The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  She wanted to be away from him, from this chamber and the memories it brought. She glanced at the old bed tucked in the alcove and shivered with revulsion, images of Tigheran, his body pounding hers whilst he called out another woman's name—of him taking maid after maid within earshot or even view of her. She jerked her gaze away and said, "I've five days' worth of chores to be done, PenDragon. Where is your list of terms?"

  "He is coming with them."

  She arched a brow, eyeing him from head to foot. Still wearing his sword, he was attired in naught but braise and a dull white lawn shirt, his boot cross straps laced over his legs to his thighs. The fabric clung like skin, offering the twist of corded muscle, and the mere sight of him moved strange feelings through her and her skin flushed hotter than usual. And when his breath escaped in a soft rush, she sensed all was not well with him.

  "Are you not satisfied with my compliance?" She really shouldn't test these waters again, she thought.

  "Aye." Then why did he feel as if he was beating it from her?

  Sir Raymond entered, immediately taking his seat, rolling out a piece of parchment, and at Gaelan's gesture began reading off the dictates of King Henry, her fallen position, how many of her men were expected to attend him in battle, the tenant paid to his liege; who could marry whom without royal approval. It made Siobhàn ill to hear it.

  "Why does he speak this misery aloud?" she interrupted, jumping to her feet. "I can read."

  "I cannot."

  She blinked up at him and blurted, "I can teach you whilst you await this new lord."

  He turned, his gaze on the floor, his arms folded. "I am a bit old to learn."

  "Codswallop." He looked up and oh, sweet Mary, the tormented regret in his eyes made her wonder if he was at all pleased that she was signing away her life. Then she gasped, "You're bleeding." She rushed forward, pushing back his arm and tugging the shirt from beneath his sword belt.

  Raymond stood, his face gone a bit paler.

  "It needs attention."

  Gaelan glanced at the top of her head, frowning at her concern. "My squire will see to it."

  "Like he has with that." She pointed to the jagged scar running up his forearm. "Or that?" She nodded to the scar inches from the one bleeding where the stitches had broken during the healing and he had not bothered to have it resewn. "Sit, sit," she commanded, shoving the tall carved chair back with her foot and forcing him into it.

  "Gaelan … I…" Raymond started.

  "Be useful instead of stuttering, DeClare." Raymond's lips pulled into a thin line she didn't see. "Ask Meghan for my herb basket, cloths, and a bowl of warm water. Quickly!"

  Raymond left, the hated parchment left on the table.

  "Take off your sword and shirt."

  Gaelan smirked with amusement and did.

  Siobhàn inhaled and slid to her knees. The three-inch cut steadily seeped blood. "Did you not think to cover it to stop the bleeding? Mary mother, PenDragon." She pressed his shirt to the gaping slice. "For a man with such prowess on the battlefield, you act the fool."

  Gaelan scoffed to himself, unable to take his eyes off his latest source of foolishness.

  Meghan entered, stopping short at the sight of the bare-chested man, then rushed to her mistress, depositing the items on the desk and nearly tripping to get out.

  "God's bones, but they act like scared rabbits around me."

  She pushed his arm back out of her way, and with a fresh cloth, washed and examined the wound, prying at it with silver tongs. "Mayhaps if you did not look as if you wanted to snack on them, this would change."

  "It does not matter."

  "If it did not, then you would not make comment."

  Irritated with the truth, he snapped, "'Tis a scratch, woman."

  "I gave you a scratch in the field, sir. This … 'twould not bleed so well if it was—ahh, and this is why." She plucked a sliver of metal, holding it up to him before tossing it aside. "I think Sir Raymond will need a new edge to his weapon."

  "That will please him," came bitterly.

  She threaded a needle. "Something must, for your swordplay did not."

  "'Twas … a bit of practice."

  She heard the falsehood in his tone and paused before saying, "From the look of your scars, sir, you could use a bit more of it."

  He chuckled softly and her gaze flashed to his. For a second they stared, frozen, Gaelan recalling the rage in himself, at her stubbornness that pushed him to battle his dearest friend. She broke eye contact and looked down, taking a stitch, blotting the wound as she did.

  Gaelan continued to study her.

  "Siobhàn…"

  "Hum?" She took another stitch.

  "I…" What did he want to say? That he regretted locking her away, regretted pushing her to the point that she would lay down her life for a few words. Or that he wanted her, what this land, these people had when he still did not know what it was? Ahh God, why do I torture myself like this? Her warm cheek pressed to his ribs, jerking him from his thoughts as she wrapped a strip of cloth around him.

  "Heavens. You are huge," she muttered, stretching her arms to reach around him, then tying it off. Gaelan caught her chin, tipping her face to his.

  "My thanks, princess. I have never been tended by one of royal blood."

  She scoffed and tried to pull away, but his hold refused.

  Gaelan stood, grasping her upper arms and pulling her to her feet.

  "Careful." She pressed her hand to the wound. "You will open up again."

  "Open up to me, Siobhàn."

  She stiffened with understanding and flattened her hands to his chest. The feel of his skin, cool and smooth beneath her palms, was exquisite, fogging her senses. "Nay," she managed.

  "For a moment, lass, you are not the Irish princess. I am not the invader. For a moment, we are as we were in the field, in the barn … strangers."

  She gazed into his liquid dark eyes, seeing the heat of his desire before she felt it against her body. Beyond the partition, the hall was filled with people, their noise coming to them, the clank of platters and the cry for ale and food.

  He gathered her against him.

  "Nay, PenDragon. This will not help." Her voice wavered and Gaelan would swear she was close to tears. He tipped her chin and found her eyes glossy.

  "Why not?"

  "You are the enemy. I cannot betray them all for my feelings. Not now."

  "And what are these feelings?"

  Desire, whispered through her mind. "'Tis useless to speak of them."

  Gaelan's throat tightened sharply. His heart, thundering at her touch, now raced and heated his blood further. "You loathe all that I am."

  Her shoulders shifted. "Aye."

  "But you desire me."

  "Nay."

  He read the lie in her eyes. "Say it, Siobhàn. Once afore I leave here, say it."

  "Aye," she choked, refusing to let tears fall.

  Gaelan bent, his head nearing. She was still, a little helpless sound escaping. He swallowed it, drank it into himself, his lips moving in slow deliberation over hers. The sound came again, a fracture in her shield, and it left him weak to hear more. He tasted her, sweeping his arms tightly around her slender form and pressing her to his length. She moaned, a telling sound of a passion she kept capped and away from all who knew her, all who only saw it when she defied him and denied a king. Her hands shifted, rubbing over his bare chest, her thumbs rasping across his nipples. Gaelan's knees buckled and he slumped to the edge of the desk, pulling her between his thighs.

  His hand swept down to the base of her spine, pressing her softness to his groin, and she shifted against him, restless, impatient. A tiny bit of surrender. Gaelan thought he would lose control right then, twist about and take her on the dusty desk. Instead, he tore his mouth from hers, his lips searing over her face, her throat, bending her back over his arm and nipping at the swell of her bosom. Her fingers sank into his hair, and suddenly she brought him back to her mouth,
kissing him with all the heat she held, all the moments of desire she'd crushed. Her tongue pushed between his lips and he clutched her, wildly mapping the contours of her spine, her buttocks.

  In the privacy of the solar, whilst the world moved on around them, Gaelan savored the delight of having her for one brief moment. He was not good enough for her, undeserving. She hated him, hated all there was about him, yet here, she desired. Here, he could touch the purity of her and feel clean and untainted by the blood on his hands. Here, he was worthy of her. She was innocent and giving and warm in his arms, her fingers singing through his hair, touching his features with a wildness that ached for release.

  Screams filled the air, tearing them apart. Gaelan frowned, releasing her, grabbing his sword and moving to the partition. He shouted for silence, searching for Raymond or Driscoll. Then a trumpeter hailed, the sound quivering through the walls from the gates and towers. Her eyes flew wide and she looked at him. He was already at the doors. She ordered everyone inside and the keep doors sealed before she grabbed her cloak and followed.

  Gaelan ran, his sword slapping his thigh as he barked orders for the inner gate to close behind him. Siobhàn slipped through, lifting her skirts and dashing after him. A patrol crossed the stone road, hooves clattering until they met the ground of the outer ward. Sir Owen slid from the saddle, slipped off his helm to address Gaelan.

  "An army comes," he managed, winded.

  "A garrison?"

  "Nay, but enough, sir."

  Five knights surrounded him, awaiting orders. "All troops to arms. Send men on horseback to gather the folk living outside. Take them, if they protest." There were hundreds living in clusters beyond the outer curtain, serving the needs of the village and castle, and he would not have a single soul harmed when he'd sworn to protect. Ordering the tower watch doubled as well as the archers at the arrow loops and along the parapet, he ran to the parapet, foregoing the staircase in the stone tower and climbing the scaffolding. He surveyed the area. With the sea at their back, they were vulnerable on three sides.

  "PenDragon!"

  He turned and peered over the wood rail. "Get into the keep, woman."

  She reached for the wood ladder. "I can take the stairs, but then, I will be very angry by the time I reach you."

  Gaelan smiled to himself and as she climbed, he caught her about the waist and lifted her to the ledge. "Your stubbornness will get you killed," he said gravely, still holding her waist.

  "Then mayhaps you should leave Ireland."

  "Mayhaps you should simply obey me?" His lips curved, the smile too genuine, pricking through her ire.

  The devil take him, she thought, throwing off his hands even as her heart tripped. "Who is it?"

  "An invader."

  She sent him a side glance, her lips twisting wryly, then moved to the edge. She squinted, unable see aught but the rolling green hills.

  Gaelan walked the parapet, relaying orders, and as the carts and horsemen rode inside, depositing villagers, Siobhàn hailed them by name, motioning them to the inner ward. The gate closed like a snapping jaw and she looked at Gaelan. Already donning a shirt and leather-padded tunic, he spoke to his knights and soldiers as Reese helped him into his armor. Where she expected him to garb himself completely, he donned only the breast and back plate, shoulder and vambraces, as he had in the forest. He placed his helm on the ledge, its fountaining plume noticeable for a half mile, and she expected 'twas his intention. The face shield was down, molded in the fierce snout of a dragon. It made her skin crawl. Today she would see him as he truly was, a man who lived by the skill of his sword, spilling blood to earn his pay.

  He loaded a crossbow, the muscles in his forearms and hands flexing as he pulled the bolt into position. He had the strength to snap her neck in those hands, she thought, yet those same rough, scarred hands had been gentle on her body, in her hair. Unfamiliar feelings tripped through her body, sympathy and understanding for his harsh life crowding with the price she would eventually pay—they would all pay—for the sake of his fee and King Henry's greed.

  She turned back to the wall, cursing her weakness. Torches flamed to add light before the sun fell too deep. Then she saw them. Riders. Over a hundred at least, cresting the hilltop. No banners flew. They neared and she gripped the edge of mortar and stone, praying the PenDragon lived up to his reputation.

  He moved up behind her and felt her fear. "Who is it, Siobhàn?"

  "The Maguire."

  Gaelan squinted. "I will have O'Niell's head for this!"

  She twisted a look up at him, yet his gaze lay on the approaching army "Lochlann had no time to warn him. Maguire lands are to the south. He had to have ridden for two days to get here now."

  He met her gaze. "Why is he here? He is sworn to Henry, princess." Her crestfallen look kicked him in the gut.

  "You lie!"

  "I will give you the chance to ask yourself. Before I kill him." He moved away, ordering the archers to load weapons, the doors secured.

  If Ian had not sworn, PenDragon would open fire. If he was Henry's man now, Ian would be, at the least, severely fined and, at this tender state, could lose his lands. The Irish warriors rode down one hill and up another, spreading out around the entrance to Donegal castle. With the crossbow, Gaelan stood atop the wall, making himself a target.

  "Sweet Mary mother, PenDragon, get down."

  He looked at her, smirking. "Careful lass, one would think you care if I live or die."

  She scoffed. "Go ahead then. God pities fools."

  The leader pushed his cloak back off his shoulders.

  "Why do you come, Maguire?" Gaelan called.

  "I speak with the princess."

  "You speak with me or die now. As a sworn vassal of Henry, you break your oath coming here armed for battle."

  "I have sworn to no one."

  Gaelan could feel her I-told-you look.

  "I come for the princess, not to attack, PenDragon."

  "That did not stop you three days ago."

  Ian's brows drew down. "What do you accuse, English?"

  Gaelan withdrew a scrap of fabric from inside his tunic. "Deny this is your plaid?"

  "What are you talking about?" Siobhàn hissed but Gaelan ignored her. "Is that from the day in the field?" She tried to get a look at it. "For if so, I will tell you now, 'twas not Ian's men."

  "That time they were masked as well, Siobhàn."

  That time. The blood on his armor, his sword the day he arrived, she realized. "'Tis a mistake. I know these people!"

  Gaelan shot a bolt at his horse's feet.

  The horse reared, and as Ian sought control he yelled, "You know 'tis mine."

  "I could have told you that," Siobhàn snapped.

  Gaelan fired a heated look at her and motioned her into silence. The fool woman was pushing a wood box close to stand on. "Stay back," he warned. She didn't, leaning over the edge.

  "Ian Maguire!" The man's gaze jerked to her and his relieved smile was blinding, killing Gaelan's compassion. "What have you done? 'Tis true? Did you attack his men?"

  "I am not a fool, Siobhàn. I cannot defeat Henry's army and neither can you."

  "I do not have to! I did not raise arms to him. I swear you are still so reckless."

  "Siobhàn," Gaelan warned. She waved him off like a bothersome child, and his patience at an end, he hopped down and strode to her.

  "I would not risk your life, Siobhàn," Ian said.

  "You risk it now, all of ours." She waved to encompass her lands. "Why are you all so willing to die?"

  "For you, love, I would."

  "Oh, Ian," she moaned, and beside her, Gaelan's scowl turned black.

  "Let him have Donegal, Siobhàn. Come home with me, marry me. I will see you safe."

  Yanking her back, Gaelan leaned over the wall and shouted, "If she weds anyone, Maguire, 'twill be me!"

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  A hundred pairs of eyes sn
apped to him, stunned by his declaration.

  "What?" Siobhàn gaped up at him. "But you leave!"

  Gaelan heard the horror in her voice, felt the shallow depth of his station, yet kept a careful watch on the man below as he spoke. "Did I not tell you the situation could change?" Gaelan had never allowed his emotions to rule him, but greed pushed him. Greed for more than his worth, unexplainable to a man who'd needed no one, had wanted no ties, especially to a woman—for she, this rebellious princess, was beyond anything he imagined. Yet he'd known what he wanted the moment he'd laid eyes on Siobhàn O'Rourke and laid his mouth to hers.

  He would not be denied.

  Ian's expression turned molten, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "She won't marry the enemy."

  "You challenge me, Maguire?"

  Archers took careful aim.

  "Ian! Nay! Do not!" She gripped the stone ledge. His men would all die!

  "You wed him and you betray Ireland," Ian warned, his voice steely with suppressed rage.

  She gasped, deeply stung. "I wed no one and you risk the king's anger."

  "I do not bring the enemy into my bed and his blood into our clans!"

  Siobhàn reddened, her gaze thin and pricking. "I have not, Ian." Curse men and their foolish pride. "I choose whom I wed, Ian. You should know that by now!"

  Ian's handsome features stretched taut.

  "Enough!" Gaelan hauled her against his side.

  "Let her go, PenDragon!" Ian raised his arm, his archers ready to return fire.

  PenDragon's men aimed. "I give you one warning, Maguire." He looked down at Siobhàn, his voice low. "War or peace is in your hands, princess. Agree to wed me or there will be blood shed. The Maguire's the first to spill."

  His ultimatum infuriated her. His threat to her oldest friend tore through her very soul, scraping away the tenderness she'd experienced in his arms only moments before.