And what of the Irishman? Mabelle had been sure he was Rhoni’s destiny. He may have rescued her from brigands, but no man wanted a woman defiled by another.
She heard Steward Bonhomme clear his throat before he tapped at her door. She stopped in her tracks, her spine rigid. “Entrez!”
Martin Bonhomme bowed his head as he entered the solar. “Milord de Montbryce has been sighted not far away.”
He held the door for his mistress as she took a deep breath, gathered her skirts and strode from the room. Rhoni was a Montbryce. She and her family would bear whatever calamity had befallen them together. Bonhomme’s worried gaze locked with hers for a moment. The Bonhommes had been stewards for the Montbryce family since before her husband was born. Martin’s father had come from Normandie to be their first steward at Ellesmere. She could depend on this man’s loyalty to control whatever was passed on to the castle’s servants.
“Merci, Bonhomme,” she murmured.
“Milady,” he acknowledged.
She lifted her chin and descended the stone steps to the Great Hall with as much dignity as she could muster, her belly in knots. What should be her first words to Rhoni?
Bonhomme opened the door leading out to the bailey and she exited in time to see Ram, Baudoin, Rhoni and Lord Ronan ride in.
To her great surprise, Rhoni was smiling—at Ronan.
What a splendid sight he was. The last time she’d seen him he’d hobbled on crutches. Now he sat tall in the saddle, an imposing presence, a huge sword resting on his hip. Someone had obviously provided him with a new wardrobe. She smiled inwardly, knowing exactly who it was. She wondered what her husband had thought of this mighty warrior when he first set eyes on him.
She looked belatedly at Ram, guiltily aware it was the first time since they’d met that she’d paid more attention to someone other than him on his return. His grin told her he’d noticed, but his eyes travelled to their daughter. Hope crept into Mabelle’s heart. No one was behaving as though Rhoni had been violated. She rushed to her daughter’s side as she dismounted with Ronan’s aid.
“Maman,” Rhoni exclaimed, throwing her arms around Mabelle.
The unbidden tears fell at last. “Rhoni,” she breathed into her daughter’s hair, hugging her tightly.
“I’m well, maman. Don’t cry. I am whole. Ronan saved me.”
Relief choked Mabelle. “Rhoni,” she rasped, unable to let her daughter out of her embrace.
Ram peeled her arms away. “You’ll squeeze the life out of her, Mabelle. Besides, where is my welcome home?”
Mabelle accepted a diplomatically proffered kerchief from Bonhomme and dabbed her eyes, sagging into Ram’s arms. He enfolded her in his cloak, rocking gently.
She calmed, then jolted from his embrace. She’d failed to welcome Lord Ronan as befitted his rank, but more importantly she hadn’t thanked him. She was tempted to throw her arms around him in gratitude, but doubted Ram would approve of that. She offered her hand. “Lord Ronan, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for rescuing Rhoni.”
He brushed a respectful kiss on her knuckles. “Milady comtesse, how good to see you again. It’s thanks only to Rhoni that I was saved from the sea. It’s perhaps Fate that we’ve found ourselves at the right place and time to be of assistance one to the other.”
His speech and manners were courtly. This Irishman was no barbarian any more than Prince Rhodri was a barbarian. There was more to Ronan MacLachlainn than anyone had imagined when he was brought half dead to the priory. Only Rhoni had seen it immediately, and she gazed at him now with adoration.
He shifted his weight and seemed uncomfortable with the attention.
Mabelle’s belly tightened. She prayed her daughter’s heart wouldn’t be broken. Ram could be a compassionate man, but he was ruled by form and order. Ronan had nothing to offer Rhoni but an uncertain future. He wasn’t the kind of man who would accept a dowry like Alensonne and forget the wrongs done to him.
Grooms led their mounts away. Caryl Penarth took charge of seeing to the comfort and care of the wounded. Ram ushered everyone into the keep. “Welcome to Ellesmere Castle, Lord Ronan.”
Ronan bowed in acknowledgement of the earl’s invitation, but noted the sour look on the Norman’s face when Rhoni linked her arm possessively with his own. He bent close to her ear. “You’re antagonizing your father, Rhoni. He’ll get the wrong idea about us.”
She smiled patiently and pressed against his bicep. “Don’t worry. Let me handle my father.”
The round firmness of her breasts was playing havoc with his resolve. He glanced at the countess. Críost, Rhoni was behaving as if they were betrothed. Her parents would be alienated before he had a chance to solicit the earl’s help.
They entered the Great Hall. A young maidservant bobbed a curtsey, smiling broadly.
Rhoni held out her hands. “Jacquelle!”
The girl rushed into her mistress’s arms. “Milady, I was afraid I might never see you again.”
Rhoni patted her back. “Well, here I am, in the flesh, and I need a bath. Hurry and prepare one for me.”
Jacquelle smiled knowingly. “Already done, milady. Hot water awaits in the kitchens.”
Conall had followed his master into the hall, and Ronan noted with amusement the gobsmacked expression on the lad’s face whose gaze was fixed on the little maid.
Well, well!
But he was mortified when Rhoni unexpectedly pecked a kiss on his cheek. “I apologise, Ronan. As you know I’m in dire need of a bath. I must excuse myself.”
She kissed her flustered mother, then her red-faced father, before flouncing off with Jacquelle, a spring in her step.
No doubt some things were different in England, but Ronan was sure young noblewomen didn’t share details about personal cleansing with men they barely knew. Her parents would assume they were more than acquaintances.
Conall’s eyes trailed the maidservant. Ronan was tempted to thump the boy back to his senses. The Montbryces would think they had a couple of randy Irishmen on their hands.
He faced the earl. “I apologise. I believe Rhoni is still suffering from the aftereffects of her ordeal. She perhaps thinks that putting a brave face on things will erase the memory of what happened.”
Baudoin ushered his mother to a chair and stood behind her.
Montbryce motioned Ronan to another chair, his face grim. “What did happen, exactly?”
Ronan was relieved to sit. His leg no longer pained him, except on the odd occasion, this being one of them. Mayhap, something to do with the weather. He noticed the Norman rubbed his knees as he too sat.
Sparing them the more gruesome details of the attack, Ronan recounted what had happened. “Rhoni is courageous. She fought hard.”
Tears flowed freely down the countess’s cheeks, but there was pride in the glance she exchanged with her husband. “Our daughter has grown up quickly.”
Baudoin’s hands never left his mother’s shoulders.
The earl came to his feet and paced in front of the hearth, hands locked behind his back.
His wife fidgeted with the kerchief the steward had given her earlier.
Conall remained in the shadows, leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on the entryway of the hall.
Ronan studied the Norman. Despite his age, he stood tall and erect. Few men matched Ronan in height, but he suspected this man would have come close in his youth.
It would behove him to remember he was dealing with an acknowledged hero of the Norman Conquest, an ambitious man who had sacrificed a great deal for the wealth and power he’d amassed. Rhoni had confided to him her father’s lifelong homesickness for Normandie.
From her tales he recognised Ram de Montbryce as an astute politician who had always managed to be on the right side in the complicated twists and turns of the struggle for power in Normandie. He and his older son were caught up in the delicate balancing act of being loyal to two masters. Though they were brothers, William Rufus, King of E
ngland, and Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandie, were bitter rivals.
Montbryce halted in front of the hearth, his legs braced, arms folded. “My wife has shared some of your history with me, Lord Ronan, but I would hear it from you. Your boy looks like he’s about to drop.”
“Conall isn’t my son; he’s my servant, the lad who rescued me.”
The earl beckoned Conall. “Seek out the kitchens. Tell Trésor to provide you something to eat and give you a job. She’s old and crotchety, so be on your best behavior.”
Conall hastened off, apparently understanding without Ronan’s help.
Montbryce winked at Ronan. “He might be surprised to find Jacquelle there. Mayhap he’ll help her carry the hot water to her mistress.”
Ronan smiled, warming to this powerful man. “Aye! He’s a good lad, the son of my steward. I’ve sworn to avenge his father’s murder.”
Montbryce returned to his chair, steepling his hands, suddenly serious once more. “Tell me the story.”
In the thirty years since the Conquest, Ram had witnessed countless horrific and brutal deeds, and heard rumors and accounts of many more. The capacity of some men for cruelty seemed boundless. His daughter had come close to a violent death at the hands of Saxon brigands, yet Ram was acquainted with Norman lords who were the epitome of barbarity.
Lord Ronan’s account of his torture, his wife’s rape and murder, the loss of his unborn child, the death of his faithful steward, all bore the hallmarks of cruelty for the amusement of it. Greed had robbed this Irishman of everything his family had held dear for generations.
It was nothing new to him, this tale of horror, but he arched his brows in disgust at the mention of Norman mercenaries in the pay of an Anglo-Norman earl. He’d wager he knew exactly who had orchestrated such a scheme.
He exchanged a glance with Baudoin who nodded imperceptibly. His son had also recognised the difficulty. The man in question was a fellow Norman, another Marcher Lord, a powerful man with considerable influence in England and Normandie.
Ram had no doubt Ronan intended to ask for his aid. He owed the man a debt and was obliged to help him, but he must not be seen to be involved in any plot against a fellow earl.
To make matters worse, the portly Chester was expected as their guest on the morrow.
Ronan had come to his feet during the telling of the tale, pacing back and forth, but now he stilled, his one dark eye intent on Ellesmere. He hesitated, then went down on one knee, bowing his head. “I’m aware of the difficulty this request will place on you, milord, but I have no other recourse. I throw myself on your mercy. I’m not a man used to begging, but I humbly beg your aid or advice in this matter.”
Ram glanced at Mabelle. Her red-rimmed eyes and tightly drawn lips betrayed her anguish at what she’d heard and her awareness of Ram’s dilemma. He wouldn’t allow this proud man to remain on his knees, but had no immediate answer to give. “Get on your feet, Lord Ronan. You don’t have to beg, but you’re aware the problem isn’t a simple one. Be certain, though, that I’m not the one who sends mercenaries to rape Irish estates.”
Ronan came to his feet. “Rhoni assured me of that. There’s little reason for you to help me, but who else can I trust?”
It was Mabelle who broke the silence that followed. “The Earls of Chester, Warwick and Shrewsbury arrive here on the morrow.”
Ram glared at her. Why had she mentioned that? Then he took note of the glint in her eye and understood. She was right that Ronan’s presence at Ellesmere during this meeting of the earls, arranged sennights before, might provide an opportunity to flush out the culprit. “Oui. It will be a chance for you to take the measure of these men, but remember they are powerful, and ruthless.”
Ronan frowned. “I’ll be cautious.”
“Now, we’ve kept you too long from your chambers. Bonhomme will take you. You’ve had a long and difficult journey from Ireland.”
Ronan seemed ready to take his leave, but turned back. “Concerning Lady Rhoni, milord.”
Feeling refreshed after her bath, Rhoni smoothed her hands over the skirts of her gown, ready to step into the hall, when she heard Ronan mention her name. Her heart, already beating wildly at the prospect of seeing him, skipped a beat. She hung back, wondering what had been said between her parents and the man she loved.
Her mother and father remained silent.
Ronan cleared his throat. “Your daughter is a beautiful woman. Any man would be proud to have her as his wife.”
Her heart soared.
Alleluia!
“I care for Rhoni and I’m grateful to her for my life, and for bringing me to you.”
He loves me!
“But there’s nothing more between us.”
A worm crawled into her belly.
Rhoni pressed her back against the cold stone wall, biting on the knuckles of her clenched fist.
Her mother gasped.
Her father coughed loudly.
Ronan continued. “I’ve sworn an oath of vengeance, and I grieve still for my dead wife and child. My life can have no other purpose. I don’t intend to force your aid by seducing your daughter.”
She didn’t hear what her father said in response, suddenly aware that Ronan was striding from the hall. He must not discover her here, simpering like a child. She fled back to her chamber on slippered feet.
“You would have no life if not for me, Lord Ronan,” she muttered. “Me and the seal.”
We'll Find A Way
Ram had always been wary of the Earl of Chester. As the man had aged, his enormous capacity for ruthlessness had expanded with his girth. He and Mabelle treated him with the utmost courtesy, but didn’t trust him.
For thirty years, the Marcher Lords had held meetings from time to time at their respective castles to discuss matters of mutual concern. Ram invariably came away from the discussions exasperated. The others seemed disinclined to follow his example of firm but fair government, despite the fact Ellesmere was a prosperous community with little dissent. They preferred brutality and oppression.
It was his turn to be the host. He hadn’t looked forward to it. Now he dreaded it.
Mabelle shared his belief that life would never be the same after these meetings. If, as he suspected, Chester was behind the attack on Ronan MacLachlainn’s estate, things might get ugly. He prayed Rhoni wouldn’t be hurt by whatever happened.
At Ram’s request, Ronan made himself scarce as the earls arrived one by one. They were invited to take their ease after their journeys and to attend an evening banquet of welcome being prepared by Trésor and her kitchen workers.
The seating on the dais had been rearranged to accommodate the earls. Since their ladies didn’t attend, Mabelle, Rhoni, and Baudoin were to be seated at a slightly lower table. Ronan would sit with them.
Ronan wondered what he had done to anger Rhoni. She was aloof as he escorted her into the hall. They caused a stir among the assembled knights and ladies. It was the first time many of them had seen Ronan. Their interest seemed to soften her anger and she fell into the role of the noble daughter of the household, smiling graciously at her escort.
Protocol demanded everyone be standing at their place before the earls entered in procession, Ram de Montbryce at the head. No one coming into the Great Hall could fail to notice the dark giant with the eye patch.
Mabelle de Montbryce had described the earls to Ronan beforehand. As he expected, all three noticed him immediately. Only the obese Chester looked away quickly, anger contorting his florid features. Shrewsbury and Warwick studied him with a faint trace of amused curiosity.
Rhoni gasped, sliding her hand into Ronan’s. “It’s Chester,” she whispered.
The earls sat. Everyone followed suit, except Ronan. A desire to wring the Norman earl’s neck seized him. Here was the man responsible for his anguish. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. Montbryce glared at him. Rhoni pulled him to his seat, her hand caught in his manic grip. “You’re hurting me, Ronan
.”
He took his seat, instantly contrite, brought to his senses by her plea. He loosened his hold, bringing her hand to his lips. “Forgive me. I never want to hurt you.”
She put her free hand on his thigh and smiled at him. “You have a right to be angry. But you must not betray your feelings. You’re drawing too much attention to yourself.”
She spoke the truth. Conflicting emotions warred within him. He took a deep breath, willing his heart to slow its thunderous beating. Rhoni’s hand on his thigh was both a balm and a torment. Her mother and brother had both noticed it. Baudoin’s disapproval was written on his face. Ronan wasn’t sure what to make of the countess’s expression. She looked—pleased?
The fare served by servants outfitted in Ellesmere livery was sumptuous, but Ronan scarcely tasted any of it. He forced his gaze away from the fat Norman, trying to control the tremor in his right leg.
Rhoni’s voice broke into his thoughts. She held out a chunk of bread topped with a piece of fish. “You haven’t touched the trout. Try it. It’s a recipe handed down from a famous cook long ago at Montbryce Castle. La Cuisinière passed it on to Trésor when she came to England to be our cook at Ellesmere. It’s traditionally served at important banquets.”
How to resist her smile? He took hold of her wrist, biting into the morsel, savoring the intriguing flavors as he chewed. It was tempting to lick her fingers as his lips brushed against them, but he didn’t want to provoke the scowling Baudoin any further. “You’re right. Delicious. Trout are bountiful in Ireland. You should try to obtain the recipe.”
Where had that thought come from?
Her mouth fell open. She didn’t look away from his gaze as she licked her fingers. “I hope to visit there someday.”
“Aye,” he conceded as his arousal tightened anew. “I would be proud to show you my homeland.”
Hurt by Ronan’s rejection overheard earlier, Rhoni had been determined to remain aloof. But as soon as she set eyes on him, her heart admitted she would always love him. She simply had to be patient and he’d come to see that he loved her. They would wrestle his demons together.
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 14