L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  Moira held her breath and waited as Domnal gazed down at their joined hands. What would he do?

  In her mind and heart, Domnal was still the lanky boy he’d been when she’d left home to marry Lord Brien. She’d seen him over the years, but always as a quiet youth lurking in their brothers’ shadows. She didn’t know him—not the young man he’d become. Could she trust him?

  It felt as though they waited forever for Domnal to respond. ′Twas so hard not to hope that he’d brought the solution to their problems with him. She schooled herself to patience, though she tightened her clasp on his fingers—for encouragement, she told herself, not to compel him to answer.

  But he finally returned the pressure and looked up at them both. “I don’t know everything about what they’ve been up to, but what they’ve done—what they’re doing—is wrong, Moira, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, Domnal, it is.”

  Connor shifted in his seat. “They caused Lord Brien’s death, lad, as well as many others. All to seize a place—and people—” he added, his glance shifting from Domnal to Moira, “they’ve no right to take.”

  Domnal slid his hands loose of her hold and shoved back his seat. “They want it all—the keep, your child and you, Moira!” He paced to the hearth and stared down into the flames. “I don’t like Hugh,” he blurted. He looked up, wearing the same petulant expression she’d seen too often upon her elder brothers’ faces. Her heart sank. What if he’d turned out no better than they had? “He’ll treat you just as bad as Aidan has—”

  “Nay, lad, he’ll treat her worse.” Connor rose as well, striding to the window and leaning against the sill. “Your sister and her child need your help. That is how a man comports himself when his family needs him—by giving them your strength and aiding them, not by looking the other way or seeking how to benefit from their misfortune. Can you be a man Moira will be proud to call brother? Will you help me to protect her and the child?” he asked bluntly.

  The change that came over Domnal as he listened to Connor was so unmistakable, Moira slumped back in her chair and breathed a silent sigh of relief. He stood straighter, his face firming into an expression of resolve. “I will help you, Moira—and you, milord.” He returned to the table and leaned his hands on the polished surface.

  “Hugh knows a way into Gerald’s Keep,” he said, his blue eyes full of concern.

  “But Connor’s men will guard the passageway where you came in,” Moira told him. She turned to Connor. “They cannot bring an army in through there, can they?”

  Connor shook his head. “Not now that we know about it.”

  Domnal slapped his hand down on the table, making Moira jump and sending her pulse racing. “There’s another way,” he cried. “He’s had sappers tunneling away beneath the walls. He’s going to bring them down and take you away, Moira!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Moira fairly leaped from her seat and grabbed Domnal’s arm, her demands for more information drowned out by Connor’s louder voice as he echoed her requests. Suddenly she noticed that Padrig, bearing a heavily loaded tray and accompanied by several servants laden with buckets of hot water, stood just inside the chamber. She quieted, though she didn’t release her grip on her brother.

  “Beg pardon, milord,” the squire called. “I did knock.”

  Connor fell silent and glanced up at him. “Come in—just you,” he added as the others, crowded about the doorway, jostled against each other. “And close the door behind you.”

  Padrig did so, then placed the tray on the table.

  Connor raked his hand through his hair and stared off into the distance for a moment.

  “Milord?” Padrig prompted.

  Connor turned his attention to the youth. “Go to Will and d’Athée. Tell them to post guards to take their places, and to join us here.” He nodded toward Domnal. “We might have a way out of our troubles, thanks to O’Neill.”

  Moira thought she saw a scowl pass fleetingly over Padrig’s face, though she couldn’t be sure. Of course, considering the way Aidan had acted, ′twould be a surprise if everyone here didn’t suspect Domnal for his name alone.

  “Aye, milord, at once,” Padrig murmured. He bowed and hastened from the room.

  Moira’s stomach rumbled; a glance out the window confirmed that ′twas midafternoon. She’d missed dinner when Sir Will took her to the undercroft. “Sit. We might as well eat while we’re waiting,” she said. She laid out the food and drink, then realized that Domnal and Connor still wore a heavy coating of dust. “I’ll be back soon—I’ll find water so you can wash.”

  Not waiting for a reply, she left the chamber.

  She’d hoped that the servants would have left the buckets of water in the corridor outside the room, but they had not; nor was there anyone in sight. Sighing, she headed down the stairs.

  ′Twas just as well she went down to the hall, for she was besieged at once by people with questions. She addressed what could not wait and put off as many as she could before dragging herself back up the stairs.

  This wasn’t quite what she’d intended when she’d headed for her chamber earlier. She’d get no rest now—nor later, either. No matter what Connor decided to do to stop the sappers, she didn’t plan to sleep through his efforts to deal with the problem. Especially now, when it seemed the solution to their troubles could be at hand.

  She would never have foreseen that her brother Domnal might bring them the information they needed. She was proud that he hadn’t fallen in with Aidan’s plans, proud that he had courage enough to overcome his obvious misgivings to do what was right. Not once in her life had she ever believed she could depend upon one of her siblings for help.

  ′Twas a heartening thing to know that Domnal was on her side, but it didn’t change the fact that she planned to remain a part of whatever Connor decided to do.

  She’d been involved with defending her home for months now. She couldn’t stop simply because help had arrived.

  Hopefully, Connor wouldn’t expect her to step aside.

  If he did, he’d be in for a surprise.

  “What does it matter if I cannot wield a sword or shoot a bow?” Moira demanded. “There’s nothing wrong with my arms. I’m sure I could hit someone with a rock or a stick with no trouble.”

  Slumped back against the wall of Moira’s solar, Connor ran a hand through his hair, then rubbed at the back of his neck, though it did nothing to ease the strain tying him in knots. He’d thought that washing away the dust of the passageway and changing into clean clothes would have revived him, eased his tension, but it hadn’t.

  He wished now that he hadn’t eaten, since the food sat like a stone in his roiling stomach. He let his gaze wander over the men gathered about the table—Domnal, Will and Sir Ivor—all three carefully avoiding his eyes. Clearly none of them intended to leap into the fray and help him.

  Jesu, he hated confrontation!

  Yet he could see no way to avoid it, not with this woman. “Do you realize how close you’d have to be to do that?” he asked, his voice rising despite his intention to remain calm.

  “You think I’d endanger my babe, is that it?” The outrage on her face matched that in her voice perfectly.

  And made not a whit of difference in his decision.

  “I wouldn’t permit you to be there even if you were a virgin nun,” he snarled. “Jesu, Moira—there are trained men aplenty here to fight now. There’s no reason for you to be defending the walls yourself.” He sighed. “There’s a very good reason why you should not be out there, however. I want you as far away from MacCarthy’s men as possible. What if they were to take you captive? Have you considered that?”

  The color drained from her cheeks before his eyes, and he felt a brute for upsetting her. But he wanted her to realize the possible consequences if she ignored his orders. If that meant frightening her, so be it.

  He’d do whatever he must to keep her, and the child she carried, safe.

  When had his goal c
hanged from handling the responsibilities Rannulf had laid upon him to protecting Moira? In some aspects, they were one and the same, but in his mind—in his heart—there was a huge difference between safeguarding the widow of Rannulf s vassal and protecting Lady Moira FitzGerald.

  He risked a glance at her. Weariness lay heavily upon her, dulling the brightness of her blue eyes and etching shadows beneath them. She’d clearly slept no more than he had the night before, and most likely had done too much this morning as well. After their clash in his chamber, he’d seen her dealing with servants in the bailey, coming out of the kitchen shed, going into the stables … Whenever he’d looked for her—and he’d looked often—he’d found her hard at work.

  Then he’d dragged her down to the passageway and set her to work scraping at the wall as though she were the lowliest of servants. Add to that the emotional turmoil of finding her brother lurking about in the hidden passageway, his subsequent revelations … Connor drew in a calming breath. At least she hadn’t insisted on going with them when Domnal had shown them the full extent of Hugh MacCarthy’s inroads into their defense. Even so, ′twas a wonder she hadn’t collapsed by now.

  Not Moira FitzGerald, the strongest and most stalwart woman he’d ever known.

  But he feared for her—her and the babe both—if she didn’t allow him to share the weighty load she’d carried upon her slender shoulders for far too long.

  Will cleared his throat. “Now that we’ve decided that Lady Moira will not be joining us in battle, milord, what are your plans for the rest of us? I assume you’ve something special in mind for Sir Ivor and me, since I doubt you asked us here to finish off this lovely meal—” a sweep of his hand indicated the remnants of their dinner spread out over the table “—while watching the two of you argue.” He sent a grin Moira’s way. “No offense meant, milady. ′Tis just that I prefer something a bit sweeter after a meal.”

  Connor bit back a laugh, and he’d swear a glint of humor brightened Moira’s eyes. ′Twas clear to him why Will’s fellows at l’Eau Clair expected his japes and jests—he had a talent for knowing when they were needed most.

  Pushing away from the wall, Connor returned to the seat at the table that he’d abandoned earlier, once they’d finished eating. He dragged the chair closer to the table and reached into the pouch on his belt for the scrap of parchment he’d used to map the areas where the sappers had plied their craft. “Aye, I’ve plans for you both,” he said. He unfolded the sketch and weighted it down with his goblet. “Look here, they were able to work their way under the wall from the cliff. There’s a tunnel here—” he indicated the spot with the tip of his dagger “—and here as well.” He made a sound of disgust. “The guards on the tower walls couldn’t see a thing.”

  “Why don’t we just fill in their tunnels?” d’Athée asked.

  “Now that we’ve men enough for a proper guard, they won’t have a chance to dig them out again.”

  “Sapping a wall is a skill not possessed by everyone,” Connor pointed out. “I’d rather eliminate them, then repair the damage they’ve caused.” He glanced at Domnal. “Besides, from what O’Neill said, MacCarthy himself plans to lead the attack.”

  Moira reached out and turned the map to look at it. “If they’ve decided that tonight is the night to attack, and Hugh brings an army with him, will you be ready for them?”

  “Moira, what are you about?” Domnal asked, his surprise plain. “Do you think to teach Lord Connor his business?”

  “I suggest you abandon that idea at once, lad,” Connor said. He didn’t bother to hide his displeasure. Moira remained silent, but indignation at her brother’s words was written plainly upon her lovely face.

  Domnal shifted in his seat and glanced around the table, clearly weighing each person’s reaction. “You don’t mind, milord?” he asked once his gaze returned to Connor.

  “′Tis very much your sister’s business how we plan to rout her enemy. Hugh MacCarthy—and your brother Aidan—have caused her heartache and misery, have threatened all she holds dear.” Connor didn’t bother trying to hide his unyielding stance.

  Domnal reached out and clasped Moira’s hand. “I beg your pardon, Sister. I meant no insult. ′Tis habit, is all.”

  She gave him a faint smile. “You’ve been too long in Aidan’s company. ′Tis past time for you to leave that arrogant fool and learn how other people live.”

  Connor watched them, so much alike in looks, but in personality… For Moira’s sake, he hoped Domnal favored her, and not Aidan. If the fool caused her harm, or preyed upon her sisterly affection, Connor would see he paid dearly for it.

  He closed his eyes and searched within the depths of his mind for patience. By Christ’s bones, how had he believed himself ready to lead? How had Rannulf? This petty squabbling made him want to reply in kind, to snarl like a fractious child and lay about with his fists until he’d spent his anger. He’d no patience for it, even when it didn’t directly involve him.

  Was this how his father’s temper had grown beyond his control?

  Opening his eyes, Connor shoved aside that terrifying thought and stared hard at the sketch until his blood cooled. He eased his grip on the knife and scratched a mark on the map at the place where Domnal had shown them evidence of the invaders. “Will, I want you to wait here, hidden from view, with ten men. Sir Ivor will go with you, since he’s more familiar with the area.” He pricked the parchment again. “I’ll lay in wait here.” He straightened and looked at each man, weighing their readiness—and in the case of Sir Ivor, his willingness to obey orders. “I leave it to you both to choose the men we’ll bring with us. The rest of our force will man the walls, and remain alert on the inside lest anyone makes it through.”

  Will nodded. “Aye, milord.”

  Connor turned to Domnal, pondering whether he should trust the lad. By the saints, he’d already decided to trust him; tonight’s plans revolved around his belief that Domnal had been telling him the truth. Still, he didn’t know how skilled he’d be in battle, nor did he wish to place the lad in a position where MacCarthy or Aidan could use him against Moira. “I depend upon you to guard your sister here in the keep. Go now with Sir Will. He’ll see you settled.” He nodded dismissal. “I’ll join you in the bailey soon to finalize our plans.”

  Will and d’Athée bowed and, motioning for Domnal to join them, departed.

  Leaving Connor alone with Moira.

  Sheer will alone must have given her the strength to last through the meal and discussion. The instant the others left, her shoulders slumped and she propped her elbow on the table, her cheek on her hand. “Forgive my rudeness,” she mumbled, stifling a yawn.

  “You could have left us to plot and plan on our own. I don’t blame you for wanting to know what we’re doing—even if you cannot come help us.” He grinned. “′Tis our loss. I’ve no doubt you’d make a valiant warrior.” He stuck his dagger in the sheath on his belt. “I’d best keep watch over my sword, lest you wrest it from me and head off to battle without me.”

  She smiled at his weak sally and yawned again. “It’s not the company that makes me sleepy. The babe does this to me most afternoons.” Her eyes drifted closed.

  He examined the map again, pondering the merits and drawbacks of their plan, before realizing that Moira hadn’t moved since she’d closed her eyes. “Moira? My lady,” he murmured, to no avail.

  She couldn’t possibly be comfortable in that position. He whispered her name again; again, she made no response.

  He lifted her from the chair, expecting some resistance or an argument, but she simply nuzzled her cheek against the soft wool of his tunic and gave a faint, pleasure-filled moan.

  The sound, coupled with the feel of her in his arms, set fire to his blood. He opened the door to her bedchamber one-handed, hurried into the room and set her on the bed.

  He should have left at once, but instead he stood at the foot of the bed to watch her sleep. She stretched and nestled more deeply into th
e downy coverlet, but couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position.

  Perhaps she was cold. He tugged up the end of the coverlet and pulled it over her, kneeling on the mattress and leaning close to remove her veil and free her hair from beneath her. A hint of a smile touched her lips and she rubbed her cheek against his hand.

  By the saints! ′Twas past time he left, but he couldn’t resist lingering there, one knee on the bed and his hand cupping her face. If Brigit came in and discovered him in this position, the old maidservant would surely make him pay for his misjudgment.

  Without warning, Moira’s eyes opened. She stared up at him with terror, not recognition, in her gaze, and opened her mouth to scream.

  Connor covered her mouth with his hand and sought to quiet her squirming without doing her harm. “Moira! It’s all right, ′tis Connor.” She flailed about with her arms, one fist striking perilously close to his groin.

  He shifted away from her as much as possible while trying to hold her still, praying all the while that she’d not unman him before she realized who he was.

  Of course, for all he knew, she might be as likely to do so if she knew ′twas him.

  “Moira—dearling, hush. Hush.”

  Awareness returned to her eyes and he slipped his hand from her mouth. “Connor?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m so glad ′tis you!” She burrowed into his arms, her face pressed to his neck, muttering fiercely in Gaelic.

  He could scarcely hear the mumbled words, let alone comprehend all they meant. The half-remembered Irish tales that his mother, in her native tongue, had secretly shared with her sons had not given him the vocabulary to decipher what Moira said.

  Still, he could tell ′twas no childish tale she told. She told of a nightmare … How much of it was true?