L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

“Not at all. Please, milord, relax and be comfortable. Brigit will return with food and wine soon,” she said.

  While he tended the fire she replaced several guttering candles in the stand by the table and removed the goblet and pitcher Aidan had used.

  If only she could make Aidan’s words disappear so easily!

  Lord Connor remained near the hearth, staring into the flames, while she wandered to the small loom set up beneath the window. ′Twas too dark here to try to weave, but she once again took up the spindle lying next to it and spun a bit of thread. Surprisingly, she found the silence between them pleasant, comfortable.

  Brigit returned, followed by Lord Connor’s squire, Padrig, carefully balancing a loaded tray. “Set it on the table, there’s a good lad,” Brigit ordered. While Padrig laid out the food and drink, Brigit turned to Moira. “He wished to serve his master,” the maid said, her wrinkled face alight with humor. “Who am I to tell him he cannot?” She gave a dry laugh. “Besides, you’d like as not have had to send me back for more if I’d attempted that trek, since I doubt I’d have made it up the steps without spilling something.”

  “I didn’t intend for you to carry the tray up here yourself, Brigit,” Moira scolded. She set aside the spindle and joined them by the table. “As you well know. As it is, I’d not have sent you down the stairs again tonight, had there been anyone else up here to go.”

  The maid chuckled again and patted Moira’s hand. “I know, milady, I know. You’re a good lass to a crotchety old besom, that you are. I just hoped to make you laugh, ′tis all.”

  Moira gave the maidservant the smile she’d wanted.

  “You do, Brigit. Only there doesn’t seem to be much to laugh about, not with my brother here.”

  “You ignore whatever that bastard says, beggin’ your pardon, milady. He’s never done anything unless he thought he’d gain from it, and well you know it.” She glanced past Moira and her face creased into a look of welcome. “You’ll keep her safe from her brothers, won’t you, milord? A strong young fellow like you should be able to fend off the likes of the O’Neills.”

  Moira turned; Lord Connor stood behind her, dusting off his hands. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “I can guarantee that the only way your lady’s brothers will enter Gerald’s Keep again is if they can fight their way past me and my men. And O’Neill won’t bother anyone for the rest of the night, I warrant.”

  Moira wondered at the amusement she saw in his eyes. “I thought you intended to put him out tonight.”

  “Morning will be soon enough,” he said. “I haven’t quite decided what I want to do about him.”

  “So long as he’s not wandering about the place,” Brigit said with a decisive nod. “We’ll be safe from him, then. Thank you, milord.” She cast a glance at them, then looked over at Padrig, standing at attention beside the table. “Come along, lad, and leave your master and the lady to their business.”

  “Milord, do you need me for aught else?” Padrig asked.

  “Nay. Go find Will, see if he has need of you,” Lord Connor said. He smiled. “If he doesn’t, I’m sure you can find something to occupy you until I need you in the morning.

  “Aye, milord, thank you,” Padrig said in a rush. His bow so hurried he nearly tripped over himself, he raced for the door. He halted just inside the room, however, and turned. “By your leave, milady,” he said, surprising Moira with the fact that he’d slowed his headlong pace for her.

  “I thank you for helping Brigit, Padrig,” she said, hoping she could return his serious expression and not offend him by smiling at his sudden gravity. “God grant you a peaceful rest.”

  He swept another bow, more formal this time, then negated the effect when he dashed from the chamber. Brigit, chuckling beneath her breath, bobbed a curtsy and followed him out with far less haste.

  The door creaked closed, leaving Moira alone with Lord Connor. “You don’t think he’s off to his bed already, do you?” Lord Connor asked with a smile. “The revels were still going strong when I passed through the hall.”

  “You’re probably correct, milord.” Suddenly uncertain what to say or do, Moira gestured toward the table. “Shall we see what Padrig brought for us?”

  The smell of roast mutton and spices reached her on a gust of wind coming through the drafty shutters, setting her stomach growling. The babe chose that moment to kick and squirm. “All right, I’ll feed you,” she whispered, laying a hand on her belly.

  Lord Connor’s laugh brought a flush to her cheeks. “Demanding, is he?” He reached for her free hand and led her to her chair, easing her into it. “We cannot let the poor child go hungry, especially since there’s so much to choose from. Padrig has brought us a feast, by the look of it.” He picked up the wine and poured a measure into a cup, handing it to her. “Do you think he meant for me to have any of this, or is it all for you?” he asked, casting her a teasing glance.

  Despite the color still heating her face, Moira allowed her gaze to roam over him as he piled mutton onto a trencher and placed it in front of her. Her eyes lingered over the breadth of his chest before stopping once she encountered his. “You’re much larger than I, milord. Perhaps ′tis the other way around. He’s your squire, after all.”

  ′Twas not embarrassment that warmed her face now, but awareness of him. His height alone made her feel small, dainty—she who could scarce lay claim to such a description, especially now. His muscular build made her feel safe, despite her many fears, as though no one could harm her or her child.

  As for his manner toward her … When had a man ever treated her with such respect as Lord Connor did? ′Twould be so easy to believe she meant something to him, had value to him for herself, not for what she could bring him.

  ′Twas a seduction more tempting than any sins of the flesh.

  And it was a dangerous way to think, to feel, dangerous for both of them. She could not trust herself in the presence of a young, virile man. Her previous actions told her that well enough.

  And embroiling this man within the tangled web of her life could not be safe for him, either, not with the MacCarthys, the O’Neills and Lord only knew what other Irish families eager to gain possession of Gerald’s Keep through her and her child.

  One man, no matter how strong, could not overcome such odds.

  They ate in silence. As Moira drained her cup of wine, she glanced up and found Lord Connor watching her.

  When she would have looked away, he reached for her hand. He drew in a deep breath and finally, the Virgin be praised, lowered his gaze. “Moira, what is wrong? Every time we begin to truly talk, when I believe we’ll begin to know each other, ′tis as though a shutter closes within you, keeping you from me. I’ve not been here long, and I know that you’ve suffered a grievous loss, but you must realize that I would never cause you harm. Not you or your child.”

  “I know.” How could she make him understand her reticence, her fears, without explaining everything?

  Before she could try, he spoke again. “Circumstances have placed you within my care, milady. As the guardian of this place and all who dwell within it, I need to know everything that could cause a threat, a danger. Beyond that lies the man who wishes to know you better, if you will allow it. But his needs cannot hold dominion over yours.”

  How did he know all the right things to say, to make her want to trust him?

  She closed her eyes, turned away. She should not have succumbed to the temptation to be herself—to flirt with him … She shook her head and barely resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands.

  “Moira—“

  Her eyes flew open and she spun toward him. “I’ve not given you leave to call me that.” After a swift glance at his face—handsome, honest, understanding—she focused instead on the intricate design embroidered about the neckline of his finely woven green tunic.

  “I’ve called you Moira several times, and you’ve not seemed to mind till now.”

  She could feel his gaze upon her, but
she refused to glance up, to meet his eyes. He saw too much, saw her too clearly. “I didn’t notice,” she said, making her tone cold, indifferent.

  He slid his chair nearer to hers, leaned close and caught her chin in his hand, gently forcing her to look at him. “You didn’t care,” he said, his voice soft. “Any more than you care now.” His fingers grazed her cheekbone, sending a shiver of awareness skittering down her spine and startling her into meeting his eyes. “Do you, Moira?”

  “I . . . ” She didn’t wish to lie to him.

  “I’ve vowed upon my honor to lay down my life for you, Moira. Allowing me to call you by name—and you calling me by mine—is a small price to pay, don’t you think?”

  This close, she could see the faint flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes, feel the warmth rising from his skin. His hair fell in soft chestnut waves to his shoulders, tempting her fingers to reach out to smooth it away from his brow.

  She fought the urge, though her fingertips nigh tingled with anticipation. So intent was she upon the myriad sensations flooding her, she didn’t notice he’d moved closer still until his muttered curse broke the spell. “Forgive me—I cannot resist,” he whispered against her mouth, then pressed his lips to hers.

  Chapter Ten

  Moira sat motionless as Connor brushed his mouth over hers in a featherlight caress. He slipped from his chair and knelt in front of her, sliding his hand into her hair beneath her veil as he continued to sip lightly at her lips.

  Warmth spread from his touch, a healing balm carried in her blood to all the aching, needy places in her soul. Giving in to the compulsion to touch him as well, she raised her hand and buried it in his hair. Softer than she’d imagined, it sifted through her fingers, sending shards of sensation to stoke the heat she felt to a gentle burning.

  She’d been five years wed, had lain with a man not her husband, yet she’d never known a man’s kiss until now.

  Never in her wildest imaginings could she have believed it would be like this.

  Tears filled her eyes as Connor continued to press his mouth to hers. The feeling building within her rose so swiftly, she feared ′twould rend her heart in two. “Connor,” she murmured, then gasped when he traced his rough fingertip over the sensitive flesh beneath her ear.

  She slipped her fingers along the neckline of his tunic, making him gasp. Her lips curved into a smile against his, even as a tear slid free.

  He drew back far enough to scan her face, frowning as he raised a finger to follow the trail of moisture down her cheek to her mouth. “Dearling, what’s this?” He echoed the path with his lips. “Have I hurt you? What have I done to make you cry?”

  “Nothing,” she whispered. She outlined his jaw with her fingers, savoring the rasp of his whiskers against her skin. “They are tears of happiness, Connor, not sorrow.” Cupping her hand over his cheek, she tried to smile. “Your kisses were a joy I’ve never known. I thank you for them.” Reluctance making her linger over the task, she eased her hand away and settled into the chair. “But you must not kiss me again.”

  He sat back on his heels, catching hold of her hand and cradling it within his larger one. “You said you enjoyed what we shared, so you must not have found it distasteful. I don’t understand … I would not force myself on you, nor do I believe that I’m every woman’s dream.” His face flushed. “I know I’m scarred, too big and clumsy, but I swear to you—”

  “′Tis no fault in you, Connor,” she told him, his words making tears fill her eyes once again. “I did not mean for you to think ′twas something wrong with you.” She tightened her grasp on his hand. “You are not too big or clumsy—you’ve a strength and grace to catch any woman’s eye. I watched you as you practiced with your sword, Connor, so do not try to tell me otherwise. The scar—” she traced its length with her fingertip, holding his gaze with hers all the while “—it simply adds a mysterious appeal to a handsome man.” Lowering her hand to her lap, she added, “Lord Rannulf is handsome. You, my lord, are intriguing.”

  He still bore a trace of red on his cheeks, but he seemed more at ease. “Your flattery makes me wonder all the more why you say you’ll not allow me to kiss you again. Tis because you’re newly widowed. I should not have . . . ” He raked his disheveled hair back from his face and stood; she felt a sense of loss immediately. “I’ve no wish to make you uncomfortable.” There was a remoteness in his face, a chill in his eyes that she’d never intended to cause.

  But perhaps ′twas for the best. What kind of woman was she, to trifle with a man she knew she could not have?

  “I told you before that I had something to discuss with you.” He surprised her by moving his chair close to hers—so close their knees nearly touched. He sat down and poured wine for her before filling his own cup and taking a sip. “I wish there was some way I could take away the sting of your brother’s words, but other than refusing to allow him to come here again, I’m not sure what else I can do about him. I doubt you wish me to kill him.”

  “Nay, do not!” Moira cried. “His words were an embarrassment, but ′tis his way to be so blunt. I may not love my brother as I ought—”

  “He doesn’t treat you as he should,” Connor said flatly. “You owe him nothing, so far as I can see.”

  She barely stopped herself from nodding in agreement. Such feelings were wrong … How could she be a good and loving mother to her child, when she harbored so little love for her own family? “Nonetheless, I don’t wish his death—especially not on your soul.”

  Connor met her gaze, searching her eyes, her face, till she wondered if he could see her every thought, all the stains upon her own soul. But the earnestness in his eyes never faded, so she had to be mistaken. “I’m keeping him locked up in the storeroom tonight in the hope he might reveal the MacCarthys’ plans to me come the morn. After a night spent shut up in the dark, with naught but vermin to keep him company—”

  “He should feel at home with them,” Moira couldn’t resist saying. “Though the rats will abandon him in no time at all, I have no doubt.”

  “You’ve a low opinion of him, but regrettably, ′tis well deserved, from what I’ve seen,” Connor said. “I don’t know if I can trust him to carry a message back to Hugh MacCarthy, but I plan to give him something. I don’t know yet what I’ll say. I hoped that you would help me decide what to tell them.” He raked his hand through his hair once more and settled his gaze on her face. “I trust you’re not offended that I locked him up?”

  “′Tis more than I expected—and less than he deserves. His insults were no surprise to me, Connor.” She frowned. “He said what many others believe, I’m sure. And ′tis similar to Sir Ivor’s opinion.”

  “You’re wrong about what people think of you. As for d’Athée, you won’t have to listen to his ranting for much longer,” he said. “As soon as I can spare him, he’s leaving for Wales. Whatever happens to him once he’s in my brother’s keeping is Rannulf s problem, not mine. Rannulf won’t stand for d’Athée’s nonsense, and he has more options—and authority—to deal with that idiot than I have.” Connor swirled the wine in his cup, staring at the ruby liquid. “One of the advantages of being the elder.”

  “Do you mind that Rannulf is the elder?” she asked, then wished the question unsaid. “I beg your pardon, ′tis none of my business.”

  Connor swirled the wine harder, then stopped and glanced up at her. “I used to mind, but that was long ago. We’ve put the past behind us,” he said firmly.

  Did he try to convince her of that fact, she wondered, or himself?

  “My brother is dear to me, and I begrudge him nothing.” He set down the mug and leaned toward her. “And I don’t mind that you asked. If you agree to part of the plan I have in mind, you’ll have the right to ask me anything you wish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked away, as though marshaling his thoughts, then took her hands in his. “Fear not, I won’t kiss you,” he said, no doubt meaning to reassure her.

/>   She didn’t fear anything he might do; ′twas what she might do in return, or what could happen to him should he remain near her, that frightened her. Not knowing how to respond, she nodded.

  “The MacCarthys are determined to take your child from you.” He shook his head. “Enlisting your own brother to their cause is a mark of their desperation.”

  “That may be true, but ′tis also true that my brothers are easily swayed, when ′tis to their advantage.” She slid her hands free and stood. “Couldn’t you tell what sort of man Aidan is? I’m sure he’d have joined forces with Hugh MacCarthy even under different circumstances. The fact that I’m his kin simply means he’s more apt to benefit from it.” The babe, no doubt sensing her agitation, chose that moment to beat a hard tattoo beneath her ribs, robbing her of breath. She grabbed hold of the chair and lowered herself into it.

  Connor half rose from his chair when he saw Moira’s obvious pain, then sat down when she waved him away. “It cannot be good for the child when you become upset,” he scolded. Was it his imagination, or did this happen every time he was near her? Was it his presence or what they were discussing?

  Perhaps he should just leave her be, though he knew he could not do that. “Are you in pain? Should I get Brigit?”

  Moira grabbed his hand and placed it atop her belly. The babe kicked—hard. “It doesn’t hurt, but ′tis not comfortable, either,” she said, gasping when the child thumped harder still beneath his hand.

  “By the saints!” he whispered, knowing he sounded like an awestruck fool, and not caring a whit. Watching her stomach, he shifted his palm until he held a sharply protruding limb cradled within it. “He’s right there, under my hand.”

  Moira laid her hand atop his, her lips curved into a smile. Her beauty at that moment—a perfect moment—stole the breath from his chest and brought a sheen of moisture to his eyes. He couldn’t have looked away if his life depended on it.

  They formed a connection in that instant—mother, child and protector—that he knew he could not ignore. ′Twas as though the scheme he’d hatched, the plan he’d feared to reveal to Moira, had received divine approval.