The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  She scoffed, her lips curving. Aye, 'twas worth Donegal and the lands beyond, she thought. And he knew it. "What am I to do with this?" She gestured to the coin. "I have nowhere to spend coin."

  He wasn't going to mention he would take her to England to spend it if she desired, for the subject was too tender to prod. "Then store it in the tower room for Connal's future. He will need to be educated, and tutors cost money."

  Her expression softened for the briefest of moments. "'Tis your fees."

  His brows furrowed. "Do not refuse, Siobhàn. I cannot change the king's proclamation any more than I can change the man I am, nor the manner of my living."

  "I know that," she said, vexation in her voice. "'Twould do well for such blood money to do some good for the less fortunate."

  His lips flattened into a thin line. 'Twas a reminder that though she might be wedding him in a few hours, she still loathed the past he carried.

  "Do as you will, Siobhàn. I do not care." He should have known a few trinkets would not soothe the strain between them. Gaelan only wished he knew what would.

  * * *

  At dusk, Gaelan knelt beside his bride as the priest laid his hand over hers, sprinkled them with holy water and recited vows. Clad in the deep green of her land, she took his breath away. Her head was circled in silver, the cape of her heritage draping her slim shoulders. He watched her face, the eyes that could not lie, and though she spoke in a clear strong voice, absolute rebellion lit her magnificent eyes. Yet this time, it amused the bloody hell out of him.

  And when he stood and faced her, taking her hand and slipping a band made of rare bluish green stones so like her eyes on her finger, he knew this was only a small step in laying claim to his wife. She stared in awe at the ring, then frowned up at him. He did not give her a chance to speak, a truly wise decision considering the sharpness of her tongue, and in a hall filled with English and Irish, he swept her into his arms and kissed her until she sank against him and drove her wonderful fingers into his hair.

  Ahh, he thought, this she cannot fight. And Gaelan PenDragon, Lord Donegal, knew exactly the path to travel.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

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  Rhiannon watched her sister kiss the English knight, her eyes widening at the heat the battling pair emanated. Sweet merciful, she thought, blushing for her sibling's sake. She had never seen Siobhàn act so, never knew that, in her always-with-matters-in-hand sister such fire lurked. Her gaze darted to Driscoll, his openmouthed look bespeaking his shock. She nudged him. His jaw snapped shut.

  Raymond DeClare grinned from ear to ear. Friar O'Donnel rocked back on his heels, bending a fraction as if to see daylight between the pair, then laughed to himself. The couple parted sharply, but the Englishman held her close still, and although Siobhàn blushed, Rhiannon recognized the look in the PenDragon's eyes. Pure, raw desire. She had seen it once before in a man and directed at herself. And the like had boded ill for her own life. She prayed it did not for Siobhàn's. She deserved so much more. She glanced down at Connal, tucked at her side, but close enough to touch his mother's skirts.

  His hatred for PenDragon was palpable, his tiny fists clenched at his sides and thumping his thigh. She bent to him.

  "Oh sweetling," she whispered. "This anger will do you no good."

  His gaze jerked to hers, hard and pinning for one so young. "I hate him. He makes Mama marry him when she does not want to."

  "She has no choice, Connal. King Henry is stronger than all of us, and PenDragon is his power. If he declares it, it will be. Besides, the church gave him the right to come here."

  "Then I curse the church."

  She inhaled, squatting. "Dare you blaspheme, child?" she hissed. "What will your mother do?"

  "She has him now," he sulked.

  "Nay, love, nay. She needs us now more than ever, for she is forever bound to the PenDragon. And so are we. Do you understand, if she loses us, she will be alone and heartbroken?"

  Connal's expression fell into shame. "I still hate him."

  "Aye, and 'tis your right. But do not let your mother feel she has not done justice to us. For 'tis she who will gain his wrath. Tuigim?"

  "Aye, I understand." He bowed his head, and when next he looked at her, he showed himself the true prince of Ireland with his trembling smile.

  She straightened. "Ahh, that's my favorite nephew."

  Glancing up, he eyed her from beneath a shock of hair the shade of baked apples. "I am your only nephew."

  "Are you now?" She looked shocked. "Then I supposed that's why you are my favorite." She tickled him under his arm and he giggled, cringing, then looked up at his mother.

  She reached out and touched his hair as she always did, and Connal made himself smile for her, loving her with all his heart, and when her sad face turned happy, he knew his aunt was right. He would be good so the PenDragon would not hurt her, he promised. If he did, Connal would find a way to kill him.

  * * *

  Siobhàn tried moving away from him, but he clasped her hand and brought it to his lips. She was fascinated with the play of his mouth over the back of her hand, and the shameful desire stirred in his arms—renewed through her body, coloring her cheeks.

  "Wife," he said, thoroughly possessive and sending a tingling skipping merrily down her spine. "United afore the people," he reminded her, and her features sharpened a fraction.

  Gaelan did not push his fortune and faced the crowd.

  Siobhàn looked up at him, then to the hall filled with familiar faces, and smiled brightly. A cheer rose, mostly from his soldiers and knights, and the latter swarmed them, wishing them well as she was passed from man to man and kissed, then deposited with great flare before Raymond DeClare.

  He grinned hugely.

  "Your smugness irritates, sir."

  "I know." Catching her shoulders, he lightly kissed her cheek. "Patience; he is new to this lording life," he whispered before stepping back.

  She glanced at PenDragon, thinking he "lorded" over her rather well, then eyed DeClare. "Codswallop." He chuckled deeply as she turned to PenDragon. He took her hand, leading her back onto the dais, the tall carved chairs of lord and lady replacing the priest's altar. She and her husband stood before it. Then she noticed his knights assembled along the west wall, then their dress, long belted blue tunics bearing the PenDragon crest.

  "What goes here, PenDr—husband?" she corrected at his warning look.

  "You will see," he tipped to whisper.

  Raymond DeClare unrolled a sheet of parchment, and from her position Siobhàn could see the flowing signature of the king and his great seal. Reese brought a small table and took up the dipped quill, holding it out for Gaelan. Siobhàn leaned out to watch.

  Bending with quill in hand, Gaelan looked at Siobhàn, sketching her slender form from the obstinate tilt of her head to the dainty tip of her slippers, and prayed to God that she was worth his freedom. The quill hovered; then he put his mark to the paper, sealing his future.

  The knights roared with applause and cheers.

  Siobhàn blinked, shocked and confused.

  Sir Raymond stepped forward and read the script. "By the will of his royal highness Henry Plantagenet of England, Wales, Cornwall…" Siobhàn listened carefully as DeClare listed the king's holdings. "Hitherto, Sir Gaelan PenDragon places his mark upon this, he accepts the duties of liege lord to King Henry the second, to protect and serve the good of lands Tyrone, Coleraine and Donegal to the north, to secure the border to the sea, the duty and position in reward for saving the life of his sovereign." Siobhàn inhaled and her husband glanced down, a look of scattered pain passing over his features. "Hitherto he is instructed to pay tribute…"

  As DeClare read on, Siobhàn crooked her finger to her husband. "You did not truly need me as a wife to gain Donegal for yourself, did you?"

  Gaelan caught only a hint of bitterness lacing her words, and although he knew a great deal more lay beneath, he chose to ignore it
. During the night he'd mulled his decision a hundred times, recognizing the price of his freedom—to battle for whom he chose and not be at Henry's beck and call—against the responsibility of so many families, so many futures. Previously, only men moved in and out of his ranks at their own will, and in his service they risked their lives willingly. Now these people depended on him to keep them fed, housed—safe.

  His mercenary life had ended when he claimed her for his bride, and though at the time it seemed a rather simple solution—command her and command her people's loyalty—he could not let her know that he wanted Donegal because he wanted her. He did not understand it himself, this emotional chaos he felt whenever he was near her, thought of her, but if she knew she had sway over him in the basest of ways, he would be lost. He reminded himself that, with the exception of a few shared kisses, she detested him and his past, and staring down at her, said the words he knew would make her see the benefits of marriage to him.

  "I am a different man than O'Rourke, Siobhàn. I bid you give us a chance afore you judge me."

  Siobhàn blinked, rearing back a bit. His softly whispered entreaty made her aware of passing quick judgment and mayhaps a bit harshly, but her feelings were of little consequence right now. Maintaining the health and future of Donegal was. She looked down suddenly, thinking of the time she'd be forced to reveal her deceptions, and fear slipped over her skin. Would he cast her out then? Would he take his reaction out on her folk?

  "…referred to as Gaelan PenDragon, Lord Donegal. And should he take a bride…"

  Siobhàn's brows rose and she leaned out to look at DeClare. "She, Lady Donegal."

  Gaelan glanced. "A princess to a lady, I apologize for the step downward."

  Siobhàn's smile was faint with determination. "It matters only to me that we rule as I have."

  "We?"

  Her eyes narrowed in a side glance. "Do not start with me, husband."

  Gaelan grinned. "'Tis the beginning, lass."

  The Irish folk mumbled among themselves as they sought Driscoll to translate DeClare's words. A single knight moved before them, withdrawing his sword. At her questioning gaze, he smiled reassuringly, then nodded to the knight. Sir Owen went down on one knee, his sword hilt clasped, the blade point in the rush-covered dirt floor.

  He bowed his head. "As a vassal of King Henry, upon this weapon, I swear before God and my liege, to honor and serve my lord's wife as I will my lord. And lay my life down to protect hers."

  "Let us hope it does not come to that, Sir Owen."

  He looked up and smiled as the other knights laughed among themselves. The priest blessed him and he stood and bowed. Another, then another filed past, swearing to her so easily she was stunned. Then came DeClare. He withdrew a tremendous sword, the top third of the blade serrated, the hilt glowing with gems. He knelt, head bowed and hand's clasped, recited his vow.

  Gaelan stepped forward, laying his hand on his head. "All within these walls and to the end of the province, hear now, Raymond DeClare of Pembroke is my voice when I cannot speak, my sword when I cannot wield." He glanced at Siobhàn, his features gentle with hope. "And when I cannot, he holds the honor of my lady's champion."

  Siobhàn's throat closed, her gaze shooting between PenDragon and DeClare. Her husband's men showed their loyalty to her when she had not earned it, vowed to protect when she would have rather seen them banished from Ireland. With the speaking of vows and a mark on parchment, they were now her people. The gathering of English and Irish touched a bruised spot in her. Was she holding her fealty from PenDragon simply because he was not Irish? She'd already lost her power in wedding him, for through him, she was obligated to the king. Was she withholding her oath to protect herself? For without a barrier, she would fall vulnerable to his charming smiles, his handsome face and magnificent body her fingers craved to touch. She jeopardized more than her heart in joining with this man. She could easily lose her soul.

  Before she could think on it overlong, Driscoll stepped forward and spoke to her in her native tongue. Gaelan's eyes flared briefly.

  "We are one clan, Driscoll. This we must accept as they have." She waved to the knights.

  Driscoll met Gaelan's gaze. "I have been the princess's champion since she was ten."

  "And you will continue, if that is your desire."

  Confusion lit his features as he glanced at DeClare, standing to Gaelan's left.

  "I had planned though, since these are your friends and folk, to appoint you high sheriff, but if you wish—"

  Siobhàn looked wide-eyed at her husband. "I thought you trusted no Irish?"

  He met her gaze with steely intent. "I must begin the healing sometime, wife. Driscoll speaks my language too, and DeClare cannot issue my orders if your people cannot understand."

  Siobhàn nodded, appreciating the wisdom, then looked back at her man. "The choice is yours, Driscoll."

  Driscoll turned his attention to his lord and nodded.

  "Swear to me, then."

  Driscoll's gaze snapped back to his princess's, but she did not acknowledge it, leaving the matter to his conscience. Driscoll knelt, and in a language so beautiful Gaelan wished he understood, spoke the words. "As a son of Ireland, a clansman of the princess of Donegal, I swear my life and heart, my home and family to your care," Siobhàn translated. "I accept the duty of high sheriff, and swear fairness and honesty"—Driscoll looked up—"to all."

  Gaelan nodded, then followed Driscoll's gaze to Siobhàn. A single tear moved down her cheek. "Siobhàn?"

  She waved, looking at the floor.

  Driscoll came to her. "Princess?"

  "I wish I could do so with such ease, my friend," she whispered tearily in Gaelic. "God knows I would mayhaps please him as you have."

  Gaelan frowned. "Siobhàn." Did she feel betrayed?

  "Is there more, my lord?"

  The quaver in her voice tore at his heart. "Nay, lass." He gestured, and the fiddlers' music filled the air, Driscoll still close, frowning at her as she sat. Gaelan called Brody forward and he spoke in low tones, appointing him steward and entailing his duties.

  He looked wide-eyed at his lady. "That has been her duty, sir."

  Gaelan arched a brow at Siobhàn. She was looking at her lap. "Wife." Her head jerked up. "What here do you not do?"

  "Wield a sword."

  Fortunate for him, he decided, his lips quirking. "You will not have the time to maintain such tasks." His wave meant every task she'd done before their marriage.

  Siobhàn looked him up and down, refusing to acknowledge how much pleasure the simple act gave her. "You speak as if you take a grand amount of care, English."

  "I plan to keep you busy," he murmured huskily.

  "I have plenty to tend, sir." She huffed at the silky innuendo in his tone.

  "I thank you for taking a burden." Overbearing clod, she thought, smiling approval at Brody and thinking her life had returned to the fetch and carry of her marriage to Tigheran.

  Gaelan detected a fraction of resentment and smiled. She was more readable than she imagined and did not like giving way to his authority, even in marriage. But then he'd known that from the moment he'd kissed her in the glen.

  "Begin the feasting," she said, nodding to a servant holding a platter. Gaelan frowned, confused. "They will not dine until you are served." He nodded and accepted a bite of mutton from a platter, popping it into his mouth.

  'Twas clear, Gaelan thought, that there were a few things of castle life he'd yet to learn. "Come," he said, taking her hand and choice from her. As the musicians painted the air with lively tunes and feasting began in earnest, he guided her through introducing his knights, pages and squires. "I can recall faces, but I admit that beyond these men, I can rarely recall a name."

  She met his gaze and with his hand at the small of her back, he led her back to the dais and the trestle table positioned before their chairs. "You should try now that you do not have to go off a'warring." She waved to the servants to serve his l
ordship, trying to ignore the warmth of his fingers on her spine.

  "But you would rather I did," he said, tipping his head close to whisper before she sat.

  She would rather he vanished into thin air, but 'twas moot now. "'Tis your way, my lord. You know no other."

  He slid into his chair as she poured wine into silver goblets. "Now I war for Donegal. Surely in that you approve?"

  She was taken aback, offering him the wine. "You do not truly want nor need my approval."

  But he did. Deep inside, in a place he rarely delved, he needed it. "Would you even believe otherwise of me?"

  Her lips pulled into a tight line. "What do you want from me, that you have not already taken?" she hissed, aware of listeners. In the middle of the revelry, he leaned indecently close, staring deeply into her eyes, his hand slipping to her waist, his thumb stroking over the fabric of her gown as if she was bare and brazen to his touch. Their agreement made her stay when Siobhàn wanted to shove his hand off. Then his fingers moved, slow circles, and Siobhàn experienced the same unaccustomed rush through her blood, the weight of his touch amplifying the sensation as he plucked a dried apricot from a platter, a contribution from his army's stores, and poised it at her lips.

  "I want only that you remain true to our bargain, my lady."

  She nipped a bite of fruit. "I will act the proper wife." He caught the inflection, watching her eyes. "You will allow my people to live as they have under your protection, yet no matter what comes atween us, you must not shame me with another, PenDragon."

  She looked him directly in the eye with the warning and Gaelan's brows furrowed. "I am a bastard, not an adulterer." Did she think him so baseborn he would behave without a shred of decorum? His gaze thinned. "Is there another reason you ask?"

  She simply stared.

  "Is there?"

  She was not about to reveal that Tigheran was a whoremonger, not above taking a maid within plain sight of her, then demand his wife service him moments later. It was a humiliation she refused to suffer again, even in the telling. Yet regardless of the passion simmering under the surface, the memory brewed a distrust. "Though you have promised to wait for me, you are a lusty male—"