Wild Roses (17 page)

"Lord FitzWilliam, we should go. Your men—"

"Call me Duncan, woman," he bade her gently,
while her eyes flared wide in surprise. "It's only fitting since you saved
my life—"

"Oh, no, it was your steed, truly. I could have
done nothing without him."

"Maybe so, but you handled him with skill I've
seen in few women . . ." Falling still, Duncan felt her nervous intake of
breath even as he stared at her, a strange niggling of doubt suddenly gnawing
at his gut. It seemed now, too, that she was reluctant to meet his eyes, which
made him roll over with her and pin her lightly to the mossy ground while he
kept his voice as even as he could in spite of his unwelcome suspicion.
"Those rocks, Rose. What happened?"

"Th-the rocks?"

"When you lost control of your horse—"

"Aye, that was it exactly! He was fine, the poor creature,
then something startled him . . . and so suddenly, too. He reared and I almost
fell and—and I lost the reins. If I hadn't held on to his mane . . ."

She fell awkwardly silent while Duncan studied her face
. . . the heightened color of her cheeks, her lovely eyes holding more than a
trace of apprehension as if she feared he might not believe her. And he wanted
to believe her, yet his suspicion that she might have for some reason contrived
the entire incident only grew as he thought of her cloak.

She had worn it about her so snugly. Could a headlong
ride have wrenched it loose? And that she hadn't plunged straight into the bog
if her mount had been so terrified and she'd lost all control of him—God's
teeth! Only his competence with horses had made him rein in his stallion just
in time when they'd come crashing through the trees, while he had dived into
the muck like an utter fool, thinking . . .

Duncan knew he was scowling, by sheer force of will
telling
himself
not to press any farther as her face
had gone pale. And she shivered, too, almost as wet as he that he'd held her in
his arms for so long, the front of her blue silk gown smeared with brownish
muck. Imagining the stir their disheveled appearance would make at Dublin
Castle, he almost wished he still smelled like lilacs. The stench alone that
clung to him was enough to raise eyebrows and tear the eyes.

Cursing to himself, Duncan shifted from her and rose to
his feet, then held out his hand.

"Come."

She accepted his assistance without a word, and he drew
her up to stand shakily beside him, her eyes grown as wide and anxious as the
first days she'd spent at Longford Castle. It stung him, while her continued
silence as he led her to her mount made him wonder if perhaps he had wrongly
suspected her, and her explanation had been true.

By the devil, what had come over him? Was it so easy
for him to forget that Clement had warned him to treat her gently? How could he
think she would have wanted it to appear she had drowned? It was more likely
her cloak had come undone before she managed to regain control of her horse and
then ridden back to help him—and what of her screams? What of her tears? She
must have been terrified; even the most accomplished rider was prey to mishaps
now and again.

"May . . .
may
I ride
with you, Duncan?"

His hands already at her waist to lift her to the
saddle, he felt all suspicion fade as she glanced nervously at the gelding.

"After what happened, I don't think
I
. . . at least not right now . . ."

She didn't say more while Duncan felt his anger at
himself deepen. He nodded for one of his waiting men to look after her horse,
and then led her to his stallion.

Moments later, Rose tucked safely in front of him as
they rode back through the woods, a borrowed cloak warming them both, he
wondered again that he could have suspected her, especially when he felt her
relax within his embrace and lay her head against his shoulder.

Her midnight hair smelling of lilacs, it made him want
to curse aloud that they were bound for Dublin where her clansmen might soon
bear her away with them. But he kept silent, even as his arms tightened
possessively around her.

***

"By God, has no one seen her?"

Ronan's roar shattering the tense
silence,
he slammed his fist upon the table in impotent fury and eyed the dozen
exhausted clansmen who stood before him.

"You asked at every village? You split up and each
man took a different route?"

"Aye, Lord, just as you commanded and when we
heard any news, it was always the same," came Flann O'Faelin's weary
voice, the huge carrot-haired Irishman's expression grave. "A large force
of Normans had been seen riding north three days past but none recognized them
to fathom a guess where they might be bound. And they might not have been the
devil's spawn we seek. Women were among them, aye, one a blonde of surpassing
beauty it was said, riding a fine gray steed, but no one could remember seeing
Maire—"

"The bastards dragged women about on their
slaughter?" Ronan glanced at Niall, who so far had said nothing, his
younger brother's face as wretchedly grim as he felt, which
was
answer enough
.

Niall, in fact, had said little these past days while
they'd waited impatiently for Flann and the others to return, his anger intense
that he'd been made to stay behind instead of joining the search for Maire. Yet
Ronan had feared Niall might be recognized by those who'd slain their clansmen.
Who could say if any had glimpsed his face before he'd ridden into the woods?
When the O'Byrnes of Glenmalure found the Normans who'd taken Maire, and by
God, they would, Ronan wanted it to be as terrible a surprise as that which had
come upon poor Fiach and the others.

"Maire had to be among those women," he said
fiercely, more to himself than anyone, wondering if she might have been borne
in such a manner that none could see her face. That would mean she had been
injured—God help them, if so, those spawn would pay doubly! His wrath mounting,
he met Flann's gaze. "Did you hear word of any other host of Normans
traveling north?"

"No, Lord, none."

"Then it had to be them. Yet no one could name the
bastards?"

"No, Lord, and no word of their progress beyond
daylight could be found. The last they were seen was ten leagues south of the
Hill of Tara in Meath. It's as if they were swallowed by the night—"

"More likely a castle than the night,"
came
Niall's low voice. "They must have been pressing
hard to their destination to ride on after dark, aye, and that would mean they
knew a hot meal was close at hand, beds aplenty, a stable large enough to
accommodate them—dammit, Flann, did you say ten leagues?"

The giant Irishman's nod made Ronan's gut knot, even as
Niall rose from the bench and caught his arm.

"She has to be there, Ronan, in Meath, and I would
swear near Tara! We've only to learn which castle—"

"And whether or not the spawn moved on from there
the next day."

Ronan's grim words falling like a pall over everyone
present, he was struck by the sudden despair in Niall's eyes. His anger
directed at no one more fiercely than himself, his voice was tight as he turned
to Flann.

"I'll need ten men to ride with me, no more. It
might be days before we return, weeks mayhap—as long as it takes until Maire is
found and safely back among us. See that all are well armed and ready to leave
by dark."

"Aye, lord, it will be done."

Ronan said no more as his clansmen silently filed from
the feasting-hall, but turned to the blazing fire while Niall sank onto the
bench. All he could see in the flames was Maire surrounded by Normans, Maire
possibly hurt, mayhap worse—

"By God, those bastards will die!"

His fury echoing around them, his momentary feeling of
helplessness was nearly as acute. He, too, had burned to ride with his
clansmen, but he'd made enough raids north of Wicklow that someone could well
have recognized him asking questions and put Maire's life at further risk. At
least now they had a reasoned place to start, while he prayed that she had
somehow kept her relationship to the O'Byrnes to herself. Since he had learned
of her abduction, it had never once left his mind how truly dangerous was her
plight.

"I should never have allowed her to learn to ride,
to leave Glenmalure, none of it!" His jaw clenched, Ronan stared blindly
into the fire. "She was safe here, yet Triona—"

"Good God, brother, so now you blame your wife
again that Maire was granted a chance at knowing more than half a life?"

Niall's harsh words striking him like blows, Ronan
wheeled to face him, not surprised that Niall stood now as if ready to do
battle.

"Dammit, man, I blame no one but myself! To have
her walk again, aye, that I would never take from her, but the rest was pure
folly and has brought nothing but harm to her! A half life, Niall? I'll never
forgive myself that I hadn't insisted upon it! By God, she might be dead for as
much as we know!"

At Niall's stricken look Ronan almost wished he could
take back his last words. The two of them faced each other across a chasm that
each day seemed to be widening no matter Triona's efforts to keep peace between
them. She would have done so now if she hadn't been at their dwelling-house
caring for Deirdre, who'd suffered a scratch to her hand after pulling her
kitten's tail. Just thinking of his wife and daughter served to ease some of
his anger, and he sighed heavily.

"Niall, this isn't helping Maire—"

"No, it's not, and I'm glad to hear you
recognizing it after all these months. I wish you'd thought as much when you
told Maire you'd bring no more suitors to Glenmalure to meet her—dammit, Ronan!
Didn't you see the light dying in her eyes? She never wanted for more than a
husband and children and to have a chance to lead her life like other women.
Aye, she might have been hurt by Colin O'Nolan, and I know you'd have done
anything to take it from her, but that didn't give you the right—"

"By God, enough!"

"No, Ronan, it's not enough, not yet! Did I tell
you that right before I left Maire in that meadow she was crying? Aye, with joy
for me and Caitlin but sorrow, too, that she might never know the same for
herself. So I'm telling you now that Maire isn't dead, and when we do find her,
you'd do well to grant her a chance to find even half the love you share with
Triona if you truly care for your sister's happiness at all!"

Niall stormed past him before Ronan could summon an
answer, and when he did, it was to utter a vehement oath that fell to no one's
ears but his own.

Niall was already gone.

Chapter 16

"There, child, that's so much better. We couldn't
have you looking as you did—or smelling as you did, at supper tonight, oh, my,
no."

Clucking her tongue, the apple-cheeked servingwoman
made a last adjustment to the gold girdle wrapped around Maire's waist, then
stood back to survey her handiwork with a knowing eye. In the next instant,
clearly satisfied, her kindly face broke into a broad smile.

"Ah, child, how fair you are! Like an angel—it's
no wonder you moved Lady de Gray's heart. And how generous my mistress was to
see that you lacked for nothing, do you not think so?"

Maire could only nod, still stunned at the graciousness
extended to her from nearly the moment she and Duncan had arrived at Dublin
Castle and been ushered into the Justiciar John de Gray's private meeting room.
A tall, robust man with a stentorian voice to match, he had barely begun to
listen to Duncan's recounting of why they'd come from Meath when the Justiciar
summoned his wife, Lady Enid, as if knowing she would take Maire under her wing
so he and Duncan might talk alone.

And the lovely older woman had, gauging at once that one
of her maids-in-waiting was Maire's size and could spare a gown or two to
replace the soiled blue silk that, though dry, still stank like the bog.
Maire's brief explanation of what had happened had horrified her, and Lady Enid
had insisted that Maire lie down and rest while a hot bath was prepared and
fresh clothing brought to a well-appointed bedchamber. One of Lady Enid's
personal servants was sent to see to her every need.

Even now the servingwoman continued to fuss over Maire,
plump fingers arranging a transparent white veil edged with embroidery of gold
and lavender thread around her shoulders. Maire felt as if she scarcely
recognized herself in the Norman garb. She had never donned so much clothing,
or so it seemed. Silken white hose to just above her knees held with delicate
ties and soft matching slippers, a thin linen shift much like her camise, then
a lavender gown with long fitted sleeves and shimmering folds that fell to the
floor and hugged her form like nothing she'd ever worn.

The strange girdle only made things worse, accentuating
the slenderness of her waist, while gold plaits were tied just above the
juncture of her thighs, making Maire blush that the eye might be drawn there.
And she'd never worn anything on her head, the gilt circlet holding the veil in
place not so much uncomfortable as unfamiliar.

At least her long hair hung loosely, which had
disappointed the serving woman who had wanted to braid and arrange the thick,
freshly washed mass in coils above Maire's ears. At that point a sigh and soft
words that she was Irish, not Norman, had been enough to dissuade the woman,
but she had insisted upon combing Maire's hair until it shone.

"Well, now, child, it seems I've nothing more to
do—except show you the way to the banquet hall." A worried frown touched
the servingwoman's brow. "I fear it's no short way—"

"I'll see her there."

Maire gasped to find Duncan standing just inside the
door, hours spent wondering what he might be doing answered in part by his
handsome attire. He wore a calf-length tunic of black edged with gold, black
hose, and black boots. The dampness of his dark hair suggested a recent bath,
which only brought to mind the night before, causing Maire's heart to thunder.
It seemed his eyes swept her as thoroughly as hers had swept him, but more
slowly, and with
an admiring
warmth that suddenly made
it difficult for her to breathe.