Black Falcon's Lady

by Kimberly Cates

  Tade pushed himself to his feet, a sudden ache of loss in his chest. "Rachel, I—"

  "Don't." Rachel held up her fingers to stop him. "No one knows better than I how deeply you love this cottage and all of us. But you can't stay forever, despite the ties that bind you. And you can't wed Sheena to please either Dee or your father." Rachel's voice softened. "But we fear for you, Tade. All of us. And this fascination you have with the Wylder girl—"

  "She has a name."

  "Aye. Wylder. And yours is Kilcannon. Think, Tade, what that name means in these mountains. For three hundred years it has graced earls, rulers in their own land, and before that, kings."

  "It means nothing now but one more cottage full of Irish fighting to scrape a livelihood from beneath the heel of the Sassenach."

  "Nay. When your father rides Nightwylde's lands, it is to him the people turn with their loyalty and honor, not to Bainbridge Wylder. They leave baskets of vegetables, chickens, aye, even coin they can ill afford, as if they were still tenants on Kilcannon holdings. You were too young to remember how your da tried to stop them after Wylder stole the land. Kane railed at them, saying he had nothing to offer them in exchange now—now that he was no longer the earl. But the mountain folk only started leaving their baskets of treasures on the doorstep at night, so there was no way your da could know from whence they came, nay, nor return them."

  "I know of the bond between da and the people, and God knows he does what he can, to ease their burdens, but—"

  "He does more than that, Tade. He makes their burdens his own. Sometimes I grow jealous of his love for those who were his kerns, of the hours—sometimes days—he spends away from the babes and me, tending to them." Rachel's voice trailed off, her rawboned face suffusing with an aura of quiet pride. "But I'd never clutch him to myself, to this cottage," she said. "For he gives the people the one thing the Sassenachs cannot take away from them. Aye, and so do you and all the babes. To the people who live in these hills, Tade, 'Kilcannon' is the word for hope."

  “It is nothing but a name, Rachel. It can't warm your bed at night or bear your children." Tade paced slowly to the open door and stared out across the rock-studded slope that dipped down to a winding ribbon of stream. The laundry lay abandoned on the turf. Deirdre, her scarlet petticoats tucked into the waistband of her skirt, stretched up on the tips of her toes, shielding her eyes as she peered down the path that wound up the mountain. Tade tensed, his instincts suddenly alert as Fagan O'Donal's lumbering dray horse galloped into view, its rack-ribbed sides heaving with exertion.

  The strapping O'Donal leaned down to Deirdre, calling out something Tade couldn't understand before wheeling the horse about, slapping the reins against its neck with a force that sent the staid animal plummeting down the path as if pursued by demons.

  Tade was halfway to the stream by the time Deirdre had splashed back across it, her petticoats tumbling down as she dashed up the slope toward him.

  "Dee, what the devil—"

  “It is Fagan's wife, Leah! She's borne their babe, but Fagan says it is too tiny. It can scarce breathe, and—"

  "I'll take Rachel to her right aw—"

  "Nay, Tade," Deirdre burst in, her face oddly flushed. "Leah's ma and sisters are with her. It is Devin they want, to baptize the babe in case it dies.”

  "Devin? Where in blazes is he?"

  "He was riding out to the O'Cahans', I think, or-or was it the Fitzpatricks’s?”

  "Damn it, Dee, they're on opposite sides of the mountains. Which was it?"

  "Both," Deirdre said almost too quickly. "He was to say mass for the O'Cahan's sick mother, and at the Fitzpatricks’s . . . I . . . well, I don't remember, but I know he was going there.”

  Tade spat a curse. "He could be anywhere within a full fifty miles. I hope to God I can find him before . . . Damn!" His eyes flashed toward the valley below, finding the distant break in the trees that sheltered the hidden glen. "Dee, you'll have to go to the lake for me. Tell Maryssa what happened. That I'll come to her as soon as I can.”

  "I will. Now go!"

  "And, Deirdre, tell her I—" Tade stopped at the strange look on his sister's upturned face, a fist twisting in his stomach as the words he had wanted to whisper to Maryssa snagged in his throat.

  The green of Deirdre's eyes washed bright with tears and terror, and he could see that she sensed what he had been about to say. Pressing her knuckles to her lips, she spun away from him and stumbled down the hillside.

  Tade took one step after her, then, spitting a curse, wheeled and raced toward the byre where his stallion waited.

  * * *

  The flowers were dying. Maryssa slipped a drooping blossom from her hair and fingered the once-crimson petals that now lay wilted to the hue of dried blood. She had waited since the sun was at its crest, watched it as it sank inexorably toward the scraggly tops of the trees. And with each gossamer sweep of clouds that drifted above the grassy rise on which she sat, the joy that had sung within her stilled a little more.

  "He will be here. He will," she had told herself a hundred times. But with every rustle of underbrush, every snap of twigs, every breath of wind that failed to bring with it Tade's laughing face, the doubt within her unsheathed its velvet claws.

  And as twilight dripped jeweled colors across the glen, the very breeze seemed to whisper of the dangers lurking in the hills that had seemed touched only with beauty when graced by Tade's smile.

  Maryssa shivered, remembering the horror in the stable boy's peaked face when she had ordered him to saddle a horse. "Ye—ye can't be mane-in' t' go ridin' off alone, miss," he had stammered. " 'Tis lucky ye are that ye weren't carried off or murdered or worse the last time ye went gallivantin' off, what with the rabble that roams here'bouts. Why, it hasn't been but a bit past a week since the Black Falcon was a-raidin'."

  Maryssa twisted her fingers together, remembering the night at the foul-smelling inn, when eyes as green as Tade Kilcannon's had glared at her from slits in the night, but those eyes had been cold and dangerous, reflecting none of Tade's easy warmth and tenderness, and none of the devilment that sparkled from within him. She bit her lip, dread rippling through her that had nothing to do with the stable lad's babbling.

  No, it was impossible, she told herself, quelling the niggling thought. The Falcon had stalked into the inn full of menace, as sharply honed and as lethal as an infidel's blade, while Tade . . . She pictured the mischief in his grin, the delight he took in the smallest of pleasures. Yet instead of comforting her, the image tightened the unease that gripped her, casting across her mind the memory of an instant—an instant when a certain odd tenderness had shone in the brigand Falcon's eyes. She glanced apprehensively at the liver-colored mare that stood cropping grass at the lakeside, then back to the waning sun. Perhaps it would be best if she returned to Nightwylde.

  Suddenly she started, instinctively scrambling to her feet at the sound of something passing through the brush behind her. Tade? Or . . . Hope, dread, and fear roiled inside her as she whirled around, half expecting to see a black silk hood and a sable cocked hat with plumes red as blood.

  But instead of the Black Falcon's sinister countenance or the ruggedly masculine visage of Tade, it was Deirdre Kilcannon who flounced into view. Her freckled nose was crinkled in disdain and grains of sparkling sugar clung to her lips as she munched on what looked to be a delicate scalloped wing.

  "D-Deirdre?" Maryssa stammered. "What are you doing here?"

  The girl licked one sugary finger. "Tade couldn't quite manage to keep your little tryst this afternoon, so . . ." She shrugged, letting her voice trail off.

  "Deirdre, is Tade well? Safe?"

  "He's well, most certainly. But safe?" Deirdre smirked, then took another bite of the confection. "When last I left him he seemed in the gravest of danger.''

  "Danger?" A sharp, sick feeling stirred in Maryssa's stomach.

  Deirdre's laugh tinkled on the air. "Aye, he and Sheena O'Toole were roving off on h
orseback, but I vow they were in more of a mind to tumble in the grass than race over it."

  Pain and betrayal crushed Maryssa's chest; then a sudden fierce spark of denial flared up. "I don't believe it."

  "And just where do you suppose I got this?" Deirdre held up the delicate piece of sugar, smacking her lips. "Tade brought it from Derry, and when he gave it to Sheena, why, I vow, she could scarce wait to carry him off somewhere private to, uh, thank him."

  Maryssa stared at the confection, then raised her eyes slowly to Deirdre's face. Satisfaction glinted in the girl's green eyes, and her mouth was pursed into sharp lines of smugness.

  Maryssa lifted her chin. "You must be mistaken. Tade told me to meet him.”

  "Here? Oh, aye, I know. That did make things a bit awkward. I mean, what with you lingering about at their favorite spot. But I'm certain they found somewhere to . . ."

  A wave of nausea gripped Maryssa. Her gaze darted to the flower-spangled bit of glen upon which the coverlet had lain weeks before. Their favorite spot. Had Tade truly tumbled Sheena back into this sweet meadow grass? Kissed her, loved her, here where he had given Maryssa a glimpse of heaven?

  Nay! Yet how could Deirdre have found this glen? How could she have known that Maryssa waited here, unless it was true?

  Much as she fought against it, an image seared itself into Marisa’s mind with sickening clarity: honey-haired Sheena running her fingernails over Tade's chest, kissing him with a practiced skill that made Maryssa’s own untutored fumbling seem all the more clumsy.

  “Come, now, Miss Wylder, you mustn't look so distressed."

  Maryssa's eyes leaped to Deirdre's face, the girl's smile, so like Tade's tearing at her heart.

  "Even you must agree it is only right Tade should first take a gift to the girl he is bound to marry," Deirdre chided innocently. "And I am most certain that he brought some little trinket back from Derry for you as well. No doubt he'll dash it off to you as soon as he's able."

  Maryssa clenched her teeth against the pain welling up inside her. She wanted to scream, to drown out the sound of Deirdre's voice, but her throat was blocked by tears.

  "Of course you must be patient," Deirdre rushed on. "It may be quite some time before he can reach you, considering all the other deliveries he has to make. My da claims Tade needs a dray to haul home all the trinkets he buys to satisfy his mistresses—I mean, ladies."

  Maryssa spun toward the lake, forcing her quavering voice through the sobs constricting her chest. "Well, you may tell your brother he need not trouble himself delivering anything to me. I wouldn't want—"

  "Oh, it will hardly be any trouble." Deirdre waved a slender hand in dismissal. "After all, an English heiress is quite a grand conquest, even for Tade, and since you allowed him access to your charms a fortnight past, why, I am certain Tade is fairly chafing to be with you."

  Maryssa wheeled to face Deirdre, and even through the white-hot shards of torment exploding within her, she could see the girl falter beneath her stricken stare. "Tade told you?"

  Deirdre started to speak, then stopped, her face paling a tinge beneath her freckles. "About the afternoon here on the lakeshore?" she asked, stooping to swoop up a small twig and examine it as though it held the answer to some mystic riddle. "Why, of course Tade told me. I've been privy to his confidences since I wore short skirts. And . . . well, I must confess, it is ever so much more entertaining to hear about grand passions than about boyhood pranks."

  Maryssa felt betrayal twist deep in her stomach. Humiliation drowned out the memory she had cherished, grinding to ashes the images of blossom-starred meadows and hot, hungry kisses. She raised her gaze to Deirdre's face, but the girl swung away.

  "You-you needn't be dismayed. I mean about my knowing your secret," Deirdre faltered, busily snapping off bits of the twig. "Tade has told me of so many affaires de coeur, that, I vow, by All Hallows Eve, I'll most likely forget I ever heard this one. After all, it is not as if there is much to remember, what with Tade halting before he—"

  "Nay!”

  Deirdre winced at the strangled cry, the torment in Maryssa's features burning into her memory as Maryssa wheeled and stumbled toward the horse tethered nearby. Deirdre watched, guilt and vague horror at what she had done stirring inside her, as the English girl flung herself astride the beast and pressed her heels into its sides with a clumsy recklessness that threatened to pitch her onto the jagged stones below. The horse plunged up the hill, nostrils flared, eyes wide as it tore up the slope toward the treacherous and wild lands beyond.

  “That will be the last we see of that English witch," Deirdre whispered to herself. "I'm glad. Glad." Yet the feeling of triumph she had expected to soar within her rang hollow as she remembered Maryssa's waxen face. The girl loved Tade. Her love was carved in every line of her face. And Tade . . . Deirdre tried to swallow but couldn't, the image of his face before he had run to the byre flashing before her eyes. He had looked so solemn, serious, yet oddly touched with greater joy than ever before. If he discovered what she had done . . .

  Nay. Deirdre's fists knotted, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. It did not matter whether Maryssa Wylder loved her brother or if he cherished some budding tenderness for her. She could bring him nothing but danger and death.

  Closing her eyes, Deirdre struggled to conjure in her mind the image that had haunted her for hours. Yet as the ancient stone of Nightwylde's turrets rose in her mind, the silhouette of a body dangling from their peak, it was not Tade's face she saw contorted in death throes, but the delicate features of Maryssa Wylder whose eyes screamed their pain in a dozen shattered hues.

  Chapter 10

  Tade narrowed his eyes against the half-light of dawn, his mouth a hard line as he hauled himself up the rungs of the loft ladder. The first waking birds twittered from their perches on the thatch, the banked peat fire gilding the room with the glow of its tiny embers. Yet within his stiff, sore body roiled a barely leashed anger that threatened to rage like wildfire.

  Deirdre. For five miles he had ridden like a madman, anticipating the bliss of wringing her spoiled little throat with his own two hands. Bloody hell, when he thought of what her foolishness had almost caused this time...

  Tade vaulted through the loft opening and stamped across the darkened room to the small window at one end. With a muffled curse, he grasped the shutter handles and threw the heavy wooden panels open with a force that sent them slamming against the walls. Dim light spilled across the worn rag rug and tumbled in pearly rays across the rumpled pallet beneath the eaves.

  "Deirdre!" Tade snapped the name, spinning around to yank the mound of coverlets from the narrow bed in which she lay. Yet instead of sleep-blurred features beneath her tousled hair, he saw red-rimmed eyes peering up at him with the watchful gaze of a cornered mouse.

  She struggled upright, a too-bright smile pasted on her lips. "Tade! You needn't rouse the whole house. I—I was waiting for you."

  "Aye, and I'll just wager you were. After all, you'd not want to miss the pleasure of seeing the fruits of your little plot, would you?" Tade blazed.

  "P-plot?" He saw Deirdre flinch, a guilty flush staining her cheeks. "I don't know what you mean.”

  "Don't play the innocent. I've spent the whole night tearing through the mountains like the very devil was on my heels, and I have no stomach for your lies. Just tell me, do I look worn enough, filthy enough, angry enough, for you to feel as though you've reaped full justice for my horrible sin of daring to return from Derry without a cartful of baubles for you? Or can I look forward to a like performance in the future?"

  "What do you mean? I only gave you Fagan's message! He said the babe was in danger, and—"

  "Blast it, don't cram untruths into someone else's mouth! I saw the O'Donal babe with my own eyes. A girl it is, weighing a full nine pounds, hale as a well-born filly. But you know that, don't you, Deirdre? You knew it from the moment Fagan reined in his horse."

  "Nay!"

 
"Just like you knew that Dev was nowhere near the Fitzpatricks’s or the O'Cahans’s,” Tade accused. "The whole time I was riding, nearly driving Curran to his death, Devin was just three miles from home, at Liam Scanlon's, helping to arrange a way to smuggle young Jamie off to school in Bordeaux."

  "Scanlon's?" The feigned shock in the girl's face made Tade want to slap her.

  "Devin told me he left word with you as to exactly where he could be found, in case old Patrick Mahoney took a turn for the worse. You knew.”

  "Nay, Tade, I—"

  "Damn it, Dee, quit lying!" Tade cut the denial off with a snarl. "This time your little game nearly ended with consequences too great for even you to bear. A mile from O'Donal's, Dev and I ran afoul of a contingent of Rath's guard dogs."

  "R-Rath?” Deirdre blanched, her freckles standing out in stark relief against her pallid skin.

  "Aye, Rath. By the time I found Devin, I'd been tearing about the countryside half the night, thinking a babe lay dying, maybe dead. And when Dev heard how long I'd been seeking him—" A muscle in Tade's jaw knotted at the memory of Devin's face, a mask of solemn desperation as they rode toward Fagan O'Donal's cottage. "The way we were racing across the mountain, it was a miracle I saw the soldiers at all, let alone managed to ride Curran into Penderleigh Cave before the bastards spied us. You lied, and—“

  "I don't care!" Deirdre's chin quivered, her eyes spitting defiance. "I'd do it again!"

  "Again? You'd risk Devin's life because I failed to bring you a damned dress?"

  "It wasn't the dress!"

  "Then why? Why the bloody hell did you do it?” Tade froze, the look in Deirdre's eyes—anger, betrayal and resentment—striking him like a fist in his belly. "Maryssa," Tade rasped the name, knowing . . . somehow knowing. "Dee, what have you done?"