Scowling, Duncan forced the grim possibility from his mind, telling himself for the hundredth time that if so, it altered nothing. Not to him.
He had never thought another woman would come close to sharing a place in his heart with Gisele, but now that he had found her, he was not about to let her go—John de Gray and his warning be damned. If need be, he would go to London to the king to ask that such a demand be overruled. If Rose’s clan proved reluctant, he’d already decided as much. There were more ways to preserve peace than to risk losing what he’d thought never to find again. Dammit, that bog had been close enough …
Duncan’s throat growing tight, he was tempted not to knock and instead throw open the door, he wanted so to see her. But startling Rose was not how he wished to begin their day together, and as ever, Clement’s advice, too, to treat her gently, remained forefront in his mind. Yet his kiss last night hadn’t been so gentle
“By the devil, man, knock on the blasted door,” he muttered, feeling more like a callow boy than a man who commanded more knights and men-at-arms than many a baron in Ireland. Wondering what Gerard de Barry would think that he’d finally decided to wed, his friend having long encouraged him to seek a bride to preserve the barony he’d gained, Duncan rapped twice.
“Rose?”
He heard a flurry of sound, then footsteps, disappointment filling him when a servingwoman answered the door, the same one who’d been attending to Rose last night. Smiling cheerily, she brushed past him as if eager to leave them alone, which suited Duncan. His gaze flew to where Rose turned in her chair to look at him, two bright spots of color warming her cheeks.
She didn’t appear unhappy to see him, if but a little nervous, which made Lady Enid’s advice flood back to him. He felt suddenly awkward standing there, halfway in the door, half out; it had been a long time since he’d made any special effort to woo a woman.
“You … you may come in, if you’d like.”
Her voice as sweet and soft as her lips had been last night, it was enough to spur him into motion. Duncan was struck by renewed purpose at her tentative smile. He’d not seen such a thing from her before.
Or to hear her laugh. What a wonder that would be. An intense longing filling him for the day when she would be well enough to reveal more about herself, he knew what was important right now was for her to learn more of him. And she did seem of lighter spirits, just as Lady Enid had said, which only made him further take heart. Perhaps given what he’d said to assure her last night, her fears had already begun to ease.
He sank to his haunches beside her chair, a swift glance taking in the pale pink gown she wore, which so suited her delicate coloring, and he noted as well the square of embroidery in her lap.
“Lady Enid kindly brought me something to do.”
Duncan met her eyes, a softness there that he hadn’t seen before either, though she seemed to grow uncomfortable at his scrutiny and glanced down at her needlework.
He did, too, seeing that the stitches were as finely wrought as those of his mother, and he remembered suddenly how Rose had commented upon the beauty of the screen. He realized she must have a deep fondness for such a womanly skill to wield a needle so well. Duncan felt as if he’d been given a precious gift to have discovered something more about her.
“When we return to Meath, I’ll see that you have all you need to embroider to your heart’s desire. And gowns. As many as you wish, I’ll have made for you. Lady Enid was gracious to give you this one” —he touched her sleeve, grateful when Rose didn’t pull away from him though she had blushed as pink as her gown— “and the one you wore last night, but you must have your own. As my wife, you deserve nothing less. Now come.”
He stood and she looked up at him in confusion, the same slight uncertainty tingeing her gaze, too. It made him all the more determined that by the end of the day, he would not seem such a stranger to her.
“Set aside your needlework, Rose, we’ve something else to do.”
He could barely contain his sudden impatience to be gone from Dublin Castle as she did as she was bidden, then accepted the hand he held out to her. As he drew her up in front of him, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms, too. Then he impulsively decided, why the devil not? He swept her from her feet so suddenly that she gasped, and strode with her to the door.
“I know, woman, you’re not a child to be carried. But it pleases me, and it’s faster, fair enough?”
He was smiling, and if his teasing words alone didn’t sway her, that seemed to. She offered no resistance, staring at him as if in wonder, while Duncan felt his own mood lighter than he could even remember.
***
Maire shifted in the saddle, trying not to think of how much it pleased her to feel Duncan’s arms so tightly around her just as he had said it would please him that they ride together.
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, everything seemed to be pleasing him this morning!
That the spring day was balmy and the sun shone bright as they’d rode from the huge stable, had moved him to smile again and so handsomely that Maire had felt her heart begin once more to thunder. Just seeing him standing at the door to her bedchamber had aroused that overwhelming sensation, and it hadn’t seemed to stop, Maire Made more acutely aware with each passing moment of what she’d resigned herself to last night. She loved the man. God help her, she loved him.
But that would have happened to any daughter of a chieftain loyal to King John, she had told herself over and over as sleep had evaded her long into the night. Just as Lady Enid had said, Duncan FitzWilliam was honorable and good. What such young woman wouldn’t be delighted to become his bride? Her protestations had swayed him not a wee bit last evening, and there were none left to her save the truth. A truth she risked revealing if she didn’t appear to be warming to Duncan’s attentions—saints help her, she had no pretending to do there!
“That’s the place I wanted to show you. Do you see it?”
Maire glanced at his face to find him not smiling now but grown sober as he reined in his dark bay stallion. She followed his gaze to a barren jutting of land lying south of where the River Liffey spilled into the sea.
“We landed our ships there. A quarter of King John’s army while he and the rest marched north from Waterford … nearly two years ago. I would have never known then that Ireland would become my home.”
Duncan’s arms tightening around her, Maire was reminded all too vividly by his words of how Ronan and her clansmen had hoped the Normans would all butcher each other when King John had come to Eire to crush the rebellion among his own vassals. Yet Duncan had survived, and prospered—
“I was a knight then,” he continued close to her ear, his warm breath eliciting shivers inside her. “But I was made a baron for saving the king’s life. A recompense. I came close to dying that day—”
“Dying?” Maire’s outburst ringing around them, she flushed with chagrin as he nodded.
“The king’s army was bound southward for Dublin, the earls Hugh and Walter de Lacy defeated and fled to France. The bastards had wanted to make Ireland their own kingdom—and still some of their men remain who long for nothing more than their return. It was such as those who broke through the king’s guard and attacked, but thankfully there were enough to stop them. I heard later that King John swore if I hadn’t caught a sword blow intended for him, he would have lost his head.”
Maire shuddered, and Duncan must have sensed it for he drew her close.
“I tell you this not to distress you, Rose, but that you might know my mind, my heart. I don’t want to seem a stranger to you, now that we will wed.”
He spoke with such certainty, such finality, but how could he know the impossible barrier that lay between them? As he kicked their mount into a gallop toward a copse of trees, Maire said nothing, the pain she’d felt so terribly last night coming once more to gnaw at her heart.
It was not to be, she repeated unhappily to herself. It was not to be! Nothing would alte
r that, no understanding between them, no fervent wishing, no prayers, no tears. Yet would it be so selfish for her to forget, if only for a little while, that she came from a rebel clan who would sooner see Duncan dead than making his home in Eire?
“Let’s rest here. Does this spot please you?”
She had been so lost in her thoughts, that he’d slowed his horse to a stop before Maire realized they had reached the trees. Somehow she mustered a small smile.
“Aye, it’s fine, truly.”
It was a beautiful place, hauntingly so; as Duncan lifted Maire to the mossy ground she saw that ruins lay scattered under the birch and oak. The remains of an ancient church? She crossed herself as Duncan turned to lift a cloth bag from his saddle, the meal he had purchased for them before they left Dublin’s towering walls, which she could still see in the distance.
The fortified city was as imposing and bustling a place as Triona had described it to be. Maire had been glad to leave behind them the noise and so many Normans everywhere she looked. Duncan had said only that they were going for a ride, and now she wished they were still astride the stallion, who contentedly began to graze upon a tuft of lush grass, instead of stopped at this all too quiet, all too eerily intimate spot that seemed to echo with long-ago truths and secrets. Her mind running away with itself, she started when Duncan took her hand.
“Come.”
His strong fingers laced with hers, she was compelled to move with him, Duncan taking care to lead her around foundation stones that shown ghostly pale and weathered in the dappled shade. Yet she paused, in spite of her unease to be taking their meal in what had once been a sacred place, when she spied wild roses as red as blood trailing up and over a tall cornerstone, the first such roses she’d seen since leaving Glenmalure. Her heart aching, she had never felt so utterly torn as Duncan drew close to her.
“You’re fond of roses?”
“Aye, I’ve always loved—” Catching herself, Maire met his eyes to see they had darkened while her face suddenly felt as if it were afire. She said nothing further, she couldn’t, as he studied her for what seemed an unbearably long moment, then he squeezed her hand, a hint of a smile crossing his handsome face.
“We will sit here, then.”
She could only nod, grateful at how weak her knees had grown to sink onto the cloak he spread out for them in front of the rose-covered cornerstone. But he didn’t join her until he had plucked several blooms, their perfume heady as he held them out to her.
“I’ve seen them as red only on the Hill of Tara, amid the ruins there. When you told me your name, I thought of those roses…”
His gaze falling to her lips, Maire wondered wildly if he meant to kiss her again. She hoped he might after how she’d just forgotten herself—saints help her, anything to distract him! Her fingers trembled as she took the roses, brushing his, and she sucked in her breath when still he stared at her as if trying to fathom her thoughts.
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, might she have given herself away? She had never known relief so intense when he finally turned from her and drew his heavy sword from his belt, then placed it on the ground within arm’s reach at one end of the cloak and sat down beside her.
Gazing at the weapon, Maire was reminded too painfully of the chasm that separated them, years of unbridled hatred and fear and a river of blood as red as the fragrant roses she lowered to her lap. As red as the wine Duncan offered to her after he had laid out the simple meal of bread and ewe’s cheese and a dried berry tart. She took a sip from the leather flask, knowing her hands were still shaking, but there was no help for it.
And she could see he noticed, his fingers once more grazing hers when he took the flask and helped himself to a long draught. Yet his eyes never left her face, and desperately Maire tried to think of some way to shift the focus from her discomfort.
“That wound, Duncan … when you almost died. Is it the scar upon your chest?”
He didn’t readily answer, looking at her even more intently, then he gave half a laugh.
“Forgive me. I was trying to think when you might have seen me unclothed … then I remembered that first night.”
He gave another laugh, his expression almost as chagrined as a boy’s, which touched Maire even as she thought of the other time she’d seen him naked. Lowering her eyes to hide her burning face, she heard him sigh, his voice grown sober.
“Yes, you’ve judged rightly. I lay abed for nearly a month while Gerard managed things for me, no easy task for so large a barony. And it wasn’t made any easier for him when his brother was murdered.”
The sudden harshness of his tone making Maire meet his eyes, she was struck that Duncan’s face had become so hard.
“His brother?”
“Right in front of his eyes. He’d gone to West Meath where he’d left Robert and a dozen knights to guard a castle there—little more than a ruin then, since Walter de Lacy’s men had laid torch to it when they’d fled before King John’s army. Yet it wasn’t so completely damaged that Irish rebels weren’t drawn there as well, the bastards forever looking for plunder. They came upon Gerard and the others so suddenly …”
Duncan fell grimly silent as if the topic were too bitter for him, and Maire didn’t know if he would continue.
“O’Melaghlins?” she asked softly, wondering if that might be why Duncan had chosen to deal with his prisoners so harshly. He shook his head, his eyes grown ice-cold.
“O’Byrnes. Come north from Wicklow.”
Chapter 19
Maire stared at Duncan in disbelief, his voice as fierce as his gaze. “Gerard lives for the day Black O’Byrne crosses his path again—and I’ll join him to watch that murderer hang. Robert no more made a move for his sword and he was struck down, the others made to lie upon the floor while he bled to death before them. It was my Irish tenants who put a name to the rebels, saying the O’Byrnes and their chieftain were feared throughout Leinster. By the blood of God, they’ll know fear if any dares set foot again in Meath.”
Duncan no longer looking at her but off into the distance, Maire sensed as surely as her blood had run cold that he meant every word. She had heard that tone before … from Ronan whenever he spoke of Normans. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, could there be more hatred held by two men? Her situation suddenly grown all the more precarious, she swept hair from her face with trembling fingers as icy.
“God’s teeth, enough talk of rebels.”
Duncan had spoken more to himself than Maire, though his gaze caught and held hers as he continued.
“That’s only one scourge with which a baron must contend. Others face as much on their land, and what’s left of Walter de Lacy’s men bedevil Meath to this day.”
“Were those the ones … ?” She faltered, still stricken about what she’d heard of Ronan. Yet she told herself desperately that she must act as if what Duncan had revealed held no consequence for her—aye, none!—and somehow found her voice. “Clement told me you hanged three men—”
“Rogue Normans. Traitors. It was easily done.”
“But for an Irish girl?”
Duncan didn’t readily answer, staring at her again, his eyes darkening to almost black. Maire shivered, glimpsing pain there too.
“I protect all that is mine—though I came too late to help the girl. Just as I would protect you with my life.”
Maire didn’t doubt he meant it, his voice grown so low and vehement that fresh shivers coursed through her, his gaze as intense. She felt marked, claimed, even as he reached out a hand to draw her toward him.
“No rebel Irish or treasonous Normans will drive me from my land. It is my home—our home, Rose, once you become my bride. Adele and any others who oppose our marriage be damned.”
Duncan so close now that Maire knew he would kiss her, she couldn’t breathe, her heart pounding as much at the fierce determination in his eyes as that she knew even at that moment Ronan was as determined to find her. That these two men might meet and come to blows … saints help h
er, each intent upon killing the other—
“No, please!”
Her hoarse cry echoing in the trees and sending a flock of birds fluttering into the air, Maire twisted away from Duncan and stared blindly at the roses scattered in her lap. She knew she had startled him almost as much as herself, sensing his tension while she’d never felt her face so warm. She didn’t know what to say, yet she had to say something, anything to explain why …
“F-forgive me, Duncan, but it isn’t right, aye, it isn’t right—”
“What isn’t right, woman?”
“That … that we should kiss here—in this place.” Wildly, Maire looked around her. “It was a church once, aye, and look over there!” She pointed, chills striking her indeed, that a cluster of worn gravestones, half-buried by trailing vines and underbrush, could have missed her attention until now. “It isn’t right, truly—”
“It couldn’t be more right.”
He’d taken her arm again, drawing her toward him as Maire met his eyes in astonishment to find him smiling at her—smiling!
“If a church, wouldn’t weddings have taken place at this spot?” came his teasing query while he pulled her closer. “We will soon be husband and wife. What could be more sacred than to honor those who came before us …”
He didn’t finish, his lips covering hers and so gently, Maire felt as if all thought fled even as all sensation centered upon his mouth warm and yet so achingly light against hers. Unconsciously she parted her lips and leaned toward him, a sigh escaping her, a soft plea giving voice to the yearning that suddenly flared inside her as his arms tightened fiercely around her.
For one blinding instant his mouth grew hard, passionate, and she was lost, utterly lost, her fingers clutching at his tunic while his hand found her breast, his thumb circling a taut nipple through the pale silk of her gown. But when she started and moaned, he drew away from her almost abruptly, his breathing ragged, no hint of teasing left in his eyes. Her breath was gone and she waited, her senses reeling, her heart racing, his mouth still so close to hers, so close …
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