Wild Angel (6 page)

"Don’t trouble yourself for I won’t be going near
them!"

"You
will
wear them, woman," he countered, the dark warning look he gave her so
ominous that Triona scooted back a bit on the bed. "You’ll emulate
all
of Lady Emer’s fine traits if you
want your stay at Glenmalure to be a pleasant one. Do you understand me?"

Triona nodded reluctantly, swallowing the caustic
remark that flew like lightning to her tongue. But when he turned his back on
her to leave, she could no longer resist, her pent up fury overwhelming her.

"What of my father, O’Byrne?" she demanded,
raising her voice even louder when he didn’t stop. "Did you lie about him,
too? About the vengeance you were planning?"

He paused then, his wide shoulders stiff with tension,
although he didn’t turn around.

"Baron Maurice de Roche of Kildare will pay dearly
for your father’s death. That I swear."

"But when?" she cried as he began to close
the door behind him.

"It’s no longer any of your concern. You’ve
womanly things to occupy you now."

No longer any of
her concern?
Triona raged as the door was pulled shut with a dull thunk.
Was he mad? She would not rest until her father was avenged. So she had sworn!

She vaulted from the bed and flung herself across the
room just as a key grated in the lock. Stunned that Ronan could so cruelly
confine her, she pounded upon the door with her fists.

"O’Byrne?"

She heard footfalls receding, and she pounded even
harder.

"O’Byrne!"

Still no answer and she knew then that he was gone.
Just as she knew she would make him pay for deceiving her.

The blackhearted liar! Aye, he would pay, and in ways
that would make him wish that he had held to his word!

Chapter 5

"BEGORRA, BROTHER, YOU’VE taken on quite a
handful."

Snorting in assent, Ronan lifted his cup and took
another draft of ale. The feasting-hall was abustle with preparations for
supper but at least at this end near the fire, he and Niall had enjoyed a
measure of privacy.

"The O’Toole’s adopted daughter no less,"
Niall continued. "Probably the last request you would have expected."

"What I expected was a docile young woman who’d
give me no trouble," said Ronan, throwing a disgruntled look across the
table. "Find her a husband and be done with it, my duty ended. Or I’d
never have sworn—"

"No, Ronan, you would have sworn either way. You’d
not have let Fineen go to his death worrying for his daughter."

Ronan didn’t answer, although Niall spoke the truth.
Aye, he’d have taken Triona into his care even if she was twice the
hellion—although that was difficult to fathom—but that didn’t mean he had to
like it. He didn’t, and the sooner he found her a husband . . .

Low chuckling drew Ronan’s attention. He frowned at
Niall’s grin. "Something amuses you?"

To his surprise, Niall began to laugh in earnest, his
mirth only fanning Ronan’s irritation.

"I knew I’ve been too soft with you, Niall.
Twenty-four years old, my Tanist, no less, and you’re still unable to hold your
ale—"

"It’s not the ale," Niall broke in, his
laughter abating but only slightly. "I was thinking of earlier this
afternoon. You should have seen your face, Ronan! You usually manage to keep a
tight rein on yourself, but when Triona stood up to you . . . just a wee bit of
a thing, too, and spouted she’d have no part of your plans for her—"

"Something she’ll not do again if she’s wise."
Ronan
thunked
his empty cup upon the table and
gestured for a nearby servant. "She’ll learn soon enough that my patience
is very short when it comes to such willfulness."

"I’ll say." Wiping the tears of laughter from
his eyes, Niall shook his head. "I couldn’t believe it when you picked her
up and threw her across your shoulders."

"She deserved much more than that. That chit needs
a good strong dose of discipline. She’s lucky I didn’t take her across my knee."

"You think that would make her change her ways?"
Growing thoughtful, Niall waited until his own cup was refilled before adding, "Odd,
a young woman not wanting to marry. Did you have a chance to ask her why?"

"Yes, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll relent and
abide by my wishes soon enough."

"I don’t know, brother. If she’s always done
exactly as she pleases. . . ."

"I said she will change. And quickly, for I’ve
little time for her foolishness."

"Just as you’ve no time for a wife?"

Tensing, Ronan met Niall’s eyes. "You know why I’ve
never married."

"Aye, as you’ve said since I can remember, you’ve
been too busy. Harrying the Normans, looking after the needs of our clan. But
it’s more than that, Ronan, and I’ll not hold my peace any longer. Your guilt
has consumed you! You’ve been doing penance ever since Conor O’Toole’s death,
denying yourself—"

"Enough!" Ronan thrust himself from the
bench, giving no heed that his roar had caused all activity in the hall to
cease. "I will hear no more!"

"Aye, the truth always stings deeper than any
wound," Niall continued undaunted, rising to look Ronan squarely in the
eyes. "If it’s so important to make amends to the O’Tooles, mayhap instead
of finding Triona a husband, you might think to wed her yourself."

Stunned, Ronan stared at his brother, his fury ebbing
into sheer incredulity.

"Me, marry Triona O’Toole? Now I know you’ve drunk
too much ale." He sat heavily, tunneling his hand through his hair. "With
that insolent tongue and her willful ways, I’d never know a moment’s peace. No,
Niall, you’ve always been a more tolerant man. You’d sooner be the one to wed
her."

"Don’t think I haven’t already considered it. You’ve
long told me that I should settle down."

Again Ronan was stunned, this time by the strange
cramping in his gut. The fierce grip on his cup amazed him, too, his knuckles
gone white. And it was all he could do to mutter, "Go on, then, if you
want her," before he downed half his ale in one swallow. Yet he scarcely
tasted the pungent liquid, and when he lowered his cup, he found that same
amused smile on Niall’s face.

"No, I think I’ll pass, brother. You know I’ve
always favored blonds." Niall set his cup down and rose. "I think I’ll
go sit with Maire for a while. She was resting when I went by earlier."

Ronan set his cup down, too. "I’ll walk over with
you—"

"No, no, relax and finish your ale," Niall
broke in, already striding away. "I’ve got to change clothes first for
supper, so say I’ll meet you over there. No hurry."

Odd, Ronan thought, shooting a narrowed glance over his
shoulder as Niall left the hall. His brother already wore one of his finest
tunics, made from green cloth stolen from a Norman merchant who’d given up his
wares only too eagerly in exchange for his life . . .

Ronan suddenly noticed that every servant in the hall
was staring at him, standing stock-still as if their shoes had been bolted to
the floor. "Go back to your work," he ordered them, angry with
himself for exploding so violently at Niall.

That wasn’t like him. He preferred to keep his emotions
well in check. Had for years. He was a man of self-control. Strict
self-discipline. It was safest that way. Yet it was clear now that these past
few days had affected him, visiting Imaal and seeing Fineen again, bringing
everything back, his memories of Conor more painful than ever. He felt taut as
a drum, edgy, made all the worse by his new charge’s willfulness. No wonder the
servants were staring.

Pleased to see that the bustling activity had resumed,
Ronan turned back around and lifted his cup to drink, his gaze drawn to the
fire. As he watched the bright red-gold flames, it was unsettling how easily
Triona’s face came to mind.

Unsettling, too, the rousing memory of her in his arms
when he had pulled her from her horse. It had been a long time since he had
held a woman who felt as good as she, her firm breasts swelling against him,
her slim hips snug with his

"Lord! Lord, forgive me, but I must speak with
you!"

Looking up from the fire, Ronan frowned at the young
maidservant rushing toward him, one of the four women he’d sent to assist
Triona. Already imagining what the girl had to say he had to gesture for her to
speak up, his darkening expression clearly daunting her.

"I–it’s the lady, Lord. She refuses to bathe . . .
refuses to let us inside the room! She sent me to tell you that she’ll ready
herself for supper only if her maid, Aud, assists her. And she wants her pets,
Lord, or else she’ll not budge. And her door unlocked, so she doesn’t feel like
a prisoner."

Incensed by this preposterous list of demands, Ronan
rose so suddenly from his chair that the poor girl jumped like a nervous doe.
She didn’t wait as he dashed the last of his ale into the hissing flames but
scurried from the hall, Ronan following a few strides behind her.

***

Triona spun from the window as a key creaked in the
lock. She raced at once across the room and lent her weight to the barricade
she had erected. Her heart began to pound as someone tried to enter but when the
door held firm, she laughed in triumph. Ha! She could just imagine the angry
look on Ronan’s face!

"So you got my message, eh, O’Byrne?" she
taunted him, only to fall silent when a decidedly different male voice came to
her through the door.

"Triona,
it’s
Niall! Open
the door and be quick about it! I just heard from the servants that my brother’s
on his way."

"Niall?" Astonished yet suspicious, she
hissed through the crack. "What are you doing here? And how do I know
Ronan’s not standing out there with you?"

"I give you my word that he’s not, because he
doesn’t even know that I’m here. Please, Triona, open the door, even if it’s
only a little. I’ve something to tell you."

"What in blazes?" she muttered, unconvinced.
Yet remembering the kindness in Niall’s eyes and how his offer of sympathy had
moved her, she decided to trust him. Just because Ronan was a liar didn’t mean
the trait must run in the family.

"Triona!"

"All right, all right, I’ll open it but just a
bit." Leaning into the heavy oak chest, Triona moved it back a few inches.
Then she cracked the door, meeting Niall’s gaze. "Now you be quick about
it. What did you want to tell me?"

"Just that I’m sorry my brother disappointed you.
And I hope you go on standing up to him. I think you can earn his respect."

"Respect?" she snorted. "As if I need
the respect of such an onerous man. I think if he smiled his face might crack,"
Triona groused, although she was secretly astonished that Niall had taken up
her cause. Impatiently, she added, "I don’t need you telling me what I
should do, either. I’ve my own mind, never you fear."

"I never doubted it. I just hope that you’re not
planning to escape the stronghold."

"I could if I wanted to," she said honestly,
looking to the three glazed windows on opposite walls. "It would be an
easy matter, but why should I? Your brother needs to be taught a lesson. He
deserves it, you know."

"Aye, so he does," Niall agreed, again to her
astonishment. "And if you persist long enough, mayhap he’ll relent and
allow you to ride with us."

It was on the tip of Triona’s tongue to tell him that
she was already planning to accompany them on their raids, with or without
Ronan’s blessed permission, but she decided it wouldn’t be wise to reveal too
much. "You think so?" she asked instead, feigning a hopeful tone.

"It’s possible. Just remember, Triona, if there’s
anything I can do to help you, you must let me know."

To help her?
Now truly amazed, Triona was about to ask him why he was being so
accommodating, but a sudden commotion caused her to slam the door and heave the
chest back in place.

"Niall? I thought you’d gone to change your
clothes. What the devil are you doing here?"

Ronan! Her heart hammering, Triona pressed her ear to
the doorjamb and listened breathlessly.

"Nothing much, brother," came Niall’s calm
response. "I saw the servants running in and out, and thought I’d see what
all the fuss—"

"Triona is causing the fuss, in case you haven’t
already guessed."

Hearing Ronan’s determined footfalls approaching the
door, Triona once again braced herself against the barricade. She heard the key
turn, felt him test the door and finding it blocked, he warned through his
teeth, "By God, woman, open this door or I’ll break it down."

"Good, I hope you do! You’ll have nothing left to
lock and I’ll have a nice breezeway! It’s a bit too stuffy in here for my
liking."

Triona grew tense when it became quiet outside the door
. . . too quiet. She screamed in surprise when the chest began to move beneath
her, Ronan shoving himself into the room as if her barricade had been no more
substantial than a bag of feathers.

"Easy, brother, I heard she simply wants her maid,"
Niall’s raised voice carried to her as she darted to the bed.

Whirling, she found the room suddenly full of
people—Ronan standing at the front, his expression truly ominous to behold, the
maidservants gaping at her as if she were mad and Niall in the background,
smiling encouragingly. Daring to believe she had found a friend and ally, she
threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

"That’s right. I only want my own maid—"

"Bring in the tub."

Triona started at Ronan’s grated command, then watched
wide-eyed as the servants scuttled to do his bidding. It seemed no more than an
instant had passed before a large wooden tub was being rolled into the room.

"And the water. Cold now, but she’s only herself
to blame. We’ll dunk her if we have to."