The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "'Tis a mystery, Siobhàn. The livestock was butchered." He blotted her face with his sleeve and helped her to her feet. "There is no sense in it."

  "As in the south. So far apart from the other, why?"

  "We rode for miles, lass. Driscoll found another village, in the forest." Her breath skipped. "Nay, no one died, but they'd been raided recently. Little more than half their livestock was gone."

  Her delicate brow furrowed. "But 'tis not the same, then."

  He shrugged. "Who is to say the villagers did not anger the raiders and refuse to give up their stock?" She agreed with that. "The second village did not fight, but for a young lad who took a hit to the head." A pause, and then he added, "We captured two men just beyond the hamlet with the livestock."

  "Irish?"

  He shrugged. "They've refused to speak a word."

  That marks them with guilt, she thought as she went to the basin and splashed her face with cold water, dried, then took back her comb. She freed the tangles as she spoke. "I had nary a clue afore, either. I could only bring the villagers closer to the castle or inside."

  "'Twas your wisest choice until now." She twisted a look at him. "I have men already out on patrol, Siobhàn. And will send more when they know the area and have a guide we can trust."

  She nodded, suddenly seeing the benefit of his legions. She could never spare so many men for fear of leaving the ones here unprotected. "Allow Driscoll to select the guides, my lord. I trust him. And let Brody go with you if you need him." Her lips curved a bit. "He will find castle work tiresome after a bit and he is very accurate with a javelin."

  "I will find them, I swear." Gaelan's stomach rolled with the memory of the child beneath the bench.

  "I know you will." She saw it in his eyes, his lethal determination, and she came to him, gazing up into his handsome face as she braided her hair, weaving the bells. The sound made him smile softly. "Come below and break your fast."

  "When I find my boots." He glanced around, and Siobhàn walked straight to them, plucked them from the floor and dropped them in his lap.

  "Hurry." She offered a weak smile. "I will need someone to blame for my tardiness."

  "Lay it fully on me, wife." He slid his arm around her, dragging her close for a warm kiss. "And aught else you'd like." He wiggled his brows.

  Smothering a smile, she scoffed, playfully shoving him back as she passed to the door. Gaelan enjoyed the sway of her hips as he donned his boots, then, straightening, he peered to see she was gone before he withdrew the pouch, spilling the contents into his hand.

  He stared, scowling, for glittering from the center of his palm was a silver spur.

  A knight's spur.

  * * *

  "I am ready for my lesson."

  On her knees in her herb garden, Siobhàn looked up. He stood at the far end, a book she'd never seen before tucked under his arm and a basket in his hand.

  "You wish to learn to read now? But—" She waved to the garden overrun by weeds.

  "Everyone else is taking a meal and a bit of rest, Siobhàn." He walked toward her, careful not to crush her seedlings. "So should you."

  "I am not tired."

  He squatted and she looked up. "I could make you tired." Those brows wiggled and she shook her head, her smile soft. He looked much the boy pleading for an extra comfit, and she sat back on her haunches, dusting her hands on her apron.

  "Come dine with me. Then teach me."

  She cocked her head, aware again of what it took for such a proud man to ask for her help. He pulled her to her feet and they moved to a tree growing flush against her herb house.

  Gaelan knelt, giving her the book, then pulled the cloth from the basket. He uncorked a jar of watered wine and handed it to her, then forged for the meal he'd asked Bridgett to prepare. He was starved, but more for Siobhàn's company, and after the teasing they'd suffered this morn from Raymond, he knew why she'd hid out in this secluded place. The outer curtain, one wall of the keep and the herb house made three sides of a square, the kitchen closing off the fourth nearly completely, except for a gate to keep out the animals. There was serenity here, where the sun shone well enough over the low herb house, whilst the walls offered shade. He'd watched her from the solar before coming out. She looked like a serving woman, with her apron and the kerchief covering her hair. It was an English custom for women to cover their hair, but here, the ladies wore their manes like crowns and he found he liked it. As did his men.

  Hair as beautiful as that of the Irishwomen should never be concealed.

  Siobhàn watched as he solicitously laid out the fair between them. It was the first time a man had ever done aught like this for her. And sipping wine, she settled to the ground to enjoy it, pulling her kerchief from her head. With his eating dagger, he cut portions of meat and goat cheese, sliced bread and fruit she had never seen before.

  "Pomegranates," he said. "I'd fear they'd rot, for the men do not care for them."

  "You have women in your groups, husband."

  "Aye, but I gave all the choice to remain or not and most left with the few men who set back to England on their own."

  "When?" She hadn't noticed a lessening of his ranks.

  "The morning of our wedding."

  She blinked.

  "I sent word to the king then. We should hear from him in a month's time."

  "Would he not approve?"

  He glanced up from cutting food, spearing a chunk and holding it to her lips. "Hoping he will recall me and rescind his edict?"

  "Hah, he would never do the smart thing." Smiling, she nipped the meat from his fingers, drawing back and chewing.

  "I think he will be in shock but well pleased." He relaxed against the tree, removing his sword and laying it aside.

  She held a cube of soft cheese for him. "Because he knew you had every intention of leaving me to the hands of another lord?"

  Gaelan met her gaze. Leaving me. Not her people, but her. Ahh, lass, you're letting me into your heart and unaware of it, he thought, grinning. "I would not do aught so foul to another Englishman. You are hellion enough."

  "Oh! You—" she gasped and shoved the next bite into his mouth. Gaelan chuckled deeply, and they fed each other; she sucked the soft cheese from his fingertips and he the crumbs from her chin. In an instant, he was leaning over the meal to kiss her and could stand no more, urging her closer.

  "This is not a lesson in reading," she said, yet made no move to stop the kiss, her hand lightly on his jaw.

  "'Tis more fun, I wager."

  "I do not think you need any more practice."

  "Compliments, my lady?"

  She smiled against his mouth and leaned back, taking the book and shifting beside him. "Where did you get this?" It was bound, the pages stitched secure in a spine.

  "DeClare." Gaelan folded the remnants of the meal into the basket. "It comes from the east."

  "'Tis beautiful." He watched her eyes skip over the pages, aching to know what they said. "'Tis a book of poems. Did DeClare translate these?"

  Gaelan looked where she pointed to Raymond's scribbling between the lines and shrugged. "He was going to be a scholar, you know. Into the priesthood." She looked at him, shocked. "Aye. But he found he liked getting under a woman's skirts more than God would allow."

  "He's been under a few already," she said with a nudge, and his brows shot up. "Tell him to be careful. 'Tis worse than the danger of a battlefield here, with so few men." He fished paper and a quill from the basket, and Siobhàn gave him an old piece of wood she used to mark the rows as a firm surface. "There are a few girls who would like to snag a man as handsome as DeClare."

  Stretched out and settled on his stomach, he looked up, eyeing her with a cheeky grin. "Handsome? Should I be jealous of that?"

  "Be whatever you like," she said, tapping the book.

  She pointed out the letters of his name, instructing him to re-create them again on the paper. Over and over he repeated the writings, learning the s
ounds to the letters, and though Siobhàn was not surprised with his quick absorption, it was his handwriting that stunned her. Strong and fluid, it was beautiful. He learned the alphabet and was reciting the letters with each sound when he stumbled over one or two. She slid down on her side near him, propping her head in her palm. They repeated together.

  "K, as in kiss?"

  "Aye."

  "P as in passion."

  She smiled. "Aye."

  "E as in … intercourse."

  Oh, the rogue, she thought. "Nay, 'tis i—"

  "—who would have some with me?"

  "Husband!"

  "Nay?" God above, he loved it when she got all indignant. "Then I will settle for a kiss."

  She eyed him, then darted forward and pecked his cheek, but Gaelan snagged her at the base of her neck and took the advantage. He kissed her languidly, their bodies apart, yet his hand rode the length of her from shoulder to hip, a light caress that turned her insides to syrup. He offered naught more. But it was enough, enough to make her want, enough to make her remember that tongue playing elsewhere, and when it swept the line of her lips, dipping deep and retreating, she wanted the power of him, the weight of him crushing her deliciously. But he did not give it.

  Ahh, Siobhàn thought, her hand slipping to his jaw, her thumb smoothing over his cheek. 'Twas a courtly kiss, soft yet restrained. He was showing her in his own way that he would abide her wishes, yet she heard his breathing grow rapid with hers, felt his fingers flex ever so slightly at her hip. The wind rushed over them, the scent of mint and foxglove, Solomon seal and penny royal sweetening the moment. She wanted to feel his hands on her, feel the same stroking fire of last night.

  Yet he leaned back, his gaze searching her features. He licked his lips, as if to sample her again.

  "That part of you tastes quite different."

  She turned ten shades to red and stuttered, yet said naught.

  Gaelan laughed and kissed her once quickly, then rose, gathering up the writing implements, the book and the basket. "I will leave you to your work as I have mine." He walked from the garden, leaving her body hot and stirred, and she watched him close the gate and wink. She flopped back on the dirt. Oh, for the love of Saint Michael. She could deal better with his open assaults, but this … ahh, this was hard to fight.

  * * *

  Gaelan stared at the prisoners. They were guilty. Found with the stolen livestock and blood on their clothes, there was no question. "Speak or you will die for your crimes."

  The men simply stared. Gaelan noticed the marks on them and glared at his soldier. "Beating them is forbidden."

  The soldier colored and nodded, his posture stiff. Gaelan considered dealing with them immediately, but he needed information, a clue, and mayhaps a day or two without food would bring it.

  * * *

  That night she waited for him to come to their chamber and when he did not, she went looking, yet found Connal wandering the halls in his nightshirt. She scooped him into her arms and took him back to his room. "Where is your aunt?" Rhiannon shared a room with Connal of late, giving hers up to DeClare and two other knights.

  He shrugged, and Siobhàn realized he was feeling cast aside but would not say so. She crawled into bed with him, hugging him close, toying with his thick hair. He tossed and twisted for an hour, and no amount of coaxing could get him to tell her the root of his discomfort, though she knew. He hated Gaelan. Hated that he was here, hated that he shared her bed, for her son had never seen a man there. Was he mayhaps jealous? She regretted not keeping him with her more often, but even a sorrowful boy got into trouble and underfoot when he was bored.

  "Shall we take a ride together on the morrow?"

  He cocked a look at her through sleepy eyes. "Just you and me?"

  "Nay, poppet, we must have an escort. There have been bandits in the hills."

  "Will he go?"

  She shrugged. "PenDragon has much work to do."

  "Good." He closed his eyes. "I would rather DeClare join us then."

  Siobhàn looked up to see Gaelan moving away from the door, his head bowed, his wide shoulders drooping on a heavy sigh, and her heart went out to him.

  Gaelan had slept alone that night, leaving Siobhàn to comfort her son, and in the morning he stood back and watched them ride through the gates, Connal tucked in front of his mother, an escort of no less than fifteen men accompanying them. He had not kissed her good-bye, nor touched her when she mounted the palfrey, but he had wanted to, for he'd missed spending the evening with her more than he thought possible. She twisted in the saddle, meeting his gaze, and he felt a sense of companionship with her, for although he'd made no indication that he'd heard Connal's words last night, he'd not balked at the request. After all, they'd been wed only days. The boy needed time.

  But he'd allow only so much time to pass before he let Connal come between them.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  Gaelan frowned when Siobhàn and the group rode back inside the gates but an hour later, hardly enough time for a decent run. He strode quickly to her, glancing at DeClare, who looked a bit scuffed and dirty for a simple ride, then Driscoll, both men's expression guarded, before bringing his gaze to Siobhàn. She put up her hand, halting inquiry, then slid from the saddle and reached for her son. Connal came to her stiffly and she set him to the ground, bending to his ear.

  "Get yourself to your chamber, laddie. I will be up in a moment's time to have a chat with you." Connal glared first at Gaelan, then his mother, and Gaelan's brows rose as he watched the child stomp toward the keep.

  Siobhàn's shoulders slumped and Gaelan stepped closer. "Is there aught wrong?"

  "Not that a good paddling won't cure."

  Gaelan frowned. He never thought to see her so angry with her child.

  "He put a thistle under DeClare's saddle and he was thrown." Gaelan's gaze shot to Raymond and the knight shrugged. "Sweet Mary, I don't know how he reached that high, but the devil is in the child this morn."

  Gaelan looked at the ground, his shoulders shaking suspiciously, and she moved closer, tipping up his chin.

  Her eyes flew wide. "You think 'tis funny? He could have been killed!"

  "You have to admit, Siobhàn, the boy is tenacious."

  "That boy"—she pointed, in case he forgot which one—"is going to spend a day in penance, and do not let him see you laughing about this." She swatted his chest in warning. "'Twill only breed more mischief." Still, PenDragon chuckled. "Know you he cut the girth to your saddle?" Gaelan's laughter died and his gaze narrowed. "Ahh, see, 'tis not such a lark, now, eh, husband?" She looked at DeClare. "Please accept my apology, sir." He nodded and she bobbed a curtsey and strode off.

  Gaelan watched her go, pitying the lad a bit.

  "Being birthed in an abbey did little to sanctify he'd be an angel, eh?"

  Gaelan swung around, frowning at Driscoll.

  "Aye, my princess had left to join Tigheran in England when she discovered she carried the prince in her belly and was forced to remain at an abbey in Wales till his birth. The weather being bad about then." Driscoll's voice turned soft and melancholy. "The day she rode through those gates with that bundle, I swear her smile melted the snow, for 'twas the only time I ever saw her truly happy to be here." Suddenly he shook himself and cleared his throat, his cheeks pinkening. "Then word came of her husband's death. And, well…" He shrugged, as if that said what he could not.

  Gaelan digested this as he ordered them to get off their arses and come look over his plans. Yet as they hovered over the diagrams spread on the table, Driscoll's words nibbled at the back of his brain, and during the remains of the morning Gaelan tried to understand what bothered him about the tale, then dismissed it. He had much to do before luncheon and his reading lesson with Siobhàn.

  * * *

  Rhiannon leaned back against the stone wall in the garden. Above her sunlight refracted through the colored glass, spilling red, yellow an
d blue on the opposite wall twenty feet away. She tipped her face to the sun, letting the warmth dry her tears, and she stared at the trees, the wind turning the leaves back. Then she slunk to the ground, covering her face. She sobbed, quietly, privately, ashamed of herself, of her heart's desire and the betrayal of it.

  * * *

  Castle folk cleared a path for her, aware of her ire, and Siobhàn was thankful for the small courtesy. She hated disciplining Connal so severely, but the child's behavior was growing worse by the day. She did not want to inform her husband of the bed ropes he'd cut and she'd discovered, much to the objection of her rump, just now. What did he think to accomplish with all this mischief?

  Siobhàn froze at the inner gate, her gaze moving over the outer ward. She'd never seen so many men inside the castle walls. His men, his soldiers, footmen and archers slammed hammers, used muscles for war, to build. Not a soul stood idle, and already this morn carpenters worked to expand the armory and accommodate the cache of weapons. Pages and squires sat on a log like birds, polishing and repairing armor and tack, the line of deadly crossbows and bolts sending a shiver down her spine. Archers strung new bows and along the east wall another group of soldiers—his soldiers—lifted a finished wall off the ground and pushed it into place, extending the barracks. Carts rolled between the yawning doors of the outer curtain, thick-chested war horses put to work to pull the heavy load of stones. Masoners chiseled and oversaw the mixing of mortar in great vats. Then she recognized the kettles were from the kitchen! Her best ones!

  Irritated more than her share this day, Siobhàn's gaze searched the congestion for her husband. Her breath shot into her lungs when she saw him, using his broad back to help lift a huge stone into a break in the curtain wall. Above him on the parapet, three men struggled with ropes to pull the chiseled boulder up into place. Siobhàn called out to her people, for the largest to come help before he was crushed under the weight. A few men gave her a belligerent look before complying, and the many hands hoisted the rock into place. With a growl, her husband straightened, flexing his bare back and arms, then clapped a hand on the back of an Irishman, thanking him.