The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  After a quick scan for Sir Owen, he addressed DeClare. "Take account of all our men. I want to know who else was not here during the raid." Raymond's features sharpened, yet he nodded. Gaelan walked toward the door, his vassals quick on his heels. Lochlann ordered his men to arms, joining them.

  Siobhàn stood beside Brody's body, watching Gaelan leave, and when he reached the entrance, he turned. For a brief moment they simply stared, and Gaelan experienced a horrible foreboding drip through his blood. Renegade knights on his land. The Maguire turning against the woman he claimed to love, the woman he was so willing to war to regain. And then there were the Fenians, and their connection to Rhiannon stirring the muck. But he was not so vengeful over Brody's death to ignore that a tartan implicated; it did not convict. He was confused and unprepared, and without more evidence, he could do little but what he had been—hunt them.

  He held out his hand to her and his heart twisted in his chest as she ran down the aisle made for her, slamming into his arms. He led her briefly, tightly, fearing he would not be able to stop this war; then, with her tucked to his side, they crossed the inner yard, through the gates toward the outer ward. Gaelan kissed her once, then ordered his men to dispatch anyone who did not live here before he arrived. Siobhàn went about soothing hurt feelings as Gaelan ordered stores prepared for the journey, and it took time for the people to be escorted out, grumbling as they were roused from their beds, or stopped in a meal. Within moments the outer ward was nearly empty.

  "No one leaves, no one enters until we return." He looked at O'Niell. "You and your men depart, now."

  "I have every intention of seeing to my clansmen, PenDragon." Lochlann accepted the reins of his mount. "But you would leave these people unprotected?"

  "Hardly." Gaelan smirked, striding closer. "You have left yours without a chieftain for some time, O'Niell, and travel with a dozen retainers, why is that?" Gaelan arched a dark brow. "Frightened?"

  Lochlann stiffened, delivering a condescending look just shy of insulting. "This is my country, my lord. I do not fear ghosts in the mist. Nor the Maguire."

  "Neither do I. See to the fortification of my wife's property in the north. I will take care of these marauders."

  Lochlann pressed his lips tight, his gaze drifting to Siobhàn, then PenDragon. "You will kill them."

  "To stop the slaughter of my people, aye, every one of them, if I must," he said, and behind Siobhàn, Rhiannon paled and reached for the hitching post. Suddenly he crossed to her, gazing down with a full measure of rage. "Many could die this night, Rhiannon. How sits that with you?"

  Her eyes teared, but she said naught to defend herself. He scoffed, looking around at the men, Irish and English assembled. Squires and pages scrambled to carry armor and saddle horses. Bowmen lined the battlements and parapets, sharpening tips and laying aim. Torches lit the yard like morning, glancing off weapons and armor. He brought his gaze back to Rhiannon, disgusted with her secrets.

  "Lock her in the tower."

  She gasped. "Nay, please!"

  Gaelan gestured, and two soldiers grabbed her arms.

  On a portion of wood, servants carted Brody out of the keep toward the chapel, Friar O'Donnel whispering prayers for his immortal soul, and Siobhàn crossed to her sister, halting the procession and grabbing Rhiannon's arm. She forced her to look at their old friend.

  "He was our father's friend, well known to most everyone for a hundred miles, Rhiannon. A gentle, giving soul, and look what they have done! Will you wait until 'tis me lying there? Or Connal?"

  Rhiannon choked on a sob, her gaze flying to her sister's and hating the anger lying there "Ian did not do this. You know he did not."

  "It no longer matters who did it! And the man we knew is gone, Rhiannon. The Maguire we grew up with would not harm the man who taught him to throw a javelin. But see you the evidence!" She lashed a hand at Brody and Rhiannon flinched. "And the sister I love," her voice lowered to a deadly hiss, "would not let her family die for a promise made in fear."

  Rhiannon's gaze jerked from the bloody corpse to her sister's face. "Do not think to judge me, for I have no control over this."

  "Your Fenian does. Tell Gaelan all, so my husband does not die tonight," she pleaded.

  Rhiannon's lips tightened mutinously, and with an aggrieved sound, Siobhàn released her, turning her back on her and walking to her husband. He saw the tears, the worry and fear for him, the disappointment in her sister, and he bent to kiss the top of her head, shielding her as the guards led her sister away.

  Around them, cooks rushed with sacks of food, skins of wine. Her grip around his waist tightened briefly and she nuzzled her face in his chest, selfishly taking the moment for herself alone, inhaling his scent, savoring the rough feel of his tunic against her cheek before moving out of his embrace.

  Grayfalk pranced, scenting the wind and the coming ride into battle. Reese stood nearby, his arms laden with armor. Gaelan held her gaze as he changed from the costly wool tunic to the padded hauberk and heavy chain mail, the coif covering his hair. He pulled on the leather gloves, leaving the metal gauntlets on the saddle, and for the first time bid Reese to strap on the armor. He could not take his eyes off her, gauging her reaction as he was encased in the metal skin. She was afraid for him and the thought jabbed, made him recognize all he stood to lose if he was not cautious. Who would protect her and her people? Who would Henry send in his place? Would she be forced to wed another as he had forced her? The thought of anyone touching her sickened him and he wanted to take her abovestairs, make wild love to her, assure himself of their marriage, their future.

  She loved him. Had said as much before witnesses. That she found it in her heart to forgive him, accept him, still stunned him to the core of his soul. "Come closer, wife."

  She did, instantly. Siobhàn's gaze traveled over him as every semblance of the man she loved was locked behind silver. She tipped her head, forcing a smile. "Are you certain you would not want to hide in the trees and fight like the Scots?"

  His lips curved with memory of the night he'd first tasted her body. "I would rather play the battling Scot in our bed," he whispered, gazing down at her, his gloved finger brushing down over her cheek. She caught his fist, pressing it to her lips.

  "There, I surrender."

  "Ahh, a victory, at last," he teased, brushing his mouth across hers, then turned to Grayfalk, grasping the saddle horn. An instant later, he turned to his wife, sweeping her against him and wishing they were bare and alone and showing their new love.

  She laid her hands to the silver breastplate, gazing up at him. "I love thee, Gaelan PenDragon."

  Gaelan took strength in her words and kissed her, quick and deep and greedy, then buried his face in her throat, inhaling her scent, remembering it. "I love you."

  "Be safe and come home," she said, stroking her fingers through his hair.

  He would. He had a wife and friends and a family waiting for him. He would vanquish these marauding bastards. And this time he warred with his heart.

  A shrill cry split the air and Gaelan turned from her. Connal ran, slamming into his legs, hugging them, and he felt his insides soften to powder. No one ever worried over him before now, he thought, bending to lift the boy in his arms.

  "I want to go with you."

  "I need you here, to help protect the castle and your mother."

  Connal's gaze shifted between them, his vision narrowed with the moments of youth. Finally he nodded and Gaelan, so moved by the child's heart, clutched him to him, then wrapped his arm around his wife, pulling her close.

  "Arm yourself, my love."

  "Here?"

  "Please, for me." It was killing him to leave her, and if he did not think she would get hurt on the journey or want to jump into the fray of battle, he would take her with him.

  "I will."

  Culhainn barked, darting around the warriors and knights, whining to join the brigade. Gaelan forced himself to leave her arms, lowering Connal to the
ground, ruffling his hair before he mounted the stallion and rode to the rim of the ward.

  "You!" He pointed to Culhainn, and the dog stilled and sat on his haunches. "Do not ever leave her side. Understood?"

  Culhainn barked.

  Siobhàn stared at the dog, then her husband. "When did you learn Gaelic?"

  He flashed her a quick smile, of assurances and white teeth. "Whilst I was falling in love with you," he said flawlessly, winking.

  Gaelan wheeled the mount about, ordering three squads to join him. He would not leave his wife unattended, nor would he depart until the O'Niell was out the gates. He remained back as Siobhàn bid Tigheran's half brother good journey, watching them.

  "I must go, but I do not like leaving you alone like this."

  She scoffed with a small smile. "I am surrounded, Lochlann." She hugged him, brushed a kiss to his cheek.

  He studied her for a moment. "You are happy, aren't you?"

  "If there were no one betraying us I would be more pleased, but"—her gaze swept past him to Gaelan as he donned his helm, the face guard up—"aye, I am well pleased with the outcome."

  "'Tis amazing how the death of my brother has brought such good fortune, eh?"

  She didn't care for his brand of humor. "I wanted to love him, brother, but Tigheran saw me only as the enemy's child."

  "And me as a nuisance," he said with a wry twist to his lips. He kissed her cheek once more and mounted, his men in a line behind him.

  She stood in the center of the yard, gripping her son's hand. With one hand and his knees, Gaelan controlled the high-strung mount, the blue plume shivering, and Grayfalk's powerful legs cutting the earth as the destrier threatened to bolt. He beckoned Sir Niles and Andrew, entrusting them with the care of his family, and bid Sir Mark join them and show the location of the last ambush; then, with a quick glance at her, rider and destrier lurched, trotting between the torchlit ranks of soldiers and knights leaving the outer ward.

  Slowly, guards pushed the gates closed and she stretched to catch a last glimpse of him before he led his army south. And she pitied anyone who crossed him this night.

  * * *

  Chapter 24

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  Siobhàn closed Connal's door, pressing her forehead to the wood. She was thrilled he and Gaelan had formed a bond, yet his innocent questions about Rhiannon were like blows to her heart. His aunt was hiding the truth, and if she did not know the root of the evil spreading across Donegal, she knew who did. For that reason Siobhàn did not go to the tower. Rhiannon chose to protect the Fenians with her silence. She could suffer the consequences alone. She'd been duly warned.

  After peeking in on Meghan, who'd slept through the entire ruckus, she stoked the fire and cracked the shutters to freshen the air, then left the girl to rest, descending the winding staircase. The hall was empty but for the two servants on their knees, scrubbing Brody's blood off the stones and replacing the rushes. Her throat closed miserably, her mourning silent for the man she'd known since she was a child. Culhainn trailed her heels as she moved aimlessly into the solar, evidently taking Gaelan's orders to heart. Inside the room she sank into her husband's padded chair, curling toward the fire scarcely stirring. Resting her cheek against the beaten leather, she inhaled the scent of him, of sandalwood and man, and prayed he would find the culprits swiftly and return by morning. But she knew he would not.

  She feared Ian was at the root of it. Yet beyond the two prisoners who'd refused to speak, they'd no evidence beyond hearsay and some scraps of tartan. Was Ian so bitter that it would twist him enough to kill her clansmen to see Gaelan fail? Without fealty to the king, Ian could lose all he had. And the Fenians … by all that was holy, she prayed they'd naught to do with this but helping curtail the raids. Hurting the villagers and attacking patrols served no purpose but to brew hatreds and hasty reaction when regardless, the king and his lords would be the final hand of power. With the exception of fifty or so men returning to England, her husband's army was still formidable. And undefeated.

  A reckoning is coming and you cannot stop it, the Fenian had said.

  Was this the dark pain Rhiannon spoke of, or was there a grand attack on Donegal castle planned? Were these renegade English attacking simply to stir war or to push Ian into giving his fealty? Siobhàn wondered, rubbing her temple. The possible avenues were growing quickly.

  "M'lady?"

  Bridgett stood in the doorway with a goblet in her hand, a length of blue fabric under her arm. "Some sweet wine?"

  Siobhàn smiled, nodding, and Bridgett came to her, offering the cup. She laid the blue cloth on the table close by and Siobhàn sighed, fingering it briefly and wishing she could have shown the work to Gaelan. "You love Sir Andrew?"

  Nearly at the door, Bridgett stopped and turned. Her lips curved. "I like him. He's fine to look upon, but I know he sees me as naught but a serving maid and partner for a single night, not a lifetime."

  The hopelessness in her voice caught her attention more than her words, and Siobhàn's brows drew down. "Think you because he is knighted he cannot wed you?" She sipped, the warmed wine soothing the knots in her stomach.

  "Aye, that." Bridgett glanced at the floor, worrying her apron. "And I'm Irish."

  Siobhàn knew the girl was in love and since she, Meghan, Driscoll and Brody were the only people who'd come with her from her father's household, she would see that Bridgett was treated fairly. "Do not view each other on steps above or below another, Bridgett. Or he will. And if his heart is true, it will not matter."

  Bridgett cocked her head. "You hated PenDragon when he arrived. How did you find your heart?"

  Siobhàn's lips curved. "He showed it to me." Her eyes danced with mischief. "And he started with the kissing."

  "Stole a few, did he now?"

  She half laughed. "More than a few." Oftimes she could sense more of him than another, feel his gaze, his presence, as if she wore him like her skin, and constantly marveled at how deeply his touch sank through to her bones. She was forever bound to him, beyond her heart and into her soul, and she gloried in it. "I think I have always loved him but was afraid," she finally said. Afraid of its strength, she thought.

  "After the O'Rourke's way of treating you, don't be thinking any of us is surprised."

  Her gaze turned haunted, her tone bitter. "Tigheran planted more babes in a year than he planted crops."

  Bridgett agreed. "At least you've got your Connal. Such a bright lad."

  Siobhàn smiled tremulously, finished off the wine and stood. Culhainn perked up, alert and on his feet. "Tell the guards I go to my bed, will you? Meghan is ill and sleeps in our chamber."

  Bridgett nodded, taking the empty cup, and Siobhàn bid her good night and crossed the empty hall, the fabric tucked to her chest. The sounds of people finding a spot to sleep were sparse, every able man on duty at the walls. With each step she mounted, she felt the strain of the day, her body demanding rest, and Siobhàn wondered where her usual stamina had gone. Culhainn trotted ahead of her, scouring the area for intruders that did not exist. She paused on the landing, staring up at the next level, where Rhiannon remained locked behind stone and was tempted to go to her. Gaelan would not be pleased over that, but that was not what stopped her. A night in the cold, dank room would likely push her to confessing aught she knew.

  Overtaking the remaining steps, she turned toward her son's chamber, slipping briefly inside, nodding to the guard watching Connal sleep. They exchanged a nod, a whispered word that she would return there to sleep after she checked on Meghan. She turned to her chamber, frowning when Culhainn sniffed madly at the floor inn front of the door. Pushing the latch, she let it swing wide, letting him in first. Culhainn's nose made a wet path over the stone floor, the carpet. Erratic, seeking.

  "There are no bugs who wield swords, beast," she teased uneasily, withdrawing her knife. Was it Meghan's scent he sought?

  Suddenly he growled, his white fur rising on his back like a blade. "'Tis Meghan; c
ease." On the far side of the bed, he continued to growl, his hind legs crouched to spring. Siobhàn glanced back at the open door, aware of the guard close enough to lend aid, then moved to Culhainn, frowning into the dark.

  The breeze struck through the partially opened shutter, bringing a familiar scent she could not name. She stepped, and Culhainn crossed her path, nearly tripping her.

  He bared his fangs, his growl intensifying.

  "Who's there?" Siobhàn held her dagger in front of her. "Meghan? Speak up."

  The wind stirred the bed drapes, pushing open the shutter, and moonlight spilled, illuminating her bed. Her breath snagged, her eyes growing wider by the second.

  "Mary mother of God." She dropped the fabric.

  Meghan lay in a pool of blood, her face shredded.

  The wind gusted, and her gaze snapped to the drapes. The next moments passed like a flash of light, quick and startling.

  The figure, shrouded and hooded, moved. A thick hand, trembling, gripped a stained blade, and the familiarity of it rooted her to the floor. Her gaze jerked up. He stepped, and Culhainn leapt into the air with a vicious roar. A pain-filled grunt, the growling tear of fabric and a second later, Culhainn yelped, then dropped to the floor, motionless.

  Siobhàn backed away, her dirk in her fist. The figure lurched and she turned to escape, calling out. But before she uttered a syllable, his body impacted with her back, sending her hurling to the floor. Her chin struck, her teeth cutting into her tongue, her small dirk jamming in the floor between stones and snapping off at the hilt. Blood pooled in her mouth as she struggled beneath his weight, trying to throw him off, trying to call out, yet his fist smashed into her temple, once, twice, his murderous blade clattering to the floor in his effort. Firelight flickered off the dagger, the crest, and she reached, crawling across the floor, knowing naught would save her from this twisted rage. But the intruder was fast and uninjured, on his feet and crushing her fingers beneath heavy boots, English boots, ripping the knife out of her reach, then driving his toe into her throat. She choked and heaved for air, her throat burning. She screamed, yet naught came but a dry croak as he dragged her to her feet by the hair. She drove her elbow into his stomach and twisted, trying to see his face. He slapped her away, sending her into the mirror.