Wild Roses

by Miriam Minger

  Damn him for a fool, he should never have kissed her! That had started the trouble. No woman since Gisele had occupied his thoughts as this one. He had told himself a hundred times that only her wretched plight had captured his mind, yet it hadn’t been thoughts of her slain clansmen that had sent him for the sanctum of this room. Even now, looking at Rose’s midnight hair drying in soft tendrils around her face and throat made his loins tighten.

  He’d been an utter fool, too, to disrupt her bath! Had he truly thought he’d be immune to her nakedness simply because he hoped soon to be rid of her? Immune to the taut, rounded beauty of breasts he’d already touched, to dark woman’s hair like a tempting shadow beneath that wet towel where his fingers had already

  “Enough, man, enough,” Duncan said so gruffly to himself that once more Rose appeared uncertain as to whether she should stay or go.

  She even started to rise, a pale flash of thigh making him clench his teeth, but he stood first, which at once made her sink back into the chair, her lovely eyes grown wide. Pained that she still seemed so uneasy around him no matter all he’d said to reassure her, he decided in the next instant that perhaps it was a very good thing, given the days ahead. God grant him strength if she ever looked at him other than as a nervous virgin …

  “Ease yourself, Rose, it wasn’t my intent to distress you,” he said to soothe her, keeping his voice low. “We’ll speak no more of your clansmen unless you wish it. And I’ll not have you suffer again as you did tonight. Until I’ve found your family, you’ll be safer at my side. I leave tomorrow morning for Dublin, and you will accompany me.

  Chapter 13

  Dublin? Maire was so stunned that she stared dumbly as Duncan held out his hand to her, her mind running away with itself.

  Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she must accompany him to Dublin? And for how long? Ronan would never find her there, and even if he did, that walled city was dangerously filled with Normans—

  “There’s a chance your clan has already sent word of its loss to the Justiciar John de Gray. If so, I could see you home all the sooner,” came Duncan’s voice to pierce her stricken thoughts. “If not, perhaps a courtier at Dublin Castle might recognize you, someone known to your father’s clan. I decided it worth the journey, though I can spare only three days—”

  “Three days?” Relief overwhelming her that it would be no longer, Maire accepted Duncan’s assistance and rose to her feet as he nodded, his expression become ominously grim.

  “I’ve prisoners, Irish rebels. You saw them?” Her knees gone weak as she murmured a soft “aye,” Maire had a terrible sense she knew what he would say when his fingers tightened around hers.

  “The bastards will hang if I’ve heard nothing from their chieftain by then. Gerard captured two of the O’Melaghlin’s grandsons and his own harper—and if it’s true these rebel chieftains love their musicians as well if not more than their blood family, the O’Melaghlin will come to Meath.”

  As Duncan once more guided her around the rough-hewn table spread with leather-bound books and parchment maps and then out into the passageway, Maire felt the blood pounding in her ears at his harsh words. Would the O’Melaghlin heed Duncan’s threat? Yet what then … ? Somehow she made herself speak, grateful for the shadows which hid her burning face.

  “You … you would release the prisoners if the chieftain—the O’Melaghlin came to Longford Castle?”

  “No, they’d remain my hostages—and that, only if he swore to peace. If the O’Melaghlin refuses, the prisoners will die.”

  Duncan’s pronouncement lay like an icy hand gripping her heart. Maire hoped she didn’t appear too shaken as he drew her into the bedchamber and turned to face her, searching her eyes.

  “Enough talk of rebels, Rose. It’s no matter to you.”

  “I-I only asked as I’ve already caused you so much trouble,” Maire blurted out, growing anxious that she might have seemed too interested in the prisoners’ plight. “You’ve concerns enough here without having to journey to Dublin. Messengers sent across the land on my behalf, strife between you and your sister—”

  “That strife existed long before Adele came upon you and your clansmen.” His tone grown bitter, Duncan’s gaze went to the embroidered screen arranged around the tub, his expression as hard as stone. “Long before I was born, and my mother was made to bear it. But she had my father then, to protect her …”

  Duncan fell silent, a faraway look in his eyes that touched Maire for the somber regret it held, too. It struck her suddenly that the screen had been brought from a room as intensely masculine as the man, with its spartan furnishings and unadorned walls, a room she had sensed at once was a private refuge. For such a lovely thing to be kept there, it must surely hold some special meaning.

  “It’s very beautiful, the screen,” she murmured, her breath catching as Duncan’s grim gaze met hers. “The embroidery—”

  “My mother’s. The work of a madwoman, or so my three half brothers claimed. They had her locked away when my father died, and I never saw her again. And I was too young—Enough!”

  He’d spoken so vehemently that Maire started, Duncan’s face grown almost tortured as he threw a glance at the bed.

  “You’d do well to get some rest. We’ll be leaving not long after dawn.”

  Maire nodded, Duncan appearing so weary at that moment, too, that she couldn’t help saying as he turned to go, “What of you, Lord FitzWilliam? You can’t have slept much at all …”

  He’d stopped to look at her so strangely that Maire felt a blush burn her skin.

  “I—I meant that mayhap you might want the bed. I could take the cot—”

  “My bed is yours, woman, for the duration of your stay,” came his voice in so husky a timbre that Maire shivered as if he’d touched her. “But I’m grateful for your kind concern … and that you came to thank me. Sleep well.”

  Maire could but stare as he left the room, a strange warmth engulfing her from head to foot. The unsettling effect of his voice combined with the odd intensity in his eyes lingered even after she had doused the few oil lamps, climbed into bed, and drawn the covers to her chin.

  She had only been behaving as she must! Maire told herself over and over, wishing the disconcerting feeling would go away. As a chieftain’s daughter accustomed to Norman rule. She hadn’t truly been concerned for Duncan—her enemy, one of the conquering horde who’d done so much to destroy what the O’Byrnes held dear.

  Her thoughts repeating themselves like a litany, Maire closed her eyes, but she knew sleep would be long in coming for the truth plaguing at her heart. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, she was not only lying to others but lying to herself now, too!

  She had been concerned.

  For a Norman.

  A Norman who with each passing moment was becoming less a foe to her than a man … saints help her!

  ***

  “Is the woman well?”

  Duncan nodded as Gerard heavily took the chair opposite him, though he didn’t look away from the fire. The great hall filled with shadows and silent but for the crackling logs, they sat for a moment until Gerard shifted restlessly.

  “You may not wish to speak of this now, Duncan, but I say three days is too long! We should hang those bastards from the battlements tomorrow and to hell with the O’Melaghlin—”

  “And risk further strife when we’ve a chance for peace? Dammit, man, hanging every rebel in Meath or all of Ireland for that matter won’t bring back your brother!”

  Duncan had shouted, all thoughts of Rose thrust from his mind as Gerard’s face tightened angrily against him. But he would hear no more of an argument that had raged back and forth since he’d met up with his men in West Meath and learned of the capture. Lowering his voice, he sat forward in his chair.

  “If the O’Melaghlins had slain Robert, I might give you a free hand, but they’re not the ones to blame. Save your wrath for the O’Byrnes if they ever stray this far north again, and I’ll help you myself tie the rop
e around Black O’Byrne’s neck. But there will be no hangings tomorrow. Do you hear me, Gerard?”

  His knight not answering but turning to glare into the fire, Duncan sighed heavily. He debated for a brief moment leaving Reginald Montfort in charge of the castle while he was away in Dublin, yet he knew Gerard would not cross him. Over the years they had saved each other’s lives in battle countless times, and he trusted no other man as well.

  He had known Robert and Gerard de Barry since he had left Northumberland as a youth to serve in King John’s army. Younger sons like them with no inheritance of which to speak, there had been little other choice for them than such an occupation. In Duncan’s case, his three half brothers had kindly seen to that. Bitterness welling inside him, he shoved thoughts of the men he considered no better than thieves and murderers from his mind and focused once more upon Gerard.

  “Did the prisoners finally speak?”

  “The younger two,” came the gruff response, though at least Gerard had turned from the fire to look at him. “The harper was better able to resist the whip—stubborn old goat, but I don’t believe any of what was said. The O’Melaghlins slaughtered those cattle just as surely as they’ve been stealing them since we came to Meath—”

  “And I’ll suffer no more of it, damn them.” His voice as grim as Gerard’s face, Duncan clenched his fists against the chair. “No more raiding cattle, no more torched fields. If the O’Melaghlin doesn’t swear to peace, my hand will be forced. There will be no more prisoners, only corpses …”

  Just as his hand had been forced two days ago with his own kind, Duncan thought darkly, imagining the Justiciar might have heard already, too, of his swift execution of justice. But he doubted a dissenting word would be spoken, any man still loyal to the traitors Walter and Hugh de Lacy, former earls of Meath and Ulster, no better than dead.

  By the blood of God, he would allow no rogue Normans or rebel Irish to harry him from his land! He’d never known a home before Ireland and he would fight as he had done for everything he’d gained in his life to establish some measure of peace over the barony King John had granted him. And he would have peace, even if it must be held by the sword.

  “Do I have your word, then, that we’ll wait no more than three days?”

  Torn from his thoughts, Duncan met Gerard’s burning eyes as his knight rushed on.

  “If the O’Melaghlin refuses to come to Meath, a lesson must be taught—and at least I’ll have won some vengeance whether it’s the O’Byrnes who murdered my brother or not that hang from the tower. God’s breath, someone must pay! You must grant me that much!”

  Gerard’s vehement plea ringing from the rafters, Duncan made to speak, but a flurry of amber silk caught his eye. His gut clenched as Adele came toward them, a stricken look on her face.

  “Dear God, how terrible! I couldn’t help but overhear … your brother, Gerard? I’m so sorry.”

  Overhear? Imagining that Adele might very well have been listening to their conversation before she’d decided to make her presence known, Duncan was not pleased to see her lay her hand with sympathy on his knight’s arm as Gerard rose from his chair.

  “How long ago was this tragedy?” Adele shot a look of reproach at Duncan and then glanced back at Gerard. “My dear brother failed to mention a word of your loss to me—oh, please, you mustn’t stand on my account, I know how tired you must be. Let’s sit and you must tell me everything. How dreadful for you, Gerard! Did you say Robert was murdered?”

  That she knew Gerard’s brother’s name confirming she had indulged herself in their entire conversation, Duncan almost cursed aloud when Gerard retook his chair while Adele sank to her knees and settled herself in front of him, her eyes focused compassionately on his face. Disgusted, Duncan rose to leave but Gerard’s still-ravaged voice stopped him.

  “Three days, Duncan? Do I have your word?”

  The loss of Robert de Gray, both friend and loyal comrade in arms, having cut him almost as deeply as it had Gerard, Duncan nodded. “You have it.”

  He said no more, angered to see that Adele’s hand had crept to Gerard’s thigh, her beautiful face illuminated to perfection by the firelight. She didn’t spare him a glance, her eyes only for Gerard, as Duncan turned and strode from the great hall, his half sister’s concentrated attention reminding him of a hawk bearing close for a kill.

  Damn the woman! He had warned Gerard of her more than once, but he wasn’t the man’s keeper. Adele had marked his knight as fair quarry from the first she’d seen him, no doubt waiting for the right moment to pounce only to have finally found it.

  A seductive listening ear, a touch, sweet soothing words—God’s teeth, it was nothing more than sport to her! Hopefully Gerard would realize as much, as well as consider his bride-to-be awaiting their marriage in Sussex before doing anything rash. Callous, coldhearted sport, just as the senseless slaughter at that meadow …

  His grim thoughts turning once more to Rose, Duncan climbed the last steps to his rooms, wondering if she slept. He had left her some time ago, thinking to meet Gerard in the dungeon, but had gotten no farther than the great hall, where he’d slumped wearily into a chair before the massive stone hearth and remained there while the castle grew quiet around him.

  No one had strayed near, as if sensing he wished to be left alone—none of his knights, no servants as they cleared away the remains of the meal, not his six hunting dogs, who had done no more than nuzzle his hand before trotting off to sleep elsewhere, not even Faustis, who’d come close at one point only to change his mind and retreat at Duncan’s dark glance. And Adele and her retainers must have retired to their quarters to escape whatever wrath they thought coming at their first chance.

  Yet she had obviously decided to venture forth—to find him and attempt to make more excuses for herself and FitzHugh? If so, she’d been swayed easily enough from her purpose upon seeing Gerard. Or perhaps she thought her actions concerning Rose were of so little consequence to not merit further discussion … ?

  Duncan swore under his breath as he entered the dimly lit anteroom, determined that she would hear from him before he left for Dublin. But all he wanted right now was rest. He saw the glint of armor atop the bench that he’d stripped out of so quietly as to not disturb Rose at her bath, almost deciding then to wait to speak to her when she was done. Yet when he had seen the soap skidding across the floor …

  “Blasted fool.” His words were no more than a harsh whisper as he went into the next room, but Duncan nonetheless glanced at the bed. He saw no movement; upon drawing closer, the sound of gentle breathing assured him Rose was fast asleep. He did not linger, wouldn’t allow himself to after he’d been so reckless yesterday as to kiss her, but passing by the screened tub made him stop.

  He was tired to the bone, but he stank, too. As ripely as any man who’d ridden south into Wicklow and then all the way to West Meath and back in less than two days. Yet the screen would have to go. His gut twisting, he couldn’t bear to look further at the embroidered scenes of his mother’s life, the screen usually kept folded and shrouded in the other room.

  Quickly and silently he did so, and when he returned he glanced once more at the bed to ensure Rose still lay deeply sleeping. Her lithe form took so little room on the huge mattress; he found himself remembering all too well the brief yet stirring sensation of her naked body in his arms, and he turned away, scowling.

  Try as he might, his thoughts would not be rid of her, especially the look of concern in her eyes when she’d asked if he might wish to use the bed. And she’d spoken so gently, reminding him of another whose voice had been as sweet …

  Struck anew that he would compare any woman so favorably to Gisele, Duncan felt the same desolate feelings that always gripped him, yet strangely, they didn’t seem as sharp. Sharper was the sudden thought that tomorrow might be the last time he saw Rose if some in her clan had gone to Dublin, which made him scowl all the deeper as he hastily stripped out of his clothes.

  G
od’s teeth, he would be well rid of Pier! It was true, she’d brought nothing but trouble to his house—though not on her own account. He could imagine how much she wished to be home, even if she couldn’t yet remember more than her Christian name. Yet she had finally seemed more at ease around him tonight, just before he’d left her, her soft words making him speak of things long kept to himself.

  His jaw growing tight, Duncan was glad that he’d put away the screen as he stepped into the tub and sank into water that had long lost its warmth. Only then did he realize he had no plain soap, only the fragrant wedge that lay at the bottom of the tub. By the devil, he would smell like lilacs. But better that than to use none at all.

  He began to scrub his chest and under his arms, the scent wafting around him … making him think all too blatantly again of Rose.

  Of how her nipples had prodded so seductively against the sodden towel, her legs long and pale and lovely, showing no hint of any infirmity. Of how her tangled hair had shown black as midnight against milk white skin he already knew to be soft and smooth as the finest silk. That she had sat in this same tub, the same water that he used now to rinse his body having streamed over hers, seemed suddenly so intimate a thing that he felt his loins grow painfully heavy and hard.

  Gritting his teeth, he bathed quickly, amazed that in water so cold— By the blood of God, what was this woman doing to him?

  He couldn’t climb from the tub fast enough, grabbing a towel from the table and taking only a moment to dry himself in front of the fire. And still his enormous erection persisted, which made him stride naked for the adjoining room lest Rose did awake and spy a sight no virgin need face until her wedding night.