“Choose if you wish to avail yourself of the courtesies of my home, I care not,” came his disgruntled voice, while Maire’s gaze flew to the host of servingwomen bearing steaming buckets of water. The next thing she knew Duncan had stormed from the bedchamber, but not before commanding that a screen be brought from the next room to give her privacy while she bathed—if she chose to bathe—in case he must return before she was done.
Wholly stunned, Maire sat still as a stone as the tub was filled, the quiet servingwomen casting her sidelong glances that she scarcely noted. That Duncan had become so furious … because she seemed ungrateful for his kindnesses?
Truly, he had treated her as if she were an honored guest, given her the use of his private rooms, no less, even his bed. Were she the daughter of a chieftain loyal to the English crown, would she really act as she had? As reluctant to accept his gracious gestures as if she were loath to trust him or anything Norman? Adele and her retainers were responsible for the deaths of her clansmen, but Duncan—as yet—had done nothing to hurt her.
Suddenly fearing that she might give herself away long before Duncan could learn the truth about her, Maire resolved then and there that she must behave differently until she had a chance again to escape the castle. And that must start with enjoying a bath
“Here’s the screen, miss. Will it do here, or should we move … ?”
“No, no, that will be fine,” she murmured to a pleasant-faced Irishwoman. Maire was astonished that all was done so quickly, the bath prepared, thick towels and a pale blue wedge of soap laid atop a small table that had been brought forth, the screen arranged round the tub.
And such a screen, too. As the servingwomen filed quietly from the room, Maire studied with unabashed admiration the four embroidered panels, never having seen such fine needlework.
She loved to embroider, could not count the hours she’d spent with needle and thread in her hand; in truth, she had done little else until she’d regained the use of her legs and begun to spend more time out of doors. It was still some solace to her that if her life could not be like other women’s, at least she had been blessed with such a skill. But Maire stared in wonder at needlework so beautifully wrought, she doubted she could equal it.
She rose just to glide her fingertips over a panel, the blanket dropping to her feet but she paid no heed, wholly fascinated by embroidered wildflowers, fluttering birds, and delicate green vines framing what appeared to be scenes of a gently led life: a young, dark-haired girl surrounded by forest creatures she fed by hand, then the same child with what appeared to be her parents giving loaves of bread and drink to the poor on a feast day.
But what truly caught Maire’s eye on the third panel was the scene of two lovers sharing a kiss beneath a shaded bower, the child—now a willowy beauty—swept into the embrace of a strapping knight clad in armor. Emotion tugged at Maire’s heart, her eyes growing blurred at the next scene of a solemn marriage before a priest, and later, that of a new mother lovingly holding a babe in her arms. She so wished for such a life herself. It was her fondest dream and yet it was as far from coming true, as if she wished that her legs overnight could be made healthy and whole!
Sighing raggedly, Maire traced the threads depicting the tiny newborn babe with trembling fingers, then abruptly turned her attention to the tub. She had to admit the steamy water looked inviting, and perhaps it would soothe her tired limbs if not her spirits. She drew her gown over her head, wondering if the effects of Clement’s healing potion still lingered. She determined not to drink another drop of anything he might bring her.
She wanted her wits about her—no more herbal brews. She even smiled to herself, remembering Niall’s complaints two years ago when he had been made to drink a healer’s foul-tasting remedies after nearly losing his life to MacMurrough arrows. He had swayed Triona to fetch him ale from the kitchen instead …
Fresh heartache filling her at such thoughts of her family, Maire dropped her camise to the floor; she removed the heavy stool for which she had little use from the tub and sank naked into the warm water, wishing more buckets had been brought so it might fully cover her. The tub was so large it probably would have taken another dozen. Yet the water came almost to her waist and she had only to cup her hands to pour some over herself, her nipples puckering at the chill in the room despite the blazing fire.
It made her decide to bathe quickly, and she reached for the soap, a lilac-scented luxury not unknown to her, thanks to Ronan’s raids. But it slipped from her wet fingers and slid across the floor, nearly to the door leading to where the servants had gone to fetch the screen, Maire saw with a small sigh, frustrated by her clumsiness.
That must be the room beyond the latrine, where Duncan had slept that first night, which made Maire wonder nervously as she gripped the sides of the tub and started to rise with some effort if he intended to forgo his bed again and sleep on a cot. Her face began to burn. Saints help her, surely so. If only he hadn’t kissed her, she wouldn’t be plagued with such wild imaginings at all—
“Stay there, woman. I’ll get the soap.”
Chapter 12
Stay there? Maire fell back into the tub so awkwardly that water splashed everywhere, logs hissing and sputtering, the lovely screen spattered with droplets while she was blinded, her heart pounding wildly as she groped for a towel to cover her breasts.
Stay there? Had Duncan truly thought she would race him for the soap, even if she could? Quickly wiping the water from her eyes, Maire could hear his footsteps and she sank even lower into the tub, paying no heed that much of the towel was sodden now and drifted around her.
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she had no intention of leaving, of even moving! Maire clutched the towel under her chin and stared incredulously as Duncan came around the screen. He had stripped from his armor, though surely the sweat-stained tunic that clung to his powerful body must have fitted beneath it, and he held in his hands a goblet and the soap. He kept his eyes fixed firmly upon her face, his expression impossible to read.
“Forgive me, but I imagined you would cover yourself. I brought you something to drink from Clement—I met him on the stairs. Anise wine to calm you.”
As Duncan set the goblet on the table and dropped the soap with a plunk into the tub, Maire could only nod her thanks, relief flooding her when he abruptly turned and moved beyond the screen although he didn’t leave the room. She sat frozen, startled even more when she heard a vehement curse from the direction of the windows. Was he going to remain, then, while she bathed? Surely not—
“I told Clement I doubted it was any illness that made you try to flee with Adele and FitzHugh, and he agreed … which is why I came back to ask your forgiveness, too, for how harshly I spoke to you. Damn that infernal woman! That she allowed her fool to hound you—to make sport of you so cruelly. If I hear of such foul treatment again, by the blood of God I’ll—”
“Truly, Lord FitzWilliam, it wasn’t so bad a thing.” Maire sought to appease him, as moved by his unexpected apology as that the force of his anger on her behalf shook her. Yet she gasped when he appeared once more at the screen as if in two strides, his expression both thunderous and grim.
“Not bad, woman? You would rather face wolves than remain safely at my home?”
The burning intensity of his gaze unnerving her as much as the same affront she’d heard in his voice when he’d left the room so abruptly earlier, Maire shook her head, her face grown as warm as her bath. “No … I’m sorry. It wasn’t wise—”
“No, it wasn’t—God’s teeth, but how can I blame you? Adele’s retainers laughing at you, the bastards amusing themselves at your expense. You were brave enough to bear it as you did …”
Duncan fell silent to stare at her so strangely that Maire suddenly lost all ability to breathe. She saw no pity in his eyes as much as something very close to admiration, which struck her all the harder, as no man had ever looked at her in such a way before. Aye, she had been praised enough for her embroidery bu
t this was different … reminding her of how Ronan often looked at Triona …
Maire dropped her eyes, her heart slamming in her throat, while she heard Duncan shift his stance.
“You’re chilled. I should let you bathe.”
“Chilled?” Almost stupidly, she looked at the goose bumps puckering her arms, then glanced up to find Duncan’s gaze had lowered to something else altogether. Her nipples tightening all the more that his eyes were upon them, now she truly could not breathe. Stricken, she clasped the soaked towel to her breasts, her voice sunk to a whisper. “Aye, please … before the water grows cold.”
He was gone before she could blink, another low curse following him as he disappeared into the dark passageway leading to the other room. She started at how hard he shut the door behind him, nearly slamming it, but she allowed herself no thoughts as to his mood as she grabbed for the slippery soap.
She doubted she had ever bathed so quickly, even washing her hair within a few moments’ time when usually she liked to linger over such a task. But now she simply wanted to be done and dressed and in bed before Duncan might return, and she imagined it would be soon, given that he must still have much to do. He had said to his knight Gerard de Barry that he planned to join him …
The prisoners jumping once more to her mind, Maire felt an utter traitor as she climbed carefully from the tub and toweled herself dry, then quickly donned her linen camise. It would have to do. She had no sleeping gown. She ignored the goblet, with its questionable draught—anise wine, aye, but with some opiate added too?—and made instead straight for the bed, all the while working the tangles from her thick hair.
She had no comb, either, but her fingers were deft. She was actually grateful as she climbed into bed that no other amenities had been provided for her that her guilt at her present comfort would be so much greater.
Those poor men—no, one man and two others no more than boys … from clan O’Melaghlin, Duncan had said. She knew little of them other than that they had lost their rich pastureland to the conquering Normans years ago, much as the O’Byrnes, and imagined their hatred burned as hot. Hot enough to slaughter an entire herd of cattle?
So Gerard had claimed yesterday, but in truth, Maire could not imagine any rebel Irish doing such a wanton thing in such hard times. To steal them, aye, for fresh milk and meat for their clansmen, their families, their wee babes. But to kill the beasts and leave them to rot? She could not help thinking that something there did not ring true.
Sighing heavily, Maire rolled onto her side and drew the covers well over her shoulder. That she lay so snugly upon so fine and clean a bed grated upon her conscience, too. Were the three O’Melaghlins being flogged or worse at this very moment, their beds filthy straw strewn over a cold dungeon floor? Jesu give them courage, if only there was some way she could help them.
Yet what could she do? She seemed no more likely herself to escape from Longford Castle than to sprout wings, given what had happened no more than an hour past. And if she didn’t keep her wits about her and behave as if Duncan FitzWilliam were no enemy to Eire at all but a kind benefactor …
Maire’s gaze flew to the door closed so firmly against her, a sudden thought plaguing her mind.
If she wanted him to think her appreciative of his gracious treatment, she should surely have thanked him by now. So the daughter of a chieftain who’d bowed to Norman rule would do. But she hadn’t said a word, mayhap only once come close yesterday just before he’d taken her to see Clement. Her decision to remedy matters made, she tried to quell her sudden nervousness as she left the bed by telling herself that going to him tonight was the wisest thing to do … yet he had also come very close to slamming the door.
Not wishing to fathom what might have made Duncan angry again, Maire went to the massive chest at the foot of the bed where her blue cloak had been neatly folded, and swept it around her shoulders. Her flimsy camise was hardly enough garb in which to appear before the man, offering no more covering than that sodden towel—
“Begorra, Maire O’Byrne, have you gone mad altogether?” she whispered to herself as she walked to the door, suddenly not so sure that she should disturb him.
It didn’t help that everything Adele had said to her about Duncan having no vent for his lust now that Flanna had been sent away came rushing back to her, and Maire almost changed her mind. And Duncan had kissed her, too, while she slept. She told herself as her hand moved shakily to the latch that it must surely have been pity, but after what she had seen tonight in his eyes—
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, what did any of that matter? Doing her best to gather her own courage, Maire had only to think of how Duncan would look at her if he knew her to be the sister of Black O’Byrne, and she was able to thrust all such concerns from her mind, though her nervousness remained.
It grew, too, as she made her way down the short passageway and past the latrine to the adjoining room where light shone from beneath the closed door. She could hear the creaking of a chair, her hand rising to knock at the same moment heavy footsteps came toward her and the door was flung wide. She gasped at the flood of light, backing up as Duncan almost ran into her.
“God’s teeth, woman!”
Duncan had to brace his hands against the wall to catch his balance, as startled to find Rose in the passageway as she appeared to be that he had come so suddenly upon her. Her eyes wide and round, she said nothing, only staring at him, while he swept his gaze over her blue cloak, his gut clenching.
By the blood of God, was she dressed to try and flee again? Yet why, then, had she come … ?
“I’m sorry … I thought to speak to you,” came her voice in almost a whisper.
Duncan was struck more than he wanted to be by its sweet timbre. He was struck, too, by her words, and found himself staring back at her almost densely. She’d made little effort to speak to him of her own will before, their exchanges provoked more by his none too gentle demands for a response, much as what had happened earlier. Yet she didn’t appear upset or pressed. Was it possible she might have remembered something of her clan?
Duncan glanced past her to the bedchamber, then thought better of it and took her arm. She blinked at his touch but did not hesitate when he drew her with him.
“Come, we’ll talk in here.” He guided her into the refuge he seldom allowed anyone to enter and around the oak table which took up much of the space. Duncan gestured for her to take the high-backed chair he’d abandoned moments before while he sat down opposite her on the cot.
At once her face reddened, and he followed her eyes to the single woolen blanket folded at one end of a mattress that was more a pallet atop the narrow wooden frame. Then she glanced back at him, at his shoulders, at his chest, as if gauging that the cot was not nearly large enough for him, which made him guess easily her thoughts.
“It’s not as bad as it looks—much better than the cold ground. That’s all I knew for years … a soldier’s lot.”
He had shrugged while she only blushed further, which made Duncan wonder again how much contact she had had with men. Not much, surely, as he saw her swallow nervously, her beautiful gray eyes so luminous in the lamplight and yet anxious, too.
Had no man ever come near to court her? Had none dared to see past the unfortunate infirmity she bore with such grace that Clement had been moved to tears in telling him how Rose had walked with the composure of a queen while the great hall rocked with laughter around her?
Fresh fury surged inside Duncan that the woman he’d made clear to everyone was a guest in his home had been so sorely mistreated, and he thought again of the harsh words he intended for Adele and Rufus the Fool.
“M-mayhap, Lord FitzWilliam, we should speak at another time …”
Duncan realized he must be scowling. Rose suddenly appeared uncomfortable, perched like a bird at the edge of her chair as if ready to fly, her voice grown uncertain. He saw then a measure of cream linen peeking beneath her cloak and realized, too, that she must have made
herself ready for bed only to decide she wanted to talk to him. In truth, he had been on his way to talk further to her, much weighing heavily on his mind. Leaning forward, he hoped his low voice would calm her.
“My anger isn’t for you, Rose. I was thinking of Adele and her blasted fool, and how I failed that you be well treated under my roof—”
“No, no, you’ve been very gracious to me and I—well, I wanted to thank you, truly.”
She’d spoken in such a rush that she seemed almost surprised at herself. Duncan’s frustration that she’d not come to speak of her clan was somewhat soothed by her words. It had undeniably cut him that she might consider him of the same brutal ilk as Adele and her knights, but how could he blame her for that either? He and Adele were blood kin, much as he might wish otherwise.
“I’m not an ogre, Rose,” he said earnestly, leaning closer. “I told you from the first I would not hurt you. And if I could alter what happened to your clansmen, I would, I vow it! But nothing can be done save that you’re returned safely home, and soon. Do you remember anything more at all … ?”
She had begun to shake her head before he finished, which made Duncan’s frustration again grow sharp.
“So we’ve still only your name … while I learned little from that accursed meadow,” he said more to himself, imagining again the slaughter she must have witnessed at the amount of dried blood staining the grass. “Your clansmen’s bodies were gone—Adele had told me that was likely, but I wanted to see for myself, no matter she said a rider had disappeared into the trees only moments before the first arrows—”
Duncan fell silent at Rose’s sudden ashen pallor, which reminded him all the more that Clement had pointedly advised again she be treated with gentleness. The friar hadn’t been pleased to see him come storming down the stairs—God’s teeth! He didn’t need Clement’s censure to know it hadn’t helped matters for him to become angry that Rose had wanted to flee, yet it seemed he had been nothing but vexed since yesterday.
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