Was this some form of trickery on Adele’s part, the wench a chieftain’s daughter who’d been wrested from her home and brought to his bed as a ploy to force him to wed her? That his half sister might have contrived such a thing just to secure him a wife—indeed, if he’d taken the wench as he’d damned well come very close to doing, believing she was Flanna…
Pulling open the door, Duncan felt a hard stirring in his loins that did nothing but further stoke his fury, the memory of the wench’s silken, heated flesh parting beneath his fingers foremost on his mind as he roared down the stairs.
“Faustis!”
Chapter 4
Duncan wasn’t surprised at how quickly the squat steward came running, and he realized then that what Faustis had tried to tell him earlier must have something to do with the strange woman he had found in his bed.
“Forgive me … my lord.” Out of breath as he neared the top of the stairs, Faustis leaned on a wall and mopped his brow. “I wanted to tell—”
“Where is Flanna?”
“In the servingwomen’s quarters, my lord, and in a terrible temper. Lady Adele forbade her to leave until morning.”
So Adele was at the heart of this mess as he had suspected. Glancing over his shoulder into his apartment to see the wench standing and more securely wrapping the blanket around herself, Duncan was wondering again what ill treatment she had endured when she staggered and sank back into the chair. He met Faustis’s eyes, the man clearly paling at his expression.
“Summon Lady Adele. Tell her I want to see her at once.”
“Y-yes, my lord, of course. At once.” The steward turned to oblige him, but Duncan wasn’t done with him yet.
“The wench, Faustis. Did she kick and struggle as they brought her to my apartment?”
“No, my lord, not at all. She was senseless. I asked after her, thinking to call Clement to tend to the poor girl, but Lady Adele would have none of it. Forgive me, my lord, but she said rest, and your attentions, would rouse the wench quickly enough. And that I wasn’t to say a word to you—yet when I saw you ready to retire … Ah, such a night. Such a night!”
Dismissing his overwhelmed steward with a nod, Duncan couldn’t have agreed more. And this latest news didn’t please him. If the wench hadn’t injured herself under his roof, then she must have done so during her abduction and hopefully she had suffered no worse from that lecherous rabble of knights Adele had brought with her. And if she wasn’t returned to her father a virgin, then he might very well find himself shackled to an unwanted bride…
Duncan strode back into his bedchamber, the wench twisting around in the chair to watch him anxiously. And this time he cared not if she recoiled from him. He would have some answers. Surely she had a tongue to speak, rather than just lungs to scream. He took only a brief moment to stoke the fire, light flooding the bedchamber as dying logs crackled and sprang to life. Then he sank to his haunches in front of her and braced his hands on the arms of the chair, his voice low but stern.
“Who is your father, woman? I can imagine well that you’d like nothing more than to be returned to your home, but I can’t help you unless you tell me his name.”
Her father? Maire’s confusion as intense as the renewed pounding in her head, she felt as if she were trapped in a nightmare and could not wake. Yet one thing was becoming clear, that the Norman had been as surprised as she to find her in his bed—in truth, had thought her another woman altogether. Now that she’d had a few moments to think, he had called her Flanna—
“Woman, have you no tongue? Answer me!”
She jumped when he pounded a fist upon the chair, tears leaping to her eyes. She had never cried so much or so often as that day, but it seemed she could not stop. Yet almost at once she could see he regretted his action, for he sighed heavily and ran his hand through his dark hair as if exasperated with himself.
“Forgive me, but you must speak if I’m to help—”
“I-I’ve no father.”
He stared at her mouth, the soft words she’d uttered clearly confounding him. Growing uncomfortable at his scrutiny, she licked her bottom lip, an action she promptly regretted for the way in which he continued to study her, a deep frown forming between his brows.
“No father?”
Maire shook her head, more slowly this time than the last, but even that made her temple ache.
“Your godfather, then. You must have some protector, a chieftain surely. Adele is too damned conscious of rank for it to be otherwise—”
“Truly, Duncan, do you always speak of me in such a complimentary tone?”
Maire gasped and rose from the chair so suddenly that she almost fell over the Norman, who stood as well; he caught her around the waist just before she toppled. Yet she scarcely noticed the weight of his hands supporting her as she twisted around, her heart beating so fiercely that the blood seemed to roar in her ears.
That voice! She knew at once that the imperious-looking blonde who glided into the bedchamber was the woman from the meadow, the woman whose cool hand had slid across her brow, the woman whose laughter she could not forget. Stricken, she stared into blue eyes as beautiful yet as chilling as a winter’s day. The woman flicked her with an amused look, then glanced above her head to the Norman.
“Ah, such a delightful pose. I take it she pleases you, brother?”
Brother? Maire glanced in panic at the man looming so tall just behind her, noticing for the first time how closely he held her against him, his strong hands encircling her waist. But he didn’t spare her a look, his expression grimly furious, so much so that she could feel his mounting tension in the splayed fingers digging into her flesh.
“I shall tell you how pleased I am this night. You’ve gone too far, Adele. Damn you, from what clan did you abduct this woman? Answer me now!”
The vehemence of his words clearly startling the stunning blonde, a winged brow raised in affront, Maire was astonished that Adele could answer so coolly.
“Abduct, Duncan? I brought you a gift, is all. My men and I enjoyed a bit of sport—some Irish strayed into our path on our journey north from Wexford. A motley bunch, they attacked us actually. So of course we had to defend ourselves—”
“No!”
Maire’s hoarse cry filled the room, and she almost regretted her outburst when the icy force of Adele’s gaze settled upon her.
“The wench still suffers from that nasty bump on her head, I see. Poor thing. She fell from her horse in the fray.”
“Either that or one of your knights roughly handled her when you stole her from her home,” came the Norman’s equally cold voice behind Maire. “Dammit, Adele, if you used such a ploy to secure me a wife—”
“A wife? Her?”
Adele’s voice was so full of scorn that Maire flinched, in the next moment she almost felt sick as the woman’s laughter echoed in the lofty chamber.
“Good God, Duncan—oh, my, yes, this is rare. You thought I had the wench abducted to be your bride? An Irish chit? If I’ve any say in the matter, and I hope you allow me as much, your wife will be Norman-born as is only fitting for the astonishing rank you’ve achieved—”
“So you’ve already said tonight, Adele, remember? Who would have thought?”
As the room suddenly fell silent, the Norman scowled and his sister stared back at him with her lips pressed together. Maire sensed they were no longer talking about her plight but another matter altogether— something that clearly held such bitterness for the man named Duncan that his grip around her waist tightened to the point of pain, and she cried out, trying to twist free.
“She doesn’t seem very fond of you, brother. No matter. I had meant her as a maid for myself, but thought her comely enough that she might amuse you. Yet I can see …” Adele didn’t finish but reached out and clamped her hand around Maire’s wrist. “Come, girl. You can sleep with my maidservants—”
“No, leave me be! Leave me be!”
Never having struck a soul in her life, M
aire lashed out now in terror, scratching Adele’s arm so wildly that the woman cried out in shock and pain. Maire didn’t stop there, but flung her elbow once more into the Norman’s ribs with such desperation that, in his surprise, he released her.
Her eyes riveted upon the door, she lunged away from him, her heart hammering in her throat, one hand clasping the blanket to her body while she prayed with all her might for her legs to run. Run! Yet in her haste she lost her balance almost at once, her stiff right leg dragging behind her, no aid to keep her from falling. She hit the floor with a terrible thud, her anguished sobs nearly choking her as incredulous laughter filled the room.
“Oh, this is truly rare! Irish, a bump on the head, and a useless cripple as well. If you think I would have chosen such as that to be your bride, Duncan FitzWilliam—”
“By the blood of God, woman, enough!”
His roar thankfully silencing his half sister, Duncan was at the wench’s side before he even realized he had moved, her heart-wrenching weeping touching him even more than had her ungainly flight for the door. That so lovely a young woman would suffer such an affliction…
“Easy. Let me help you,” he said as he made to lift her. Duncan was not surprised when she tried to struggle away from him, her ink-black hair damp with the tears streaking her ashen face. But she didn’t fight him long, her sobs growing still as well, as if sheer exhaustion had overtaken her.
And he had no doubt she was exhausted, despite what little Adele had told him. As he carried the wench back to the chair and gently set her down, he could only wonder at the horrors with which her day had been filled, his scowl deep indeed as he met Adele’s gaze.
“This attack you claimed—”
“So it was, but my men triumphed, I’m delighted to say.”
Her tone more than slightly defensive, Duncan imagined it was anything but an attack, again given what he’d seen of her debauched retainers. Yet there was no purpose to exploring that now. “Where did the battle take place?”
“Where, brother?” Adele’s grimace marred her lovely features as she massaged her injured arm. “How am I to say? I know little of this country.”
“But you said you were heading north. Did you come across these Irish on the plains? Near Dublin? God’s teeth, Adele, where?”
She started at his harsh tone but answered him, her voice grown twice as affronted. “South of Dublin. I believe there were some mountains to the west.”
Mountains? That could only mean Wicklow. Perhaps they had been attacked after all, Duncan considered grimly. But what of the wench’s impassioned protest when Adele had said her knights had been made to defend themselves? No Irish clan loyal to King John would have wantonly raised their weapons against Normans.
“Why did you stray from the coast?” he persisted, glancing at the wench. He saw that she sat huddled, with her eyes closed, her chin slumped to her chest. “Did no one tell you when you landed your ship in Wexford that the mountains are filled with rebel clans and to stay clear?”
“Of course they warned us, but we weren’t so close that I considered it any danger.”
“No danger?” Duncan gave a harsh laugh. “To stray anywhere near those mountains is pure folly. There are clans, Adele, the O’Byrnes and O’Tooles, who would have relished skewering each of your knights with a hundred arrows, then left their corpses to rot under the sun. Two years ago when we were fighting the de Lacys and their vassals in the north, there were so many raids by those bastards in south Leinster that King John has since tripled the reward for Black O’Byrne, a rebel I long to capture and hang myself.”
Her throat suddenly gone dry, Maire tried not to move, tried not to make a sign that she had paid any heed to what was said. Adele gave a snort of disgust.
“Those Irish today were no vicious rebels, or if they were, they made a poor showing for themselves. We cut them down in barely a few moments’ time—after they attacked us, of course. Fools.”
“And how many were there to your ten knights and twenty-six men-at-arms?”
“Five, after my crossbowmen downed three—”
Adele abruptly fell silent while Maire heard Duncan utter a curse that would have blistered a priest’s ears. Yet she did not dare move though their discussion sickened her. Poor Fiach. He and her clansmen hadn’t stood the slightest chance …
“An attack, Adele? Sounds more like a slaughter, and yet somehow the wench survived … though if any of your men dared to have touched her—”
“And what is it to you?” came an indignant reply, Adele fairly sputtering. “You don’t even want her! Go on, then, content yourself with that insolent little Irish whore Flanna, who seems to think she has some claim upon you.”
“I asked if your men touched her, Adele? Answer me!”
“No, they didn’t touch her, though Henry FitzHugh complained enough—”
“And you’ll tell him to keep his accursed hands from her or risk losing them, am I understood? At least this way I can return her to her family unharmed—other than the terror she was made to suffer for your callous bit of sport!”
Maire jumped as Duncan’s voice rang from the rafters and Adele’s rose as well.
“Do what you will, brother; you were always one to champion those well beneath you! A curse from your Scots mother that I fear one day you will sadly rue!”
Maire didn’t have to open her eyes to know that Adele had stormed from the room, though she did lift her head when Duncan slammed his fist against the mantel. The blood drained from her face. He looked so furious, as broodingly dark as Satan, his eyes upon the door where his sister had just disappeared. But when he saw her looking at him, he muttered something under his breath and sank to his haunches beside her.
“What am I to do with you? Dammit, woman, you haven’t even told me your name.”
Maire didn’t know what to say, feared saying anything after what he’d threatened about Ronan … that he wanted to see her beloved brother captured and hung. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she had already told him that she had no father!
“Enough, I’ll not press you further. In the morning we will talk again. You need rest, I need rest …”
He moved to lift her, but Maire tensed, her eyes darting in panic to the bed and then back to his face.
“Don’t fear. You may sleep in here tonight. I’ve a cot in the other room.”
His voice as huskily gentle as it had been enraged only moments ago, Maire did not fight him as he lifted her and carried her to the bed. Something told her that he meant his words and had no intention of touching her. He laid her down, but did not go so far as to cover her, his eyes strangely lingering upon her face before he turned and left her.
He even closed the door to the next room, leaving her alone, in that huge Norman bed where he had nearly …
Forcing away the disturbing memory of his hands upon her body, Maire shut her eyes, so exhausted she had no more tears.
Chapter 5
Glenmalure
Wicklow Mountains, Leinster
“By God, Niall, how could you have left her?”
Ronan’s fury ringing like thunder in the feasting-hall, Triona glanced from her husband’s incensed face to Niall, who stared back at his elder brother as angrily.
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, this wasn’t going well at all. Yet how could such a terrible situation go well? she asked herself an instant later, pain and worry hanging so great in the air that it felt like a live presence among them.
She had never seen Ronan so upset … no, there had been one other time, last autumn. And then his wrath had been directed at her; it still hurt to think of it. Maire had been at its heart then just as now—oh, God, poor Maire …
“Ronan and Niall O’Byrne, shouting at each other isn’t going to help matters and well the both of you know it!” Triona spoke up, doing her best to keep her own concern for Maire from overwhelming her. “Aye, and it isn’t right, not when we’ve others among us grieving for their loved ones …”
&
nbsp; Her throat growing tight at the thought of Fiach O’Byrne’s widow and four children, at the other slain clansmen’s wives and families mourning around the stronghold, she was relieved to see a bit of the tension easing from the two men she loved so dearly. But only a wee bit. Cursing vehemently, Ronan turned to stare at the blazing fire, his broad back to Niall and Triona.
Yet she reasoned that was better than glaring and blustering at Niall and blaming him for a tragedy for which Triona knew her brother-in-law would never forgive himself, not if Maire wasn’t found soon and brought unharmed back to Glenmalure. Her heart aching for him, she nonetheless did not go near, sensing there wasn’t anything she could say that would lessen his pain. Instead she rose and began to pace around the table, needing to do something, anything, to ease her own.
“We have to send men out, Ronan, to keep watch and ask questions after Maire like you did two years ago with Maurice de Roche—”
“Dammit, where, Triona? Over the entire breadth of Eire?”
Stunned that he’d spun around to roar at her so harshly, Triona could see the immediate regret in Ronan’s gray eyes as he came to fold her in his arms. She knew his unexpected outburst only masked his fear for Maire. She hugged him fiercely, burying her face against his chest while he stroked her hair, every rhythmic beat of his heart making her thank God for the day she’d left her home with this extraordinary man and come to Glenmalure. Of course, she hadn’t thought so highly of him at the time …
“I think Triona’s is a sound plan, Ronan. We have to do something, and quickly.”
Niall’s ravaged voice bringing her back sharply to the present, Triona wasn’t surprised when Ronan released her to face his younger brother. And though he still sounded angry, at least he was calm.
“You said the attack had to have happened only moments after you rode west for Glenmalure.”
“Aye.” Niall nearly choked on the word. Triona had never seen him look so distressed. “But I must have been so far away already—God forgive me, I didn’t hear a thing! And I was only thinking of getting back to tell you the news …”
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