She’d believed she couldn’t love him more than she already did, but his words sealed her fate. “I love you, Ronan. I’ve loved you from the moment I set eyes on you curled up in the coracle.”
He smiled and bent to kiss her again.
A warning shout rent the air, followed by the whoosh of an arrow. Ronan turned quickly to protect her. Lorcan swayed in front of him, a dagger in his hand, an arrow through his throat. He gurgled as he sank dead to the sand.
Ronan looked to the dunes. Conall already had his bow slung on his shoulder and was striding towards them. He came to stand beside Ronan and they looked at Lorcan’s body, the swirls of bloody water eddying around it.
Ronan put his hand on Conall’s shoulder. “It’s fitting that you killed him. Your da would be proud.”
“Aye,” Conall murmured.
Wish Me Luck
Rhoni saw little of Ronan over the next sennight. He, Bossuet and Conall were kept busy restoring order to the tower. A court was convened to render judgment and decide punishment for the crimes of the clansmen who had abetted the MacFintains. Bossuet advised Rhoni and Baudoin it wasn’t a good idea for any of the Normans to attend. Rhoni was relieved.
Whenever she caught a glimpse of Ronan he was very much the Lord of Túr MacLachlainn, a commanding presence, a man to be reckoned with. It was a miracle after what he’d endured.
When he noticed her, he nodded politely. She longed to share words of endearment, to touch his face, to ask how he was, but he seemed preoccupied. He hadn’t acknowledged, nor returned her avowal of love. She toyed with the idea of complaining to Baudoin. The old Rhoni would have done so without thinking twice. The new Rhoni would hold her tongue and be patient.
When they gathered in the hall for meals, the men became engrossed in their discussions. It was evident, however, that the people of the tower rejoiced in their liberation and the return of their rightful lord. Children played, adults smiled and chatted amiably. It was a castle reborn.
They love him.
It was difficult to sit near him at mealtimes without touching. She was grateful that she was relegated to the end of the table, yet it irked at the same time. Was her opinion worth naught? Had Mary also been expected to sit quietly and say nothing?
But Ronan had confided that Mary wanted to be a nun. Perhaps obedience and conformity sat well on her shoulders? Rhoni shivered. She didn’t have it in her to be that kind of wife—if Ronan ever proposed. Her parents had encouraged her to be forthright, to contribute her opinions.
She wanted to explore Ronan’s home, but he hadn’t invited her to see anything other than the hall and her own chamber. Baudoin had been shown other parts of the tower and there was a great bustle of activity from which she was excluded. Perhaps rushing to Ronan’s aid had been yet another impetuous mistake.
Ronan spent two days in discussions with Bossuet and Conall regarding the future of the tower. They inspected every chamber but one, planning renovations and restorations. They talked with servants, tenant farmers, serfs, laborers. He drew Conall aside. “I’ve asked Bossuet to stay on as steward.”
Conall averted his gaze for a moment, chewing his lip. “Has he accepted?”
“He jumped at the chance to leave the uncertain life of a mercenary.”
Conall studied his feet. “’Tis a good choice, though he’s a Norman.”
Ronan slapped him on the back. “Good! We want you to be his Second. In time you’ll take over and follow in your father’s footsteps.”
Conall threw himself at his master, his eyes welling with tears. “Thank you, my lord.”
Ronan took him by the shoulders. “Conall, you’ll make a good steward. You’ve proven your worth and I thank you for my life and for Lady Rhoni’s.”
Conall wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’ve grown to admire Lady Rhoni.” He winked. “Even if she is a Norman.”
Ronan laughed. “I like her too, Conall. I never thought I would take another wife, after Mary. But it’s time. There’s but one more thing to do before I can ask her to wed me. I’ll need your help. Fetch Lord Baudoin. Meet me at my old chamber in an hour.”
Reluctantly, he slowly climbed the steps to the third level of the tower. He inhaled deeply and pressed his palm against the wood, feeling the grain of the door his grandfather had crafted. He shoved, but hesitated on the threshold, scanning the interior. The bed was the same, the one he’d been born in. The tapestries needed cleaning, but they were the ones his grandfather had hung. The cherished oaken chest Mary had brought with her was scuffed, but whole.
He held his breath, grinding his teeth, tempted to close the door and order the room sealed off. But then the MacFintains would have triumphed, and the tower would never be his completely.
He took a step inside. He smelled Lorcan, heard Mary’s desperate screams, saw the signs of MacFintain’s excesses—empty tankards, soiled linens, moldy trenchers, mouse droppings, the blackened chimney. Bile rose in his throat. Was it possible to reclaim this chamber? It was a vital part of his heritage. He wanted to bring Rhoni here as his wife, join his body with hers in love, create children to carry on his name.
Clearing out Lorcan’s filth would be the easy part. Getting rid of the ghosts would be more difficult.
He sensed a presence at the doorway. Baudoin hesitated on the threshold, Conall behind him.
He beckoned. “Come in, Baudoin. Conall, leave us. I’ll summon you in a while.”
Conall nodded and left. Baudoin entered hesitantly.
Ronan gestured expansively. “This was my chamber.”
Baudoin looked around, but said nothing.
“Mary died in this room.”
Baudoin picked up a tankard and put it on a table. “And Lorcan has cavorted here ever since.”
Ronan squared his shoulders, nodding grimly. “Aye.”
Baudoin wandered around, examining the tapestries. “What are your intentions with regard to the chamber?”
Ronan cleared his throat. “Since your father isn’t here, I ask your permission to woo Rhoni.”
Baudoin stared at him, apparently taken aback, then smiled, proffering his hand. “Woo her? My sister is in love with you. It won’t take much wooing.”
Ronan accepted the handclasp. “But I want to bring her here to this bed, the bed I was born in, the bed I shared with Mary, the bed she died in. Will Rhoni understand? Do I understand it myself?”
Baudoin studied the chamber. “If you had asked me the question a few months ago, I would have doubted my sister’s ability to cope with this. But that was before she met you. She’s changed. She’ll help you make this chamber a place where love rules again.”
Ronan raked both hands through his hair. “I thank you. And I’m grateful to your family for everything you’ve done for me. Your parents would prefer Rhoni wed in England, but, to be frank, I cannot wait. It’s important we marry in Ireland.”
Baudoin walked over to the bed, sat on the end and bounced up and down a few times. “Comfortable. They don’t make beds like they used to. Rhoni is a lucky woman. And you, my friend are a lucky man. My parents sensed you would wed in Ireland. They gave me permission to inform you of her dowry.”
“Dowry?”
“Alensonne. My grandfather’s castle in Normandie.”
“But I thought Montbryce—”
“My other grandfather. The one we never speak of, the irascible and unpredictable Guillaume de Valtesse. It was the brutal treatment of his enemy Giroux that led to the feud that has caused much bloodshed and pain.”
Ronan smiled, stroking his chin. “An Irishman with a castle in Normandie! It surprises me your parents would consider allowing Rhoni to marry an Irishman.”
Baudoin bit his lip. “I’m hoping they will be as broadminded when it’s my turn to wed the woman I love.”
Ronan frowned. “You have someone in mind?”
“She’s Welsh.”
Ronan recalled his time in the Welsh mountains with Rhodri’s family
. “Carys?”
Baudoin’s face reddened and he shifted his stance.
Ronan sat beside his future brother-by-marriage. “She’s but a child.”
Baudoin bristled. “I can wait.”
It took a crew of servants five days to clear out the vestiges of Lorcan MacFintain from the chamber. Old linens were burned, tapestries taken down, cleaned and rehung. Wood was polished and fresh rushes laid on the floor. Every stone was scrubbed. The chimney was swept and a fire set. Three cats soon got rid of the mice. New oiled cloth covered the windows. The mattress was mended and restuffed.
Ronan ordered dried lavender be added to the new bolsters.
When the frenzy of activity was complete he surveyed the chamber. It looked and smelled wonderful. Only one thing was missing. He took a deep breath and turned to Conall. “Where is Lady Rhoni?”
Conall winked. “In the hall.”
Ronan smoothed the front of his doublet. “Wish me luck.”
Conall laughed. “I do indeed, my lord. If you wed Lady Rhoni, there’s hope for me and Jacquelle.”
Ronan raised his eyebrows. He’d forgotten the Norman maidservant. If Conall was serious, he would try to reunite the pair.
He strode off to the hall, smoothing back his hair and adjusting his eye patch.
He paused in the entrance to drink in the sight of the woman he loved. His shaft reacted predictably. She was dressed in peasant garb, her hair tied up in a turban, supervising boys crawling in the rafters to dust out cobwebs. He chuckled, surprised she hadn’t climbed up to assist them.
She whirled to face him when he cleared his throat. She fiddled with the turban and her face reddened. He held out his hand. “Come, Lady Rhoni. It’s time to show you my home.”
She eyed him curiously.
He wiped a smudge off her nose and took her hand. “This is the Great Hall,” he jested.
She laughed nervously, intensifying his need.
He led her through the kitchens, now scrubbed clean. They toured the smithy, the chapel, the stores, the larder, the smokehouse, and the chicken coop, carefully avoiding the manure pile. In the stables she lovingly stroked the horses. “I miss Fortissima,” she admitted.
He resolved to somehow bring her beloved horse to Ireland.
As they made their way back through the herb garden, he crushed lavender between his fingers and held them to her nose.
She touched his hand as she inhaled. “I love lavender.”
“I know,” he rasped.
At the foot of the stone steps to the third level, he paused, put his hands on her waist and drew her to him. Now he knew her scent, he reveled in it, the lavender intoxicating him. “There’s but one thing left to see. At the top of these steps. It’s the lord’s chamber.”
Rhoni pursed her lips. “Your chamber. Where Mary—”
He put the pad of his forefinger on her lips and shook his head. He led her up the steps and pushed open the door.
He stood in the doorway, holding her warm hand, his heart in his throat. Was he being disloyal to Mary? His dead wife no longer visited his dreams. Her murder had been avenged. Hopefully she and the babe were at peace now. He’d done his best.
But was it fair to Rhoni to ask her to be his bride? He’d regained much of his health, but was still a one-eyed man with ignominious scars no nobleman should have to bear. Túr MacLachlainn would rise again, but it would take many years of hard work. Would Rhoni come to love his home as much as he did? Ireland was far from her parents, her family.
And what of this dowry castle in Normandie? How to take care of it for Rhoni and her family when his attention had to be on Ireland?
He gripped her hand and looked at her lovely face. A tear trickled down her cheek. “It’s a beautiful chamber, Ronan.”
He drew her inside. “There’s but one thing missing.”
She turned her wide brown eyes to him. “What is it?”
“Love.”
Her mouth fell open. He wanted to lick her full lips and delve his tongue inside. He took hold of both her hands. “I love you, Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce. Will you wed with me?”
Rhoni had never been as happy to hear her full name. On this man’s lips it was a song. She’d ached to hear words of love from him, but had become convinced he was a warrior whose bitter experiences had hardened his heart forever.
Would she fulfill his hopes of filling this chamber, this tower with love? It had been easy to see his pride in every stone during their tour. Would she be equal to the challenges of Túr MacLachlainn?
Could she help him heal, forget the past? Would his people accept her, a Norman? Sord Colmcille was a world away from Ellesmere.
Though these doubts assailed her, she brought his hands to her mouth and brushed her lips against his knuckles. “I will wed with you, Ronan MacLachlainn,” she whispered.
He growled his elation, pulling her to his body, cupping her derrière with his big hands. She felt desire surge through him as his hard maleness pressed against her belly. She was marrying a man who had kept his passions controlled while he sought vengeance. Now they were unleashed and she was awash with need.
He tore off her turban and bit her hair. “You always smell so good.”
In her frequent dreams of his proposal of marriage, she’d imagined she’d be beautifully clothed. “I’m a mess. I was helping with the cleaning.”
“You look beautiful to me.”
He nibbled her ear, then her neck.
She giggled. “I’m ticklish.”
He grinned, scooping her up. She wound her arms around his neck as he carried her to his bed. She’d longed to feel his body pressed to hers, to learn the secrets of lovemaking from him, but they weren’t married yet. Would he control his passion?
The bed sat on a raised dais, but he easily raised his knee on to it and they tumbled onto the soft mattress. He laughed when she looked at him with surprise, then he dug his fingers into her ribs. “Ticklish, did you say?”
She squirmed and kicked, laughing with him, tickling him back. This was a side of Ronan she’d never seen and it thrilled her. Playful and passionate.
Soon they lay side by side, breathless and exhausted. He turned her, spooning her back. She fell asleep to the lilt of the lullaby he crooned.
Don't Ask This Of Me
Baudoin de Montbryce was proud to stand in for his father at the marriage of his sister. It was a bittersweet experience. As heir to the earldom of Ellesmere, he would one day take his father’s place. It was an awesome responsibility, one he hoped he’d be equal to.
Ronan wore a black doublet, leggings and boots. Rhoni’s gown was a stunning red. Baudoin had never really noticed how beautiful his sister was. He concentrated on the details of the ceremony, knowing his mother would question him endlessly. She’d be elated to hear how happy Ronan’s people were to welcome Rhoni as their new mistress.
He eagerly anticipated the moment when he would be asked by the priest to present the dowry token. Rhoni had no idea! Good thing the Mass was being offered in Latin. He’d have been lost in Irish.
He winked at Ronan as he placed the confirmation of the gift of Alensonne on the silver salver thrust towards him at the appropriate time.
Rhoni blinked as she looked at the salver then inquiringly at Baudoin. He smiled innocently.
The ceremony progressed and soon Ronan was kissing Rhoni. The murmurs from the assembled gathering turned to giggles and cheers as their kiss threatened to set the chapel afire. Baudoin doubted they would stay long with their guests at the banquet.
Ronan watched his wife as she moved from table to table, speaking with guests. She was very different from Mary. He had felt protective of his first wife, but every part of him craved Rhoni. She was in his heart, and made his spirit sing. He’d been gifted with a love that would help him exorcise the ghosts of Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain. At first sight of her on the beach, he’d believed her an angel. It hadn’t been far from the truth.
Rhoni had taken
charge of the preparations for the banquet, supervising the plucking and stuffing of pheasants, even assisting with the unpleasant beheading and slicing of eels for the stew.
Ronan had brought down the boar, but it was Rhoni who had painstakingly instructed the cooks on how to prepare and serve the head. Judging by the oohs and aahs, none of his people had ever seen a decorated boar’s head that was half green and half yellow!
But it was the trout that Rhoni obsessed about, and with good reason. Everyone remarked on how delicious it was, and she explained with delight that it was a traditional family recipe handed down for generations from the cook at Montbryce Castle.
His heart swelled with pride. There was no doubt in his mind Rhoni would make a more than capable chatelaine for Túr MacLachlainn.
He vowed to spend his life making this woman happy, protecting her. His gut clenched. Never again would he allow harm to come to his family.
Family! He was anxious to get started on giving Rhoni children. His shaft hardened as he thought of her belly swollen with his child.
He came to his feet, stalked over to his wife, scooped her up and carried her from the hall, to the jubilant cheers of the assembly.
Ronan carried Rhoni up three flights of steps, but it seemed effortless for him. “You’re light as a feather,” he replied when she protested she was too heavy. She was secretly pleased he insisted on carrying her. His strength reassured her, made her feel safe, cherished.
He kicked open the door. “I want to lift you over the threshold into our new life together.”
She cradled his face in her hands and kissed him, still finding it hard to believe this giant of a man loved her. He was gentle when he touched her, though she felt desire seething through him. Sometimes she caught him gazing at her intently, causing her heart to careen around in her chest.
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 20