He had never felt so frustrated, so helpless. “You must.”
Her head moved to one side and then the other. “No.”
Donal’s forehead puckered. “Nell,” he said anxiously, “you have no choice. The babe will be born. Unless you help, it will take longer.”
She formed the words through cracked lips. “I have no strength left.”
He leaned forward. “I think—” Then he felt it, the violent spasm that lifted her body from the bed and shaped it into a clumsy arc.
Panting heavily, with renewed strength, she sat up, gripped the headboard behind her, and bore down, every muscle heaving with her effort. Donal watched first in horror, then in awe, as the entirety of a tiny head was expelled into his hands, then the shoulders, and finally the legs. “’Tis a girl,” he whispered hoarsely. “A girl no bigger than a minute.”
Nell laughed raggedly and fell back on the pillows, her breathing slowed. The baby gasped, choked, sucked in her first breath of air, and wailed. “Give her to me,” she said. “I would see my daughter.”
Gently, Donal placed the babe, all redness and wrinkles and softness, on her chest. Nell’s hand came up and caressed a mucus-soaked, blue-veined head that felt too tiny to be alive. “Oh, my,” she breathed. “Oh, my.”
The cook handed Donal a clean towel and a knife. “There’s the afterbirth to come. Lean on her belly. Then cut the birth cord and tie it off.”
Years later, Donal would never recall how he’d managed to bathe Nell and dress her in one of his saffron-dyed shirts, how he’d washed his daughter and changed the bed linens, how he’d dismissed the cabin boy and scrubbed the blood and stench from the floor. Somehow it all happened, and in less time than it took to down two flagons of ale, Nell and the babe were clean, the cabin was fresh, and they were alone.
He stood by the bed and stared down at his woman and child. His woman, his child. A curious trembling started in his legs. When he could no longer control the boneless feel of his knees, he fell to the floor and buried his face in her side. “Nell. Holy God, Nell.”
She rested her hand on his head and smiled tenderly. He had such beautiful hair, so clean, black and shiny as a crow’s wing, the same color that grew in wisps along the top of his daughter’s tiny head. From a source deep within her, she voiced the wisdom that passes unspoken from mother to daughter. “’Tis always the way, Donal. I suffered no more than those who have borne children before me.”
Donal wondered why it was assumed that women were fragile creatures with little conviction and no tolerance for pain. What Nell had experienced this night would have unmanned many a battle-seasoned warrior. He was to marvel more than once on the journey home at the inconsistency of a world in which women were sheltered from the terrors of war only to be subjected regularly to the horrors of childbirth, fertility a virtue deemed more necessary than beauty or brilliance or courage or character.
***
The sun was low on the horizon, and the wind blew west from the Irish Sea when Donal sailed the Banshee into Galway Bay. The message inscribed above the city gates of the harbor town never failed to bring a grin to his lips: “From the fury of the O’Flahertys, deliver us, O Lord.”
Lord William Burke, the Norman governor and protector of the king’s rights in the west of Ireland, stood on the ramparts of his fortress and groaned. The swift return of the Banshee could mean only one thing. The O’Flaherty had been successful. The king’s hostages were on board, and even now, Henry was preparing an army to sweep through Ireland.
In a moment of passion, when the hot blood of his Irish ancestors rose within him, Burke had pledged his standard to the Geraldine cause. A thousand times since, he had castigated himself for the pride that proved him a fool. To break his word to the O’Flaherty would banish him from the world in which he moved. To betray Henry Tudor meant certain poverty and eventual death. Those minor nobles who hung on the fringes of the great lords already had reported the names of the men who took the oath in the great hall of Aughnanure. It went against the grain of common sense, but there was nothing left for Burke than to align himself with the Gaels and Sean Ghalls of the north and west.
With a sense of inevitable doom, he gave the order for the city gates to be opened for the crew and passengers of the Banshee.
Fifteen
Aughnanure was a fortress and far more stark a place than Nell had ever seen before. It was built in the old Norman style of round turrets connected by long passageways and tiny windows designed to repel intruders. What beauty there was lay in the remoteness of its location.
Set amidst a forest of oak and ash at the end of a freshwater stream running with trout and teak-colored water, the castle gates rose violently out of the greenery. Only the guardhouse roof was visible from the ground. Visitors saw nothing but huge wooden gates linked with iron and an impregnable roof. Defenders peering out through the slats had an enormous advantage. The entire east side of the castle was built over a seawater gorge that filled at high tide.
It was here, on a deck that some besotted O’Flaherty ancestor had built for his lady, that Nell regained her strength. Weeks before she should have left her bed, she walked the deck, lifting her face to the saltwater spray. The midwife shook her head and grumbled, predicting fever and illness if Nell did not immediately seek her couch. But contrary to the woman’s predictions, her legs grew strong again, her stomach flat and smooth, and her skin the gold-kissed color of winter light.
The child was six weeks old and flourishing, but Nell worried. She was still nameless and not yet baptized. For centuries, O’Flaherty children were carried to the Royal Abbey of Cong to be christened by the lord abbot. But Donal would not speak of it. Indeed, he came daily to hold his daughter and speak of insignificant matters, but that was all.
Inside Nell, a fierce determination was born. She loved Donal O’Flaherty and had borne him a daughter. Even more, she had been faithful to their pledge, possibly more faithful than he had been, given the nature of men. This land of thick forest and wind-hammered beaches had worked its way into her heart. She had nowhere else to go. Nothing short of death would tear her away. If waiting was what he wanted, she would wait, but she was Irish-born, and the stirrings of something she did not understand simmered within her. For nine long months she’d carried a daughter, spurned a king’s bed, and thrown away an English earl, all for love of a stubborn Irish chieftain who’d claimed her heart when she was a girl.
She watched him below her now, standing on the edge of the tide, reaching for a stick of driftwood to throw to the wolfhound that sat by his side like a shadow. He wore only a linen shirt over his breeks, and the play of muscle under the cloth made her throat close and brought the sting of tears beneath her lids.
The movement of man and dog against the backdrop of churning sea and setting sun was magic. Inside her chest, her heart flapped like a sail on the Banshee. She recognized the source of the tension that made her heart feel too tight for her chest. Leaving her cloak in the press, she ran out of the room and down the stairs to the damp, bird-tracked sand of the shoreline.
Wind tore at her gown and pulled her hair from its tidy plait. She called his name, but the crash of the waves was strong. Battling the wind, she reached his side. He looked at her, accepted her presence, and said nothing. Adam himself could not have been more beautiful than the man who stood beside her.
“Curse you, Donal O’Flaherty!” she shouted across the inches that separated them. “I love you, and our daughter needs a name.”
“She shall have one.”
“When?”
His words crossed between them and slapped her in the face. “When you are no longer Robert Montgomery’s wife.”
She stepped backward. “You blame me.” She’d whispered, but he read her lips.
Donal shook his head and accepted the wood from the dog’s mouth. “Not you, an
d not for the marriage.”
“Who, then, and for what?”
He lifted his arm and let the stick fly effortlessly into the wind. “I blame myself for leaving you with Desmond.”
“You had little choice in the matter,” she argued. “He found us.”
Donal turned toward her and took her chin in his hand to tilt her face up. “I left you, Nell. Knowing the dangers, I left you and the lad. What purpose did it serve? Listen well, my heart, and understand. You were forced to wed another man. By law, both English and Brehon, our daughter belongs to him and should bear his name.”
The trembling started in her legs. “It isn’t possible. The babe is yours.”
Donal gripped her shoulders, and through his fingers she felt the depth of his emotions. “We know the truth. But to the rest of the world, the child is Montgomery’s.”
“My marriage to him was never consummated.”
He was gratified to hear it, but that wasn’t the subject at hand. “He must have agreed to raise the child as his own.”
She nodded, and Donal continued. “I’ve spoken to a priest, Nell. Your marriage is legitimate. Because you and Montgomery are both Protestant, the rites stand. You must annul the marriage and marry me. Only then can we declare the wee lass our own.”
“Our marriage was not a true one,” she repeated. “Surely that is reason enough for an annulment.”
“I’ve heard that Montgomery swears you were kidnapped and that the child is his. He disputes your claim of an unconsummated marriage.”
Nell pulled away and pressed her fingers against her mouth. “He lies.”
“’Tis your word against an Englishman’s.”
Her eyes were huge and turbulent in her face. “What shall we do?”
“He leaves me no choice, a stor. I must kill him.”
Nell dug her nails into her palms. “And if he kills you?”
He turned to face the sea. “You must go to him. Tell him you were forced. Tell him the babe died.”
Nell gasped. “I will never leave my daughter.”
“She is my daughter and an O’Flaherty. I will not have her made into an English lady.”
“Is that why you keep yourself away, because you have so little faith in me?”
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Ah, Nell. I would give my last drop of blood to lie with you, lass. But if my time is at hand, I want no more babes to bear Montgomery’s name.”
Nell hesitated. “What would you call our daughter, if we could name her today?”
His eyes searched her face, remembering the first time he’d seen her, wondering if it was possible for a woman to be more lovely. “Maeve,” he said, “after your mother. It was she who brought us together on your first Beltane.”
Not a touch of the gratitude she felt lightened the seriousness of her face. “Mother would be pleased.” She wiped a drop of moisture from her eye. “When will you leave?”
“Word has it that Montgomery has landed in Dublin. He has the king’s support. It is fitting that I meet him near the ruins of Maynooth. I leave at first light.”
She would have walked away, but his words, earnest and humble, stopped her. “There can be no harm in holding you, Nell.”
With a guttural sob, she threw herself into his arms. They closed around her, and she clung to him, filling his empty spaces just as she had the first time.
He wondered if she had any idea how much he wanted her or how long he’d been without a woman. It was as if she’d bewitched him on that long-ago night at Maynooth when he’d come upon her in the gloaming and she sat with him under the stars. Her hair was the texture of silk against his mouth, and her ear, pink with cold, was pressed against his nose. The pounding surf matched the beating of his heart and brought the fever to his blood. His resistance, built up over long months of abstinence, melted away. This was Nell, the mother of his daughter, the woman he’d handfasted with and for whom he’d broken faith with a king. She was his. Robert Montgomery had no claim on her.
Nell lifted her head to look at him. Her face was streaked with tears. He wiped them away with his thumb. Mirrored in her eyes, he saw his own desire. Slowly, he bent his head to find her mouth. She met him eagerly, her lips parting, accepting the thrust of his tongue, holding it inside her. The kiss was rough and searching, hot and hungry. And when it was finished, there were more kisses and still more, until all that was left of his resistance melted away. He scooped her up and staggered across the sand and up the stairs to the room where Nell had spent too many nights alone.
They were drenched and shivering from the sea spray. But someone had replenished the fire, and the room was warm and lovely with light. Tenderly, he pushed back her hair, unlaced her gown, and pulled it down from her shoulders. It slipped to the floor. She stood before him, backlit by the fire. Tentatively, he reached out to trace the slopes of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, all temptingly visible beneath the finely woven cloth of her shift. Her gasp, slight as it was, undid him, as did the fluid, effortless way she drew the shift over her head, moved to the bed, and climbed between the sheets. He was drowning in desire. Cursing his clumsiness, he managed to unlace his shirt and kick off his breeks.
Nell leaned back on her elbows and watched him walk toward her. He was the first man she had seen completely naked. Somewhere in her chest, her breath stopped, and she stared at him, waiting. He knelt over her. The width of his shoulders blocked out the light. Moisture ran in rivulets down the planes of his chest. She felt his eyes, then his hands, and finally his mouth on her lips, her mouth, her breasts. Wallowing in pure sensation, Nell closed her eyes and gave herself up to the heat of his lovemaking, his mark on her throat, his arms gathering her close, his leg nudging hers apart, and the splendid length of him entering her, thrusting deeper and harder until his release was imminent. Pushing back with his arms, he tried to withdraw.
Nell, on the verge of something she had not yet begun to understand but had no wish to lose, deliberately tightened the muscles of her thighs. Her fingers gripped his bare buttocks and held on.
“Holy God, Nell.” He breathed raggedly. “Don’t do this.”
She pulled his head down and moaned against his mouth. “Stay with me. Please, Donal. I will never go back to Robert. No matter what happens, I will never go back.”
“Nell.” His laugh had more air than substance. Brushing her cheeks with his fingertips, he kissed her mouth and fought the urges of his body. “I cannot leave you with child. You’ve Maeve to consider.”
She shifted beneath him. Her fingers relaxed, flattened, and began kneading his backside. It was exquisite torture, and he was rapidly losing control. In a final attempt at reason, he whispered against her ear. “I will fight until my last breath to keep you, Nell, but battles are not won by the cautious. The future is uncertain for us.”
Nell arched her body, taking him more deeply inside her. Pressing her face against his shoulder, she spoke softly. “My father spoke of you long before I knew he wanted a match between us. There is nothing of caution in the heart of an O’Flaherty chieftain. There should be none in the heart of the woman who stands by his side. I ask nothing of you, Donal, nothing but this night, for all the nights we should have had and for those that may never be.”
After that, there were no more words. Under her hands, she felt the ripple of muscle and the slow, sweet slide of him as he entered her and withdrew, over and over until the edges of her reason blurred and the heat between them rose and flamed and died and rose again.
Nell woke from her doze just as the first streaks of dawn touched the eastern sky. Beside her, Donal stirred and opened his eyes. She was intensely aware of him, of the rise and fall of his chest, the darker hue of his skin against the sheets, his scent mingling with hers. Rolling over, she pressed her backside into the cradle of his hips an
d felt him harden. She released her breath. He wanted her still.
“Don’t, Nell,” he whispered into her hair. “There is no more time left.”
“Tell me you aren’t sorry.”
“Sweet Jesus, lass.” He rolled her over on her back and frowned down at her. “’Tis a gift you’ve given me. I could never be sorry.”
She kissed him briefly, resolving to send him on his way without tears.
Hollow-eyed and tousled from lovemaking and lack of sleep, Nell was still beautiful. Donal could not get enough of her. He touched her cheeks, her lips, and the line of her jaw. Once, before he knew her, he believed that her Fitzgerald blood was tainted, that the Irish in her was not enough to make her a fit mate for an O’Flaherty chieftain. Now he knew better. Nell was no political prize to be bartered for the alliances she brought to her father. Gael or Sean Ghall, she was a woman who gave her heart only once, and he, Donal O’Flaherty of Galway, was her chosen.
A strange burning began in his chest and beneath his eyelids. The feeling was not completely unfamiliar. It stayed with him while he dressed, ransacked the larder, checked the hooves of his stallion, and swung up on his back, rallying his men with the ancient war cry of the O’Flahertys. It intensified when he looked back, after the drawbridge had been drawn, and saw Nell standing on the battlements, holding the tiny lass they had made together. The feeling moved to his throat when she lifted the child in her arms the better to see his departure. Lifting his arm in a final salute, Donal vowed on the souls of his ancestors that he would not leave Nell to mourn another loss.
***
Robert Montgomery’s rage increased as he paced the length of his well-appointed tent. Margaret Fitzgerald, the countess of Ormond, her dark blue eyes glinting with malicious amusement, sat at a small table off to one side and tapped her fingers. “Come, Montgomery,” she said at last. “You will wear the rugs thin. Tomorrow will not come any sooner whether or not you walk to it.”
He clenched his fists and turned on the woman who claimed to be Nell’s sister. “You have no natural sentiments, my lady. How can you sit there so calmly when the very life of your sister is in danger?”
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