Wild Angel

by Miriam Minger

  Anticipation filled her as their small band rode into the stronghold, Conn barking at the lead and Aud jouncing along on her pony behind Triona. The next time she passed these gates, she would be embarking on her plan to avenge her father. Aye, she could hardly wait!

  "So you’re back, brother!"

  The welcoming cry came from across the yard as Triona reined in her mount with the others in front of the stable. Distracted by the smiling dark-haired young man striding toward them, she wasn’t aware that Ronan had dismounted until she realized he’d come to stand next to her horse. At the same moment two of the O’Byrne clansmen who had accompanied them from Imaal walked up behind her and snatched away Maeve and Ferdiad, her cat yowling in surprise, her startled falcon frantically beating its wings. Outraged, Triona yelled out a curse that split the air, yet she had no sooner swung her leg over Laeg’s neck when Ronan caught her around the waist, his expression determined.

  "What . . . What in blazes are you doing?" she demanded, her face burning with indignation as she tried futilely to twist free of his grasp.

  "I would think it plain enough. Helping a maiden from her horse."

  "Maiden? Have you gone mad? You know well enough that I don’t need your help . . . oh!"

  He swept her into the air so suddenly that Triona threw her arms around his neck, then in the next instant her feet touched the ground. Horrified to find herself clinging to him, his hard, honed body pressed intimately against hers, Triona shoved away from him with such force that she fell backward . . . right into another pair of strong arms.

  "Whoa, what have we here, Ronan? Spoils from a raid? I thought you’d gone to Imaal to see the O’Toole—"

  "I’ve just come from Imaal," Ronan cut in, relieved that his younger brother had caught Triona yet oddly disgruntled at the sight of her in his arms. Shrugging off the feeling, he held out his hand to her. He wasn’t surprised when she refused him by cursing him soundly as she thrust herself away from his brother.

  "Spoils indeed! I’m Triona O’Toole!" came her affronted announcement as Conn trotted over and sat down beside her.

  "Fineen’s daughter," added Ronan in explanation, feeling the full force of her angry eyes upon him. "My brother, Niall."

  "This is certainly a surprise," interjected Niall, his blue-gray eyes puzzled yet friendly. Then he suddenly sobered, asking Triona more than Ronan, "And the O’Toole?"

  "My father is dead."

  Her throat gone tight, Triona watched as the two men shared a glance. She knew Ronan had a brother, a younger sister, too, though she had never expected to meet them. Perhaps ten years Ronan’s junior and not quite as tall, Niall bore the same powerfully sinewed physique. But while Ronan’s hair was black as midnight and brushed his shoulders, Niall’s shorter dark brown hair had strong glints of red.

  And though both men were very striking in looks their features were different, she noted when Niall turned back to her, his eyes holding sympathy. Or perhaps it only appeared so because his face was more open than Ronan’s, his expression kind whereas Ronan always looked so severe.

  "My condolences, Triona," Niall offered, the sincerity in his voice touching her. Strangely, she did not feel the same animosity toward this man as she did for Ronan. Yet perhaps it was not so strange after all. Niall O’Byrne had had nothing to do with Conor’s death. He had been a mere boy at the time.

  "Thank you," she finally murmured, but before she could say anything more, Ronan took her arm. Firmly. She gaped at him in angry surprise but he ignored her, addressing Niall.

  "Triona is now under my protection and will be staying with us for a time . . . at least until I find her a husband."

  "Husband?" Triona had only to look at the hard line of Ronan’s jaw and her momentary confusion vanished. Shocked, she jerked away from him as if he had set a blazing torch to her sleeve.

  "Husband?" parroted Aud as Triona tripped over Conn in her haste to reach her mount. She fell to her hands and knees, scraping her palms, but quickly scrambled to her feet, cursing Ronan and his deceit every step of the way.

  The bold liar! She would kill him! She would shoot him so full of arrows that he’d bleed like a sieve!

  "If you’re looking for your bowcase, I’ve had it locked away for safekeeping."

  Breathless, Triona froze. A quick glance at the empty leather sheath strapped to Laeg’s back confirmed the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her bowcase was gone. Gone! Ronan’s men must have taken it while she was being introduced to Niall. At once her hand flew to her waist, disbelief filling her when Ronan gestured to the hunting knife that was now sheathed in his belt. The wily wretch! He’d stolen her knife while he held her, his hand as stealthy and swift as any thief’s.

  "I can’t have you wounding any prospective husbands, Triona. Word will fly through the glens and then no one will come to have a look at you for fear of their lives."

  "To look at me?" Enraged, Triona rounded upon him. "What am I, O’Byrne? A milk cow for barter? A prize goat?"

  "Now, sweeting, you might hear him out—"

  "Silence, Aud!" Triona commanded over her shoulder, never having felt so furious in her life. "You tricked me, O’Byrne! I knew I should never have trusted you, but I thought because you were my father’s godson . . . damn me for a fool! You lied—"

  "Reasoned with you is more the truth of it." Ronan stifled unexpected regret at the pained outrage in her eyes. If he didn’t take her in hand now, no one would want this hotheaded hellion for a wife. And what other destiny was there for a woman? "I could have brought you here by force, but I decided to spare you the humiliation."

  "So you lied to me instead! Made me believe I’d be raiding with you against the Normans when all along you had other plans for me! Despicable plans!"

  "I swore you no oath, Triona," said Ronan, uncomfortably aware that her loud accusations were drawing a curious crowd of his clansmen. "Yet I did swear an oath to your father to take you into my care, an obligation I’ve little time for but one I could not refuse. An obligation I intend to fulfill by finding you a husband. As your guardian, that is my right."

  "And if I don’t want to marry?" she flung at him, her fists clenched into tight balls at her sides.

  "You’ve no choice but to marry someone, something your father should have said to you years ago instead of allowing you to run wild as a hare."

  "A hare is it now?" she blurted, mocking him. "They’re swift creatures to be sure but timid, and that I am not. I say take your rotten plans and eat them, O’Byrne!"

  A muffled chuckle sounded somewhere behind Ronan, but it died abruptly when he shot a dark look over his shoulder. Then he turned his attention back to Triona, his body grown taut with tension. "Hear me well, chit. From now on, you will occupy yourself with maidenly pursuits and become the modest, obedient young woman any man would wish for in a bride—"

  "I will not!"

  "I think she means it, brother," Niall threw in to Ronan’s mounting annoyance, an amused look on his face.

  "I do mean it!" Triona seconded, her chin lifted defiantly.

  This last outburst proved too much for Ronan, the blood pounding like thunder in his temple. By God, he would tame her, the quicker to be done with her! In three strides he had her by the waist. Before she could do more than gasp, he’d pitched her across his shoulders as a hunter might a felled deer, pinning her flailing limbs with his arms.

  "How . . . how dare you!" shrieked Triona, her cheeks ablaze with embarrassment as laughter rippled across the yard. "Conn! Come help!"

  She almost cried with relief as the huge wolfhound came bounding after them, growling ferociously, his long white teeth bared.

  But her relief became utter frustration when Ronan wheeled abruptly. "Sit!" he shouted. Her dog dropped obediently to its haunches, cocking its head.

  "He is well trained," came Ronan’s stiff comment as he turned and set off with her again, great peals of laughter crescendoing around them. "But his loyalty I would question."


  Triona was so incensed she could say nothing, her muscles beginning to cramp from the way he was carrying her, her tangled hair covering her face. She knew they had entered a building when it suddenly grew darker, heard his footfalls upon planked wood and smelled the musty smoke from a peat fire, until finally it grew bright again although not as light as outside.

  "This apartment used to belong to my mother. I think you’ll find it adequate to your needs."

  With that Triona was dumped unceremoniously onto something soft but she bolted upright at once, sputtering and swiping away the hair from her eyes and mouth. Ronan was standing at the foot of a canopied bed, looking as stern as she had ever seen him.

  "It occurred to me that Aud omitted a very popular legend from her list this afternoon, ‘Cuchulain’s Courtship of the Maiden Emer,’" he said in a low forbidding voice. "Do you know it?"

  "Of course I know it!" she shot back, thinking his question more than odd as she glanced beyond him to the door, her nearest means of escape. "Hate it, too! It’s a ridiculous story—"

  "And one you shall sing for us after supper tonight," he cut in, his intense gray eyes daring her to make a move from the bed. "I want to hear every verse, Triona O’Toole, especially the ones about the six maidenly gifts of Lady Emer. Her beauty of person" —his disapproving gaze fell pointedly to her rumpled clothing, then he once more met her eyes— "her beauty of voice—"

  "Oh, so you don’t enjoy my screeching and shouting?"

  "Her gift of music, her knowledge of embroidering and needlework—"

  "You’ll never see me stitching the day away and you can stake your life on that, O’Byrne!"

  "Her gift of wisdom—"

  "Thank you very much but I’ve my wits about me. Enough to know I was a fool to have ever trusted you."

  "And the gift of virtuous chastity."

  Taking immediate affront at the unspoken question in his eyes, Triona blurted indignantly, "I’ve that, too, not that it’s any of your damned business! And I’ll not be singing that silly poem tonight, you can be sure!"

  "You will sing it, Triona, and you’ll be wearing a maiden’s gown and mantle when you do." His gaze swept her from head to toe. "You look to be close to my sister Maire’s size, though she might be a bit taller. You can borrow a few gowns from her until I’ve some made for you."

  "Don’t trouble yourself for I won’t be going near them!"

  "You will wear them, woman," he countered, the dark warning look he gave her so ominous that Triona scooted back a bit on the bed. "You’ll emulate all of Lady Emer’s fine traits if you want your stay at Glenmalure to be a pleasant one. Do you understand me?"

  Triona nodded reluctantly, swallowing the caustic remark that flew like lightning to her tongue. But when he turned his back on her to leave, she could no longer resist, her pent up fury overwhelming her.

  "What of my father, O’Byrne?" she demanded, raising her voice even louder when he didn’t stop. "Did you lie about him, too? About the vengeance you were planning?"

  He paused then, his wide shoulders stiff with tension, although he didn’t turn around.

  "Baron Maurice de Roche of Kildare will pay dearly for your father’s death. That I swear."

  "But when?" she cried as he began to close the door behind him.

  "It’s no longer any of your concern. You’ve womanly things to occupy you now."

  No longer any of her concern? Triona raged as the door was pulled shut with a dull thunk. Was he mad? She would not rest until her father was avenged. So she had sworn!

  She vaulted from the bed and flung herself across the room just as a key grated in the lock. Stunned that Ronan could so cruelly confine her, she pounded upon the door with her fists.

  "O’Byrne?"

  She heard footfalls receding, and she pounded even harder.

  "O’Byrne!"

  Still no answer and she knew then that he was gone. Just as she knew she would make him pay for deceiving her.

  The blackhearted liar! Aye, he would pay, and in ways that would make him wish that he had held to his word!

  Chapter 5

  "BEGORRA, BROTHER, YOU’VE taken on quite a handful."

  Snorting in assent, Ronan lifted his cup and took another draft of ale. The feasting-hall was abustle with preparations for supper but at least at this end near the fire, he and Niall had enjoyed a measure of privacy.

  "The O’Toole’s adopted daughter no less," Niall continued. "Probably the last request you would have expected."

  "What I expected was a docile young woman who’d give me no trouble," said Ronan, throwing a disgruntled look across the table. "Find her a husband and be done with it, my duty ended. Or I’d never have sworn—"

  "No, Ronan, you would have sworn either way. You’d not have let Fineen go to his death worrying for his daughter."

  Ronan didn’t answer, although Niall spoke the truth. Aye, he’d have taken Triona into his care even if she was twice the hellion—although that was difficult to fathom—but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He didn’t, and the sooner he found her a husband . . .

  Low chuckling drew Ronan’s attention. He frowned at Niall’s grin. "Something amuses you?"

  To his surprise, Niall began to laugh in earnest, his mirth only fanning Ronan’s irritation.

  "I knew I’ve been too soft with you, Niall. Twenty-four years old, my Tanist, no less, and you’re still unable to hold your ale—"

  "It’s not the ale," Niall broke in, his laughter abating but only slightly. "I was thinking of earlier this afternoon. You should have seen your face, Ronan! You usually manage to keep a tight rein on yourself, but when Triona stood up to you . . . just a wee bit of a thing, too, and spouted she’d have no part of your plans for her—"

  "Something she’ll not do again if she’s wise." Ronan thunked his empty cup upon the table and gestured for a nearby servant. "She’ll learn soon enough that my patience is very short when it comes to such willfulness."

  "I’ll say." Wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, Niall shook his head. "I couldn’t believe it when you picked her up and threw her across your shoulders."

  "She deserved much more than that. That chit needs a good strong dose of discipline. She’s lucky I didn’t take her across my knee."

  "You think that would make her change her ways?" Growing thoughtful, Niall waited until his own cup was refilled before adding, "Odd, a young woman not wanting to marry. Did you have a chance to ask her why?"

  "Yes, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll relent and abide by my wishes soon enough."

  "I don’t know, brother. If she’s always done exactly as she pleases. . . ."

  "I said she will change. And quickly, for I’ve little time for her foolishness."

  "Just as you’ve no time for a wife?"

  Tensing, Ronan met Niall’s eyes. "You know why I’ve never married."

  "Aye, as you’ve said since I can remember, you’ve been too busy. Harrying the Normans, looking after the needs of our clan. But it’s more than that, Ronan, and I’ll not hold my peace any longer. Your guilt has consumed you! You’ve been doing penance ever since Conor O’Toole’s death, denying yourself—"

  "Enough!" Ronan thrust himself from the bench, giving no heed that his roar had caused all activity in the hall to cease. "I will hear no more!"

  "Aye, the truth always stings deeper than any wound," Niall continued undaunted, rising to look Ronan squarely in the eyes. "If it’s so important to make amends to the O’Tooles, mayhap instead of finding Triona a husband, you might think to wed her yourself."

  Stunned, Ronan stared at his brother, his fury ebbing into sheer incredulity.

  "Me, marry Triona O’Toole? Now I know you’ve drunk too much ale." He sat heavily, tunneling his hand through his hair. "With that insolent tongue and her willful ways, I’d never know a moment’s peace. No, Niall, you’ve always been a more tolerant man. You’d sooner be the one to wed her."

  "Don’t think I haven’t al
ready considered it. You’ve long told me that I should settle down."

  Again Ronan was stunned, this time by the strange cramping in his gut. The fierce grip on his cup amazed him, too, his knuckles gone white. And it was all he could do to mutter, "Go on, then, if you want her," before he downed half his ale in one swallow. Yet he scarcely tasted the pungent liquid, and when he lowered his cup, he found that same amused smile on Niall’s face.

  "No, I think I’ll pass, brother. You know I’ve always favored blonds." Niall set his cup down and rose. "I think I’ll go sit with Maire for a while. She was resting when I went by earlier."

  Ronan set his cup down, too. "I’ll walk over with you—"

  "No, no, relax and finish your ale," Niall broke in, already striding away. "I’ve got to change clothes first for supper, so say I’ll meet you over there. No hurry."

  Odd, Ronan thought, shooting a narrowed glance over his shoulder as Niall left the hall. His brother already wore one of his finest tunics, made from green cloth stolen from a Norman merchant who’d given up his wares only too eagerly in exchange for his life . . .

  Ronan suddenly noticed that every servant in the hall was staring at him, standing stock-still as if their shoes had been bolted to the floor. "Go back to your work," he ordered them, angry with himself for exploding so violently at Niall.

  That wasn’t like him. He preferred to keep his emotions well in check. Had for years. He was a man of self-control. Strict self-discipline. It was safest that way. Yet it was clear now that these past few days had affected him, visiting Imaal and seeing Fineen again, bringing everything back, his memories of Conor more painful than ever. He felt taut as a drum, edgy, made all the worse by his new charge’s willfulness. No wonder the servants were staring.

  Pleased to see that the bustling activity had resumed, Ronan turned back around and lifted his cup to drink, his gaze drawn to the fire. As he watched the bright red-gold flames, it was unsettling how easily Triona’s face came to mind.