Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (22 page)

For an instant she feared Tade would strike Devin or that Devin would raise his hand against Tade, but the priest's fingers fell limply to his side, the slender shoulders sagging beneath the coarse cloak. A second passed, two, but although the brothers' exchanges were now hushed, Maryssa could see the rift between the two widen.

What was Devin saying? As a priest, would he be bound by conscience to bar Tade from the sin he had just committed with her? Was Devin prating of God's punishment? Or only of the folly of Tade's flinging himself into a liaison with a woman who could well get him hanged? And Tade? What was he saying? Feeling?

She shut her eyes, wanting to blot out the anger she could still detect in the low voices. Tade would no doubt rise to her defense, maybe closing his heart to the brother he loved so deeply.

Her fingers dug into the blue satin still pooled in her lap, bitterness surging through her. It was cruel! Unjust that even what little she had hoped for in the moments before Tade had wakened had been a fool's dream. It was as if some evil presence lurked on the edge of her life ready to snatch away any love, any pleasure, Maryssa dared take. Snatch away even this one day of magic and sully it with pain.

Maryssa fought back tears, her fingers fumbling with buttons and laces as she struggled to don her gown. But as she drew about her body the shielding of blue satin, she pulled about her heart the hopelessness, hurt, and doubt that had tormented her since she was a child.

She reached for her hood, her knuckle snagging on the rose garland, her flesh tearing on a thorn. She almost laughed as she stared at the blood welling up from the little cut. It was as if the awkwardness she had shed like a chrysalis in the warmth of Tade's love had returned to encumber her, taking the hand that had looked so delicate against his bronzed flesh and turning it clumsy once more.

And she wanted nothing now, except to flee the wilting garlands, the crumbled spice cake, the remnants of a dream now shattered in some bawdy masquerade. She wanted only to secret herself away within the walls of her bedchamber, to be hidden from eyes snapping with fury or weighted with disappointment and disgust.

Almost without thinking, she swung her legs down off the platform, the bark digging into one tender palm as she grasped a branch and lowered herself into the gnarled limbs. She was halfway down when she heard Tade curse, saw his furious visage through the dappled shadows of the leaves as he sprinted toward the tree trunk.

"God's teeth, you little fool!" Tade growled, yanking her from the lower branches, his hands bruising her waist. "Did you mean to break your neck?"

Maryssa blanched at the anger in his voice, saw his teeth clench with fury.

"Of all the idiotic, witless things to do!”

She fought to steady her wobbly knees as she pulled from Tade's grasp. "I only thought to save you the time of coming to fetch me down," she managed, driving the quaver from her voice. "I couldn't help but—but hear some of what you and Devin said. It is obvious you must leave, and I want to get back to Marlow Hall." She turned away, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face from Tade's burning glare and Devin's gently sorrowful expression.

"Maura." She felt Tade's hand on her shoulder, heard the strain in his voice as he tried to chain his anger.

"Nay, it was monstrous thoughtless," she said, "my—my not staying to attend Christabel." The words dwindled to a broken whisper, and Maryssa could feel herself melting into a pool of humiliation. She started to speak again, but the words lodged in her throat, escaping only in a choked sob. Hating herself for her weakness, she spun away from the brothers, dashing the tears from her eyes with one satin cuff.

Tade's breath came out in a harsh, weary sigh, and with gentle pressure, he turned her to face him. "Maura, I wish I could stay to explain to you why I have to leave," he said. "But there isn't time enough. All I dare say is that I have to go, and that I'll be gone a month. Maybe more."

"A month?" Maryssa echoed. "But what if Father's sent me to England by then?" A tiny web of hysteria caught at her, and she couldn't keep the tremor from her voice. Her gaze flickered to the silent Devin. She swallowed hard, looking away.

"Dev . . ." Tade's gaze flicked to his brother, then to the rim of the valley in an unspoken plea. Devin turned, withdrawing to where his horse stood beside Curran. Tade watched his brother walk away, one large fist knotting and loosening upon his leather-clad thigh.

"Damn it, Maryssa, do you think I want to leave you now? Like this?" His gaze swept her face, furrows digging deep into his brow. He caught her hands in his. "I know you're hurting, damn it. I feel it. But I have no choice. I swear I'll hasten to Nightwylde or to the gates of London itself to find you as soon as this business is done."

"This business of breaking into jails?" Maryssa demanded, fear churning in her stomach. The blood drained from Tade's face, and his hands, gripping hers, turned suddenly chill.

"Maura, I have to go." The words were deathly flat, wrapping Maryssa's heart in cold tendrils of fear. "Dev will take you as close as he dares to Marlow Hall."

"I can find my own way," Maryssa protested. Tade raked his hand through his hair, and she could feel every muscle in his body grow taut, could sense that his temper was held by a thread.

"You don't even have a horse," he grated. "And I'm not about to let you torment poor Curran the way you did that unfortunate beast you were riding the day we met." He cupped one hand around her cheek, and she could feel a measure of tension drain out of him as his palm was dewed with her tears. "Maura," he said, "don't."

She started, confused at the sudden change in his voice. The anger was dulled with tenderness and regret. "Don't bind yourself up in your fears again, love. Don't hide away in a dream world."

"Dream worlds are fragile things," Maryssa whispered brokenly. She scarce felt the brush of Tade's lips as he kissed her. She only fixed her gaze on a jagged stone piercing the side of the glen as he retrieved his boots and cloak from the tree castle.

He dropped to the ground again and paused a breath away from her, his own voice tight with anguish. "I love you, Maura."

Maryssa bit her lower lip to keep from crying, her nails gouging her palms as she battled the urge to run to him, to stop him no matter what the cost.

His voice drifted back to her, and she felt tears burn her eyelids. "Take care of her, Dev," he said. Then all sound was lost in the pounding of Curran's great hooves as Tade set him at a run down the mountainside.

Maryssa watched him as he rode away, his scarlet-lined cloak streaming behind him, his hair, still unbound, whipping in a dark brown tangle about his shoulders.

"Maryssa." She turned to find Devin Kilcannon standing beside her, his blue eyes brimming, not with contempt, but with a gentle understanding and sadness.

Hurt, loneliness, anger, welled up inside her, the mixture of emotions overwhelmingly sharp. Of its own volition, Maryssa's hand pushed back the tangled curls that still tumbled about her shoulders in disarray, and she was suddenly painfully aware of how disheveled she looked and of how obvious it must be, even to a man pledged to celibacy, that she and Tade had made love in the tree castle.

She lifted her chin in a show of defiance, vowing she wouldn't cry. "There are coverlets above," she said. "You'd best take them back to Rachel."

No sparking of censure came to Devin's eyes; his sensitive mouth softened even more. "I'll come back for them after I've taken you to Marlow Hall."

He gripped her elbow in a thin, firm hand and guided her through the stones in a silence not weighted with the disdain she had expected. But she felt as though his very kindness had been a blow, numbing her as he helped her onto his horse and kneed it to a trot in the direction of Marlow Hall.

And with each clop of the horse's hooves, each darkening of the lengthening shadows, her fears and doubts seemed to reach out their poisoned tendrils and bind her in a hundred chains of despair.

When at last the night-shadowed outline of Marlow Hall was visible from the woodland surrounding the estate, Devin drew rein and slid down from the gray. Maryssa felt his hands curve about her waist, helping her to catch her balance as she slid stiffly from his mount.

The gentle concern in Devin's face chafed her raw feelings. “It is but a little way down the road," he said. “I wish I could take you right to the door, but Rath has eyes and ears everywhere, even among those we know as friends."

“It is all right. I wouldn't want you to take risks when it is obvious you disapprove of—of Tade and me." Maryssa pulled her camlet hood closer about her throat.

A melancholy smile tilted Devin's lips. “It would be a bit much to expect a priest to approve of his brother dallying with a lady out of wedlock, Maryssa Wylder, would it not?" The words were spoken so gently, they were more blessing than chastisement.

Yet instead of soothing her pain, Devin's words made her want to lash out at him, lash out until he dealt her the condemnation he most likely thought she deserved. Maryssa steeled her spine, her eyes unflinching as they met Devin's gaze. "I love him, Devin," she said. "And Tade loves me."

Devin straightened, squaring his thin shoulders as though to bear a heavy burden. "I know."

"There is nothing wrong in what we do. We hurt no one, ask nothing but what few stolen moments we can share."

"And after? Tell me, Maryssa. What will happen when you are forced to return to England, to the life you were born to, and Tade must go on here in Donegal? Will your few stolen moments cause him no pain?" Devin pressed his fingertips against his brow. "Tade has wooed more than his share of women, but his heart—"

She saw Devin's mouth dip into a wry smile. “It is strange for you, I know," he continued, "to think of Tade speaking to me thus, making me privy to affairs a priest should view with righteous horror. But I was Tade's brother long before I donned my robes. And from the time he was a lad setting the hedge school awry with his pranks, half the maids on this mountain have been vying for his attentions."

Maryssa felt again the twisting of jealousy at the thought of all the women who had known Tade's touch, but with Devin's next words, even that pain faded into a despair that seemed to drag her deeper into the hopelessness that threatened to engulf her.

"But you . . ." Devin reached out, catching her hands in a caring grasp. “It is different with you. He's given you his whole heart, Maryssa. And your eyes shine with such love for him, any would have to be blinded not to see it there. Priest I may be, but I have a man's body, a man's needs. I know what you both suffer. God help me, I do. But it is wrong, Maryssa."

"Why? If it is such sin why did your God bring us together? Did he make us love to but jeer at us and say it is evil that we—"

"I do not know.” Devin's sigh echoed her own pain. "I wish that I could give you an answer that would soothe away the grief tearing at you both. But I lack the wisdom,”—his voice dropped low—“and mayhap the faith."

Maryssa looked into the gentle countenance beneath its halo of gold hair, aware of a sudden that it held a silent suffering of its own.

"Still, I do know this," Devin said softly. "The love between you and Tade can do nothing but cause you harm. Even if you could endure the censure that would result from a union between a poor Irishman and an English heiress, there are a hundred more barriers your love could never surmount. Your children would be outcasts, Maryssa, despised by the mountain folk and by the English as well. Even legitimacy would be nearly impossible to give your children, for there are laws forbidding marriage between Catholic and Protestant. Any holy man who dared to hear your vows could be cast into prison for years, while all you stand to inherit from your father would be snatched away.''

Maryssa wanted to scream at Devin, to block his words from her ears, from her heart, but they drove themselves into her with the force of daggers, lodging in the center of her being. She spun on him, defiant, despairing. "What does it matter? Any of it? The lands, the wealth? My father's estates and his power at court have brought me nothing but pain. And even your God cannot offer Tade more love than I do."

"Maryssa—"

"Nay!" she cried, her words tearing out in a sob. "Save me your preachings about your cruel God. He has snatched happiness and love from me as if my life were some twisted game. But he'll not take from me what little time I have left to spend with Tade. He'll not rob me of that, Devin, even if he casts both Tade and me into hell for all eternity."

She glared for endless seconds into the fine patrician features, the brow creased with trouble. But Devin fastened his gaze on the distant wilds, his voice soft, low. "He won't have to," he said.

She turned to look out into the tangled shadows of trees, the rugged outline of the mountains into which Tade had vanished, and it was as though the wind carried laughter from the sinister depths beyond. The chill, soulless laughter of specters a hundred years dead. Dead, but still thirsting for the heart's blood of those who had stolen their land, and willing to regain it at any price—even the sacrifice of one of Ireland's own.

M
aryssa stared listlessly
into the gilt-framed mirror, the silvered sheen of the looking glass doing nothing to soften the ravages six weeks of waiting had worked upon her countenance. Eyes, huge in the translucent oval of her face, peered back at her from bruised circles. The once-bright depths held the numb suffering of a wounded fawn, while her cheeks were hollow, their curves shrunken by the sick churning that so often beset her. It was as if, with each melting of night into dawn, all love, all hope fled, leaving with the last wisps of darkness the agonizing certainty that Tade lay upon the stones of some nameless jail, cold and dead.

She raised trembling fingers to eyes that were hollow from endless nights spent leaning against the window casement searching the fathomless night for any sign that an emerald-eyed rogue with a flashing smile still roved through the wilds. But as the weeks had passed, September giving way to the winds of October, hope withered into despair. And when one of the Marlows’s frequent visits was interrupted by Quentin Rath—come to gloat with her father about the capture of the "insolent wretches" who tried to free the papist Andrew Muldowny—desperation had driven her to risk riding to the Kilcannon cottage before dusk fell.

She could still see Christabel Marlow's cornflower-blue eyes, wide with sympathy, as she insisted upon accompanying Maryssa into the mountains. Could see the fresh-hewn oak door of the cottage swing wide to reveal Deirdre's peaked face. For an instant there had been a spark of shared fear and misery between Maryssa and Tade's sister, but in a heartbeat it had vanished, leaving Deirdre's tear-swollen eyes hard with loathing.

"Go away!" the girl had ordered shrilly. "Have you not caused enough sorrow?'' She had burst into racking sobs and slammed the door in Maryssa's face with a force that all but shattered the precious panes of glass set in the cottage windows. But before Maryssa could raise her hand to knock again, the portal had flown open and a pallid, harried Rachel had appeared within its weathered frame.

Her brown eyes darted between Christabel and Maryssa with a wariness that drew their frayed nerves almost to the breaking point.

"Good—good morrow," Rachel had said, her thin lips twitching into a mockery of her usual warm smile. “It is... is a most pleasant surprise to see you again after all this time. Is there aught we can do for you?"

"I was wondering if you have had any word from Tade. If you've seen him, or heard—"

Rachel's hands had fluttered to her throat. "When last we heard, he had dashed off for Dublin with a brace of his friends. I—I think he said it was some sort of . . . There was a horserace he was hoping to see."

"A horserace at a jail?" Maryssa asked, pleading edging her voice. "Rachel, I was with Tade when Devin came to give him that message a month ago. Please, if you can spare any mercy, tell me how Tade fares. Have you heard any news of him?"

Rachel's hands had fallen down into the folds of her threadbare apron, but the dark rings beneath her eyes were more eloquent than any words could have been. "We've heard nothing of Tade since that day."

"I overheard Colonel Rath telling my father that some men had been captured while trying to rescue one Andrew Muldowny from hanging. Do you think Tade was among those men?"

Rachel caught her lip between her teeth, avoiding Maryssa's eyes. "Tade is scarce solemn enough to involve himself in political happenings." She gave a weak laugh. "Most likely he's taken it into his head to bolt off for Kilkenny to see some horse he's heard well of or to match his skill against that of some other renowned hurler. God knows he never takes the time to tell us where he's off to."

Maryssa stared into the pinched features, carved with worry and mistrust. Mistrust, not of the soaked urchin whom Tade had dragged, half-drowned, to the doorstep so long ago, but rather of the daughter of Bainbridge Wylder, the English heiress who, with one sweep of her privileged hand, could destroy not only Tade but the rest of the Kilcannon family as well.

Slowly Maryssa had reached out to lay her fingertips on Rachel's thin wrist. "I understand, Rachel. Truly," Maryssa said. "If I discover anything about Tade from my father or anyone else, I'll ride to tell you at once." Stunned at the sense of strength she felt upon offering comfort to someone Tade loved, Maryssa had forced an encouraging smile to her lips, then walked with Christabel to their awaiting horses.

In the days that followed, she heard little news about the daring rescue of Muldowny or about the men who had been captured while trying to free him. And when Maryssa dared to ask questions, her father only sneered and told her to keep to her mindless woman's games, reminding her that when last she had meddled in the affairs of men she had nearly been ostracized from polite society forever.

Only through Christabel and Reeve had Maryssa heard any news of the Muldowny rescue. Five days after her visit to the cottage, the Marlows had come with the news that Muldowny and his would-be rescuers had been freed from prison by the notorious Black Falcon when they were but moments away from the gallows. It was said that the outlaw and his cohorts had appeared from nowhere and had released the prisoners from the grasp of the soldiers before the officers knew what was afoot.

Maryssa shivered at the memory of the pointed little face of the Irish housemaid who had darted in to stir up the fire just as Reeve finished his tale. She had tossed them a smug smile and whispered some tale of a cloak the Falcon bought from the devil, a magic cloak that could shield him from sight and make him as invisible as the wind. Reeve had snapped at the wench to hold her tongue, his freckles standing out in stark contrast to his drawn cheekbones. His voice had been low and tight as he had glared at the retreating wench, saying that the cloak must have failed the Falcon, then, for the price of Muldowny's rescue had been the lives of three of the highwayman's own men. No one knew how many of the renegades had been injured during the fray or how many had died on the highroads as they attempted to make their escape.

Half mad with worry, Maryssa had wanted to demand that Reeve tell her whether Tade Kilcannon and the blackguard Falcon were one, but the stricken look on Marlow's face when she broached the subject had silenced her, leaving her to be torn by the teeth of her fears.

Maryssa turned away from the mirror in her bedchamber and closed her eyes, shoving the memories from her mind as her fingers curled about the tiny bottle of jessamy Christabel had given her. The delicate scent, which had been intended to cheer Maryssa, wafted up to her, soothing and sweet— very like Christabel herself, Maryssa thought glumly. If it had not been for the ever-present concern in her friend's beautiful face, Maryssa feared she would have gone mad with this waiting. Now, alone in the crushing silence of her chamber, she could find no comfort, only the sensation of helplessness, the kind of terror a fox kit must feel amid a pack of hounds closing for the kill.

The cut-crystal bottle dug into her palm, and her eyes darted to the stiff envelope she had shoved to the far corner of her dressing table. The gilt edges of the missive winked evilly in the light of the single taper, the broken seal of the house of Dallywoulde clinging to the paper like drops of blood.

She glanced at the precise script that had directed the letter to Nightwylde six days past, her name penned there in thin slashes as if a razor had cut the ink into the paper. She could almost hear Dallywoulde's voice, cold as a winter grave, see his eyes, pale caverns echoing with fanaticism.

Her skin crawled at the image of his hated face, yet the vaguest whisperings of relief stirred within her as she recalled the reprieve that had been scribed within the lines. I
am most distressed to find myself detained from your enchanting company
, Ascot had written, b
ut as a humble servant of God I have no choice but to put off my excursion to view your dower lands until I can give my valued testimony at the trial of that blasphemous wretch, Jeremy Bludgeon.

Maryssa shuddered, despising that part of her that was able to know a feeling of deliverance that Dallywoulde's sojourn to Nightwylde had been postponed, when the reason for his tarrying in London was to see some miserable innocent suffer. Yet in spite of the prayers she whispered for the poor accused Jeremy, she was relieved that the trial would take time, as would the execution.

A chill coursed down her spine. Ascot would not be cheated of the ultimate pleasure of watching the poor wretch suffer. And every moment her hated cousin labored in his "godly duty" was one more in which Devin Kilcannon would remain safe from the diabolic priest hunter, and one more Maryssa could spend fighting to discover what had become of the green-eyed rogue she loved.

It was that knowledge only—that she had time, precious little time—that kept the tiny thread of her sanity from snapping, leaving her prey to a hysteria as wild and terrifying as that of any inmate of Bedlam.

The cut-glass bottle, which had been clutched in Maryssa's numb fingers, clattered to the table, the scent spilling onto the polished wood. Maryssa started, then grabbed a crumpled lace handkerchief from the cluttered tabletop. Her eyes burned as she righted the bottle and swabbed up the rivulets that ran in sweet-scented paths to drip onto the rich carpets.

Dropping the bit of lace to the floor, she buried her face in her hands. "Dear God, what am I going to do? If Tade doesn't come . . . If Devin . . ." She shut her eyes, fighting to blot out the haunting image of Dallywoulde's empty gaze. "I will have to—to warn them when Ascot . . . if Ascot arrives. But I don't know how or where to find them."

She fought desperately to cling to the memory of Tade's strong arms enfolding her, struggled to picture the mischievous flash of white teeth, the pure devilment that shone in his smile. If he were here he would cajole her, tease her, until he got her to smile. He would kiss her and say, “It is not so terrible, Maura-love. Nothing can be so terrible." And she would believe him. Aye, if only she could look into the rich green warmth of his eyes.

She shivered, the chill from the open window creeping beneath the quilted satin dressing gown she had drawn around her shoulders. She had left the casement open these many weeks, braving the drafts in the hope that, if Tade passed Nightwylde upon his return, he would see the candlelight in her window, see the panes thrown wide, and know that she was waiting.

But with every turn of the golden hands on the clock that graced the mantel, Maryssa doubted the more that she would ever see again that rakish grin, taste the lips that had taken her to ecstasy in the dream he had woven for them both. For even if Tade did return unharmed, even if he scaled the stone walls of Nightwylde to come to her arms, it would only be for a be for a heartbeat of time. Long enough to bid her farewell. Yet she would welcome it gladly, embrace the agony of having to watch him stride out of her life forever, if she could just know that he walked the same earth as she, alive and strong.

She walked on weary feet to the mullioned window. A stool, carved with fanciful creatures spawned of ancient myth, sat in the shadow of the window ledge, an abandoned coverlet lying in a pool of ivory satin at its feet. She stared at the fluffy folds, a mute reminder of the hours she had spent curled upon that stool, beneath the blanket. Endless hours she had watched the dawn play at hoodman blind, until it had swept its bright colored ribbons of light from between the night's black fingers.

Sinking down onto the stool, Maryssa drew the coverlet about her shoulders, huddling deep into the comforting folds to begin her vigil anew.

Folding her arms on the hard stone of the window ledge, she pillowed her cheek in the crook of her elbow, the sable masses of her unbound hair tumbling about her in a waterfall of silk. She closed her eyes, remembering Tade's fingers charting sensual paths through the heavy strands, remembering his lips as they gentled her, loved her. Remembering as she at last surrendered to an exhausted sleep.

S
omething was crying
. Maryssa heard it, soft and pitiful, felt the brush of warm wetness that could only be tears. She struggled to reach it, shake off the heavy bindings of sleep, but white-haired sorceresses seemed to keep her weighted with a score of magic spells. Cruel spells that whispered to her in the beloved tones of Tade's voice, brushed her with the sweet warmth of his lips, his callused fingers.

She whimpered, feeling, even through the numbness of sleep the fierce, twisting pain of needing him, yet the insistent crying thing would allow her not even that peace, intruding on her senses until it sounded in her very ear.

Maryssa stirred, pressing one hand against her ear to blot out the sound. But when her fingers encountered something soft and furry—something alive—wriggling upon the sill, she came suddenly awake, a scream rising in her throat.

She tumbled off the stool, her rump thudding onto the floor, her eyes flashing wide, expecting to see some creature of dream or of nightmare seated on the stone ledge. But instead of some night demon, her gaze fell upon what looked to be a puff of mist with whiskers and huge tilted eyes of the most brilliant blue she'd ever seen.

Too startled to move, she stared at the tiny kitten, which was now cavorting ever nearer the edge of the windowsill, its wide eyes fixed on a night-moth that kept dancing just out of reach. But when the tiny feline hunkered down on its little haunches, tensing to spring, Maryssa bolted up from the floor and snatched it from the ledge just as it made ready to dive into the night.

With a decided lack of gratitude, the furry beast wriggled in her grasp until it faced her, its pink mouth sending forth a most affronted mew. Maryssa peered down into the impish face, feeling her fear drain away, leaving in its wake a flush of tenderness.

“It will serve you no purpose to begin caterwauling." Maryssa scolded gently. “It is passing dangerous for a wisp of fur the like of you to be climbing about castle walls! Does not your mistress mind what you're about?"

"I fear the little rapscallion is sadly irresponsible, milady, and is given to wander at will. But since you show such promise in taming renegades, I thought perhaps if you were to give Odysseus, here, a firm, loving hand, he might be saved.”