L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (11 page)

The scheme he’d concocted to protect Moira and the child rose to
mind again, a plan that seemed less shocking now than it had earlier. There
might never be a better time to suggest it than this moment.

Before he lost his courage, Connor shifted on his knees to face
Moira more fully. “Milady, the hour grows late, and I’ve yet to tell you about
my plan for thwarting the MacCarthy’s schemes.”

An eagerness lit her eyes, and the hint of a smile on her lips
widened till he could not mistake it. “Please, tell me what you’ve decided.”

He dragged his free hand through his hair and ordered himself to
stop stalling. “Lady Moira, will you marry me?”

As his words sank into her brain, Moira’s heartbeat stumbled,
then began to thrum so fast ′twas a wonder she could think at all. Her
fingers tightened around Connor’s hand and she stared at him in the flickering
light. His dark eyes held honesty, as sincere as the expression on his face—and
uncertainty as well.

Marry him?

Shock turned to panic as the full import of his words flooded her
mind.

“W-w-we cannot wed,” she stammered. “You don’t understand. I
cannot marry ever again.”

She wished he would move away, take his hand off her stomach.
Cease this assault upon her senses so she could
think
. But he had surrounded her with his heat, his scent, his
touch, till she could think of nothing else but him, and the images his offer
had planted in her brain.

If they married, she could be assured of his company—most welcome
to her already—whenever she wished it. And somehow ′twas clear to her
that he’d be a steady husband, lending her his support, his protection—
Nay
! For that reason alone, she could not accept. “I’m
sorry, milord,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with strength as she shook
her head and fought back tears. “You honor me greatly by your offer, but I
cannot marry you—or anyone.”

The babe chose that moment to renew its kicking. Connor shifted
his hand and the child settled. “You see? I can help you with this—and with
much else, if you’ll let me.”

Tears filling her eyes, she pushed her chair back and dragged his
hand off her stomach. “Enough, milord! Please, do not . .
. ”
She averted her face and scrambled from the chair, nearly sliding to the floor
before she caught her balance and lurched to her feet.

“Moira, have a care.” Connor reached out to help her as he stood
as well, but she slipped away from him and moved to the opposite side of the
table. He righted the chair she’d abandoned and shoved it aside, shaking his
hair back from his face. “There’s no need to run from me. I’ll not harm you,”
he said, his voice low and calming.

For some reason, that fact roused her ire. “Why should I believe
you would?” she demanded. “And why should that make a difference? I told you
nay, and nay I meant!” She picked up a chunk of cheese off the table and raised
it to pitch at him, then reconsidered. The childish action would solve nothing.
She choked back a burst of hysterical laughter; she’d really look a fool if her
aim was off and she missed.

She let the cheese drop to the table, and tugged her disheveled
gown into place before glancing across at him. The position of the candles left
one side of his face in shadow and bathed the unscarred side in soft golden
light. ′Twas odd, but she found that seeing Connor without the scar was
like gazing at a stranger. At least that made it easier to apologize. “I beg
your pardon, milord. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She drew in a calming
breath. “You didn’t frighten me.”

He held out his hand to her, but when she ignored the gesture he
let it fall to his side. “′Tis late,” he said, casting a look at the
dying fire. “I’ll leave you to your rest now, but we’ll continue this
conversation on the morrow, I assure you.”

“I don’t—”

“Tomorrow, Moira,” he said firmly. “Perhaps we’ll both view
things differently then.”

Since there didn’t seem to be anything she could say to dissuade
him, she didn’t bother to try. He’d soon learn that she could be stubborn—to
the point of madness, so she’d been told.

Mayhap
that
would
convince him he’d no wish to bind himself to her for the rest of their lives.

He rounded the table and took her by the hand. “Come, to bed with
you.” He tugged her forward and led her to the door to her bedchamber. “I’ll
snuff the candles and bank the fire before I leave.”

Why must he continue to be courteous to her?
she
wondered, ready to scream in frustration.

Instead, she nodded her thanks. “Good night, milord.”

He bowed over her hand, turning it and pressing a kiss into her
palm. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured.

As soon as he released her hand, Moira opened her door and fled
into the sanctuary of her chamber.

Once Moira had retreated into her room, Connor built up the fire,
extinguished all the candles save the ones near the hearth, and opened the door
to the corridor a crack to listen. The earlier sounds of merrymaking rising
from the hall had died away, leaving a blessed silence in their wake. He gave a
satisfied nod and silent thanks that he hadn’t had to call a halt to the
revels. While he knew everyone had needed the respite,
he
required able-bodied fighters on the morrow.

If not sooner.

He eased the door shut and drew a chair close to the fireplace.
He wasn’t ready to retreat to his chamber yet, and this room was already warm
and comfortable. A cup of wine in hand, he sat and stared into the dancing
flames, brooding over all he’d learned today.

He could scarcely wait till morning to begin their survey of the
headland and the cliffs. They’d best make a thorough inspection of the cellars
as well, in case there was some sort of tunnel or passageway leading from the
cliffs into the castle itself.

Though how that could be with no one in Gerald’s Keep the wiser,
he couldn’t fathom.

Still, he’d not ignore any possibility.

He sipped at the wine, the rich brew sending its pleasant warmth
flowing through him, easing his tension and spurring his imagination. Could
Aidan O’Neill possess any information that might help them? Connor couldn’t
imagine anyone with any sense entrusting the obnoxious fool with important
knowledge—but from what little he’d heard about Hugh MacCarthy, he’d guess the
man was ruled more by emotion than sense.

Connor decided he’d question O’Neill again in the morning, then
draft a message for him to carry back to MacCarthy.

As for the other part of his plans, he wished Moira would agree
to wed him, for several reasons—not the least of which being that he hoped
making her his bride would dissuade MacCarthy from any further claims upon her
and her child.

Connor sat up and set aside his wine. Was MacCarthy unwed? No one
had mentioned the fact one way or the other. It would certainly make Moira—an
unmarried Moira—a
very
attractive
lure for the Irishman. Capture her, marry her, and no one could deny his right
to the child.

Nor to his trying to secure a birthright for the babe.

Of course, MacCarthy had left out one important detail in that
plan, Connor thought with a grim smile. The FitzCliffords would not give up
what was theirs.

Gerald’s
Keep
belonged to them, by right
of blood and conquest. ′Twas their duty to protect their land and people.

Including Moira, their vassal’s widow.

For him to marry Moira seemed the most logical solution to her
dilemma. Once she was his wife, the MacCarthys could scarce expect him to turn
her over to them, and
he’d
be in the
perfect position to lay claim to the child she carried.

He’d spoken to her too soon—he could see that now—but the
situation didn’t look to improve with the passage of time. Instead ′twas
apt to grow worse, the nearer they came to the child’s birth.

And once the child was born … They’d never know a moment’s
peace, nor safety for the babe.

Moira’s refusal of his offer hadn’t surprised him. They knew
little about each other, and she had every right to wed where she chose this
time. It was clear her marriage to Lord Brien had not been a happy one.

However, wedding Connor might not seem any better to her—or for
her.

What did he know of being a husband, a father? His experience of
family life was no recommendation for it, though he knew ′twas possible
to create a different situation. Rannulf and Gillian had managed to do so. From
all he’d seen, they’d succeeded. Unlike his parents, Rannulf and his wife had
found happiness together, forged a union made stronger still by the birth of
their child.

But Rannulf had lived away from FitzClifford, from their father’s
complete domination of his wife and younger son, since childhood. He’d seen how
other people lived, had not been forced to endure Bertram
FitzClifford’s
iron fist hovering over every aspect of his life,
poised
to smash to bits the slightest hint of the softer emotions.

A lifetime spent skulking in the shadows to escape his father had
not prepared Connor for much of anything save cowardice. Since Bertram’s death,
Connor had schooled himself in the art of war.

But in the matter of love, of devotion, he knew he was ignorant.

The foreign emotions that had swept through him when he’d felt
Moira’s child move beneath his hand made him wonder if that could change. Made
him wonder at the miracle of it all. He’d felt protective, tender, and though
he hoped she hadn’t noticed, his eyes had been damp with tears until he’d
mastered the unexpected reaction.

Whether his feelings would be adequate for a parent, he could not
judge.

Taking Moira as his bride would be no hardship. If he must wed
someday, why not to a woman of such strength and beauty—beauty within and
without—as Moira?

She drew him to her, without any effort on her part. He could not
deny his attraction toward her, nor the fact that his respect and admiration
for her grew with every passing day.

Her desire to protect her child was so fierce, so profound … What
would it be like to have that intensity directed at him, to be the recipient of
her love and caring?

If she loved with that passion … The memory of Moira’s lips
pressed to his swept through him, hit him just as hard as it had when they’d
kissed, carrying with it a wave of heat rivaling that rising from the hearth.
Her taste, the sweet feel of her rounded body alongside his own …

But that was lust, an emotion familiar to him, not that he’d had
much opportunity to indulge it. Though what he felt with Moira seemed deeper
somehow than the mere yearning of the flesh he’d felt before.

He’d certainly never believed a pregnant woman could be as
appealing as he found Moira. There was a richness, a ripeness to her—like a
fine wine to be savored, an indulgence to the senses. It had taken all his
willpower to keep their kiss light, not to crush her to him, snatching from her
all he could take before she pushed him away.

Though she’d denied him anyway. Perhaps she’d known what had been
going through his mind while they kissed. It would certainly explain why she’d
told him not to kiss her again.

And then, fool that he was, he’d suggested they should wed.

He drained his wine, grimacing when he reached the bitter dregs
at the bottom of the cup. The late hour, coupled with all this soul searching,
had made him maudlin.

He’d do better to reconsider everything on the morrow, as he’d
suggested to Moira.

Perhaps then ′twould become clear to him what course they
should follow.

Moira stood in the corridor before first light, prepared to
follow Connor once he descended from his chamber. She planned to join him when
he visited her brother. Aidan’s words still rankled, still pricked her sense of
guilt. Perhaps if she saw him again, she could appeal to him, beg him to help
her keep Hugh MacCarthy
away
from her
and her child.

Though ′twould likely be a waste of breath even to try, she
realized, since she’d nothing to offer Aidan in return.

Her mind seemed clouded, overwhelmed, overburdened. She gave a
mirthless laugh; she could scarce recall when she’d felt any different. Only
since Connor’s arrival had she known even a moment of happiness, a sense of her
troubles being lifted from her shoulders. Some of her weariness this morn,
however, could be laid at Connor’s door. She’d barely slept, though there was
nothing new about that since the child had grown so large and become so
restless. But in the past, she’d had only her usual guilt and sorrow to fill
her thoughts as she waited for the night to end.

Last night, however, thoughts of a completely different kind had
sustained her through the darkness. Thoughts of Connor FitzClifford—of the
warmth of his kiss, of his gallantry and support of her …

Of his offer to make her his wife.

Before impatience could overwhelm her completely and send her
running like the coward she knew herself to be, she heard his footsteps coming
down the stairs from the floor above.

Pushing aside her nervousness about seeing him again—for she
wasn’t certain she could behave toward him as she had before his startling
offer—she hastened toward the stairs to meet him. As she did so, she debated
whether she should pretend their meeting was a coincidence or simply tell him
the truth.

“Good morning, Moira,” he called before she could decide. He
bowed politely. “If you think to see your brother again before I release him, I
strongly suggest you do not.”

“But—”

“I need to question him about some information I received
yesterday, and I’m not certain he’ll be willing to say anything if you’re
there.”

She drew herself up to her full height and met his challenging
look, opening her mouth to refute his statement. But then the truth of it
melted her indignation and she sighed. “You’re probably right,” she muttered.
“He’s never been one to say aught of value in a woman’s presence, unless he’s
boasting. And in that case, you cannot believe anything he says.”

Connor took her by the arm and drew her back down the dimly lit corridor
toward her solar. “I should have asked you this last night, but I—” he dragged
his hair back from his forehead and a touch of red colored his face “—I became
distracted.”

′Twas good to hear that she wasn’t the only one affected by
their kiss.

Not that it should matter.

He glanced around the empty hallway, then stopped beside the door
to the chamber at the end. “Have you ever heard anything about a way into the
castle from the cliffs?” he asked, his voice low, urgent.

“The cliffs?” she asked, not bothering to hide her surprise.
“Nay. If I knew anything of that nature, I’d have shared it with you before
now. You’ve seen them—how could it be possible to get in from there?” She
couldn’t imagine such a thing; in truth, she’d never even considered the possibility.
“Why do you ask?”

“I was told to ‘look to the cliffs,’” he said. “But I haven’t a
clue what that means.”

“I doubt that Aidan can tell you anything useful. He’s not a man
people share secrets with, since he cannot keep one to save his soul,” she said
derisively. “Though it would not hurt to ask.”

Connor nodded, looking preoccupied. “
Do
you wish to see him again before I let him go?”

“Nay,” she muttered, infuriated at the mere thought. “′Twould
accomplish naught but to feed my anger again. I’ve yet to recover from my shock
at seeing him here, though I can’t say I was surprised to learn he’s joined
forces with Hugh MacCarthy once more.” She frowned, though she felt like
screeching in dismay. “Nor that he’d offered me in trade yet again.”

Connor reached for her hand and clasped it tightly. “You know I
won’t permit him to use you thus again, Moira. No matter what our relationship
might be,” he assured her.

His touch felt too good, too warm and comforting. She couldn’t
allow herself to grow used to it; she must learn to stand on her own. It would
be difficult enough already to let him go. “Thank you,” she said, slipping her
hand free. “I doubt you want Aidan within these walls for any longer than
necessary, so I’ll let you go about your duties.” She edged past him and opened
the door to the solar. “Until later, milord.” Not giving him a chance to
respond, she shut the door.

Unfortunately, she feared she couldn’t shut him out of her
mind—or her heart—so easily.