“We should wait for a maid, for someone,” Sir Ivor protested. “′Tis not seemly to go up there with her alone.”
Connor stopped and turned to look back at the smaller man. “Why? Is your lady such a threat?” He didn’t bother to hide his disdain—nor his disgust. “Or if you’re concerned I might harm her, I assure you I’ve never attacked any woman, let alone one in Lady Moira’s condition.”
He ignored Sir Ivor’s sputtered protests and climbed the rest of the way. Lady Moira had begun to stir, and he wanted to settle her someplace more comfortable than curled up in his arms. What if he caused her or her child some injury?
A short, door-lined corridor lay before him, lit by two torches at the top of the landing. He chose the sturdy, iron-bound door at the end as the most likely one and shifted the woman in his arms so he could reach for the latch.
She groaned. “Why are you bringing me here?” she asked, her voice scarce loud enough to hear. “Set me down.”
Connor opened the door and carried her inside. “Be easy, milady. Someone will be here soon to help you.” Moving carefully in the dark room, he bumped against a bed frame, turned and bent to ease her onto the mattress.
“Nay,” she whispered. When he would have straightened and stepped away, she clutched at his arm, pulling herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Not here.”
He covered her hand with his own, turning it so she grasped his fingers rather than his hard, rough sleeve. “Milady, you need attention. What does it matter where you rest?”
“I cannot stay in here.” Her fingers tightening about his, she moaned and, though curled in on herself, tried to climb off the mattress.
Stubborn woman!
He scooped her up and strode into the corridor just as a maidservant reached the top of the stairs. “Where should I take her?”
The woman, red faced and out of breath, gestured toward a door near the head of the stairs and, snatching a torch from the wall, hurried ahead of him to open it. “Here, milord.” She stuck the light into a bracket near the door and went to push aside the bed curtains.
He settled Lady Moira against the mound of pillows at the head of the bed and moved back for the servant to attend her.
“Now then, milady, ′tis most discourteous to force Lord Connor to work so soon after he’s arrived,” the maid scolded. “You’ll have him ready to turn round and head back to England.”
Shocked by her words, Connor observed the woman more closely as she fussed with the bedclothes and loosened the ties at the neck of Lady Moira’s gown. Though her voice and her age-seamed visage expressed naught but the good-humored nagging of a loyal servant, her eyes told of her worry and concern.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, heralding a small army of servants bearing hot water, a basket of dried peat and a stand of candles. He moved toward the door, planning to leave and let them be about their business. They’d wish him elsewhere—as would he—once Lady Moira’s labor progressed any further.
“Lord Connor,” Lady Moira called, halting him before he could leave the chamber. Ignoring the bustle surrounding her, she held out her hand to him. The maidservant stepped aside so he could return to her mistress. He took Lady Moira’s hand and cradled it in his. “Thank you for your kindness.” She squeezed his fingers before slumping back against the pillows. “And for bringing your men to our aid. I fear we’ll have need of them before much longer.”
“Don’t worry about that now,” he told her. “You’ve more important concerns for the moment.” He bowed. “Sir Ivor will be help enough, I’m sure.”
A frown crossed her face, but she nodded. “Thank you, milord,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
Connor left, grateful to be away when he heard her voice raised in a pain-filled cry as he descended the stairs. She’d likely been eager for him to go, to leave her to deal with her discomfort without a stranger’s intrusion.
It didn’t appear that Sir Ivor had moved since Connor carried Lady Moira upstairs, for he still stood at the bottom of the steps, her veil clutched in his hand. But he seemed unaware of the activity surrounding him, his attention focused instead upon the cloth. He continued to stare at it once Connor had reached him, his face twisted into an unmistakable expression of hatred.
“Sir Ivor, will you show me where my men are to be quartered?”
The knight started, then glanced up, his face shifting almost at once to a look of polite interest. “Milord?”
Connor repeated his request, adding, “And have someone show my squire where we’re to lodge, if you will.”
“Aye, milord.” He stepped past Connor and shouted up the stairs for a manservant.
Connor pulled Sir Ivor back and called upstairs himself to overrule the order. “Are you mad, or simply a fool?” he demanded, noting the hatred glowing in Sir Ivor’s eyes once again. “Your lady’s need is greater than mine!”
“But you said—”
“If there aren’t servants enough without taking one away from Lady Moira, then you may carry out my orders yourself.” Connor turned his back on the other man and headed across the hall. His temper flared hotter with every step, so that by the time he heard d’Athée’s light tread behind him, he’d gladly have picked up the other man and tossed him against the nearest wall. Damned arrogant fool! How dare he ignore his lady’s distress, then act as though her needs meant nothing?
Connor tugged open the door and waited for Sir Ivor to catch up to him. He would make it a point to learn the reason for the man’s behavior before much longer.
Moira smoothed her hands over the mound of her belly, pausing to stroke her fingers against the tiny protrusion where the babe pressed foot or elbow hard against her. Soon, little one, soon I’ll be able to touch you, to hold you.
But not quite yet. According to Brigit, these last pains, strong though they’d been, were naught compared to true labor.
Moira only hoped she’d not disgrace herself completely when that time finally arrived. While she told herself again and again that she’d bear the pain gladly—that she deserved to feel pain after all that had happened—she feared she’d find herself unequal to the task.
Only look how she’d crumpled at Lord Connor’s feet, how she’d clung to him like a weakling as the pain clutched its fist about her womb! ′Twould be a miracle if he didn’t take his men and leave them—leave her—to face the MacCarthys alone.
She’d do whatever was necessary to keep him there, for ′twas clear Lord Connor was a warrior through and through. He’d carried her as though she weighed nothing; despite wearing mail from head to toe, he moved with a grace and ease that bespoke long familiarity with such cumbersome garments. He bore himself with confidence, wore an air of command that would surely weigh heavily against the MacCarthys the next time they threatened Gerald’s Keep.
She could only trust that Lord Connor FitzClifford could protect her child from the men who sought to take him from her.
If he would, once he heard the truth about their situation, and her part in it.
Connor rose as the sun began to tint the sky with color, drew on his chausses and shirt, took up his sword and crept past the sleeping servants whose pallets lined the floor of the great hall.
It seemed as though he’d just gone to bed, since he’d refused to seek his rest until he’d seen his men settled. After that he’d conferred briefly with Sir Ivor about the defenses and spoken with Brigit, Lady Moira’s servant, to learn how she fared. ′Twas a relief to know ′twas not her time after all, especially since her child wasn’t due for weeks yet. The poor woman had suffered much—lost much—these past months, from what the maid told him. Who could say what the sorrow of losing a child might do to her?
But according to Brigit, ′twas naught but false labor—no doubt caused by the recent loss of her husband, as well as concern for her home and people—that had dropped Lady Moira into his arms the night before. Perhaps now that he’d brought more men to defend her home, ′twould ease her mind and pe
rmit her to await her babe’s arrival in peace.
If he were to successfully safeguard Gerald’s Keep, Connor couldn’t relax his vigilance, nor his training, one whit. He’d worked hard these last few years to mold himself into a warrior, and he refused to allow himself to fall into his old habits.
Besides, now that he was awake, he looked forward to the daily ritual with anticipation. The air still carried a trace of the night’s chill and more than a hint of the damp his mother had claimed gave Irishwomen their beautiful skin.
There was a softness to the air here that he’d never noticed at FitzClifford, an almost otherworldly aura that enveloped everything in a mystical cloak.
The bailey stood empty, its solitude perfect for his needs. Finding a sheltered corner, grass-covered rather than muddy, around the far side of the keep, he set aside his sword and removed his shirt to stretch the kinks from his back.
Once his muscles had warmed, he took up the weapon and began the series of training drills that Walter, an ancient soldier left from his grandfather’s days, had taught Connor when he’d decided to bolster his courage and become a warrior.
He’d been surprised to learn that the discipline and exertion also cleared his head and helped him to order his thoughts. They’d strengthened his mind as well as his body, enabling him to see the world in a much more adult manner than had been his wont for most of his life.
As he swung the sword, thrusting and parrying against an invisible enemy, his thoughts strayed back to those days a few years earlier. Back then he’d been a spineless weakling—the coward Rannulf had proclaimed him to be as their father lay dead at their feet.
The throbbing pain in Connor’s face, where their father’s dagger had traced a path along his left cheek, had been as nothing compared to the anguish he’d felt inside as Rannulf’s words—his accusations—struck deadly and deep within his heart.
They’d added their weight to the guilt already echoing through him.
Guilt resolved nothing, could not bring their father back to life, God forfend, but it could force Connor to look within himself and vow to change.
He knew better than most just how empty words—vows and promises—could be. He’d not allow himself to fall into that trap ever again.
His breathing short, sweat pouring down his face and chest, he stopped for a moment, focusing his attention on his surroundings. He lowered the sword and arched his neck, then paused in midmotion when he caught sight of the woman sitting just inside the open window above him.
He bowed. “Good morrow to you, milady,” he called up to Lady Moira.
“Indeed it is, milord,” she said. She held a brush in her hand, her hair falling in a smooth, shining swath of brown over her shoulder. Unlike her previous pallor, healthy color rode high along her cheekbones this morning, although the shadows beneath her eyes showed she’d not recovered completely from the past night’s events.
From this angle, her condition wasn’t apparent. All he saw now was a lovely young woman, not a widow great with another man’s child. She drew the brush through her hair, reminding him of the women in the tales his mother had told to him and Rannulf when they were small, stories of beautiful, mysterious women who could enchant a man with naught but a glance or a smile.
Lord help him if she did smile at him. He’d not realized last night how lovely—and tempting—she was. He looked away for a moment, then felt a fool. He had strength enough to resist any temptation. He met her gaze fully. “How fare you this morn?”
“I am well, and have suffered no ill effects, so Brigit says. She’d best allow me out of my chamber, for it looks to be a fine day,” she said, though her gaze appeared fixed upon him, not the brightening sky.
He glanced down, recalling only then his state of dress—or undress. Hoping she’d think the flush he felt climbing his face a result of his exertions, he set aside his weapon, picked up his shirt from the ground and slipped it over his head. “I beg your pardon.”
She waved aside his apology and sat forward, leaning closer to the sill. The shutters were open wide, revealing her precarious position. His heart faltered at the sight. “Nay, ′tis I who must cry pardon, milord, for interrupting you. I didn’t mean to—”
“Milady, please move back from the window,” he said, his voice sounding much calmer than he felt, for he feared to startle her. “For your own sake, if not for that of my heart—” she looked down, gasped and moved away from the edge “—which I swear has ceased to beat.” He drew in a shaky breath and nodded. “Thank you.” Bending, he picked up his sword belt and sheathed the weapon. “You did not interrupt me,” he added as he straightened and wound the belt about the scabbard. “I was nearly finished.”
Lady Moira edged closer to the window, moving much more cautiously this time. “Would you be willing to track down Sir Ivor and bring him with you to my solar? I’m certain you have questions about our situation. Brigit will bring food,” she offered. “I wouldn’t want you to think that the poor greeting you received last night was an example of our hospitality.”
Her invitation fit in well with his plans for the morning. The sooner he learned precisely what had happened at Gerald’s Keep, the faster he could act to resolve the problem and go home.
Though that plan held scant appeal.
He tucked his sword under his arm and bowed. “I thank you, milady. Sir Ivor and I will join you as soon as I find him.”
Her movements slow but surprisingly graceful, she stood and leaned against the window frame, causing his heart to falter again. This time, however, he couldn’t be certain whether fear for her caused the reaction, or some other, less benign, reason.
For as she stood there with the morning sun shining full upon her, her hair gleaming, her body rounded with child, ′twas all too clear to him that Lady Moira FitzGerald was a very enticing woman.
The image of Lord Connor stripped to the waist, his skin gleaming with a healthy sheen of sweat from his labors, filled Moira’s mind as she finished dressing and sat to braid her hair. His movements as he spun and feinted with the heavy sword had possessed a grace she’d never before associated with fighting. She’d witnessed swordplay aplenty over the years, for her three brothers were always practicing with each other—or fighting each other, she thought dryly. Lord knew, if they’d no enemy to battle, their tempers grew so fierce ′twould take a saint’s own patience to live peacefully with them.
But neither her brothers nor her late husband, fit though he’d been, especially for a man of his years, had ever worn that look of intensity, of focus, that she’d seen in Lord Connor. What thoughts filled his mind? Would his skill at arms be that much greater than Lord Brien’s or her brothers’?
If so, then mayhap the MacCarthys had finally—blessedly—met their match in Lord Connor FitzClifford.
Unable to sit for long with any comfort, she roamed the chamber, pausing yet again to rearrange the dishes and the platters of food on the table before giving up and easing her bulk onto a cushion-lined settle near the window. She took up her needlework, but the simple embroidery about the neck of the tiny gown required little attention, and her thoughts soon wandered back to the man Lord Rannulf had sent to help them.
Don’t follow that path, she cautioned herself. What did she know of men, after all, save that they did as they wished—usually without giving much thought to any matter beforehand—and that she’d never been more than a powerless pawn beneath the thumb of one or another?
Just as her mother had been caught within her father’s power, before she—and her babe with her—had succumbed to a difficult childbirth when Moira was ten years old. A chill ran down her spine as that possibility burrowed into her thoughts. But matters of life and death were in God’s hands, not her own.
She fought back the sob threatening to fill her chest as she considered what was within her control. Could she be so easily tempted where men were concerned? Blessed Mary save her, all it took for one to lead her astray were a few kind words to he
r, and a friendly smile.
She must never forget where that path led. To death, and suffering, and guilt enough to weight her down for the rest of her life.
′Twas the litany she repeated each morn before she rose from her bed, every night before she closed her eyes.
Every time her child stirred beneath her heart.
Boots thumped against the stone steps outside her chamber, bringing her useless thoughts to a welcome end. The past was done and gone; all she could hope for was to do better in the future.
For her child’s sake, if not for her own.
At the sharp rap against the door, she thought to rise, then decided against it. “Come in,” she called.
Lord Connor opened the door and entered the room, Sir Ivor hesitating behind him. “D’Athee,” Lord Connor urged as he held the door wide and waited. Sir Ivor, his face twisted in its habitual scowl, ambled in just far enough so that FitzClifford could swing the door closed.
After doing so, Lord Connor came to stand before Moira and bow politely, while her husband’s man scarcely deigned to nod in her direction.
“Thank you for agreeing to join me here,” she said, setting aside her sewing and making to rise.
Lord Connor reached out and took her by the hand before she could do so. “By your leave, milady.” He released her, then caught her arm in a firm, gentle grip and eased her up from the settle. “I can’t have you falling at my feet every time we meet,” he said, his solemn tone at odds with the glint of humor in his dark eyes. “′Tis most unnecessary, and it cannot be comfortable for you.”
L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep Page 2