Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Until Aidan’s father had found them together. Enraged, he had demanded that Aidan give the “bastard Gilpatrick” a beating he’d never forget. When Aidan had refused, his father had pulled out his pistol and put the barrel to Aidan’s pony’s silky head. Aidan could still remember standing there, his gut churning, his eyes burning with tears, unable to throw the first punch. Gilpatrick had done it for him.

  Aidan forced the thoughts from his mind ruthlessly. Whatever those two naive boys had shared had been wiped away long ago. Gilpatrick was rebel scum, with enough blood on his hands to justify a hanging. If it hadn’t been for the bravery of Calvy Sipes, Cassandra’s blood might have been shed as well. If not by Gilpatrick himself, then these rebels he led, their faces lost in masks.

  It didn’t matter whether or not Gilpatrick had been directly involved. If a man had a savage dog he’d trained to attack, and that dog tried to tear out an innocent’s throat, the master would still be responsible.

  Just the same way Aidan had been responsible for the scar that writhed its ugly path down Gilpatrick’s face.

  Aidan met the Irishman’s glare. “I’ll fight you any way you name.”

  The rebel’s lip curled in a snarl, his dirt-encrusted fingers beckoning to a brace of his men. “We’ll use a crofter’s weapon then, Kane. Instead of one of those elegant weapons you arrogant curs have been usin’ to slit our throats for so long.”

  Gilpatrick’s compatriots returned to the torchlit circle, and Aidan’s gaze snagged on the wicked hook of a scythe. The silver metal glowed.

  Gilpatrick’s hands closed on the thick wooden staff the blade was mounted on. The bastard smiled.

  “What say you, thief of Rathcannon? Have you the courage to best me without a troop of murderin’ Sassenach soldiers at your back?”

  The cluster of rebels roared with laughter, and the man holding the other scythe flung it at Aidan with a calculated savagery. Aidan saw it hurtling toward him and leapt out of the way, attempting to catch the handle in fingers still half deadened from the bindings that had held them.

  The wooden staff collided with his hands, and spikes of pain drove through his wrists. The scythe clattered to the turf at his booted feet.

  “Our fine knight can’t even hold a weapon wi’ out sixteen servants to polish it up an’ stick it in his hands,” a scraggle-haired man of about fifty jeered, skittering with a spry gait to retrieve the scythe. “Here, Sir Aidan.” He sketched a bow with mocking solemnity, dusting off the wood with a soiled kerchief. “Take this real careful like. We’d not be wantin’ ye to rub any blisters on yer palms.”

  Aidan snatched the scythe from the rebel’s hands, forcing his own burning fingers to close on the smooth wood. Heavy, cumbersome, hopelessly awkward, the scythe undermined his shaken equilibrium further, exacerbating the dizziness that still lingered from his cracked ribs.

  He planted his feet apart, attempting to brace himself, his jaw clenched, as he looked from the wicked blade to Gilpatrick’s scarred face. There could be no doubt of the Irishman’s intentions. No man would select such a hideous, brutal weapon unless he intended to carve away his pound of flesh.

  Aidan’s jaw clenched. This was a game in which Gilpatrick would hold all the advantages. Aidan was crippled, not only by the ache in his hands and the unfamiliarity of the weapon he wielded, but also by the knowledge that he didn’t dare to unleash all his fury and his power against Gilpatrick. A dead rebel could answer no questions.

  As if Gilpatrick had read his mind, the rebel’s lips curled into a sneer, the Irishman flicking the blade of the scythe in a hellish rhythm, until the torchlight painted it, seeming to tip it with blood.

  “Come ahead, Kane,” Gilpatrick goaded. “If you dare.”

  Aidan gritted his teeth, resolving to use the thick handle against his foe instead of the blade. He swept the wooden length hard toward Gilpatrick, but the Irishman leapt out of its path, laughing.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, boy-o.”

  The jeer made Aidan strike out again, harder, faster, but Gilpatrick deflected the blow with his own weapon, while Aidan’s bruised wrists threatened to shatter at the impact. He barely had time to register that pain when the butt of Gilpatrick’s scythe drove into the pit of Aidan’s stomach, driving the breath from his body, draining the strength from his knees. Aidan stumbled, crashing to the turf, battling not to lose the contents of his stomach, as the thick length of oak cracked down on the back of his head.

  Waves of dizziness threatened to drag him into unconsciousness, but he struggled to get up, to escape the slashing bite of the blade he anticipated with every ragged breath he sucked into burning lungs.

  It never came. Aidan jammed the butt of his own scythe into the turf. Using it to lever himself upright, Aidan staggered to his feet. He raised his head to see Gilpatrick standing a dozen steps away, leaning with infuriating nonchalance upon his weapon.

  “Seems I won’t be answerin’ any questions, Kane,” the rebel taunted. “That is, unless you beg me real pretty like.”

  Aidan’s muscles coiled, and he lashed out with his own weapon, the thick length of wood slashing toward Gilpatrick’s middle. It caught the rebel in mid-laugh, hammering a grunted oath from the man’s throat and driving the lazy insolence from his features.

  Aidan swung his weapon at Gilpatrick’s ribs in a savage, crippling arc, but the Irishman deflected it with a brutal thrust of his scythe. The ugly blade slashed Aidan’s shoulder with delicate precision.

  It should have left a gaping wound in its wake, severed muscles and tendons, rendering Aidan’s arm useless. But the blade bit just deep enough to trail agony through his flesh. Aidan was stunned, confused by the knowledge that one flick of the rebel lord’s wrist could have defeated him, maimed him forever.

  Why would Donal Gilpatrick not press his advantage? It was as if the man didn’t want to kill him.

  How could that be possible?

  It wasn’t. The bastard was just toying with him before he closed in for the kill.

  Aidan gripped the handle of the scythe tighter, circling Gilpatrick, fighting for balance as the rebel stalked him with eyes as unfathomable as the secrets locked in the Druid ring.

  “Donal, ye goat-kissin’ fool!” a man in a filthy jerkin brayed. “Ye could’a cleaved him from gizzard t’ man stones a dozen times by now! Ye’ve got ’is traitorous Kane neck on our own choppin’ block after so long! Finish it!”

  “Kill ’im!” a bloodthirsty lad of about thirteen warbled. “See if the bastard bleeds red like the rest o’ us.”

  Aidan heard the hiss of metal blades, knives being drawn, pistols being cocked. If the lord of the Gilpatricks was reluctant to stain his hands with Kane blood, his underlings obviously were not. Even if by some miracle Aidan was able to defeat Gilpatrick, it was obvious the rabble led by the brigand would not honor the bargain struck between the hated enemy and their leader.

  In that frozen instant, Aidan knew there was only one chance to ride away from the circle of stones alive. The only chance was to get the blade of his scythe pressed against the neck of Donal Gilpatrick, have the dread rebel at his mercy. A hostage—the key to escape, the key to the answers he sought.

  “Keep your filthy hands off him, all of you.” Donal’s command cleaved the night, a chorus of gruff protests rising in its wake. Gilpatrick wheeled on his men, exposing the back of his head, leaving himself vulnerable.

  Aidan poised to strike, to lunge at Gilpatrick, certain in a heartbeat he could have the rebel lord in his power. God knew it wouldn’t be the first time he’d pressed his advantage, traded honor for victory.

  But invisible chains held him motionless—chains forged of dark, love-swept eyes and sparkling blue ones that had spun out a hero where there was only a flawed, jaded rogue.

  That moment’s hesitation was enough to rob him of his chance. Gilpatrick swung around, his twisted face seething with some emotion Aidan didn’t understand. Then the wiry Irish rebel hefted the scyth
e again.

  Aidan ground his teeth, certain no altruistic motives had been behind Gilpatrick’s orders to his rabble. The bastard merely wanted to toy with his prey longer. Enjoy the moment of a Kane’s ultimate defeat, so that years later Gilpatrick could savor the tale as he spun it out in the glow of a peat fire.

  Fury surged through Aidan, that he’d been fool enough to surrender his chance to have Gilpatrick at his mercy.

  With a roar, Aidan flew at his adversary, fighting with every fiber of strength he possessed.

  He heard Gilpatrick’s guttural oaths as the oaken staff caught him twice, three times, saw the man’s face whiten with concentration and a kind of grudging respect. A blur of silver blade and dark brown wood danced before Aidan, the rebel leader handling the scythe with the same dangerous grace as a master swordsman would his most cherished rapier.

  In a heartbeat it was over. Aidan lay sprawled on his back against a cushion of turf, his unfocused eyes on the standing stones that seemed to be writhing like Druid dancers about a pulsing pearl of moon. The faces of the rebels were sickening blurs, distorted, inhuman.

  The point of the blade indented the fragile skin of Aidan’s throat. Images flashed before his eyes: Cassandra chasing rainbows across a dew-kissed meadow, Norah, vulnerable in moonlight, loving him with her hands, her mouth… her heart. Grief cut him more deeply than any blade could have. Grief for years they would never share.

  Aidan faced his enemy with fierce determination.

  “Kill me,” Aidan rasped out, his eyes clinging to Gilpatrick’s hooded ones. “You’ve… earned the… right. Just swear you’ll… leave my daughter and my wife alone. Swear… it, on the… Stone of… Truth that killed my ancestor, and I’ll go to hell gladly.”

  Silence spun out into eternity as he waited for Gilpatrick’s blade to cut his flesh. And in that instant, Aidan knew that Norah’s face would be in his heart, his mind, even when his life blood spilled free to stain the ancient holy soil.

  Chapter Twenty

  The night was alive, scratching its claws against the tower window. Norah paced before Cassandra’s exquisite bed, while the girl lay oblivious in sleep.

  It was what Aidan would want her to do, Norah knew. The reason he’d wed her—to guard his child, to comfort her should any ill befall him. And yet how could she offer comfort when she was half wild with fear that Aidan might never return?

  How could she calm Cassandra when each tick of the whimsical clock on the mantel raked her nerves? The only thing that offered her anchor in this uncertainty was the crumpled linen she pressed to her face, drinking in the scent of bay rum from Aidan’s jaw, the fragrance of heather blossoms crushed beneath passion-hungry skin.

  Aidan’s cravat.

  She had found it on the spiral stairs leading to Cassandra’s room. She remembered her fingers tearing the knot of the garment free, remembered it tangling with Aidan’s shirt as he stripped it away, eager to feel her nakedness with his own.

  They had both forgotten the neckcloth in the alarming ride from Caislean Alainn to Rathcannon, yet it had clung to the collar of Aidan’s shirt until he’d bolted up these stairs to make certain his daughter was safe.

  Now Norah clung to that piece of linen as if it were a talisman, knowing that it might be the only thing she could keep from a night that had promised heaven, then snatched it away.

  All her life, Norah had prided herself on being strong, practical, controlled. She had faced adversity stoically—not out of any strength of character, but rather because she knew it was futile to rail against the inevitable. Displaying her pain would change nothing. It would only expose her vulnerabilities to those who would use them against her.

  And yet, this was pain impossible to deny, impossible to bury, no matter how much she might struggle to do so. Impossible because of the emotions she had seen in Aidan’s face when he had laid her down in the castle ruins. He had stripped away, not only the clothing that had shielded her body, but also his own closely guarded defenses, exposing emotions Aidan could not yet confess. After tonight, Norah thought, he might never have the chance.

  Norah buried her face against the folds of Aidan’s cravat.

  No. He was alive. She had to believe that.

  She would know if he fell beneath a rebel pistol or sword. If a giant hand reached out to snatch the heart from her breast, she would feel it tearing free. Wouldn’t she?

  “Blast you, Aidan, don’t die!” She breathed her plea into the night, but only the call of nightbirds answered, their mournful strains hanging in the air like the final harp notes from a dying bard’s hands.

  “N—Norah?” Cassandra’s voice was sleep-blurred and uncertain.

  With her back toward the bed, Norah hastily scrubbed the hot tears from her face with Aidan’s cravat. Fighting to hide her heartsick fear from the girl, Norah turned to where Cassandra was struggling to sit up among the tousled coverlets.

  The sight of Aidan’s daughter was enough to undo her. She felt overwhelmed by the all too real possibility that the girl might never hear her father’s loving laughter again, that Aidan might never know the bittersweet joy of leading his daughter into a ballroom and watching her change, before his eyes, into a woman.

  Yet most heartbreaking of all was Norah’s knowledge that she might never know the wonder of carrying Aidan’s child in her own womb, of laying a babe they had created together into his arms.

  “So you’re awake at last, sweeting,” Norah said aloud, her voice raw with all the things she couldn’t say. “Cook has been working so hard to stir up your favorite dishes. Shall I ring for her?”

  “No. I don’t want anything except Papa.” The girl’s soft plea made Norah’s heart ache. “Can you fetch him for me?”

  “Your papa… isn’t here. While you were sleeping he…” Norah sat down on the bed, catching one of the girl’s hands, wondering how many times Aidan had done so, banishing his child’s fears, while he was beset by the relentless darkness of his own. “He’ll be back soon. I… I’m certain of it.”

  Cassandra’s face blurred through the tears that filmed Norah’s eyes. Clutching Aidan’s neckcloth so tightly her hands trembled, she started to rise from the bed, intending to go to the shadowy section of the room, to hide herself from Cassandra’s too-wise eyes.

  “Norah, what is it? What’s wrong?” Cassandra demanded, scrambling from beneath her coverlets.

  Norah braced herself for pain and uncertainty her next words would unleash in the girl.

  “Your papa discovered something that might lead to whoever was responsible for what happened in the garden, sweeting. He’s gone to stop them from hurting you again.”

  No storm of tears filled the chamber. Instead, Cassandra gave a sigh of pure relief. “Is that all? For a moment you had me quite frightened.”

  Norah wheeled to face the girl, stunned. Absolute trust and blind faith shone in Cassandra’s face.

  “Papa is the smartest, bravest man in the world. He’ll make those villains sorry they were ever born!”

  “But he—he went alone. There is no telling how many men he has to face, how desperate they might be.” Norah hated herself for allowing the words to tumble from her mouth, aware at once that they could only unnerve the girl who was being so brave.

  “Papa fought off a score of men at Badajoz, and a dozen other battles too. He was knighted for bravery.”

  Norah turned away, wanting to shake the girl for her naiveté, wishing she could steal some of that blessed ignorance for herself.

  She chewed at her lip, struggling to keep from screaming. She pressed Aidan’s cravat to her face, trying to drink strength from its folds.

  Suddenly she was aware of a light touch on her shoulder, and she raised her face from the cloth to see Cassandra regarding her with solemn, knowing eyes. The girl touched the white ripple of cloth draped over Norah’s fingers.

  “Papa’s,” Cassandra said, with an understanding far beyond her fifteen years.

  Norah bit he
r lip so hard it bled. Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes spilling free.

  “Oh, Norah,” Cassandra said. “You… you do love him.”

  She couldn’t speak, could only nod in abject misery.

  “You’re afraid Papa won’t come back, aren’t you?” Cassandra asked. “You think he might…”

  “Don’t say it,” Norah pleaded. “I can’t—can’t bear—”

  “Papa isn’t going to die,” Cassandra said with utter conviction. “You have to believe in him.”

  “But how can I believe when he… he’s out there alone somewhere. When anything could happen—” Norah’s voice broke.

  Cassandra’s arms encircled her, comforting Norah with a gentle faith that drifted over Norah’s heart.

  “I want to believe. But it is so—so hard.”

  Cassandra smiled. “When I was a little girl, I almost stopped believing. I wanted to believe in magic, but the other children, they teased me, because I still chased fairies and looked for unicorns and elves. Papa found me crying, and I told him I was giving them up forever. That fairies were stupid and only babies believed.”

  Cassandra led her to the window, and Norah sank down onto a bench, listening, aching.

  “Late that night, Papa got me out of bed to go on an adventure. He took me to Caislean Alainn, in the fairy ring, and said that we were going to find out if there were fairies once and for all.”

  Norah’s throat closed, aching at the vision her imagination conjured of Aidan guarding his little girl’s sense of wonder as vigilantly as he was now guarding her safety. “What happened?” she managed to squeeze from her throat.

  “He was up on a ledge, climbing, when suddenly he let out this—this whoop. I ran over, and his hands were cupped together so careful. He told me to hold out my hands and slipped something into them. I could feel wings beating against my palms, fluttering and magical. I knew they were fairies. Papa told me so.”

  Norah’s heart was breaking. So much love inside Aidan, so little he dared believe in. Yet he showered magic on his little girl.

  “How?” Norah asked. “How did he make the magic?”