Wild Angel (8 page)

"Aye, she is," Ronan interjected tersely. He
leaned forward as if to block Maire from her view, giving Triona the distinct
impression that he didn’t want the two of them to converse.

He must be afraid some of her bad unmaidenlike
qualities might rub off on his dear sister, she thought, affronted. Just for
that, she decided to spite him by inviting Maire to come and see her tomorrow.
But before she could say a word, Triona felt a nudge to her arm as Aud leaned
over to whisper in her ear.

"She can’t
walk,
sweeting."

Stunned, Triona met Aud’s eyes. Their conversation was
masked by the mounting clatter in the hall.

"The O’Byrne carried her himself into supper. I
talked to one of the servants while I was waiting for you at the door, and she
said a terrible childhood fever was the cause. A shame, it is, too. Such a
pretty girl."

A shame, indeed, Triona thought guiltily, glancing
beyond Ronan to Maire’s fine-boned profile. Shame on her for pretending to trip
all over herself when two seats down from her was a young woman who couldn’t
walk at all. Triona flushed uncomfortably and looked down at the table.

Her wine cup was full so she lifted it and took a long
sip,
the amber liquid’s cool sweetness improving her mood.
She had never tasted anything so good; they’d never had wine as fine as this
vintage in Imaal.

She noted for the first time, too, that her cup gleamed
of silver, as did the plate set in front of her. In fact the entire table was
set with silver: ewers, knives,
spoons
and bowls.
Glancing around the hall, she saw to her amazement that most clansmen held
mazers with bright silver rims or shiny cups like her own.

"Is this a special feast night?" she asked.
When Ronan didn’t reply, she added conversationally, "It surely must be. I’ve
never seen so much silver. We had fine plate in my father’s household, but only
enough for his table. And we never used it except for the most important feast
days."

"Believe me, Triona, your presence tonight is no
cause for celebration," Ronan said stiffly, his ribs still smarting and
his big toe throbbing. When she merely shrugged and looked away, he swallowed a
deep draft of wine but it did little to soothe his foul mood. If he’d felt edgy
earlier that day, now his carefully nurtured self-control felt in shreds.

Damn her, did she think that he could be so easily
deceived? She had walked capably enough across the hall, her lithe grace capturing
not only his attention but every other man’s in the room. Graceful, that is,
until she was close enough to do him bodily injury—

"I’d say your hospitality is sorely lacking,
brother. If you don’t care to converse with our beautiful guest, then perhaps
we could exchange seats."

"You’ll stay where you are." Ronan shot Niall
a dark look. To his annoyance his brother speculatively raised his brow. Maire
was looking at him oddly, too. Realizing how possessive he must have appeared,
Ronan’s vexation mounted.

By God, the last thing he wanted was for them to think
that he held some genuine interest in Triona. Though he admitted he found her
desirable, he found many women desirable, at least for a night.

"What are these?"

Ronan glanced at the steaming platter of chicken being
held in front of Triona, her eyes fixed inquisitively upon the pear-shaped nuts
studding the fragrant golden sauce.

"Almonds, a delicacy from the East. Compliments of
the Normans . . . like the wine you’ve been drinking."

Impressed, Triona held out her cup. "This, too?"

Ronan nodded. "The silver, the linen tablecloths,
the silk on your back, the rare saffron in that sauce, the meat roasting on our
spits." He paused to drink, his eyes granite hard when he lowered his cup.
"Anything they hold dear, we’ve taken. Their lives if they’re fool enough
to stand in our way."

Hearing the sudden harshness in his voice, Triona
imagined that few Normans of sane mind would dare to raise their weapons
against so forbidding an opponent as Black O’Byrne.

"Aye, Triona, we’ve even taken a cook," Niall
said with a laugh.

"A cook?" Astonished, Triona glanced at Niall
then back to Ronan. "How?"

He shrugged as if the incident had been of no
consequence. "An unwise man left his manor too lightly guarded during
supper. When we rode our horses into the knight’s hall, our weapons drawn and
ready,
his
cook threw down his ladle and begged to go
with us."

"An Irishman," Niall interjected, clearly
eager to tell part of the story. "Seamus was sold into slavery as a lad
and cooked for Normans most of his life."

"Aye, though after his years with our foes he adds
a bit of foreign refinement to our meals." Ronan’s voice grew harsher. "It’s
well-known among our enemies that we Wicklow barbarians prefer our women
filthy, our wine sour and our meat still warm and bleeding."

This comment brought great guffaws from the clansmen
seated nearby, one man nearly choking, his mouth was so full of food.

"Our clever Seamus toiled for a time in an Irish
kitchen as well, a MacMurrough’s kitchen." Ronan’s voice rose above the din.
"For a wedding between Irish and Norman. And well we know that the
MacMurrough clan’s taste has long been for treason, and forming alliances with
the French-tongued dogs who stole Kildare from its rightful owners, the O’Byrnes!"

This time the hall erupted in jeers,
slurs
and curses upon the name MacMurrough and all its descendants. The noise grew so
deafening that Niall had to stand on his chair and roar at the top of his lungs
for the harper, a lank, sallow-faced man who unfolded his gaunt frame from a
nearby corner and came forward carrying his harp.

"I think the O’Byrne is in mind for a tune,"
Niall announced as Ronan pushed himself back in his chair, his foot braced on
the table. "Play of Dermot MacMurrough, harper, and how that traitor, that
accursed king of Leinster invited the Normans to our green isle!"

Triona became so caught up in the impassioned music
leaping from the strings that she gave no more thought to her meal, the food
growing cold upon her plate. She knew the words as well as anyone, the infamous
story recounting Dermot’s treacherous plea to the Norman King Henry to send
fighting men to protect his Leinster kingdom from invading Irish clans. So the
Normans came, forcing clan after clan to bow under their yoke while those who
didn’t bend were branded as rebels and burned from their homes.

The O’Byrnes
were
one of those
clans. As the harper’s high tenor voice soared into the air, his rusty
hair
and beard wild about his face as he sang, Triona wasn’t
surprised when everyone in the hall joined him.

Forty years had passed since the Normans had sailed
across the Irish Sea and conquered much of Eire, but the O’Byrnes still had
strong reason to hate the MacMurroughs. While the Irish traitors enjoyed the
comfort of their lands around them, a reward for their devil’s alliance, the O’Byrnes
and the O’Tooles lived in the mountains where they had been forced to take
refuge . . . their rich hereditary lands to the north overrun by men clad in
shirts of mail.

"At least the O’Byrne didn’t deceive us about the
harper, eh, sweeting?" came Aud’s sudden whisper. "The man plays as
fine as you sing."

Startled, Triona almost hadn’t heard her maid above the
cascading strings. But before she could respond Triona felt a strong hand at
her elbow.

"You will sing next."

Ronan’s commanding voice sent a shiver plummeting to
the pit of her stomach. She was suddenly so nervous that she almost abandoned
her plan to sing poorly, displaying yet another lack in feminine graces. But
one glance at Ronan’s face made her resentment
flare
hot. His stone gray eyes held a clear warning, that to her, became a dare. Aye,
she had been blessed with a crystalline singing voice, but she wasn’t about to
share her gift with him!

Triona rose as the harper’s long yellow-nailed fingers
sounded the last biting strains of Dermot MacMurrough’s tune and then moved
into the gentler courtship melody of Lady Emer and the legendary hero
Cuchulain.

"Remember, Triona," Ronan warned her. "Every
last verse."

In spite of her pounding heart and damp palms, she
closed her eyes and breathed serenely. Her father had often chuckled at her
made-up verses mocking the shy, self-denyingly noble, ridiculously perfect
conception of maidenly excellence. Fineen had been proud possessing instead a
daughter whose skill with the bow had matched his own.

"The song, Triona," Ronan prompted sternly,
wondering if she planned to keep them waiting all night. He shot an impatient
glance at Aud who smiled stiffly.

"As lilting as a lark, Lord, you will—"

The last of Aud’s words were drowned out as Triona
emitted the most grating, most shrill noise Ronan had ever heard in his life .
. . so piercingly high that he clapped his hands over his ears while every face
in the hall looked at Triona in horror.

"Woman!"

Chapter 7

TRIONA GASPED AS she was whirled around by the arm,
coming face-to-face with a man she doubted could look more furious.

"Yes?" she asked Ronan innocently, blinking.

He was so enraged that he couldn’t seem to answer, so
she glanced at Niall instead. The younger man looked quite stunned. So did
Maire, although she had the smallest of smiles upon her face.

"Oh dear, I started too fast, didn’t I?"
Triona prodded. "Too slow? Perhaps a bit too loud—"

"Enough!" Ronan’s command made her jump, but
she recklessly decided his eyes weren’t yet furious enough.

"But if you’d let me begin again, I’m sure that I—"

"No more!"
     

"No more? But I just started. I thought you wanted
to hear every verse . . . oh!" Triona was swung around so roughly that the
room spun around her.

"Lilting as a lark?" Ronan demanded of the
astonished openmouthed maid, his grip on Triona’s arm so punishing that she
winced. "Tell me, And. Did you not say that your mistress had a lovely
voice?"

"Aye, Lord, that I did," Aud replied,
recovering so quickly from her shock that Triona believed she couldn’t have
done any better herself. "A wee bit on the sharp side I must admit and
perhaps a shade too breathy, but pleasant enough to listen to just the same."

"Then you must be deaf, woman, for if I’ve any
hearing left after this night, I’ll count myself fortunate. As for you"—Ronan
turned Triona roughly to face him— "you’re blessed to have earned such
loyalty. If Aud had been any less glib with her answer, you’d have found
yourself locked in your room for a fortnight instead of a week."

Triona’s eyes widened in disbelief. "What? You’re
going to lock me up for a week? After I did everything you wanted . . . spoke
softly, acted agreeably,
agreed
to sing . . . wore
this—this wretched gown?" She was so outraged that this time she gave no
heed to Maire’s feelings. Triona raised her hand to slap Ronan but he caught
it, his strong fingers crushing hers in a punishing grip.

"Bruised ribs and a broken toe are enough injury
for one night, thank you—" Ronan ducked just in time to miss her other
doubled fist aimed right for his jaw. Uttering a low curse, he yanked her arms
behind her back and then brought her hard against him. "You’re a wild one,
Triona O’Toole, but I’m faster than you. Now either you walk in as maidenly a
fashion as you can stomach or I’ll throw you over my—"

"I’ll walk!" Triona declared, the muffled
laughter rippling through the hall enough to convince her that she would not be
the brunt of these O’Byrnes’ amusement again.

Thinking that as soon as Ronan released her arms she
would bolt for the doors, her hopes were dashed when he wrenched her silk
mantle from her shoulders and wound it around her waist like a lead rope. Then
he prodded her with his knee, ordering over the erupting guffaws of his men, "Move."

Her face burning bright crimson, she crossed her arms
over her breasts and planted her feet firmly on the floor. "I will not!
Not until you allow me to walk at will—oh!"

Triona rounded upon Ronan in horror, her bottom
smarting where he had just pinched her.

"Now there was a pure bell-like tone if ever I’ve
heard one," he said. To her surprise a trace of a smile was on his face. "Perhaps
if I pinch you some more we might hear the fair music Aud told me so much
about—instead of the noise you screeched just to spite me."

Triona moved then, closing her ears to the laughter
that followed them past the crowded tables and out into the starlit night. She
didn’t stop until she had reached the dwelling-house, where she paused outside
the door to catch her breath. "Beautiful night."

Her breasts rising and falling from hurrying so fast,
her humiliation so great she felt hot tears welling in her eyes, Triona glanced
at him in disbelief. He wasn’t watching her but looking up at the waning moon,
his striking features awash in its light.

Her heart seemed to skip a beat and she hated herself
for it, hated herself for thinking him handsome after what he’d just done to
her. But she hated herself even more when he met her eyes, her heart leaping
into her throat when he reached out and smudged away a tear with his thumb . .
. his touch upon her cheek as soft as a whisper.

"Tears? You’re more a maiden than you think,
Triona."

Ronan knew he’d said the wrong thing the moment her
fist connected with his lower abdomen. Exhaling in pain, he doubled over, not
having seen the blow coming.

"And you’re more the fool,
O’Byrne,
to think I’ll become something I’m not to please the likes of you!"

She had slipped out from under her silken restraint
before he could catch her, but to his surprise she fled into the lamp-lit
dwelling-house instead of heading for the gate. Holding his stomach, he
followed as she ran to her apartment and furiously slammed the door behind her.
He listened for a brief instant and, swearing that he heard muffled sobbing,
was stunned by how quickly his hand moved to the latch.