosity toward this man as she did
for Ronan. Yet perhaps it was not so strange after all. Niall O’Byrne had had
nothing to do with Conor’s death. He had been a mere boy at the time.

"Thank you," she finally murmured, but before
she could say anything more, Ronan took her arm. Firmly. She gaped at him in
angry surprise but he ignored her, addressing Niall.

"Triona is now under my protection and will be staying
with us for a time . . . at least until I find her a husband."

"Husband?" Triona had only to look at the
hard line of Ronan’s jaw and her momentary confusion vanished. Shocked, she
jerked away from him as if he had set a blazing torch to her sleeve.

"Husband?" parroted Aud as Triona tripped
over Conn in her haste to reach her mount. She fell to her hands and knees,
scraping her palms, but quickly scrambled to her feet, cursing Ronan and his
deceit every step of the way.

The bold liar! She would kill him! She would shoot him
so full of arrows that he’d bleed like a sieve!

"If you’re looking for your bowcase, I’ve had it
locked away for safekeeping."

Breathless, Triona froze. A quick glance at the empty
leather sheath strapped to Laeg’s back confirmed the sick feeling in the pit of
her stomach. Her bowcase was gone. Gone! Ronan’s men must have taken it while
she was being introduced to Niall. At once her hand flew to her waist,
disbelief filling her when Ronan gestured to the hunting knife that was now sheathed
in his belt. The wily wretch! He’d stolen her knife while he held her, his hand
as stealthy and swift as any thief’s.

"I can’t have you wounding any prospective
husbands, Triona. Word will fly through the glens and then no one will come to
have a look at you for fear of their lives."

"To
look
at me?" Enraged, Triona rounded upon him. "What am I, O’Byrne? A milk
cow for barter? A prize goat?"

"Now, sweeting, you might hear him out—"

"Silence, Aud!" Triona commanded over her
shoulder, never having felt so furious in her life. "You tricked me, O’Byrne!
I knew I should never have trusted you, but I thought because you were my
father’s godson . . . damn me for a fool! You lied—"

"Reasoned with you is more the truth of it."
Ronan stifled unexpected regret at the pained outrage in her eyes. If he didn’t
take her in hand now, no one would want this hotheaded hellion for a wife. And
what other destiny was there for a woman? "I could have brought you here
by force, but I decided to spare you the humiliation."

"So you lied to me instead! Made me believe I’d be
raiding with you against the Normans when all along you had other plans for me!
Despicable plans!"

"I swore you no oath, Triona," said Ronan,
uncomfortably aware that her loud accusations were drawing a curious crowd of
his clansmen. "Yet I did swear an oath to your father to take you into my
care, an obligation I’ve little time for but one I could not refuse. An
obligation I intend to fulfill by finding you a husband. As your guardian, that
is my right."

"And if I don’t want to marry?" she flung at
him, her fists clenched into tight balls at her sides.

"You’ve no choice but to marry someone, something
your father should have said to you years ago instead of allowing you to run
wild as a hare."

"A hare is it now?" she blurted, mocking him.
"They’re swift creatures to be sure but timid, and
that
I am not. I say take your rotten plans and eat them, O’Byrne!"

A muffled chuckle sounded somewhere behind Ronan, but
it died abruptly when he shot a dark look over his shoulder. Then he turned his
attention back to Triona, his body grown taut with tension. "Hear me well,
chit. From now on, you will occupy yourself with maidenly pursuits and become
the modest, obedient young woman any man would wish for in a bride—"

"I will not!"

"I think she means it, brother," Niall threw
in to Ronan’s mounting annoyance, an amused look on his face.

"I
do
mean it!" Triona seconded, her chin lifted defiantly.

This last outburst proved too much for Ronan, the blood
pounding like thunder in his temple. By God, he would tame her, the quicker to
be done with her! In three strides he had her by the waist. Before she could do
more than gasp, he’d pitched her across his shoulders as a hunter might a
felled deer, pinning her flailing limbs with his arms.

"How . . . how dare you!" shrieked Triona,
her cheeks ablaze with embarrassment as laughter rippled across the yard. "Conn!
Come help!"

She almost cried with relief as the huge wolfhound came
bounding after them, growling ferociously, his long white teeth
bared
.

But her relief became utter frustration when Ronan
wheeled abruptly. "Sit!" he shouted. Her dog dropped obediently to
its haunches, cocking its head.

"He is well trained,"
came
Ronan’s stiff comment as he turned and set off with her again, great peals of
laughter crescendoing around them. "But his loyalty I would question."

Triona was so incensed she could say nothing, her
muscles beginning to cramp from the way he was carrying her, her tangled hair
covering her face. She knew they had entered a building when it suddenly grew
darker, heard his footfalls upon planked wood and smelled the musty smoke from
a peat fire, until finally it grew bright again although not as light as
outside.

"This apartment used to belong to my mother. I
think you’ll find it adequate to your needs."

With that Triona was dumped unceremoniously onto
something soft but she bolted upright at once, sputtering and swiping away the
hair from her eyes and mouth. Ronan was standing at the foot of a canopied bed,
looking as stern as she had ever seen him.

"It occurred to me that Aud omitted a very popular
legend from her list this afternoon, ‘Cuchulain’s Courtship of the Maiden Emer,’"
he said in a low forbidding voice. "Do you know it?"

"Of course I know it!" she shot back, thinking
his question more than odd as she glanced beyond him to the door, her nearest
means of escape. "Hate it, too! It’s a ridiculous story—"

"And one you shall sing for us after supper
tonight," he cut in, his intense gray eyes daring her to make a move from
the bed. "I want to hear every verse, Triona O’Toole, especially the ones
about the six maidenly gifts of Lady Emer. Her beauty of person" —his
disapproving gaze fell pointedly to her rumpled clothing, then he once more met
her eyes— "her beauty of voice—"

"Oh, so you don’t enjoy my screeching and
shouting?"

"Her gift of music, her knowledge of embroidering
and needlework—"

"You’ll never see me stitching the day away and
you can stake your life on that, O’Byrne!"

"Her gift of wisdom—"

"Thank you very much but I’ve my wits about me.
Enough to know I was a fool to have ever trusted you."

"And the gift of virtuous chastity."

Taking immediate affront at the unspoken question in
his eyes, Triona blurted indignantly, "I’ve that, too,
not
that it’s any of your damned business! And I’ll not be singing that silly poem
tonight, you can be sure!"

"You will sing it, Triona, and you’ll be wearing a
maiden’s gown and mantle when you do." His gaze swept her from head to
toe. "You look to be close to my sister Maire’s size, though she might be
a bit taller. You can borrow a few gowns from her until I’ve some made for you."