Fire Raven

by McAllister, Patricia

  Bryony looked surprised. “I’truth, daughter, you have grown up in these months. I am both pleased and a little sad. You seem different, somehow.”

  “Aye, Mama. I am different,” Kat conceded softly. “I am in love.”

  “With Lord Trelane?”

  “With Morgan, with Falcon’s Lair, with all of wild, beautiful Cymru.” Kat met her mother’s searching gaze, and added gently, “Ireland and Rory are part of my past now. So is the sea.”

  Something seemed to slump in Bryony’s proud posture. “Are you certain, Kat?”

  “Aye, as I ever shall be. Do not mourn, Mama. I have never been so happy as in these past few months with Morgan. Rory and I shared a beloved hobby, nothing more. Morgan and I connect on a far deeper level, mayhap one of the soul.”

  Bryony only nodded, looking too stricken for words.

  “I regret the reminder, dearest,” Slade said to his wife, “but we came not to chide Kat. She was almost lost to us forever and I, for one, am simply grateful she is alive.”

  “You’re right.” Looking abashed, Bryony stepped forward to hug Kat again. “Forgive me, colleen.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. I know how much the sea means to you and Father. ’Tis your life. Once ’twas mine, too. Until a terrible fire consumed my ship, my crew, and almost my life. Like the legendary phoenix, I was miraculously reborn from the ashes.” As she spoke, Kat realized the words rang true. She trembled with emotion, and Bryony held her tighter.

  “Mayhap we should rechristen you “Fire Raven,” instead of your lost ship,” Bryony murmured. “With a certainty, the clan’s mascot watched over you.” She withdrew and glanced at Kat’s bare neck. “Was the amulet lost at sea, too?”

  “Nay. Morgan kept it here for me. I found it in my room. I will send it back to Ireland with you and Papa for safekeeping.”

  Bryony shook her head. “The amulet chooses its owner. When your Uncle Brendan gave it to me, he said a strange, powerful force compelled him to part with it then. I felt the same thing when I handed the amulet to you on your twelfth birthday. You will know, when the time is right, to do the same, Kat. Until then, do not abandon or reject the power. It surely saved your life.”

  FOR THE FIRST TIME in years, more than a handful of diners occupied the great table at Falcon’s Lair. The staff had outdone themselves in order to impress Lady Trelane’s family. Kat was pleased and touched by their efforts.

  A gleaming silver service proffered a choice selection of mountain lamb, roasted in honey, glazed Welsh rarebit, and grouse. Ailis’s famous laver bread, three varieties of local cheeses, and a stout mead were offered, along with watered wine. There was a colorful assortment of wildflowers arranged in silver vases.

  The Tanners had not arrived empty-handed, either. Slade introduced his daughters to a rich exotic liquor called rum. He and Bryony brought rum back from their Caribbean voyage and enriched Kat’s new household with several barrels.

  Bryony’s contribution from their latest voyage was a colorful array of exotic fruits and nuts. There were bright green oval fruits called limes; curious-looking yellow bananas; round, hairy coconuts; and long, woody pods filled with something called cacao beans. Receiving such a windfall of strange new foods, Cook had done her best, but Kat bit her lip and everyone struggled against laughter when one of the staff brought in a bubbling kettle filled with an assortment of everything — literally.

  With a glance in the kettle, swimming with fruit rinds and stems, Kat tactfully requested saucers of clotted cream and berries for dessert. The odoriferous kettle was set aside and the family enjoyed simpler fare.

  Kat wished Morgan were there to preside as lord of his own table. She sensed her parents’ unspoken questions and concerns about her second marriage and assumed they had heard rumors of Morgan’s reclusive nature or, worse yet, his supposed disfigurement.

  After dinner, Bryony accompanied Merry upstairs to begin planning her second daughter’s wedding arrangements. Slade lingered at the table with Kat.

  “I wanted to wait until your mother retired,” he said. “I fear she might be too upset by the next subject to remain calm.”

  Kat steeled herself for a bevy of accusations — questions about Morgan and his rumored deformity.

  “I heard Merry was nearly murdered at Whitehall by an old nemesis of mine.”

  Kat was surprised and almost relieved by the topic. “Did Uncle Kit tell you?”

  Slade shook his head. “Kit knew little more than any other courtier. Nay, ’twas Merry herself who told me of your courage, confronting the man with blade-at-hand.”

  “I forgot many things, but not my swordplay it seems,” Kat admitted. She told her father about the duel, Adrien Lovelle’s death and the gallant actions of Captain Navarre.

  Then she hesitated, remembering Lovelle’s ugly accusations. She was too embarrassed to ask Slade outright about his relationship with Adrien’s sister, Gillian, yet he spared her the agony. He said:

  “I was once betrothed to a woman of French descent, one of Bess Tudor’s ladies. ’Twas before I met your mother. Gillian Lovelle was likened to Aphrodite, with good reason: She was beautiful, but faithless as a snake, as heartless as she was lovely.” Slade leaned back in his chair, seeming subdued, and continued the tale:

  “Gillian was not content with my prospects. I fear she sought richer, titled game. Bess pressed us both to marry, despite our mutual unhappiness. After I met your mother, all thoughts of Gilly disappeared. Except the uncharitable ones.”

  “Her brother claimed you tried to murder her,” Kat said.

  Slade stiffened, and she saw his green eyes flash. “That villainous pup was not there to witness the truth. Gilly contracted the pox. I was framed for Gilly’s murder, true enough, and nearly lost my head at Tower Green. Now I learn she is still alive, that I almost died for naught. Worse still, Gilly has apparently gone mad and seeks to revenge herself upon my innocent family. Would I could strangle the little bitch now! My one regret is that I did not do it when I had the chance.”

  Kat was alarmed by her father’s outburst. It was unlike him. He was such a calm, levelheaded man. She reached across the table and took his large, tanned hand in her own.

  “Oh, Papa, I believe you. Only a madwoman would act as she has. Take comfort in the fact that Gillian Lovelle has failed twice and cannot make the attempt so easily again with her brother dead. Merry and I know she exists now, whatever guises she may adopt to ford our defenses in future.”

  “Aye, but you have five little brothers,” Slade growled. “Rowan and Devlin have been sent back to your grandfather in Ireland, for safety’s sake. Bryony does not know of my concerns. I trow she would sail to France and execute Gilly herself if she knew what had happened. S’blood, I cannot risk her life. I love her too much.”

  Kat patted his hand. “The secret is safe with me. Merry, however, is inclined to chatter. You’d best take her aside, and speak to her before she tells Mama what happened at Court. Then I think it best you return to Ireland. The greater the distance, the better. There is safety in numbers.”

  Slade considered her words and nodded. “Aye, you’re right, Kat. I hate to leave so soon without meeting your husband, but I fear each passing moment increases the danger. Will you welcome another visit from the whole clan, mayhap in the spring?”

  If I am still here, Kat thought, but smiled to put Slade’s concerns to rest. “What a lovely notion, Papa. By then you shall be a grandfather, y’know.”

  Slade’s face lit with wonder and delight at her shy announcement, and he squeezed her hand so hard, Kat almost gasped.

  “’Tis the greatest boon you’ve ever given me, sweetling. When you and Rory could not — ”

  “Aye, I know,” she quietly said. “’Twas a grievous disappointment to us all.”

  “Shall we find your mother and tell her now?” Slade eagerly rose from the chair, still holding her hand and beaming, ear to ear.

  “You go ahead. ’Twould be fun for y
ou to share the happy news first. I’ll come up later. First I want to thank the staff for all their efforts tonight.”

  Slade nodded and left to impart the news to her mother. Kat knew Bryony would be equally excited and pleased at the prospect of becoming a grandmother — although Madam Tanner scarcely looked the part, without a single strand of gray hair!

  Kat summoned Winnie with the little silver bell beside her plate. She noticed the housekeeper’s look of trepidation when Winnie entered the dining hall.

  “I wanted to thank you for organizing a fine repast,” she said. “The table is gorgeous. The linen and silver are exquisite, the food divine. These flowers are an especially charming touch.”

  Kat dismissed the relieved Winnie with a message to thank the rest of the staff for her. Then she ventured up to Falcon Lair’s battlements. From the favorable vantage point, Kat looked down the curving road leading to the village and southward — no sign of Morgan.

  Obviously he did not care to return to Falcon’s Lair while she was there. She felt a faint flutter in her belly and touched her abdomen with wonder and a little sadness.

  Please, Morgan, come home.

  There was no answer but the keening of the wind.

  Chapter Twenty

  “THIS IS IT, MILORD. We can’t go any further. The river’s washed out the road clear up to Aberystwyth.”

  Morgan cursed under his breath and dismounted from the roan stallion. He looked past Jimson to see the truth in the man’s words.

  “We should not have taken the shortcut,” he observed.

  “Aye, we’ll never make it with the horses through all that mud.”

  “Then I suppose we’ve no choice but to find a nearby inn.”

  “Or return to London, milord,” Jimson suggested hopefully.

  Morgan shook his head. “We’ll press on once the weather clears. Take my mount, Jimson. I wish to explore farther ahead.”

  Reluctantly, Jimson moved forward to take control of Morgan’s stallion. The roan skittered and tossed his head at the unfamiliar hand on the reins. The animal was the ugliest beast Jimson had ever seen, mayhap a fitting mount for Satan’s Son. He glanced anxiously after Trelane, praying the baron would hurry back and relieve him of his dangerous charge.

  Morgan carefully crossed the remnants of a wooden bridge spanning a rain-bloated stream. Three days of sudden, heavy rains had all but washed out the back road north, and he saw, by the number of retreating tracks, that other travelers, beside himself and his manservant, had been waylaid. It was still raining, though a quiet drizzle compared to the angry torrents which sluiced upon them earlier.

  Morgan frowned, wondering if his wife had made it safely to Falcon’s Lair. At first, he had been furious learning of Kat’s secret departure. Even her uncle’s reasoning had been unable to calm him down. Didn’t the chit have a single drop of common sense in her veins?

  Mayhap one, Morgan conceded grudgingly, as Kat had taken a coach and her sister along. He scowled at the thought of Merry Tanner. What possible help would that scatterbrained redhead be if the women found themselves in dire circumstances?

  Morgan’s frown altered into a slight smile. He remembered, not without a trace of amusement, Kat’s clever ploy at the altar. If she didn’t love me, a tiny voice whispered inside, she wouldn’t have gone to such lengths.

  A moment later, Morgan felt uncertainty grip his heart. Perhaps she had only wed him out of pity. By now, Kat’s cousin or sister had surely told her about his birthmark and the Trelane family history. He couldn’t bear the notion of Kat feeling sorry for him. Better to be alone than to be subjected to cloying sympathy.

  Morgan made an angry noise at the thought and stepped down off the bridge to survey the damage on the other side. A sliver of the previous road remained, but he knew they dared not trust the horses’ weight on the bridge. They would have to swim their mounts across.

  It was cold and rapidly getting dark. Morgan realized the remainder of their journey must wait till morn. He turned and crossed back over the bridge. He arrived just in time to save poor Jimson from getting kicked in the backside by the fractious roan.

  MORGAN SAT ALONE IN a shadowy corner of The Hart and Hind, nursing a nut-brown ale beside the crackling hearth. He attended to the lively discourse going on about the inn’s common room, as a small band of traveling Scots discussed the price of political freedom.

  “Och, I say we hae a care this time,” a huge, heavily bearded man growled into his cups. “What with Her Majesty seeking persecution of the Highlanders at every turn, we’re well-advised to wait for better opportunity.”

  “Freedom doesn’t wait for opportunity!” Another tankard slammed down for emphasis. The second voice was higher, younger, fueled as much from ale as any cause. “Would you sacrifice our motherland for the whims of an old maid, Hugo? Even the Vikings respected our fierce defenses. They braved few settlements along our wild shores. Why? Because — we — would — not — wear — the — yoke — of — servitude!”

  Morgan glanced over at the party of Scots. A dark-haired youth poked the bearded giant’s leather jerkin with each impassioned word he uttered. Morgan saw the larger fellow redden and expected to see the giant fell the impertinent lad with one sweep of his huge fist, but for some reason Hugo held his peace.

  “Ye’ve always had a silver tongue, Lindsay,” Hugo muttered. “I kin wield naught but a sword.”

  “Och, but what a sword it is!” the youth exclaimed, hopping up from the bench where he sat. He urged Hugo to draw the gleaming weapon from its rusty scabbard.

  Proudly the bearded giant laid the claymore across the board plank table, where it might be duly admired by the other patrons.

  “Look,” young Lindsay cried, wrapping both his hands around the jeweled pommel. He heaved. He grunted. He strained. Sweat broke out on his brow. He was small for his age, mayhap all of fourteen years. Indeed he appeared waif-like, so it was little surprise when he did not lift the sword high.

  “Fifteen shillings says no man in this room can heft the sword with one hand and circle it thrice about his head,” Lindsay challenged the others present. He gasped with dramatic relief when he set the claymore down.

  “Stand aside, boy. Let me try,” said a fellow traveler, a burly blacksmith. He tossed the shillings at Lindsay as he passed, obviously assuming it was an easy task to lift the sword. The smithy rolled up his sleeves, exposing arms thick as oak saplings and swaggered forward to impress the crowd. His eyes widened with measurable surprise when he grasped the hilt of the great claymore with his right fist and hefted. It raised but a few feet above the table.

  Lindsay struck a cocky pose. “Not so simple, eh?”

  The smithy reddened and cursed, throwing all of his effort into the trial. At last he lifted the claymore, but his thick wrist shook so with the effort, he was unable to steady the sword, much less swing it about his head. Had he tried, Morgan was certain he would have lost his ears in the attempt.

  The men watching exclaimed with disbelief. One by one, they stepped forward, eager to proffer their coin and try their hand at lifting mighty Hugo’s sword. One by one, they tested their strength against the weight of the weapon, laughing drunkenly at the others who failed till they themselves were proven weaklings, in turn.

  Watching from the corner, Lindsay grinned at the spectacle he had created, while surreptitiously counting the growing mound of silver in his palm. Morgan supposed the lad might be accounted handsome, was he not so damned sly.

  A shock of dark hair dangled over young Lindsay’s brow. His eyes were a peculiar shade of violet-blue. He obviously had the canny instincts of a fox. Aware of being watched, Lindsay’s gaze swept around the inn’s common room until they alighted on Morgan sitting alone in the corner.

  “Good sir,” the lad called out, “will you not try your hand at Hugo’s sword? You look a sturdy sort.”

  Morgan deliberately turned his bare left cheek to the light of the torches. To his credit, Lindsay didn’
t flinch.

  “Fifteen shillings,” the lad coaxed.

  “I’ve no time for your Highland Games,” Morgan said, rising and tossing his black cloak around his shoulders. He reached into the kid purse tied to his waist and pitched coins upon the plank table as he left.

  Lindsay stepped directly in his path. The lad was a full head shorter than Morgan, and his chest had scarce filled out. His confident stance betrayed no awareness of the fact Morgan was irritated.

  “Well met, sir. Methinks you were privy to our earlier discussion. I note by your speech and manner y’are of Welsh descent yourself. I’d would fain know, before you leave, what think you of the notion of independent nations?”

  Morgan glimpsed a mischievous twinkle in the violet eyes.

  “What I think,” he said, with deliberate emphasis, “is that you have imbibed too much drink, Master Lindsay.”

  “Och, ’tis a sorry day indeed when a Highlander canna hold his ale,” Lindsay moaned, slapping his forehead in dramatic fashion and speaking in a thick, Scottish burr. Morgan was not fooled. Only moments before, the lad’s English was as flawlessly executed as his sham with the sword, a sword he suspected was filled with lead. He and Hugo the Giant had apparently cooked up some bit of tomfoolery to relieve unsuspecting patrons of their hard-earned coins.

  Noting Lindsay’s surreptitious glance in the direction of his purse, Morgan took a perverse delight in lingering and baiting the lad. He folded his arms and matched the boy’s casual stance.

  “Concerning politics, and being a Welshman myself, y’know I must be loyal to the Tudor line,” Morgan said.

  “Och, I see it. Else how would ye acquire such a grievous wound?” Lindsay peered closer at Morgan’s face. “Sweet Jesu, mon, ye should hae that cut stitched. ’Tis a right angry sight. Did ye earn it in battle for yer Virgin Queen?”

  “Nay. Rather, I should think, with Satan.” Morgan gave a short laugh, obviously confusing the youth. “Speaking of battles, boy, I believe ’twould do you well to practice a more honorable art than picking pockets.”