“Tell me about your family.”
“As you already know, my mother died when I was a child. My father joined her several years ago.”
“Are you all alone in this world then? Have you no siblings?”
Her voice sounded sympathetic and less aloof than before. As much as he wished to change the subject, he sensed retreat would be a tactical mistake. To win her trust, he’d have to give her part of his past. “I had a twin.”
“Older or younger?”
“He was older by two minutes, and glad I was of it. The responsibilities of Pembroke should have fallen to John.” He tried to keep the sorrow from his voice but must have failed.
“Is this too painful for you to speak of?”
“’Twas many years ago.” Although his thoughts were lost in the past, suddenly a chill stiffened the hairs at his nape. Like the hiss of air before the strike of a sword, he sensed more than saw a gaze upon him. Scanning past the brambles to the woods for movement, he reined his mount closer to Dara, letting his hand rest lightly on his sword. He’d survived too many battles not to trust his instincts.
“My father was determined to make soldiers of his sons. He relentlessly drilled us in the art of war at an early age. We rode before we could walk. Our first toys were wooden swords. Of the two of us, John was the more aggressive.”
“You did not care for your father’s training?”
How perceptive she was. Rage at his father’s treatment simmered beneath his skin during every battle. He never forgot, never let go of the harsh lessons he’d been forced to master. “’Twas the only life I knew. When our father caught us reading texts instead of practicing war games, he burned the texts and beat us. We hid in the stables and hugged our cat.”
Dara couldn’t decide which was worse, burning precious texts or beating children. The picture of two tear-stained faces, clutching a cat to comfort them, tore at her. Despite all her promises to remain aloof, her heart went out to the boy he’d been. Needing to know more but almost fearing the answer would draw more of her sympathy, she couldn’t curtail her curiosity. “What happened to your brother?”
He hesitated, watching a strikingly spotted emperor moth rise from the bell heather and alight on a flower braided into Fionn’s mane. She wondered if he felt a stranger here among their bog grasses, rushes, and liverworts. Could the differences in her land seem as strange and fascinating to him as he did to her? Surely he didn’t interest her because he was different—because he was Norman.
The moth flew off, and he continued his story. “At the age of thirteen, we rode at father’s side during battle.” His face hardened, and his voice went flat. His hand tightened on the reins, his thumb moving back and forth on the leather. “Our cat followed us. John lost his life trying to save the animal. In a fit of rage, Father killed our pet before my dying brother’s eyes.”
Dara gasped, her heart aching for him. She knew the horrible loss of losing a sibling. The agony of his twin’s death must have been agonizing. She glanced into the Norman’s stoic face and glimpsed a hint of pain in his bleak eyes. His massive fists clenched, and she imagined those same hands when they had been small and he’d been a powerless child, suffering the brutalities of an unfeeling parent.
She would never have guessed they had so much in common. Despite the many years gone by, the tormenting loss of her own half-sister never left her. Just as his loss never left him. But she couldn’t allow natural sympathy to alter her view of him.
“Then you became Pembroke’s heir?”
His shoulders stiffened, and he rubbed his wrist over his brow. “Yes. My father trained me to be the foremost knight in England. Does that scare you?”
“’Tis cause for unease, not fright.”
Softening toward him was not an option—she had to keep an emotional distance. Still, she would know the rest of his story. “And what of your father’s lands?”
Although the cords in his neck tightened, his voice, soft and calm, held a note of resolve. “He supported the wrong man in England’s civil war. Our family lost Pembroke and our lands, but not our wealth.”
So she’d been right all along. Strongheart had come to Eire to seek her land, with her as the ultimate prize. Any sympathy that she’d had vanished like the sun burning off the mountain mist.
He drew his horse so close their knees almost touched. His calloused fingers clenched her arm. Lowering his head, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Someone’s spying from the alder wood. Ride like the wind for the castle, my lady.”
Without waiting to see if she obeyed, Strongheart drew his sword and charged straight toward the wood. A fox darted from its hidden hole, and a flock of crows took to the skies, their flapping wings and caws signaling a warning.
Dara’s heart leapt to her throat at the thought of him confronting an unknown number of men. She would not leave him to face an enemy alone while she fled for safety. Without a moment’s hesitation, Dara drew her dirk and urged Fionn into a gallop.
The spy spotted Strongheart long before he could be identified. Breaking from the cover of the alder trees, the man dug his heels into his mount, used his arm like a whip on his horse’s flank, and galloped across the moor, scattering pheasant and startling a red deer. Dara wheeled Fionn around to give chase, but Strongheart grabbed her reins, drawing her to a stop.
His dark eyes glinted with barely restrained rage, and his icy voice spoke so quietly she knew he was on the verge of exploding. “I told you to return to the castle.”
She raised her brows, meeting his furious gaze with dignity. “This is my land. I don’t take orders from you.”
“While you are under my protection, you will do as I say. Understood?”
She tried to jerk the reins from his hands, but he might as well have anchored her in stone. “While we argue, he’s getting away.”
Exasperation filled his tone. “I’ll not risk an ambush with you tagging along.”
“Fine. Help our enemies. Let him escape.”
He ignored her taunt. “Who do you suppose he was?”
“He could have been a spy from the Ard-ri.” Or a messenger from the monastery seeking to contact her without the Norman’s knowledge. She shrugged and kept all expression from her face. She must make a trip there soon—if the Norman ever let her out of his sight.
“Why would the Ard-ri send a spy to Leinster?” he asked, apparently accepting her story. As he spoke, he led her and Fionn toward a hilltop where they couldn’t be taken by surprise.
“Perhaps he’s heard rumors of a Norman among our people.” At his frown, she added, “Though in truth the Ard-ri and my father are not on the best of terms. Perhaps the occurrence has naught to do with you.”
“Does not your father have any friends?” he asked angrily.
Pain lanced her as he prodded scars not yet healed. But, he placed blame on the wrong head, and she would not have him think her father so foolish. “Do not blame Da. Our situation is no fault of his.”
He shrugged with skepticism. “If a king is not responsible for choosing his allies and enemies, then who is?”
She refused to tell him about her mother and so remained silent.
When she didn’t speak, Strongheart gave her a suspicious look. “He could be MacLugh’s man, I suppose.”
“Perhaps. ’Tis more likely O’Rourke or the Ard-ri searches for . . . another,” she said lamely. The minute the words emerged from her mouth she realized her error. The Norman had a deceptive way of causing her tongue to speak before she’d thought. Although she’d no doubt aroused his curiosity, she had no intention of revealing more.
His tone raised a notch. “Another of your suitors?”
“I warned ’twould be no easy task to win me.” She forced a smile, pleased she’d repaired the damage her slip had almost caused.
A cloud passed in front of the sun, chilling her, reminding her she was playing a dangerous game. From the hard planes in his face, she judged the Norman was no fool to be toyed with. Why did she have to find him so attractive?
Between the peculiar stirring of her blood and his sharp wits keeping her off balance, she couldn’t concentrate. If only she could master her own good sense. When she’d thought him in danger, she’d ridden by his side, betraying her feelings, and once again proving that when it came to men, she’d inherited her mother’s curse.
Strongheart’s childhood story had broken down her carefully erected barriers. He suffered the harshest of lives, his father teaching him to live by the sword, and where a weaker man might have perished under the strain, he’d succeeded in becoming a mighty warrior. While he might once have read texts and taken comfort in a cat, no doubt the gentle side of him was now considered a childhood weakness.
She wondered what inner dragons drove him. Had his father squashed all tender feelings? From the looks of the hard, determined man before her, he knew no other way of life than taking want he wanted. Right now he wanted Leinster. And the easiest way for him to gain Leinster was through her.
Yet she didn’t fear the strength he could so easily use against her. He was a man of honor. Although she sensed his obsessive need to win, he would use his might for conquest. To conquer a woman, he’d use overwhelming charm.
And damn him, his strategy was working. He elicited feelings that made her blood surge and her breath tighten. Even now, as they rode to the hill’s peak without a word passing between them, she was too aware of him, noticing the little things, the way his gaze constantly scanned the horizon, the way he kept his sword arm free for use, the way his glance softened when he looked at her.
Ahead two men suddenly stepped out from beyond a rocky crag. Before she uttered a word, Strongheart urged his mount forward with lightning speed and drew his sword.
Chapter Seven
TWO UNARMED MEN afoot would not pose a threat to Strongheart. But they could be friends of the spy who had just fled, and it could be a trap. With Dara to protect he could not be too cautious.
The two men had shaved the fronts of their heads, the rest of their hair parted in the middle and extended from ear to ear. Both wore brown serviceable tunics with cowls, and sandals. Although their appearance suggested the men were monks and belonged to a holy order, Strongheart didn’t lower his weapon until Dara voiced a greeting.
She dismounted and sought to reassure him. “’Tis the Abbot Mata of Ara-mor and Brother Assicus, a skilled bronzesmith.” She turned to the men. “Would you care to share our repast?”
Strongheart sheathed his sword, recognizing the relief in her tone. Was she merely glad to come upon friends instead of the spy they’d chased away? Or was she pleased they were no longer alone?
Odd how the men showed up here, almost as if they’d known Dara would be at this particular spot at this particular time. But she hadn’t known which direction he’d picked to ride. He hadn’t decided himself until he’d asked Sorcha the best place to take her mistress for a meal. Perhaps the maid had mentioned their destination to Dara. She could have sent word ahead.
He gave himself a mental shake. The woman had him so wound up, he imagined plots where none existed. If there was a monastery about, he hadn’t seen it. But the men couldn’t have walked far, since they carried no provisions.
From her relaxed stance Dara obviously knew these men well, so he let her approach the strangers and perform introductions. The abbot Mata was a short man, whipcord thin, and the calluses on his palms revealed he worked the land. The smithy was huge, his muscles bulging, his skin tanned and leathered.
“Thank you for the offer,” the abbot said, smiling at Dara kindly, “but today is Wednesday, fast day, and no food is taken before the ninth hour.”
Monks typically weren’t allowed contact with women, nor did they engage in idle talk. Of course, every order followed different rules, but Strongheart had to wonder over Dara’s seeming familiarity with the two men.
Mata nodded in deference to Strongheart. “I’m sorry to interrupt your plans. If you would excuse us but a moment.” Turning to Dara, he gestured to a spot farther away. “I need a private word with Princess O’Dwyre, and then we will be on our way.”
Dara looked relieved to be so easily rid of Strongheart, and he didn’t like it one bit. There could be many reasons for them not wanting him to overhear their conversation—none of them to his liking. Strongheart dismounted and approached. “I am responsible for the lady’s safety.”
The abbot turned to face him without fear or haste. “I mean her no harm.”
Strongheart crossed his arms over his chest. “She stays with me.”
Dara and the abbot exchanged a long glance. Finally she turned to Strongheart. Not quite meeting his gaze, she licked her bottom lip in the strained silence. “The monastery is nearby, and I may not come this way again soon.”
His brow curved up. “And what business have you in a monastery?”
“The monks work and pray. But they also read and write. For many years Da has supported the order. The monks copy texts, and their scribes are skilled in illustrating books.”
“We are working on a biblical encyclopedia,” the abbot added.
Did they expect him to be so foolish as to divert him from the real reason they were here? Out of respect for the religious order, he maintained a civil tone. “You need Dara’s help?”
“Her artistry is among the finest in our land.”
So his future wife was as skilled with a pen as a dirk. He would not let the abbot shock him into yielding to his patient request. “But you are not here for drawing, are you?”
Dara glared at him. “How dare you harass the abbot? The man is a saint.”
“But you are not.”
Two bright spots of pink flamed her elegant cheekbones at his comment, and her fists clenched at her sides. As he fought to contain a grin, the corners of his mouth twitched. Just as his body instinctively responded to hers, he instinctively knew that in this instance he could not trust her. “You are scheming, and I would know why.”
She bit her full pink lower lip and twisted her hands. “This is not your affair. It has naught to do with you.”
“But it does.” He paused, and their gazes locked. He was now certain she’d instructed Sorcha to mention they ride this way. “If it concerns you, then it concerns me.”
She sighed, placed her fists on her hips, and her voice rose. “Need I remind you we are not wed?”
Strongheart suppressed his impatience. What would it take to convince her they were on the same side? “And need I remind you that we will be wed?”
She rolled her eyes and sent him a smile that held more cynicism than warmth. “I never forget a threat.”
“’Tis not a threat, but a promise.”
“You are to be wed?” the abbot asked with a furrowed brow, his head cocked to the side.
“Yes,” he said.
“No,” she insisted.
The holy man looked from one to the other. When it appeared as if neither Strongheart nor Dara intended to back down, he emitted a warm chuckle. Mata turned to Dara and spoke cryptically. “The Ard-ri says he’ll consider your request.”
Disappointment clouded her face. “Damn. Oh, sorry for the bad language, Mata. Was there more?”
“Yes, child. MacLugh and O’Rourke are fighting to the north.”
“Good.”
“But they’ve called a truce.”
She gasped. “Not good. Do you have word of peace talks?”
“Not yet. The word is the Ard-ri himself might come to settle the dispute.”
Dara paled, and her breath came in short gasps. “I do not like all my father’s enemies gathering in one place. Has the Ard-
ri committed himself to arbitrate?”
“Word is that he’s infatuated with his new red-haired mistress and does not wish to leave her.”
Strongheart didn’t understand all the implications of their conversation, but several things were clear. For a devout man, the abbot kept himself well informed. And Dara was not pleased with his tidings that Munster and Meath might call a truce.
“And I have a message from your—”
“It will have to wait,” Dara cut the man off sharply, looked at Strongheart, and flushed to the roots of her hair. She grabbed Mata’s arm so hard her knuckles turned white.
For the second time that morning the Norman wondered what she was hiding. Surely a holy man wouldn’t bring word from a secret lover? And what message had she sent to the Ard-ri? He’d bet his warhorse Conor knew naught of her shenanigans.
Without a mother’s guidance, Conor had let his beautiful daughter run wild, but she needed a firm hand to keep her from trouble. She was so full of contradictions, Strongheart had difficulty understanding her. The picture of her leaping from her horse, stabbing Sorcha’s attacker with a knife, was so vivid he would never forget it. The image of her bloodthirsty need for revenge conflicted with her spoken desire for peace.
Why would a woman who hated war wield a weapon like a warrior? Why did she send secret messages to the Ard-ri, her father’s enemy? And why did she fight so hard to deny the passion they both knew was growing between them?
She might seem light and innocent on the surface, but she’d easily deceive all but the most perceptive of men. Through Sorcha’s machinations, she’d outsmarted him, manipulating him to this meeting with the monks.
Perhaps he could use the monk’s dire messages to his advantage. With their enemies forming an alliance, she would have need of his warrior skills. If he summoned patience, she would eventually come to him for help.
Unfortunately, patience wasn’t his strong suit. After the monks departed, he had a difficult time refraining from asking questions. But with a determination inherent to his character, he forced himself to lighten her mood and act the gentleman.
Conquer the Mist Page 10