Wild Angel

by Miriam Minger

  "But we’ve no babes yet," she broke in softly, "and until that happens, I want to be with you, Ronan. Someday you might be glad that I’m there to watch your back. If you could just grant me that much . . ."

  He sighed, still reluctant, but then a roguish smile came to his lips. "No babes yet, you say? I guess I’ll have to see what I can do to hasten matters along."

  As his hips pressed suggestively into hers, Triona somehow steeled herself against the yearning ache kindled like flame between her thighs. "No, Ronan, not until you say that I can ride with you. . . ."

  His husky chuckle thrilled her, his second taunting thrust nearly undoing her.

  "Aye, woman, you can ride with me. Right now."

  She sharply sucked in her breath as his mouth came closer and closer to hers, but he stopped as if to tease her when their lips were only a hair’s breadth apart. "You’re . . . you’re not talking about raiding anymore, Ronan."

  "I’m not?"

  She never got a chance to answer.

  Chapter 32

  "RONAN . . ."

  Triona tossed her head, caught in the grip of a whirling nightmare.

  "Ronan, behind you!"

  Her cry waking her, Triona lay trembling as she stared at the raftered ceiling. She must have roused Ronan, too. In the next moment she felt his arms tightening around her, pulling her close.

  "Sshh, Triona, it was a dream. Only a dream."

  "But you were fighting for your life, Ronan," she breathed shakily, burying her face against his neck. "And—and there was someone else behind you but I couldn’t help you! I couldn’t—"

  "Easy, Triona, I’m here with you and there’s no one behind me. Go back to sleep. I’ll not have my bride’s beauty marred by dark smudges under her eyes. . . ."

  Triona tried to oblige him, but even the wonderful warmth of Ronan’s body could not lull her back to sleep. Yet her closeness must have lulled him. Soon she realized that he was once more slumbering soundly, his deep steady breathing fanning her cheek.

  Tenderly she kissed him, willing the troubling fragments of her dream to go away. But still that terrible helpless feeling lingered until finally, she sighed and quietly rose from the bed.

  It was easy enough to find her clothes in the soft spill of moonlight pouring from the two windows, the garments lying in a heap on the floor. Remembering as she dressed how impatiently Ronan had stripped her, she couldn’t help smiling and at once she felt better. But she decided to go and sit by the hearth anyway until she was certain she could fall back asleep. Carefully she closed the door behind her so as not to disturb Ronan.

  The outer room was dark, lit only by the orange glow of the hearth. Lying close to where it was warm, Triona found Conn, her wolfhound raising his head as she drew near.

  "Sshh, I’m going to join you for a while," she murmured as Conn’s long, bony tail thunked a welcome on the floor. Settling into the nearest chair, she leaned over to stroke his ears until Conn’s eyes began to close sleepily. Then she sat back once more, drawing up her legs as she stared into the crumbling red embers.

  Unbidden, that same impotent feeling returned but she did her best to thrust it away, telling herself firmly, "You’ve always claimed you’ve no fear of dreams, Triona O’Toole, and now’s not the time to start being frightened." She wasn’t Aud, after all, who was as superstitious about such things as anyone Triona had ever known.

  Instead she thought of Ronan and the wondrous day they had shared, her memories making her smile again.

  He’d left her side only twice, the first time to send an escort to Glendalough after the priest and the second, much later in the evening, to check briefly on Niall and the other men who’d been wounded. The rest of the time they had been together, just the two of them, exhausting themselves with the sensual demands Ronan had made on her and those she’d in turn, made upon him.

  It was a bit wicked, really, this night being the eve of their wedding, but they’d never before had so much time alone. They had enjoyed a bath earlier in the afternoon, much of the soapy water ending up on the floor, while supper—thoughtfully brought to them by Aud—had been savored sitting cross-legged on the bed, each taking turns feeding the other mouth-watering morsels of baked salmon dipped in honey and fresh oat bread.

  Talk had been little, kisses and husky murmurings in endless supply, the lightheartedness of the evening broken only when Ronan renewed his vow to avenge her father now that King John would most likely be sailing soon for England. Baron Maurice de Roche wouldn’t have his liege lord’s royal robes to hide behind much longer. Ronan was as determined as ever to seize him by surprise and stretch his murderous neck. But even that somber moment had been brief, Ronan’s fierce lovemaking carrying them to the point where they’d collapsed in each other’s arms, sleep like a sweet bliss finally overcoming them.

  Yet for all that, Triona hardly felt tired now as she was swept by sudden excitement. Surely there couldn’t be but a few hours left until sunrise, her wedding day having come at last.

  "You were right about Ronan all along, my brave Conn," she whispered, reaching down to pat her dog’s back. "He is a good man. An honorable man. It just took me a while longer to see it—Conn?"

  Startled that the wolfhound had gotten up from the floor so abruptly, Triona watched as he trotted to the front door and stopped to cock his head. She listened, too, until she heard the anxious mewing coming from outside. Triona rose at once, realizing Aud must have forgotten to let Maeve back into the dwelling-house.

  "Some Warrior-Queen," Triona murmured, hurrying to the door.

  Aye, she should have named Maeve after Lady Emer for all she liked the out-of-doors, the feline much preferring a soft downy pillow to sleep upon than chasing mice all night long. But the moment Triona swung open the door, Maeve darted into the yard, the skittish creature clearly taken by surprise.

  "Stay, Conn," Triona bade the wolfhound as she dashed outside, following her cat’s sleek white shape past a long line of dwelling-houses. "Maeve, come back! Maeve!"

  Triona had called out softly, but the night was so still she felt as if she had shouted at the top of her lungs. She saw immediately that her presence had attracted the attention of the guards standing watch over the stronghold.

  "I’m trying to catch my cat," she said to the first one who approached her, the clansman looking at her as if she might be half mad. Shrugging, she rushed past him, searching the moonlit yard for Maeve. But after long moments had passed and she still hadn’t spied her, Triona gave up. It was ridiculous to—

  Triona suddenly stopped, listening.

  Jesu, Mary and Joseph, was that a woman weeping?

  A sick feeling rose in her stomach as she wondered if one of the wounded men might have taken a grave turn for the worse, his wife now pouring out her grief. Yet surely Ronan would have told her if that was so.

  Triona listened again, the piteous sobbing a heartrending thing to hear. Whoever was crying sounded overcome by despair, inconsolable. And it was coming from somewhere nearby.

  Looking around her, Triona saw to her surprise that she was almost to the grain house where she’d seen Ronan earlier that day. She noted, too, that a trio of clansmen were standing guard by the double doors, confirming her suspicion that the prisoner was being kept there. Yet surely the weeping couldn’t be coming from the grain house. That would mean Ronan’s hostage wasn’t a man as she had assumed, but a—

  "I found your cat, miss."

  Triona would have jumped out of her shoes if she’d been wearing a pair, the young clansman had startled her so.

  "Th-thank you," she murmured, hugging Maeve against her hammering heart as she turned and hurried away. Almost at that same moment, the sobbing abruptly ceased. Triona glanced over her shoulder to find that one of the clansmen standing guard had disappeared inside the grain house.

  As if her bare feet were stuck to the ground, she stood in the shadows watching . . . watching and waiting for the man to come back out again. She fel
t she couldn’t breathe, wondering what he might be doing to Ronan’s wretched prisoner. But finally he ducked outside, grousing, "That should keep the damned wench quiet."

  "You didn’t tie the gag too tightly, did you?" asked one of the others.

  "Tight enough to silence her wailing. If it’s hurting her, who cares? The O’Byrne said to do whatever was necessary to keep her under control. I’d wager he’d have done the same thing if he were here."

  Stunned, Triona didn’t wait to hear more. She kept well to the shadows as she raced back to the dwelling-house. She didn’t stop until she was inside, Maeve clearly not having enjoyed the jostling and jarring at all as she wriggled out of Triona’s arms with an indignant yowl.

  But Triona barely heard her. She paid little heed either as Conn playfully chased the spitting cat across the room. Her one burning thought was that she must wake Ronan.

  Surely he would mind if his clansmen were mistreating his valuable prisoner, wouldn’t he? A woman hostage, too, not that that was so unusual, just that Triona hadn’t expected it. And just because the poor thing was a MacMurrough shouldn’t give them leave to be so cruel.

  Inside their room, Triona stopped cold at the foot of the bed and stared at Ronan as he slept peacefully.

  Could he have given such a ruthless order to his men? To do whatever was necessary? Suddenly remembering the harshness in his voice and the sheer hatred in his face whenever he’d spoken of his hostage, Triona feared it was so. Ronan had always been merciful to women and children during their raids, but maybe he despised the MacMurroughs even more than the Normans and that was making him cruel. The MacMurroughs, after all, were responsible for bringing the accursed invaders to Eire. And he probably was being driven, too, by what had happened to Niall. So what good, then, would waking Ronan do?

  Feeling strangely sick at heart, Triona undressed and slipped back into bed, Ronan in his slumber reaching out to hug her close. Yet the two of them might as well have been miles apart.

  All she could think of was the woman’s pitiful weeping, the sound echoing in her ears even as she closed her eyes to somehow try to sleep.

  ***

  "Wake up, Triona! Are you planning to dream away the day?"

  Triona dazedly opened her eyes, then promptly shut them at the bright sunshine streaming across the bed.

  "Aye, sweeting, it’s morning and a fine beautiful day for your wedding, too."

  Triona’s eyes flared wide open, her mind instantly clear. She glanced beside her to find that she was alone in the huge bed.

  "Aye, the O’Byrne’s been up for hours. I’ve never seen a man so interested in wedding preparations, but he’s determined to make the day as special for you as he can."

  At that moment, Triona wasn’t thinking so much about Ronan. Stunned and not a little angry with herself that she could have slept so hard after what she’d seen last night, she sat bolt upright and looked around her. "Aud, have you seen my clothes?" But her maid apparently hadn’t heard her, rattling on and on as she set about tidying the room.

  "You won’t believe what the O’Byrne’s been doing, Triona. He’s had the feasting-hall bedecked with herbs and flowers, aye, primroses and bluebells and the sweetest smelling honeysuckle. He’s had the finest casks of wine tapped, the stronghold swept from top to bottom and everything put in order, and he’s even been twice to the kitchen to see how your marriage feast is progressing. You can well imagine how nervous he’s making the poor cook—"

  "Aud!"

  Startled, her maid spun to face her.

  "Have you seen my clothes?" Triona repeated impatiently. "I left them right here by the bed."

  "Why, I sent them to be washed, sweeting." Aud suddenly looked dismayed. "Surely you’re not thinking to wear a shirt and trousers on your wedding day, are you? And here I’ve just laid out this lovely silk gown for you—look, the green one that so matches your eyes—"

  "I’ll be wearing a gown when I marry, Aud, don’t fret," Triona said distractedly, sweeping the linen sheet around her as she rose from the bed and headed for the door.

  "Where are you going, then? There’s nice hot bathwater coming soon from the kitchen and . . ."

  Triona didn’t hear the rest of Aud’s words as she rushed into her former room and made straight for the clothes chest.

  As she flung aside the sheet and hurriedly tugged a clean shirt over her head, Maeve watching her from the bed with drowsy eyes, Triona imagined Conn must have tagged along with Ronan. But it wasn’t Ronan she was going to seek out this morning, at least not right away. First there was something else she had to do.

  "Sweeting, what of your bath?" came Aud’s reproachful voice from the doorway.

  Triona spun and fastened her trousers. "I shouldn’t be gone long, Aud. Have them keep the water warm for me on the hearth."

  "Keep the water warm for you?" Aud propped her fists at her thin waist. "You’re up to some mischief, Triona O’Toole. I can tell, you know. Did you and the O’Byrne have a quarrel last night?"

  "No quarrels. Everything’s fine." Triona shrugged into her leather jerkin. "Have you seen my belt, Aud—no, never mind, I won’t need it."

  She didn’t bother with shoes either, but darted past Aud as the older woman threw up her hands.

  "It’s your wedding day, sweeting! What else could be so important?"

  Nothing was more important, Triona thought as she hastened outside. Yet she couldn’t ignore that someone was suffering so wretchedly only doors away from her. It wasn’t right.

  Triona was so intent upon her purpose that she gave little notice to the bustle of preparations as she made her way to the grain house. Seeing three guards standing sentinel outside the doors, she wondered if they were the same ones from last night but then imagined those clansmen must have been relieved to get some sleep. These new guards looked very surprised to see her, glancing in puzzlement at each other as she approached.

  "I’d like to go inside, please. To see the prisoner."

  "Sorry, miss," came the response she’d fully expected from the stout bushy-bearded clansman who appeared to be in charge. "We’ve orders to allow no one—"

  "Am I not soon to be the O’Byrne’s wife?"

  "Aye, miss."

  "Then I demand to be given entrance. Or mayhap I should scream for the O’Byrne so he can tell you. And I will scream, I promise, loud enough to make everything in this place come to a stop. Ronan won’t be happy that you’ve upset me on the morn of our wedding."

  Obviously growing nervous, the clansmen still appeared reluctant. But Triona wasn’t daunted, lifting her chin.

  "Very well, then. You can’t say you weren’t warned—"

  "All right, miss, don’t be calling for the O’Byrne! You may go inside, but only for a moment."

  Grateful that they had succumbed to her bluff, Triona waited impatiently as the doors were opened, the burly clansman who’d granted her permission following her into the building. Other than the sunlight streaming behind them, the place was dark as a freshly dug grave, the walls lined with huge sacks of grain.

  "Where . . .

  The clansman gestured to a side door, opening it for her. Triona was relieved to see as she stepped closer that light emanated from the tiny room, however dim, a sputtering oil lamp set in the middle of the floor. At least the poor woman hadn’t been left completely in the dark

  A frightened whimper drew Triona’s gaze to the corner and she froze, staring in shock.

  Chapter 33

  "BEGORRA, SHE’S ONLY a girl!"

  "Hardly a girl," the clansman said with a snort. "She may be a slight little thing, but she’s seen at least sixteen winters if I’m any judge. You can’t tell when she’s all huddled up as she is now, but when she’s standing—"

  "As if she could with her feet trussed like an animal’s!"

  "Orders from the O’Byrne himself, miss. She’s to remain bound hand and foot except for the times when she’s given leave to eat and see to her personal needs."


  "And how often is that?"

  "Once in the morning and then again at night."

  Sickened that Ronan’s hatred could make him treat a defenseless young woman so wretchedly, Triona exploded. "Jesu, Mary and Joseph! What’s the poor thing to do if she can’t wait until nightfall? Sit in her own filth?"

  When the clansman shrugged callously, Triona had heard and seen enough. Silently cursing that she hadn’t worn her belt with the dagger she could have used right now, she looked instead at the clansman’s belt. Before he’d guessed her thoughts, she’d wrenched out his hunting knife, brandishing it at him.

  "I’d wager you’ve heard of my skill with the bow?"

  His Adam’s apple lurching, the man nodded as he took a few steps backward. "Aye, miss, I was in the hall that very day—ridden on raids with you, too."

  "Then I’m asking you not to try to stop me for I can wield a knife as well. If I’m to be the mistress here at Glenmalure, I’ve a right to say when I feel something is unjust. And I say that this hostage deserves better, no matter she’s a MacMurrough. Are we understood?"

  The man bobbed his head but Triona was already moving to the corner where she sank down on her haunches, so close now that she could tell in spite of the meager light that the young woman was of unsurpassed loveliness. Yet even silky blond hair and large green eyes hadn’t spared her from Ronan’s wrath.

  Triona saw, too, that the young woman had begun to cry albeit silently, for she could do aught else with that disgusting gag in her mouth.

  "Aye, I don’t blame you a bit for weeping after what you’ve been through," Triona murmured as reassuringly as she could. "Don’t be frightened by the knife. I’m going to cut away your gag, is all."

  She did so quickly and with a deft hand, tossing the sodden cloth to the floor. Then she made short work of the cords tied far too tightly around chafed ankles and wrists, flinging them away in disgust. She looked up to find the young woman staring at her, fresh tears filling her eyes.