Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight

by Anna Markland

  Her eyes widened. “You speak English!”

  He cursed his carelessness. An uneducated Irish farmer would speak only the Gaeilge. Ronan’s father had insisted he be educated by monks. His tonsured teachers were delighted to discover he had an ear for languages. As a boy he had resented the hours spent in the schoolroom. Now his ability to speak other languages might prove useful.

  He and the Countess faced each other in silence for long minutes. He got the feeling she was taking his measure, assessing him, trying to come to some determination.

  “A few words,” he lied.

  Again she stared at him, turning her head this way and that. “I am wondering what my husband will think of you,” she said.

  She turned abruptly and left him standing perplexed. What did she mean will think of you? He had no intention of ever meeting the Earl of Ellesmere.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sweat trickled down Ronan’s spine despite the chill in the air. Getting on to the mountain pony, even with Conall’s help, had been a trial. He was as weak as a baby.

  Prince Rhodri’s family had mounted, ready for departure. Conall rode behind Rhydderch. Ronan had wanted to share his horse with the lad, but his back was not sufficiently healed. Normally an expert rider, he would have enough trouble controlling the animal without a pillion rider.

  Myfanwy had bid her family a tearful farewell. They waited now for Rhodri. But two saddled horses stood ready, one of Rhodri’s bowmen holding the reins. The stallion was Rhodri’s. Ronan knew horseflesh and wondered who rode the magnificent mare. He had understood the Normans had left with their escort the previous day.

  Who had Rhodri gone to fetch from within the convent?

  Ronan curled his fingers into his pony’s mane when Rhoni de Montbryce strode out on Rhodri’s arm, dressed in a tunic and trouzes tucked into leather riding boots. The outrageous masculine costume only emphasized her feminine beauty.

  She ignored Ronan.

  Rhodri stooped to clasp his hands under her booted foot. She reached for the pommel as he lifted her, and straddled the mare. Her long legs pressed against the animal’s sides as she accepted the reins from the bowman, leaning to whisper in the horse’s ear.

  A feverish shiver tore through Ronan’s body, heating his blood from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, settling in his loins. His throat went dry. He had dreamed of her legs wrapped around his waist as he thrust into her wet heat. Now a different vision played behind his eyes. He lay beneath her as she rode him, his fingers kneading her magnificent thighs as she whispered passionate endearments in his ear.

  Rhun, Rhydderch and Conall stared.

  It was evident Rhoni was a capable horsewoman as she turned her mare to face them. “What are you gaping at? I’ve ridden astride since I was a child. My parents have encouraged it. Do you expect me to straddle a horse in a gown?”

  She rode off, following the lead of a chuckling Rhodri. Ronan set his mount in motion, his attention fixed on Rhoni’s bouncing derrière. He groaned inwardly, shifting his weight to ease the insistent ache at his groin. This would be a long ride.

  It had taken every bit of determination Rhoni possessed to avert her eyes from Ronan when Rhodri escorted her from the convent. She had worn the unorthodox outfit for several years when travelling distances on horseback, but it had suddenly felt too provocative. It was true her father was not totally in favour of it, but she sensed there was something in her parents’ past that precluded his objecting.

  She had considered a side saddle, but rejected it. Why endure hours of painful discomfort? And if boys who had not yet reached manhood wanted to gape, well, what did they know about women?

  Despite her determination not to look at Ronan, she had caught a glimpse of his reaction. His eye had narrowed. The frown on his reddened brow suggested censure.

  Tant pis!

  What did she care if an Irish peasant thought her outfit brazen?

  He looked good on a horse, even on a sturdy Welsh mountain pony—as though born to it. How could that be?

  She felt his gaze on her back as she rode with Rhonwen and Carys. She reined Fortissima and dropped back to ride at his side.

  “My lady,” he acknowledged, adjusting his bandage. He did not turn to look at her.

  She glanced at him sharply. “You speak English?”

  He shrugged. “I assumed your mother told you I did.”

  She glared at him. “My mother? What do you know of my mother?”

  Ronan opened his mouth, as if to impart some great insight, but then seemed to think better of it.

  “Well?” she insisted, feeling like an indignant child.

  “You ride well, my lady,” he retorted.

  She bit her lower lip. “And you ride. I understood Irish peasants cannot ride.”

  He put one hand on the pommel. The knuckles of the hand that held the reins whitened. His rigid posture oozed arrogance. “You should not believe everything you hear about Irishmen, my lady.”

  She should have been affronted, but was instead enthralled. His voice had deepened, now that he was not dying of thirst. Its rich tones catapulted desire into her belly, and below. He was toying with her, no doubt assuming she was an empty headed, spoiled noblewoman.

  She fluttered her eyelashes. “I am glad you appear recovered from your ordeal, Ronan. Torture cannot have been a pleasant experience.”

  The moment the thoughtless, petulant words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She wanted to reach out and cradle his scowling face in her hands. “I’m sorry, my lord. I did not mean—”

  He reined his horse, his lips a grim line. “Pray do not address me thus. I am not your lord.”

  He urged his pony forward to ride behind Rhodri.

  Rhoni’s emotions were in knots. She had no idea how to say what was in her heart to this beleaguered man who now rode ahead of her. She was never at a loss for some flippant remark or clever repartee, but was suddenly speechless.

  She studied his back, aware of what lay beneath the tunic. Carys had told her of the horrendous scars. The nuns had done their best to clean his clothing, but the tunic still bore faint traces of his blood. But why had he been whipped? Who was he? She did not believe he was a farmer. Surely a humble peasant would not have aroused such intense feelings? It had seemed natural to address him as a nobleman.

  Rhodri had given him no weapon. Did the Welshman not trust him?

  Driven by a need she did not understand, aware he would likely reject her again, she rode up alongside him, determined to behave like a mature woman.

  Ronan chewed his lower lip. It seemed Rhoni would not leave him be. He did not turn to look at her as she came abreast of him. He felt at a disadvantage having her on his blind side.

  Her perfume intrigued him. He recalled that he had first noticed it at the time of their rescue. What was it? It reminded him of home.

  They exchanged no conversation for many miles, the silence broken only by the slide of leather on leather, the clopping of hooves and occasional voices.

  Her silent presence at his side drove him mad. He had run through a thousand possibilities for the perfume that still eluded him. The increasingly insistent ache at his groin made riding uncomfortable. What in the name of God was it about this woman?

  “You are not a farmer.”

  Unable to see her, he had not been prepared for the warm touch of her hand on his. He withdrew quickly, reaching for the hilt of a sword before he remembered he did not have one. The fine hairs on his nape stood to attention. She had spoken in a low voice, as if sharing an intimacy. He felt like a naughty child caught red-handed.

  He turned fully in the saddle in order to look at her. Pain gnawed at his bound leg. Her reddened face and downcast eyes gave away nothing except her hurt feelings at his abrupt withdrawal. He regretted it. Rhoni was no coy maiden trying to entrap him—he had experienced the attentions of many such women before his marriage—but he had to discourage her. For some reason she seemed as drawn to
him as he was to her.

  “Why do you believe I am not a farmer?”

  She did not look up. “Farmers do not carry swords, nor are they educated, nor do they—”

  He held up a hand and turned away. “You have made your point mademoiselle de Montbryce. I am a poor mummer. I am not a farmer.”

  “And Conall is not your son.”

  How unconvincing had been his charade. If Rhoni had guessed, surely the astute Prince of Powwydd had seen through his guise. He would have to warn Conall they had been found out. “No, Conall saved my life. He is the son of my Steward.”

  She was on his blind side, but he felt her body tense beside him as a gasp escaped her lips.

  “Steward?”

  There was no choice but to tell her. “I am Ronan, Tiarna of Túr MacLachlainn. At least I was Lord of MacLachlainn Tower, until recently.”

  Even he heard the sarcastic humour in his words. It brought a lump to his throat. If he looked at her he might break down and weep like a child. He gritted his teeth. His resolve to keep hold of his emotions flew away like chaff on the wind when he felt the warmth of her hand on his again.

  “That is why you were tortured,” Rhoni murmured. “Someone stole your home, your lands. If Ellesmere were taken from us, I could not bear it.”

  Ronan’s head was pounding, his good eye blurring. Why had he allowed the conversation to follow this path? He did not want to confide in this young woman, at least ten years his junior. His future held no place for a woman.

  He took a deep breath. “Sea! You have the right of it. The bluidy MacFintains and their Norman allies stole my lands, violated and murdered my wife and unborn child, killed my Steward, and would likely have killed me were it not for Conall.”

  Rhoni withdrew her hand. His bolt had hit home. “Norman allies? What do you mean?”

  “’Tis well known the MacFintains have achieved their bloody march through many Irish estates with the aid of Anglo-Norman comrades with whom they have a trading alliance. Normans known to be of the nobility.”

  Rhoni halted her mount. He should keep going. Leave her to stew in what he had told her. He slowed his horse. Críost, what had happened to his resolve?

  With no command coming from its rider, his horse stopped. He turned in the saddle. Rhoni sat, shoulders hunched, head bowed, gripping the pommel. She looked lost. He regretted having hurt her.

  Rhodri had noticed they had halted and was coming towards them. She looked up, her eyes desolate. “I give you my word, Ronan, Tiarna of MacLachlainn Tower, no one from my family is involved in such an enterprise. My father is an honourable and fair man.”

  Ronan spat, then wheeled his horse, saluting to Rhodri as he rode past him. He muttered under his breath. “I don’t know why, but I believe you, mo stór.”

  When had he come to think of her as his darling? He had called Mary his wife, his helpmate, but never his darling. The loss of his eye seemed to have robbed him of his good sense.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  They rode into Powwydd at dusk. Rhodri had told Ronan his home was not a castle. He had called it a llys, and Ronan’s first sight of it reminded him of his home in Ireland. The architecture was different—Powwydd was squatter, nestled into its surroundings rather than towering over them. But it had the same feeling of permanence, of a fine dwelling built generations before.

  Homesickness swept over him as they crossed the causeway that straddled the first moat. It was oval shaped and black as night. A pale crescent moon beginning its ascent into the darkening sky shimmered in its depths.

  Powwydd was a royal court, but was more like a manor than a castle. It was protected by a sturdy wall and two moats, but most of it was not made of stone.

  Many of the other buildings, which Ronan surmised were chambers and storage barns, were made of earth and straw, their roofs thatched.

  Rhodri led his guests into the hall. The neuadd was made of timbers, though the footings were dry stonework.

  Ronan hobbled along on his crutches, aided by Conall. Some sharp-toothed creature gnawed his leg.

  Rhodri opened his arms wide. “Rhoni, my home is not as comfortable as I am sure Ellesmere is, but we are improving things gradually, learning from you Normans, ironically enough. And you can be assured there is always a roaring fire in the hearth to warm your bones! And, we have ty bach.”

  She looked at him curiously. He winked. “I believe you Normans call it the garderobe.”

  Rhoni’s face reddened, but she took the teasing with good humour. Ronan was captivated by her smile. It lit up the darkening Hall.

  Carys and Rhonwen took Rhoni off to her chamber. Only Rhodri, Ronan and Conall remained in the neuadd. Rhodri braced his legs and folded his arms. Ronan could not remain upright on the crutches much longer, but the time had come to reveal the truth. He cleared his throat. “My lord Prince, there is something I must tell you.”

  Conall did not understand English, but it was the only language Ronan and Rhodri had in common. He would have to hope the quick witted lad would get the gist of what he was saying.

  Rhodri remained silent.

  He has already guessed.

  Ronan swayed on the crutches and Conall hastened to his side. He looked into the lad’s eyes, hoping he understood the silent message. “As you have rightly surmised, I am not a farmer. My name is Ronan MacLachlainn. I am the nephew of Muirchertach Ó Briain, King of Munster. My estate in Sord Colmcille was usurped by two brothers by the name of MacFintain.”

  Rhodri’s face showed no expression. “And Conall?”

  Ronan put a hand on Conall’s shoulder. “He is the son of my steward who was murdered by the MacFintains. The boy rescued me from the cells.”

  Conall clenched his jaw.

  Ronan swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “They also murdered my wife and unborn child.”

  Rhodri drove a hand through his thick hair. “I understand more than you know the burning desire for revenge. Even before the Normans came, my family fought to end the oppression of my people by the Saxons. I have spent my life righting wrongs.

  “But do not let vengeance consume you, Lord Ronan. It makes for a lonely life. My darling Rhonwen has brought light to my darkness, and my children, well, you have seen how blessed I am. You cannot let hatred rule your life.”

  Ronan hobbled away from Rhodri. “Perhaps my anger and grief are too new. I cannot let go. I have sworn to help Conall avenge his father, and I will not allow Mary’s murderers to go unpunished.”

  He touched a hand to his bandage and hoped his voice would remain steady. “And I have reasons of my own for wanting them dead.”

  Rhodri unfastened the scabbard of his dagger and laid it on a trestle table. “I understand. Only remember this. I am a sworn enemy of Normans and do everything I can to interfere with them, yet I have the daughter of a Norman Earl as a guest in my home. My eldest daughter is named for her mother. The two of them travelled a goodly distance at significant risk to attend Myfanwy’s ordination.”

  Ronan said nothing, anticipating what Rhodri would say next.

  Rhodri paced, then came to stand directly in front of him. “Rhoni preferred to come here rather than return home with her mother. While I would like to believe she is consumed with a burning desire to see the place of her birth at Cadair Berwyn, I believe there is another reason she chose the dangers of a journey into Wales. She may not understand her actions, but anyone can see you are attracted to each other.”

  Ronan looked quickly at Conall. He had to get the lad out of the Hall before he caught on. “The boy is exhausted. Best I get him to the stables. We can bed down there.”

  Rhodri shook his head. “I’ll not have a fellow nobleman sleeping in my stables, especially one still in need of care from my wife. There’s a chamber for you and the lad can share it if you wish.”

  Ronan bowed. “I thank you.”

  “Before I summon a servant to escort you there, I will say one last thing. Rhoni has taken a big risk coming her
e, and her mother has taken a bigger one in allowing her to.”

  Ronan bristled. “I am not in a mood to be sympathetic to Normans. The MacFintains have held sway only with the help of Norman allies.”

  Rhodri frowned. “Who are these allies?”

  Ronan shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

  Rhodri put a hand on his arm. “I can assure you they are not Rhoni’s family. Ram de Montbryce and I are enemies, but he is an honourable man who has the interests of his people at heart. He is neither a murderer, nor a thief. He would be a good ally. Who better to help you in your quest for vengeance than another Norman?”

  Ronan gritted his teeth. He had to get off his feet. The journey had been long and the going difficult. An insistent trembling shook his limbs. “My lord Prince, I fear I must retire or I am likely to fall over.”

  Rhodri immediately summoned a servant. “I apologise. Sometimes I talk too much. It’s a failing we Welsh have! If there is aught you need you have only to ask Ewan for it. I bid you goodnight.”

  Ronan smiled weakly. “No need for apologies. Irishmen have been known to blather on as well. Goodnight.”

  Rhoni lay in the comfortable bed in the toasty warm chamber behind the kiln oven of the foodhouse. It was Carys’ chamber, but the girl had insisted she would sleep elsewhere.

  The journey had been exhausting, but Rhoni was too upset to sleep. She repeated Ronan’s words over and over in her head.

  Grief for him and what he had suffered welled up in her throat and she sobbed into the fragrant linens.

  His wife had been murdered, along with his unborn child. She tried to conjure a vision of his wife. Had he loved her? Most noblemen did not love their wives, though her own family were exceptions to that rule. Her parents were deeply in love.