Black Falcon's Lady

by Kimberly Cates

  Tade's jaw hardened to granite. "What I did or did not do in the past has nothing to do with Maryssa."

  "Damn it, Tade, look at her!" Maryssa flinched as Kane's hand shot out and clenched around her chin with a bruising grip. "She's a Wylder.”

  "I don't care if she is child to the devil himself," Tade snarled, knocking loose his father's hand with a savagery that stunned the older man. "Don't ever lay hands on her like that again, or I'll forget you're my father."

  "Aye, and you'll forget what her bastard father did. What he stole from—"

  "Damn it, Da, enough!" Dangerous green eyes shifted to Devin, then moved in a glaring path to the throng surrounding them in uncomfortable silence. "Get him home, Dev," Tade grated. "There'll be no more hurling this day."

  Maryssa felt one hard arm encircle her waist in a grip that seemed to dare her to balk as Tade spun her toward the Marlows’s cart and stalked through the crowd of gaping peasant-folk like a raging Caesar. Deirdre's face flashed past among the crowd, her freckled cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes spitting reproach and hatred as Tade paused to snatch up his boots. Maryssa shrank inwardly, eyes blurred with tears of hurt and humiliation as she dared a glance up at Tade's rage-taut face.

  The mouth that an hour ago had been tossing jests with Reeve was now set in a grim line; the eyes that had shone the warm green of a sun-kissed glen glared straight ahead, burning with a fury that both frightened Maryssa and tugged at something deep inside her.

  She wanted to smooth her fingers over his lips, soften them into a smile. She wanted to bury herself in her room, never to curse anyone with her presence again. What had she done? For nineteen years she had endured her father's hatred and the scorn of those around her. For nineteen years she had been alone. But this man wore his family's love about him like an aged mantle, its folds mellowed with security, faith, and a thousand cherished memories.

  And in a single afternoon she had somehow ripped it from him. The cart from which Tade had teasingly plucked her only an hour before swam in front of her eyes, the cheery cushions a mockery as he swung her back up into their softness. She shrank into the worn velvet as he vaulted in beside her, his athlete's body tense as a coiled whip.

  Through a haze of tears Maryssa saw Reeve settle Christabel on the driver's bench, then clamber up himself. Hazel eyes, dark with concern, slanted over his shoulder. "Tade, shall we—"

  Maryssa winced at the harsh tones, feeling the relentless clenching and unclenching of Tade's white-knuckled fists on his thighs as if his fingers were tightening around her own flesh. The sympathy she saw as Christabel turned toward her, then quickly away, tore at her heart.

  Why? Maryssa wanted to scream as the cart jolted into motion. What hideous trait lurks within me that drives people to hatred? That harms those I love? Why did I dare to taste happiness even for an hour?

  She shut her eyes, remembering Tade's smile dancing up at her as he bound her ribbon about his arm, remembering the feel of his arm against her waist, the mischief in his grin as he had stolen the kiss. And now she had somehow tainted his life as well, sullying the love that had bound him to his sister and his father.

  "Tade," she whispered through trembling lips.

  His face angled down at her, dark brows slashed in sharp relief against his forehead. Maryssa winced inwardly at the angry bruise purpling his sleek bronzed flesh. Her gaze dropped to her hands.

  "It is time I went home."

  "No!" She flinched at his sharp reply, tears beading the corners of her eyes, then spilling free. One bronzed fist unclenched, stealing up to her cheek, gentle, so gentle. "No."

  "But your father—"

  "Is an old man nursing wounds that have nothing to do with you."

  "But don't you see? They have everything to do with me. You love him and he loves you, and because of me you were raging as if you hated each other."

  "Maura—"

  "I'm well enough used to scenes like that, but you aren't and..."

  Strong arms, smelling of sunshine, meadow grass, and sharp male sweat circled around her, drawing her against the warm refuge of his chest. "Hush, love. Maura, don’t.”

  "I don't know what I do, Tade, to stir people's hatred.”

  "You do nothing, Maura. Nothing," he said fiercely. "Don't take their hate inside you and let it tear at you this way." Hard, callused palms reached down to cup her face, forcing it gently from where it was buried in his shirtfront. Fingertips smoothed over tear-wet cheeks, sable curls, quivering lips. "Let them tend the fires of their grudges until they are in their graves," he said huskily, "while we tend other flames that burn more brightly."

  With infinite slowness his parted lips dipped to hers, and in his eyes she could see understanding and some other, nameless emotion that set waves of heat pulsing through her veins. The firm lines of his mouth pressed deep into the quivering softness of her own, soothing her, wooing her, as if he would take her inside himself, banishing forever the demons that tormented her. And she wanted him to, wanted to drown in the haven he offered.

  Far too soon his lips drifted away. Maryssa reached up a trembling finger, touching the kiss-reddened curves. Eyes smoky, brooding as a forest primeval, bored into hers.

  "Maura," he said, his voice raspy. "Stay."

  The pain shadowing the scene at the clearing seemed to swell, then burst inside Maryssa. The tiniest of smiles played at the corners of her mouth as she dropped her gaze back to her hands.

  Tade's finger crooked beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet the light of his own faint grin. "And what, pray tell, is this smile for?" he asked, brushing his thumb across her lips.

  "It sounds so foolish, but do you know this is the first time in my life that anyone has asked me to stay with them?"

  The smile curving Tade's sensual lips faded; his eyes were dark and serious as they searched hers. Maryssa felt them delve inside her. She saw him tipping his face toward hers, felt his breath sweet upon her lips. But before the warmth of his mouth could close again over hers, the cart wheel lurched into a rut, almost bouncing her onto his lap.

  A grin spread over Tade's face, only the slightest tautness at the corners of his mouth betraying the tension still within him as he arched one black brow devilishly. "Hit three more ruts like that, Reeve, and I should have Maura exactly where I want her," he called.

  Only a hint of a blush tinted Maryssa's cheeks as Reeve and Christabel turned their heads to look at her. The worried affection evident in their beloved faces warmed Maryssa's heart, and she vowed silently that she would not be the cause of further ruining the outing they had planned for her with such loving care. She forced her lips into a smile.

  Such genuine expressions of relief crossed the Marlows' faces that the stiffness of Maryssa's lips softened. Christabel dimpled. The tiniest sparkle of mischief returned to Reeve's eyes as he turned to Tade.

  "Where you want her, eh, Mr. Kilcannon?" he repeated, peering down his nose with the priggishness of a parson. "Well, you had best mind proprieties, sirrah. I have no intention of abandoning our Maryssa to a wretch such as you."

  "Your Maryssa is quite capable of defending herself, thank you very much," Tade groaned ruefully, rubbing the back of his head. "Upon the field she dumped me out of her lap so fast I vow she gave me a lump to rival the one you dealt me."

  “It was no more than you deserved!" Christabel exclaimed. "You scared the feathers out of us! Tade Kilcannon, you are the most arrogant, incorrigible—"

  "Beware when she gets to 'blackguard,'" Reeve warned, rolling his eyes heavenward. "When Christabel last labeled me thus, I found my favorite snuffbox filled with Hungary water.''

  They all laughed, and Maryssa drank in the sound as though it were some mystical potion with the power to banish the ugliness of the hour before.

  And when at last Reeve drew the cart to a stop in the shelter of a hidden valley, she was certain that a drop of heaven had slipped down from the clouds, spilling into this tiny corner of Ireland the greenes
t greens and clearest blues in all creation.

  A lake rippled like liquid sapphire in its setting of lush grass while, from beneath the edges of a dozen ruggedly carved stones, the last of summer's wildflowers winked their velvet petals at the bright-winged birds skimming overhead. Three oak trees, their branches tangling heavenward, studded the steep hillside, the tallest tree dangling a weathered swing from its gnarled arms.

  "I've never seen anything so lovely!" Maryssa breathed.

  "It must be the sunlight." Tade chuckled. "I don't recall your being quite so enamored of the glen when last you were here."

  "Here? You mean . . ."

  Tade's gaze roved in a twinkling path to the lake, then back to hers. "I must admit, I've never had such a diverting bath in my life. But perhaps if you'd care to go wading after we sup."

  Heat suffused Maryssa's face as she recalled with shocking vividness every magnificent moon-gilded line of Tade's body when he had stalked naked across the shore. The image of silver rivulets of water trickling down his broad shoulders, hair-roughened chest, and the flat, rigid muscles of his stomach below burned beneath her eyelids.

  She felt Tade willing her to look at him, the smoldering remembrance within his green gaze drawing her as inexorably as the pull of the tide. Mouth suddenly dry, she wheeled around, and bustled to help Christabel tug a huge split-oak basket from beneath the cart seat.

  But the image of Tade wouldn't be dispelled. It teased her as she helped Christabel spread the coverlet beneath the oak. It tantalized her in every brush of Tade's fingers on her lips as he popped succulent bites of chicken into her mouth. And as he sprawled across the coverlet when the last morsel of food had been devoured, the lazy, replete smile that toyed with his mouth whispered to Maryssa of tumbled bedclothes and lazy lovemaking. She wanted to sink down beside him, nestle against his sun-warmed skin.

  But she only watched him, transfixed, as a glistening droplet of sweat gathered at the base of his jaw then rolled slowly down inside the open collar of his shirt to the whorls of dark hair dusting his chest.

  "Maryssa!" Reeve's sharp voice cut in.

  "Y-yes?" Her gaze darted guiltily across the coverlet to where Reeve sat, heaving a martyred sigh.

  "I've asked you this thrice already—please mind what I'm saying. Christa and I are going to wander through the meadows a bit. Would you and the crown prince care to join us?" He enunciated each word with the patience of schoolmaster drilling his dullest student.

  Tade yawned broadly, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Nay. You two go on, Reeve. 'Ryssa and I will stay here and guard the remains of this delectable lunch. I've heard the Black Falcon has been lurking among these hills of late, and if there is one thing that brigand likes it is your cook's chick—.”

  Reeve's face soured, hazel eyes snapping away from Maryssa to shoot Tade a hard, warning glare.

  "If the Black Falcon is lurking about, mayhap we'd best all leave." Nervously, Maryssa fingered the stitching of her gown, seeing, instead of the delicate edging, silver-thread talons wrought upon a stark black mask.

  Reeve pursed his lips in a long-suffering attitude as he levered himself to his feet. "There's nothing to fear, Maryssa. Tade is just conjuring excuses. The truth is that after facing my superior hurling skill today, the poor lad hasn't energy left to take five steps. Most likely you'll be forced to sit here and listen to him snore away until—"

  "Leave me to 'snore away' in peace, then, Marlow!" Tade groaned, throwing a chicken bone at Reeve's knee. "I was wounded upon the field of honor today, and I intend to revel in the coddling I so richly deserve."

  Reeve pulled a face. "If Maryssa dealt you what you deserve, you'd be such a mass of bruises, Rachel would spend the rest of her life tying poultices onto that thick head of yours." Reeve held out his hand to Christabel, helping her up from the coverlet. "Well, enjoy your lazing, you two. We shouldn't trouble you with our company for at least a turn of the clock. My wife and I intend to take full advantage of this spectacular afternoon. Milady?" He turned to Christa, offering her his elbow.

  Soft powdered curls bobbed beguilingly over Christabel's shoulders as she slipped her arm through Reeve's and started up a narrow path that ribboned toward the valley's rim.

  Maryssa watched them in silence, but the aura of happiness she had struggled so hard to hold in their presence seemed to drift away with them, tangled within the secret smiles of belonging that passed between the two. Reeve's head tipped toward Christabel's, his lips brushing hers.

  "They love each other very much." Maryssa started at the sound of Tade's soft voice beside her. Her gaze dropped as if she had been caught stealing something precious.

  "They're the kindest people I've ever known," she said. "They deserve to be happy."

  "And you, Maryssa Wylder?"

  She glanced down toward the dark head silhouetted against the creamy coverlet. Tade lay on his stomach, long legs stretched off into the grass beyond the coverlet's edge, his chin, resting on his knuckles as he stared meditatively into the fragile bowl of a pale rose wildflower. He plucked it, cupping it in one callused palm.

  "Me?" Maryssa echoed.

  "What do you think you deserve?"

  "I don't know. My father says God deals us fair measure."

  "And you believe that?"

  "Sometimes. When I look at Reeve and Christabel, and Rachel with all her babies. But it seems so often that innocents are caught in dire straits.” Maryssa shuddered, her thoughts turning, unbidden, to the night Quentin Rath had stormed the cottage on the mountain, his grim-faced soldiers spewing into the cozy fire lit room to search for gentle, sober Devin.

  When her gaze dropped to the wisp of green ribbon trailing from Tade's sleeve, Kane Kilcannon's rage-ravaged features as he faced Tade in the clearing rose in her mind. Kane's mouth had contorted in fury, yet beneath the angry flame in the older man's eyes had lurked a subtler shading: fear.

  What comfort will your cursed dalliance be when Bainbridge Wylder strings you from his stable rafters? A chill scuttled down Maryssa's spine as Kane's words echoed through her. What lengths would her father go to to destroy Tade, all the Kilcannons, if he discovered... She forced her gaze out across the wind-dappled blue of the lake, her mouth twisting in a tiny bitter smile. Discovered what? That Tade, Rachel, and Devin had committed the unpardonable sin of showing her kindness?

  From the time she was a child, her father had banished all who had dared to commit such a heinous offense. The rare warmhearted housemaid, any governess who made the mistake of showing that she held anything but contempt for her charge. Maryssa closed her eyes, remembering a heart-shaped face, pale blue eyes, and an endearing eagerness to please. The year she was ten Evangeline Boucher had danced into her life like drops from a fallen rainbow, scattering laughter about Carradown's nursery for the first time Maryssa could remember. For three months, while her father had been off in Norfolk, ribbon bows, lessons in flirting behind the delicate shield of a fan, and spring-kissed outings had turned what had once been tedious days into joy.

  Until Bainbridge Wylder had returned and discovered the loving Evangeline's "crimes." Maryssa could still see her father's thunderous face scowling at her, could still feel the weak trickle of childish tears down her cheeks.

  "'Ryssa..."

  Maryssa started at the sound of Tade's voice, the satiny petals of the wildflower still held between his fingers skimming a gentle pattern on her knuckles. Her eyes clung to the soft rose flower, as though to clutch at a reality far less terrifying than the hauntings of her mind. Yet the fear lingered as she turned her gaze down to where the thick rosewood-colored waves of Tade's hair were knotted at the nape of his neck. His gaze, tipped up at her, was crystal green with concern.

  If her father would rip Evangeline Boucher from her life merely for being kind, to what depth would he not sink to drive Tade Kilcannon from her heart?

  She jerked her hand away from the brush of the blossom and his fingers, stark misery roiling inside her.
Her heart? When had Tade crept inside it?

  Had she loved him from the moment he stood belligerently naked on the grassy lakeshore, or since the night he had stolen through her bedchamber window, his eyes snapping with a mischievous joy in life that she had never hoped to know? Or had she fallen in love with Tade Kilcannon a thousand dreams before she'd ever looked upon his face?

  Fallen in love with him only to have the threat of her father's cruelty snatch him away. Desolation swept through her.

  "Maryssa."

  She lowered her eyes to his, her gaze skimming the arrogant strength of his jaw, the full, sensual lips, eyes as green and mysterious as a druid glen. Tears trembled on her lashes, and there was nothing she could do to stop them as they flowed free.

  "Maura, don't let anything spoil the wonder of this day." His voice was velvet, magical, as he drew her down beside him and nestled her into the thick folds of the coverlet. "Not fools tending their hatred, not ghosts from yesterday." The sunlight, with its first swirls of twilight's rose, spun before her eyes, then disappeared as Tade lowered his face to hers. The warm satin of his lips blessed her tear-wet eyelids, the tiny curve of her nose, the callused tips of his fingers smoothing over her cheeks with the same delicate wonder he had accorded the wildflower. And Maryssa felt cherished, precious, for the first time in her life.

  "I could not stop thinking about you," he breathed in a throaty whisper. "About touching you, watching you smile. You were everywhere I looked. In the mountains, in the pages of books . . . in my bed. I had to know you were all right. Had to see if you could possibly taste as sweet as I remembered." His voice dropped low, reverent, as his lips pressed a gossamer-light kiss upon the crest of her cheek. "You do, Maura," he murmured against her skin. "Sweeter still. I think I . . ." His lashes drifted shut, and Maryssa felt a tremor course through him.