Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  His fingers tightened on the reins of his stallion.

  Norah. How had she breached his defenses? She had managed to slip past his guard with the same subtle warmth as a ray of sunlight through a crack in a thick stone wall. She had warmed him in places he didn’t want warmed, had touched him in ways his raw and weary heart had never expected. She had made him hunger for her hands on his body, her mouth under his, so he could catch her breathy whispers, hold onto the words she had spoken time and time again at his command: I love you.

  From the instant the words had first fallen, so shy, so reluctantly from her lips, he’d been starving for the sound of them.

  Even when he had entered Rathcannon’s stable at dusk and found her waiting outside his stallion’s stall, he had wanted to draw her into his arms and kiss her. Promise her that everything would be all right. He had expected anger, pleading, raging.

  But she had merely stood there, in the first light of the lantern suspended from an iron hook in the stable rafter. She had been quiet, so quiet, while Sean O’Day and Gibbon Cadagon had demanded to be allowed to follow their master into this den of rebels. Two guns to watch his back, Cadagon had claimed.

  Two men—good men with families dependent on them—volunteering to take a bullet for Aidan Kane. The notion had unsettled him in ways he couldn’t begin to understand.

  He’d been surly as hell with the two, telling them he’d be in more danger that they’d shoot him by accident than that Gilpatrick’s men would manage to gun him down. But at the hurt in those puckish Irish faces, he had softened, clasping first Cadagon’s hand, then Sean O’Day’s. He had looked into the eyes of these two men he trusted and told them that he needed to know Cassandra was guarded, safe; and with the two of them at Rathcannon, Aidan said he doubted the devil himself could steal Cassandra away.

  At that rough confession, he’d seen the determination melt out of the Irishmen’s eyes and sorrowful acceptance take its place. Cassandra, the treasure that must be guarded, kept safe at all costs. Cassandra, the child that these two loved nearly as much as Aidan himself did.

  But it had been Norah who had shaken his resolve with her huge, fear-filled eyes, far more eloquent in their aching silence than the Irishmen’s pleas. She had crossed to him, laying her fingertips against his lips, soft, so soft. “Revenge can’t hold your daughter while she cries, or rejoice when she laughs. Cassandra needs a father far more than she needs to be avenged.”

  He’d been furious at the sensation that she was able to reach him, cripple him in a way no woman had for eight long years. He had wanted to shake her, to kiss her, to beg her to understand. But he had clenched his jaw and turned away from her. He hadn’t spoken. He couldn’t trust himself to.

  Instead, he had stripped down to shirtsleeves, then swung astride his stallion and rode into the night.

  He’d welcomed the chill night air, biting through the thin fabric, cooling the fires of confusion and rage inside him. And he had hoped that his unorthodox plan would serve as some kind of shield against Gilpatrick’s hatred, and that somewhere, in the rebel’s heart, there remained a scrap of the oak-tough code of honor Aidan had once believed to be unbreakable, the one quality in the one man he had come close to envying.

  The white of Aidan’s shirt would stand out starkly against the backdrop of night, announcing his presence to Gilpatrick’s watch. He wanted the bastards to see him. He wanted them to know he didn’t give a damn if the whole county knew he was coming to confront the bastards who had dared terrorize his daughter.

  If there was anything Gilpatrick could understand, and grudgingly respect, it would be bold-faced courage, a foe who dared face him down, outnumbered a score to one. Besides which, Aidan was certain it was the only way he could get close enough to the rebel to demand the answers he needed.

  The stallion tossed its magnificent head, whickering nervously, and Aidan tightened his knees around the animal as it sidestepped, dancing away from a clump of underbrush. Survival instinct demanded he turn toward the brush, tear back the veil of darkness with his eyes. But he rode on, his features impassive, his mount under iron control.

  His heart thundered, as if realizing that each beat could well be its last.

  In the moonlight, he could see the first glimpse of the Stone of Truth, which legend said had sent Eremon O’Caighan to hell for his crimes against his chieftain’s wife. Orange-gold tongues of flame from a torch or lantern licked hellish reflections onto the towering slab.

  Every muscle in Aidan’s body coiled. Soon. It would happen soon now, whatever greeting Gilpatrick’s men intended to give to him.

  The thought had barely formed in his head when a blur of shadow catapulted down on Aidan from the overhanging branch of a tree, a blood-chilling Gaelic war cry cleaving the silence.

  Something hard slammed into him, driving him from his stallion’s back as the horse reared and plunged in terror.

  Pain radiated through Aidan’s shoulder as he crashed to the turf, his attacker landing atop him. The rebel, his face masked, drove his fist into Aidan’s jaw, snapping his head back until stars exploded before his eyes.

  He shook himself, trying to regain his bearings through the swirling darkness and the sick, dizzy sensation in his head. With an oath he rolled the guard over.

  But before he could land his first punch, another hand grabbed his hair from behind, yanking his head back so hard his neck seemed likely to snap, and the blade of a knife snaked around until it pressed against his throat.

  “I wouldn’t be rearrangin’ anybody’s face, lest you want us to carve up yours, ye Kane bastard,” a muffled voice warned from behind a crude mask of sacking. “Though nothin’ would give me greater pleasure, I vow.”

  “I have no quarrel with you. My business is with Gilpatrick.”

  The brigand chuckled. “The master is real particular about who he conducts business with. And from past experience, I doubt he’d be fool enough to do so with a thievin’ traitor who bears the name Kane. Last time a Kane entertained a Gilpatrick, Rathcannon fell into your bastard hands, and Donal’s great-grandda and uncles decorated an English gallows.”

  Aidan’s jaw knotted as the knife bit deeper. “Can’t you recall the rest of the tale? His brothers, his father—their fates?” Despite his peril, Aidan’s stomach turned at the memory of his own father regaling him with pride about his grandsire’s quest to complete the destruction of the once-noble Catholic lords. How Crevan Kane had made it his personal quest to obliterate the family that had held prior claim to Rathcannon, sparing no one—even cutting the tiniest Gilpatrick heir from his mother’s womb.

  Aidan gritted his teeth, wondering if he was baiting this rebel into slitting his throat, daring him to.

  “You bastard.” The man’s voice was silky with hate. The other rogue climbed to his feet, while Aidan was still on his knees, helpless. The Irishman kicked him full in the ribs.

  His chest seemed to cave in, his lungs screaming for air. But it was a miracle the other assailant had kept the knife from gouging deep. Aidan fought to stay conscious, to squeeze the words from his strangled throat.

  “You want me dead—all of you. I full intend to give your leader a chance to show how courageous he is when pitted against a Kane.”

  “What the devil?”

  “I come to issue a challenge to Donal Gilpatrick.”

  “He’s run mad,” the other man said. “We should just kill him and serve him up before Donal like a slaughtered sheep.”

  “What?” Aidan jeered in a desperate gambit for his life. “You fear your leader hasn’t the mettle to meet me man to man? It’s no wonder. The world over knows that any man with a drop of English blood in his veins can crush a lowly Irishman. I suppose your fear is understandable.”

  “Lord Donal could carve the meat from your bones an inch at a time, if he’d a mind to,” the man weilding the knife declared.

  “I dare him to try. No, I’ll do better than that. I’ll wager him a thousand pounds I ca
n best him. Of course, if Gilpatrick is a coward…” He let the word hang between them, knowing his survival dangled in the balance. An eternity seemed to pass in the seconds before the man who held the knife cursed.

  “We’ll take ye up to Gilpatrick, Kane, and cheer when he spills your life blood into the dirt. Tully, bind the bastard’s hands.”

  The man who had kicked him in the gut jerked Aidan’s arms behind his back, nearly wrenching them from the sockets as he tied them with a strip of leather. Aidan bit back a groan at the pressure against his throbbing shoulder as the two men half dragged, half shoved him the rest of the way up the hill.

  He heard the rise and fall of voices, then silence as his two captors shoved him from the shadows into the ring of torchlight. Aidan stumbled, going down on one knee. He gritted his teeth against the pain and levered himself upright. Steel poured into his spine as his gaze searched the circle of faces until he found that of his enemy. Gilpatrick’s scar gleamed in a twisted rope down the side of his face, his eyelid pulled down at a gruesome angle beneath the clear blue of his left eye.

  Aidan remembered how smooth that same face had been the first time he’d seen it: grinning at him in pure devilment as he stole an apple from Squire Donbea’s orchard, despite the fact that the squire kept a fractious bull fenced therein. Aidan remembered the boy running, barely reaching the fence. He was certain Gilpatrick would have been skewered by one of the bull’s horns if Aidan hadn’t reached over the fence and yanked the Irish lad out of the enclosure in time.

  A dozen wild adventures had followed, the two boys never knowing each other by any name other than Donal and Aidan, never knowing they were sworn enemies, until the day Aidan’s father had discovered them together.

  “What the hell?” Gilpatrick demanded, his overly thin body fairly radiating fury and surprise.

  “He was ridin’ up, bold as ye please,” the knife wielder said. “Said he’d come searchin’ to offer you a challenge.”

  Gilpatrick’s eyes shimmered in the torchlight. “A challenge, Kane?”

  “Man to man, Gilpatrick. You and me. With your guard dogs here under orders not to interfere.”

  The Irishman stared at him with the air of a king. “To what would I owe this unexpected pleasure? There must be a reason you’ve decided to confront me after all this time.”

  “You must have wanted to repay me for that little decoration carved on your cheek. I come to grant you your heart’s desire. To strike a wager with you.”

  “You think I would make a wager with a cur like you? To do that, I’d have to trust a Kane to keep his word. We Gilpatricks have far too long a memory to make such a mistake again. The last time we believed in what your kinsmen told us, they barred nearly our whole family within a castle hall and slaughtered them down to the last babe.”

  Aidan’s mouth tightened. “My ancestors were hell-spawned bastards, is that it? Making war on women and children? But what of you, Gilpatrick? That false honor you wear like a mantle over your rags?”

  “What the divil are you implying, Kane?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m accusing you, straight out, of being a coward. And when we duel, if I get my blade against your throat, your forfeit will be to answer whatever questions I choose to put to you.”

  “Questions about what?”

  “About the happenings at Rathcannon last night. About animals who put pistols into the faces of innocent girls. But then, you know all about that, Gilpatrick, don’t you?”

  Gilpatrick paled, a flicker of emotion tightening his mouth. “About terrorized children? Murderers with pistols stalking the innocent? I’m acquainted well enough with those.” Gilpatrick’s fist knotted. “Am I to assume that whoever put the pistol into your daughter’s face did not pull the trigger?” The words were so cool Aidan might have been deceived, had it not been for the flame eating inside his adversary’s eyes.

  “Cassandra is safe. But the mystery of her attackers has yet to be solved. They left no trace except a pistol ball in one of my footmen’s legs. That, and two letters, secretly tucked in my wife’s bedchamber.”

  Gilpatrick regarded him with cold eyes. “Are you quite certain they were not from the previous Lady Kane’s former lovers? I would imagine she had to keep up the divil of a lot of correspondence.”

  Aidan jerked against his captors’ arms. “You know damn well they were sent to Norah. You had them smuggled in to terrify her.”

  “That was never my intent. I merely wanted to warn the lady that she was straying into the dragon’s den.”

  “Then you admit that you’re responsible?”

  “For the notes? I admit that most readily, though how you discovered it was me is most puzzling.”

  “It doesn’t matter how I discovered it. Let’s just say that when my daughter is threatened, I can be as ruthless as any Kane. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you were involved in the plot to kidnap my daughter.”

  “And that is what your… informant told you? That I had plotted this kidnapping?”

  “Who else could it be? The hatred between our families is as old as these stones. The note that said Cassandra was in danger was penned in your hand. You knew the attack was going to happen before the men fell upon Cassandra. How could you be privy to such an attack if you weren’t neck deep in it?”

  “How, indeed? Surely, I couldn’t be giving you a warning to keep your daughter safe. Only the worst kind of fool would do that for his enemy.”

  “Don’t bait me, Gilpatrick. You knew about the attack. You knew about the fact that a bride was coming to Rathcannon. You knew even before I did.”

  “Perhaps I have the second sight. Perhaps I can predict your future, Kane, since because of you and your accursed family I have no future.”

  “What the hell is your game, Gilpatrick?” Aidan raged.

  “To see Ireland free.” Simple words, quiet ones, but his face was filled with a passion Aidan hadn’t felt for anyone, anything, save his daughter, and now a dark-eyed Englishwoman who loved him.

  Gilpatrick’s mouth curved into a smile. “What is wrong, Kane? Feeling helpless? The sensation chafes at a man, doesn’t it? In time, it eats away at him until he’s half mad.”

  “Is that what this is about, then? Driving me to madness? I offer you a quicker, sweeter victory. Match swords, Gilpatrick, or pistols, unless you are a coward.”

  Gilpatrick laughed. “You think that you can bait me into fighting you by casting slurs upon my honor? I don’t give a damn about your opinion of me, Kane. I know what I am. A patriot. An Irishman, down to my last drop of blood. Lord of these lands in a way that you can never be. By right, Kane. By right. I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

  Aidan knew this ragged outlaw spoke the truth. Gilpatrick would be able to look his child square in the eyes. He would never have to fear the look of horror and revulsion Aidan was certain would fill Cassandra’s eyes when she discovered the truth about her father.

  “Fight me, Gilpatrick,” Aidan challenged, wishing he could grapple with more insubstantial enemies as well. “Fight me, damn you.”

  “Teach the Kane scum a lesson, me lor’,” one of the masked rebels begged Gilpatrick.

  “Aye, Donal! Show him what mettle true-born Irishmen are made of.”

  “Made of?” Aidan spat the words. “You’re made of madmen’s dreams and wild impossibilities, clinging to glory centuries old so fiercely you don’t even realize you’ve been crushed. You’re bound like slaves in your own land.” He sneered, trying to latch onto something, anything, that might goad the implacable Gilpatrick to fight him. “No, you’re all descended from kings and heroes, aren’t you? Down to the lowest rag-picker amongst you. In fact, I’d wager that fool boy I saw you with that night a week past was a prince, Gilpatrick. Spilling more royal Irish blood upon the soil when he fell beneath superior English firepower.”

  As Aidan’s verbal thrust rammed home, he felt the same sickening reverberations he’d experienced when, in th
e midst of a battle, his sword pierced flesh.

  In the torchlight, Gilpatrick’s features turned white, the men encircling him snarling in horror and outrage.

  “Cut Kane free.” The rebel leader’s voice was cold and deadly.

  One of Aidan’s captors slid the knife blade between his hands, slicing the thong none too gently. Aidan winced at the burning cut it left in his skin, but then he felt nothing but the surge of blood back into his numb fingers, the searing path of pain that set his hands afire.

  He curled his fingers into fists, flexing and releasing them in an effort to work some suppleness back into them, but they were awkward and clumsy feeling, as if they weren’t firmly knitted to his wrists.

  Considering how he’d baited Gilpatrick, Aidan had no delusions that the rebel would give him the concession of waiting until Aidan could work the feeling back into his fingertips. Even still, Aidan welcomed the chance to release his frustrations by battling his age-old enemy.

  “What’s it to be, Gilpatrick? Swords? Pistols?” Aidan asked, rubbing his wrist with the fingers of his other hand.

  “We could recapture the pleasure of our first battle, Kane. No blades, no pistols, just hand to hand, me against you. Of course, you might be reluctant. Especially since your da isn’t here to interfere with the outcome.”

  Aidan could see that fight as clear as if it had happened yesterday. And as he stared into the ruined face of the Irishman, he felt a wrenching in his gut—not at the memory of two boys rolling on the turf in murderous fury, but rather playing Robin Hood upon Aidan’s beloved pony, kicking up mischief in the squire’s dovecote, splashing naked, like the little savages they were, in a burbling stream. Naked not only of their clothes but also of anger, of prejudice, of all the ugliness that surrounded this most enchanted, most tragic of isles.

  They had understood each other in the most elemental way possible. They were kindred spirits, wild with the need to fling themselves into life’s adventures.