I Couldn't Kill Him
Rhoni insisted she wasn’t injured, but Ronan refused to allow her to walk. He carried her to a chamber, barking orders for a bath to be prepared. It felt good to be in his arms, so she didn’t protest overmuch. He kicked the door shut behind him and set her down on her feet.
She clutched the blanket more tightly, missing the warmth of his body. “Are you angry with me?”
Ronan raked a hand through his hair. “Rhoni, I want to take you over my knee and smack you like a naughty child for your foolhardiness.”
She arched her brows and smiled.
He took hold of the edges of the blanket and drew her to him. “But I’m so happy to see you, I want to fall on my knees and thank God you’ve come. I’ve missed you. You’re in my blood.”
Rhoni longed to press her body against him, but she was still soaking wet. She pouted. “I’m cold. I need to get out of these wet things.”
Ronan took a deep breath. “You’re a temptress, Rhoni de Montbryce, but I’ve sent for a maidservant to assist you. You’ll feel better once you’ve bathed. Then you can descend to the hall and explain how you come to be here and how your father persuaded Chester to hand his mercenaries over to me.”
Rhoni discarded the wet blanket. Water pooled at her feet. She shoved her wet hair off her face. “I’m a wreck. In truth, I don’t know how my father manipulated the earl. He guessed, I think, that Chester had ordered his men home, and somehow persuaded d’Avranches to put Bossuet under your command. What has happened to the MacFintains?”
Ronan clenched his jaw. “They are gone for now, but lurk in the woods nearby. It will be an easy matter to wreak my vengeance with Bossuet’s help. I cannot thank your family enough.”
A tap at the door signaled the maidservant’s arrival. Ronan allowed her entry and took his leave. “Moyra will take care of you. She was my wife’s maid, one of the few to escape the MacFintains’ bloody rampage.”
“Aye,” Moyra acknowledged, bustling in with linens and gowns. “My husband Cleum didn’t survive the siege, but at least our little Diarmid was spared. He’s the spitting image of his da, and praise be to God we haven’t come to the notice of those two scavengers. A few of their mangy clansmen have thought to take advantage, like Mortag MacRuff, but a sharp kick on the shin soon put him in his place.”
Hot water arrived. Moyra gave the two burly lads permission to enter then chivvied them to be done quickly filling the wooden tub.
She hustled them out, then helped Rhoni take off her wet clothing and get into the hot water.
She chattered on as Rhoni let the heat of the water penetrate her body, thankful for the warmth of this peasant woman who had kept her buoyant nature in spite of the ills visited upon her.
Moyra left the Norman woman sleeping peacefully, wishing she felt as sure about the lack of danger surrounding her as she’d claimed.
Like the rest of the people of Túr MacLachlainn, she’d been overjoyed at the return of Lord Ronan. Life under the rule of the MacFintains had been hell, but she feared neither the brothers nor their cronies would surrender willingly.
Mortag MacRuff was still a concern. He’d lusted after her for years and she suspected it was he who had killed Cleum in the battle for the tower. He hadn’t taken kindly to her rebuff of his advances.
She feared for Diarmid and fretted about him whenever they were apart. Though he was strong for a lad of ten years, he’d be no match for a grown man. It was a relief Bossuet had posted guards around the village. She hurried home now to her cottage, stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of Mortag lurking in the shadows near the door.
Where was the Norman guard? She tried to keep the fear out of her voice. “What are you doing here, Mortag? Best be away back to Lorcan’s side. Lord Ronan won’t be too pleased to find you here.”
Mortag staggered into the moonlit path, swaying as a belch escaped his lips. His red hair was wild, his beard unkempt, his tunic stained. In the darkness she couldn’t tell for certain if the stain was blood, but her heart lurched, knowing the Norman guard was dead. Mortag had never been a handsome man. Now he looked like a drunken demon.
She glanced to the neighbor’s cottage, dismayed to see Mortag’s cousin, Fergal, lurking in the shadows between the two dwellings. Dread filled her. Had they killed Diarmid? Was it his blood on Mortag’s filthy clothing? She straightened her spine, pulling her cloak tight around her shoulders. “What have you done with my son, you drunken brute?”
Mortag belched again, squinting at her. “He’s safe, and will remain so, if you come with me quietly now.”
His whiskey-laden breath almost felled her. She lifted the hem of her skirts and opened her mouth to scream for help, but Mortag clamped a beefy hand over her face. “Can’t have that, Moyra.”
She struggled to free herself from his grip, but Fergal lumbered over and grasped her legs. She kicked and flailed, but Mortag’s filthy hand covering her nose and mouth robbed her of breath.
The last thing she remembered was being hoisted over a broad shoulder.
Lorcan slapped Moyra across the face again. She tried to evade the blow, but Fothud held her fast. “Tell me what happened.”
Fothud spat. “She knows naught.”
Lorcan shoved his brother. “Aye, she does. She was there when they brought the people in from the wreck. Weren’t you, pretty Moyra? That’s why my faithful Mortag brought you to me.”
“Aye,” Moyra replied in a whisper, feverishly trying to figure out a way to escape her tormentors.
“Who are they? Tell me or your whelp will bear the next beating.”
Moyra gasped, narrowing her swollen eyes to peer into the darkness. Her son was tied to a nearby tree. He wasn’t moving. She would tell them as little as possible. “Normans.”
Lorcan glanced up sharply at Fothud. “From where? England?”
“Aye.”
“Their names?”
“Lord Baudoin and Lady Rhoni.”
Lorcan shoved her to the ground. “You lie. A woman wouldn’t make the dangerous crossing from England.”
Moyra sobbed. “I tell thee true. She is Lord Ronan’s woman, the daughter of an earl.”
Lorcan strode away, dragging Fothud by the arm.
Moyra crawled to her child. He’d been beaten, but was still alive.
Lorcan’s furious voice reached her. “We must seize the Norman woman. Ronan will come after her and we’ll recapture him. He obviously plans to wed her to bring himself strong allies. It must be nipped in the bud.”
Fothud pulled his arm free. “But if this woman is the Earl of Chester’s daughter—”
Lorcan shoved Fothud. “He has no daughter, fool. This woman must be the daughter of some other earl.”
Fothud shook his head. “This is too dangerous. We surely don’t want two Anglo-Norman earls as our enemies?”
“Bah! We must take back the tower. We don’t need the Normans. England is far away. What can they do if we control the tower and the land around it?”
“But our clansmen—”
Lorcan slapped the side of Fothud’s head.
“But we have other estates that we—”
Another slap. Fothud glowered at his glaring brother, but said nothing more.
Ronan, Bossuet, Rhoni, Baudoin and Conall were closeted in the Chart Room discussing plans to capture Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain.
Suddenly, the door burst open and a Norman mercenary strode in, Moyra cradled in his arms. “I found this woman at the gates, mon capitaine,” he explained.
The men leapt to their feet.
“Críost, Moyra. Who has beaten you?” Ronan asked.
The Norman set her on her feet. She closed her eyes, and sobbed out a name. “Lorcan MacFintain. He has Diarmid.”
Her knees gave way, but Ronan caught her. “Where?”
Moyra clung to his arm. “In the Little Wood. He sent me to lure Lady Rhoni away. He promised to spare Diarmid if I did as I was told. But his word is good
for naught.” Her breath caught in her throat. “My son is probably already dead.”
Bossuet gritted his teeth. “I posted men to watch over the cottages.”
Moyra sobbed against Ronan’s chest. “Mortag and Fergal killed the sentries.”
Ronan’s fury intensified. Once more he’d left innocent people vulnerable. He took a deep breath and explained what Moyra had told him of Lorcan’s plot. Rhoni gasped and pulled the Irishwoman to her. “Tell her she’s a brave woman. I’ll take care of her wounds.”
Moyra allowed Rhoni to lead her away then stopped abruptly. “Wait! I must tell you their plan.”
Ronan drew her to a chair. “I swear to rescue Diarmid. Tell us.”
Moyra fisted her hands in her lap. “Lorcan sent Fothud to procure a rowboat and wait at the mouth of Uisce Cluana. I was to bring the lady to him and persuade her to get into the boat. He would row her out into the ocean and toss her overboard. Lorcan planned to lie in wait with his men for you to come to her rescue, Lord Ronan.”
Baudoin scoffed. “Are these men complete idiots? How was she supposed to lure Rhoni away from the tower? My sister and Lord Ronan have hardly spent a minute apart since our arrival.”
Rhoni blushed, and Ronan bristled, but then saw the glint in Baudoin’s eye.
Moyra shook her head. “He told me that was up to me. He was sure I would think of something. Mortag was to help me.”
Baudoin threw up his arms in disbelief. “They don’t know Rhoni if they think she would sit biddable in a rowboat to be taken to her death.”
Bossuet shrugged. “That’s the problem with these brothers, but what they lack in wits they make up for in sheer malevolence. It makes them unpredictable and dangerous.”
Ronan came to his feet. He would wait no longer to rid his land of the MacFintains. “Rhoni, please take Moyra to the healer. She knows the way. Bossuet, muster your men in two groups. You take one to apprehend Fothud at the mouth of the Cluana. I’ll lead the rest against Lorcan.”
Fothud leaned against the rowboat, desperate for a swig of whiskey. He’d bitten his nails down to the quick. The seawater lapping at his feet was ruining his new boots, fashioned after the serving wench spilled whiskey on the old ones.
“Why is Lorcan sending me out to sea to get rid of the Norman woman?” he mumbled aloud. “What is he up to? Does he plan to keep the tower for himself?”
A twig snapped nearby. Fothud stood up straight, peering at the dunes. “Moyra?”
Sand swirled.
The long reedy leaves of sea oats rustled.
Only the wind.
He checked that the oars were secure in the tholes.
Sand swirled in the dunes again, then he heard a strange sound. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Was it the wind sowing through the dune grass? Or sand shifting?
The certainty that he was no longer alone on the beach crept up his spine. His innards clenched as he scurried into the rowboat. Moyra wasn’t coming, but someone was in the dunes. He made ready to escape up the Cluana.
Suddenly a lone seal appeared at the top of a dune, watching him. He cursed his brother for leaving him alone in this godforsaken place. He pulled on the oars, never taking his eyes off the dune. Four more seals joined the first one. “Críost!” he murmured, pulling harder. He rowed frantically, his eyes locked on the sea creatures, but when he blinked they were in the water alongside his boat.
He looked over his shoulder to make sure he was headed up the Cluana. A panicked cry emerged from his throat when he saw more seals ahead—and he was headed out to sea. How had that happened?
“Lorcan,” he whimpered. “Help me.”
The safest course was to return to the beach, but when he looked back, riders were galloping onto the sands. Relief swept over him, until he saw it was the cursed Normans.
Emyle Bossuet called his men to a halt. They watched Fothud struggle with the oars of his boat, seemingly in a panic. What ailed the man?
One of Bossuet’s men pointed to silvery shapes streaking through the water near the boat. “Là. Phoques!”
Bossuet had seen seals in the area on occasion, but never in such numbers. What were they doing? Were they pursuing the rowboat?
Fothud struggled to stand. He’d lost one oar, and was fending off the sea creatures with the other. Several seals rammed the boat repeatedly. It tipped alarmingly. Fothud lost his balance.
His shriek of fear echoed off the water as the boat capsized, catapulting him into the midst of the sea creatures. They tossed him from one to the other like a plaything. Eventually, he was dragged beneath the waves. He broke the surface a moment or two later, his face a mask of terror, only to be dragged down again into the roiling foam.
The seals gradually disappeared.
The Normans gaped at the eerily silent, grey emptiness of the sea.
Lorcan poked his head up from the ditch where he and his men lay in wait. Was that Fothud yelling? Why had the fool not moored the boat where it was visible? How was he supposed to know when his worthless brother had the woman safely out of the way? Fothud had probably misunderstood the directions. “The idiot never listens,” he mumbled.
He sank back into the ditch, his back to the beach, frustrated he’d seen nothing. Not to worry. There would be no mistaking Ronan’s approach when he came thundering to the rescue.
An icy hand gripped his vitals when he became aware he was looking up at a pair of boots on the other edge of the ditch. He felt for the hilt of his sword and stole a glance at his men. Every one had a Norman sword pointed at his throat.
How the hell?
The one-eyed giant to whom the boots belonged put his fisted hands on his hips. “Get out of the ditch, Lorcan.”
“Lord Ronan! I was hoping, that is I’m waiting—”
“I know what you’re waiting for. Get out of the ditch.”
“It was Fothud’s idea. The torture, I mean.”
“Get out of the ditch.”
Lorcan scrambled out on the opposite side to Ronan, warm piss trickling down his legs. He swallowed hard, watching Ronan’s icy stare turn into a disgusted grimace. “I repent, I repent. You cannot kill me. I confess my sins. I’m penitent.”
“Where is the boy?”
“Boy?”
“Moyra’s lad. Tell me now or die where you stand.”
Sweat beaded on Lorcan’s brow. “He’s alive. Don’t you fret about that. In the Little Wood, tied to a tree.”
Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “Draw your weapon, and face me like a man.”
Lorcan’s heart thudded in his throat as he struggled to unsheathe his sword. It seemed to be stuck in the scabbard, but eventually he managed to draw it. Ronan leapt the ditch. Lorcan staggered backwards. His eyes bulged when Ronan drew his sword. To his surprise, his enemy lay the enormous weapon on the ground.
Ronan’s next words bit into his gut. “I won’t need a sword. I intend to kill you with my bare hands.”
Once Rhoni was satisfied Moyra was taken care of, she rushed to the stables and commandeered a horse.
The startled stable boy gaped.
“Which way did Lord Ronan go?”
The lad shook his head.
“Lord Ronan,” she insisted.
He pointed and she was off, riding like a madwoman. Dread filled her heart. Ronan was a capable warrior, but he had only one eye. If she lost him now—
As she neared the beach, she saw him. He stalked a man she assumed was Lorcan. He was brandishing a sword, but Ronan was unarmed, the weapon Rhodri had given him lying on the sand.
She slid from the horse and crouched, her heart beating too fast. Not wanting Ronan to be distracted, she smoothed her hand over the horse’s nose, as much to calm herself as the animal.
Compelled to watch, despite not wanting to, she gasped when MacFintain charged Ronan. He ducked and swayed, advancing slowly but surely as Lorcan swung and lunged wildly.
The strength seemed to drain quickly from Lorcan’s arms. His
movements were out of control and with one frantic swing he came dangerously close to cutting off his own leg. He sobbed, begging for mercy.
Ronan kept walking towards him, forcing him to the water. “I’ll show you the same mercy you showed Mary, and the others you murdered. The same mercy you showed me when you poked out my eye.”
Suddenly, Lorcan threw away his sword and staggered into the sea, wailing pitifully.
Ronan pursued him, an inexorable shadow.
Soon Lorcan’s arms and legs thrashed wildly as he tried to keep afloat. The waves were up to Ronan’s chest when he stretched out his arms and dove smoothly under the water, disappearing from view.
Rhoni leapt to her feet, startling the horse.
Baudoin appeared and ran to the water’s edge where she hurried to join him. She gripped his arm, her heart pounding in her ears. “I can’t see him. Where is he?”
Lorcan still thrashed, then suddenly he too disappeared.
Rhoni looked back at the beach. The Normans had rounded up the MacFintains’ men. She returned her gaze to the sea. Surely Ronan should have resurfaced by now, his vengeance complete.
They waited.
Baudoin shook his head. “They’ve been too long beneath the waves.”
Panic surged through Rhoni, but then she remembered. “He’s the son of a seal. He will return from the sea.”
Baudoin eyed her curiously, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Ronan broke the surface, one arm hooked around Lorcan’s neck.
Rhoni breathed a sigh of relief, thankful her trembling legs had kept her upright.
Ronan swam effortlessly to shore, dragging Lorcan behind him. He dumped the coughing and spluttering wretch on the sand as he strode from the water, making sure his eye patch was still in place. Rhoni ran to embrace him, throwing her arms around his neck. He kissed her deeply. She delved her tongue into his mouth, savoring the salty taste, weaving her fingers into his wet hair.
The kiss ended only when the need for air broke them apart. She looked up at his face. The darkness that had haunted him was gone. The stiffness had left his shoulders. “I couldn’t kill him. I wanted to drown him, but I’m not a murderer.”
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 19