By the devil, what had come over him? Was it so easy for him to forget that Clement had warned him to treat her gently? How could he think she would have wanted it to appear she had drowned? It was more likely her cloak had come undone before she managed to regain control of her horse and then ridden back to help him—and what of her screams? What of her tears? She must have been terrified; even the most accomplished rider was prey to mishaps now and again.
“May … may I ride with you, Duncan?”
His hands already at her waist to lift her to the saddle, he felt all suspicion fade as she glanced nervously at the gelding.
“After what happened, I don’t think I … at least not right now …”
She didn’t say more while Duncan felt his anger at himself deepen. He nodded for one of his waiting men to look after her horse, and then led her to his stallion.
Moments later, Rose tucked safely in front of him as they rode back through the woods, a borrowed cloak warming them both, he wondered again that he could have suspected her, especially when he felt her relax within his embrace and lay her head against his shoulder.
Her midnight hair smelling of lilacs, it made him want to curse aloud that they were bound for Dublin where her clansmen might soon bear her away with them. But he kept silent, even as his arms tightened possessively around her.
***
“By God, has no one seen her?”
Ronan’s roar shattering the tense silence, he slammed his fist upon the table in impotent fury and eyed the dozen exhausted clansmen who stood before him.
“You asked at every village? You split up and each man took a different route?”
“Aye, Lord, just as you commanded and when we heard any news, it was always the same,” came Flann O’Faelin’s weary voice, the huge carrot-haired Irishman’s expression grave. “A large force of Normans had been seen riding north three days past but none recognized them to fathom a guess where they might be bound. And they might not have been the devil’s spawn we seek. Women were among them, aye, one a blonde of surpassing beauty it was said, riding a fine gray steed, but no one could remember seeing Maire—”
“The bastards dragged women about on their slaughter?” Ronan glanced at Niall, who so far had said nothing, his younger brother’s face as wretchedly grim as he felt, which was answer enough.
Niall, in fact, had said little these past days while they’d waited impatiently for Flann and the others to return, his anger intense that he’d been made to stay behind instead of joining the search for Maire. Yet Ronan had feared Niall might be recognized by those who’d slain their clansmen. Who could say if any had glimpsed his face before he’d ridden into the woods? When the O’Byrnes of Glenmalure found the Normans who’d taken Maire, and by God, they would, Ronan wanted it to be as terrible a surprise as that which had come upon poor Fiach and the others.
“Maire had to be among those women,” he said fiercely, more to himself than anyone, wondering if she might have been borne in such a manner that none could see her face. That would mean she had been injured—God help them, if so, those spawn would pay doubly! His wrath mounting, he met Flann’s gaze. “Did you hear word of any other host of Normans traveling north?”
“No, Lord, none.”
“Then it had to be them. Yet no one could name the bastards?”
“No, Lord, and no word of their progress beyond daylight could be found. The last they were seen was ten leagues south of the Hill of Tara in Meath. It’s as if they were swallowed by the night—”
“More likely a castle than the night,” came Niall’s low voice. “They must have been pressing hard to their destination to ride on after dark, aye, and that would mean they knew a hot meal was close at hand, beds aplenty, a stable large enough to accommodate them—dammit, Flann, did you say ten leagues?”
The giant Irishman’s nod made Ronan’s gut knot, even as Niall rose from the bench and caught his arm.
“She has to be there, Ronan, in Meath, and I would swear near Tara! We’ve only to learn which castle—”
“And whether or not the spawn moved on from there the next day.”
Ronan’s grim words falling like a pall over everyone present, he was struck by the sudden despair in Niall’s eyes. His anger directed at no one more fiercely than himself, his voice was tight as he turned to Flann.
“I’ll need ten men to ride with me, no more. It might be days before we return, weeks mayhap—as long as it takes until Maire is found and safely back among us. See that all are well armed and ready to leave by dark.”
“Aye, lord, it will be done.”
Ronan said no more as his clansmen silently filed from the feasting-hall, but turned to the blazing fire while Niall sank onto the bench. All he could see in the flames was Maire surrounded by Normans, Maire possibly hurt, mayhap worse—
“By God, those bastards will die!”
His fury echoing around them, his momentary feeling of helplessness was nearly as acute. He, too, had burned to ride with his clansmen, but he’d made enough raids north of Wicklow that someone could well have recognized him asking questions and put Maire’s life at further risk. At least now they had a reasoned place to start, while he prayed that she had somehow kept her relationship to the O’Byrnes to herself. Since he had learned of her abduction, it had never once left his mind how truly dangerous was her plight.
“I should never have allowed her to learn to ride, to leave Glenmalure, none of it!” His jaw clenched, Ronan stared blindly into the fire. “She was safe here, yet Triona—”
“Good God, brother, so now you blame your wife again that Maire was granted a chance at knowing more than half a life?”
Niall’s harsh words striking him like blows, Ronan wheeled to face him, not surprised that Niall stood now as if ready to do battle.
“Dammit, man, I blame no one but myself! To have her walk again, aye, that I would never take from her, but the rest was pure folly and has brought nothing but harm to her! A half life, Niall? I’ll never forgive myself that I hadn’t insisted upon it! By God, she might be dead for as much as we know!”
At Niall’s stricken look Ronan almost wished he could take back his last words. The two of them faced each other across a chasm that each day seemed to be widening no matter Triona’s efforts to keep peace between them. She would have done so now if she hadn’t been at their dwelling-house caring for Deirdre, who’d suffered a scratch to her hand after pulling her kitten’s tail. Just thinking of his wife and daughter served to ease some of his anger, and he sighed heavily.
“Niall, this isn’t helping Maire—”
“No, it’s not, and I’m glad to hear you recognizing it after all these months. I wish you’d thought as much when you told Maire you’d bring no more suitors to Glenmalure to meet her—dammit, Ronan! Didn’t you see the light dying in her eyes? She never wanted for more than a husband and children and to have a chance to lead her life like other women. Aye, she might have been hurt by Colin O’Nolan, and I know you’d have done anything to take it from her, but that didn’t give you the right—”
“By God, enough!”
“No, Ronan, it’s not enough, not yet! Did I tell you that right before I left Maire in that meadow she was crying? Aye, with joy for me and Caitlin but sorrow, too, that she might never know the same for herself. So I’m telling you now that Maire isn’t dead, and when we do find her, you’d do well to grant her a chance to find even half the love you share with Triona if you truly care for your sister’s happiness at all!”
Niall stormed past him before Ronan could summon an answer, and when he did, it was to utter a vehement oath that fell to no one’s ears but his own.
Niall was already gone.
Chapter 16
“There, child, that’s so much better. We couldn’t have you looking as you did—or smelling as you did, at supper tonight, oh, my, no.”
Clucking her tongue, the apple-cheeked servingwoman made a last adjustment to the gold girdle wrapped around
Maire’s waist, then stood back to survey her handiwork with a knowing eye. In the next instant, clearly satisfied, her kindly face broke into a broad smile.
“Ah, child, how fair you are! Like an angel—it’s no wonder you moved Lady de Gray’s heart. And how generous my mistress was to see that you lacked for nothing, do you not think so?”
Maire could only nod, still stunned at the graciousness extended to her from nearly the moment she and Duncan had arrived at Dublin Castle and been ushered into the Justiciar John de Gray’s private meeting room. A tall, robust man with a stentorian voice to match, he had barely begun to listen to Duncan’s recounting of why they’d come from Meath when the Justiciar summoned his wife, Lady Enid, as if knowing she would take Maire under her wing so he and Duncan might talk alone.
And the lovely older woman had, gauging at once that one of her maids-in-waiting was Maire’s size and could spare a gown or two to replace the soiled blue silk that, though dry, still stank like the bog. Maire’s brief explanation of what had happened had horrified her, and Lady Enid had insisted that Maire lie down and rest while a hot bath was prepared and fresh clothing brought to a well-appointed bedchamber. One of Lady Enid’s personal servants was sent to see to her every need.
Even now the servingwoman continued to fuss over Maire, plump fingers arranging a transparent white veil edged with embroidery of gold and lavender thread around her shoulders. Maire felt as if she scarcely recognized herself in the Norman garb. She had never donned so much clothing, or so it seemed. Silken white hose to just above her knees held with delicate ties and soft matching slippers, a thin linen shift much like her camise, then a lavender gown with long fitted sleeves and shimmering folds that fell to the floor and hugged her form like nothing she’d ever worn.
The strange girdle only made things worse, accentuating the slenderness of her waist, while gold plaits were tied just above the juncture of her thighs, making Maire blush that the eye might be drawn there. And she’d never worn anything on her head, the gilt circlet holding the veil in place not so much uncomfortable as unfamiliar.
At least her long hair hung loosely, which had disappointed the serving woman who had wanted to braid and arrange the thick, freshly washed mass in coils above Maire’s ears. At that point a sigh and soft words that she was Irish, not Norman, had been enough to dissuade the woman, but she had insisted upon combing Maire’s hair until it shone.
“Well, now, child, it seems I’ve nothing more to do—except show you the way to the banquet hall.” A worried frown touched the servingwoman’s brow. “I fear it’s no short way—”
“I’ll see her there.”
Maire gasped to find Duncan standing just inside the door, hours spent wondering what he might be doing answered in part by his handsome attire. He wore a calf-length tunic of black edged with gold, black hose, and black boots. The dampness of his dark hair suggested a recent bath, which only brought to mind the night before, causing Maire’s heart to thunder. It seemed his eyes swept her as thoroughly as hers had swept him, but more slowly, and with an admiring warmth that suddenly made it difficult for her to breathe.
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, at least it was that rather than the suspicion she had glimpsed in his eyes at the bog, though she had done her best to assure herself that asking to ride with him had convinced him further that her hastily conceived story was true. She had truly never thought she would need a story, nor considered that anything she said might ring false given she’d shown such skill with horses. And she had never, ever imagined that Duncan might dive into the treacherous muck when he saw her cloak. Saints help her, what that might mean had kept her mind spinning and her heart often racing—
“You look beautiful, Rose.”
His voice was so husky that she shivered, her breath falling still altogether as he came forward and took her arm. Maire had never known any man to say such a thing to her. And he was looking at her so strangely, differently than he ever had before. Duncan’s handsome face grown sober, he stared into her eyes for so long and heart-stopping a moment that the servingwoman coughed lightly and excused herself, though she threw a knowing smile at Maire just before she left the room.
That only made Maire’s knees feel weaker as Duncan drew her with him, and she knew as surely that something was happening to her, something incredible and dangerous and impossible that she would be a fool not to fight and shove forever from her mind. Yet it seemed her thoughts and feelings had forged a will of their own, mayhap even from the first moment she had seen Duncan FitzWilliam.
“Shall we walk or might I carry you?” came his low query as they, too, left the bedchamber. “It would be less taxing—”
“No, please … I’d like to walk.” Her face burning, she accepted his proffered arm. “Truly, Lord Fitz—Duncan, I’m not a child that must be assisted here and there.”
“I never imagined you a child. Come.”
She’d seen no affront in his eyes, but Maire sensed a slight stiffness in his shoulders that she immediately decided was best, no matter her sudden regret that she’d been unkind. Mayhap now he would not ask such a thing again, the intimacy of him carrying her too much to bear after hours spent sharing the same saddle. She did not want to think of how much she had liked the sensation of his arms around her, his hard thighs hugging her hips …
“Have you always blushed so easily?”
She met his eyes with a start, as disconcerted by her wild imaginings as that he would so unexpectedly ask her something of her past. Warning herself that she must be all the more careful not to arouse further suspicion, she answered as calmly as she could. “I … I don’t know. Mayhap if I could remember …”
His heavy sigh as she fell silent wasn’t what she had expected either, nor his frown as they left the guests’ hall that formed only a small part of Dublin Castle. Wondering what might have displeased him, she tried to ignore the curious glances thrown their way by well-dressed courtiers bound, too, she imagined, for the banquet hall.
“You’ll see many staring tonight, but don’t let it trouble you,” came Duncan’s voice as if reading her mind. “Most all by now have heard of your plight—Lord de Grey chose to make no secret of it. He hopes someone may recognize you, especially since no word has yet come to Dublin from your clan.”
“No word?” Maire prayed at this news that she looked convincingly dismayed as Duncan shook his head. He said no more, and she didn’t either, only too grateful to focus instead on the growing crush of courtiers.
It was true, people were openly staring, Maire realized, as the din of the banquet hall grew louder. Not so much at her awkward gait but at her face, while Duncan’s frown only seemed to grow deeper. Yet he drew her more closely against him, too, which confused her as much as made her flush to her toes. His hold upon her seemed almost possessive, as if he wanted everyone to see …
Begorra, would her imaginings not cease? Dismissing the impossible thought, Maire blinked as they reached the soaring entrance to the banquet hall, the massive room illuminated by scores of blazing torches. And it was already teeming with humanity, the roar of conversation making her head spin. Yet as she and Duncan moved into the throng, she heard a strange drop in the clamor as heads turned and people stood back so they could pass.
“That must be her—God’s blood, she’s comely but I’ve never seen the wench before,” came an aside from a stout Norman near to Maire’s right. “Have you, FitzGilbert?”
She didn’t hear the answer but didn’t need to, knowing none would recognize her. As Duncan led her toward the high table, where she saw Lady Enid lean over to say something to her husband, Maire was suddenly distracted by a trio of lovely young women who glided out of their path but kept three pairs of eyes fixed enviously upon her.
“Can you believe Lord FitzWilliam has agreed to wed that Irish chit?” hissed one.
“Only if he must, Clare, that’s what I heard.”
“Of course that’s the only reason!” whispered the third. “Why else
would he want to be burdened with a cripple?”
Maire stared after them in shock while Duncan continued to draw her through the throng that had suddenly become no more than a dizzying blur of voices and faces. She doubted he had heard those women, doubted she had heard their words herself. Duncan was thinking to marry her? It couldn’t be true.
“Take care on the steps, Rose.”
Dazedly she nodded, as grateful for Duncan’s assistance at that moment to climb to the dais as she was certain she would have stumbled without it. Only Lady Enid’s kind smile seemed strangely to steady her; the older woman, resplendent in green brocade that heightened the rich auburn of her hair, arose to offer the cushioned chair next to her own.
“Ah, child, how charming you look. Sit here by me.”
“She is lovely, FitzWilliam,” seconded John de Gray in his great booming voice as Maire sank into the chair. “A man could do worse in a bride—if her clan demands you wed her to satisfy them. Perhaps we’ll learn of her family tonight. God’s breath, listen to the stir!”
Maire heard no stir, the crescendo of conversation filling the hall nothing to the blood pounding so fiercely in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Duncan take the seat beyond the Justiciar, but she couldn’t look at him, she was so stunned.
“Child, are you ill? You’ve grown pale.”
“I—I didn’t know,” she murmured more to herself than Lady Enid, though she met the woman’s concerned gaze. “Duncan never said anything to me about … about a marriage …”
“Ah, dear, isn’t that the nature of men not to mention something so close to a woman’s heart?” Lady Enid twisted in her chair, her voice filled with mild reproach. “For shame, Lord FitzWilliam, that you haven’t shared your honorable intent with this poor girl.”
“In truth, my lady, I thought there not enough time before supper … and the matter a delicate one not to be rushed. Yet I see now that I was wrong to delay …”
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