Wild Angel

by Miriam Minger

  "Suit yourself, but you must want something to drink." He walked over to her and handed her a cup before she could decline. "I know I do. There’s nothing like a good stretch of the legs to build up a man’s thirst."

  She met his eyes and saw no humor there, only a look as wry as his tone. Then he left her, sinking into a chair placed at the foot of the bed and stretching his long legs in front of him.

  She took a sip, before blurting, "My things came today from Imaal—"

  "So Niall told me. Arrived just after we left for our ride . . . or should I say, race."

  "Aye, well, it’s made me think about my father—"

  "As I imagined it would."

  "Are you going to stop interrupting me?" she demanded, propping her fist on her hip.

  This time Triona swore she saw amusement lighting his eyes. She took another steadying sip of wine as he nodded an apology and gestured for her to continue.

  "Very well, then. I came to ask you what’s being done to avenge my father."

  "Everything that can be done, for now."

  Vexed as much as unsatisfied with his terse answer, Triona said sarcastically, "And how shall I interpret that bounty of news?"

  Ronan gave a low sigh of exasperation. "I already swore that Baron de Roche of Naas would pay for your father’s death. That should be enough for you—"

  "It’s not enough!" Triona forgot she held a cup of wine as she rushed farther into the room, spilling some. Yet she paid little heed to the dampness now soaking her gown. "He was my father, O’Byrne! Aye, mayhap not of blood but I knew no other. Damn you, I loved him! Surely that should warrant some consideration from you!"

  As the room fell silent, Triona could not tell from Ronan’s stem expression if he was going to answer her or not. But when he sighed again, this time resignedly, she knew she had swayed him.

  "Men have been sent north to Kildare to keep watch and ask questions of the tenants who work the baron’s land."

  The bitterness in Ronan’s voice was understandable. The fertile plains Baron de Roche claimed had once belonged to the O’Byrnes. "What kind of questions?" she asked in a quieter tone.

  "About the baron’s comings and goings. It is my plan to capture him by surprise, but with as few of his knights around him as possible. I’ll not have any unnecessary shedding of my people’s blood, none if I can prevent it."

  "And after you capture him?"

  "He will hang."

  Triona exhaled with impatience, wondering how long it would take for Ronan’s men to return. A few days? A week or more?

  "Surely there must be a quicker way," she murmured half to herself. She lifted her gaze to find Ronan watching her closely. "The plan I had in mind was for some kind of ruse, something to draw that bastard from his castle. What if a fire was started in the fields, or an outbuilding set ablaze?"

  "Such a commotion would only draw much of his force with him. There is an order to these things, Triona. Recklessness only breeds injury" —he paused, his jaw growing tight— "or worse. I told you I’d not needlessly risk my men’s lives."

  "But you wouldn’t have to! All it would take is one well-aimed—" Seeing Ronan lean forward in his chair, Triona abruptly fell silent, biting her tongue.

  Jesu, Mary and Joseph! Was she mad? She had nearly given away the heart of her plan.

  "You’re right, of course," she amended hastily, backing herself out of the room. "I wouldn’t want any O’Byrne’s death added to my father’s." She glanced down with feigned dismay at her gown. "I should go . . . take a bath, I mean. I must look a sight . . . smell horrible, too. Horses, spilt wine . . . aye, and straw in my hair—"

  "Aye, you’re indeed a sight," Ronan interrupted, rising from his chair. "Even if you went to supper just as you are, Triona O’Toole, you’d still outshine any other woman there."

  Triona was so startled by his unexpected compliment that she backed right into the door.

  "Th-that’s very kind of you to say . . ." she began lamely, unable to wrest her eyes from his as he walked toward her. "Not kind at all. It’s the truth—"

  "Sweeting, they’re coming with your bathwater. Are you still dressed so I can let them in to fill the . . . Triona? Triona, where are you?"

  "In here, Aud!" Triona gestured over her shoulder as she blurted to Ronan, "I—I should go."

  And she did, flying out the door and past a wide-eyed Aud into the safety of her own room.

  Chapter 11

  TRIONA DIDN’T ATTEND supper. Not after she heard from Aud that the O’Toole clansmen who’d brought her belongings to Glenmalure would be at the feasting-hall. Ronan had invited them to stay the night.

  She didn’t want those O’Tooles to see her. She could just imagine how Murchertach would gloat if he discovered she had been reduced to wearing gowns, just as she imagined Ronan would boast to his astonished guests that his firm hand had forced her compliance. But there would be no boasting or gloating because she wasn’t stepping foot from this room until the O’Tooles left for Imaal.

  So after her bath—made more pleasant, she had to admit, by some violet-scented soaps Maire had sent—Triona sent Aud to the hall with her excuses, instructing her to tell Ronan that she had retired for the night, simply too tired even to eat. Of course, that could be a problem because she was starving, her belly alive with grumbling noises. But one night without food was not a tragedy.

  Besides, it would help keep her mind clear and she needed to think, Triona told herself as she doused every lamp save the one by her bed. After giving a drowsy-looking Conn a fond pat on the head, she climbed under the covers. Maeve, already curled into a tight white ball atop the other pillow, didn’t so much as twitch a muscle as Triona made herself comfortable, propping her arm beneath her head.

  She still couldn’t believe how flustered she’d become by Ronan’s bold compliments. Aye, she could have kicked herself when she got back to her room. Of course he didn’t mean any of those fine flattering words. So why couldn’t she just ignore them instead of becoming all quivery inside, or worse yet, gaping at him like a landed fish?

  "Must be those damned eyes of his," she muttered, yanking the covers over her breasts. Gray as twilight but with a hard glint of silver in them. Any woman might find them compelling. Certainly enough of them had back in Imaal.

  A soft rap at the door made Triona grip the covers tightly. Conn perked up his ears as he growled low in his throat. But both she and the wolfhound relaxed when Aud peeked inside the room.

  "I saw your light and thought you might still be awake, sweeting. I brought you some bread."

  "Oh, Aud, you’ve saved my life!" Triona eagerly threw back the covers as her maid hastened to the bed. "You must have heard my stomach growling all the way to the hall."

  "Well, not that far, but I can hear it rumbling now. Here you go, and a nice wedge of cheese, too. It’s all I could grab from the servants’ table without the O’Byrne noticing."

  Triona bit hungrily into the crusty bread, asking with her mouth full, "He was watching you?"

  "I think so. Especially since I’d told him you were too tired to eat. From the look he gave me, I’m not sure if he believed me." Aud’s plain face lit into a smile. "But then again, he probably thinks he has good cause to be wary. I imagine he hasn’t forgotten how I defended your fine singing."

  Triona smiled, too, smugly remembering.

  "Oh, aye. Those O’Tooles were sitting right beside him, sweeting, just as you expected."

  Snorting in comment, Triona split the pungent yellow cheese in half and tossed a chunk to Conn. "Poor dog. He won’t get a proper supper tonight, either."

  "Don’t be worrying about Conn," Aud said with a chuckle. "He was feasting well enough when I went to the kitchen to see about some hot water for your bath. That cook Seamus has taken quite a liking to him, which is a wonder. He’s a grouchy one, always complaining about this pain or that, either his heart or his innards. Doesn’t seem to like much of anything save for food and from the l
ooks of him, he’s eaten more than his fair share."

  "I wish you’d told me Conn had made such friends with the cook before I’d given him half my supper," Triona said, reaching down to rub behind Conn’s ear.

  "I could try to get you some more—"

  "No, Aud, I was only jesting." Triona tore off another chunk of bread and popped it into her mouth.

  "Well then, I suppose I’ll head for my room and slip into a warm bed myself—"

  "No, no, wait! I’ve something to show you first." Hoisting her white linen sleeping gown above her knees, Triona climbed out of bed and ran across the room. "I accidentally knocked over this chest and guess what fell out of the bottom? A false bottom, Aud!"

  "A trinket?" Aud ventured uncertainly as Triona ran back to the bed with one of her hands behind her back. "Some coins?"

  "No, something better. Look!"

  Producing the dagger, Triona was so fascinated by the bloodred rubies and crystalline diamonds glittering round the silver hilt that she didn’t notice Aud had turned very pale.

  "Beautiful, isn’t it? I haven’t been able to place the design. I’ve never seen anything to match it. But that hardly matters. I couldn’t have found it at a better time, especially since Ronan has locked away my bowcase. I only wonder why my father hid the dagger . . . but mayhap because it looks to be so costly—" Triona stopped, realizing that Aud had remained oddly silent. "Aud? Is something wrong?"

  "Wrong?" As if snapping out of a daze, Aud shook her dark head. "No, nothing at all, sweeting . . . just a little tired—"

  "But you seemed fine a moment ago," Triona interrupted, growing concerned. "You look so wan all of a sudden. Are you not feeling well?"

  "I told you I’m tired, Triona O’Toole, and there’s nothing more to it than that!"

  Startled that Aud had spoken so sharply, Triona shrugged. "All right, Aud, if you say so—"

  "Aye, I do, and it’s time now that I went on to bed." Then, as if to make amends, Aud leaned forward and brushed a kiss on Triona’s cheek. "Good night, sweeting. Sleep well."

  "And you," Triona murmured. Only after the door had closed behind Aud did Triona drop her gaze to the wolfhound lying beside the bed. "What do you make of that, Conn? I’ve never seen her act so strangely."

  As Conn thumped his tail upon the floor, Triona lifted the dagger to the lamp so she could inspect it better. Slim-bladed and light, it seemed to fit her palm perfectly as if fashioned for a woman’s smaller hand. And it would be easy enough to conceal . . .

  Her gloating smile quickly faded. Mayhap that was why Aud had become so moody. Seeing her again with a weapon in her hand must have reminded her maid of Triona’s determined plan for vengeance. And her dear superstitious Aud had already made it quite clear how she felt about—

  Conn’s sudden growling made the hair prickle on the back of Triona’s neck.

  "What is it, Conn?"

  The wolfhound just as abruptly ceased his growling as if recognizing the approaching footsteps, his tail thunking a friendly welcome against the floor.

  Triona didn’t hesitate. She shoved the dagger under the mattress, blew out the lamp and dove under the covers. She listened breathlessly as Conn got up and trotted eagerly across the room.

  "Easy, Conn, it’s me."

  The spawn! What was Ronan . . . ?

  Triona squeezed her eyes shut, her heart thumping in double time with Ronan’s footsteps as he approached the bed. But her heart jumped to her throat when she suddenly felt his hand sliding along her thigh. Gasping, she bolted upright, scaring Maeve with a wild howl from her pillow, Conn sent into a fit of barking by the door.

  "You . . . you—" Triona sputtered, outraged. "Just what do you think you’re doing?"

  "Checking," came Ronan’s disembodied voice in the dark, its deep huskiness sending shivers racing through Triona in spite of herself.

  "Checking? What, if I might ask? If I’m too plump or too thin?"

  "That you’re where Aud said you’d be. Sleep well, Triona."

  "That’s all you have to say for yourself? Sleep well?" Her voice rang shrilly as he left the room. "I hope you don’t!"

  Just as she doubted she would now, Triona fumed, falling back onto her pillow. Obviously he must suspect that she was plotting, and for that she had her own loose tongue to blame. If she was going to be able to seize her chance, she would have to be very careful of everything she said to him from now on . . .

  "Aye, you may capture our Norman quarry, O’Byrne," Triona whispered vehemently to herself. "But he’ll be dead of an arrow long before you find a tree to hang him."

  Determined to think of nothing but revenge, she tossed onto her side and tugged the covers up to her ear.

  But to her dismay when she closed her eyes, all that came to mind was the unsettling memory of Ronan’s hand upon her thigh.

  ***

  It was still dark outside when Triona awoke with a start, her stomach yowling so hungrily she swore it was soon to devour itself. Even Conn must have heard it because he was standing beside the bed, his head cocked as another loud rumbling sounded.

  Jesu, Mary and Joseph, she’d never last until the morning meal! Throwing back the covers, Triona knew she had to get something to eat or she wouldn’t get any more sleep either, her vow to stay in her room be damned.

  "Come, Conn. Let’s find the kitchen."

  As she stole out the door, Conn tagging after her like a four-legged shadow, Triona knew it must be early. The peat fire in the hearth was very low, casting a dim orange glow over the vast outer room. She paused as she passed Ronan’s room, but thankfully she didn’t hear a sound. Lifting up her gown, she ran on tiptoes to the main door. She breathed a sigh of relief as soon as she stepped outside.

  The yard was dark. A few scattered torches sputtered about the stronghold. She imagined there must be guards on patrol, but she hoped she wouldn’t run into any of them.

  "Quiet, Conn." She tapped his nose once as she’d trained him so he wouldn’t growl or bark. "Like we’re hunting."

  Stealthily, they made their way across the yard; although she’d never been to the kitchen, she was certain it must be near the feasting-hall. Conn did know the way. Every few steps he sniffed the air, his tail wagging faster and faster as they drew closer to a low wooden building flanking the hall.

  Triona, too, smelled the unmistakable fragrance of honey glazed pork as they approached the door, and she wondered as her stomach grumbled painfully if that’s what she had missed for supper. Damn those O’Tooles! Why couldn’t they have packed a meal and left for Imaal yesterday instead of leaving her to starve?

  Her mouth began to water as they crept inside the building, Conn’s wagging tail becoming a blur. The yeasty scent of rising dough hung in the air, the morning’s bread waiting to be baked. That mingled with the pungent smells of spices and salted meats was so deliciously unbearable, Triona was certain she had died and gone to heaven. Or at least her stomach thought so.

  She wished she had a candle, but once again, her eager wolfhound seemed to know the way. And there were a few coals still glowing beneath the iron roasting spits lining the walls that cast a bit of light. She grabbed Conn’s ruff, allowing him to lead her deeper into the room past hulking cauldrons and long trestle tables—until he stopped abruptly.

  "In there, Conn?"

  His scratching at the low side door was her answer; she knew they’d found the room where the evening’s leftovers must be kept. Yet her attention was drawn to a row of oblong tarts on the table just ahead, the crusts gleaming eerily in the meager light. Oh, she loved fresh baked tarts, especially ones made of berries!

  "Stay, Conn," she ordered, as she hurried to the table.

  She knew it was a piggish thing to do, but she was so hungry. She dipped her hand into the nearest pastry, the fragrant aroma of wild raspberries topped by a buttery crust overwhelming her senses. But she had no sooner taken a bite than Conn broke from his sitting position—no doubt tempted beyond endurance—
and bumped impatiently against her, causing the tart to slip through her fingers and tumble down the front of her sleeping gown.

  "Oh, Conn," she whispered with exasperation, wiping her chin and licking her fingers. If she had looked a mess earlier that day, she could just imagine how she appeared now with bright red berry filling staining her face and clothing.

  Beckoning for Conn to follow her, Triona led him back to the larder and let him inside, knowing he’d soon find something to satisfy him. As for herself, she hurried back to the tarts but it was so dark that she snagged her foot on a table leg, crying out as she barely managed to catch herself from falling.

  "All this trouble for a wee bit of something to eat," she grumbled, testing her weight on her aching ankle just as a door slammed nearby.

  "Who’s there? Who’s in my kitchen?"

  Triona froze, not knowing which way to run. Someone with a candle came rushing toward her. The next thing she knew the light was thrust in her face, then a horrified scream rent the air. She stared back in astonishment at a stout, florid-faced man who appeared to be choking, his plump hand pressed to his chest, his pudgy cheeks growing redder and redder.

  "God help me . . . Lady Eva! Bloody . . . back from the grave. Saints protect me!"

  "No, no, I’m Triona O’Toole!" she cried even as a terrible rattling noise came from the man’s throat, the candle tumbling from his hand. She had no sooner stomped out the flame when he pitched forward, almost knocking her down as his bulk crashed to the floor.

  Stunned, Triona stood there for an instant, not knowing what to do. She should send for help . . . She should

  "See if he’s breathing," she told herself shakily, falling to her knees beside him and pressing her fingers to his throat. Yes, that’s what she should do! See if he was . . .

  Gasping, Triona thought her own heart was going to stop.

  Jesu, Mary and Joseph, she had killed him! Or something had killed him. Panicking, she lunged to her feet and began to run, paying no heed to the sharp pains shooting through her ankle.