Why did no one believe him? He’d be a good and true father to the child—and a true husband to Moira, if she’d let him.
“Father Thomas, I didn’t come here to discuss this with you. I’ve already set plans in motion that will help to protect them, to resolve the problem with the MacCarthys for good. I came to ask you to go back with me, to convince Moira that marrying me would be in her best interests—and her child’s.” He paced the width of the small chapel, halting in front of the priest. “Will you do that, Father?”
The cleric rose to his feet, his eyes fixed upon the statue of the Blessed Virgin nearby. Connor followed his gaze, studied the way the Holy Mother cradled her child, gazing down upon Him with love and devotion. In just that way would Connor expect Moira to look at her babe . . .
He knew she would.
And by protecting them both, he would make certain that she could do so.
He said a prayer of thanks to the Virgin for making him see that his decision was right and sound. Impatient to return, he halted near Father Thomas while the priest bent his head in prayer.
Finally he crossed himself and turned to Connor. “I believe you’ve the right of it, milord. ′Tis certain that you’re well able to protect her, and you’re more of an age with her, so perhaps the two of you will . . . ” He shook his head. “No need to travel down that road again,” he muttered. “I will plead your case, milord, should it prove necessary.” He headed for the altar. “And I’m willing to wed you now, before the child is born, if you’ll permit me a moment to collect what I’ll need.” He disappeared behind the altar for a moment, then reappeared carrying a polished wooden case.
“You might want to say another prayer before we leave, Father.” Connor genuflected and crossed himself. “I suspect I’ll need all the help I can get.”
It seemed to Moira, in those brief moments when she could think clearly, that climbing into her bed had somehow caused her labor to speed up.
And now that Connor wasn’t here, she had to face the pain and fear alone. She’d submitted to allowing Brigit to examine her—an embarrassment, though nothing compared to what came later, she knew. Brigit told her ′twould be a long while before the babe finally arrived, and to cease her whining, to conserve her strength for when she’d truly need it …
For later, when the spasms were worse.
Worse later? ′Twas all she could manage to face now.
The moment Brigit stepped away from the bed, Moira let the hated tears drip down her cheeks. Children were born every day—women did this all the time, did they not? Why, then, did she find it so difficult?
She dashed the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her hand, then used the edge of the sheet to blot her cheeks dry. By the Virgin, she wanted this babe! She’d suffered for it already—what did the pain matter, when she’d be able to hold her child in her arms at the end of it?
Much heartened, she obeyed Brigit’s order and settled back against the pillows to rest until the next spasm came. Weariness vied with anticipation, but with the soft bolsters nestling her in their warmth, and the hypnotic dance of flames in the fireplace visible to her through the open curtains at the foot of the bed, Moira’s thoughts drifted even as her eyelids slipped closed.
She dozed briefly, between contractions. Time had no meaning—indeed, it seemed she had been awake for days—though she heard the sounds of the keep coming to life. They were more subdued than usual, perhaps because not everyone had recovered from the past night’s battle and the drinking that had followed. Whatever the reason, she wished for more noise, so that her cries or screams, should she prove as cowardly as she feared, might be disguised by the sounds of day-to-day life.
She started awake when another spasm, more intense than the others, rolled through her body and settled, hot and painful, low in her belly. Catching hold of the leather straps Brigit had tied to the headboard, Moira pulled herself up and concentrated on willing herself somewhere else in her mind, as Connor had taught her, until the worst of it eased.
But there’d be no wishing this one away, that much became clear to her at once. Muttering curses she hadn’t realized she knew, she gritted her teeth and tried to breathe as Brigit had suggested.
“I hate this!” she shrieked, seizing the straps so hard her nails bit into them. “Brigit, I need you right now!” she screamed as loudly as she could, since the maid had left the chamber.
Silence met her plea.
As soon as the pain began to fade, Moira crawled to the edge of the mattress and, clutching the bedpost for support, dragged herself to her feet. Her shift had twisted around her waist, leaving her legs exposed to midthigh, and the sheet had wrapped about one ankle, tethering her in place and throwing her off balance. “Everyone promises to stay, to help me, but where are they when I need them?” she grumbled. “Probably off swilling ale and telling lies.” Since she couldn’t seem to loosen the sheet from around her ankle, she jerked it free of the mattress and sent herself flying.
She landed hard on her backside on the floor. “By the Virgin, when I get my hands on Connor FitzClifford,” she screeched, “I’ll—”
Strong arms grabbed her from behind, and a hand clamped over her mouth to stifle her in midscream. “You’ll do what?” Connor asked, his voice amused.
Moira caught him by the wrist and jerked his hand away. “Where have you been?” she gasped.
His arms about her waist, he helped her to her feet and turned her to face him.
And Father Thomas.
A wave of shame washed over her, making her tremble and flush.
“I’ve brought the priest,” Connor said, his tone wry. “To convince you to be my bride.”
Face still flaming, Moira tugged the end of the sheet off the bed and dragged the material up in front of her. She caught hold of Connor’s shirt with her other hand and pulled him closer, leaning toward him. “Could we discuss this alone?” she whispered.
Connor glanced at her, then back at Father Thomas—whose face looked nigh as red as hers felt—and nodded. He gently detached her hand from his shirt. “Will you excuse us, Father?” he asked, going to the door and opening it.
“Of course. I’ll wait in the corridor, milord,” the priest said, and left, closing the door quietly.
Connor scooped her up and laid her in the bed. “What are you doing wandering around?” he scolded. She drew the sheet, still clutched tightly in her hand, up to her chin and settled back against the bolsters. He scanned the chamber and frowned. “Where is Brigit?”
“I don’t know,” Moira muttered. “I fell asleep, and when I woke, everyone had left.” To her shame, she felt like pouting. The sensation of pain building within her wiped that thought from her mind in no time, replacing it with panic. She grabbed Connor by the arm and tugged until he climbed up onto the bed with her. “It’s happening again,” she whimpered. “And the last one has scarce faded away.”
He cuddled her against him, rubbing her belly and whispering to her until the pain began to fade. Then he tried to move away from her, but she held him fast.
“I need to call for Brigit,” he told her, bending to press a kiss on her brow.
“Aye, we need her,” she agreed. She met his gaze, looked deep into the warm brown depths and saw nothing but good in him. “But you’d better bring Father Thomas back as well. I don’t believe we have much time to wed before the babe arrives.”
Connor stared at Moira’s face, her eyes, and gave a sigh of relief. “You will marry me.”
She nodded. “You were right—about so many things.” He tried once again to slip off the bed, but again she held him back. “I want you to know, Connor, that . . . ” She lowered her gaze for a moment. When she glanced at up at him again, her eyes held so much emotion he could not mistake it. “I am marrying you because I want to be wed to you—not because of the babe, or Hugh, or anything else. Only for you, Connor.”
His heart thundering in his chest, Connor held her close, savoring her words, he
r nearness—so much more than he’d ever hoped to have in his life. But he couldn’t accept the truth of her words until she knew the truth about him.
He raised his head and turned her face toward him. “I should tell you about—”
She covered his mouth with her hand. “You need not tell me anything unless you wish to, but you might as well wait till later. Whatever you have to say—save that you don’t want me—doesn’t matter right now. Tell me later, once we’re wed, once the babe is born—when we’ve more time to talk.” She slid her hand up, running her fingers over his stubble-covered cheek. “I wish to marry you, Connor FitzClifford—the man I’ve come to know. Our lives begin now. The past doesn’t exist unless we want it to. Do you still wish to marry me?”
He laughed. “You know I do.”
She nudged him toward the side of the bed. “Then what are you waiting for?” She clutched at her belly. “You’d better bring Father Thomas back at once.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Father Thomas no sooner declared Moira and Connor man and wife than Brigit banished him—along with Domnal, Sir Ivor and Sir Will, the witnesses—to the hall. “Go on, swill some ale and stay out of the way,” she directed. “You’ll need to drink enough for his lordship, since he’s decided to stay with my lady.”
Moira accepted their hastily offered good wishes and tried not to cry out until the door closed behind them. ′Twas a near thing. As soon as they were gone, however, Connor clambered onto the mattress and leaned back against the headboard, gathering her into his arms. He held her through the endless pain, his cheek nestled against hers, and didn’t flinch as she dug her fingers into the brawny strength of his forearms. Panting, she slumped back once the spasm eased. “Thank you, Husband,” she whispered, savoring the word.
“Thank you, milady, for making me the happiest of men.” He laced his fingers with hers and brought her hand to his lips. “Scarce a husband, and already a father,” he said with a laugh, cradling his hand over her belly. “You’re giving me so much, Moira. I swear I’ll protect you and our child—our children, for I doubt this will be our only one,” he added, chuckling again. “Always.”
She held his words in her heart as the pains came one atop the other, till she wondered how she’d bear them. But Connor held her through each one, sharing his strength, his humor, as she pushed their babe into the world.
“You have a daughter, milady, milord,” Brigit cried as she eased the child onto a blanket. After wiping the babe clean, she placed her in Moira’s outstretched arms. “She’s a beauty, milady!”
Her dark blue eyes staring, unfocused, at them, their daughter began to howl, her tiny fingers clenched into fists. They looked her over, marveling at her fingers and toes, at the mass of dark curls clustered on her head.
Tears welled in Moira’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Despite all the times she’d imagined this moment, used it to sustain her through the long, difficult months, she hadn’t realized how deeply she would feel its intensity—nor that Connor would be there to share it with her.
“So quiet—just like her mother,” Connor teased as the babe continued to wail. He leaned over Moira’s shoulder and traced his finger across one soft pink cheek. “I can see I’ll be busy once she’s grown, chasing away an army of suitors. What will you name her?” he asked, tucking the blanket up around the babe’s shoulders.
“I thought to call her Brenna. ′Twas my mother’s name,” Moira added. “What do you think?”
“I think that Lady Brenna FitzClifford is a fine name,” he said. He shifted, until he met her gaze. His dark eyes suspiciously damp, he took her mouth in a heartbreakingly tender kiss. “Our daughter is lovely. You’ve done well, milady,” he murmured after he broke away.
Once she caught her breath, she stroked her hand through Connor’s disordered hair and gazed down at their child. “Aye, milord—that we have.”
The next two days flew by in a daze for Moira, as she sought to regain her strength, care for Brenna and convince her stubborn husband that she should be included in whatever plans he had to deal with Hugh MacCarthy and her brother Aidan.
It took her a solid day’s coaxing before Connor would tell her what he had in mind—and even then, she’d had to resort to wheedling information out of Sir Will. When the knight discovered she’d misled him—or tricked him, as he would have it—about her knowledge of Connor’s scheme, he’d become so angry he refused to tell her anything else at all.
It amazed her that she could feel such love for Connor—for such was the depth of her feelings for him, it could not be anything else but love—and wish to throttle him at the same time. How could one man be so devastatingly tender one moment and so pigheaded the next?
But she’d not endured the long months between Lord Brien’s death and Connor’s arrival without learning something about stubbornness herself. Her husband would learn soon enough that he could not ignore his wife’s will, she vowed.
When he did finally agree, she continued to rant for a bit before his words sank into her brain. A tide of heat rose to her cheeks when she realized what she’d done; if not for the fact that Connor sat next to her on the bed, trapping her in place, she’d have tried to escape him and his sharp gaze.
As well as his knowing grin. “Go on,” he coaxed. “I’d like to hear what other arguments you planned to use to convince me.” He reached out and toyed with the end of her braid. “Such foreknowledge might be the only way I’ll have a chance to marshal my own arguments the next time.” Giving the ribbon tied round her braid a tug and sliding it loose, he added, “Not that I expect I’ll win then, either.”
She poked him in the stomach, not that it made any impression upon him. “So, Husband, since you’ve decided I may know your plans, do you intend to tell me now?”
He gave a huge sigh. “If I must.” He caught her hands in his. “Who knows what you might do to me otherwise?”
Thus it was that Connor found himself escorting his wife, along with his troops and those of Sir Robert de Montfort, to a meeting with Hugh MacCarthy and Aidan O’Neill. They’d agreed to meet in a large open area not far from Gerald’s Keep for the proposed purpose of coming to terms over the release of Connor’s “prisoners”—Kieran MacCarthy and Domnal O’Neill.
The promise of an alliance with Connor, as well as Lord Rannulf FitzClifford, had been enough to sway Sir Robert into lending his aid. After the way the MacCarthys had wreaked havoc in the vicinity, Connor had no doubt that de Montfort would be happy to thwart Hugh MacCarthy any way he could.
Kieran and Domnal seemed glad to be involved in stopping the madness that Dermot MacCarthy had set in motion and his brother seemed determined to bring to fruition. In fact, the two young men had contributed a great deal to the scheme.
As their party crested the last hill before the meeting place, Connor glanced behind him at Moira. Mounted pillion behind Will, she looked tired, but he couldn’t miss the trace of exhilaration in her bright blue eyes. He wished he dared allow her to ride with him, but he didn’t know exactly how the meeting might unfold. MacCarthy might come after him, and Connor didn’t want to endanger her more.
Nor would it be wise for both Brenna’s parents to be together, lest they make one easy target.
MacCarthy’s troops streamed over the opposite hillside and onto the plain, spreading out in a line facing Connor’s party. Will kept Moira behind them, surrounded by a well-armed group of fighters—the best warriors from Gerald’s Keep, any one of whom would gladly lay down his life for their valiant lady. Domnal and Kiernan were equally well guarded, encircled by the best of the men Connor had brought from l’Eau Clair.
Connor urged his mount forward, Sir Ivor and Sir Robert on either side of him, the line his men had formed closing up behind them. He singled out the bearded Irishman he’d battled outside Gerald’s Keep, for he knew in his bones the man must be Hugh MacCarthy—had known since they’d fought. The fact that he rode flanked by Aidan and a man who was obviously Ai
dan’s brother Finan simply confirmed his assumption.
“So you’re Connor FitzClifford,” MacCarthy shouted. “If I’d known that the other night, I’d have made certain you left the field in a shroud.”
Connor gave a wry laugh. The posturing fool! “You had your chance, MacCarthy, but you’re not up to the task. If you could have done so, you would have,” he said bluntly.
MacCarthy waved away Connor’s comment. “I’ve come for my kin, Norman, mine and the O’Neills’. The babe and its mother, and our kinsmen you took captive.” MacCarthy looked past Connor. “Moira! Show yourself, lass,” he bellowed. “Come—you’ve no need to hide behind them now that your own kinsmen have come for you.”
Connor held his breath and prayed. He’d warned Moira that MacCarthy might try to speak with her, had cautioned her to choose her words with care should she decide to reply. But he really didn’t know what she’d say.
“I’m already with my kinsmen, Hugh—the only ones who matter to me,” she cried. “Can you not give up this senseless scheme of Dermot’s and leave us be?”
MacCarthy’s face reddened and his eyes grew cold. “′Tis my duty to carry out my brother’s wishes. And ′tis your brothers’ decision for you to join us, to give over yourself and the child—and Gerald’s Keep—into our hands. Once you do, all will be as it should be.” He urged his mount forward, fixing his gaze upon Connor, and spat on the ground. “And these damned Normans can go back where they belong.”
Connor slid his dagger from his boot and held it loosely in his hand, his elbow resting upon the saddlebow. “We are where we belong,” he said in an even voice. “This land is my brother’s. It was my mother’s and my grandfather’s before that. We will not give it up,” he said flatly. “Nor will I give over to you my wife and daughter.”
“Your wife?” MacCarthy roared. “Daughter? You’ve wed her, and the child has been born? By Christ’s eyeballs—” Aidan reached over and grabbed MacCarthy by the back of the tunic when he lunged toward Connor “—she could be a widow in a trice, Norman.”
L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep Page 25