The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "I apologize for—"

  "Don't, love. He's but an innocent and I am simply glad he survived." Gaelan looked again at the destruction, then moved past Siobhàn to the foot of the framework. He inspected it, calling Raymond near.

  Gaelan nodded discreetly at the scaffold post lodged in the ground.

  Raymond's features tightened with understanding. There was a rope fastened about the base, buried in the ground, and Raymond tugged it, his gaze following the path to a horse hitched to a cart in the distance. The rope was caught on the wheel.

  "An accident?"

  "Of course it was."

  Gaelan flinched around to find Siobhàn hovering over them. He yanked her to the ground and showed her the rope, intentionally buried.

  "Keep him close to you," he said in a grave tone. "If the child played there often enough, then someone knew he would go there."

  She inhaled, eyes wide. "You do not think one of our folk tried to hurt him? Why?"

  "Someone who does not want me here or hates me enough to hurt your son because it would destroy you and the blame would lay with me. Someone who does not want us to make peace in this castle." He shrugged. "I cannot speculate for so many possibilities. There are unfamiliar workers coming in and out of the castle lately." He shifted closer to her, trapping her gaze with his. "Do you not see why I need their total allegiance, Siobhàn? Without it, things like this"—he lashed a hand toward the rubble—"will breed discontent I might not be able to control without retribution."

  "I know, but what can we do?"

  He helped her to her feet, gathering her close, recognizing that the fright had not left her, and kissed the top of her head, rubbing her back. "We will think of something. But do not allow Connal near this mess again." She tilted her head back and nodded, patting his chest. "Go, see to the boy." She left them, hurrying across the compound.

  "Who were they after, Gaelan, you or the child?"

  "Me, I would wager. Connal is no longer the prince awaiting his throne. He is little threat to anyone."

  Raymond's lips pulled in a flat line. "And here I thought we were making progress."

  Apparently, Gaelan thought, the only progress he was making was with his wife.

  * * *

  Like phantoms out of the mist, they hovered in the darkness, ancient chants simmering in the cool night air. Moonlight glinted off hatchets and axes, off bolt tips and swords. The leader scanned the armed warriors, the finest and strongest of the clans joined in revolt. Proud men. Angry and sworn with determination. His features distorted under the dyes and rubs, he stared down the hillside at the sleeping village. Rage twisted in him, for this night, like the many before, marked him outlaw, murderer to his woman, his people, his land.

  God forgive me.

  He pulled the hood over his head and dug his heels into the horse's thick sides.

  They rode, a thunder of death across the green moors. In minutes the village was silent of cries and pleas for mercy, every clansman left homeless and hungry—and some dead. The leader wheeled about and rode into the forest alone, dismounting, shoving the horse away. He stumbled, seeking solace, and then stilled, ripping off the hood and staring up at the night sky, his face wet with tears as he sank to his knees. A horrible pain-filled howl tore from his throat, startling night creatures from burrow and hollow. And when the echo died, he folded over, his bloody fingers digging into the earth as he vomited.

  * * *

  Rhiannon bent and dug beneath the goose for fresh eggs, placing her find in the basket at her feet. She sidestepped and reached for another collection. A hand slapped over her mouth, a strong arm clamping about her waist and jerking her back against the hard frame of a man. She struggled, clawing at his fingers, and the hold tightened mercilessly, squashing her breath from her lungs.

  "Be still!" the voice hissed. "Meet me in two nights' time."

  She shook her head and he squeezed harder.

  "Meet me or I will reveal your lies, woman."

  Rhiannon's eyes widened, her denial a low moan and renewed fight. Suddenly she was free, stumbling forward and tripping over the basket of eggs. She whirled about, gasping for a clean breath, and found herself alone with the geese and doves. She darted to the dovecote's entrance, searching the inner bailey for the intruder. She knew she would not find him and turned back inside, hugging herself.

  Meghan ducked into the dovecote and Rhiannon turned, at first thinking her Siobhàn, their hair so close in hue.

  "Oh, my Lord," the woman gasped, rushing to her side. "What has happened to you?" Meghan caught her hands, holding them for inspection.

  "What?" Rhiannon snapped, wondering if the woman saw her assailant but not daring to ask.

  "Look at you." With the hem of her apron, she swiped at Rhiannon's face.

  And the white cloth came away stained red with blood.

  Rhiannon snatched the hem, wiping her face over and over. She felt ill, her skin suddenly too hot for her clothes. Oh, Lord our Father, what had he done? she agonized, then looked down at her plain gown. The mark of his hold left an imprint of red.

  "Say naught of this to anyone," Rhiannon warned.

  Meghan frowned. "But, my lady—?"

  "'Tis naught. I broke an egg and it must have been fertile." She nodded to the eggs crushed when she'd tripped, then bent to gather the remaining finds. She fled, leaving Meghan to stare after her, her eyes flaring wide at the bloody stain on her lady's back.

  "Fertile eggs, my eye," she whispered.

  * * *

  "I cannot find him, sir."

  Gaelan nodded to the squire, fanning his fingers beneath his beard. His glance moved over the people in the hall, dining.

  "You are concerned?"

  He looked at his wife and smiled. "Nay, but he's late for his duty." It was unusual, for if anything Owen was prompt and this was the second time in two days. A sound pierced through the din of the hall and Gaelan scowled, twisting toward the corridor behind him.

  Meghan appeared, her face pale as she rushed to his side. Siobhàn stood, touching her shoulder. "Meghan, my word! What is it?"

  Her gaze shot to her lord. "Come, please come." The servant turned away, heading back the way she came, and Siobhàn and Gaelan followed, his motion bringing two soldiers with him. Gaelan met the last step of the staircase leading below to the dungeon and cursed.

  "Oh, Lord." The two women crossed themselves and Siobhàn ushered Meghan back from the hideous sight, sending her above.

  The two prisoners dangled from the barred door, naked and strangled. It was an effort to do this, Gaelan thought, for the ceiling was low and they had to make a rope from their clothes.

  Gaelan flicked a hand to the dead men. "Cut them down and bury them." The soldiers did his bidding and he turned away to find Siobhàn gathering the broken remnants of the prisoners' meal onto the tray. He bent, helping. Her hands were trembling. Behind them, the thunk of bodies to the wet stone floor made her flinch.

  "I wish you had not seen that."

  "I have seen worse, just not in my own house." She hated the dungeon. It spoke only of death and dying. Tigheran had been notorious for keeping it full for the meanest infraction.

  "Why would they kill themselves rather than talk?" he said more to himself, then caught the scent of… "What is that smell?" He frowned, meeting her gaze.

  Siobhàn sniffed, her back to the dead. "Mint, I think." 'Twas hard to tell, with the stench of death lingering in the air. Together they rose, Gaelan taking the tray from her and escorting her up the stairs. He handed it over to Meghan.

  "Did you see anyone go belowstairs afore you went to deliver the meal?"

  "Nay, my lord."

  "Not Sir Owen?"

  She shook her head and Gaelan dismissed the woman, his features creased. Siobhàn whispered to her friend to take a break and have a bit of wine before returning to her duties.

  Gaelan strode toward the doors, stepping out into the sun and crossing the inner ward to the gate.
He bid a soldier search for Sir Owen, yet as the man moved off, the knight came around the corner of the cookhouse and stopped short.

  "You're late. Where have you been?"

  Owen stood straight and tall, his eyes ahead. "I was … indisposed, sir."

  "Where? What was so important that you are tardy for your duties?"

  He inclined his head toward the garderobe, yet the man's guilty flush and breathlessness didn't escape Gaelan's notice. "See me after you return. And if this continues, Owen, I will fine you."

  "Aye, my lord," he said, ducking his head and moving past. Gaelan stared after him, then turned back to the hall and his wife. He slung his arm around her waist, tucking her warmly to his side and hating the distrust brewing in him.

  * * *

  Siobhàn woke to find him standing near the window, the breeze fingering his hair. She rose up on her elbow, gazing at him, his regal profile, his knee bent, one foot on the bench. Then he sighed heavily, rubbing his face, and she frowned, slipping from the bed, naked. He turned his head, holding out his hand to her, and she came to him without hesitation, sliding up against his body, circling his waist and resting her head on his chest. For long moments they stood there, one shadow, two hearts beating in time. His arms tightened and Siobhàn tipped her head back to look at him.

  Defeat mapped his handsome face.

  She reached and he met her gaze as her fingers smoothed over the lines deep in his brow, the downward curve of his mouth. "Tell me what wars in you, husband. I will keep the secret, as I promised."

  He hesitated, pain flickering in his eyes before he sighed, resigned. "I feel this land being torn apart beneath us."

  "You will protect us."

  He arched a brow.

  Her chin tipped. "I have always trusted your strength and skills as a warrior, PenDragon. 'Tis your loyalty to the Irish I have doubted."

  "Do you still?" His hand glided over her bare hip, her smooth skin silky beneath his palm.

  Siobhàn searched his troubled gaze, his dark eyes begging for a word from her. "Nay, my lord. I cannot ignore your willingness to be fair and keep us all safe."

  Gaelan's lips curved, his smile not reaching his eyes, and Siobhàn realized there was more there than he was offering.

  "I cannot succeed if I do not know my enemy," he said wryly.

  "You still believe Connal's accident was deliberate?"

  "If it was not, then the culprit is inside these walls."

  Siobhàn frowned. "The raiders?"

  He debated telling her suspicions, then reached beyond her to the sill, coming back with the spur. "I found this at the first attack, buried in the ground." He dropped it into her hand.

  Her breath caught. An English spur. "It could have been there for some time."

  "Aye, but if not?" He shook his head, confused, staring out the window. "This all lacks reason. If I could understand what they wanted, I could fight them."

  "What are you not telling me?"

  "Sir Owen is unaccounted for twice these past days. And he refuses to tell me exactly where."

  "Surely you do not suspect him of killing the prisoners, my lord. 'Twas suicide."

  "Aye, but with or without help?"

  She shook her head. "I do not believe it, not of Owen. He may have a distaste for the Irish, but he would not betray you."

  "Even I am not certain of that." He tapped the spur, then took it from her, laying it aside and pulling her tighter into his embrace.

  "There are the Fenians, my lord."

  Gaelan's gaze snapped to hers, his frown dark with sudden irritation.

  "Erinn Fenian. They are a clan of warriors, sworn to defend the land and old ways. To keep Ireland pure."

  He scoffed, irony in the sound. "You are not part of this group?"

  She reared back, trying to smile. "Nay. I would never survive the test to join, regardless. But mayhaps they have something to do with the attacks. The raiders on the livestock—they are not one in the same, I fear."

  "Why did you not tell me of this afore?"

  Her bare shoulders moved restlessly. "The Fenians have been secret for centuries. Never seen, and none know who belongs to the clan. And they are not oftimes violent." She lowered her gaze to the center of his chest, tracing the curve of muscle, toying with the smattering of hair dusting his flesh. "Lately the Fenians raid to even the fight atween feuds. Taking a bit of livestock or returning it to the owner. Harmless foolery."

  "This is no game, Siobhàn."

  "I know," she snapped.

  He nudged her chin. "What are you not telling me?"

  "There is no way to discover aught about them, my lord. They live in the wild, on the land, and would rather die than give their identity. Gaining their confidence is near impossible—even for a princess."

  Gaelan frowned, searching her eyes, then leaned his head against the stone window casement, staring out the window. They were surrounded by enemies, he thought. Outlaws, feuding clans. Ian Maguire was not to be trusted, and neither was the O'Niell, and now these Fenians had made themselves suspect. But Gaelan could not help but look for more, and the spur pointed fingers at his own men, for there was not another English army this close to Donegal.

  These attacks were sparse yet deadly, weakening confidence and defenses. Did they not see that battle would destroy more Irish than English, that they were unmatched? Who, other than Maguire, was willing to risk their own to see him fail? Was this all directed at him, Siobhàn or an old dispute with Tigheran?

  Dark memory reared in his mind, of a solitary battle that changed his life. Gaelan recalled Tigheran's face, bearded, his eyes wild, his expertise formidable. But winning was Gaelan's life, the sport of single combat rare, and he'd provoked the man, told him he'd burn his castle to the ground but not before he'd have his wife lying beneath him. Amusement had shaped Tigheran's craggy face then, yet his fight was as brutal and skilled as any he'd encountered. Though Gaelan was now ashamed of his cruel taunts, he understood why the Irish king had fought so valiantly.

  Siobhàn was not a woman easily claimed, and to do it, a man paid with the price of his soul.

  He looked down at her, tilting her face up, his gaze searching hers. The fact remained that she was still keeping things from him, and he realized that though he might have vanquished her body, he did not possess her heart.

  Nor her complete trust.

  The crush of it almost made him confess his sins, clear the rubble of his past before it could butcher the relationship building between them. Almost. He could not risk losing her to the truth. Not now. Not when the thought of being without her made him want to die. He'd been alone all his life, and now that he knew there was another life he could lead, he could not bear the loneliness again. She was his wife, his mate, for eternity, and his need to mark her, brand her his in every way possible, surged through him.

  He ducked and kissed her, devouring and strong, pushing his tongue between her lips, his knee between her thighs. His hands charged a wild ride over her bare body, enfolding her buttocks and pulling her hard against his groin. She strained for more and the heat of her sex moistened his thigh, the scent of her commanding him, driving him.

  He twisted, pressing her back against the stone wall, his kiss ravenous, desperate. He shaped her body, rubbed and dipped, tasted her on his fingertips and ceased his assault long enough to step out of his braies. Then he nudged her thighs wider, stroking her wetly, teasing her with the tip of his erection until she was reaching for him, until she whimpered and arched and clawed for him to fill her.

  Then he did, lifting her legs around his hips and shoving himself inside her with a force that mashed her to the wall.

  She gasped in pleasure, clamping her arms around his neck, rocking.

  He imprisoned her hips to the wall, his thickness pleasuring her in smooth deliberation, his dark eyes watching her, smoldering with an almost sinister obsession.

  "You are mine, Siobhàn," he murmured into the curve of her ear, his han
ds palming her breasts, circling her nipples. "Mine."

  Siobhàn could not wonder over the desperation in his voice, the rough texture of it. But his motions spoke more, his touch, his taste of her frenzied, anxious, his every move designed to thrill and excite beyond her limits.

  In the darkness of the chamber he possessed her, bodies undulating in rhythmic cadence, skin slick with sweat and desire. He drank in her pants and sobs of rapture and then when she could take no more, begging he cease, he refused, greedily delivering her into a summit of mindless passion and leaving her dangling over the edge.

  He was tender with patience, then at once, savage and erotic, bringing her to a shattering climax before the looking glass with only the touch of his hand. Her wild response drove him insane with lust, her ecstasy spinning through his being and penetrating deep into the hollows of his corrupt soul. He tried to take her into himself, smother doubts, win her heart so firmly naught could shatter them apart. Yet near the witching hour, when they sank into the soft bedding in a seductive tangle of arms and legs, Gaelan realized the demon he chased lay within, and even in the comfort of her soft arms, he could not fight it.

  * * *

  Standing in the inner ward, Gaelan brushed his mouth over Siobhàn's, the memory of the evening before, of the love play they shared, blossoming in the kiss. She was an inventive creature, making their nights more interesting than he thought possible.

  Gaelan felt the sting on his shoulder and drew back, turning sharply in time to see Connal dart into the barns, his lamb a bit slower and giving clear evidence to his presence. What did the child think to accomplish with this daily attack?

  "I apologize, my lord."

  "'Tis mischief." And he does it only with his mother near.

  "'Tis meanness." She started after him, but he stayed her, then strode calmly after the child to the barns. After a quick scan, Gaelan noticed the haystack moving and stepped closer, digging to the timothy and pulling the child free. The lamb bahhed, working its head through the stack.