Man of My Dreams Boxed Set

by Minger, Miriam

  “Must not…must not know the truth about Triona… Must not know…”

  Glancing at the healer, who shrugged and shook his head, Ronan whispered in Fineen’s ear, “What do you mean, Godfather? I don’t understand.…”

  Ronan’s query was answered by a low gurgling sound, Fineen’s shriveled hand once more gripping his as tightly as a claw. Then it abruptly went limp.

  For a long moment, Ronan stared at Fineen’s face, oblivious to the wild keening crescendoing behind him. But at last he sighed and rose to his feet.

  Except for the glowing candles at the head of the bed, the room was dark, the grief stricken women swathed in shadows. He wondered again which one might be Triona. As a dutiful daughter, he imagined she had kept a close vigil in this room, but was too modest to come forward. That pleased him. Such maidenly virtues would make his task as her guardian all the easier.

  Ronan looked up at the sudden commotion beyond the door.

  “What do you mean my father summoned that bastard Black O’Byrne to his bedside? Get out of my way! I will enter, I tell you!”

  At the sound of a scuffle outside the chamber, the women’s wailing became shocked gasps. Ronan frowned as the door burst open, five strapping clansmen spilling into the room. At their center, he saw a flash of copper hair and two slender arms thrashing wildly.

  “I said let me pass! Murchertach O’Toole, you may be my father’s Tanist but you’ve no right to hold me back like this! I want to see my father!”

  “Begorra, man, look out for her fists!” warned one of the clansmen.

  “Aagh, Triona, why’d you have to stomp on my foot? I think you’ve broken my toes!” another cried out.

  “You deserve worse than that for blocking my way, you…you—”

  “By God, let her pass!” Ronan’s stern command was answered by stunned silence as all faces turned toward him. “Is this riot the honor owing to a dead chieftain?”

  “Dead?”

  The hoarse exclamation had come from the petite, disheveled figure that shoved her way free of the clansmen before Ronan could reply. Dressed in a leather jerkin, shirt and trousers, her lush curls flying, she rushed past him and sank to her knees beside the bed.

  “When?”

  Ronan’s gaze lifted from the young woman’s curious clothing to her exquisite profile limned by candlelight. A smooth forehead, graceful nose and cheekbones, delicately curved lips. Triona O’Toole was no poxed hound, that much was clear.

  “A few moments ago.”

  Expecting an immediate womanly flood of tears, Ronan couldn’t have been more surprised when she rose, her small hands clenched at her sides.

  “I will avenge you, Father. I swear it! I’ll not rest until the Normans who attacked you feel the sting of my arrows!”

  And you will not cry, Triona told herself fiercely despite the heartrending grief twisting inside her. Not now. Not until she was alone…and not until he had left Imaal.

  She spun, her contemptuous gaze sweeping from head to foot the grimly silent man who towered above her. Considering she had last seen him as a child, it was amazing to her that he could look even taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader, his chest wider, an air of command emanating from him even as he was standing still, damn him. Boldly she met his eyes.

  “Black hair, black clothes, black cloak. You look like Satan himself come to call! How dare you darken my father’s last moments, O’Byrne!”

  Ronan saw unshed tears glistening in her eyes, the trembling of her chin, and told himself to be patient. She had just lost her father after all. Yet it was apparent from her hostility toward him that Fineen had spoken of Ronan none too kindly over the years, Triona adopting her father’s view. No doubt she, too, blamed him for Conor’s death.

  “So you remember me,” Ronan said evenly, appraising again her unmaidenlike garb. His gaze lingered upon the snug fit of her trousers to shapely hips and thighs…until he realized he was staring. A damned dangerous combination, was men’s clothing on a female form, and one he intended to remedy, Ronan decided, looking up to find Triona scowling at him. “You’ve changed altogether. You were just a little girl—”

  “Spare me your recollections, Ronan O’Byrne. You will leave Imaal at once. You’re not welcome here. Go back to Glenmalure where you belong!”

  His eyes widening at her insolent command, Ronan felt his anger pricked and his patience vanished.

  No one gave him orders. No one.

  “I will decide when to leave this glen, Triona O’Toole, and when I do, you will accompany me. Your father summoned me for a reconciliation and made me swear an oath. You’re now under my protection. It was his last wish and I intend to fulfill it.” Seeing her bristle with disbelief, he added, “The priest is my witness. If you’d been by your father’s side like any devoted and respectful daughter, you would know I speak the truth.”

  “Like any devoted…? Why you…you presumptuous…” sputtered Triona, so outraged that she was tempted to strike this overbearing rebel whose eyes glittered silver in the candlelight. “Do you dare to think because I wasn’t his blood daughter that I’ve been any less devoted to him? It was only because he yearned for a taste of venison that I left his side. I just now returned from the hunt to discover I was barred from the hall, my cousin Murchertach informing me that Father had a visitor. You!”

  Triona did strike him then but not upon the face. He was too damned tall. She balled up her fist and hit him squarely in the stomach, but her blow might have been a feather light tap for all she hurt him. Her hand was throbbing, however, his muscled abdomen as hard as rock.

  “Did that ease your temper?” he asked tightly, his silvery eyes gleaming. “Now I understand what your father was mumbling just before he died. Why he enlisted his five men to keep you out until I had sworn. You’re hardly the sweet-natured girl I remember—”

  “Aye, so I’m not, and you’ll get more of the same if you’re fool enough to stay in Imaal a moment longer!” Triona shot back, although she doubted her poor hand would survive such abuse.

  “Watch out for your shins, O’Byrne!” came a warning from one of the men near the door. “And your toes! She’s a kick on her that can splinter wood!”

  “Please, please, this unseemly strife must cease!” cried the flush-faced priest who pushed his girth between them as if anticipating Triona’s next move. “Have some respect for the dead and take this matter outside!”

  “Aye, so we will,” Triona agreed, eager to be done with this intrusion so she could return to her father. Brushing past Ronan, she glared at the clansmen who had blocked her way and especially at Murchertach who, as her father’s Tanist, was now the new chieftain of the Imaal O’Tooles.

  “I could have been with him if not for you,” she said to him with bitterness, fresh tears smarting her eyes.

  “Do not blame me,” replied the big-boned Irishman, his deep voice holding no apology. “It was your father’s command that he speak with Ronan alone.”

  Feeling betrayed by her own clan, Triona said no more. She dashed out of the hall and ran to her tethered horse, seizing her bowcase from the leather sheath strapped to the animal’s broad back. By the time Ronan appeared in the doorway, Triona had already strung her bow and set an arrow to the string.

  “Aye, Laeg, I see him,” she muttered to the tall bay stallion who tossed its great head as Ronan stepped outside, his black cloak swirling. “Bright June sunshine and the man still looks like the very devil.”

  An admittedly handsome devil no matter the stern look on his face, she thought as Ronan stopped dead in his tracks when she took aim. Even more so than she remembered as a young girl when it had made her heart pound just to look at him. When she’d believed the moon, the sun and the twinkling stars in the night sky spun around Ronan O’Byrne. But that had been before he’d murdered her brother.

  “Might I ask what you’re doing pointing that arrow at me?” came his query, his voice tinged with just enough authority, just enou
gh condescension to infuriate her. “I thought we came out here to talk.”

  “I’ve little more to say to you than this, Black O’Byrne. If you think I’m going anywhere with you, think again!” She released the deadly missile with an ominous zing, skewering the hem of Ronan’s long cloak to the wall.

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