Wild Roses (30 page)

"I plan to insist we journey on to the castle—no,
I'll demand it—
Oh
!"

Adele shrank in her sidesaddle as jagged veins of
lightning burst across the sky. Maire was astonished that anything could daunt
so coldhearted a woman. She was relieved when a shout went up from a knight
near the front of their entourage that the farming settlement had been sighted,
and Adele actually looked relieved, too.

As they spurred the horses forward, their pace
quickened, as did Maire's heart. The short time spent without Duncan had seemed
an eternity, saints help her. What would she do when was alone in Glenmalure?

Forcing the distressing thought from her mind, she
wiped rain from her eyes as thatched roofs appeared over the rise, the familiar
smell of peat fires lending her some comfort. She saw a half dozen riders approaching,
and knew as surely as her breath caught that Duncan was among them.

It seemed within an instant he had brought his great
snorting steed alongside hers; Duncan looked as sodden as she but so handsome,
aye, so wondrously handsome. He pulled her from her saddle before she sensed
his intent and settled her in front of him, his arms hard and strong around
her, his beloved voice low and husky against her ear.

"Woman, you look chilled to the marrow. But I've a
warm, dry nest waiting for us—one of my tenants has kindly offered up his home
and bed."

"What of me, Duncan?" came Adele's indignant
voice before Maire could utter a word. "Where am I to stay?"

"There are several barns from which to
choose—"

"A barn!"

"Though I'm sure Gerard has plans to accommodate
you," Duncan finished, his tone grown harsh. Yet it held a hint of grim
amusement, too, as if Adele's outrage had been the reaction he sought. He said
no more, but tightened his arms around Maire and kicked his horse into a
gallop.

***

"There, I'd said I wouldn't be long."

As Duncan placed two steaming bowls of stew and a
golden round of bread upon a rough-hewn table, Maire hugged the blanket more
tightly around herself, still shivering.

Aye, he hadn't been long, no more than a few moments
and time enough for her to change out of her wet clothing and into a woolen
sleeping gown the tenant's kindly wife had left upon the bed in the adjoining
room. Patched and worn, the garment was nonetheless clean and soft and smelled
of fresh air from hanging out to dry. Its warmth gradually stilled her
chattering teeth.

The snug, plainly furnished dwelling-house was warm,
too, or mayhap it was the way Duncan stared at her now that made it so. He had
appeared almost disappointed to see that she had changed so quickly, and the
look lingered as his gaze swept her from head to foot. Bare toes peeked beneath
the blanket as her slippers were thoroughly sodden. He studied them as if he
wished the whole of her was exposed, then met her eyes, a teasing smile that
oddly seemed subdued coming to his lips.

"I'd hoped at least to help you out of that wet
gown, but it appears you've managed well enough without me."

"Aye, I was so cold . . . but I could assist
you," she said softly, her gaze falling to the water dripping from the hem
of the dark cloak that he wore over his hauberk. "I've done so once
before."

His smile faded the sudden intensity in his eyes
causing Maire to shiver in a manner having nothing to do with any chill. Yet he
nonetheless shook his head and shrugged out of the soaked garment without her
aid, regret in his voice as he hung his cloak on a bench in front of the
central hearth.

"Nothing would better please me—it's what I'd
planned, but now that must wait. Come. The food will warm you."

His expression had become so grim that Maire was
concerned something might be amiss, her thoughts jumping to the prisoners as
she moved to the table. "Duncan, what's wrong? Is it the O'Melaghlins?
Have they said something to make you doubt—"

"They've said no different to me than what they
told you—come, Rose, I want you to eat while it's hot."

Maire did as he bade her, taking the chair opposite him
while Duncan sat too. Again he seemed so preoccupied, his mind clearly
elsewhere, that her growing concern far outweighed her hunger though she took a
small bite of the savory venison stew.

As he silently poured them wine into plain pewter cups,
she wondered if thoughts of Gerard might be plaguing him. Duncan had said that
morning when he'd come to fetch her from the tower that his discussion with his
knight hadn't been pleasant, but he'd revealed little else. Did she dare press
him . . . ?

"On my way back with the food, I was stopped by
one of my men. He said he glimpsed riders to the south just before I rejoined
you outside the settlement—he counted at least sixteen before they disappeared
into the trees. Irish."

Maire stared at Duncan as he stared at her; she didn't
know what to respond, but she felt she must say something, anything to break
the heavy silence.

"O'Melaghlins?"

He
nodded,
such relief
swamping Maire that he'd said nothing of suspecting anyone else that her hand
shook as she attempted to raise a spoonful of stew. She saw he noticed, and she
fumbled quickly for words to distract him.

"I-I feared it would be so since this morning—they
don't know yet, Duncan, surely no messenger has reached them. They don't know
you plan to release the prisoners. Do you think they might attack us? Are we
safe here?"

"As safe as any settlement filled with armed men.
That's why I can't stay. Guards must be well posted to keep watch—God's teeth,
it would have been better if we'd continued on to the castle, storm or
no!"

Clearly angry at himself, he rose from the table
without touching food or wine and Maire made no comment upon it. In truth, the
little she'd eaten had settled uneasily in her stomach for the anxiety now
gnawing at her.

It hadn't been O'Melaghlins riding to the south.

And Duncan wouldn't be safe, not as long as she
remained here. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, what was she to do?

Maire rose, too, as Duncan went to throw his cloak
around his shoulders; for a brief moment, he stared into the fire crackling in
the hearth, his face so handsome and yet so grave. He turned abruptly to find
her staring at him, and her knees felt weak at the concern so evident in his
eyes.

"If you hear any sounds of battle, Rose, any at
all, find a place in the bedchamber to hide. I'll come for you as soon as I
can. Do you understand? Don't dare step outside—promise me."

His voice was so grim, she could only nod. But she
started in surprise when he came toward her and grabbed her roughly by the
shoulders.

"You must promise me, woman! Say it! By the blood
of God, if anything should happen to you . . ."

His voice had grown almost hoarse before dying away,
his eyes burning into hers, demanding that she answer him as if by doing so he
might feel certain she would be safe.

"Aye, Duncan, I swear it. I won't leave—"

His mouth silenced her before she could finish, but
already she felt as if she were choking upon her own lie. As his hands slid
down her back to draw her against him, she gave no thought to the blanket
pooling at her feet or that the front of her sleeping gown was made wet by his
cloak.

All she knew was the incredible possession of his kiss,
his lips warm and hard, his tongue thrusting deep into her mouth to claim her
even as she clung to him, her fingers entwining in his damp hair. She scarcely
realized when he lifted his head, she'd grown so light-headed, but the fierce
emotion burning in his eyes made her heart seem to stop.

"I love you, Rose. Do not doubt it."

Maire couldn't speak, all she'd ever dreamed uttered in
three words that made tears jump to her eyes, but, already, Duncan had released
her. He brushed a final kiss to her cheek, and then was gone, not glancing
behind him even as he disappeared out the door and left her alone.

Utterly alone. No one but she heard the words Maire
could barely whisper, her throat was so tight.

"I love you, Duncan FitzWilliam. Saints help me, I
love you."

She couldn't say how long she stood there, staring at
the door left slightly ajar, nor did she blink when a clap of thunder so
deafening rumbled across the sky that the ground seemed to shake. Only a fierce
wind gusting into the dwelling-house made her stir when the flames at the
hearth fanned and flared high, and Maire thought suddenly of Triona as rain
began to beat upon the thatched roof.

Aye, her daring sister-in-law had several times used
the cover of a heavy downpour to elude Ronan. Why couldn't she? Somehow Maire
made legs grown wooden carry her to the bedchamber where she'd left her wet
clothing, no time before Duncan had called out to her to say he'd returned to
hang them to dry.

Numbly she tugged the sleeping gown over her head and
donned again her sodden camise, blue silk gown, and slippers; it suddenly
seemed fitting to her that she wore her own clothing and no Norman garb, a
wrenching reminder that she could never as an O'Byrne have been accepted into
Duncan's world. She settled her cloak around her shoulders, and, with a last
longing look at the simply made bed she had thought tonight they would share,
she turned and hurried as well as she could into the next room.

The door had blown fully open, wind and rain causing the
fire in the hearth to sputter and whirl, and Maire drew her hood over her hair
even as her heart had begun to slam against her breast.

She'd never felt so nervous, so wretched, fearing any
moment Duncan might return to find her dressed and ready to flee. What excuse
would she make to him then? She was almost to the door when a tall silhouette
appeared at the threshold, and she nearly collapsed when she spied the gleam of
mail.

"Ah, God, Duncan . . ." was all she managed,
a scream welling in her throat when she saw blood splattered down the front of
the hauberk. But a hand was clapped over her mouth so suddenly that she made
only a wheezing gasp, Maire staring in disbelief as Ronan lunged into the room
and pushed her against the wall.

"By God, Maire O'Byrne, will you bring the damned
spawn down upon us?"

Chapter 29

Maire shook her head quickly, so stunned that she had
no words to speak even if Ronan's hand weren't covering her mouth.

In the next moment she was drawn into his arms and
hugged so tightly she couldn't breathe, yet as suddenly he stepped away from
her and gestured that she not move. She watched wide-eyed, her heart pounding,
as he ventured a glance out the door, his hand firmly upon the hilt of his
sword.

Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, his sword.

She saw then the blade was bloodied, and it came to her
that he must have slain or gravely injured a Norman to have disguised himself
by wearing a shirt of mail. One of Duncan's knights left to stand guard at the
outskirts of the settlement? It might be so; a few of Duncan's men-at-arms
possessed armor, but most wore hauberks made of thick leather—

"Now, Maire, we must go!"

Startled into motion, she took his outstretched hand,
the rain blowing so fiercely through the door that it stung her face no matter
her hood. Ronan wore a mailed hood, too, a good thing given his wild black
mane; he appeared as much a Norman knight as any other except that the Irish
sword he bore was slightly smaller and lighter than the heavier weapon Duncan
wore at his belt.

Swallowing hard at the thought that such deadly swords
might meet, Maire did her best to hurry as she and Ronan plunged out into the
storm and his strength aided her, his grip on her hand powerful and sure. So
grateful it had grown dark, she still kept her head down and did her best, too,
to walk as steadily as she could, fearing at any moment someone might recognize
her by the light of the scattered torches hissing and sputtering in the driving
rain.

"Niall and the others await us in the field, with
horses,"
came
Ronan's low, urgent voice to spur
her along. "We've only to clear that mill ahead."

Niall was near, too? A sudden crack of thunder made
Maire jump, her nerves raw as she followed Ronan's gaze to the edge of the
settlement, where he must have come upon the hapless knight. Guessing that he
must have been hiding in that same field and seen everything when Duncan
carried her into the tenant's house, she couldn't imagine how else Ronan could
have found her.

That her brothers had been so close all along—saints
help her. If that guard hadn't spied Ronan and her clansmen riding to the
south, Duncan would have been with her, aye, they'd have been sharing a meal .
. . or sharing a bed when Ronan—

She couldn't finish the thought, tears biting her eyes as
much from unbearable heartache as panic that Ronan had suddenly seemed to tense
beside her. She gasped when three men-at-arms came at them as if from nowhere
and yet ran right past, mud and water splattering Maire in their haste. Her
heart plummeted when one shouted into the night, his voice filled with alarm.

"Lord FitzWilliam, a man is down! By the
mill!"

"Damn the spawn!"

At Ronan's curse, Maire had never felt so stricken,
fright making her limbs feel weak beneath her. As if sensing that she was close
to collapse, Ronan swept her into his arms and began to run with her past a
last dwelling-house, his sharp whistle cutting the night, a signal she
recognized at once for Niall.

Already she could hear more shouts behind them, but it
was nothing to the vehement command that rang out from a Norman who had
suddenly stepped from the dwelling-house to block their way.

"Hold there—God's blood!"

Maire cried out as she was set upon her feet so
abruptly that she crumpled to her knees while Ronan pulled his sword from his
belt to swing violently at his opponent. Horror filled her as she recognized
Gerard de Barry, the knight dodging Ronan's blow within an instant of losing
his life and drawing his own sword, the dreaded ring of weapon striking weapon
piercing straight into Maire's heart.