Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (26 page)

"I know, Tade." Devin's smile widened, the tiniest flicker of strength touching his gaze. "I know." His words were a blessing, a benediction. A farewell. "Now, go tend to your Maryssa before she sets after you with a butter paddle for being late." Devin raised one hand and gently slapped Curran's glossy rump.

The stallion jolted into motion, driving its way through the undergrowth. But Tade did not spare the horse's path a glance. He swiveled in the saddle, straining his gaze back to the inky opening of the cave and the man silhouetted against it. A shiver of foreboding prickled his scalp as the waves of the Samhain darkness broke over Devin's gentle face. The shadows gnarled mountain trees cast over his brother formed the crude shape of a cross.

M
aryssa drew deeper
into the shadow of a jagged boulder, her numbed fingers clutching the folds of her cloak more tightly about her throat. Despite the heat emanating from the tongues of flame writhing up from an All Hallows fire a little distance from where she stood, she felt nothing but the chill of despair and the jeering touch of the wind soughing down from Tade's night-shaded mountains.

In the days since the mass at Christ's Wound, she had been torn between railing at the fate that always pulled her and Tade apart and succumbing to the temptation to disregard all except the passion she felt for him. To meet him here at the fires and clutch to her a future bright with the love that he had promised.

Yet whenever the tug of a future at his side pulled too strongly, she only had to remember the ragged cluster of mountain-folk in the tiny glen or the image of Kane Kilcannon's ravaged face.

She twisted a tendril of hair that had slipped from beneath her hood, and bit her lip to still its trembling. She had no right to steal Tade away from those who needed him so desperately, who had no other champion to stand between them and disaster. And yet, to turn her back on the promise of such joy, when her own life had been so barren of pleasure, to exchange Tade's offer of happiness for the chill promise of Ascot Dallywoulde's bed sickened her.

Maryssa shuddered, clenching her teeth. Even if she never again knew the sweetness of Tade's touch, even if her father railed at her and beat her, she could never become Dallywoulde's bride. And yet, if she were to ride away with Tade this night, would not the years to come prove to be a more subtle torture than any her father and Ascot could deal her?

Always she had sensed the honor Tade possessed, the pride and soul-deep nobility that gave his lightsome features such inner beauty. What would become of that pride during years of playing the fugitive from her father's wrath? How savagely would the lash of his honor flay him in some foreign land, bound by the knowledge that he had deserted those who needed his strength and courage so desperately? He would come to resent the woman who had dragged him away from his duty, perhaps even come to hate her.

Shrill laughter pierced the rollicking music of harp, pipe, and fiddle, and Maryssa's gaze flicked to where the ring of dancers writhed and whirled about the bonfire's flames, which clawed at the black curtain of the night like the fingers of Maryssa's own dread. No, she thought, it would be far better to drive Tade's love for her from his heart with a clean, hot blaze like that of the Samhain fires, banishing the emotions that tempted him to betray his own destiny—and in so doing, condemn her to the fires of a hell far worse than even Satan could devise.

She clenched her mittened fingers as she caught a glimpse of Deirdre Kilcannon's bright hair. The girl, her shoulders drooping, sat huddled beneath a shawl some distance away from the dancers, her face almost as forlorn as Maryssa knew her own to be. She steeled her spine, wishing she could go to Tade's sister and comfort her, but knowing that Deirdre would fly into her face, searing her with hatred. All Maryssa could do was to return to the girl that which Deirdre felt she had stolen—the love of the brother Deirdre adored, the peace of the family that had cherished the copper-haired firebrand from the day she was born.

Tade Kilcannon had given Maryssa so much—love, a budding faith in herself, the wonder of days spent in such beauty that the memory of their joy would hold her through a lifetime. Now he needed her to be strong enough to let him go.

Her eyes caught the lithe, sensual movements of Sheena O'Toole's sleek form as the girl twirled around the leaping flames, and Maryssa bit her lip, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

Of all the agony to come—her loss of the tender ecstasy Tade's love could bring—the greatest would be the knowledge that Tade would need to find someone else on whom to shower his abundant love. He would need a wife and a cottage full of babes to kiss and cuddle and hold in his arms. In time, he would forget the plain English girl who had not had the courage to risk all for his love, and he would take another to his bed and to his heart.

A steel blade twisted in Maryssa's breast, tearing her with a sharp edge of jealousy. But she fought it, forcing her chin high, clenching her teeth against the sob that swelled within her chest. Above all, Tade Kilcannon had blessed her with strength. Though she lost all else, she would cling to that one special gift.

The sound of more revelers approaching drew Maryssa's gaze to the shadow-shrouded ribbon of road winding off toward the base of the mountain. Shouts of recognition and ribald greetings were flung to a rider as he burst forth from the night astride a huge bay stallion.

Maryssa swallowed hard as the rider spun his mount in a prancing circle, firelight glinting off of its sleek flanks, the swirling folds of a black mantle, and the flashing white of Tade Kilcannon's rakehell grin.

One long, booted leg swung over Curran's withers as Tade leaped from his mount's back, calling some teasing jest to a lad decked out in an All Hallows Eve mask fashioned of old hide. Maryssa saw Sheena O'Toole glance toward him, her gyrations in the dance growing immediately more seductive, her full breasts thrusting at the low-cut bodice of her gown, her hips undulating in a rhythm that issued an invitation to the man now tethering his stallion to a nearby gorse bush, an invitation to join her in a dance far more primal than the one she was now engaged in.

As Tade offered the hot-eyed girl no more than a fleeting nod of greeting, Maryssa saw in his fire-limned features something that filled her with a dread far deeper even than the knowledge that she would be abandoning Tade to Sheena's practiced wiles. The bronzed planes of Tade's face were drawn into a mask of trouble and indecision, emotions Maryssa had never known to mar the innate confidence he had always worn about him with the same careless ease with which he wore his dashing black cape.

The glow of the fire cast eerie patterns of light and shadow on lines etched deep at the corners of his mouth and furrowing the brow that had always been as smooth as a rollicking lad's.

Maryssa felt an unreasonable twinge of hurt and betrayal at the thought that Tade might be having doubts of his own about the flight he had urged her to. Her mouth twisted in tormented irony. Somehow, sending her knight errant off to fulfill his noble quest had seemed far easier, believing, as she had, that he held fast to his desire to sweep her away. Now, already feeling the horrible wrenching of Tade pulling away from her, she knew the full agony of the emptiness his absence would leave within her, and of the wound she would carry for the rest of her life.

She stepped from the shadow of the stone into the flickering fingers of light that crept out from the fire, just as Sheena O'Toole trilled out a greeting to him. But he saw neither of them. For at that moment Deirdre's gaze locked upon her brother. Any doubt Maryssa still felt about freeing Tade vanished in a twisting pain as the girl let out a cry and dashed forward to fling herself into his outstretched arms.

Though the sounds of the music and the shouts of the dancers drowned out the words that passed between Tade and his sister, Maryssa could see the child's shoulders shake with sobs, could see Tade's large hand tenderly smoothing the tumble of red-gold curls as he clutched her close. The light from the fire splashed with merciless clarity over the anguish that was carved into Tade's face, the white, tortured line of his mouth, his eyes, squeezed shut against what Maryssa sensed were tears.

Then his eyes opened, and Maryssa could feel the intensity of his green gaze on her own shadowed form. Tade straightened, his face schooled into lines filled with strain as he brushed Deirdre's cheeks with a kiss. Maryssa saw him tug the girl's hair, then hook one finger beneath her stubborn Kilcannon chin, lifting it, as if to infuse her with his strength.

Deirdre's eyes flicked toward Maryssa, tear-bright, reddened with hours of crying. The girl pressed one small fist to her mouth and then wheeled to dash back into the darkness.

Then Tade was striding toward Maryssa, his broad shoulders squared, his face burdened with sorrow. And a solemn hope filled Maryssa.

He paused only a step away from her, hesitating, with something akin to shyness as the beloved curve of his mouth parted in a mockery of his smile. "Good morrow, Miss Wylder," he said, raising one finger to caress her cheek. “It is rumored you are off to be wed—that within a week's time you'll bear some blackguard rogue's name."

Maryssa tried to speak, but couldn’t. Her throat was strangled by tears.

“It is an old name, though, and a noble one." Tade's other hand came up to cup her face. "A name carried with honor and courage through the ages by ancient Irish earls."

His piercing emerald eyes searched her face, and in those green depths she could see every agony that had torn at him these past days, see the warring loyalties within him, including the love he felt for her. She turned away, shame stealing into her cheeks.

"Then it is far too grand a name to give to a coward," she managed, battling the sobs that crushed her chest like iron bands.

"Maura, what the—"

She spun around, nails gouging deep in her palms, the confusion in Tade's eyes flaying her. "I came here tonight to—to bid you farewell."

The planes of Tade's face turned suddenly brittle. "Farewell?" he grated, grasping her arm in a grip that hurt. "What the devil do you mean?"

"Ever since that day in the valley, I've been warring with myself—wanting to go with you, and yet afraid." She fixed her gaze on the dirt, unable to meet Tade's eyes. "Afraid of my father and of-of places I don't know and . . . and people . . ."

"Maryssa, for God's sake, I love you." She felt his body stiffen. "You have to know I'd give my life to keep you safe."

"I know, Tade," she said, with a choke in her voice. "But I was never meant to go off adventuring. You thrive on it, on battles of wits, aye, and of swords and pistols. It will all be a grand frolic to you, but to me . . ." The words trailed off, and she knotted her fingers in the folds of her cloak to keep from flinging herself against him, kissing away the torment now etched on his face.

"I was meant to spend my days curled in a hearth corner with my books and my dreams."

"Books? Dreams? Your father kept you imprisoned in that cursed castle like some fairy-tale princess, chained away from love and life. You belong in my heart and in my bed as my wife, not in some stone grave that bastard Wylder has buried you in!"

"Nay, Tade. I belong at my father's side—at Nightwylde and Carradown—as his heiress. And you belong here in Donegal."

She flinched at the savage curse that tore from Tade's lips as his eyes spat fury at her. "I belong wherever you are, damn it," he snarled. "Breeding sons and daughters, carving out a home. Even now your womb might hold my child."

The possibility that Tade's baby might flourish within her cinched bands of pain tighter still about Maryssa's breast, the feelings of queasiness that never left her taking on new meaning. Yet she pushed relentlessly on.

"You belong here, astride your stallion, Tade," she said, "with your silken hood and your pistols firing. Have you given a wisp of a thought to what would become of these people if you were to run off somewhere with me? Of Rachel? Deirdre? Devin?"

"I've thought of little else since we decided to sail away! Do you think it is easy for me to turn away from those I love, knowing that at any moment Rath might—" Tade drove his fingers through his hair, his broad shoulders stiff with rage and hurt. "But I would cast them all to the winds, Maura, to hold you." His voice was low, thick with emotion, his mouth twisting with pain. "I thought you loved me the same way.”

"Our love is not the same, Tade." The words were torn from Maryssa's breast. "My love for you is real, but it is a timid thing lurking in the shadows beside your love for me—a love that makes you willing to risk all, forgive all. My religion is but a stiff duty while yours runs deep in your blood. My father and I merely tolerate each other while your family is rich in loyalty and affection." Maryssa's eyes turned to the writhing flames, and it was as though she were seared within their depths as she took up one last weapon with which to crush the love Tade had blessed her with.

A bitter laugh bubbled up in her throat, her eyes spilling hot tears. "I had not even the courage to be honest with you when you put yourself in such peril to endow me with your loving."

"Honest?" the word rasped from Tade's tongue.

She forced herself to gaze at his devastated face, knowing that this last blow would have the desired effect only if she had the courage to meet his gaze. "Aye, Tade. From the time I was in the cradle, I—I have been betrothed to my cousin."

The fierce light in Tade's eyes made her falter, and she found the will to hold his gaze in some reserve of strength she had not known she possessed.

"Betrothed," Tade bit out. "All this time we—I thought you loved me, you were pledged to another man?"

"My vow to him has nothing to—to do with love. It is an alliance of properties, fortunes, and rank."

"Damn you." Tade's fingers bit deep into the flesh of her arms as he yanked her against him, his emerald gaze searing her in its fury. "I offered you my heart. My soul. I defied my religion, incurred the wrath of my own father for you—and you stand here prating about fortunes and land? You tell me that even when you lay with me you were planning to go to another man's bed? What a witling I've been, what a cursed besotted fool!" His bitter laugh raked her.