Wild Angel

by Miriam Minger

  Ignoring his compliment, Triona was tempted to tell him that she wasn’t afraid of anything, least of all marriage! If only these dense men had bothered to ask her why she didn’t want to marry instead of reasoning it out so neatly for themselves! She could have told them that she’d bind herself to no man unless she found one who’d want and respect her just the way she was. Respect her without changing her. Instead they’d gotten it all wrong . . .

  Triona glanced down at the ground, fighting the sudden urge to grin. They had it all wrong! Oh, it was too perfect! Why hadn’t she realized before that she now had full license to act exactly as she pleased?

  "I’ve upset you."

  Meeting Niall’s eyes, Triona had all she could do to feign irritation. "Aye, you’ve upset me! I don’t want to talk about this anymore!"

  "Then we won’t," Niall said quickly, lengthening his strides to keep up with her as she set out at a brisk pace. Conn trotted along beside them. "Let’s talk about supper the other night and how wonderful I found your singing."

  This time she couldn’t help smiling, although only a small one. She was supposed to be upset, after all. "You said you hoped I’d stand up to your brother, so I decided to oblige you.

  And now she could continue to do just that, Triona thought smugly as Niall chuckled to himself. Since Ronan was so concerned about her fears he’d think twice before punishing her for any lapses she might suffer . . .

  "I’d say you sounded like a lark," Niall commented wryly, "but a very big one."

  "A giant crow is more the truth of it," Triona countered, deciding there was little harm in playing along.

  This reply drew a hearty laugh from Niall, who slowed down before a stout wooden structure.

  "Your house?" At his nod, Triona added, "A good rest to you." She began to walk away, then stopped and glanced back at Niall. "Whatever you said to Ronan, it’s clear I’ve you to thank for my freedom."

  He shrugged lightly, looking around them to make sure no one else was near. "I told you I’d help you any way I could."

  "A strange thing, you have to admit, Niall O’Byrne." Triona searched his face. "I doubt your brother would be pleased to know you’d sided with me against him . . . if indeed that’s what you’ve done. I’ve been meaning to ask you why—"

  "You’re a hard one not to help." Niall laughed as he glanced down at his sodden shirt. "This place hasn’t been so lively in years."

  "Aye, and I’m not finished yet," she said without thinking. She clamped her mouth shut as Niall sobered, although his blue-gray eyes still shone with humor.

  "Not finished? Is there the slightest wee bit of a chance that we’ve read you wrong, Triona O’Toole?"

  She didn’t answer, changing the subject instead. "Where’s my falcon?"

  "Over there. That small building by the stable."

  Triona smiled her thanks and set off before he could speak again. "Come, Conn! Let’s see how Ferdiad has been faring, and then we’ll go visit Laeg."

  Yet she didn’t get far. Curiosity overcame her when she spied the serving woman who’d brought her Maire’s gowns stepping from the adjacent dwelling-house.

  "Does Maire live here?"

  The older woman, a plump kindly-looking soul, eyed her carefully. "Aye."

  Did everyone protect Maire so diligently? Triona wondered, gesturing to Conn to sit and wait for her before glancing back at the woman. "I’d like to greet her if I may."

  There was a weighty pause, then the serving woman nodded. "She’s at her sewing in the back chamber."

  As the woman moved away, Triona headed to the door. At least Niall must trust her with his sister, she thought, noting that he’d already gone into his house.

  She, too, went inside, the smell of wild roses greeting her. She saw at once that fresh bouquets of pink and yellow blossoms were placed here and there, their lush fragrance adding to the air of femininity that permeated the large room. A room that was filled with fine things, beautiful things, unlike any place Triona had seen before.

  Hangings of painted cloth graced the walls, richly colored woven carpets covered the floor. Delicately wrought candle holders, made of gold, gleamed in the light cast by glowing ivory candles. An embroidered cloth of startling white was spread upon a table, rose-colored cushions with gold tassels upon the chairs. An elegant jewel chest, decorated with enamel of many hues, was placed upon a smaller table. Triona could only guess at the wonders it must hold—-costly spoils taken on a raid. She had no doubt that many of these things had once belonged to Normans.

  "Ita, is that you?"

  Once more Triona was struck by the sweetness of Maire’s voice; she felt chagrined that she hadn’t announced herself sooner.

  "No, it’s Triona." She went at once to the back room, an equally well-appointed bedchamber, stopping in the door. Maire was sitting at a recessed window seat that must have been built especially for her. The bright sunlight poured in upon her fragile beauty. And upon her face was a smile of such welcome that Triona could not help but smile back.

  "I’m so pleased to see you. Come and sit by me, Triona. There’s more than enough room for two."

  Triona obliged, noting the soft fur blanket draped over Maire’s legs and the embroidery lying idle in her lap. Triona noticed, too, as she sat down opposite the young woman, how translucent Maire’s skin appeared in the sunlight, almost as white as milk. She found herself thinking that Maire could use some wind and fresh air upon her cheeks to add some color, then wondered if Maire had ever been atop a horse. Probably not . . .

  "I was hoping you might visit," Maire’s gentle voice broke into Triona’s thoughts. "I’m glad that Ronan decided to let you out of your room. I told him the other night that I didn’t think it was fair what he did to you."

  Had she another ally among the O’Byrnes? Triona wondered, looking at Maire with surprise. But before she had a chance to reply, Maire added softly, "I’m glad to see that you’re walking more ably in your gown, too."

  "I’ve been practicing," Triona murmured, her lie making her feel uncomfortable. Her face growing warm, she looked out the window, cursing again her unintentionally thoughtless stunt.

  "Triona."

  She started, meeting Maire’s eyes.

  "You don’t have to say you like the gowns for my sake. I should have known better than to push them upon you." Another smile curved Maire’s pale lips. "Actually, the few times I’ve tried to use that crutch over there, my gown has proved a nuisance. Mayhap I should try a pair of trousers."

  "Oh, Ronan would love that," Triona muttered to herself, relieved that Maire seemed to understand about the gowns.

  Maire laughed delicately. "I imagine that my wearing trousers would make Ronan a bit unhappy."

  "A bit?" Triona let out a snort at the thought of Ronan’s face. "He would think I had tainted you for sure. He didn’t even want me to talk to you at supper, and if he knew now that we were sitting here together—"

  "You must come to see me whenever you wish," Maire broke in, her lovely features grown sober. "Ronan has always been very protective, mayhap more than he . . ." She didn’t finish, uttering a soft sigh as she looked down at the embroidery in her lap. Only after a long moment did she glance up again, her gray eyes wistful. "It must be a wonderful thing to be able to wed. You’re so fortunate, Triona."

  Triona immediately bristled, not so much at Maire but the unpleasant topic she’d raised. "Fortunate? To have your brother threatening to force some man upon me?"

  "Aye, that isn’t right, but at least you’re so healthy and whole no man would ever refuse you." Then, shaking her head as if angry with herself, Maire’s tone gentled. "Ah, it’s better this way. It wouldn’t be fair to burden a man with an invalid, and surely no man would ever want one for a wife . . ."

  For a moment Triona felt as if she’d been forgotten, Maire was so lost in her thoughts. But it gave her a chance to think, too, astonished as she was by what Maire had revealed. They couldn’t be more different, Maire appe
aring more the mythic Lady Emer than any woman Triona had known, generous, sweet-natured, self-denying, and surrounded by beautiful things that held little interest for Triona. Yet they were uncannily alike, too. Both of them wishing for acceptance . . . for the world to be different.

  Pity washed over Triona, but she knew that wasn’t what Maire needed. "You say you’ve tried that crutch?" she asked, glancing at the polished piece of hazelwood resting against the wall.

  Maire looked up as if startled. "Aye, now and again this past year. I was feeling a bit stronger, and I thought mayhap it might help my legs so Ronan agreed to have it made for me. But he had me swear I’d never attempt to use it alone, fearing I’d fall and hurt myself. Ita usually helps me, but never for as long as I’d like."

  Aye, her wary Ita probably feared she’d hurt herself, Triona thought, rising to fetch the crutch. No doubt Maire had received little encouragement from all of her well-intentioned protectors, their concern making them believe Maire’s efforts could only make her worse. Thus no horseback rides, little fresh air from the looks of her, and few words to inspire her. Triona could just imagine the sheltered life she’d lived, poor girl, with that stern-faced Ronan in charge.

  "Well, Maire O’Byrne, Ita isn’t here, so it’s my turn to help." Triona held out the crutch. "And we’ll go for as long as you want."

  Maire stared at her, clearly stunned. "Truly?"

  Triona nodded. "I’m not as big as Ita but I can support you well enough, and besides, you look to weigh a good bit less than me. Oh aye, and while I’m asking, have you ever ridden a horse?"

  Maire shook her head, her eyes growing wider. "Ronan’s never allowed me to."

  "The tyrant," Triona muttered with a frown.

  "Oh, no, it was only because he feared—"

  "I know. That you might be hurt. But I’m not afraid because I think walking and riding is exactly what you long to be doing, not sitting here all alone." As tears glistened in Maire’s eyes, Triona felt something swimming in her own as she bent down to help Maire to rise. "Come on, now. We’ll start slow, and work at it every day if we can. The riding might have to wait until we can show Ronan you’re making some progress—aye, and what we’re doing will have to be a secret."

  "Our secret," Maire murmured, gritting her teeth as she stood shakily.

  Chapter 9

  IT WAS LATE afternoon when Ronan entered the stable, his instincts telling him where Triona might be found. But he didn’t see her readily, at least not until he heard spirited humming—a hunting tune—coming from a middle stall. And then he spied only the top of her head and the vigorous stroke of her arm above the wooden siding as she brushed her tall stallion Laeg’s back.

  "I could swear that’s not the same voice I heard the other night," he said dryly, not surprised when the singing stopped. He heard a low curse, then Triona was peering at him over the stall, clearly standing on tiptoes.

  "That’s because it always sounds better when it’s not so loud."

  "Ah, I see."

  "Truly! If you’d like I could show you the difference—"

  "Spare my ears, Triona." At once he saw her eyes narrow, and he realized he had probably spoken too sternly. Reminding himself of his new mission, Ronan moved to the stall entrance, adding in a more pleasant tone, "Why don’t you come out? Laeg looks well groomed enough for three horses."

  He fell silent, presented for the second time that day with the enticing sight of Triona’s bare legs as she obligingly left the stall—her apricot-colored gown tucked up between her thighs like trousers.

  "I hope you don’t mind, but it was impossible for me to move about until I raised the skirt."

  Pleased as much by her handiwork as with the tightening of Ronan’s jaw, Triona hooked her thumbs on the belt she’d fashioned from rope to hold everything up. She’d been imagining this moment, ever since she’d come to the stable. She could see that Ronan was trying to hold onto his patience, and she hoped she didn’t appear too smug. Aye, spiting him was going to be such fun!

  "I do mind, but I suppose I can see the purpose in it," came his careful answer, his voice not quite as agreeable as a moment before.

  "Well, you can see I’m still wearing a gown, and that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?"

  He nodded, his gaze sweeping over her again. Except this time his appraisal took longer, much longer, until Triona began to grow uncomfortable. His expression had changed, too, from displeasure to something . . . something else. From the way he was staring at her, one would think he’d never seen a woman’s legs before!

  "Is it warts you’re searching for, O’Byrne? If so, I don’t have any, or hairy moles, or any blemish for that matter!"

  "Actually" —his slate gray eyes lifted to hers— "I was going to say your legs are very lovely."

  She gaped at him, completely taken by surprise. "You—you were?"

  "Aye. Slim and lithe . . .

  "Lithe?" Triona’s heart began to pound, Ronan’s gaze wandering down her thighs again as if to emphasize his every word.

  "Very lithe. And sleek. Like the silk of your gown, I would imagine, soft to the touch—"

  "Touch?" The spell shattered, Triona took a stumbling step backward, her eyes narrowing at Ronan. "Don’t you even dare think of touching me, O’Byrne! Don’t you even dare!"

  "I thought no such thing," Ronan lied, trying to tell that to the heat blazing in his loins. His sudden decision to test Niall’s advice had succeeded more than he could have imagined possible, painfully so for him. As for Triona, he’d swear she had been no more thinking of defying him a moment ago than running away. By God, had no man ever complimented her before? From the startled look she’d given him, he doubted any had.

  "If anyone touches you, Triona, it will be your husband," he continued as she began to wrench the skirt from the improvised belt at her waist, appearing almost frantic to cover herself. "Yet you can hardly blame me if I commented on what you so freely displayed."

  "I wasn’t displaying anything!" Triona’s temper flared as hot as her face. "Least of all to you, Ronan O’Byrne!" Yanking her wrinkled gown over her legs, she straightened to find that same unsettling glint of amusement in his eyes. "If you’ve found something funny in this—this latest outrage, I can tell you that I have not!"

  "I’m only wondering how you’re going to mount your horse. It might have been easier before . . ." Glancing at the rope belt she’d flung atop a pile of hay, he shrugged. "I’m sure you’ll manage. I came here to ask if you might like to join me on a ride—’

  "A ride?" Instantly, Triona knew she had found the perfect way to retaliate. "Across the glen?"

  "If you wish."

  Still unused to his acquiescence, Triona turned her back on him and seized Laeg’s bridle from a peg. "You’re damned right I’ll manage. Watch me."

  He was watching her, too. She could feel it, and she hoped he couldn’t see that her fingers were trembling. They hadn’t stopped since he’d said her legs were . . . Oh, begorra, why was she wasting time thinking about it?

  "I could help you with that bit."

  "I don’t need your help," she snapped, although Laeg didn’t seem to agree. The stallion was bobbing his finely sculpted head as if to tell her to mind what she was doing. "Easy, Laeg, I’ll get it right," she assured him as she settled the bit in his mouth and then backed him from the stall.

  "We’ve some sidesaddles the other women use."

  "Ha! That’s the last thing I need," Triona scoffed. "Just like you, O’Byrne, and most Irishmen worthy of the name, I’ve never used a saddle in my life—any kind of saddle." She grabbed onto Laeg’s thick black mane and pulled herself onto his back. Except then she was stuck, like a plank of wood across his back, unable to sit astride him. She swore she would burn the gown to cinders as soon as she had the chance. "Mayhap if we rode together, I could hold—"

  "You’ve your own blessed horse to ride!" she cut in, knowing she must look awkward as she balanced precariously on one hip and the
n flopped over, raising herself to a sitting position. A position that to her fury had both her legs dangling over one side, something she hadn’t had to endure since childhood.

  "Well done."

  She turned to find Ronan already astride his huge black stallion, the muscular animal snorting belligerently at Laeg as if offering a challenge, its glossy neck arched and its nostrils flared. But she and Laeg could never hope to win any race with her barely able to keep from sliding off . . .

  That thought decided the matter. Her scowl daring Ronan to say a word, Triona pulled up her gown as modestly as possible and threw her bare leg over Laeg’s neck. With a toss of her head, she was out the stable door and heading to the gates, not caring in the least if Ronan was following her.

  He was, only a few paces separating them.

  "Easy, man," he told himself, tempted to haul her back to the stable and command she ride in a more maidenlike fashion. He didn’t appreciate the stares she was drawing, her creamy thighs hugging her mount a sight to leave any man agog. But at least she was still wearing a gown. One concession might soon lead to others if he managed to keep his mission in mind.

  "What’s wrong with your men, O’Byrne? Why won’t they open the gates?" she demanded as he drew alongside her. "Surely they can see that I’m not trying to ride out alone."

  "Too busy gawking," Ronan muttered to himself, throwing a dark look at the guards manning the gates.

  Immediately the way was opened, Ronan not surprised when the same thing happened at the two outer gates. But the last set had no more than swung open when Triona kicked her steed into a full gallop. Ronan found himself pelted with clods of earth as she flew ahead of him.

  "Come on, Laeg! Let’s show Black O’Byrne what it means to ride!"

  Her mood lightened by the wind whipping at her hair, Triona waved her arm and whooped at the top of her lungs. The sheep grazing at the bottom of the hill scattered, bawling, and the clatter of the bells around their necks filled the air. She glanced over her shoulder to see that she held a good lead over Ronan though his stallion was lunging hard.