Siobhàn forced her emotions aside and closed her eyes, biding her time till she could be free of this camp and this Englishman.
Gaelan kept his back to the woman and considered feeding her a bit of broth, then dismissed the notion. He had few honorable qualities remaining and if he moved too close to her, he'd break them, draw back the fur and have himself a decent look at her. It was not the looking that disturbed him, but the desperate need to touch and be touched by her that did. Shaking his head, he warned himself to dismiss the idea. He'd no time to let his prick rule him. And he was not one to dwell on his desires. The brazier warmed his cool skin, the pavilion walls shielding Ireland's chill. The wine dulled his desire. Yet against his better judgment, he looked back over his shoulder, the flickering candlelight dancing across her face. God's blood, she was beautiful. And in repose, she was far removed from the spirited lass digging a dirk in his side. He looked at the very spot, the scratch already healing. It was a scar he'd enjoy remembering.
"Gaelan? Call the beast off. Damn me, he's huge."
"Nay, Raymond, I come anon."
Selfishly, he didn't want Raymond to see her and he rose, donning a jerkin and grabbing his mantle. Tossing the fur over his shoulders, he paused beside her, staring, then gave into his impulse and bent to brush his lips across hers. His forehead wrinkled. Her skin was still warm to the touch.
"Wake, sweetling."
She didn't.
Reluctantly, he left the tent, taking the half-eaten trencher and setting it before Culhainn. The wolf devoured it before he'd taken a step.
Raymond gazed down at the wolf. "You say he is hers?"
"Aye. As well as one could possess an animal."
"A woman commanding a magnificent creature." Raymond shook his tawny head, amazed.
Gaelan scoffed. "You know not this female." He allowed himself a small smile as he settled to a stout stool, edging it close to the fire. Around them, his vassals moved a distance away, allowing them privacy just beyond his pavilion. "How go we for armament and provisions?" he asked, his expression fading to a scowl of concentration.
"We are amply supplied. The earl paid his debt to you."
Gaelan cast Raymond a side glance, arching a brow.
"Aye, fortunes shine again," the vassal said, highly amused, and from a spot near his foot, lifted a flagon of wine, affirming their replenished stores. Gaelan dismissed his offer of wine and Raymond sloshed a greedy portion into a wooden cup. "He sent a courier with the gold owed my lord."
Gaelan smirked at the use of my lord, for Raymond and he had come into their own together as squires, fostered to Gaelan's father, before his sire knew who he was. Though Raymond's lineage bid he earn his spurs and be knighted, Gaelan was no more than the bastard of a camp follower. In sooth, if not for a benevolent knight making him a squire, Gaelan would be laboring for Raymond, though neither man worked harder for the profit they possessed now.
"Excellent work." He gave his shoulder a familiar jostle. "My thanks."
Raymond blinked. "I did naught to hasten him, I swear." He crossed his heart to prove it. "Me thinks he feared your wrath, Gaelan."
"I cared not for his self-absorbed demands," Gaelan muttered in disgust. "The man has not lifted a sword in his king's defense, yet struts as if the cocksure noble had foiled the Irish kings all by himself, then bleating over the Henry's favor to DeLacy. I swear by all that is holy, I am well rid of Pembroke, for neither man cares for the destruction they wreak."
Raymond arched a brow. "Neither do you, or have you suddenly changed?"
Gaelan's gaze slanted to Raymond, but DeClare was unaffected by the savage glance. "I care for the lives lost, aye, but the cause—?" He scoffed, scooping a fistful of stones and transferring them from hand to hand in a slow pour. "Nay. I have long since given way to the workings of any sovereign's mind. Henry hired my sword, 'tis all."
"And the debt nearly four summers old he chooses now to repay? How feels that?"
Gaelan stared off at the cook fires now warming tired bodies. The sounds of people seeking a spot to spend the night and a comfortable position to do it, poked the night air. Exhausted himself, Gaelan wanted to find his bed. A tired man fought poorly. A man with a hard cock and nowhere to ease it never slept either, he thought with a glance at his tent.
"Gaelan?"
He turned his gaze back to Raymond, disliking the merriment born there at his expense.
"'Tis a magnificent price for keeping his head on his royal shoulders."
Gaelan's own shoulders moved restlessly and he flipped a stone into the blaze. That Henry chose now to reward him for killing an assassin troubled Gaelan. No matter the power, he would not be the sport of another man's whims. Which was why he had complete authority necessary to take his payment. "No more than afore, old friend." He sighed, pitching the remaining stones aside and dusting his palms. "My sword, as well as yours and theirs"—he gestured to the sleeping camp—"fights for the man who can pay the highest fee."
Raymond scoffed darkly and leaned close, his voice low. "Do not think you can lie to me, Gaelan. Beneath the next siege lies the opportunity you've sought all your life."
Gaelan's eyes flared. "And that be?"
Raymond grinned hugely, a natural state for the knight. "A worthy purpose. A home and land for a lifetime."
Tension tripped through Gaelan. "I am a Cornish bastard. Knight or nay, that remains unchanged."
Raymond took the bait of an age-old disagreement. "But whose by-blow—"
"Speak not a word of it, Raymond DeClare," came in a dark voice. "Claim all you wish of your infamous name, but leave me to my own."
Raymond's lips thinned. Gaelan refused to use his blood lines for bettering his life. He seemed satisfied with warring for other men's causes, but Raymond knew otherwise. At present, though, he kept that thought to himself. One did not poke at a wounded beast and live.
"And be forewarned, do not fill your head with notions of prize and respect with this siege." Gaelan sneered more to himself. "With stone and mortar? Let Henry have it for some fat lord he owes favor." He shrugged. "I take my payment in coin. I can ask for no more."
That was untrue and the root of their constant disagreement. Raymond stood, the motion knocking over the stool. "Your blind quarrelsome cross-grained self often astounds even one as common as I, m'lord." Raymond bowed deeply and Gaelan smirked, a smile fighting with his scowl. The second son of a baron and Pembroke's nephew, Raymond was as common as the king.
"Get your Norman hide to bed, whelp. Your prattle exhausts me."
Raymond left him, the flagon of wine tucked to his chest. Gaelan gazed at the fire, dismissing the spark of need Raymond's words ignited. A purpose? A home? A life of permanence? It was a notion Gaelan never allowed himself to consider. Well, mayhaps once in the past two days, he amended. He wanted and needed no more than a filling meal and a battle worthy of his skills. He'd no lands, no family awaiting his return, therefore where he slept was inconsequential. He could gain naught but coin for his services—therefore he'd never aspired further. His lot was a life without gentleness, he insisted silently, without caring beyond survival. Were he to die, none would mourn, and Raymond would fill his boots and lead. 'Twas as he'd expected, no more.
Then why, a ghostly voice asked, was the road traveled increasingly unsatisfying of late?
Land for a lifetime. 'Twas within reach.
Cold, tired and still hungry, Gaelan exhaled slowly, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes. For the flicker of a moment, he imagined himself a sedentary man, his life simple, without threat of an opponent's sword in his gullet. Would he grow restless for battle? Would he be as unsuitable for confinement as he was for a family? Regardless, the image of the red-haired woman flooded his mind and he fed the vision. She was beside him, living and loving. Love? He scoffed, his eyes still shut. What tenderness was found in an army's garrison beyond the friendship of a comrade and the easing of his needs between a pair of willing thighs
?
He shifted his shoulders, muscles suddenly tight. He would not know much of hearth and home even if the opportunity presented itself. His last occasion was years prior at court and he'd found he'd no taste for the pomp of noble life. Nor did he fit in there. Opening his eyes, he stared at the heavens, pinpoints of light blinking on a river of black. For certain he did not belong here. But 'twas his due, his reward for deflecting an attack on Henry's life by an Irish overlord.
* * *
Siobhàn opened her eyes cautiously, then threw back the pelts, reaching for her clothes piled on the ground. She'd heard enough. Henry hired my sword, is all. Is all! He was a mercenary, following no ideal, no cause, laboring, nay, slaying for tainted coin and naught else! Ahh, she should have known. Fitting her kirtle down around her hips, she yanked at the laces, then looked around the pavilion for her weapon. She did not believe for an instant a war-maker like him would care anything for a single blade when she was certain he had many to join his English arrows. Not devious enough to search his possessions, or the lack, she scrounged the threadbare rug for any weapon. Surprise brightened her face when she spied her dirk stuck in the wood table. Wrenching it free, she carefully pushed it down between her laced breasts and looked for a means of discreet escape. Guards would be posted about the perimeter, she thought. As a precaution, she threw the furs over the pallet, making proper indentations.
She snapped her fingers twice and Culhainn pushed through the flap, moving on silent paws to her side. "Shh," she hushed when he whimpered, stroking him behind his ears. She could not walk out in plain sight. There were still too many people milling about. She stood still, arms straight, palms out, her senses attuned to the land as she commanded the mist to rise and cloak her escape. When the bluish vapor snaked through the entrance, she quickly searched the tent folds for a rip or a seam and found a stake improperly secured. Dropping to the ground, Siobhàn pried it loose, praying the entire pavilion did not fall upon her, then rolled beyond the confines. She snapped her fingers again and when the wolf appeared to her right, she motioned to the forest. Culhainn leapt into the thicket, yet before she followed, she briefly peered around the edge of the tent. She spotted the mercenary resting before a dying fire, the mist cradling him. He appeared asleep. Good. She wanted naught but to flee from a man who'd no purpose beyond slaughtering her good folk for worthless coin from a greedy king. 'Twas too much like Tigheran, her husband.
* * *
Half asleep, Gaelan jolted. For several seconds, he struggled for balance on the stool, then climbed to his feet, heading to his pavilion. He ducked inside, the scent of her lingering in the air as he lit a taper and moved to the pallet. He'd heard her stir earlier and bent to check her fever, tossing back the coverlet and stilled. His gaze narrowed.
He bellowed for the watch. Rapid footsteps, the jingle of swords and weapons colored the night. Gaelan ducked from the tent, folding his arms over his chest and glaring down at the seven men. The torchlight illuminated his face like a portrait of Lucifer.
"Which of you will regale us with the tale of a woman and a wolf escaping unnoticed by trained warriors?" The last shook the air, scattering animals and children.
"Gaelan, nay!"
He met Raymond's bleary-eyed gaze. "Oh aye. And from the look of it, 'twas whilst you and I sat chatting!"
Raymond stepped closer, peering at his leader. "Hence, not only has she foiled you, but two brigades of knights, archers, footmen, squires, cooks—"
Gaelan put up his hand, the failure bruising his pride enough. "Extraordinary woman, I'd gather." Raymond rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back.
Gaelan dismissed the guards with the flick of his hand and looked at his grinning friend. Gaelan's lips twitched. His shoulders shook. Then he burst, his deep chuckle rumbling in the night.
"By God, the lass is bloody fearless." He was impressed, even as regret sluiced through him. Though he'd no intention of holding her against her will, he'd entertained the notion of taking her as his mistress for a time, but alas … he shrugged, his smile lingering as he stared at the darkened woods. Then his eyes narrowed suddenly, his pleasure suspended. "Pray she does not alert anyone of our presence, DeClare. Or the Irish will be prepared for a battle they cannot win."
Though it would matter little if she did. For he did not earn his spurs by his father's name or royal favor. Sir Gaelan PenDragon had never been defeated. And in a short time, every clansman for leagues would seek his head when he laid siege to Donegal Keep.
And its princess.
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Siobhàn was certain the village boys told every soul who'd listen of her capture. Explaining her overlong absence was a dilemma she debated with every step homeward. Briefly she considered a visit to the village to assure the boys she fared well, but she did not want them to be punished for the unfortunate end of a silly game. Yet neither did she wish to alarm her people of the English. There were few men able-bodied enough left at Donegal to fight, and delivering them into panic would serve no purpose now. And English soldiers on Irish soil was common of late. Just not so close to Donegal.
She paused just beyond the torchlight and gazed up at the stone walls of Donegal Castle, wondering over her reception and experiencing a familiar mix of pride and love for the place she'd called home these years past. It was said the Druids laid the first stones of Donegal and Siobhàn liked to believe it was the reason it still stood tall after so many years.
Bracing herself, she moved to the west postern door and pried it open, peeking around the wood. The leather hinge creaked, drawing the attention of a dozen folk lingering nearby. Surprised gasps and sudden shouts littered the air and Siobhàn groaned, cursing the Englishman's part in this. She had so hoped to enter unnoticed. She stepped fully inside, moving steadily across the outer ward, then the inner bailey toward the keep as her people crowded about, tossing questions and offering thanks to God for her safe return. The chatter confirmed her suspicions; the lads had been too scared to speak of the incident, likely fearing their pursuit of her the cause.
"Aye, I am fine. Oh nay, Davis," she said when the old man threw his only cloak across her shoulders. "You need the warmth more than I."
He shrugged, ever silent, for a Norseman had cut out his tongue years before.
"I will launder it." And she would weave him another, she thought, moving up the wide stone steps. Her heart lifted as she strode through the wide doors of the great hall, her gaze seeking the startled faces for her son.
Voices, excited and relieved, pattered throughout the hall and Rhiannon rose from her place at the hearth, catching Connal's hand and moving toward the entrance.
When Siobhàn appeared at the doorway, Connal bolted from his aunt's grasp, crying out for his mother. Siobhàn's face brightened and she stooped, opening her arms. He leapt into them.
"Ahh, my little prince, I have missed you." She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of his embrace. It felt like weeks, instead of hours since she'd held him last.
"Where were you, Mama?"
"I lost my way." A lie, to be certain, but she would not worry her son any longer. Over his head, she met her sister's gaze, and Rhiannon bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling outright. Siobhàn lowered Connal to the floor, sweeping the cloak from her back and handing it to a passing maid. The maid hugged her too, praising God for her safe return, and Siobhàn's heart gladdened with the affection. She strode quickly across the hall, dodging children and servants.
"Siobhàn, 'tis been dark for hours," Rhiannon said, embracing her sister. "I was worrying."
"You?" A tapered brow lifted as she leaned back to meet her sister's gaze. "I do not believe that."
Rhiannon inspected her with a critical eye. "Your basket?"
Siobhàn shrugged, accepting a goblet of watered wine from Bridgett. She drank deeply, then glanced at the keep, noticing chores undone. "Rhiannon, could you not for a few hours—?"
<
br /> "The basket, sister." Rhiannon grasped her hand, sensing peril and pain and … pleasure?
Siobhàn recognized the gloss in her sister's eyes and jerked back from her touch. Oftimes, she wished Rhiannon was not a seer. That she could delve her feelings without benefit of speech made for little privacy.
"Do not question me. Nay." She held up a finger in warning. "Take heart that I am safe and you have left this keep in shambles." She did not want to remember the Englishman. Not the way his kiss felt, the sight of him unclad and wet, nor her disappointment upon discovering his profession. She'd had enough of war in her life and she would not tolerate another instance. Fair face and brave or not.
Turning away from her sister's intense gaze, Siobhàn clapped her hands loudly and the noise in the hall lowered, servants of various sizes, ages and shapes frozen in their duties. "I beg your forgiveness, my friends. I did not mean to worry you."
Smiles wreathed the crowd.
"Sean said fairies took you," a young girl said.
A youth of three and ten looked at the girl, offended. "I did not. 'Twas Shamus who spoke such lies." Sean gestured to the older boy.
Shamus glared at the younger servant. "He said the O'Niell took ye, holed you up in his castle, he did."
"He is too honorable for so despicable an act, and as you see, 'tis untrue," Siobhàn said dismissingly, then turned her gaze to a stout man of nearly fifty, bent and slow-moving. "Davis? Change the rushes in the morn; 'tis foul in here." He nodded and trotted off. She addressed another. "Bridgett? Is there water warming, for I need a bath."
The Irish Princess Page 3