"Then how will we leave to find my mama?"
Gaelan tilted his head and looked at the crowded hall, felt the nervousness of his people. One offense, one cross word, and his hall would be awash in blood. "Good question."
* * *
Ian watched him, taking in details he never thought to see in the mercenary. PenDragon was on the brink of exploding, his every gesture laced with impatience and worry. The big man paced in short steps before the raging hearth as he waited for DeClare to regain consciousness. For a moment he sat in a grand chair, the one beside it painfully empty, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hand. Maguire would swear the man was near tears. Or prepared to rip into the next person who crossed him. Then Connal moved to his side, tapping him, and his head jerked up, his hands falling away. PenDragon's smile was gentle with commiseration and he patted his knee. The boy scrambled onto his lap, burrowing into his side. PenDragon pressed his lips to the top of the boy's head. 'Twas a tenderness he'd never expected to witness, and he assumed Siobhàn had tempered the legendary knight.
Yet resentment bled through Ian. PenDragon had what should be his: this keep, the princess of it, her son. Ian frowned at Connal as the lad stared wide-eyed up at the English lord with undisguised affection and the confidence a child gave only to a hero. There was something achingly familiar about the boy. And he continued to stare, trying to find the source.
Across the hall, Gaelan's gaze shifted, meeting the Maguire's and recognizing his scrutiny of the boy. He cuddled Connal tighter, shielding him. If Siobhàn wanted Maguire to know he'd a son, she would have told him. He cared less if she chose to keep the truth from him for the remainder of her days, as long as she was returned to him. The little boy was Gaelan's only anchor, his single link to maintaining his sanity when he wanted to tear through the country to find out if she was with DeClare when he was attacked. Connal needed him, to be strong and resourceful, to be the father he never had … to be patient when he'd so little left. Waiting for Raymond to waken was his only choice. Running off searching would serve to tear Siobhàn farther and farther from him.
Maguire's stare narrowed.
He is my son now, Gaelan thought righteously. Even if you have sired him, he is mine.
* * *
In the solar, Rhiannon had stopped the bleeding, praising the healer who'd helped Raymond. The wound was mortal and would have laid a weaker man down, she thought, sitting at his bedside. He bore no fever, only exhaustion, and she mopped his brow, frowning when an odd sensation passed over her skin, a pricking awareness too keen to ignore. She twisted, staring at the entrance, then left her chair, pausing, her hand on the door frame as her gaze searched the hall, then beyond to the inner bailey. PenDragon's troops were stripping armor off three men and when a troop pulled the helm off the tallest, Rhiannon inhaled a sharp breath, taking a step.
Patrick.
* * *
Several feet to the right Gaelan watched her skin go pale as milk, her eyes filling with despair and fear. His gaze shot to the prisoner, and across the distance the man met Rhiannon's gaze, then instantly looked away. Gaelan experienced a recurrence of the past, his features tightening when he recognized a vague familiarity.
He looked to the Maguire and realized the chieftain made the same connection. Ian arched a baiting brow, as if to accuse Gaelan of being in league with the prisoners. His fists clenched, he avoided a useless confrontation when Raymond called out. Rhiannon immediately spun into the room, hurriedly felt his brow, then checked his bandage.
He was already beside her, kneeling. "Easy, my friend."
Raymond licked dry lips. "Where is she? Bring her to me, I beg you."
Gaelan's features tightened with new misery. "Maguire found you, Raymond, alone."
Raymond groaned, his head lolling on the pillow. "I did not leave her, I swear. She was behind me, on the mount." He cursed over and over, attempting to leave the bed.
"Good God man, you cannot survive this." Gaelan pushed him down and held him.
Raymond lifted his gaze, defeat in his eyes. "I failed you. I'm sorry."
Gaelan could no more be angry with Raymond than he could with Siobhàn, but at the moment, horrible images filled his brain, toying with his composure. Siobhàn was unprotected, facing a killer filled with enough hatred that he could carve the skin from her bones. "I will find her." He stood, but Raymond snagged the hem of his tunic.
"I would speak to you in private." His gaze drifted to Rhiannon and flushing, she left. Gaelan knelt as Raymond settled into the bed, swallowing repeatedly. "I found a door in the earth." Scowling, Gaelan's eyes flared as he reached for a cup, holding it to Raymond's lips, supporting him as he drank. He sank gratefully into the pillows, his eyes closed in pain. "The ground was slanted so all they had to do was ride into the cavern and drop the door of earth over it." His lashes swept up, his gray eyes bleak. "We have been fools, Gaelan."
Gaelan thought of the armored prisoners in his dungeon now, and the ones he'd captured before, covered in the Maguire tartan. "Would we not have trod on at least one of these caves?"
Raymond shook his head ever so slightly. "'Twas heavily disguised with grasses and leaves and near trees. They attacked at night and the darkness covered their escape. You were right. They have warred wearing armor with the PenDragon crest, and they war with the garments of the Irish." He clenched his fist and smothered a moan as pain needled through his arm. "They are one in the same, Gaelan, one in the same."
Gaelan murmured for him to rest, but Raymond would not have it, grasping Gaelan's sleeve and pulling him close. His eyes were glazed with worry and pain as he said, "I swear to you, Gaelan, I did not leave her behind!"
"I know, my friend, I believe you," Gaelan soothed, but inside he was tormented with fear, raw and blistering.
"Whoever did this"—his gaze darted to his shoulder—"knows I discovered the caves."
Gaelan nodded and stood, abruptly leaving the solar. He stopped short when he found the Maguire in the doorway. Sir Andrew and Niles rushed up behind him, grabbing his arms.
"You dare much, Irish."
Ian jerked on the hold and Gaelan waved the men off. "It seems we have been made fools, the pair of us." Ian's gaze shifted once to DeClare, then to PenDragon. "She lives?"
He'd overheard too much to deny it. "Aye."
Ian's shoulders fell and he rubbed his hands over his face, praising God.
His relief was too real for Gaelan to ignore.
"Then where is she?"
"You kidnapped her once, Maguire…" The implication hung like a bleeding limb between them.
Ian's features pulled tight with guilt and shame. "I was a young, love-struck fool, newly jilted and trying to soothe my wounds."
"And now?"
Sadness ghosted through his dark eyes. "I admit that I would have liked to bring you to your knees, PenDragon, but not with Siobhàn's life."
Gaelan stared, desperate to sort through his own confusion for the truth. Could he have invited a killer into his home? Had he found Raymond because he was there when Siobhàn was stolen from him? Was this all a well-laid trap?
"I believe him."
Gaelan twisted to meet Raymond's stare. "You are drugged."
His lips quirked, pain glimmering beneath the half smile. "Rhiannon is the key, Gaelan. And where is the O'Niell in all this?"
"Rhiannon? You cannot be serious?"
Gaelan merely arched a brow, and the implication struck Ian like a blow to his middle.
"But O'Niell is in the north, fighting the same band as we have."
Gaelan bid Raymond sleep and brushed past, motioning for his men to follow.
"PenDragon," Maguire shouted, and Gaelan paused, twisting, his expression speaking his impatience to be on his way. His gaze swept him, the single look thorough and disturbing. The man trusted no one, Ian thought.
"Come, question these prisoners yourself, Maguire, for Siobhàn is in the south, and O'Niell was last seen heading onto your la
nds."
Maguire cursed, and flanked by PenDragon's men, they headed to the dungeon.
* * *
Chapter 32
« ^ »
Siobhàn jolted awake with a groan, swallowing thickly, tasting dirt and the cloth stuffed in her mouth. And the foul residue of bitters. She coughed against the rag, her throat burning, the skin raw and rubbing against the thongs of her cloak as she tried sitting up. She failed, her hands bound tightly behind her and stealing her leverage.
Icy air whipped around her feet, driving the chill up her skirts, and she shivered, squinting in the dark, scenting the odor of moss and the sea, hearing the crash of waves. The dampness of wet stone seeped into her clothes. Her head pounded, as if preparing for a great explosion, and her eyes felt gritty. She blinked, praying for a glimmer of light, and wondered why she was here.
Then she remembered.
Hung like a beast for the slaughter.
She recalled dangling, swinging her legs to gain footing on the tree, then suddenly she fell to the ground, choking for air as Raymond, the poor man, rode away.
She prayed someone found him before he died in the saddle. They carted me away in a blanket, she thought, and did not speak.
Her shoulders tight and sore, she curled on her side, then shifted upright. Wind slipped around her, enveloping her in a tunnel of ice. Without the moon, she could not see an inch in front of her face, and resolutely braced her back against the stone wall, dipping her foot out to feel around her. To her right, she found the floor, and a sweep of her leg brought a strange sound, like the clatter of sticks, hollow and eerie. She extended her leg to the left. For a few inches there was stone, then nothing, pebbles falling, seconds passing before she heard them ping against rock.
Surrounded by darkness Siobhàn did not know if there was a roof above her, but there were walls, for the wind howled through cracks like the high-pitched wail of a banshee. If she called out, who would hear over the sound of the sea?
She tried, once, the effort stinging like broken glass in her throat. Closing her eyes against fatigue, she drew up her knees, working her booted toes under her skirt. Where is the warmth of my blood when I need it? she thought.
Suddenly she sat forward, grasping her kirtle, twisting it around her waist until the front was at her back, and felt for the dagger in the pouch. It was gone, as well as the sack.
Jager me, she cursed, and felt the wall for a sharp spot in the rock to cut her bonds. The stone was smooth from weather and age and she fell back against it. The slosh of the sea surrounded her, waves buffeting the shore with the rush of the incoming tide.
Siobhàn knew where she was. The Druid ruins. And in hours the sea would engulf her prison.
* * *
Rhiannon tossed the club aside as she stepped over the unconscious guard, then searched his body for keys. Finding none, she cursed the lost option and hurried down the narrow corridor. Dampness seeped into the cracks between stone and mortar, the freshly dug moat worsening the cold and moisture. A day in here and they will surely die, she thought, stopping before the cells.
Three men, but her attention was on the solitary figure imprisoned alone. He did not look up, refusing to acknowledge her beyond a stiffening of his body where he sat in the corner, his knees drawn up, his elbows resting atop.
"Tell him." No response, and she clutched the flat wide bars. "He will behead you afore sunrise. Confess and he will show you mercy." Her whispered words rang hollow with futility.
He scoffed. "There is no mercy for us, woman. Not anymore. Even God cannot forgive me."
She choked on a sob, rattling the bars. "You would throw your life away without a fight?"
He tipped his head back, meeting her gaze, yet he remained silent, unmoved by her pleas, her tears.
"We are damned for our lies, Patrick. For eternity we will pay for the gift we cast aside."
Dark pain skipped across his features like a ripple of water before he masked it.
They stared, defeat and hopelessness shifting between them, and yet Rhiannon still pleaded. "Beg for mercy, please."
Slowly he shook his head and she choked back a sob.
Footsteps came to her, and she reached, her fingertips grazing his cheek briefly, and he closed his eyes, savoring the sweet brush of skin to skin. Then she was gone, running.
Rhiannon darted to the right, farther down the corridor, and slipped around a corner. Something caught on her gown, jerking her back, and she wrenched around to find Gaelan glowering down at her.
He grabbed her arms, hoisting her up to his face. "Woman," he growled in a lethal voice, "I will beat you for your betrayal."
Rhiannon stiffened, refusing to fight as the corner beyond the cells filled with men.
"PenDragon, you cannot think she—"
"Trust not a word from her lips, Maguire." Gaelan hauled her toward the cells, but Ian blocked his path, looking down at Siobhàn's sister.
"Why would he think you had aught to do with this war?"
She glared at him, bright green eyes filled with venom and defeat. "You're the cause of this, Ian."
Ian scowled, yet his tone was deceptively mild. "Clarify your accusation, please, Rhi, for us all."
"You are a selfish man, Ian Maguire. If you had taken her marriage to Tigheran like a chieftain instead of a jealous boy, instead of turning your back on her, she would have had a friend whilst she suffered his abuse for us all." Her gaze raked him in disgust. "You could not be her husband, so you could not be her friend." Ian's features tightened with shame. "Then you thought to come back and take her when our lives were in the balance, call her betrayer and force her to choose between you and her people. Again. If you'd sworn to PenDragon, there would be no chance for a war to feed upon."
At her last, Ian's frown deepened with confusion, and Gaelan realized he was either excellent at disguising his emotions or innocent. "She speaks in riddles," he muttered, pushing past and dragging her toward the cells.
Ian followed. Beyond the cells Sir Andrew and Niles helped the groggy guard to his feet, Niles turning him back toward the stairs.
His anger raging out of control, Gaelan released her roughly.
One of the prisoners shot forward.
Gaelan turned his head, a sick feeling working through his blood, and in a heartbeat, he reached through the bars and in one jerk, pulled the man close.
"I know you." They stared and Gaelan searched his memory. The eyes, the familiar eyes, he thought. "Fenian!"
"Nay," Ian said suddenly from his side. "They would not be party to this."
"I tell you what I know, Maguire." Gaelan spared him a brittle glance, then released the man with a shove. "I killed four of his men on the moors—on your land, less than a sennight ago. And they wore your plaid."
"It seems a popular style of late. As is armor."
Gaelan eyed him, seeing his reasoning.
"They cannot be Fenian, my lord," Driscoll said at once. "He is not big enough. Neither was I." Gaelan scowled for an explanation, for he didn't know an Irishman bigger than his sheriff. "When I was younger, I tried gaining entry into the warrior clan." His skin flushed. "And failed."
"Who is to say they do not gather more?"
Both Driscoll and Ian scoffed. "One of the tests is to run nearly halfway across Ireland," Ian said. "One stumble and you are eliminated."
Gaelan did not believe such a ritual could be endured. "And most are gifted." Ian's head turned, his gaze pinning Rhiannon. "Like her and Siobhàn … and … others."
Like Fionna O'Donnel, Gaelan thought. And my son.
"Maguire is the one who wants your lands, PenDragon," Rhiannon hissed. "Your title, your wife!"
"I may have a few disreputable traits, Rhiannon, but murder is not among them, and you know how I feel about Siobhàn." Gaelan stiffened. "I would never harm her."
"You betrayed her with your negligence."
"My God, woman, what would you have me do?" Ian said. "I do not have the number
s to fight the English king!"
"But you can cause a war!"
"She is right."
All jerked around to stare at the prisoner.
Rhiannon rushed to the cell door, clutching the bars. "Patrick."
"Hush, Rhiannon." He touched her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek, his eyes so bleak Gaelan's chest clenched.
Gaelan stared between the two, pieces falling into place. This was the man Raymond mentioned seeing with Rhiannon. The monk. And the man Siobhàn saw in the forest with her sister. The man she sheltered with her silence. "You masquerade as English and Irish, slaughtering innocents, your own people, and hiding behind a legend! To what end but to bring the king's army to your door?"
The man called Patrick stared at PenDragon, his throat working. Finally he sighed, the weight of his deeds pressing down on his shoulders. "To gain your title and lands. And rid Ireland of the English."
"Can you not see 'tis impossible? How could you do this to your own?"
Patrick's chin lifted in challenge. "What would you do, PenDragon, if your family was hostage to your crimes?"
Gaelan's features yanked taut and his gaze jerked to Rhiannon's. Without choice, she'd said. Blackmail.
"We raided and were caught. Instead of the guilty imprisoned or punished, he took the innocent. Our families. And he threatened to kill them if we did not comply."
Gaelan gripped Patrick's tunic, pulling him to the bars, his lips curled in a viscous snarl as he said, "Name the bastard."
"Lochlann O'Niell," Patrick said.
Gaelan didn't take his eyes off Patrick. "O'Niell is sworn. Maguire is not. He would not dare break his oath by attacking me."
"Lochlann's loyalty goes with the highest price," Ian said.
"So did mine, for years," Gaelan remarked with a sliding glance.
"He's not above killing his own to point a finger, PenDragon, and he would not have to break his oath."
Gaelan's scowl darkened with understanding. "A war atween us would put him in a position of power."
"If we killed each other, who would be rewarded?" Ian plied and Gaelan released Patrick.
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