Wild Roses (19 page)

"Do you wonder of love, child? Is that why you
weep?"

Unable to answer for the sudden lump in her throat,
Maire glanced away while Lady Enid continued gently.

"I knew my husband for only a short time before we
wed, a few weeks, no more, but I haven't regretted it. He often tries me—like
tonight, yet I love him dearly. Our affection for each other only grew with the
years. And I saw how Lord FitzWilliam looked at you tonight, child. That
promise has already taken root. Love will grow strong and deep between you, I
know it."

Love? Between a rebel O'Byrne and a Norman? Her eyes
filling with fresh tears, Maire felt the torment inside her only mounting as
Lady Enid squeezed her hand.

"Would it help for you to know how quickly Lord
FitzWilliam agreed to take you for his bride? My husband told me the words were
no sooner from his mouth than it was done, and even he was surprised. We know
little of the baron's private affairs, except that he was to have married years
ago but the poor girl drowned . . . Gisele de Clare was her name—"

"Gisele?" Maire had no more than whispered
while Lady Enid nodded and went on.

"He lost her only days before their secret
wedding, or so the parish priest revealed to her family, and they brought their
grief and anger all the way to King John, creating quite a stir. Her parents
blamed Lord FitzWilliam much for her death, for they hadn't approved the match.
He was only a mere soldier then. I don't recall anything said of punishment
meted out to him—ah, dear, his own suffering must have been enough. That he's a
baron and still no wife? But perhaps, child, in you he's finally found—"

"Please, no more." Her mind truly spinning
now, Maire felt her eyes stinging even worse, Lady Enid's face become a blur.
"If I could sleep . . ."

A soft sigh greeting her words, the Justiciar's wife
gave Maire's hand a last squeeze and then rose from the bed.

"Forgive me, child. Of course rest is what you
need. But when you awake in the morning, I hope all will look brighter to you.
I will pray that your fears are eased."

Maire wanted so badly to offer some thanks, but she
kept silent as Lady Enid left the room; she wished as much to be alone and
sensed that any word might encourage the kindly woman to linger. Tomorrow she
would thank her, but not now. As the door closed, she rolled onto her side and
clutched the pillow to her mouth, finally allowing her sobs to overtake her.

She hadn't cried, really cried, since that night last
autumn when Colin O'Nolan had spurned her, but even that memory paled to the
utter wretchedness she felt now.

It was all so cruel.

Fiach O'Byrne and her other clansmen ruthlessly
slaughtered.

Her family with no knowledge as to whether she lived or
where she might be . . . at Dublin Castle, no less, where Ronan and Triona had
nearly lost their lives only two years past.

And now Duncan FitzWilliam agreeing to marry her—and
Lady Enid speaking of love.
Of love!

Balling her hand into a fist, Maire punched wildly at the
pillow as her sobs shook her, shook her so fiercely that she soon doubled over
from the pain.

But it was nothing to the pain tearing at her heart,
the dream she'd cherished for so long as close as it had ever been or ever
would be again, she knew it! And it was all so terribly cruel. Duncan was a
Norman. To think of marriage to such a man, even loving such a
man,
was no more than trying to catch air. So why did it
make her want such madness to be possible all the more desperately?

Maire had no sense of how long she cried, but, finally
spent, she lay silent and exhausted and trembling on the bed, the pillow sodden
from her tears. Only then did she hear it, a low intake of breath and she
froze, her heart thundering.

"Is it that horrible to you, woman? The thought
that we might wed?"

Her senses dazed and her eyelids swollen from weeping,
Maire couldn't tell from where Duncan's voice had come, but she knew he was
very close. And the room was so dark, the low fire in the hearth casting more
shadow than light that proved of little help.

She struggled within the linen tangle of her sleeping
gown to sit up, gasping when she felt two strong hands grab her and haul her
backwards from the bed. Within an instant she was enveloped in an embrace so
powerful that her legs gave way beneath her, but Duncan held her too close, her
back pressed against his chest, for there to have been any chance she might
fall.

"Have you been crying so fiercely because of me,
Rose?"

She heard pain in his voice even as his embrace grew
tighter, and she wanted to scream then and there that her name wasn't Rose but
Maire . . . Maire O'Byrne, and finally have the wretched madness come to an
end. But what then of Ronan and Niall and Triona and Deirdre and any of her
clansmen that such a confession might put at terrible risk? Tears once more
stung her eyes as she wondered wildly what to say, nothing burning brighter in
her mind than at least, in this instance, the truth.

"I cannot . . . I cannot marry you, Duncan."

She had no strength to even gasp as he turned her
around in his arms, a log crackling into fresh flames casting light upon his
grim face.

"Woman, have you remembered your clan? You know
they would oppose—"

He'd fallen abruptly silent as she shook her head,
Maire's throat tightening at the relief she saw in his eyes which tore all the
more deeply at her heart. Once again, she grabbed desperately for some measure
of the truth.

"It's Adele. You heard her that first night . . .
I-I'm no fit bride for you. She'll never allow it—"

"
Allow it?
"
Duncan's voice incredulous, Maire watched as a host of emotions played across
his striking features from relief again to a sudden hardening that came close
to chilling her. He drew her closer, staring into her eyes as if he dared her
not to believe him. "Adele has no
say
in my life,
woman, and she never will. Was that at the heart of your tears?"

He searched her face so intently that Maire lost all
voice to answer, and it seemed her silence made Duncan become even
more grim
.

"God's teeth, I'll throttle her if she utters
another word against you—does another thing to distress you. Forget all that
she said—"

"I can't, Duncan, and I cannot become your
wife!" Maire felt him stiffen at her sudden outburst but she rushed on
recklessly, determined all the more to find some way to dissuade him. "Why
would you want such a thing? To bring discord into your house . . . aye, a-and
it wouldn't be fair to you, cruel even, to have you bear such a burden! I saw
scores of young women in the banquet hall tonight, all of them lovely and
healthy and whole. Any would make you a better bride, not a woman like
me—"

"Like you, Rose?"

He'd cut her off so huskily that Maire sucked in her
breath, the look in his eyes not at all what she would have expected.

"Tell me what's not beautiful in a woman who holds
her head high like a queen when others laugh and point and stare. And as for
healthy and whole . . ."

Maire's heart leapt to her throat as he drew her
against him, his voice grown huskier still.

"Can you see me, Rose?"

"A-aye."

"Can you hear me? Speak to answer me?"

Maire tried to but in vain, nodding when she found her
voice gone altogether as he bent his head close to hers.

"Can you feel my arms around you?"

She could, aye, she could, hard and muscled and strong.
Shivers plummeted to her toes when he drew her even closer, his lips
hovering
only a whisper away from hers.

"Ah, woman, and you can taste?"

His breath warm and scented with wine, she opened her
mouth to catch her own breath that had all but fled, even as his lips found hers,
pressing down so gently at first that Maire sighed in wonder and went limp in
his arms. But she didn't fall, though she felt as if she were tumbling headlong
into some dizzying abyss when his kiss swiftly became one of plunder, his
embrace grown as fierce.

She thought only to hold on for dear life, her arms
stealing around his neck to hold him close, her fingers ensnaring in his hair,
her sigh becoming a broken moan when Duncan swept his tongue deeply into her
mouth. Engulfed as if by flames, distantly she sensed
a
coolness
, too. Then, as Duncan's hands heavy and warm beneath her
sleeping gown cupped her bare bottom and pulled her against him, Maire suddenly
trembled from head to foot.

And still he kissed her, wildly, possessively, his
groan coming to her ears even as she suddenly felt him draw away from her,
Duncan lifting his head to stare into her eyes.

"Woman, never think again that you're not healthy
and whole . . . ah, God."

His voice hoarse, he was shaking, she could feel it,
and almost with determination he held her away from him, the back of her legs
bumping against the bed. It made her start, and she saw him glance from the
mattress and then to her face, his low curse shattering the charged silence.
She had no more than blinked when she was swept from her feet and laid on the
bed, Duncan's voice as raw as he covered her with the counterpane to her chin.

"My decision is made, Rose. We will wed. By the
blood of God, whether your clan wishes it or not."

He said no more, leaving Maire to stare after him, her
heart thundering as he strode from the room.

Wishes it?
If
Duncan only knew. Tears biting her eyes again, she forced them back, not
allowing herself to cry further. It would do no good.

Just as she knew it was no use any longer to fight what
burned so deeply inside her; she had already lost. From the moment Duncan's
lips had touched hers . . .

"Begorra, Maire O'Byrne, you're a fool. Saints
help you, you're a fool!"

Curling into a ball, she hugged her sodden pillow and
stared blindly at the dying fire.

Chapter 18

"Perhaps, Lord FitzWilliam, all she needs is to
know you a little better to ease her fears. What has it been—five days? You're
really no more than strangers to each other, and that must change."

Lady Enid's fresh advice ringing in his mind, Duncan
strode toward the bedchamber he couldn't have left faster last night . . . or
he wouldn't have left at all.

It still astounded him that John de Gray had suggested
he go to Rose's room when Lady Enid had returned to the banquet hall saying
she'd heard Rose begin to weep as soon as she'd shut the door. Or perhaps it
had been the pointed look Lady Enid had thrown her husband when he'd at first
only advised Duncan to have another goblet of wine. God's teeth, women did have
a meaningful way with their eyes. In the next instant, John de Gray had groused
that Duncan might want to check on her, and he hadn't hesitated.

He had already been on his way there this morning when
Lady Enid had waved him down and informed him that she'd just been to see Rose
herself, and that she seemed in lighter spirits. It had been all Duncan could
do not to make some ill-advised comment when Lady Enid had suggested he
continue whatever he'd done to cheer Rose, along with a gentle plea for him to
heed her well-intentioned advice. He fully intended to—at least the latter,
while the other . . .

Duncan swore under his breath, the undeniable
tightening in his lower body only a hint of what he'd suffered last night. His
first mistake had been in kissing Rose, the softness of her lips, the sweet
taste of her, enough alone to haunt him deep into the morning. But when he'd
dragged her sleeping gown above her hips and—

"Enough, man, you'll have a babe made before she's
a bride," he said gruffly to himself, not surprised that the idea didn't
displease him. His impatience only growing that the entire matter of the
marriage be done and settled, it only tore at him further that it might be days
yet before he could claim Rose as his own—if and when her clan came forward.
That they hadn't made him wonder if plans for
battle were
already being drawn.

Scowling, Duncan forced the grim possibility from his
mind, telling himself for the hundredth time that if so, it altered nothing.
Not to him.

He had never thought another woman would come close to sharing
a place in his heart with Gisele, but now that he had found her, he was not
about to let her go—John de Gray and his warning be damned. If need be, he
would go to London to the king to ask that such a demand be overruled. If
Rose's clan proved reluctant, he'd already decided as much. There were more
ways to preserve peace than to risk losing what he'd thought never to find
again. Dammit, that bog had been close enough . . .

Duncan's throat growing tight, he was tempted not to
knock and instead throw open the
door,
he wanted so to
see her. But startling Rose was not how he wished to begin their day together,
and as ever, Clement's advice, too, to treat her gently, remained forefront in
his mind. Yet his kiss last night hadn't been so gentle

"By the devil, man, knock on the blasted
door," he muttered, feeling more like a callow boy than a man who
commanded more knights and men-at-arms than many a baron in Ireland. Wondering
what Gerard de Barry would think that he'd finally decided to wed, his friend
having long encouraged him to seek a bride to preserve the barony he'd gained,
Duncan rapped twice.

"Rose?"

He heard a flurry of sound, then footsteps,
disappointment filling him when a servingwoman answered the door, the same one
who'd been attending to Rose last night. Smiling cheerily, she brushed past him
as if eager to leave them alone, which suited Duncan. His gaze flew to where
Rose turned in her chair to look at him, two bright spots of color warming her
cheeks.