L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  “Such a strong lad,” he murmured as the babe settled down to more gentle, erratic movement.

  “Or lass,” Moira teased. “There’s no way of knowing till the birth.”

  “Whichever it is, it seems a healthy child. Very active.” Realizing the movements beneath his palm had ceased, he reluctantly eased his hand away.

  The sense of loss was overwhelming. Had he ever felt such a bond with another? Most likely not since he’d been in the womb himself, sharing it with his twin. Once he and Rannulf had been born into the cold, harsh world, it seemed that everything had conspired to drive them apart. Until a short time ago, the link joining them had been stretched until only the considerable force of will they shared had kept the bond alive.

  “It appears that tonight’s performance is over,” Moira said, her voice still alight with laughter. Sighing, she sat up straight and sipped her wine. “It’s time to rest while I can.

  “Does this happen every night?”

  “Aye—and other times of day, as well. The babe is very lively.” She reached behind her to press on her lower back, the motion thrusting her bosom into greater prominence. Connor shifted his attention to her face, lest he be tempted to stare where he should not. “But in the evening it’s apt to continue after I’ve sought my bed.”

  He couldn’t imagine what it must be like. Until his recent sojourn at l’Eau Clair with Rannulf and Gillian, he’d not been in close proximity with a pregnant woman. Even so, all he knew about it was that Gillian had been greatly relieved when their daughter, Katherine, was born.

  Though as he recalled, her delivery of the child had taken a long time and been fraught with danger.

  The thought of Moira in a similar situation—of the danger involved in bearing a child—caused worry to close about his heart like a fist. She was strong, he reminded himself. After all she’d endured already, surely she and the babe would survive.

  Moira, sipping her drink, gasped again and began to cough as she choked on the wine. Connor leaped to his feet and bent over her, thumping her back carefully until the paroxysm eased. “Better?”

  Breathless, she nodded and began to smooth her hands over her belly.

  “The babe is still awake?”

  “Aye.”

  “When I touched you before, the child seemed to quiet. May I do it again?” he asked, already reaching out as she nodded her agreement.

  She took him by the wrist and laid his hand high on the mound of her stomach. The bump beneath his palm felt different than before, larger and less bony. “What do you think I’m feeling this time?” Maintaining the contact, he lowered himself down to kneel beside her chair.

  “I cannot guess,” Moira said, her voice as quiet and solemn as if they were at Mass. “Sometimes I think I can recognize a hand or foot, but other times, like now, I’m not sure.” She shifted his hand to follow the baby’s movement. “Every so often it seems the babe has more arms and legs than it should.”

  “Could there be more than one child?” That situation could compound their dilemma mightily, for he could well imagine the MacCarthy’s response. They’d demand that one child—the boy if there was one, or the elder son if both were male—go to them, the other to Moira.

  Or, considering what Connor had learned of them, ′twas as likely they’d demand both of Moira’s children should there be two of them.

  “Brigit assures me there’s but one—and that it bears the proper number of limbs.” She cupped both her hands over his and smiled. “I believe the babe likes your touch better than mine, milord.” When he raised an eyebrow in question, she added, “Connor. When you laid your hand over the child, it settled almost at once.”

  “Perhaps the warmth from my hand is greater because I’m bigger.” Whatever the reason, the thought brought a surprising pleasure. He glanced up at Moira’s face, gilded by candlelight and at ease once more, and savored the wave of contentment carrying him in its wake.

  The scheme he’d concocted to protect Moira and the child rose to mind again, a plan that seemed less shocking now than it had earlier. There might never be a better time to suggest it than this moment.

  Before he lost his courage, Connor shifted on his knees to face Moira more fully. “Milady, the hour grows late, and I’ve yet to tell you about my plan for thwarting the MacCarthy’s schemes.”

  An eagerness lit her eyes, and the hint of a smile on her lips widened till he could not mistake it. “Please, tell me what you’ve decided.”

  He dragged his free hand through his hair and ordered himself to stop stalling. “Lady Moira, will you marry me?”

  As his words sank into her brain, Moira’s heartbeat stumbled, then began to thrum so fast ′twas a wonder she could think at all. Her fingers tightened around Connor’s hand and she stared at him in the flickering light. His dark eyes held honesty, as sincere as the expression on his face—and uncertainty as well.

  Marry him?

  Shock turned to panic as the full import of his words flooded her mind.

  “W-w-we cannot wed,” she stammered. “You don’t understand. I cannot marry ever again.”

  She wished he would move away, take his hand off her stomach. Cease this assault upon her senses so she could think. But he had surrounded her with his heat, his scent, his touch, till she could think of nothing else but him, and the images his offer had planted in her brain.

  If they married, she could be assured of his company—most welcome to her already—whenever she wished it. And somehow ′twas clear to her that he’d be a steady husband, lending her his support, his protection—Nay! For that reason alone, she could not accept. “I’m sorry, milord,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with strength as she shook her head and fought back tears. “You honor me greatly by your offer, but I cannot marry you—or anyone.”

  The babe chose that moment to renew its kicking. Connor shifted his hand and the child settled. “You see? I can help you with this—and with much else, if you’ll let me.”

  Tears filling her eyes, she pushed her chair back and dragged his hand off her stomach. “Enough, milord! Please, do not . . . ” She averted her face and scrambled from the chair, nearly sliding to the floor before she caught her balance and lurched to her feet.

  “Moira, have a care.” Connor reached out to help her as he stood as well, but she slipped away from him and moved to the opposite side of the table. He righted the chair she’d abandoned and shoved it aside, shaking his hair back from his face. “There’s no need to run from me. I’ll not harm you,” he said, his voice low and calming.

  For some reason, that fact roused her ire. “Why should I believe you would?” she demanded. “And why should that make a difference? I told you nay, and nay I meant!” She picked up a chunk of cheese off the table and raised it to pitch at him, then reconsidered. The childish action would solve nothing. She choked back a burst of hysterical laughter; she’d really look a fool if her aim was off and she missed.

  She let the cheese drop to the table, and tugged her disheveled gown into place before glancing across at him. The position of the candles left one side of his face in shadow and bathed the unscarred side in soft golden light. ′Twas odd, but she found that seeing Connor without the scar was like gazing at a stranger. At least that made it easier to apologize. “I beg your pardon, milord. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She drew in a calming breath. “You didn’t frighten me.”

  He held out his hand to her, but when she ignored the gesture he let it fall to his side. “′Tis late,” he said, casting a look at the dying fire. “I’ll leave you to your rest now, but we’ll continue this conversation on the morrow, I assure you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Tomorrow, Moira,” he said firmly. “Perhaps we’ll both view things differently then.”

  Since there didn’t seem to be anything she could say to dissuade him, she didn’t bother to try. He’d soon learn that she could be stubborn—to the point of madness, so she’d been told.

 
Mayhap that would convince him he’d no wish to bind himself to her for the rest of their lives.

  He rounded the table and took her by the hand. “Come, to bed with you.” He tugged her forward and led her to the door to her bedchamber. “I’ll snuff the candles and bank the fire before I leave.”

  Why must he continue to be courteous to her? she wondered, ready to scream in frustration.

  Instead, she nodded her thanks. “Good night, milord.”

  He bowed over her hand, turning it and pressing a kiss into her palm. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured.

  As soon as he released her hand, Moira opened her door and fled into the sanctuary of her chamber.

  Chapter Eleven

  Once Moira had retreated into her room, Connor built up the fire, extinguished all the candles save the ones near the hearth, and opened the door to the corridor a crack to listen. The earlier sounds of merrymaking rising from the hall had died away, leaving a blessed silence in their wake. He gave a satisfied nod and silent thanks that he hadn’t had to call a halt to the revels. While he knew everyone had needed the respite, he required able-bodied fighters on the morrow.

  If not sooner.

  He eased the door shut and drew a chair close to the fireplace. He wasn’t ready to retreat to his chamber yet, and this room was already warm and comfortable. A cup of wine in hand, he sat and stared into the dancing flames, brooding over all he’d learned today.

  He could scarcely wait till morning to begin their survey of the headland and the cliffs. They’d best make a thorough inspection of the cellars as well, in case there was some sort of tunnel or passageway leading from the cliffs into the castle itself.

  Though how that could be with no one in Gerald’s Keep the wiser, he couldn’t fathom.

  Still, he’d not ignore any possibility.

  He sipped at the wine, the rich brew sending its pleasant warmth flowing through him, easing his tension and spurring his imagination. Could Aidan O’Neill possess any information that might help them? Connor couldn’t imagine anyone with any sense entrusting the obnoxious fool with important knowledge—but from what little he’d heard about Hugh MacCarthy, he’d guess the man was ruled more by emotion than sense.

  Connor decided he’d question O’Neill again in the morning, then draft a message for him to carry back to MacCarthy.

  As for the other part of his plans, he wished Moira would agree to wed him, for several reasons—not the least of which being that he hoped making her his bride would dissuade MacCarthy from any further claims upon her and her child.

  Connor sat up and set aside his wine. Was MacCarthy unwed? No one had mentioned the fact one way or the other. It would certainly make Moira—an unmarried Moira—a very attractive lure for the Irishman. Capture her, marry her, and no one could deny his right to the child.

  Nor to his trying to secure a birthright for the babe.

  Of course, MacCarthy had left out one important detail in that plan, Connor thought with a grim smile. The FitzCliffords would not give up what was theirs.

  Gerald’s Keep belonged to them, by right of blood and conquest. ′Twas their duty to protect their land and people.

  Including Moira, their vassal’s widow.

  For him to marry Moira seemed the most logical solution to her dilemma. Once she was his wife, the MacCarthys could scarce expect him to turn her over to them, and he’d be in the perfect position to lay claim to the child she carried.

  He’d spoken to her too soon—he could see that now—but the situation didn’t look to improve with the passage of time. Instead ′twas apt to grow worse, the nearer they came to the child’s birth.

  And once the child was born … They’d never know a moment’s peace, nor safety for the babe.

  Moira’s refusal of his offer hadn’t surprised him. They knew little about each other, and she had every right to wed where she chose this time. It was clear her marriage to Lord Brien had not been a happy one.

  However, wedding Connor might not seem any better to her—or for her.

  What did he know of being a husband, a father? His experience of family life was no recommendation for it, though he knew ′twas possible to create a different situation. Rannulf and Gillian had managed to do so. From all he’d seen, they’d succeeded. Unlike his parents, Rannulf and his wife had found happiness together, forged a union made stronger still by the birth of their child.

  But Rannulf had lived away from FitzClifford, from their father’s complete domination of his wife and younger son, since childhood. He’d seen how other people lived, had not been forced to endure Bertram FitzClifford’s iron fist hovering over every aspect of his life, poised to smash to bits the slightest hint of the softer emotions.

  A lifetime spent skulking in the shadows to escape his father had not prepared Connor for much of anything save cowardice. Since Bertram’s death, Connor had schooled himself in the art of war.

  But in the matter of love, of devotion, he knew he was ignorant.

  The foreign emotions that had swept through him when he’d felt Moira’s child move beneath his hand made him wonder if that could change. Made him wonder at the miracle of it all. He’d felt protective, tender, and though he hoped she hadn’t noticed, his eyes had been damp with tears until he’d mastered the unexpected reaction.

  Whether his feelings would be adequate for a parent, he could not judge.

  Taking Moira as his bride would be no hardship. If he must wed someday, why not to a woman of such strength and beauty—beauty within and without—as Moira?

  She drew him to her, without any effort on her part. He could not deny his attraction toward her, nor the fact that his respect and admiration for her grew with every passing day.

  Her desire to protect her child was so fierce, so profound … What would it be like to have that intensity directed at him, to be the recipient of her love and caring?

  If she loved with that passion … The memory of Moira’s lips pressed to his swept through him, hit him just as hard as it had when they’d kissed, carrying with it a wave of heat rivaling that rising from the hearth. Her taste, the sweet feel of her rounded body alongside his own …

  But that was lust, an emotion familiar to him, not that he’d had much opportunity to indulge it. Though what he felt with Moira seemed deeper somehow than the mere yearning of the flesh he’d felt before.

  He’d certainly never believed a pregnant woman could be as appealing as he found Moira. There was a richness, a ripeness to her—like a fine wine to be savored, an indulgence to the senses. It had taken all his willpower to keep their kiss light, not to crush her to him, snatching from her all he could take before she pushed him away.

  Though she’d denied him anyway. Perhaps she’d known what had been going through his mind while they kissed. It would certainly explain why she’d told him not to kiss her again.

  And then, fool that he was, he’d suggested they should wed.

  He drained his wine, grimacing when he reached the bitter dregs at the bottom of the cup. The late hour, coupled with all this soul searching, had made him maudlin.

  He’d do better to reconsider everything on the morrow, as he’d suggested to Moira.

  Perhaps then ′twould become clear to him what course they should follow.

  Moira stood in the corridor before first light, prepared to follow Connor once he descended from his chamber. She planned to join him when he visited her brother. Aidan’s words still rankled, still pricked her sense of guilt. Perhaps if she saw him again, she could appeal to him, beg him to help her keep Hugh MacCarthy away from her and her child.

  Though ′twould likely be a waste of breath even to try, she realized, since she’d nothing to offer Aidan in return.

  Her mind seemed clouded, overwhelmed, overburdened. She gave a mirthless laugh; she could scarce recall when she’d felt any different. Only since Connor’s arrival had she known even a moment of happiness, a sense of her troubles being lifted from her shoulders. Some of her weari
ness this morn, however, could be laid at Connor’s door. She’d barely slept, though there was nothing new about that since the child had grown so large and become so restless. But in the past, she’d had only her usual guilt and sorrow to fill her thoughts as she waited for the night to end.

  Last night, however, thoughts of a completely different kind had sustained her through the darkness. Thoughts of Connor FitzClifford—of the warmth of his kiss, of his gallantry and support of her …

  Of his offer to make her his wife.

  Before impatience could overwhelm her completely and send her running like the coward she knew herself to be, she heard his footsteps coming down the stairs from the floor above.

  Pushing aside her nervousness about seeing him again—for she wasn’t certain she could behave toward him as she had before his startling offer—she hastened toward the stairs to meet him. As she did so, she debated whether she should pretend their meeting was a coincidence or simply tell him the truth.

  “Good morning, Moira,” he called before she could decide. He bowed politely. “If you think to see your brother again before I release him, I strongly suggest you do not.”

  “But—”

  “I need to question him about some information I received yesterday, and I’m not certain he’ll be willing to say anything if you’re there.”

  She drew herself up to her full height and met his challenging look, opening her mouth to refute his statement. But then the truth of it melted her indignation and she sighed. “You’re probably right,” she muttered. “He’s never been one to say aught of value in a woman’s presence, unless he’s boasting. And in that case, you cannot believe anything he says.”

  Connor took her by the arm and drew her back down the dimly lit corridor toward her solar. “I should have asked you this last night, but I—” he dragged his hair back from his forehead and a touch of red colored his face “—I became distracted.”