Wild Angel

by Miriam Minger

  "Faster, Laeg!" she cried, hoping Ronan was angry, no, furious. As furious as his brazen compliments had made her. How dare he comment upon her appearance as if he had the right!

  She raced on past rough pasture and ever-thickening forest that stretched far up the surrounding mountainsides, her head bent low against Laeg’s powerful neck as the stallion thundered beneath her. Whenever she ventured a quick glance behind her, Ronan remained a good twenty lengths away, making her triumphant smile stretch all the wider.

  She had shown him! He wouldn’t dare to ask her to ride with him again out of sheer embarrassment!

  "Have you had enough?"

  Startled that she could have heard Ronan calling to her so clearly, she shot a look over her shoulder to find that her lead had shrunk to less than five lengths.

  "I said, have you had—"

  "I heard you!" she shouted back to him, urging Laeg with a firm squeeze of her knees to go faster. "You should be the one asking yourself if you’ve had enough! Are you blind, O’Byrne? I’ve been holding the lead since—"

  She didn’t finish, glancing behind her again to see that Ronan had fallen back . . . to the same twenty lengths. And when she saw him shrug, sitting fully upright as if he didn’t care that such a posture might slow him down, a realization dawned on her that churned her stomach. The spawn! He wasn’t trying to catch her. He was letting her win!

  Triona yanked up on the reins so suddenly that Laeg snorted in surprise, the stallion rearing and jabbing at the air as she wheeled him around. She had to wait only a moment before Ronan had drawn alongside her, to her annoyance his powerful stallion appearing to have barely worked up a lather.

  "Have you been enjoying yourself?" she demanded, rubbing Laeg’s sweat-glistening neck to calm him.

  "I was going to ask the same of you," said Ronan, struck more than he wanted to admit by the emerald fire in her eyes.

  He had never known a woman who could look so beautiful when angry, her cheeks flushed pink from her ride, her lush coppery curls wild and billowing around her face. And her lips were as red as ripe berries as if the wind whistling down from the great Lugnaquilla had chafed them.

  "Now what are you staring at?"

  "You," Ronan admitted. As her eyes flared in surprise, he added quickly, "You’ve got straw in your hair."

  "I do?" She raised her hand to check, then just as suddenly retook the reins, exhaling with exasperation. "You’ve got a fine way of changing the subject, but it won’t work, O’Byrne. Why didn’t you try to catch me?"

  "Begorra, now, is that what you wanted me to do?" Her lips drew into a tight line, and Ronan found he was enjoying teasing her, something he hadn’t done to anyone in years. "I thought you were merely giving Laeg a good run. If it was a race you wanted, you should have said so . . . though I doubt it would be a fair one."

  "Oh no?" Triona tugged sharply on the reins to keep Laeg from dancing sideways. "What are you saying, O’Byrne? That my Laeg can’t hold his own against that . . . that disagreeable black beast of yours?"

  "This so-called disagreeable beast comes from the finest racing stock in Eire," Ronan said calmly.

  "So does Laeg! Do you think as the daughter of Fineen O’Toole I’d ride anything less?" Triona suddenly smiled at him archly. "I know why you won’t ride against me, and it has nothing to do with Laeg."

  He remained silent.

  "It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it? You truly don’t think I could beat you, so you’re not even willing to let me try. Are you afraid you might lose, O’Byrne?"

  She knew she’d hit her mark from the anger now glinting in his eyes, but to her surprise his reply was remarkably steady. "Do you see that cairn in the distance?"

  She nodded, tense excitement gathering inside her.

  "I’ll give you a five-length lead . . . so whenever you’re ready . . ."

  She didn’t wait to hear more, her heels digging into Laeg’s sides.

  "Fly, Laeg! Fly with you!"

  She’d never felt such exhilaration as they plunged at a full canter toward the cairn, nor did she waste a moment to glance behind her. She knew Ronan was riding hard and fast to catch up with her, her taunting challenge no doubt burning like fire in his veins. Just as she burned to beat him.

  "Come on, Laeg! Come on!" The world around her became a blur as she focused every ounce of her will upon the cairn that loomed ever larger. The pounding of hooves rang like thunder in her ears, a thunder that grew more deafening as Ronan’s black stallion appeared like an ominous cloud out of the corner of her eye . . . drawing closer and closer until horse and rider were lunging right alongside her.

  "Laeg, run! Run!" They were almost there, the circular pile of stones only a mere ten lengths away . . . so close, so close—

  Triona gasped as she was suddenly swept from her horse, Ronan’s powerful arms encircling her as both steeds forged past the cairn. She was so stunned that she could only gape at him, her breath snagged in her throat, his embrace so tight that she swore she could feel his heartbeat through her back.

  It seemed to take forever for them to stop. Even when they finally did, Ronan’s mount heaving beneath them, Triona could not speak.

  Had she been in some danger? Immediately her gaze flew to Laeg; she was relieved to see that he was safe and drinking from a stream. Then why . . . ?

  Ronan saw the question in her eyes, but in truth, he wasn’t sure what madness had spurred him to grab her from her horse. And now that he held her so close, her taut bottom wedged between his thighs, her very nearness wreaking havoc with his senses, he felt decidedly reluctant to let her go. By God, what was this wild hoyden doing to him?

  In the next instant her elbow ground into his ribs, hitting the same spot she’d jabbed once before.

  "Damn you, O’Byrne, what were you thinking? I could have been killed! You could have dropped me! I . . . I could have been trampled!"

  "You said you wanted me to catch you," he said through clenched teeth.

  "You spawn, not like that!"

  Her outrage like a dousing of cold water to his inflamed senses and his reason, Ronan nonetheless tightened his hold in spite of her wriggling, pinning her arms against her body.

  "I could have won if you’d left me alone! I was ahead and you know it. You couldn’t bear the thought of losing!"

  Ronan didn’t point out that their horses had been nose to nose. She would never believe him.

  "Very well, I’ll grant that Laeg was ahead . . . barely. You would have won."

  Since Triona could not raise his ire that way, she changed her tack. "All right, O’Byrne, enough! Let me down!"

  Renewing her struggles, she sharply inhaled when one of his arms wedged beneath her breasts. She’d no more opened her mouth to protest when he said huskily against her ear, "What’s wrong, Triona? You don’t find it pleasant to be held by a man?"

  She froze, stunned.

  If she had been trying to ignore the disconcerting sensation of his arms around her, she was acutely conscious of it now. But that wasn’t all. As he shifted, she felt his hard thighs rubbing against her hips, the heat of his body and his warm breath upon her neck making her stomach feel all aquiver.

  "I think you do find it pleasant," came his whisper as his arm slid gently along the undersides of her breasts. "Probably more than you would have ever imagined. Have you ever allowed a man to hold you like this before?"

  "N-no." Triona felt her flesh burst into goose bumps as Ronan drew her even closer against him.

  "Do you like it?"

  Like it? Triona could hardly speak for the fierce pounding of her heart, his embrace conjuring vivid memories from long ago. Memories of watching him hold other women as he was doing to her now, holding them and caressing them as they laughed and sighed and offered their willing mouths for him to kiss . . . Jesu, Mary and Joseph, was he going to kiss her?

  "I said do you like it, Triona?"

  "Aye," she heard herself reply as if from a great distance, an
incredible yearning overwhelming her. "It’s very nice . . ."

  Ronan knew from his slamming heartbeat that he’d gone far enough, and he reluctantly began to release her. "Then you can see you have nothing to fear. One day soon your husband will hold you like this and you’ll like it as well—by God, woman!"

  Ronan cursed as his horse suddenly bucked wildly beneath them, Triona giving the animal’s ear a second sharp yank as she shoved Ronan backward with all her might. The next thing he knew he had hit the ground, hard, while Triona grabbed the reins and expertly wheeled around his stallion.

  "Are you deaf, O’Byrne? I told you many times I want no husband and I meant it! But mayhap a good stretch of the legs might better convince you!"

  Roaring in fury, Ronan lunged to his feet but she was gone. And he had no sooner glanced at Laeg when a shrill whistle sent the huge bay galloping after her, his black tail flying. Ronan had to throw himself aside as the whinnying animal almost ran him down.

  "Triona!"

  Spitting out grass as he picked himself up for the second time, Ronan stood silently for a long moment before uttering an oath he hoped she’d hear all the way across the glen.

  Chapter 10

  TRIONA WAS SURROUNDED by shouting O’Byrne clansmen before she reached the gates, several riding out after Ronan when she angrily gestured where they could find him. Even Niall came running at the sound of the commotion, but she rode past him, ignoring his openmouthed astonishment at seeing her astride Ronan’s horse, Laeg trotting behind.

  She went right to the stable, dismounting and tossing the sweaty stallion’s reins to a gaping servant and then leading Laeg back into his stall. She would have seen to his care, too, if her hands hadn’t been trembling so badly.

  After giving another servant the necessary instructions, she left, scarcely able this time to summon a smile as Conn bounded across the yard to greet her. All she wanted to do was escape to her room where she could scold herself soundly for being a fool.

  Aye, and what a fool! How could she have thought for a moment that Ronan might want to kiss her? He wasn’t the least bit interested in her . . . not in that way. He simply wanted to ease her supposed fears so he could marry her off and then forget about her, his obligation fulfilled.

  But what made her even angrier as she stormed into the dwelling-house was that she had wanted him to kiss her.

  Ronan O’Byrne!

  Her brother’s murderer!

  And even if there wasn’t that foul blood between them, Ronan was only another man who would not accept her as she was, just like Murchertach O’Toole. Not that she’d ever wanted to kiss that brawny oaf. Or for him to kiss her. Shoving open the door to her apartment, she grimaced.

  "Triona, what happened to your gown?"

  As Aud hastened toward her, Triona glanced down at the rumpled garment that reeked decidedly of horse sweat. "Nothing that burning won’t cure."

  "Burning! Surely a good washing will do. And your hair could use one, too, sweeting. You’ve some straw—"

  "So I was told," she groused, about to run her fingers through her hair until she spied the jumbled assortment of bound chests and furnishings that had been stacked against one wall.

  "Your things finally arrived from Imaal," Aud said, following her gaze. "Didn’t you see the wagon outside? They just finished unloading. Made quick work of it, too."

  "There was no wagon," Triona replied, at least none that she remembered. But she’d been so furious, she wasn’t surprised she’d overlooked it.

  "Then they must have gone to the kitchen for some food before the journey back. The O’Toole’s men apologized for the delay."

  "No doubt caused by Murchertach," Triona said under her breath. It was very hard to hear him addressed as chieftain instead of her father. But seeing her inheritance stacked in her room was even harder. The trunks and treasured objects had once belonged to her parents, had once graced their home. It was all she had left from her years in Imaal. Murchertach as her father’s successor had gained all else.

  "I’ll call for some hot water so you can bathe . . . unless you’d rather not be alone, sweeting."

  "I’ll be fine, Aud." Triona walked over to a table and ran her palm across the finely carved wood.

  She knew when the door shut softly that her maid had left, but she didn’t look up. Instead, she skimmed her hand over a sturdy-backed chair, one of four that had always held a place in front of the hearth. Touching the smooth wood, she could almost hear again her father’s laughter as he listened to some tale . . . hear his snores resounding through the dwelling-house whenever he fell asleep in front of the fire.

  Sighing, Triona moved on.

  There was an oaken headboard, too, richly carved by Irish craftsmen during the reign of King Brian Boru two centuries before the Normans had come to Eire. Reaching over a stack of chests so she might trace the intricate filigree patterns, Triona cursed when her arm hit the topmost coffer, accidentally knocking it to the floor with a crash of splintering wood.

  "Begorra, you clumsy. . ." Triona recognized the small brass-fitted chest as one that had belonged to her father.

  She knelt and righted it, relieved to find upon first inspection that the sturdy coffer appeared sound. She popped the latch and tilted back the lid to look inside at the masculine array of items: a neck torque of twisted gold, a huge pair of winter gloves lined with marten, cloak-pins, heavy silver brooches . . .

  A fresh pang caused Triona to slam down the lid. Her anguish was heightened by anger that nothing yet had been done to avenge her father’s death.

  "Damn you, Ronan, you’d better not have lied about making that Baron de Roche pay!" she muttered fiercely as she rose, bringing the chest with her. Or so she thought she had. To her surprise, the wooden bottom suddenly gave way with a sharp crack and fell to the floor, barely missing her toes. As had the jeweled dagger lying glittering at her feet.

  "Dagger . . .?" She had seen no dagger inside the coffer—and why hadn’t everything else fallen out, too?

  Holding fast to the lid, Triona upended the chest. There had been two bottoms, the space between them just big enough to hold the dagger. But why would her father have hidden such a thing?

  Her thoughts scattered as approaching footfalls sounded from the outer room, their course so ominously determined she could swear she felt the floor shaking beneath her feet. She knew it wasn’t Aud hurrying back to tell her that her bathwater would soon be ready.

  Her heart racing, she snatched up the dagger and the splintered piece of wood, doing her best to replace them before hastily setting the chest back on top of the stack. Then she plopped down on the nearest chair, waiting nervously for Ronan to explode into the room.

  Except he never did. The footsteps stopped just outside her door, no sound coming at all for the longest moment.

  A moment in which she realized with the most unsettling stab of disappointment that Ronan must truly be anxious to see her wedded if his newfound patience could stretch this far. Well, fine with him! She’d be gone from Glenmalure soon enough, but not before she’d turned that midnight dark hair of his a nice shade of gray!

  As he retreated toward his own room, Triona vaulted from the chair, startling Maeve who yowled and disappeared back beneath the bed. Ronan was just shutting his door when she knocked boldly, lifting her chin as he pulled it open.

  "You and I must talk, O’Byrne—" She stopped, a smile spreading across her face in spite of herself, a giggle welling in her throat.

  "Something amuses you?" Ronan asked tightly, wrestling all over again with barely controlled anger that still threatened to explode. By God, turning away from her door had been hard enough without her coming now to taunt him!

  "I-it’s your chin," she said, clearly trying not to laugh. "There’s grass . . ."

  She couldn’t go on, her husky giggles overwhelming her as Ronan swiped his hand along his jawline. But he must have missed the grass because she only laughed harder.

  "However
did you . . .?"

  "Your damned horse nearly trampled me." Ronan took another swipe at himself, exhaling heavily when Triona merely shook her head and grinned as she pointed now to the left side of his face. "At least I didn’t end up with a mouthful of din."

  This comment brought forth a fresh peal of laughter. Ronan was amazed to feel his irritation subsiding.

  If he had thought Triona beautiful when angry, words couldn’t describe how lovely she appeared when smiling, her incredible green eyes alight as he’d never seen them. Recalling all too vividly the enticing feel of her in his arms, he wondered what she might have done if he had kissed her, something he had been more than tempted to do—

  "Here, let me get it."

  Ronan started when Triona’s fingers brushed across his cheek, her unexpected touch arousing within him a longing as acute as any he’d known. Without thinking, he took a step toward her only to have her retreat in surprise, her smile gone, her eyes suddenly wary.

  "I was only going to return the favor," he said quickly, more stung by her wariness than he wished to admit. Reaching out, he gently pulled a golden wisp of straw from her hair and handed it to her. "There are a few more—"

  "Aud can help me later," she cut him off, jerking her head away. Her tone was no longer light but as determined as it had been when she first knocked upon his door. "We must talk."

  "So you said." Ronan turned and walked back into his room.

  Her reaction to his embrace had convinced him to stay his course, though he had burned to throw her over his knee for knocking him from his horse. Convinced him, too, that the sooner he calmed her fears about marriage, the better. He wanted her gone from here . . . especially now that he knew part of him—insanely enough—was beginning to want her to stay.

  "Come and sit down," he said as he poured two cups of scarlet-colored wine.

  "I’d rather stand." Triona did not want to step any farther into his room than she must. Her heart was still racing from a moment ago; she couldn’t believe how easily she’d lost sight of why she’d come to speak to him. And all because of a wee bit of grass!