by Gail Link
Damnation! There was that raucous noise again. It sounded like whoops or exclamations. He couldn't fathom what was happening.
Duvessa came into the room, a piece of needlework in her small hand. "Hugh, there is something amiss outside. I can hear the stableboys and grooms shouting, though I cannot make out what they are saying."
"I'd best go see what it is." He rose and went to the door. Duvessa followed, and saw the twins perched on the stairs. She waved them back, saying, "Your father has gone to see what all the noise is about."
Before Hugh could reach the door, it was flung open. He saw the grinning, tear-filled face of Sir John Standish. "My lord Derran," he began, choking with emotion.
"Speak, man! What is it?"
From behind the hearty figure of Sir John stepped a lad of medium height, a gloved hand restraining a huge brute of a dog, wearing a cap of gold velvet, and decked out in matching fine attire and hose. Hugh took in the youth, the excellent cut of the doublet, although a trifle big for the lad's slender shoulders. Who was this?
The youth pulled off the gloves and stuffed then haphazardly into the doublet pocket. He then tugged at the cap, releasing the two braids of honey brown hair. And the head was suddenly lifted. Two eyes of clear blue-gray blinked with tears falling freely.
Hugh's gasp was audible. "Sybelle!" he shouted, and as he flung wide his arms, his eldest child hurtled herself into them amidst the barking of the dog. All stood back and allowed this moment the privacy it deserved. Hugh could not let her go. She was here, finally, safe in his arms. He didn't care that the tears which filled his eyes splashed down his cheeks. His large hand ran along her back in a frantic gesture to prove he held her secure in his arms, that she was no mere mirage. It was indeed his daughter.
Thank you, my sweet Lord, for this favor, Hugh said silently.
"Sybelle." He pulled back, allowing her to tilt her head and look into her face.
"'Tis me, Father."
His big hands cupped her face between his palms. His thumbs brushed aside the tracks of the tears that made her eyes, her mother's eyes, sparkle. He kissed her and dropped his hands, so that they gripped her sides as he swung her wide in a circle.
The twins were crying also, and they fell upon their sister as soon as Hugh permitted. Sybelle hugged and exchanged kisses with each one. Then her gaze fell on Duvessa, who stood at Hugh's side now, her hand entwined with his.
Sybelle freed herself from the clinging arms of her sisters and, in a gesture that spoke of her acceptance and respect for the Countess of Derran, she lifted Duvessa's free hand and knelt upon one knee as she kissed that hand which wore her father's ring. Then she stood and embraced her step-mother with open affection.
Duvessa's hazel eyes, already filled with tears at the sight of her step-daughter's return to her family, were touched by the gesture of homage that Sybelle paid her. It wasn't necessary, but was all the more cherished because of that. Duvessa cried, knowing that Sybelle had forgiven her any part in her abduction, however unwitting.
"'Tis happy I am to be amongst my kin once again," Sybelle said, wiping the moisture from her eyes and calming Lugh, who bounded over to her side. "And I would like some food for Iweare hungry."
Audrey ran towards the kitchen quarters in search of something for her sister to eat, saying silent prayers to the benevolence of God for answering the requests she had made. She would make good on her vows in exchange.
"In all my haste to be reunited with you, I almost forgot that I traveled with someone who aided me in my escape." Sybelle detached herself from the close-knit unit of her family and went to the door, pushing past Sir John and called softly, "Bran."
Hugh and Duvessa exchanged glances; Clare gasped and pulled her velvet wrap closer around her body. Not the brother! Not the man from that night. She wet her lips. 'Twas indeed him, she saw as he entered the doorway and she focused on those falcon eyes.
Sir John pulled his knife from its sheath and took the unsuspecting Bran by the throat as he pinned him to the wall.
"Release him," Sybelle commanded.
"Are you mad, daughter? 'Tis Killroone's brother," her father's voice thundered in the hallway.
"I know who he is," Sybelle said, coming to stand by Bran. She laid her hand on Sir John's arm. "Do it now," she said. In her tone, Sir John heard the implacability of his liege lord. He did as she commanded, standing back but not sheathing his weapon. He didn't-trust the man, no matter what the circumstances.
Hugh wanted to kill him. The feeling banished whatever notion he'd had that he should thank the man who helped return his daughter to him. This man was brother to the Wolf. He could hurt the man responsible for his family's pain, his daughter's humiliation, by sending him the gift of his brother in various pieces. Or perhaps not quite a mana gelded bastard fit only for the amusement of whores who would pity him. Or should he relieve him of his sword arm, and perhaps a leg, too, so that he then would be an abject example of the pitiful creature that he was? A cripple fit only for the company of beggars. An outcast. Not by nature a cruel man, Hugh found his anger at his daughter's captivity eroding any sense of fairness that he possessed.
Duvessa hugged her cousin, more tears flowing from her eyes. "Bran, thank you for restoring our daughter to us. You have our gratitude." Her heartfelt speech was in Gaelic.
Bran kissed her cheek and returned her words in his own tongue. "It was necessary, sweet Duvessa. For all our sakes."
He looked at the face of the man opposite him. He could see the coldness in the blue eyes that focused on him. Derran wanted a pound of flesh, his flesh, Bran admitted. Hate was a powerful force, and this man hated. Well, hadn't he known the risks and decided to see it through to the end? This was it.
Then another pair of blue eyes caught him, held him in their grip. It was the navy hue of Clare's eyes. He saw in them happiness, shock, laughter, tears, and a certain hunger. Or had he only fancied that he saw what he felt in her eyes?
Clare stood stock still, staring at him. He was even more handsome then she remembered. Handsome and deadly. And he was the enemy, yet, was he really? Hadn't he returned Sybelle to them? That should count for something. She transferred her gaze from the unknown to the known, her father. Clare could tell that he was planning something. She could read it in his face.
Sybelle also saw the sparks of abhorrence that flickered brightly in Hugh's eyes. She recognized that he was fighting for control.
Audrey arrived, and was like a fresh breath of umblemished air. "There will be food set up in the Hall, so please come now." She waved her hand in the direction of the door.
Sybelle linked her arm through her father's, as Clare took the other. "Let's us eat in peace, I pray you," she said.
Hugh smiled down at her, features relaxing, and kissed her cheek. "It shall be, for now, as you ask."
Sybelle recognized the threat implicit in that statement.
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The supper had been a quiet affair, with Clare and Audrey waiting on Sybelle, much to her chagrin. She begged them to desist. They refused, so she reluctantly accepted their service. All through the meal she kept an eye on her father, watching him as he watched Bran. The tension was high, the coolness with which he directed questions to Bran had the feel of a frosty day. She feared there would be a reckoning before she had a chance to speak to her father, to explain to him why he shouldn't take out his bitterness on Bran.
How good it felt to relieve herself of the costume she had worn and sink into a hot tub, scrubbing away the accumulated dirt and dust of the journey, washing the sea spray from her hair.
A knock sounded on the door and she started in alarm. Realizing that she was being foolish, that she was no longer a prisoner, she went to the door.
"Duvessa," Sybelle said warmly, opening wide the door to let her in.
"I have brought you something that I thought you might be able to wear." she said, laying out a thin wrap of silk. Sybelle ran her
hand over the gossamer material and dropped the linen that she had wrapped around her body. When she did, Duvessa noted the gold band on her wrist.
She caught Sybelle's hand, and studied the design. It was identical to Rolf's own. "Where did you get this?"
"From Kilroone," Sybelle replied, tying the robe of deep blue silk about her body.
From the doorway she heard her father's baritone. "Remove it!"
"No," she said.
"Duvessa, leave us," Hugh commanded.
Duvessa flashed a look at Sybelle, taking her cue from her. When Sybelle nodded her head, Duvessa backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Hugh circled the room, throwing glances at her. "Why do you wish to wear it?" he demanded.
Why indeed? She had asked herself that ever since Rolf placed it on her wrist. She had found an answer of sorts: she knew that she couldn't lose that link, for it represented something for her child, a piece of its heritage. And it was something of Rolf's. She touched the band, caressing the wolf's head.
Not waiting for her answer, he spoke again, "'Tis the symbol of a chattel." It angered Hugh to see his child wear that thing. He'd noted something on her wrist while they were dining, could see the gleam of metal thrugh the fine lawn shirt she wore. Now, knowing that it was from the Irishman, he fumed.
She hugged her arm to her chest with the other, fingers stroking the metal. "'Tis mine, Father."
He grabbed her arm and held hard, causing her to wince in pain. "'Tis an emblem unworthy of you. Abandon it," he pleaded as he let her go.
"I cannot."
"Will not?"
"Shall not," she said. He stood at the window. his back to her. She knew that she must soon tell him the news that would shatter him again. How to tell him of the babe? Her wisest course would be to hide the fact as long as she could. It would be prudent, and give him time to adjust to having her back. It would also be cowardly, she decided. But first there was the problem of Bran.
"Where is Branduff?"
"O'Dalaigh is with Sir John at present, below." Until I decided what fate to deal him, he mentally added.
Sybelle came up behind him, her hand on his arm, gently. "He must be permitted to go free."
Hugh turned, his eyes dark and stormy. "Free?" He said the word in a damning tone. "He is Killroone's brother."
"And he helped me, Father, against his brother. Do you not know what that cost him?"
"I don't care."
"Well, I do," Sybelle protested with vehemence. "He is an outcast now." She lifted her chin, matching him determined look for determined look. "I have given him my word."
"Do you expect me to keep it?"
"You wouldn't be my father if you did not." This was said quietly, with staunch conviction.
It was that belief in him that changed Hugh's mind. He cupped her chin, saying softly, "It shall be as you desire, Sybelle."
"Allow him the same courtesy you would any guest. For my sake, and Duvessa's."
"You ask much."
"I only ask that which is right. He should be treated as any honored person at our table who seeks hospitality."
"I agree."
"And there is something else."
"What ?"
"An escort to the Welsh border."
Hugh's thick, reddish-brown brows rose. "For him?"
She shook her head. "Aye. He diverted the ship that was to deliver him to Wales so that he could return me home. I wish him to arrive at his destination safely. Have I your word?"
Hugh knew that she knew that, once given, his word would be honored. "You have it, daughter."
She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tightly. "Thank you." She felt safe in her father's strong embrace. Here no harm could come to her, no demons could attack. She was aware also that her father's patience had a limit. She would tell him about the child she carried after Bran left on the morrow.
"O'Dalaigh shall be informed as to his singular good fortune."
When he was walking out the door Sybelle said one last thing to him. "You have chosen well, Father."
He understood that she was not referring to his decision to abide by her promise. He turned to face her. "I think so, my dear. She is all that I could have wanted, and more than I deserve, I am sure."
"Nonsense. The Earl of Derran is far above any noble in the land, if I must say so myself."
Hugh bowed and rewarded her with a dazzling smile. "My most gracious compliments, though there would be many who would argue with you on that point."
She cocked her head to one side. "Well, I suppose that I would allow you the Duke of Gloucester, though I shall admit a small portion of prejudice, Father, if I think that 'tis you who are the premiere noble in England.''
He said with a trace of bitterness. "Would that were so. You would have been freed ere this."
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Bran found that he was unable to sleep, though he was clearly exhausted. He knew the reason for his reluctance to succumb to the arms of sleep: he wasn't sure that he could trust the master of the house not to arrange an "accident" when he closed his eyes. His rational mind proclaimed that no such fate would befall him in the man's own house, with his wife and daughters as witness. And his cousin's words hadn't reassured him as he would have liked.
Duvessa had come to show him to a room at the far end of the hall and had seen that all was well. They shared an hour of conversation in which he had explained to her his reasons for acting as he had, why he thought Rolf was in need of a lesson in love. Also, he mentioned his suspicion that the Lady Sybelle was in love with his brother.
He rested his head on his arms. Duvessa had waited until she was ready to leave to tell him that an escort had been arranged to see him to Wales.
He had looked at her skeptically.
"Hugh has guaranteed that you will arrive safely. Trust him, Bran. He will abide by his word."
That was what worried Bran as he sat in the darkened room. Should he trust the word of this man? Obviously his cousin did, but she was in love with him. How could he be sure that there wouldn't be an accident to befall him enroute? He acknowledged it was a chance that he had to take. He had no other clear choice. To declare that he wouldn't accept the escort would be to cast doubts upon the honor of Derran, and if he hadn't planned anything, he surely would after such an insult as that.
Ears alert, eyes narrowed, Bran focused his attention on the door of the room allocated to him. It opened slightly. Who? Perhaps Derran himself, come to issue a warning? Or a threat?
He remained still. Whoever it was approached the bed silently, making no noise. He could discern no real form, for the intruder brought no light. He tried to keep his breathing even, his movement calm. Come on, he raged silently, make your move, for until you do I cannot react. He expected that this person wouldn't hesitate if he thought he was fast asleep, and he had given no reason to believe otherwise.
What in hell was taking so long? Bran could feel the impatience welling inside of him, rising to an ugly form of anger. Did this intruder know he was awake and was playing a game with him?
A hand drew back the curtain even farther from around the bed, but Bran could barely make out the hand rising again. He reacted, pulling the arm inside the cocoon of the bed and throwing his weight on the stranger, capturing him under his own body.
"Let me up," was the cold command.
He recognized that voice. It was young, female, and belonged to the termagant known as Clare. She was here, in his bed, her body heaving under his, stirring him with her proximity. He hoisted himself off her, holding onto her arm with a strong grip that she could not break. He struck flint and lit a candle, pushing the bed curtain completely open.
He saw the shiny blade that rested in her hand. He slanted a golden look towards it, asking, "Did you intend to use this?" He picked it from her nerveless fingers and tossed it to the floor where it landed with a dull thud.
She pushed the heav
y fall of hair from her eyes. "I had thought about it."
"Then why did you hesitate?" He could see that her eyes were still that captivating shade of darkest blue, like the finest sapphires. Her skin was pale, and so soft. She was clad in the thinnest of garments, for he had felt the budding form of a woman beneath him.
Clare's eyes narrowed as she took in the rise and fall of the masculine chest before her. He obviously slept without the confinement of clothes. She could see the light dusting of black hair feathered across his leanly muscled chest. She wondered idly what it would feel like. Would it be crisper than the thick hair that fell to his shoulders, making a contrast to the white of his skin? That wasn't why she had come to this roomor was it? she asked herself honestly. Would she have used the lovely and deadly jewelled dagger that was resting on the carpet by the bed? Or was it just a device to fool herself into believing that she would indeed try to harm this man?
"I thought that I could kill you for your part in what happened to my sister." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I found that I could not."
Bran, an arm still placed over her form, looked deep into the eyes of his captive. "Why?"
"Mayhap because I cannot kill?" she asked. Her voice posing the question was pleasant, if somewhat sarcastic.
Bran's thin lips curved into a smile. With an insight that he accepted as fact, he stated, "Oh, leanбn, you could, upon my word, kill if you had to. No," he said, "you chose not to."
Clare wasn't sure that she liked his reading of her character. Who was this Irish barbarian to tell her what she should or wouldn't do? Even if she admitted that his was a true interpretation of her character, how dared he voice it?
"Now for the real reason that you came," he coaxed.
Because, she thought, I had to. Explanations were useless for they made no sense. Clare knew as she waited patiently for her sister to fall asleep, after they chatted about Sybelle's miraculous return to them, and made another short trip to Sybelle's room to check on her, that she felt compelled to visit this room, to see if those haunting gold eyes were as intriguing as she had first thought. She couldn't pretend that she would have carried out her plan for vengeance, for hadn't her sister trusted this man? She should do the same. She gave little thought to the consequences of her actions should anyone find her creeping into this man's chamber. All she knew was that she had to see him, had to . . . had to . . . what? Sensibility had nothing to do with this need to be with him. She had only planned to stand by the bedside, the dagger in her hand a ready excuse should anyone question her. All she wanted was to look her fill, and then she would forever banish him from her mind.