Riona

by Linda Windsor

  “He did. His spirit had not got away when we found him,” Bran informed her solemnly.

  Riona inhaled shakily, bracing her shoulders as if to shrug away Kieran’s comfort, to rely on her own strength. “Then tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me all. Spare me nothing.”

  Where should he start? Kieran forced the replay of the battle, but his mind was as fogged as the day had been. He didn’t want to remember. Bran was born to record detail the warrior forgot. Hapless and in desperation, he looked at his friend.

  “ ’Twas Colga’s fault,” the bard said, abandoning his usual eloquence. “The O’Cuillin was our rear guard, with Colga as lookout. Our cousin saw the pirates sneaking up on us from behind and ran, leaving Heber to their surprise and mercy. By the time Kieran’s and Aidan’s force regained control of the fray, it was too late to help your brother.”

  “Colga said he’d rushed away to fend off another force, an illusion conjured by the enemy’s druid to lead him away from the real approach of the enemy.” Kieran ignored Bran’s snort of disbelief. A man deserved to have his side told, whether or nay it was credible.

  “And what of Heber?”

  She had the look of a bewildered child hearing but disbelieving an outrageous story. The more Bran and Kieran shared with her of Heber’s death, the less she seemed to hear. Yet neither of them could bring themselves to the details of his last wishes. Bran waited for Kieran, making him feel all the more burdened with shame. He’d face the fiercest of enemies without hesitation, but there were no words to tell Riona how he’d severed her brother’s head and left his body to the carrion. She wouldn’t understand. Hers was too gentle a world.

  In truth, the memory still sickened Kieran.

  “We buried his remains in Dunadd, among the royal and sainted dead,” Bran finished. “I have commemorated the detail of his story to parchment if you wish to see it.”

  Riona held up her hand as if to say, “Later.” For now, she had more than she could cope with.

  “Colga.” Riona repeated the name as if she committed it to memory for the first time. Kieran allowed her to digest it, having nothing else to add. Suddenly the water in her gaze iced, turning on him. “Colga will be the new O’Cuillin.”

  “If the clan votes to his favor.” Kieran knew one vote the man would not receive. “Unless Bran will challenge him.”

  “I was born to poetic and spiritual pursuits, not war.”

  “And God has blessed you for it,” Riona assured her cousin. “Just as He’s cursed our king with the guilt of his foster brother’s death.” She swung her attention to Kieran. “Chasing after adventure and gold!”

  Her chin quivered with emotion, and much as Kieran wanted to cup it in his fingers—nay, kiss away her pain—he dared not, lest he come away bitten by the teeth she now bared at him.

  “And you asking me to marry you less than a season before you left on your folly! For what? Thank God I had the good sense to tell you nay. I’d seen my mother suffer too long married to a steel-worshiping champion. All of you, you thirst for blood.” She sneered, accusing Kieran with a gaze harder and colder than any sword he’d ever wielded. “Well, I hope you drank your fill of it, including Heber’s! I hope you drown in it!”

  “Have a heart, Riona; Heber was his brother, too.”

  Riona shrugged Bran’s hand from her shoulder and lurched to her feet. Although the crown of her head brushed just below his chin, Kieran felt the singe of her growing anger, for ice had now turned to steam with its rise.

  “Would that it was me instead, grá,” Kieran vowed in all earnest. It was not the first time, nor would his conscience make it his last.

  “Love?” Riona slapped him soundly on the cheek, jarring his head to the side with a force that would have done her father, Murtagh, proud. “I am not your love. My brother’s blood stains your sword as if it were the blade that spilled his life upon that bog. I warned you not to take up a fight that was not your own. I begged you not to take Heber. A curse on you and your sword … and your horse!” She swore hysterically. “May that kingly torque choke the breath from your black soul.”

  She flew at his chest as if to pummel out his heart, and Kieran seized her shoulders, pulling her close, trapping her fists between them. Deprived of action, her rage and grief escaped in body-wrenching sobs. Kieran envied her that relief as much as he commiserated with her grief. His jaw clenched, trapping his own grief. He rested his chin on the crown of her head, shakily inhaling the sweet fragrance of the soap she’d used upon her hair.

  Hours passed, or so it seemed, before Riona’s emotions were spent. Her small frame, drained of strength as well, conformed in soft surrender to his braced one. Awareness of the woman Riona was registered with his male senses, despite the daze of his misery. Would that he could say that the brush of his lips upon the top of her head was offered purely out of the desire to comfort and not sullied by a baser motive.

  “I’m best off,” Bran announced to no one in particular. He backed awkwardly toward the door until he finally caught Kieran’s eye.

  Kieran blinked in grateful acknowledgment. It wasn’t that he intended to take advantage of the lady and wished to be free of Bran’s company. His motive was of the purest intent, simply to share his grief with the next closest heart to his own besides the late O’Cuillin chief. While he could not separate his feelings as a man for her, he would master them. If the lady would ever have him as a man, let it be of her desire, not her vulnerability.

  At the drop of the wooden bar into its keeper, Riona stirred, backing only slightly away from the comfort she derived in Kieran’s strong embrace.

  “Bran?”

  “Gone,” Kieran whispered.

  She exhaled a long, shaky breath and closed her eyes, struggling with its successor. “I still cannot believe it. Tell me this is a horrible dream.”

  He wished he could assuage the plea in her voice, but that was impossible … as impossible as finding the right time to tell Riona of Heber’s second request. Now, when her rage and pain was at its ebb, seemed the best alternative.

  “Your brother had one last request, Riona,” Kieran said huskily.

  She looked up at him.

  “That I become your protector and husband. I gave him my word I would see this done.”

  The beast of blue fire Kieran had thought spent rallied with a spellbinding resilience before his very eyes. Its breath restored the flesh and bone of Riona’s body so that Kieran instinctively tightened his embrace for his own protection. It grew, filling her until it demanded release.

  “How dare you!” Arms pinned, her indignation found its mark with a sharp stomp to the top of his foot.

  Kieran yowled in surprise and let her go, grabbing at his loudly protesting instep.

  “How d-dare you!” Clearly she lacked words to match her brimming emotion. And well Kieran knew with Riona—when words failed, action prevailed.

  He hopped back on his uninjured foot in anticipation but was not quick enough. She struck his chest with both fists, sending him sprawling to the floor. His elbow struck one of the benches in his attempt to catch himself, overturning it and sending fire darts up his arm as hot as those flying from his irate companion’s glare.

  “I will never marry a man I cannot respect, and I do not respect the likes of you or any other warmonger!”

  A dainty, slippered foot shot out from the fullness of her dress. Kieran gathered his throbbing elbow to his side to take the blow. “S’bones, woman, ’tis Heber’s wish, not mine!”

  He rolled away, his own temper gathering momentum. Seeing her coming after him, he shoved the bench in her way and vaulted to his feet. “And no church would have a wench with a temper worse than God’s own thunder.”

  The beast of blue fire roared as Riona seized upon the empty trencher and flung it at Kieran with an aim that would earn the envy of any warrior. What manner of madness made him think Riona of Dromin might be rendered impotent by feminine tears? He dodged Bran’s trenche
r as well, but the cup that followed struck his ear straight on, emptying the remnant of wine down his neck.

  With an explosive oath, Kieran charged as Riona drew back her arm with the second cup. He smacked it off course in midflight and seized the hand that launched it, wrestling it behind her back. He knocked the bread knife beyond her reach and pinned her at arm’s length, facedown against the table. “I’m not asking you to warm my bed, woman! I’m offering my protection, nothing more.”

  “I need no man’s protection,” Riona mumbled against the smooth, worn wood crushing her cheek. “I have God’s.”

  “And mine!” came a voice from behind.

  Kieran bolted upright as its owner leapt upon his back and not-quite-man-sized fingers went for his eyes. Letting Riona go, Kieran caught the attacker’s wrists and, with a practice twist, flipped the light figure across the table, where he rolled to the other side.

  It was the lad who took Gray Macha to the stables earlier. But as the boy came to his feet, it was not a lad’s weapon that flashed in his hand.

  “Fynn!” Riona threw herself in front of Kieran, but reflexes of the youth were quicker.

  Kieran grabbed her and dragged her to the floor with him as the knife nicked his shoulder. A moment’s delay and the blade intended for his heart would have struck the lady a deadly blow.

  Oblivious to the narrow miss, Riona scrambled to her feet and blocked Fynn from retrieving the knife for another attack.

  “Have you lost your mind, lad? Haven’t I gotten it through that mop head of yours that violence is the devil’s work?”

  “He was hurting you! No man, warrior, or king will lay a hand on my lady.”

  “Your lady?” Kieran nearly laughed at the idea of Riona and this wet-eared pup, except that experience had just shown him neither were to be easily dismissed.

  Riona put her hands to her temples where the blood flooding her face pounded fiercest.

  “Oh, Fynn,” she said in exasperation. “Kieran would never hurt me. He is my foster brother. The truth is, I provoked him. Faith, I’m sorry, but I did.” She walked toward the boy and drew him to her gently. “It seems we are both orphans now. My brother is dead, and I turned on Kieran in my pain and grief, just as you raged at us so often when you first came here.”

  Fynn glowered at Kieran, not nearly as sure of him as Riona seemed to be. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

  Riona kissed the crown of the lad’s wild brown hair. He was just a boy, but that did not lessen the sting to Kieran’s pride.

  “I’m indebted to your valor, sir,” she told the lad, “but it’s not needed with Kieran of Gleannmara. I must tell you, as I’ve told him, that when God is my protector, I need no earthly one. This was all of my own making, and I go to do penance for it right now.”

  “Who is this young rooster anyway?” Kieran demanded.

  “This is Fynn, the elder brother to the twins, Liex and Leila, whom you saw earlier with me. They are a gleeman’s children, orphaned by the plague last summer. These last months we’ve grown close, so I decided to take them as my own.”

  “What?” Had his hearing been knocked awry by that well-aimed cup? “A lady of your station doesn’t take common children to foster, even if she has the means, which you do not.”

  “Where there is a will to do God’s work, He will provide the means.”

  “God’s work,” Kieran mocked with derision. “This is the work of a gleeman, as light of hand as of foot and as cunning as a fox.”

  “At least I know better than to force my attentions on a lady,” Fynn retorted in kind.

  “But for that lady, whelp—” A growl infected Kieran’s voice, betraying his waning patience—“I’d have you skinned and hung to dry.”

  “But for the lady, your heart would be skewered by my dagger.”

  Kieran started forward. “You nearly killed her, you insolent little—”

  “Enough!” Riona’s voice was as large as her brother’s when she desired it. Or soft as a babe’s cheek, as it was when she continued. “I am to blame for all of this. I apologize to you both. I go to apologize to my God.”

  She steered Fynn through the door, stopping long enough to glance over her shoulder. “I apologize, my lord, for my behavior, but not for my answer. By that I stand. Good night.”

  FIVE

  You could have killed Kieran,” Riona scolded as she and Fynn walked toward the mean lodgings assigned to her and the children. Leila shared Riona’s quarters, while the boys slept in an enclosure off the back.

  “I meant to! Why did ye leap in front of him like that? My heart stopped soon as the blade left my fingers, but there was no callin’ it back.”

  “Because mad as I was with Kieran, I still love him. He’s the only brother I have left, even if he isn’t my blood.” A sob crept up on Riona and her step faltered. She meant it. She did love Kieran. He was as much a brother as Heber, even though they were not blood kin.

  Father, help me. I know well I don’t deserve it after losing my temper as I did, but I could bear no more this day. ’Tis as if the same weapon that took my brother’s life had run me through, making me mad with pain. I’m claiming Your promise of forgiveness. And forgive this child, for he was only trying to protect me.

  “How was it you knew I needed protection?” Riona asked suddenly. She turned the prodigal toward her, spinning him off balance with surprise.

  Unwavering, Fynn met her gaze. “I was looking for you, and it was there I found you.”

  “Why, Fynn? You should have been abed with Liex at this hour. Father Clemens will expect an early start on the morrow.”

  “Because Tadgh intends to sell us to a slaver who will sell us in Bristol.”

  Shock clutched Riona with fresh claws. Heber, Kieran, and now this. “Whatever makes you say this?” Her thoughts tumbled afresh. She’d heard of the Britons selling off their young, but surely no God-fearing Irishman would do such a thing. Still, there was something not quite right …

  “Seargal told Leila. She and Liex are hiding in the milking stalls.”

  Riona rolled her eyes heavenward at Fynn’s explanation. “Her imaginary friend?” Changing direction, Riona started toward the gate to the outer rath.

  Fynn shifted in step with her, shaking his head. “No, that’s not all of it. ’Tis that what made me look closer at the man. Then I recognized him for myself. We saw ’im in Dublin, leadin’ orphans of the dead to a slaver bound for Bristol. They call him Silver Tooth.” Fynn grabbed Riona’s arm, stopping her, a plea in his voice. “I saw his tooth when I carried food from the kitchen to him and that hag he calls his wife. Her I’ve not seen, but him I know. I’d swear it on my life.”

  “Heavenly Father, spare us!” Riona crossed herself so horrible was the idea. “Tell me again that you’re certain, beyond all doubt.”

  Fynn crossed his heart. “God take my breath now if I’m not speakin’ the truth.”

  “He very well may,” Riona warned him, still wary. While the lad had a good heart, there was much about Fynn’s ways that gave her cause to be cautious. He’d been caught in so many lies told to suit his whim when he first came to the abbey. She prayed that was a thing of the past now that he’d spent the winter months here among the brethren. At least he hadn’t been caught in a lie of late. Whatever the case, Fynn and the twins genuinely appeared to think it was so.

  “So be it, then.”

  “So I was lookin’ for ye to tell ye and came upon that bully forcing his attention on ye.”

  Riona closed her eyes, wishing that would erase the last hour as it did the moonlit yard, but that wasn’t to be. “Kieran was only protecting himself from me, Fynn. Shame to say, I lost my temper and fell upon him.”

  Fynn’s snort underscored the dubious arch of his brow.

  “It’s true. I’ve a fearsome temper, which I prayed was put to rest by faith. My foster brother has a knack for resurrecting it to its full-blown most. Sure, temper is the devil’s own work, for you near
ly spilled an innocent man’s blood on my behalf, and I’d have been as much at fault as you.” Riona grabbed the lad’s face between her hands. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Fynn nodded, but from the stubborn set of his chin Riona knew he was not convinced. Still, that was a mission for another time. Seargal might be imaginary, but Leila had obviously recognized Tadgh or Silver Tooth. It was her curious way of warning them. Riona couldn’t dismiss it with Fynn’s added testimony. Her penitent prayers would have to wait. She needed to see the abbot immediately.

  “I’ll seek an audience with Fintan now. I don’t think he’s finished with his Scripture for the night.”

  The abbot read a chapter of the Word each evening in his office before retiring. On his better days, he allowed Riona to read it aloud to him, indulging her love of books and the Lord. Her mother’s relation had baptized her a child of the church as an infant, and she’d hoped that in the near future he’d welcome her as a bride of the church as well. With the recent turn of events, that would be impossible. Faith, she needed to speak to her mentor as much for herself as for the children.

  “You get Leila and Liex and put them and yourself to bed. The morning always comes too early for you as it is,” she warned her stalwart protector.

  Fynn would not be diverted from accompanying her to Fintan’s private quarters. Too overwrought to argue, Riona left him in the courtyard garden where the elder churchman often meditated on warm days and stepped inside the cozy apartment of rooms near the chapel. Brother Ninian’s desk was vacant, cleared of its ever-present books and logs. He must be preparing the abbot’s bedchamber, Riona surmised, walking beyond to Fintan’s private retreat. Riona knocked softly at the door.

  “Who goes?”

  “It’s Lady Riona, Father.”

  “Come in, child.”

  Upon entering the inner sanctum, Riona found Abbot Fintan seated at his desk. Instead of the Holy Scriptures spread before him, an open, ornately carved casket sat on his desk. Surrounding it were letters, much like the one on which Fintan dripped molten wax.