Duncan said no more, as angry with himself as he was deeply stung that Rose appeared so ashen. And she hadn’t once looked his way, her eyes even now downcast, while Lady Enid sighed and threw an exasperated look at the Justiciar.
“Thanks in no small part to my lord husband—ah, dear, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.”
With a wave of her hand, Lady Enid signaled for the meal to begin, but Duncan suddenly had no appetite for meat or drink. His frustration only grew as Rose seemed as disinclined to taste the array of savory dishes served to her plate or to take even a sip of wine, and still she refused to look at him.
“Dammit, FitzWilliam, am I speaking to myself?”
Reluctantly, Duncan shifted his gaze to John de Gray. The Justiciar studied him with annoyance.
“I said, do you think there’s any chance it wasn’t the O’Melaghlins who slaughtered those cattle but some of Walter de Lacy’s men still loose about the countryside?”
“It doesn’t matter. Those rebels have plagued Meath long before I came to Ireland, and I’ll suffer no more. If the O’Melaghlin chooses not to heed my summons, his harper and two grandsons will hang.”
John de Gray didn’t readily respond, but took a long draft of wine, which gave Duncan another chance to focus upon Rose. Still she hadn’t touched her plate, and he could tell she wasn’t listening as Lady Enid went on and on about the excellence of her cooks, no doubt in an attempt to coax her to eat. Did the thought of marrying him displease her so much that she would starve herself?
“You want her, don’t you?”
Duncan met John de Gray’s shrewd dark eyes. “I agreed to marry her.”
“But only if her clan wishes it? I daresay, Baron, you’ll take her as your bride whether they demand such retribution or not—unless I’ve judged wrongly.”
Duncan said nothing, but he clearly didn’t have to speak as a speculative half smile stole over the Justiciar’s face. Yet it faded as quickly as it had come, John de Gray leaning toward him, his voice grown stern.
“I want peace in Leinster, FitzWilliam. When her clansmen come forward, and I trust they will soon, given that you believe their chieftain has been slain, you will wed the wench if they so wish it—or offer yourself first to wed her, I care not which. But if they oppose such a match…”
Duncan’s gut clenched as John de Gray paused to glance over his shoulder at Rose, and he saw then that she sat as still and pale as a statue, perhaps listening to every word—
“You will give her up, Baron. Are we understood? I’ll have no clan warfare begun over a wench, however fair. You will give her up.”
As if the matter was firmly settled, John de Gray sat back in his chair and stuck his knife into a glistening slice of roast venison while Duncan had never felt farther from being hungry. He stared out over the crowded banquet hall. That no one had yet come forward to say he recognized Rose was an ominous sign that none would this night. And by the blood of God, now that his mind was made, he wanted the matter done!
At first he had hoped that her clansmen hadn’t come to Dublin, his relief intense when John de Gray had said no word of any slaughter had yet reached him. So intense that Duncan had readily agreed to take Rose as his bride if her clansmen so demanded it, startling himself at how much he realized he wanted her. But with none of her family here, and no one coming forth with any knowledge of them, how long now before he would know their wishes? Dammit, before they might know his? And she still remembered nothing, not even if she had always blushed so easily, so no help lay there—
“My lords, the poor child isn’t well. If you’ll excuse us, I’ll accompany her back to her room.”
Duncan lunged from his chair as Lady Enid helped Rose to stand, but John de Gray caught his arm.
“Seat yourself, FitzWilliam. My lady wife can see to the wench. We’ve many matters yet to discuss.”
Duncan looked from John de Gray to Rose as she was assisted down the steps, then he sat with a low curse; the Justiciar was King John’s highest official in Ireland and not a man with whom to quarrel. But as John de Gray began to relay news of the royal court in London, Duncan listened with half an ear, his eyes never leaving Rose until she had disappeared with Lady Enid from the banquet hall.
And even then he couldn’t focus his attention, his gut churning. By the devil, had the thought of wedding him made her so ill she must take to her bed?
“God’s blood, man, you’re smitten.”
Duncan met John de Gray’s gaze, the Justiciar holding out to him a brimming goblet of wine.
“To the marrow, from the looks of it, so you’d best drink—for now. But later, pray, FitzWilliam … that her clansmen when they come forth want you wed to the wench rather than to put your head on a pike.”
Chapter 17
“Ease yourself, child, and rest, it’s no wonder you’re not feeling well. How much could any young woman bear in so few days? Yet I’m certain Lord FitzWilliam meant you no injury by neglecting to tell you his intentions—ah, dear, men.”
Maire said nothing while Lady Enid shook her head and tucked the counterpane around her shoulders; in truth, she’d said little from the moment she’d left the high table, no matter she was touched by the woman’s kindness. She wanted to sleep, to sleep and wake somehow in Glenmalure in her own bed and pretend all this strange madness had been no more than a dream …
“Ah, no, child, no tears.” Sighing, Lady Enid sat on the edge of the bed and brushed her hand across Maire’s forehead. “Duncan FitzWilliam is a good man, and honorable, my lord husband has never spoken anything but highly of him. That he has agreed to right a terrible wrong committed by others should show you his integrity. If your clansmen want you to wed him, I know he’d not mistreat you. And it’s time Lord FitzWilliam marry, past time with so rich a barony, we’ve often remarked upon it. You’ll want for nothing, child—ah, me, enough. I should let you sleep.”
As Lady Enid rose, Maire swept wetness from her eyes that, now begun, would not seem to stop. She heard Lady Enid sigh again, and saw her glance at the apple-cheeked servingwoman who hovered nearby. Maire had been helped to undress and assisted so capably into bed that her head still spun from that alone.
“Leave us,” came Lady Enid’s soft voice. The servingwoman with a last concerned look at Maire, hastened to oblige. Only when the bedchamber door was quietly closed did the Justiciar’s wife once more settle herself onto the mattress, and she took one of Maire’s hands in her own.
“Do you wonder of love, child? Is that why you weep?”
Unable to answer for the sudden lump in her throat, Maire glanced away while Lady Enid continued gently.
“I knew my husband for only a short time before we wed, a few weeks, no more, but I haven’t regretted it. He often tries me—like tonight, yet I love him dearly. Our affection for each other only grew with the years. And I saw how Lord FitzWilliam looked at you tonight, child. That promise has already taken root. Love will grow strong and deep between you, I know it.”
Love? Between a rebel O’Byrne and a Norman? Her eyes filling with fresh tears, Maire felt the torment inside her only mounting as Lady Enid squeezed her hand.
“Would it help for you to know how quickly Lord FitzWilliam agreed to take you for his bride? My husband told me the words were no sooner from his mouth than it was done, and even he was surprised. We know little of the baron’s private affairs, except that he was to have married years ago but the poor girl drowned … Gisele de Clare was her name—”
“Gisele?” Maire had no more than whispered while Lady Enid nodded and went on.
“He lost her only days before their secret wedding, or so the parish priest revealed to her family, and they brought their grief and anger all the way to King John, creating quite a stir. Her parents blamed Lord FitzWilliam much for her death, for they hadn’t approved the match. He was only a mere soldier then. I don’t recall anything said of punishment meted out to him—ah, dear, his own suffering must have been
enough. That he’s a baron and still no wife? But perhaps, child, in you he’s finally found—”
“Please, no more.” Her mind truly spinning now, Maire felt her eyes stinging even worse, Lady Enid’s face become a blur. “If I could sleep …”
A soft sigh greeting her words, the Justiciar’s wife gave Maire’s hand a last squeeze and then rose from the bed.
“Forgive me, child. Of course rest is what you need. But when you awake in the morning, I hope all will look brighter to you. I will pray that your fears are eased.”
Maire wanted so badly to offer some thanks, but she kept silent as Lady Enid left the room; she wished as much to be alone and sensed that any word might encourage the kindly woman to linger. Tomorrow she would thank her, but not now. As the door closed, she rolled onto her side and clutched the pillow to her mouth, finally allowing her sobs to overtake her.
She hadn’t cried, really cried, since that night last autumn when Colin O’Nolan had spurned her, but even that memory paled to the utter wretchedness she felt now.
It was all so cruel.
Fiach O’Byrne and her other clansmen ruthlessly slaughtered.
Her family with no knowledge as to whether she lived or where she might be … at Dublin Castle, no less, where Ronan and Triona had nearly lost their lives only two years past.
And now Duncan FitzWilliam agreeing to marry her—and Lady Enid speaking of love. Of love!
Balling her hand into a fist, Maire punched wildly at the pillow as her sobs shook her, shook her so fiercely that she soon doubled over from the pain.
But it was nothing to the pain tearing at her heart, the dream she’d cherished for so long as close as it had ever been or ever would be again, she knew it! And it was all so terribly cruel. Duncan was a Norman. To think of marriage to such a man, even loving such a man, was no more than trying to catch air. So why did it make her want such madness to be possible all the more desperately?
Maire had no sense of how long she cried, but, finally spent, she lay silent and exhausted and trembling on the bed, the pillow sodden from her tears. Only then did she hear it, a low intake of breath and she froze, her heart thundering.
“Is it that horrible to you, woman? The thought that we might wed?”
Her senses dazed and her eyelids swollen from weeping, Maire couldn’t tell from where Duncan’s voice had come, but she knew he was very close. And the room was so dark, the low fire in the hearth casting more shadow than light that proved of little help.
She struggled within the linen tangle of her sleeping gown to sit up, gasping when she felt two strong hands grab her and haul her backwards from the bed. Within an instant she was enveloped in an embrace so powerful that her legs gave way beneath her, but Duncan held her too close, her back pressed against his chest, for there to have been any chance she might fall.
“Have you been crying so fiercely because of me, Rose?”
She heard pain in his voice even as his embrace grew tighter, and she wanted to scream then and there that her name wasn’t Rose but Maire … Maire O’Byrne, and finally have the wretched madness come to an end. But what then of Ronan and Niall and Triona and Deirdre and any of her clansmen that such a confession might put at terrible risk? Tears once more stung her eyes as she wondered wildly what to say, nothing burning brighter in her mind than at least, in this instance, the truth.
“I cannot … I cannot marry you, Duncan.”
She had no strength to even gasp as he turned her around in his arms, a log crackling into fresh flames casting light upon his grim face.
“Woman, have you remembered your clan? You know they would oppose—”
He’d fallen abruptly silent as she shook her head, Maire’s throat tightening at the relief she saw in his eyes which tore all the more deeply at her heart. Once again, she grabbed desperately for some measure of the truth.
“It’s Adele. You heard her that first night … I-I’m no fit bride for you. She’ll never allow it—”
“Allow it?” Duncan’s voice incredulous, Maire watched as a host of emotions played across his striking features from relief again to a sudden hardening that came close to chilling her. He drew her closer, staring into her eyes as if he dared her not to believe him. “Adele has no say in my life, woman, and she never will. Was that at the heart of your tears?”
He searched her face so intently that Maire lost all voice to answer, and it seemed her silence made Duncan become even more grim.
“God’s teeth, I’ll throttle her if she utters another word against you—does another thing to distress you. Forget all that she said—”
“I can’t, Duncan, and I cannot become your wife!” Maire felt him stiffen at her sudden outburst but she rushed on recklessly, determined all the more to find some way to dissuade him. “Why would you want such a thing? To bring discord into your house … aye, a-and it wouldn’t be fair to you, cruel even, to have you bear such a burden! I saw scores of young women in the banquet hall tonight, all of them lovely and healthy and whole. Any would make you a better bride, not a woman like me—”
“Like you, Rose?”
He’d cut her off so huskily that Maire sucked in her breath, the look in his eyes not at all what she would have expected.
“Tell me what’s not beautiful in a woman who holds her head high like a queen when others laugh and point and stare. And as for healthy and whole …”
Maire’s heart leapt to her throat as he drew her against him, his voice grown huskier still.
“Can you see me, Rose?”
“A-aye.”
“Can you hear me? Speak to answer me?”
Maire tried to but in vain, nodding when she found her voice gone altogether as he bent his head close to hers.
“Can you feel my arms around you?”
She could, aye, she could, hard and muscled and strong. Shivers plummeted to her toes when he drew her even closer, his lips hovering only a whisper away from hers.
“Ah, woman, and you can taste?”
His breath warm and scented with wine, she opened her mouth to catch her own breath that had all but fled, even as his lips found hers, pressing down so gently at first that Maire sighed in wonder and went limp in his arms. But she didn’t fall, though she felt as if she were tumbling headlong into some dizzying abyss when his kiss swiftly became one of plunder, his embrace grown as fierce.
She thought only to hold on for dear life, her arms stealing around his neck to hold him close, her fingers ensnaring in his hair, her sigh becoming a broken moan when Duncan swept his tongue deeply into her mouth. Engulfed as if by flames, distantly she sensed a coolness, too. Then, as Duncan’s hands heavy and warm beneath her sleeping gown cupped her bare bottom and pulled her against him, Maire suddenly trembled from head to foot.
And still he kissed her, wildly, possessively, his groan coming to her ears even as she suddenly felt him draw away from her, Duncan lifting his head to stare into her eyes.
“Woman, never think again that you’re not healthy and whole … ah, God.”
His voice hoarse, he was shaking, she could feel it, and almost with determination he held her away from him, the back of her legs bumping against the bed. It made her start, and she saw him glance from the mattress and then to her face, his low curse shattering the charged silence. She had no more than blinked when she was swept from her feet and laid on the bed, Duncan’s voice as raw as he covered her with the counterpane to her chin.
“My decision is made, Rose. We will wed. By the blood of God, whether your clan wishes it or not.”
He said no more, leaving Maire to stare after him, her heart thundering as he strode from the room.
Wishes it? If Duncan only knew. Tears biting her eyes again, she forced them back, not allowing herself to cry further. It would do no good.
Just as she knew it was no use any longer to fight what burned so deeply inside her; she had already lost. From the moment Duncan’s lips had touched hers …
“Begorra, Maire
O’Byrne, you’re a fool. Saints help you, you’re a fool!”
Curling into a ball, she hugged her sodden pillow and stared blindly at the dying fire.
Chapter 18
“Perhaps, Lord FitzWilliam, all she needs is to know you a little better to ease her fears. What has it been—five days? You’re really no more than strangers to each other, and that must change.”
Lady Enid’s fresh advice ringing in his mind, Duncan strode toward the bedchamber he couldn’t have left faster last night … or he wouldn’t have left at all.
It still astounded him that John de Gray had suggested he go to Rose’s room when Lady Enid had returned to the banquet hall saying she’d heard Rose begin to weep as soon as she’d shut the door. Or perhaps it had been the pointed look Lady Enid had thrown her husband when he’d at first only advised Duncan to have another goblet of wine. God’s teeth, women did have a meaningful way with their eyes. In the next instant, John de Gray had groused that Duncan might want to check on her, and he hadn’t hesitated.
He had already been on his way there this morning when Lady Enid had waved him down and informed him that she’d just been to see Rose herself, and that she seemed in lighter spirits. It had been all Duncan could do not to make some ill-advised comment when Lady Enid had suggested he continue whatever he’d done to cheer Rose, along with a gentle plea for him to heed her well-intentioned advice. He fully intended to—at least the latter, while the other …
Duncan swore under his breath, the undeniable tightening in his lower body only a hint of what he’d suffered last night. His first mistake had been in kissing Rose, the softness of her lips, the sweet taste of her, enough alone to haunt him deep into the morning. But when he’d dragged her sleeping gown above her hips and—
“Enough, man, you’ll have a babe made before she’s a bride,” he said gruffly to himself, not surprised that the idea didn’t displease him. His impatience only growing that the entire matter of the marriage be done and settled, it only tore at him further that it might be days yet before he could claim Rose as his own—if and when her clan came forward. That they hadn’t made him wonder if plans for battle were already being drawn.
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