Irish Moon (16 page)

“It is unfortunate that both our tragedies
will show up in heaven together. I’d say the two will have a large,
long laugh of it, too.”

“My lord. I apologize, but I fail to
comprehend your meaning. Might you explain?”

Niall frowned at him and Ashlon feared he had
offended him. It was impossible not to ask though. A glimmer of
clarity had come shining through and he needed make certain he’d
drawn the correct conclusion.

“Some sixteen years past,” Niall said. “It
was spring as it is now, glorious and green. Imbolc festival was a
resounding success, as it is nearly every season in St. Brigit’s
honor. And much the same way as you came to us, he did also.”

“Who, my lord?”

“De Molay, of course. He brought his head to
my advisor Heremon. He needed the priest to decipher his head, you
see. I know not more of the meeting except from Heremon’s own
mouth, which is buried now, and bending another, better man’s ear.
You see, Heremon met a tragic fall this week past and has
died.”

Ashlon bent his head to show respect and hide
the race of emotions circling his heart like vultures. He was sorry
to have doubted his master, however briefly. His mysterious course
depended on unquestioning trust and would likely end with it, as
well.

“Please accept my deepest condolences, my
lord. I had not heard and was not aware of the two men’s
friendship.” Most of what the king had said suddenly made sense,
miraculously. Ashlon regretted the surge of scorn he’d felt for
Niall O’Donnell.

The events that had led him here had
significance now. A jolt ran through him. Had his arrival in some
way caused Heremon’s demise? Jacques had sent him to Niall to get
him to Heremon. Might Pope Clement have discovered his trail?

He needed more than ever to speak with
Breanne O’Donnell.

Ashlon cleared his throat. “I thank you your
majesty, for your time and insight. You have been most kind.”

“My pleasure, as always. He lies in the
Abbot’s churchyard, if you would like to pay homage to his rested
soul and honorable life.” Niall gestured to the door. “If he were
here, I’d be asking him to calm these blasted nerves of mine. The
man always had a tonic or two, you’ll come to know.”

Ashlon smiled and bowed as he retreated from
the room. A brawny, redheaded man with an ugly throat scar barely
discernable with the heavy beard, eyeballed him and Ashlon met his
stare evenly. “Can you point me in the direction of the
priory?”

The man MacSweeney stabbed a finger through
the air and followed with specific directions. His air was not
haughty so much as severe and Ashlon pitied the man who faced him
in battle.

Beards appeared to be the fashion of the
area. Ashlon counted most men as having one, though none hid
friendly smiles that greeted him on his walk to Heremon’s
gravesite. He doubted the man’s mound of dirt or headstone would
offer insight but felt compelled to pay respects. The man might
have died because of Ashlon.

The sky was hazy, the weather mild and damp,
the air clean and fresh in his lungs. Ashlon had meant it when he
thanked the chieftain. The welcome these people gave went
unsurpassed in all his experience. And Ashlon had many to compare
it to. Hospitality to strangers ran cold or hot through his past,
never warm, until now. He wasn’t sure he could count the fact as
stupidity or confidence but was leaning toward the latter. After
all, would a man, beholden to such extent, bite the hand that fed
him so well?

A large painted, carved cross acted as a
beacon outside the simple stone priory. Approaching it, Ashlon
studied the pictorial carvings. He’d never seen the like. Each
rectangular portrayal seemed to tell a story in vivid color. He
traced a finger along the base of the mammoth cross as though to
make it real, less foreign. More Irish than ourselves, Niall had
said and the idea nagged him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ashlon turned, pulled his hand back as though
caught then felt silly for it upon seeing the man who spoke.
“Unique, certainly,” he said to the robust, bald man clearly of the
cloth.

“Sir Ashlon Sinclair, I presume?” His wide
grin got wider, his forehead wrinkling upward.

“My name precedes me,” Ashlon said. He
waited.

“My sister, Lady Ula has spoken well of you
and as we see few welcome English in these parts, I knew the name
to be yours.” He spoke as though he’d solved a clever puzzle.

“I’ve come to pay respect to the recently
departed, Father Connelly. Would you be so kind as to direct me to
the site?” Ashlon didn’t miss the glimmer of insult when he
returned the play of names. But the man’s smile held and he led
Ashlon without further remark.

“Our door will be open, should you need
solace, my son,” the Abbot said.

Ashlon bowed and waited until the man left
before giving his full attention to the headstone. Heremon was
buried under a birch tree, still too young to offer shade but would
someday. The thick square headstone lacked ornamentation aside from
carved dates and Heremon’s full given name.

He knelt and placed a hand on the dirt. What
direction did he follow now? How would he locate the cargo Jacques
had entrusted to him and would he endanger any other innocent lives
in the process? At what price should he resign himself from
Jacques’ command?

No man could answer him but a single ugly
vision came to mind. The full-lipped mouth he’d pressed his lips to
as though in a dream, open to scream. Possessive fear shot through
his heart and brought him to his feet.

He left the priory yard for the pension he’d
taken temporary residence in, a strategy forming with every
purposeful step. She could not hide forever. But, she could prolong
his cornering her. Rather than chase the rabbit, he would draw the
rabbit to him.

And he knew just the man to help him lure his
prey.

Chapter Ten

“Just the man I was looking for,” Quinlan
said. He approached Ashlon outside of the pension house at the edge
of Tir Conaill, as accurately shown in the map he still
carried.

“Master Blake,” Ashlon said, clasping the
proffered hand. “I did not realize you required further time this
morn. I would have waited.”

“I
hadn’t
,
actually.
Didn’t intend to speak with you again—that is to say, I only now
came, only just
—
,” Quinlan said and paused to exhale loudly. He ran a hand
through his hair. “I’ve come to strike a bargain, Sir Sinclair.
Have you a moment?”

“Yes, of course.”

“May we walk?” Quinlan glanced about.

Ashlon joined him in
stride, waited for the man to broach whatever topic had him so
disconcerted. A bargain. Convenient
,
to say the
least
,
that
Ashlon had the same endeavor.

“You have met the Lady Breanne, have you
not?”

“Aye.”

“Her mother, Lady Ula is set to marry Niall
O’Donnell.”

“I see.” What was it he found so difficult to
ask?

“Breanne will become his
daughter.” Quinlan paused
,
then resumed walking. “I have professed my
intention for her hand to Niall.”

“Congratulations. The marriage will bring you
in line for the throne.”

Quinlan’s brow rose. “No. Niall has named his
successor and to be clear, I have no desire of such a
position.”

Love then? “I see.”

“Breanne is to choose her betrothed by
Beltane feast. I have discovered I am among several—.”

“She will choose, you say?”

“Aye, and there are s—.”

“And she has no entitlement through her
mother wedding the king?” Ashlon heeded Quinlan’s flush at his
interruptions. “He has a son?”

“No. She has title, lands, properties. But
you miss my point, Sir Ashlon. Her inheritance, considerable as it
is, is not my concern.” He blew out his air. “My competition
is.”

His interruptions looked to have tried the
man well. “What bargain do you propose?” Ashlon hid a smile.

Quinlan pulled the collar of his tunic. They
neared the outer bailey of the O’Donnell keep. “I ask for your help
in winning her hand.”

Ashlon snorted. How could he not? The idea
was preposterous. Him school Quinlan in the art of wooing?

“You are a knight, trained
in courtly love, chivalry, the laws that rule society,
well
,
most
society. If you help me learn a measure of grace, composure, I will
be eternally in your debt and I ask now that you seriously consider
my plea.”

“She is a woman. Treat her
as you would any woman you wish to cherish. How I could conceivably
aid
—
.” They
stopped.

“By instructing me in the very specifics of
it. On the ritual of it.” Quinlan lowered his voice, but it did
little to mask his eagerness. “On the physical nature of
courtship.”

Ashlon’s eyes popped wider. The physical
nature? Christ’s bones, was he sincere? Quinlan’s sober nod said as
much.

“I must say, Quinlan, that I am surprised.
Have the ladies not flocked to you your entire life?”

“Nay! I do not mean to say, that is, I have
not lacked for companionship since my fifteenth year. With offers
long running. But the sensibilities of a high born lady are,
Breanne is, different.” Quinlan held his thumb to his forefinger.
“What I ask is a polish of my roughly hewn stone so that I may
seduce her mind and her heart.“

“And in exchange….” Ashlon flexed his
jaw.

“Name your price.”

“Allow me time to consider?”

“Of course,” Quinlan said.

They entered the main hall.

“Will you again join our table this eve?”
Quinlan asked, making Ashlon realize the dinner hour
approached.

“Yes, thank you.” How had the day stolen away
from him?

“Have you considered joining the galloglass
guard, Sir Ashlon?” Quinlan separated from their stride. “Should
you petition to join our clan, we would benefit from your knight’s
training.”

He left Ashlon to ponder the notion. Join the
clan? Was that possible? At present, he had a bargain to consider
and a bath to see to. He’d learned that arriving unwashed to the
king’s table, or any man’s, was an insult.

Though he had not found a moment alone to
speak to Breanne, he might have thought of a faster means to
her.

Walking to the main doors, Ashlon came up
short when the Grianan door creaked open. He saw her nose before
her face, but knew it instantly. With few around, perchance he
could ask her now for a private, secret meeting.

“My lady,” Ashlon said low and
discreetly.

* * * *

Unmindful of the ladies rapt in conversation,
Breanne peeked out of the Grianan door. She saw him nowhere and
sighed in relief. To think she’d actually heard and recognized the
daft man’s voice outside the door. And a good thing or she’d have
run straight into him on her way—

“My lady.”

The door shut like a shout announcing her
exposure. Breanne straightened and faced him, ready to act on her
first instinct and be damned of the stares she might earn. But just
as she felt to run, Ashlon stepped forward like a barricade.

Breanne fought the urge to step back from him
and forced a smile on her face. Her eyes fell to his mouth. Her
chest warmed, her body remembering what his kiss had done to
her.

“Aye, my lord?” Thankfully, her voice did not
squeak.

She looked back to his eyes, aware of every
other person in the hall. And even more aware of him. Within a
moment, so many details filled her senses. He was taller this
close, and broader and the image of his naked chest clouded her
mind. If she tried, she might be able to smell his spicy….

“You have no need to fear me,” he said
quietly, drawing her attention back with a jolt.

“I do not fear you,” she said, a bit too
loud, confused as to why he would think so.

Ashlon glanced around. Breanne followed suit,
though not as surreptitiously, to be sure. She could not account
for her sudden nerves. But it was no wonder he thought her afraid.
She was nigh trembling.

“What I mean to say is you
need not fear I will expose our previous acquaintance. Also, you
have my gratitude.” His gaze returned to hers
;
something indefinable shone in
them.

Unbidden, the memory of his lips on hers
struck her.

Breanne lowered her gaze.

“That said, you no longer need avoid me, as
well.”

“I have not avoided you,”
she said, ready to explain fully her time spent within the
Grianan
,
but
footsteps approached from behind. So she curtsied deeply and
readied to make for the stairs at his back.

At Ashlon’s first glance at whomever
approached, she hurriedly bid him farewell. He didn’t object or
follow and Breanne did not run, leastwise not until she’d passed
the corridor wall.

She closed her bedchamber door and sighed
against it.

“Who are you running from?” Finn asked from
his perch in the narrow window.

“I have not run from anyone,” she said,
swallowing. “Not that you would know either way.”

“Care you mean. Not that I would care.”

“Then why do you ask?” She sat on her bed and
began to undress. Her bath waited.

“You’re right, Breanne. Why ask when one
already knows the answer? To force an admission, I suppose.”

“Somebody is feeling the nasty effects of
over-imbibing.” Her gown fell to the floor.

“As I thought. Avoiding the subject.
Redirecting the conversation. You’re quite transparent.”

The hot water was delicious on her aching
muscles and she closed her eyes while the knots in her shoulders
untied. Finn’s baiting was time and energy wasted. Naught could
penetrate the haze of bliss this bath was giving her. Who knew
spinning could be so wearing? She’d happily never pedal another
strand of wool to life so long as she lived.