Wild Roses (13 page)

She knew he must pity her, especially after what
Clement had revealed about Rufus's cruel mimicry, but she didn't want such
sympathy . . . in truth, she wanted that from no man! Mayhap if he knew she had
played a part, if he knew that she'd made up her own mind to leave, he would
see that she could manage well enough and didn't need his pity.

"Rose, please, you must tell me—"

"Aye, very well, I asked her to take me!"

Her outcry echoing in the room, Maire saw Duncan's eyes
darken to almost black, but she paid no heed and rushed on.

"I-it made sense . . . that my clansmen might come
back to that place, whoever they might be. I still don't remember, but it made
sense just as I said, so I asked your sister to take me there and she
agreed—"

"God's teeth, woman, of course she agreed! Why
wouldn't she? If the wolves found you first,
all the
better. Then there would be no witness left to what might be deemed a
punishable crime if your slain father proves a chieftain loyal to King John,
and she knows it! I've sent messengers throughout Leinster and Ulster, Rose, to
every ruling baron. It will take only days—perhaps two weeks but no more,
before I'll have found your family for you, then you'll be safely home! Dammit,
woman, is it so horrible for you here that you would flee headlong into danger?
Can you not see I'm doing all I can to help you?"

Maire could only stare at him, Duncan appearing as
affronted as she was filled with sudden panic. Days? Mayhap two weeks at most
before the truth would be known? When no loyal clan claimed her, then what
would Duncan do?

Her thoughts flying to the three rebels who might even
now be shackled to a dungeon wall, Maire dropped her gaze at the same moment a
light knock came at the door, a female voice calling out that she'd come from
the kitchen. Duncan rose and shouted "Enter!" so forcefully that
Maire jumped, her eyes widening as he went and dragged the wooden tub from
against an opposite wall to the hearth.

"Choose if you wish to avail yourself of the
courtesies of my home, I care not," came his disgruntled voice, while
Maire's gaze flew to the host of servingwomen bearing steaming buckets of
water. The next thing she knew Duncan had stormed from the bedchamber, but not
before commanding that a screen be brought from the next room to give her
privacy while she bathed—
if
she chose
to bathe—in case he must return before she was done.

Wholly stunned, Maire sat still as a stone as the tub
was filled, the quiet servingwomen casting her sidelong glances that she
scarcely noted. That Duncan had become so furious . . . because she seemed
ungrateful for his kindnesses?

Truly, he had treated her as if she were an honored
guest, given her the use of his private rooms, no less, even his bed. Were she
the daughter of a chieftain loyal to the English crown, would she really act as
she had? As reluctant to accept his gracious gestures as if she were loath to
trust him or anything Norman? Adele and her retainers were responsible for the
deaths of her clansmen, but Duncan—as yet—had done nothing to hurt her.

Suddenly fearing that she might give herself away long before
Duncan could learn the truth about her, Maire resolved then and there that she
must behave differently until she had a chance again to escape the castle. And
that must start with enjoying a bath

"Here's the screen, miss. Will it do here, or
should we move . . . ?"

"No, no, that will be fine," she murmured to
a pleasant-faced Irishwoman. Maire was astonished that all was done so quickly,
the bath prepared, thick
towels
and a pale blue wedge
of soap laid atop a small table that had been brought forth, the screen
arranged round the tub.

And such a screen, too. As the servingwomen filed
quietly from the room, Maire studied with unabashed admiration the four
embroidered panels, never having seen such fine needlework.

She loved to embroider, could not count the hours she'd
spent with needle and thread in her hand; in truth, she had done little else
until she'd regained the use of her legs and begun to spend more time out of
doors. It was still some solace to her that if her life could not be like other
women's, at least she had been blessed with such a skill. But Maire stared in
wonder at needlework so beautifully
wrought,
she
doubted she could equal it.

She rose just to glide her fingertips over a panel, the
blanket dropping to her feet but she paid no heed, wholly fascinated by
embroidered wildflowers, fluttering birds, and delicate green vines framing
what appeared to be scenes of a gently led life: a young, dark-haired girl
surrounded by forest creatures she fed by hand, then the same child with what
appeared to be her parents giving loaves of bread and drink to the poor on a
feast day.

But what truly caught Maire's eye on the third panel
was the scene of two lovers sharing a kiss beneath a shaded bower, the
child—now a willowy beauty—swept into the embrace of a strapping knight clad in
armor. Emotion tugged at Maire's heart, her eyes growing blurred at the next
scene of a solemn marriage before a priest, and later, that of a new mother
lovingly holding a babe in her arms. She so wished for such a life herself. It
was her fondest dream and yet it was as far from coming true, as if she wished
that her legs overnight could be made healthy and whole!

Sighing raggedly, Maire traced the threads depicting
the tiny newborn babe with trembling fingers,
then
abruptly turned her attention to the tub. She had to admit the steamy water
looked inviting, and perhaps it would soothe her tired limbs if not her
spirits. She drew her gown over her head, wondering if the effects of Clement's
healing potion still lingered. She determined not to drink another drop of
anything he might bring her.

She wanted her wits about her—no more herbal brews. She
even smiled to herself, remembering Niall's complaints two years ago when he
had been made to drink a healer's foul-tasting remedies after nearly losing his
life to MacMurrough arrows. He had swayed Triona to fetch him ale from the
kitchen instead . . .

Fresh heartache filling her at such thoughts of her
family, Maire dropped her camise to the floor; she removed the heavy stool for
which she had little use from the tub and sank naked into the warm water,
wishing more buckets had been brought so it might fully cover her. The tub was
so large it probably would have taken another dozen. Yet the water came almost
to her waist and she had only to cup her hands to pour some over herself, her
nipples puckering at the chill in the room despite the blazing fire.

It made her decide to bathe quickly, and she reached
for the soap, a lilac-scented luxury not unknown to her, thanks to Ronan's
raids. But it slipped from her wet fingers and slid across the floor, nearly to
the door leading to where the servants had gone to fetch the screen, Maire saw
with a small sigh, frustrated by her clumsiness.

That must be the room beyond the latrine, where Duncan
had slept that first night, which made Maire wonder nervously as she gripped
the sides of the tub and started to rise with some effort if he intended to
forgo his bed again and sleep on a cot. Her face began to burn. Saints help
her, surely so. If only he hadn't kissed her, she wouldn't be plagued with such
wild imaginings at all—

"Stay there, woman. I'll get the soap."

Chapter 12

Stay there?
Maire fell back into the tub so awkwardly that water splashed everywhere, logs
hissing and sputtering, the lovely screen spattered with droplets while she was
blinded, her heart pounding wildly as she groped for a towel to cover her
breasts.

Stay there? Had Duncan truly thought she would race him
for the soap, even if she could? Quickly wiping the water from her eyes, Maire
could hear his footsteps and she sank even lower into the tub, paying no heed
that much of the towel was sodden now and drifted around her.

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she had no intention of
leaving, of even moving! Maire clutched the towel under her chin and stared
incredulously as Duncan came around the screen. He had stripped from his armor,
though surely the sweat-stained tunic that clung to his powerful body must have
fitted beneath it, and he held in his hands a goblet and the soap. He kept his
eyes fixed firmly upon her face, his expression impossible to read.

"Forgive me, but I imagined you would cover
yourself. I brought you something to drink from Clement—I met him on the
stairs. Anise wine to calm you."

As Duncan set the goblet on the table and dropped the
soap with a plunk into the tub, Maire could only nod her thanks, relief
flooding her when he abruptly turned and moved beyond the screen although he
didn't leave the room. She sat frozen, startled even more when she heard a
vehement curse from the direction of the windows. Was he going to remain, then,
while she bathed? Surely not—

"I told Clement I doubted it was any illness that
made you try to flee with Adele and FitzHugh, and he agreed . . . which is why
I came back to ask your forgiveness, too, for how harshly I spoke to you. Damn
that infernal woman! That she allowed her fool to hound you—to make sport of
you so cruelly. If I hear of such foul treatment again, by the blood of God
I'll—"

"Truly, Lord FitzWilliam, it wasn't so bad a
thing." Maire sought to appease him, as moved by his unexpected apology as
that the force of his anger on her behalf shook her. Yet she gasped when he
appeared once more at the screen as if in two strides, his expression both
thunderous and grim.

"Not bad, woman? You would rather face wolves than
remain safely at my home?"

The burning intensity of his gaze unnerving her as much
as the same affront she'd heard in his voice when he'd left the room so
abruptly earlier, Maire shook her head, her face grown as warm as her bath.
"No . . . I'm sorry. It wasn't wise—"

"No, it wasn't—God's teeth, but how can I blame
you? Adele's retainers laughing at you, the bastards amusing themselves at your
expense. You were brave enough to bear it as you did . . ."

Duncan fell silent to stare at her so strangely that
Maire suddenly lost all ability to breathe. She saw no pity in his eyes as much
as something very close to admiration, which struck her all the harder, as no
man had ever looked at her in such a way before. Aye, she had been praised
enough for her embroidery but this was different . . . reminding her of how
Ronan often looked at Triona . . .

Maire dropped her eyes, her heart slamming in her
throat, while she heard Duncan shift his stance.

"You're chilled. I should let you bathe."

"Chilled?" Almost stupidly, she looked at the
goose bumps puckering her arms, then glanced up to find Duncan's gaze had
lowered to something else altogether. Her nipples tightening all the more that
his eyes were upon them, now she truly could not breathe. Stricken, she clasped
the soaked towel to her breasts, her voice sunk to a whisper. "Aye, please
. . . before the water grows cold."

He was gone before she could blink, another low curse
following him as he disappeared into the dark passageway leading to the other
room. She started at how hard he shut the door behind him, nearly slamming it,
but she allowed herself no thoughts as to his mood as she grabbed for the
slippery soap.

She doubted she had ever bathed so quickly, even
washing her hair within a few moments' time when usually she liked to linger
over such a task. But now she simply wanted to be done and dressed and in bed
before Duncan might
return,
and she imagined it would
be soon, given that he must still have much to do. He had said to his knight
Gerard de Barry that he planned to join him . . .

The prisoners jumping once more to her mind, Maire felt
an utter traitor as she climbed carefully from the tub and toweled herself dry,
then
quickly donned her linen camise. It would have to
do. She had no sleeping gown. She ignored the goblet, with its questionable
draught—anise wine, aye, but with some opiate added too?—and made instead
straight for the bed, all the while working the tangles from her thick hair.

She had no comb, either, but her fingers were deft. She
was actually grateful as she climbed into bed that no other amenities had been
provided for her that her guilt at her present comfort would be so much
greater.

Those poor men—no, one man and two others no more than
boys . . . from clan O'Melaghlin, Duncan had said. She knew little of them
other than that they had lost their rich pastureland to the conquering Normans
years ago, much as the O'Byrnes, and imagined their hatred burned as hot. Hot
enough to slaughter an entire herd of cattle?

So Gerard had claimed yesterday, but in truth, Maire
could not imagine any rebel Irish doing such a wanton thing in such hard times.
To steal them, aye, for fresh milk and meat for their clansmen, their families,
their wee babes. But to kill the beasts and leave them to rot? She could not
help thinking that something there did not ring true.

Sighing heavily, Maire rolled onto her side and drew
the covers well over her shoulder. That she lay so snugly upon so fine and
clean a bed grated upon her conscience, too.
Were
the
three O'Melaghlins being flogged or worse at this very moment, their beds
filthy straw strewn over a cold dungeon floor? Jesu give them courage, if only
there was some way she could help them.

Yet what could she do? She seemed no more likely
herself to escape from Longford Castle than to sprout wings, given what had
happened no more than an hour past. And if she didn't keep her wits about her
and behave as if Duncan FitzWilliam were no enemy to Eire at all but a kind
benefactor . . .