The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Branna stepped beneath the huge angled capstone, supported by other upended boulders. Looking around the perimeter, she estimated the centre of the tomb and pushed her spade into the earth, marking the spot.

  Sweeping the hood of her cloak from her head, Branna tied a loose knot in her hair. She knelt and easily scraped away the upper layer of hardened topsoil, hitting solid rock with the next thrust of her shovel.

  On her hands and knees, Branna grabbed the rock nearest the surface and wiggled it to and fro, moving it enough for her to grab. Sweat beaded her forehead as she threw the rock aside and began working the next one.

  A soft snort and whinny sounded from the field. “Patience, Molly. The ground is harder than I expected. I’ve only made a small hole.”

  She cleared away more dirt with the spade before hitting additional rocks. Branna attacked those with as much strength as possible, not caring if she tore fingernails or suffered cuts and scrapes. The dirt and pain would pale if she could see her mother again.

  Molly whinnied again, this time louder and of a different timbre. Branna straightened and looked over her shoulder. Molly stood still, her ears pricked forwards. Branna scanned the field. Had a shadow moved near the thicket of trees in the distance? The hair rose on her neck and arms. She squinted, forcing her eyes to pierce the darkness. Her heart pounded in silence for several minutes, but nothing stirred.

  Branna hummed the tune her mother used to sing when she was scared. Her intuition told her to leave, but she wasn’t about to relinquish her quest. The song’s words spilled from her lips in time with her work. Scrape using the spade, wiggle the rock, wrest it out of the ground and throw it aside. It could have been minutes or hours she worked making small, but determined progress.

  “I see you dig your own grave.”

  Branna whirled. She lost her balance and sprawled at the feet of a large, white stallion. Through strands of her tousled hair, she stared at the imposing man upon the great steed.

  Wrapped in a dark cloak, the moonlight creating shadows across his face, he wielded a great broadsword. He vaulted from his mount and brought the point of his sword to her throat.

  Her heart thumped wildly. Just as sure as Aunt Meeda had warned, she looked straight into the face of evil.

  Two

  Devlin gripped the weapon tightly, his anger building. “Who dares to dig a hole on my property?”

  He couldn’t keep the venom from his voice. “State your business.”

  The intruder brushed aside long, wavy hair exposing a delicate face. Devlin realized his thief was a woman. He instantly withdrew his sword, but didn’t yet sheath it.

  When his horse Ailbay had scented someone unfamiliar, Devlin expected to find sheep thieves or wolves, but a woman singing and digging in the dirt? Never.

  She stood, brushing soil from her skirts. “’Tis my concern and not yours.”

  Devlin lifted his brows at the edge of impatience in her tone. Her feathers were ruffled, were they? The moonlight offered a taste of her light eyes and high cheekbones. Her voice, strong, confident and with a hint of tantalizing sweetness, poured over him like thick Irish cream. Her other features would wait for better light.

  He rubbed a hand over his face, irritated at her intrusion. He was already on edge. “I’m Devlin, Lord MacKenna, Master of Hollylough. Every rock holds my interest.”

  “Then your land holds an object of mine.”

  Devlin sensed movement in the shadows behind her. His hounds had spread out in the darkness. Waiting. Watching.

  “What here would be of interest to a common grave robber?”

  Her quick intake of breath told him he’d hit a sensitive mark.

  “Nay. ’Tis nothing common I seek.”

  A high-pitched howl split the quiet. The dogs grew bolder, circling closer. The woman heard it and bolted towards him, coming dangerously close to the blade of his sword.

  Devlin sheathed it with a snap. “Witless goose, do you wish to die by my sword?”

  She stepped back. “Nay. I’ve no wish to die by sword or by dogs.”

  “The hounds are restless. You’ll be safe with me.” He offered her his arm.

  “Nay. I’m not leaving till I find what I seek.”

  He felt his ire rise at the battle of wills. If she told him nay once more, Devlin would be tempted to leave her.

  He glanced towards the trees, then to the sky. His response was curt. “You’ll be fortunate to escape with your life. Come, the moonlight has disappeared and a storm threatens.”

  She pointed to a horse in the distance and worried her bottom lip. “I’ll follow on Molly. I’ll not leave her to the dogs.”

  Her horse stomped nervously outside the stone circle. Devlin understood her uneasiness. He had yet to take his vows, not for another night. He wasn’t sure he could control them should they attack.

  “Nay. She is too distant. I’ll grab her reins as we pass. Get on Ailbay.”

  The woman approached his white steed with caution. Giving her no more space to disagree, Devlin reached down and grasped her about the waist. He easily lifted her to the neck of his horse, her legs positioned to the side. Then he settled back into the saddle and brought her back against him. He crossed his arms around her waist to keep her seated safely and grabbed the reins.

  Devlin spurred Ailbay forward, his horse easily taking the extra burden over the stone wall, and galloped towards the protection of Hollylough.

  Devlin leaned over to grab Molly’s reins.

  The woman blocked his arm. “Nay.”

  She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled loudly. Molly raised her head and fell in step behind Ailbay. Devlin nodded his head, impressed.

  “My lady, your horse is well trained, as if she’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”

  “Aye, she would.”

  With each stretch of Ailbay’s stride, his arms clasped the woman’s ribcage, her warmth infusing his upper body. She felt trim, but muscular, not so delicate that she’d break at the slightest stumble.

  Her rose scent reached his nostrils and dared him further. He’d been a long time without a woman to warm his bed and blood. This comely one aroused his interest as well as his manhood.

  Devlin knew he was restless. He had grown to manhood knowing this day would come. His family’s bloodline was cursed. Written long ago, all the children were destined to become Hellhounds. He was the Chosen One; the one selected to master the hounds that guarded their supernatural treasures. This rite would occur on the day of his twenty-fifth year, on the morrow. He’d become one of them.

  His attention strayed to the woman who relaxed against him, snuggling deeper into his chest as she adjusted to Ailbay’s motion. With her buttocks nestled between his thighs, he realized she fitted well enough in his arms, better than most. She might prove to be the distraction he needed this night.

  Once past the gatehouse and inside the curtain walls, he slowed Ailbay and angled him towards the stables in the lower bailey. He reined in and slid off the horse, handing both horses to his waiting groom. Devlin ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “Finn, I know ’tis late and your mother wishes you to be abed. The horses have worked hard tonight. Give them extra oats and curry them well. I shall make sure tomorrow you have a lighter load.”

  Devlin reached to assist the woman down.

  She put her hands on his shoulders and winced, pulling her hands away as her feet touched the ground. Devlin snatched one hand and saw her roughened, bleeding fingers.

  He gently touched her abraded palm. Before his groom left the yard he called, “Finn, bring me the healing salve.” He waited for the lad to hand him the paste, then took her arm and led her towards his keep.

  Branna pulled back. Lord MacKenna, with his fierce, dark eyes regarded her critically. She prayed he couldn’t know how badly her hands shook. “I . . . I should return home, my lord.”

  Branna didn’t wish to be with him a moment longer than necessary. She had no idea why she
couldn’t breathe.

  He shook his head. “Not this night.” The stony stillness of his expression gentled when he gave her a half-smile. It changed his face, softened it, adding a touch of vulnerability.

  “I will escort you home on the morrow. For now you are under my protection.”

  They entered the great square keep from a steep set of stone stairs and a thick wooden door. They climbed more stairs at the corner, spiralling upwards past several floors to the top, where he opened another heavy door and they entered the upper solar. “This is my private chamber. In here you will be safe.”

  Safe from whom? Him?

  He strode to a sideboard against the far wall. While he searched for something, Branna looked about the room, soft light from several candelabras illuminating the darkest corners.

  The primary item of furniture dominating the room was a great bed with a heavy wooden frame overlaid with quilts, a thick fur coverlet and pillows. The bed was curtained; its linen draperies pulled back and tied to the bedposts with leather straps. An arched fireplace took over one wall, soot blackening the protective hood of stone. Several chests and a hanging tapestry graced the opposite side of the room.

  “Remove your cloak.”

  Branna complied, even though the room was damp. She laid it over a nearby slatted chair.

  Devlin came back to her with the pot of salve and a cloth. He dipped his fingers into the paste and took her right hand.

  With surprising gentleness, he rubbed the waxy paste into the palm of her hand, covering the cuts and abrasions.

  “Your name?”

  “’Tis Lady Branna Mordah.”

  “Pray tell me, my lady, what was of such significance tonight that you would risk your life?”

  She glanced at his face. His eyes met hers, as dark and shiny as wet slate.

  “I seek an heirloom of my mother’s which was stolen when she died.”

  “And you think ’tis buried here? You are surely mistaken.”

  The salve had been well worked into her skin, but he continued to massage her hand, sending delicious tingles up her arm and down to her toes, making her even more nervous.

  “Your one hand will need a dressing. ’Tis the most damaged.”

  “What is this ointment? It has the scent of flowers.”

  “’Tis calendula salve, made from the leaves of marigolds and lavender. ’Tis used upon the horses.”

  Did his horses receive such wonderful rub-downs? She wanted to be covered with the fragrant salve. Branna shook her head before those thoughts went further.

  As he wrapped her right hand with a cloth, Branna shifted her eyes to the decorative windows. Moonlight spilled through, glinting off the pieces of coloured glass, highlighting the central tree design. Branna gasped and pulled her hand away.

  “Your windows. I’ve seen that design.”

  “Nay, ’tis impossible. It was created for Hollylough Castle years ago. My home is so named for the holly trees in the thicket by the lough’s edge. There are no windows like it.”

  Her heart thumped wildly. But Branna had seen them long ago. She gripped Devlin’s arm. “Do you have a chapel with those same windows?”

  “Aye, of course.”

  “Take me there.”

  “Tomorrow. The windows are most beautiful with the coming sun.”

  “No. Now.” Branna touched his arm, feeling his steely muscles beneath the tunic sleeve. “Please, I mean you no trouble, but I must see the chapel tonight.” Branna hated the desperation in her tone, but couldn’t be refused.

  He searched her eyes and smoothed a lock of hair from her face. He carefully took her hand. “I’ll take you.”

  In the outer ward, the wind gusted, blowing dirt and straw about. Branna was sorry to have left behind her cloak. Devlin led her to a stone building adjacent to the great hall. He opened the double wooden doors and stepped aside.

  Branna walked towards the altar. “The first time I walked down this aisle, I touched all the wooden benches along the way.”

  Branna knew Devlin listened behind her.

  “We were to be a family. Mama looked beautiful in a yellow wedding gown with her dark hair free about her shoulders. She wore a crown of white flowers I made for her.”

  Branna had reached the front of the chapel and looked up at the window, her mind far back in time. “I remember the stained glass with the tree at its centre, the curled branches and red berries. So beautiful. So perfect.”

  Branna shuddered as she ran her hands over the altar. “Until the dogs came. Tiarna helped hide me under this bord and I was safe.”

  Branna turned to Devlin. Tears ran down her cheeks. “The dogs killed them. Tore at them and stole my mother’s emerald chalice; took her life.” She tightened her jaw. “I want them back.”

  Three

  Devlin drew Branna to him. He wrapped her in his arms, drawing comfort as well as giving it. He breathed into her hair, “God’s blood. That was your mother.”

  She raised her head and looked at him askance. “My mother was here that night, in your chapel, as was I. You must know what happened?”

  “I know very little. Only that the hounds killed my father by accident that night. I was twelve and squiring at a neighbouring estate. I was summoned home for the funeral, but only told the dogs were driven crazy and had wrongly attacked him.”

  “Tiarna was your father? Why did you not find me?”

  “I knew nothing of you. By the time I arrived home, it was days later. You were long gone and my household was ruled by my uncle. I could not legally return and take over as master until I had reached my majority.”

  “’Twas the chalice the dogs were after.” Branna buried her face into his chest.

  Devlin didn’t know what to believe. There was more to his father’s death than he’d been told. His uncle had only said that he was to take on the leadership role after his father had died.

  “You were looking for the emerald chalice at the tomb.”

  Branna nodded against his shoulder.

  Devlin frowned. “How can this chalice bring your mother back? She’s been dead nearly fifteen years.”

  She stepped out of his arms and her blue eyes brightened. “The chalice is magic. It can bring my mother back from the dead. ’Tis my heart’s desire.”

  Devlin had never heard of such a cup. “How did your family come by this magic chalice?”

  “My ancestor Liam once saved a gnome from the jaws of a serpent. The gnome was very grateful and, since gnomes are known for excellent metalwork, as a reward, the chalice was given to Liam, with the instruction that drinking from it would bring forth his heart’s desire.”

  Why had he never been told of their parents’ marriage or the chalice? He’d have to ask his uncle for an explanation to determine the truth of her words.

  “Your mother died long ago. Why have you waited until now to get her back?”

  “You can drink from the chalice only once in a lifetime.” She dropped her head. “I waited till I knew my heart’s desire.”

  He slipped a finger beneath her chin. “What convinced you?”

  “My uncle’s family is to marry me off, as I am past my prime, but no one has offered. Everyone is afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Of me. My aunt has spread lies about me, saying I was the evil one who called the dogs, killing my own mother. She is jealous and hateful. I could not endure the shame.”

  He held her a few more moments, rubbing her back, worried by her chilled skin.

  “We must leave. The storm worsens.” In truth, he needed to leave this place of painful memories.

  Fear came into her eyes, darkening them to a deepwater blue. “Will the dogs be waiting for us?”

  Devlin kissed the tear stains on her cheeks. “I’ll protect you, my lady.”

  The wind howled and rain lashed Branna’s face as Devlin took her hand and they stepped outside the chapel. Even with his promise, Branna’s eyes darted around the bailey, wa
iting for the dogs to attack. Every sound heightened her fear, pulling at her memories.

  In the safety of Lord MacKenna’s chamber, a blazing fire snapped in the fireplace, beating back the chilled dampness and her panic. Branna was surprised his servants were still up at this late hour. She stood by the warmth of the fireplace and rubbed her wet arms.

  “You should remove your wet clothing.” Lord MacKenna held out to her an armful of fabrics. “You ought to find something warmer in here.”

  Branna took the proffered garments. “Thank you. I am chilled.”

  “There is a wardrobe behind that tapestry.” Devlin pointed to a thick wool carpet hanging from the wooden rafters dyed vibrant colours.

  Hidden behind the tapestry, Branna slipped out of her damp, low riding boots. She unclipped her brooch and slipped out of her loose-sleeved surcoat, wet almost through. She touched the deep blue wool of her long-sleeved gown and discovered it was almost as wet and radiated an unpleasant odour. It too had to go. She sat on the wooden bench and peeled off her hose.

  Finally, Branna stood only in her long linen chemise, exposed to the draughts. Branna rummaged through the garments and chose one of Lord Connal’s linen shirts. The neckband and the wristbands were embroidered in colour and design to match the windows of the castle. She slipped it over her head and smoothed the material down, admiring its quality. She breathed in Devlin’s scent of wood smoke, sweat and horses, which clung to his shirt. She liked the earthy, very masculine aroma.

  Taking a deep breath, Branna stepped out from behind the tapestry. She instantly felt Lord MacKenna’s eyes on her, but snapped her head around when she heard the door to the chamber close.

  “My steward has brought an evening repast. Come and eat. You must be famished.”

  Lord MacKenna was seated at a small table beside the bed. Branna approached the table set with trays of food, two bread trenchers and a pair of glass goblets.

  One tray was piled high with cheese, almonds, figs, dates and raisins. The other tray held a selection of meats and fish: venison, chicken and haddock. Her mouth watered.

  “Aye, ’tis been many hours since I’ve eaten.”