Black Falcon's Lady

by Kimberly Cates

  Rows of pegs driven into a strip of wood on the far wall sported an assortment of breeches and little boys' frocks, the peg nearest the ceiling boasting a branch with a fat cocoon in its fork. A wooden bedstead sprawled across most of the room, pillows stuffed beneath its coverlet at odd angles, the bedclothes rumpled, strewn with small rocks and sprigs of leaves. In her imagination Maryssa could hear the bedtime shouts of Rachel Kilcannon's sons as they buffeted each other with the plump pillows. The warm scene vanished as chill air touched Maryssa's bare skin. She hugged her thin chemise against her, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

  "As though a body could sit on this, let alone sleep in it!" Maryssa turned her head to see Rachel scowling at the lumpy bed. "Kilcannon men!" the woman scolded with a shake of her head. "Be they four or forty, they cause nothing but trouble!" Grasping the corners of the coverlet, she whipped it upward.

  Maryssa took a stumbling step back as a spray of childhood treasures flew into the air, the motley assortment clattering to the floor, earth colors, spangled also with brighter, glossier hues. Something heavy thunked at Maryssa's feet, its surface catching the candlelight. She looked down to see a miniature cannon amid a host of toy soldiers, its barrel bent and battered from many a fanciful battle. Two dozen tiny swords gripped in molded hands pointed ignominiously toward the roof above painted jackets that had once, no doubt, been the pride of some small boy. The blue lacquer now was chipped and worn away, the jaunty hat plumes dented.

  Strange, Maryssa mused with an uneasy stirring of remembrance; blue coats, and plumes exactly like the one bedecking the toy soldier on the table at Nightwylde. She had seen that soldier but an instant, yet she knew it had been wrought by a master, a plaything for a rich man's cherished child. These well-loved toys, battered though they were, were equally intricate; they seemed out of place in this clean, yet humble cottage.

  "Warring." Maryssa was startled out of her thoughts by Rachel's wistful voice. "As if Ireland hasn't had her fill of killing these past hundred years. Seems like they train the boys up in it from the minute they leave the womb. Heroes, all of them," she said softly. "But fighting a hopeless war." One reddened hand touched the painted boot of a foot soldier still tangled in the coverlet's folds.

  "Where did you get them? The soldiers, I mean?"

  Rachel shook the coverlet briskly one more time, then bundled it around Maryssa.

  "They were Tade's when he was a boy. His da had them made special just before his mother died and the family lost . . ." Rachel's voice trailed off. "I wanted him to save them for his own babes, but Tade, he'd have none of it. Started hiding them about where the little ones would find them among the eggs in the hens' nests, in the toes of winter stockings. He even managed to bake that cannon into a pie somehow. Shane cut into the crust on his saint's day, and his face got so bright it nigh blinded me."

  The door banged open, Deirdre huffing into the room in a swirl of pink gingham. She threw the cloth on the bed, stamping one small foot. "Ma, if you have to go on thus about how wonderful Tade is, at least don't do it where he can hear!" she cried, pulling a face. "Every word you said came right through that wall, and he's sitting out there so puffed up I swear I'd like to stick him with a toasting fork!"

  Rachel rolled her eyes heavenward in amused tolerance as she slipped the blanket from Maryssa's shoulders, then reached for a lace-edged petticoat. "Speaking of the toasting fork, Deirdre, you'd best be sticking some bread on it and scraping together something for your brothers to eat. Devin looks half starved, and Tade—"

  "Tade would eat the hide off his horse if it wasn't stuck on," Deirdre grumped. "He abuses me, and I'm supposed to make food for him? I'd like to feed him the fire irons!"

  "They wouldn't taste half as bad as your bread." Tade's gibe rang through the crack in the door.

  Deirdre flung the portal open and stomped out. "You—"

  "Deirdre!" Rachel's cry of warning was not quick enough. The open door had given Tade a clear view of Maryssa's nearly naked body. Maryssa heard the sharp sound of breath hissing through teeth. A blush fired her skin from head to toe as her eyes locked on the source of the noise. Tade was staring at her over Deirdre's curls, his parted lips robbed of any hint of teasing. His eyes swept up trim ankles, over ribbon garters, to linger for several hot, heavy moments on the chemise that clung, in transparent wetness to Maryssa's breasts.

  It was over in an instant. She saw his jaw clench, could almost feel him rip his gaze away from her as Rachel lunged for the door, slamming it shut so quickly a blast of warm air from the peat fire struck Maryssa's chest, the heat of it spreading over her skin.

  She scarcely felt Rachel's deft fingers as they fastened the borrowed gown around her, knotting the laces and tying the sashes, punctuated by muttered scoldings. Only the absence of Tade's voice in the murmurings from the other room touched Maryssa, his silence thick, laden with a tension that trembled inside her, as though his gaze had somehow drawn a part of her into himself or a part of him into her.

  Rachel settled the rose gingham over Maryssa's should, a sharp tug snapping her attention back to the woman's angular face. Dark eyes flicked to the door, pale lips crumpling into a nervous smile. "I'm sorry, child, about Deirdre and all. The girl doesn't think at the best of times, and when she and Tade start jabbing at each other, well, I know to listen you'd think they were half a step from murdering each other."

  “It's all right. She didn't let him . . . I mean, she didn't open the door on purpose."

  "She opened that door with a vengeance, but she meant you no harm. Lord knows Tade's seen more than his share of colleens in their shifts.”

  Maryssa flushed, a picture of Tade amid a throng of conquered beauties flashing through her mind.

  "I—I meant that with a houseful of sisters he probably scarce noticed—" Rachel stammered, stopped, her own cheeks flushing. She turned, bustling to fish a gap-toothed comb from the shelf of a wooden washstand. When she again faced Maryssa, she gave her an open, wry smile. "I'm doing nothing but making it worse, aren't I, child? We'll speak no more if it. Your hair is tangled as a whaler's rigging. Let me help you." Rachel's offer, so earnestly made, coupled with the gentle care of her hands as she plied the comb, made Maryssa want to cry.

  "Thank you." She struggled to keep her voice from shaking. "For being so kind."

  A chapped finger crooked under Maryssa's quivering chin, puzzled light clouding Rachel's face. The woman asked no explanation for the tears welling from Maryssa's eyes, only wrapped her in arms that had comforted a thousand childhood woes and held her close. "Warm yourself here as long as you need to," she said gently.

  It was as though Maryssa could feel a downy coverlet close around her shoulders, and she knew the rawboned woman offered not only her hearth but a piece of her heart as well.

  Suddenly Rachel stilled as the creak of cart wheels jouncing along the rutted path outside crept through the bedchamber's open window. Maryssa peered past Rachel to see a lantern bobbing from a hook in the cart. Bits of brightness glimmered through holes pierced in the lamp's tin sides silhouetting the shape of a man.

  "Kane!" Rachel's voice was joyous, reverent, and eager, her face suffused with love as the man pulled the cart to a halt in the cottage yard. “It is my husband returned from tending his kerns." Formerly nimble fingers grew clumsy with haste as they twisted at Maryssa's mahogany curls. Hairpins that had clung in the thick mass slipped and rattled to the floor. Maryssa stared out the window at the man who had just arrived. He was silhouetted against the lantern's glow. Confusion swirled in Maryssa as her gaze swept the humble bedchamber in which she and Rachel stood. Rachel had spoken as though the crudely clothed Irishman climbing down from the cart were some baron out viewing his estates. Yet even in the meager light from the lantern, Maryssa could see that Kane Kilcannon's boots were probably older than little Katie, his mantle faded through countless seasons.

  "Hasten, everyone! Hide!"

  Her musings were quelled
by the sound of Tade's voice, low and filled with mischief.

  "Dev, get in here!"

  Maryssa heard the sounds of the Kilcannon children as they darted to do Tade's bidding, the older ones battling to hush the younger ones, stifling giggles, and shuffling of bare feet on the floor. She could almost see them scurrying to hide themselves.

  "Tade," one high-pitched voice squeaked, "Boyd sat in Ma's bread dough."

  "Well, Katie's licking the sugar rock!"

  "Ouch! Quit pinching! "

  "You quit!"

  The squabble was cut off by Tade's whispered baritone. "I'll break that sugar rock over your heads if you don't be quiet!''

  The threat drew a spate of giggles from the offenders, but the sound of their laughter was suddenly lost in the creak of the cottage door swinging open.

  "Surprise! Da! Da! Devin's come home!" Whoops of laughter, shouted greetings, the heart-soaring cacophony of ten loving people speaking at once bubbled through the doorway. Rachel fumbled with the comb, grabbed for it, but it clattered to the floor at her feet.

  Cupping her palm over the troublesome knot of hair at the nape of her neck, Maryssa turned to the now-frazzled woman. "Go on," she prodded gently. Rachel beamed her a grateful smile, dumping the rest of the bone pins into Maryssa's other hand.

  The bedchamber door flew open. Rachel ran into the midst of the clambering group, her drab linsey-woolsey splashed with the bobbing, bright faces of the little ones, her eyes fastened adoringly on the towering figure of her husband who was crushing Devin in a hearty embrace.

  Rachel had called him Kane, Maryssa remembered, staring at the man who, except for his bright russet hair, might be Tade twenty years from now. No, she amended, in a hundred years Tade would not look like his father. Tade's rakehell grin would never harden into lines so cynical; never would the dancing light in his green eyes die; and no amount of world-weariness would eclipse the beauty of his features.

  Maryssa winced as she jabbed a hairpin into her scalp, but oddly the thought of Tade's face changed to be like his father’s stabbed more deeply.

  "Da! Da!" The high-pitched voice of the red-curled waif pierced through the babble of the others. Kane Kilcannon reached down to lift his tiny daughter in his arms.

  Even from the doorway, Maryssa could see the child's cheeks puff with importance. "Devin came home."

  "So he did, Katie-love," Kane Kilcannon chuckled.

  "And Tade, he brought a pretty lady, too. She gotted wet and he wescued her, and Deirdre yelled and—"

  The joyous chatter died. From the open doorway Maryssa could see the eyes beneath Kane's dark brows narrow with a look that made her flinch. He turned their sparking green fury on his son. "Tade, you brought a stranger here, knowing Devin—"

  Little Katie tugged at her father's hair, her tiny face puckered with worry as her gaze darted from her beloved brother to her father's implacable face. "Not stranger, Da, a ‘Ninglish."

  "English! Damn you!" In one swift motion, Kane shoved Katie into Rachel's arms and grabbed for Tade's shirt front. Tade's hand flashed out and locked around his father's wrist. She saw a muscle knot in Tade's jaw, his eyes glint dangerously.

  "Don't."

  "Don't? You know what will happen to Devin if they catch him? They'll—By God I ought to—"

  "Beat me?" Tade's challenge tore blade sharp through the threat. "I'm not ten years old, Da."

  "Kane!"

  "Tade!"

  Devin and Rachel leaped toward them, hands clutching at arms, trying to separate the two men.

  Kane knocked Rachel's hand aside, Devin's straining fingers ludicrous against the rock-hard muscles of his brother. Every fiber in Tade seemed tight in barely controlled rage, and Kane looked even more frightening. Maryssa swallowed hard as his huge fist clenched.

  "No! Please." She stumbled forward, astonished at the sound of her voice.

  Her assurances that she would cause Devin no harm withered in her throat as Kane Kilcannon spun to face her.

  "Maryssa." His voice was ragged-edged, his face white. She froze, stunned that this man she had never seen before knew her name. Emotions, raw and undefinable, flashed across his face, the once-handsome features contorting with a fury that terrified her.

  He wheeled on Tade, eyes wild. “Hellfire! That's Bainbridge Wylder's daughter!"

  Horror froze every face in the room. Marisa stumbled back, the stark look of betrayal on Tade's face lashing her like the bite of a whip.

  "Wylder!" Tade's throat knotted, and for a second she thought he would strike her.

  "Tade, listen.” At the fear choking Deirdre's voice, he turned, the whole family stilling to silence. Maryssa's nails cut into her palms, her heart hammering in her chest, taking on an odd, lurching rhythm. Her heart? No. Hoofbeats. Scores of hoofbeats.

  Her gaze darted to the window just as Tade bolted over to slam the shutters. He turned, his face ash gray.

  "Tade?" Rachel quavered. “Who is it?”

  "Soldiers." His eyes locked on Maryssa, and the menace in them shot through to her fingertips. "A whole cursed troop of English soldiers."

  Chapter 4

  Maryssa's head swam with the horrible sensation of being swallowed by an equine sea as the soldiers swarmed around the cottage walls, the clank of their trappings and the sound of their shouts beating against the whitewashed clay with the force of siege guns. Tade rammed home the iron bolt, ludicrous as it barred the door, and in that frozen instant, Maryssa felt the warmth, security, and love of the family around her crack, each face reflecting its own sharp-edged pain.

  Kane's countenance was filled with the rage of a conquered king, set in sharp relief against Devin's waxen yet proud features. Deirdre stood, stricken in the shadow of the other children while Rachel's dogged, quiet strength was laced with an inner torment so wrenching that Maryssa had a sudden feeling that she, too, was among the hunted.

  But as the seconds stretched into eternity it was Tade's features that tore at Maryssa, because it was as if, somehow, he had lost his own soul.

  "Quick, Dev, the loft." With the first slam of boot heels on hard-packed ground, Tade shoved Devin toward a shadowed corner of the room where short lengths of board scaled the wall to an opening in the ceiling. Eyes, blindingly green and deadly, lingered just long enough to see Devin bolt up the first rungs of the makeshift ladder before Tade spun around. Snatching the babe from the cradle by the fire, he pushed it into the gangly youth's hands, mouth hard and grim as he turned the cradle over. Tiny bedclothes tumbled across the floor, the soft shushing sound lost in an odd clatter. Maryssa stared in stunned surprise as a board at the bottom of the cradle fell out, spilling the contents of a hidden compartment onto tangled muslin. The gilded crest of a sheathed dagger and the dull gleam of a pistol glinted in the firelight, their jeweled, deadly hues pillowed in the midst of the baby's cradle blanket.

  Tade swooped down to snatch up the dagger and whipped it behind his back to shove its sheathed blade into the waistband of his breeches as Deirdre flew up behind him to pick up the pistol, its thick brass butt making her hands look as fragile as a child's.

  "Open in the name of the king!" a voice roared inches from the bolted door. Rachel dived for the baby things, bundling the mass of muslin into the cradle and righting it just as the sickening sound of splintering wood ripped through the room. Tade's eyes locked on the pistol in Deirdre's hand, their green depths widening in surprise and fear as the iron hinges screeched, the metal tearing free of its moorings.

  "Don't, Dee," he cried desperately. "It won't fire—"

  Deirdre's eyes darted from the weapon in her hand to Tade's face. She fumbled with the pistol, its weight suddenly seeming too great for her fingers to hold.

  Maryssa cowered back by the hearth as the battered door exploded inward and a score of red-coated soldiers poured through the gaping opening, blades drawn. She glanced at Deirdre just in time to see the last glimmer of the pistol's butt cap disappear into the pocket laced beneath the girl
's dimity apron.

  "Stand where you are!" a whey-faced lieutenant barked. "Any of you Irish scum twitch so much as a muscle and your rebel heads'll part comp'ny with your shoulders." Maryssa's eyes flew up, her face burning as guiltily as though she were the one with the pistol beneath her skirts, but when her gaze snagged Tade's, the expression on his handsome features drove all color from her cheeks. His mouth curled back from perfect white teeth in a smile so deceptively bland it might have greeted a friend who had stopped by for a visit, but his eyes, crystal-hard, sharp as a splintered emerald, made a shiver scuttle up Maryssa's spine. The swarm of soldiers parted, allowing a stubby peacock of a man to strut into the room. A colonel by rank, he swaggered up to Tade with the bravado of a village bully, his thick lips drawn into a gloating grin that made Maryssa think of fat white slugs feasting in rotted meat.

  "What is the meaning of this!" Kane Kilcannon demanded, starting to stalk toward the man. A flash of keen-edged steel hissed through the air, its point blocking Kane's path. Maryssa saw Tade's hand jerk toward his back, freeze, then flatten against the oak table behind him.

  "Things too quiet at the barracks, Rath?" he asked, breaking a piece of crust from the loaf of bread to his right and biting off a hunk. He chewed slowly, lounging back against the scarred wood as his eyes roved disparagingly from the intricately curled white wig perched atop the colonel's low brow to the glossy boots straining to encase his plump calves. The barest trace of mockery tilted one corner of Tade's mouth. "I can assure you that your method of storming cottages full of women and children remains, as always, impeccable. Of course, if you would merely have knocked—"

  "And given you a chance to slip our quarry out a window? Ah, no. Far better to surround the place and kick in the door. You Irish would slide a man full grown back into his mother's womb if you thought you could hide him there."

  "Aye, and you English would cut open every lass of child-bearing age in the county to find him." Tade straightened, a muscle in his jaw snapping tight. "But if you're running down some desperate criminal who dared say a rosary or teach his child to read, you'd best get back to your hounds. There is no one here but Kilcannons tonight, and little Ryan's not been about his cutthroat ways of late. He's a bit of a rash beneath his napkin."