Tears threatened to spill down Dara’s cheeks. She had come so close to rescuing Sorcha only to lose her to another bloody Norman. Strongheart had lied. As she’d suspected, he had not come alone. He may even have conspired with their enemy and set a trap for her father and his men.
Fear rose up to choke her. She fought the urge to aid Sorcha. Against mail, her small dirk would do no good. She had to reach her father’s men and bring help before the fire spread. Picking up her skirts, Dara sped through the bushes, desperate to lose herself in the smoke.
“Gaillard,” Strongheart commanded to the heavy-set Norman, “take the maid from the woods.”
Terrified she’d never see Sorcha again, Dara sprinted from the burning grasses and into the smoking trees to hide. If Strongheart meant to kill her, he would use his bow again. Her shoulders tensed, expecting an arrow between her shoulder blades, but she kept her feet racing.
Trees burst into flames around her, and fiery sparks flickered dangerously close to her skirts. Branches crackled overhead. Hot air seared her lungs, and she placed an arm over her mouth to block the hellish smoke. Still she coughed and feared he’d track her by the uncontrollable hacking breaths. With a sick feeling of failure churning in her gut, she realized the fire had outrun her. A spark almost caught at the hem of her tunic. She wouldn’t reach Da in time to warn him. Within moments she would succumb to the smoke.
A horse’s hooves thudded on the ground behind her, and she glanced back in confusion. Strongheart galloped toward her, his hand empty of a weapon, his arm outstretched.
If she stayed in the clearing, the flames would engulf her. Clasping Strongheart’s large hand, she jumped. With his great strength, he lifted her easily onto his horse.
She scrambled for balance to ride pillion behind Strongheart and caught sight of the other Norman as he encircled Sorcha’s plump waist with powerful hands, lifting her onto his massive thighs. Then Strongheart’s destrier bolted forward. Dara clutched his mailed sides, scarcely able to wind her arms around his thick chest.
During the short ride out of the wood, Dara tried to breathe in clean air and expel the smoke. But when her father and his men spied them and let out a cheer, she still hadn’t drawn a clear breath or put her spinning thoughts in order.
As Strongheart reined in his mount, her father approached, his eyes dark with concern, trailing Fionn behind. Her heart lifted at the sight of her horse, and while she decided what to say, she dismounted to inspect her stallion, running her hands over his flanks and down his legs.
Conor spoke gruffly, but she heard the distress in his tone. “Are you hurt?”
She coughed. “No, Da.”
“You should beat her,” Strongheart said, seeming to take pleasure in taunting her while she had not the breath to answer, “until she cannot sit that horse for a week.”
Conor cast Dara a fond grin. “The lass is wild like her mother. Both of them have a propensity for trouble.”
Dara hid her face against Fionn’s warm flank. I’m not like her. I’m not. What Dara had done was for another. Her mother only pleased herself.
Strongheart scowled at her as if she were a temperamental child. “By the rood! Your daughter could have been killed. Riding straight into the enemy is a fool’s scheme.”
Hiding the hurt her father had caused by mentioning her mother, she forced a demure smile and mounted Fionn, preferring to argue from the back of her horse, where she was closer to eye level with the Norman. “I had a plan.”
“Really. What was your plan?” The Norman’s every word reeked with skepticism.
She cocked her chin at a saucy angle and confronted the Norman with a brazenness she was far from feeling. “While you distracted the men, I’d save Sorcha.”
His frown vanished, wiped away by astonishment. “You were so sure I would defeat them all?”
She met his arrogant gaze with one of her own and shrugged with casual indifference. To let him know she was shaking inside would be revealing weakness to the enemy. “Either your fighting skills or your death”—she paused for emphasis—“would have created the diversion I needed.”
His jaw clenched, his mouth tightening a fraction more. “You little fool! You had no way of knowing how many men waited inside those woods. They could have killed you.”
She shook her head, struggling to keep her tone even in front of the others. But she hurled the words at him like stones. “My face is well known. At worst, they would have held me hostage. It was you who almost killed me with your arrow.”
Dara expected an angry denial. Instead, he stared at her with a slight hesitation in his hawklike eyes before breaking into a mocking grin. “You will learn not to doubt my skill. My shaft always finds its mark.”
While the men around them chuckled at his boast, she stiffened her spine. Despite her best intentions to remain above his stable-yard humor, heat rose to her cheeks. She’d made a grand mistake in the clearing, throwing her dirk into that raider to aid Strongheart.
Twisting on Fionn’s back, she faced her father and pointed an accusing finger at Strongheart. “This Norman nearly murdered me.”
Her words wiped the smiles off the men’s faces, and they rode closer, protectively. Conor looked askance at the proud warrior, awaiting an explanation. Strongheart didn’t alter his tone, but projected his voice so all could hear him. “I killed the raider who held a knife to her throat.”
Dara tossed her hair over her shoulder, glowering at them all. Rancor sharpened her tongue. “By accident, no doubt. Your arrow missed me so nearly, I lost a lock of hair.”
Except for the one muscle pulsing in the side of his neck, Strongheart didn’t reveal his fury at her accusation. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I saved your life. Do not make me regret it.”
As he eased his mount closer to hers, the heat of her temper flared hotter. The lively twinkle in Strongheart’s eyes, as if he was enjoying the argument, incensed her more.
Before she could form the ball of spit she meant to spatter across the Norman’s face, her father intruded. “Lass, you are skilled at the gab. Does the Norman speak truth? Or does he lie?”
Today her father seemed sharp, his old self, and she must use her wiles to convince him the Norman only meant them harm. Damn this Norman rogue for encroaching on her and her people.
“Da, how can you ask me that?” Instead of arguing against Strongheart’s logic, she stirred the doubts any Irishman would have had against a man from Britain. Defiant, she gestured across the field to the other Norman, who’d followed at a slower pace, just now leaving the wood with Sorcha. “The Norman told us he rode alone. Clearly, he lied.”
The men murmured among themselves. But no one reached for a weapon, out of fear or respect she couldn’t guess.
Brilliant black eyes glowed with the fearsome power of old granite from Strongheart’s weather-toughened face. “I rode into Castle Ferns alone. However, no knight travels without a squire. Once I gained your trust, I intended to bring Gaillard to the castle.”
She flashed him a look of disdain. “We shall never trust a Norman.”
Strongheart turned his horse toward Conor, his back straighter than an arrow. “My skill with a bow is unparalleled. ’Tis no brag, but truth. I shot the raider without risking your daughter’s life. Despite her determination to die a martyr, she was never in danger from me.”
“Ha,” Dara muttered.
He didn’t address her. Didn’t bother to raise his voice but spoke with haughty confidence. “Put me to a test. Should I not possess the skill I claim, you may do with me as you will.”
Apprehension nipped her, for surely the tall, strong, and absurdly attractive Norman would win Conor over with his warrior skills. She had no more time to waste trying to enlighten her father. Sorcha needed her.
Before Conor replied, Dara flicked he
r reins and dug her heels into Fionn. The horse lunged toward the deep wood. Let her father administer the test of Strongheart’s skill. From the Norman’s immense self-possession, she knew he would succeed. Proving his skill with the bow would only be his first trial of many. Later, she would devise other challenges to reveal his treacherous nature.
It wasn’t just his skill with a bow that threatened them. He might be able to hide his lust from the others, but she knew he wanted her. She recognized the look in his probing gaze. Strongheart was not the first man to try to use her to gain control of Ireland’s richest county. She’d read the determination in his eyes, the suggestive curve of his smile, noted how he hadn’t let her from his sight, always positioning himself nearby.
Holding tightly to the reins, she forced her thoughts away from the Norman knight. Dara raced toward Sorcha, the woman more her mother than the one who had birthed and abandoned her. Please God, let Sorcha not be hurt too badly, in mind or spirit.
Fionn’s long strides covered the field, and soon Dara drew alongside her maid. Gaillard had ridden free of the burning wood and stopped by a stream running through the heather and gorse. Her friend rested on Gaillard’s saddle, leaning weakly against his barrel chest. The squire had removed his helm, revealing a shock of white hair, a flaring mustache, and a kindly countenance.
Dara’s gaze dropped to her friend. Never would she forget the sight of the raider pulling his turgid flesh from between the maid’s bloody thighs. At the blood soaking Sorcha’s skirts, she forced back a cry of dismay. Was the life blood Sorcha’s or from the rapist Dara had killed?
Her stomach churned at the memory of Sorcha’s screams and the spurting blood of the man she’d killed. She’d plunged her dirk into his neck like a Viking berserker gone mad with battle lust. Ruthlessly, she squashed down her nausea.
Although her heart lurched at the memory, she steadied herself. Sorcha needed her. Now was not the time to fall apart. She had to be strong for Sorcha’s sake.
Gaillard’s hefty shoulder supported Sorcha’s head, her chestnut hair dirty and matted. “What should we do?” he asked.
“I must stop the bleeding.” Dara untied her traveling pouch and dismounted, then helped Gaillard ease Sorcha to the ground. Placing her friend on the grass, she squeezed the moaning woman’s hand. “I’m here, Sorcha. You will be fine.”
“Thirsty.”
Dara tipped a wineskin to her friend’s full mouth, her best feature after her warm brown eyes. As she sipped weakly, Gaillard knelt beside her. The maid opened her eyes, looked at him, and screamed.
The knight flinched and twisted the end of his mustache. “Lady, I mean you no harm.”
“You are safe, Sorcha. Sir, please. We need privacy.”
Gaillard nodded and led his horse away. Across the meadow, her father cantered into the wood with most of his men-at-arms, leaving six men to escort them home. She easily picked out Strongheart among the escorts since he towered over the Irishmen. He headed toward her, sitting straight and proud in the saddle, obviously pleased he’d proven his skill.
His warrior abilities caused a shiver to skitter over her shoulders. As long as he remained in Leinster, her home was endangered. Not until he left would she be satisfied. Only Castle Ferns made her feel safe. It gave Dara the security she’d never received from her mother. Whenever she was troubled she climbed the tower and stared out at Leinster’s rich herds of cattle, and the walls wrapped around her, providing solid comfort and protection. But the Norman imperiled all she held dear.
Enough. Sorcha needed her help. Turning her attention from the men and thoughts of war, Dara unpacked her supplies. By the time he neared, Dara was lifting Sorcha’s skirts.
“Stop,” Strongheart ordered. “That is no job for an untried maid.”
“Do you see a healer nearby?” she snapped. Pushing her annoyance with him aside to concentrate on the woman who’d taken the place of her mother, she set about easing her pain.
Dara peeled the bloodied skirt from Sorcha’s legs. “Leave until I am through,” she ordered, her voice as frosty as a mountain stream.
To her surprise and further annoyance, the Norman didn’t argue, but then he never did the expected. He dismounted, and, from pouches tied to his saddle, he removed strips of clean cloth as she lifted Sorcha’s skirts and inspected the damage. Dara didn’t want his help, but with Sorcha bleeding, there was no time for obstinacy. Efficiently she cleaned the wound while Strongheart held the woman’s head in his lap.
“This woman, she is dear to you?”
Dara bit her lower lip. “Sorcha has been both friend and mother to me. Without her . . .” As the woman moaned, Dara choked on unshed tears.
“When men are without honor, my lady, then they are little better than animals.” Big hands stroked Sorcha’s forehead, and Strongheart’s voice softened. “Take a tunic from my bag and place it under her hips. Raising the wound may stop the bleeding. And there is salve. Apply it generously to the wound.”
While she worked, she thought upon his gentleness and generosity, so different from the warriors she knew. He offered the maid a sip of wine and hummed a lullaby. Dara cared not why a knight stooped to helping a servant woman, but was thankful he distracted Sorcha from her pain.
When Dara finished her ministrations, her hands were shaking. Why could they not live in peace? Men fought the battles, but it was the women and children that suffered most. Long ago Dara learned that tormenting herself over the way of the world served no useful purpose.
She had done all she could there and knew she should be thankful Sorcha slept. “She must not be moved.”
“We cannot stay in the open until she heals. Tomorrow, we will carry her to Ferns.”
Thankful he didn’t ask whether Sorcha would live, Dara used a waterskin to rinse the bloodstains from her hands, wishing she could wash the memories from her heart. The raiding beasts had held Sorcha down, uncaring of her protests, laughing at her screams.
The brutality of the rape had brought out a matching savagery in Dara, one she’d long suspected lurked inside her, waiting for the right moment to erupt. Her blood had boiled so hot, her passions had soared so fierce, she feared she’d never tame them.
She took in a deep breath and stared off into the mist, vowing never again to lose her self-control. Her hands and feet felt icy, her entire body numb, but she couldn’t suppress the mad terror of her thoughts.
During battle, she’d turned into a wild animal, surging with primitive impulses she recognized all too well. She’d believed she’d conquered the wild temperament inherited from her mother. Finding it unvanquished twisted her stomach with revulsion.
She had to conquer the passion that overwhelmed her, if not for herself, then for the good of her people. From her experience, bloodlust always led to trouble. Eire would need all the cool heads available to keep the minor skirmishes from breaking into all-out war. Strongheart’s presence could only cause the balance of power to tip out of kilter. Fear of the Norman might cause all Leinster’s enemies, MacLugh, O’Rourke, and the Ard-ri, to unite and invade her home.
Why was the Norman here? Did he spy for his British king? Although her father did not yet believe her, the Norman would bring change to Eire’s shores. She wanted him gone to avoid war. If he stayed, she sensed another peril, one of a more personal nature. His combination of strength and gentleness appealed to her on a level she didn’t want to admit—not even to herself.
She stood alone for a long time while the villagers brought food and supplies and the men pitched camp. Sorcha lay under a mantle, sleeping. The wind keened, bringing chilly air, but Dara barely noticed the dropping temperature or the dark clouds scudding in from the west.
Several men approached, but when she didn’t answer their queries concerning her comfort, they left her alone. Strongheart soon joined her, and then she shivered. With
out a word, he removed the cloak from his hauberk and placed it over her shoulders, wrapping her in warmth, his male scent mixing with leather and engulfing her in a cocoon of heat. He stood close, peering at her intently. For a moment she ached to rest her head on his chest and take comfort in his strength, but she resisted the temptation. She would always resist.
He spoke softly. “Rape is not an act a lady should witness.”
“I’m told men cannot control their passions.” And neither can I. She did not regret avenging Sorcha’s pain. When her dirk plunged into the raider’s neck, fierce satisfaction had surged through her. What kind of woman was she to allow a killing rage to overwhelm her usual good reasoning?
“’Tis no wonder you are cold.” Strongheart took her elbow and led her gently to the campfire. He found her a place on the far side of the fire, across from the men roasting a haunch of beef.
Since she had no desire to discuss her failing self-control with him, Dara let the Norman believe witnessing the rape was the only thing upsetting her. If he thought his kindness would warm her to him, he’d learn differently. Other men had been kind, and she’d sent them on their way.
His sudden thoughtfulness only heightened her suspicions, since after she’d accused him of attempting to kill her when he loosed his arrow, he had no reason to treat her gently. But after all she’d been through this day, she didn’t have the energy to fight him now.
Pulling herself from the comfort of the fire, she examined Sorcha. The maid slept lightly and the bleeding had stopped, so Dara returned to her place by the fire with a lighter step. When Strongheart offered her a cup of ale, she drank deeply, and the cool draught quenched her parched throat.
Strongheart handed her a trencher piled high with bread, meat, and cheese. “How is she?”
“Better, I think.” The meat smelled so tempting, Dara picked up a piece and dropped the morsel onto her tongue. She fanned her mouth to cool the hot meat, and the Norman smiled at her.
Conquer the Mist Page 3