L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  Though they were moving as quietly as they could, Connor couldn’t hear anything save the rustle of their clothing as they crept along the ever narrowing passageway. He held up his dagger, motioning for Moira to stop. “Listen,” he mouthed. They stood for a moment, but heard nothing. Frowning, he held the lantern out and scanned the corridor. “Look there—there’s naught but a solid wall,” he whispered, not bothering to hide his disgust. Three strides took him to it. He ran his hand over the roughly mortared stones, pressing on the joints to no avail. “There’s no way through here.”

  “Not yet,” Moira said. He abandoned his search and turned to look at her. “I’d suspect someone was trying to tunnel their way in, but there’s naught but solid rock on the other side.”

  Connor reviewed their path to this point, trying to determine where they stood in relation to the headland. “There shouldn’t be anything but rock on the other side—though if that is true, why didn’t they simply incorporate it into the foundation?” He smoothed his hand over the mortared stones once more before turning to Moira, his weary brain alight with hope. “If it was solid, there’d be no need for mortar here.” He took her by the arm and urged her ahead of him, enthusiasm brightening his outlook for the first time in days. “Time to go back.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  He paused and leaned forward to whisper near her ear. “I’ll tell you once we’re out of here. There’s no way of knowing if the rats are already in the walls, or where they might be.” Moira nodded and remained silent as they made their way to the door.

  He swung the heavy, iron-bound panel wide and looked closely at the sturdy metal hinges. “Have you a key for this?” he asked.

  “I do, but it wasn’t locked before.” She shuddered. “I think Hugh—someone—must have unlocked it when they were here,” she told him. “It was always kept locked before. I’m certain I haven’t been this far back since before they came.”

  “Are you the only one with a key?” He unhooked the padlock from the iron loop on the latch and held it up to the light, shaking his head. “Look—it’s been forced, with a dagger most like.” He pointed to the gouges in the rusty metal. “Perhaps someone came down here while you were otherwise engaged.” He met her gaze, hoping she wouldn’t see the rage engendered by the mere thought of what she’d endured that night—rage directed at the MacCarthys, not her. “I don’t know how they got into the undercroft itself without a key, though.”

  “There’s more than one key to that door.” She unhooked her ring of keys from her belt and sorted through them until she found the one she sought. “Will it still work?” She handed it to him.

  “We shall see.” With abrupt movements, he closed the padlock and unlocked it with the key. Motioning for Moira to go through the portal, he followed her, then threaded the lock onto the door, snapped it closed and dropped the key into the pouch on his belt. “Come,” he ordered.

  He took her by the arm and helped her over the uneven floor, setting a hurried pace in his eagerness to leave this dreary place, to explore the ideas teasing at his brain.

  She pulled back and dug in her heels. “Enough, milord.”

  “What?” He spun about and shifted his attention to Moira.

  Weariness radiated from her, shadowed her face and her voice. “You’re moving too fast.” She stared pointedly at his hand until he released her arm. “I cannot keep up with you, Connor,” she said in a more even tempered tone.

  Especially considering how sore she must be from falling down and having him land atop her. Jesu, was he turning into a thoughtless brute? “I’m sorry.” He ran his hand absently through his hair. “I’ve much on my mind. I didn’t realize . . . ”

  “I know. But dragging me behind you won’t help.” She held out her hand and clasped his. “Come on. If you stay beside me, ′twill be all right.”

  Again Connor heard the weariness in Moira’s voice, could see it in the way she held herself. She should never have come down here tonight.

  Perhaps if he were thinking more clearly, he’d have realized she might try to search for a hidden passageway herself. He felt his anger build again. How could she endanger herself, her child, by coming here alone?

  He clamped his jaw tight and stared hard at the water dripping down the stone wall. He wanted to rage at her, take her to task for her folly, but in truth, the fault could just as likely be his own.

  His mind was so muddled, he didn’t trust himself to make a sensible decision about anything. He needed to sleep, to give himself a chance to mull over all he’d learned thus far, before he could determine what to do next.

  Haranguing Moira now would serve no useful purpose—and might very well turn her away from considering any plan he put forth.

  Best to hold his tongue till morning at least, wait to see how it all looked once he could think clearly again.

  He allowed Moira to lead him through the remainder of the undercroft. After he locked the door to the cellars, he doused the lantern and escorted her to the stairs. He noticed she was limping when she tried to climb them. Muttering a curse, he handed her the lantern and picked her up, carrying her the rest of the way.

  She uttered not a word of protest, proving to him how tired she must be.

  ′Twas past time for her to seek her bed.

  They passed through the hall in silence as he wound his way among the sleeping servants and up the spiral stairs. He set her down at her door. “Will you be all right?” he asked. “Should I send for Brigit?”

  “Nay, let her rest. I’d rather she not find out that I left my chamber and went down there,” Moira said with a quiet, mirthless laugh. “′Tis best not to provoke her temper—especially since she’d be right to take me to task.”

  Since he agreed with her, Connor didn’t know how to reply to that. Deciding he’d be wise to remain silent, he simply nodded and opened her door for her.

  “Good night.” Shoulders drooping, she limped into her room.

  He closed her door and leaned against the wall, resting his cheek on the cool plaster as he sought the strength to go back to the barracks. As much as he wished to climb the remaining stairs and seek his bed, he’d much left to set in motion. He needed to arrange for men to guard the undercroft till the morning.

  He pushed away from the wall and made his way down the spiraling stairs, marveling yet again at the ease with which Rannulf commanded several keeps. His brother made the work appear simple, effortless, a skill Connor wondered if he lacked.

  Or perhaps he merely lacked the training Rannulf had gained in his years away from FitzClifford.

  By the rood, he’d gain nothing by treading over this well-worn path once more, Connor realized. ′Twas his weariness and frustration making him doubt himself, nothing more. He left the keep and stood in the bailey for a moment to let the cool night air clear his head. He’d do what he could tonight, then seek his bed.

  After a night’s rest, everything would seem better, he was sure.

  A raucous din startled Connor awake as the sun cast its first light into the sky. Evidently Padrig hadn’t expected to find his master still abed, for the lad sang a bawdy tale, his uneven voice mangling the tune, as he entered Connor’s chamber and slammed the door against the wall.

  “By Christ’s bones,” Connor snarled as he leaped from beneath the covers and grabbed his sword from where he’d rested it against the wall.

  “Jesu!” Padrig cried, jumping back from the coffer at the foot of the bed and tossing the mound of clothing he held into the air.

  A shriek sounded from the corridor. His sword still held at the ready, Connor glanced past his squire and saw a young maid, her hands clapped over her mouth and her eyes huge, standing in the open doorway staring at him.

  He cast aside his sword, sending it clattering onto the floor. Cursing, he snatched a blanket from the bed and draped it around his waist to cover his nakedness.

  A door down the hallway slammed. “What is going on out here?” he he
ard Moira ask. Light footsteps on the wood floor heralded her appearance. “Maeve, what is wrong with you?”

  The maid pointed into the room. Moira joined her in the doorway, her serious expression changing to a smile. “Milord, I’ll thank you not to terrorize the maidservants.” Taking Maeve by the arm, Moira led her away and returned alone a moment later. “Now you’ll have the silly lass mooning after you,” she scolded, though he could hear laughter in her tone and see it in her eyes.

  He gathered the blanket more securely about his waist. “You can thank Padrig for that,” he said dryly. “If not for his screeching, I’d yet be abed, disturbing no one.” He gave the squire, standing in silence at the foot of the bed, a grin to soften the words.

  The lad’s face remained pale and serious, however. “′Tis a jest, Padrig,” Connor reassured him. Glancing at the light shining through the shutters, he added, “I should have been up and about my work long since.” He met Moira’s gaze. “It seems that recent events have exhausted me.”

  Let her take that however she would. He’d not slept well, though whether the memory of Moira’s kisses, his worry over her wandering through the cellars in the dead of night, or something else completely had caused his restlessness, he didn’t know.

  He did know, however, that if Moira continued to stare at him, he’d soon need to adjust the fit of his makeshift garb lest his overeager body embarrass all three of them.

  “Padrig, bring me water to wash,” he ordered. Perhaps shifting his attention to something besides the near-physical touch of Moira’s gaze over his body would help. The blanket dragging along behind him, he turned to the window and threw the shutters open wide, flooding the room with light.

  Padrig knelt to gather up the clothing scattered about him on the floor.

  “Now, Padrig.”

  The lad stood, glanced from Connor to Moira, lowered his gaze and bobbed a bow. “At once, milord,” he said, his voice cracking. He darted for the door, snatching the water pitcher from the table as he passed.

  Now that they were alone, the sensations caused by Moira’s stare intensified despite the bright light filling the room. Connor sank down on the bed and bent to pick up his sword off the floor.

  The door creaked shut and footsteps drew nearer to the bed.

  “Unless you intend to join me here, Moira, I suggest you keep your distance,” he told her, focusing his attention upon sliding the weapon into its sheath. “My body has dominion over my mind when I first wake. It wouldn’t be wise to tempt fate—” he glanced up and found her standing so close, he could reach out and sweep her onto the mattress if he chose “—by giving me too much encouragement.”

  Her right hand settled onto his shoulder, her fingers cool against his overheated flesh as she trailed them over the curve of his shoulder, along the muscles of his upper arm.

  He sucked in his breath. “Jesu, you’ll drive me mad,” he muttered, shutting his eyes to block out her intent expression.

  It made no difference, for her face remained emblazoned upon his mind’s eye.

  She closed her hand about his arm and turned his back toward the window. “Who did this to you?” she asked, her outrage clear though he could barely hear the whispered words.

  His eyes snapped open, and his stomach churned when he glanced over his shoulder and realized what had caught her attention.

  “′Tis nothing.” He tried to shrug free of her hold, but she kept her hand clasped firmly about his arm.

  Unwilling to release Connor, Moira moved so that she had a better view of his shoulder and back. This close, in the clear morning light, she could see what hadn’t been visible before.

  Many scars, long and thin, showed white against the tanned, freckled skin. She smoothed her hand over his upper back and discovered some were more easily felt than seen. He’d had them a long time, she’d guess. They had the pale, faded look of wounds long healed.

  She slid her hand back around to clasp the bulging muscles of his arm; with her free hand, she reached up and turned his face toward her. “Connor?”

  “Let it alone, Moira.” The pain and turmoil in his dark eyes belied his flat tone. “I told you ′twas naught.”

  “Scars such as this don’t happen by accident,” she said, her voice quiet, but firm. She’d not rest till she discovered who could have done such a thing to him … to a child. Who could have beaten a young nobleman so badly?

  She stroked her hand over his shoulder again, meaning naught by her touch but to soothe, but he caught her wrist in an unyielding grip and lifted her hand away. “Enough!”

  Holding the blanket in place with one hand, he slipped past her and stood just beyond her reach, turned so his back remained hidden from her.

  The pain in his eyes, however, was clear and visible, as was the anger smoldering within him.

  That he’d not give her the answer she sought was clear. And perhaps ′twas not her business to dredge up painful memories from his past.

  But how her heart ached for the young boy he’d been, for the hurt so deep the anguish of it still shone plainly from his eyes.

  Anguish mixed with shame.

  “Connor, I’m sorry.” Sorry that he’d been beaten. Sorry that she’d upset him.

  But not sorry she’d seen the scars, for they told her that there was more to this man than the strong, able facade he presented to the world.

  In that moment, she saw him not as a warrior, a figure of authority, the image of a noble, but as a man.

  She caught her breath as she realized the intensity of the attraction she felt for that man.

  The door creaked open, startling them. Connor fairly leaped past her to the window; Moira, knees weak and heart racing, leaned back against the bedpost. Padrig came into the room, the water pitcher in one hand and a steaming bucket in the other.

  “Shall I shave you, milord?” the squire asked, his cheerful voice sounding out of place. The lad seemed unaware of the tension still binding Moira and Connor together, for he whistled a merry tune as he poured water into the basin. He turned to pick up the clothing he’d dropped earlier, his gaze coming to rest on Moira, and quieted abruptly. “I beg your pardon, milord. Lady Moira. ′Twas not my intention to interrupt your—” he looked from one to the other and his cheeks flushed “—your conversation,” he concluded, his voice trailing away. He waved his hand toward the door. ”Shall I come back later?”

  The lad’s obvious embarrassment made Moira all too aware of how this must appear. Her face felt as hot as Pacing’s looked. She straightened and stepped away from the bedpost, thankful he hadn’t entered the room earlier, when she’d had her hands all over Connor. “Nay, I must go,” she said, already halfway to the door.

  “Moira.” Connor’s voice stopped her with her hand on the latch. Gathering her courage, she glanced back to where he stood by the window. She couldn’t see his face with the bright light surrounding him—a blessing, though to judge by his tone, he’d recovered his composure. “We will talk, and soon.”

  Hearing the promise in his words, she could only nod and slip out of the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After Moira left, Connor washed quickly and scrambled into his clothes. He hadn’t intended to sleep so late, nor to skip his morning routine. Today he felt the need to clear his mind and relax his body more keenly than usual. Especially since Moira had stirred up unsettling memories of his past with her innocent question about the scars on his back. But he would have to wait to ease his tension, for today he must look to the present and the future—untainted by the past.

  Despite his continuing fatigue, anticipation thrummed through his veins as he left the keep. Perhaps today he’d discover the answers he sought—the answers that would enable him to protect Moira and her babe, to give her peace of mind.

  When he’d returned to the barracks last night—or this morn, more likely—he’d roused Will from his bed and sent him into the undercroft to guard the door leading to the narrow passageway. Though he wasn’
t pleased to be dragged from his bed, Will’s mood had improved once he realized that Sir Ivor would be forced to endure the misery of spending the night in the cellars, as well.

  As for d’Athée, Connor didn’t know what accounted for his apparent about-face, but the other man had grown quieter, more pensive the past few days, at least in his presence. Perhaps ′twas Will’s influence on him, though Connor doubted it could be that simple. Still, he’d be an arrogant fool to deny that a man could change—change greatly—when he himself had worked so hard these last few years to effect such a change in his own life.

  Though given his reaction when Moira had asked who’d scarred his back, he couldn’t help but wonder if the changes in himself were on the outside only. The feelings coursing through him when she’d smoothed her hand over the faded marks had borne a strong resemblance to those he’d felt years before, whenever anyone noticed him. He’d felt then—and again this morning—as though all his faults and sins were laid bare, exposed for anyone to see if they but looked his way.

  ′Twas a terrible sensation, painful and frightening, one he’d believed—he’d hoped—never to experience again. That it was Moira who’d seen him thus made the angry child hiding within him want to howl in rage.

  Or run away so she’d no chance of ever unmasking him again.

  But one thing he had learned was that running never made his troubles disappear. It only made them worse. He would run no more.

  He could only hope that the next time he saw Moira, he’d have the strength to push that cowering child deeper within himself, where she couldn’t find him.

  After leaving Connor’s chamber, Moira kept herself busy, hoping her duties, and the demands of supervising the servants as they went about their work, would occupy her mind to the exclusion of all else.

  It mattered little, however, for thoughts of Connor crept into her head despite her efforts to avoid them. That she also saw him from a distance several times did not help. At least their duties kept them apart, a circumstance she prayed would last for a good while longer. The more time she spent in Connor’s company, the more confused she became.