Wild Angel

by Miriam Minger

  "Don’t think this incident has changed my mind," Ronan added with finality. "You’ll grow used to wearing gowns soon enough."

  When goats fly, Triona thought smugly to herself as Ronan gestured for the servants to begin carrying in the meal.

  "You may keep that gown, if you’d like," a sweet sounding voice said. "I think it looks far better on you than it could ever look on me."

  Triona turned, focusing for the first time on the pale lovely girl seated next to Niall. She guessed at once that this must be Maire from her thick midnight tresses and gray eyes, so like Ronan’s. Triona suspected, too, that she and Maire must be very close in age. Yet there all similarity ended. Triona had always prided herself upon being healthy as a horse, but this poor girl looked fragile enough to break.

  "I hope you’ll keep the others, too." A delicate smile curved lips the color of faded pink roses as Maire glanced fondly at her two older brothers and then back to Triona. "Ronan and Niall spoil me overmuch with so many gowns. I really don’t need them."

  Triona wanted to spout that she didn’t need them either, but the offer had been made so generously, so graciously, she refrained. "You’re very kind."

  "Aye, she is," Ronan interjected tersely. He leaned forward as if to block Maire from her view, giving Triona the distinct impression that he didn’t want the two of them to converse.

  He must be afraid some of her bad unmaidenlike qualities might rub off on his dear sister, she thought, affronted. Just for that, she decided to spite him by inviting Maire to come and see her tomorrow. But before she could say a word, Triona felt a nudge to her arm as Aud leaned over to whisper in her ear.

  "She can’t walk, sweeting."

  Stunned, Triona met Aud’s eyes. Their conversation was masked by the mounting clatter in the hall.

  "The O’Byrne carried her himself into supper. I talked to one of the servants while I was waiting for you at the door, and she said a terrible childhood fever was the cause. A shame, it is, too. Such a pretty girl."

  A shame, indeed, Triona thought guiltily, glancing beyond Ronan to Maire’s fine-boned profile. Shame on her for pretending to trip all over herself when two seats down from her was a young woman who couldn’t walk at all. Triona flushed uncomfortably and looked down at the table.

  Her wine cup was full so she lifted it and took a long sip, the amber liquid’s cool sweetness improving her mood. She had never tasted anything so good; they’d never had wine as fine as this vintage in Imaal.

  She noted for the first time, too, that her cup gleamed of silver, as did the plate set in front of her. In fact the entire table was set with silver: ewers, knives, spoons and bowls. Glancing around the hall, she saw to her amazement that most clansmen held mazers with bright silver rims or shiny cups like her own.

  "Is this a special feast night?" she asked. When Ronan didn’t reply, she added conversationally, "It surely must be. I’ve never seen so much silver. We had fine plate in my father’s household, but only enough for his table. And we never used it except for the most important feast days."

  "Believe me, Triona, your presence tonight is no cause for celebration," Ronan said stiffly, his ribs still smarting and his big toe throbbing. When she merely shrugged and looked away, he swallowed a deep draft of wine but it did little to soothe his foul mood. If he’d felt edgy earlier that day, now his carefully nurtured self-control felt in shreds.

  Damn her, did she think that he could be so easily deceived? She had walked capably enough across the hall, her lithe grace capturing not only his attention but every other man’s in the room. Graceful, that is, until she was close enough to do him bodily injury—

  "I’d say your hospitality is sorely lacking, brother. If you don’t care to converse with our beautiful guest, then perhaps we could exchange seats."

  "You’ll stay where you are." Ronan shot Niall a dark look. To his annoyance his brother speculatively raised his brow. Maire was looking at him oddly, too. Realizing how possessive he must have appeared, Ronan’s vexation mounted.

  By God, the last thing he wanted was for them to think that he held some genuine interest in Triona. Though he admitted he found her desirable, he found many women desirable, at least for a night.

  "What are these?"

  Ronan glanced at the steaming platter of chicken being held in front of Triona, her eyes fixed inquisitively upon the pear-shaped nuts studding the fragrant golden sauce.

  "Almonds, a delicacy from the East. Compliments of the Normans . . . like the wine you’ve been drinking."

  Impressed, Triona held out her cup. "This, too?"

  Ronan nodded. "The silver, the linen tablecloths, the silk on your back, the rare saffron in that sauce, the meat roasting on our spits." He paused to drink, his eyes granite hard when he lowered his cup. "Anything they hold dear, we’ve taken. Their lives if they’re fool enough to stand in our way."

  Hearing the sudden harshness in his voice, Triona imagined that few Normans of sane mind would dare to raise their weapons against so forbidding an opponent as Black O’Byrne.

  "Aye, Triona, we’ve even taken a cook," Niall said with a laugh.

  "A cook?" Astonished, Triona glanced at Niall then back to Ronan. "How?"

  He shrugged as if the incident had been of no consequence. "An unwise man left his manor too lightly guarded during supper. When we rode our horses into the knight’s hall, our weapons drawn and ready, his cook threw down his ladle and begged to go with us."

  "An Irishman," Niall interjected, clearly eager to tell part of the story. "Seamus was sold into slavery as a lad and cooked for Normans most of his life."

  "Aye, though after his years with our foes he adds a bit of foreign refinement to our meals." Ronan’s voice grew harsher. "It’s well-known among our enemies that we Wicklow barbarians prefer our women filthy, our wine sour and our meat still warm and bleeding."

  This comment brought great guffaws from the clansmen seated nearby, one man nearly choking, his mouth was so full of food.

  "Our clever Seamus toiled for a time in an Irish kitchen as well, a MacMurrough’s kitchen." Ronan’s voice rose above the din. "For a wedding between Irish and Norman. And well we know that the MacMurrough clan’s taste has long been for treason, and forming alliances with the French-tongued dogs who stole Kildare from its rightful owners, the O’Byrnes!"

  This time the hall erupted in jeers, slurs and curses upon the name MacMurrough and all its descendants. The noise grew so deafening that Niall had to stand on his chair and roar at the top of his lungs for the harper, a lank, sallow-faced man who unfolded his gaunt frame from a nearby corner and came forward carrying his harp.

  "I think the O’Byrne is in mind for a tune," Niall announced as Ronan pushed himself back in his chair, his foot braced on the table. "Play of Dermot MacMurrough, harper, and how that traitor, that accursed king of Leinster invited the Normans to our green isle!"

  Triona became so caught up in the impassioned music leaping from the strings that she gave no more thought to her meal, the food growing cold upon her plate. She knew the words as well as anyone, the infamous story recounting Dermot’s treacherous plea to the Norman King Henry to send fighting men to protect his Leinster kingdom from invading Irish clans. So the Normans came, forcing clan after clan to bow under their yoke while those who didn’t bend were branded as rebels and burned from their homes.

  The O’Byrnes were one of those clans. As the harper’s high tenor voice soared into the air, his rusty hair and beard wild about his face as he sang, Triona wasn’t surprised when everyone in the hall joined him.

  Forty years had passed since the Normans had sailed across the Irish Sea and conquered much of Eire, but the O’Byrnes still had strong reason to hate the MacMurroughs. While the Irish traitors enjoyed the comfort of their lands around them, a reward for their devil’s alliance, the O’Byrnes and the O’Tooles lived in the mountains where they had been forced to take refuge . . . their rich hereditary lands to the north overrun by men clad
in shirts of mail.

  "At least the O’Byrne didn’t deceive us about the harper, eh, sweeting?" came Aud’s sudden whisper. "The man plays as fine as you sing."

  Startled, Triona almost hadn’t heard her maid above the cascading strings. But before she could respond Triona felt a strong hand at her elbow.

  "You will sing next."

  Ronan’s commanding voice sent a shiver plummeting to the pit of her stomach. She was suddenly so nervous that she almost abandoned her plan to sing poorly, displaying yet another lack in feminine graces. But one glance at Ronan’s face made her resentment flare hot. His stone gray eyes held a clear warning, that to her, became a dare. Aye, she had been blessed with a crystalline singing voice, but she wasn’t about to share her gift with him!

  Triona rose as the harper’s long yellow-nailed fingers sounded the last biting strains of Dermot MacMurrough’s tune and then moved into the gentler courtship melody of Lady Emer and the legendary hero Cuchulain.

  "Remember, Triona," Ronan warned her. "Every last verse."

  In spite of her pounding heart and damp palms, she closed her eyes and breathed serenely. Her father had often chuckled at her made-up verses mocking the shy, self-denyingly noble, ridiculously perfect conception of maidenly excellence. Fineen had been proud possessing instead a daughter whose skill with the bow had matched his own.

  "The song, Triona," Ronan prompted sternly, wondering if she planned to keep them waiting all night. He shot an impatient glance at Aud who smiled stiffly.

  "As lilting as a lark, Lord, you will—"

  The last of Aud’s words were drowned out as Triona emitted the most grating, most shrill noise Ronan had ever heard in his life . . . so piercingly high that he clapped his hands over his ears while every face in the hall looked at Triona in horror.

  "Woman!"

  Chapter 7

  TRIONA GASPED AS she was whirled around by the arm, coming face-to-face with a man she doubted could look more furious.

  "Yes?" she asked Ronan innocently, blinking.

  He was so enraged that he couldn’t seem to answer, so she glanced at Niall instead. The younger man looked quite stunned. So did Maire, although she had the smallest of smiles upon her face.

  "Oh dear, I started too fast, didn’t I?" Triona prodded. "Too slow? Perhaps a bit too loud—"

  "Enough!" Ronan’s command made her jump, but she recklessly decided his eyes weren’t yet furious enough.

  "But if you’d let me begin again, I’m sure that I—"

  "No more!"

  "No more? But I just started. I thought you wanted to hear every verse . . . oh!" Triona was swung around so roughly that the room spun around her.

  "Lilting as a lark?" Ronan demanded of the astonished openmouthed maid, his grip on Triona’s arm so punishing that she winced. "Tell me, And. Did you not say that your mistress had a lovely voice?"

  "Aye, Lord, that I did," Aud replied, recovering so quickly from her shock that Triona believed she couldn’t have done any better herself. "A wee bit on the sharp side I must admit and perhaps a shade too breathy, but pleasant enough to listen to just the same."

  "Then you must be deaf, woman, for if I’ve any hearing left after this night, I’ll count myself fortunate. As for you"—Ronan turned Triona roughly to face him— "you’re blessed to have earned such loyalty. If Aud had been any less glib with her answer, you’d have found yourself locked in your room for a fortnight instead of a week."

  Triona’s eyes widened in disbelief. "What? You’re going to lock me up for a week? After I did everything you wanted . . . spoke softly, acted agreeably, agreed to sing . . . wore this—this wretched gown?" She was so outraged that this time she gave no heed to Maire’s feelings. Triona raised her hand to slap Ronan but he caught it, his strong fingers crushing hers in a punishing grip.

  "Bruised ribs and a broken toe are enough injury for one night, thank you—" Ronan ducked just in time to miss her other doubled fist aimed right for his jaw. Uttering a low curse, he yanked her arms behind her back and then brought her hard against him. "You’re a wild one, Triona O’Toole, but I’m faster than you. Now either you walk in as maidenly a fashion as you can stomach or I’ll throw you over my—"

  "I’ll walk!" Triona declared, the muffled laughter rippling through the hall enough to convince her that she would not be the brunt of these O’Byrnes’ amusement again.

  Thinking that as soon as Ronan released her arms she would bolt for the doors, her hopes were dashed when he wrenched her silk mantle from her shoulders and wound it around her waist like a lead rope. Then he prodded her with his knee, ordering over the erupting guffaws of his men, "Move."

  Her face burning bright crimson, she crossed her arms over her breasts and planted her feet firmly on the floor. "I will not! Not until you allow me to walk at will—oh!"

  Triona rounded upon Ronan in horror, her bottom smarting where he had just pinched her.

  "Now there was a pure bell-like tone if ever I’ve heard one," he said. To her surprise a trace of a smile was on his face. "Perhaps if I pinch you some more we might hear the fair music Aud told me so much about—instead of the noise you screeched just to spite me."

  Triona moved then, closing her ears to the laughter that followed them past the crowded tables and out into the starlit night. She didn’t stop until she had reached the dwelling-house, where she paused outside the door to catch her breath. "Beautiful night."

  Her breasts rising and falling from hurrying so fast, her humiliation so great she felt hot tears welling in her eyes, Triona glanced at him in disbelief. He wasn’t watching her but looking up at the waning moon, his striking features awash in its light.

  Her heart seemed to skip a beat and she hated herself for it, hated herself for thinking him handsome after what he’d just done to her. But she hated herself even more when he met her eyes, her heart leaping into her throat when he reached out and smudged away a tear with his thumb . . . his touch upon her cheek as soft as a whisper.

  "Tears? You’re more a maiden than you think, Triona."

  Ronan knew he’d said the wrong thing the moment her fist connected with his lower abdomen. Exhaling in pain, he doubled over, not having seen the blow coming.

  "And you’re more the fool, O’Byrne, to think I’ll become something I’m not to please the likes of you!"

  She had slipped out from under her silken restraint before he could catch her, but to his surprise she fled into the lamp-lit dwelling-house instead of heading for the gate. Holding his stomach, he followed as she ran to her apartment and furiously slammed the door behind her. He listened for a brief instant and, swearing that he heard muffled sobbing, was stunned by how quickly his hand moved to the latch.

  "May I go to her?" Aud, accompanied by one of his clansmen, was hurrying to the door.

  Ronan spun, startled.

  "She left the hall in such a rush I thought I should follow her, Lord," the older man began in explanation, gesturing to Aud.

  "It’s all right, Sean. She may enter but lock the door behind her."

  Feeling Aud’s anger, Ronan passed by her without another word. Yet his own anger that a servant would dare to censure his actions was soon overshadowed by keen regret that she’d come at all. A regret that sent him striding tight-lipped for the hall, more determined than ever that his recalcitrant charge would be tamed, wedded and gone from Glenmalure before the next waning moon.

  ***

  "It’s been three days, Ronan. Are you truly going to leave her locked in there for a full week?"

  Ronan gave his brother a hard look as he dismounted. "I’d wager if we had returned yesterday, you’d have said the same thing and then it would only have been two days. And likewise my answer would have been the same. Triona needs firm discipline. She stays."

  "Then don’t be surprised if she’s twice the handful when you finally let her out." Niall slid off his horse, his expression exasperated as he tossed the reins to a waiting servant. "To my mind, you’re being
too damned uncompromising."

  "Very well, then," Ronan said tightly, wheeling halfway to the stable door. "Since I can sense you’re most anxious to tell me. How should I be treating her?"

  "Not like a stern taskmaster determined to break a young mare! Since Triona came to Glenmalure, if you’re not ordering her about or making threats, you’re humiliating her at every turn. That stunt the other night when you made her look like a stubborn filly at the end of a halter, tweaking her to get her to go—"

  "She would have run for the doors if I hadn’t controlled her," Ronan cut him off, waving from the stable the last of the clansmen who’d accompanied them on their raid. In truth, he regretted his callous behavior, but he didn’t need his younger brother, Tanist or no, berating him in front of his men. Only when the servants had led their lathered horses away, leaving him and Niall alone, did Ronan demand, "Since when have you become Triona’s champion?"

  "I think you can guess, brother. Since she first stood up to you—"

  "And I told you I’ve no interest in taking her to wife!"

  To Ronan’s irritation, his vehement outburst was greeted by a grin, Niall spreading out his hands.

  "Who said anything again about a wife? All I’m saying is that you might do better trying another tack with Triona than forcing her to obey you. You want her to act the proper maiden, Ronan, but how can she when you don’t treat her like one? You certainly haven’t given her any encouragement that it’s something she might even want to try."

  "I treated her well enough that first night—until the chit purposely shrieked in my ear."

  Niall shook his head, clearly unconvinced.

  "No? Then what’s your estimation of my conduct?"

  "You were brusque with her and inhospitable, and that’s the mildest of judgments. Yet things could have gone differently, brother. Mayhap if you’d appealed more to her feminine nature, she might not have been so inclined to defy you."

  "Feminine nature?" Ronan muttered, remembering Triona’s well-aimed blow to his stomach. "Other than some tears, I’ve seen little evidence of that."