L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (18 page)

“You could have left us to plot and plan on our own. I don’t
blame you for wanting to know what we’re doing—even if you cannot come help
us.” He grinned. “′Tis our loss. I’ve no doubt you’d make a valiant
warrior.” He stuck his dagger in the sheath on his belt. “I’d best keep watch
over my sword, lest you wrest it from me and head off to battle without me.”

She smiled at his weak sally and yawned again. “It’s not the
company that makes me sleepy. The babe does this to me most afternoons.” Her
eyes drifted closed.

He examined the map again, pondering the merits and drawbacks of
their plan, before realizing that Moira hadn’t moved since she’d closed her
eyes. “Moira? My lady,” he murmured, to no avail.

She couldn’t possibly be comfortable in that position. He
whispered her name again; again, she made no response.

He lifted her from the chair, expecting some resistance or an
argument, but she simply nuzzled her cheek against the soft wool of his tunic
and gave a faint, pleasure-filled moan.

The sound, coupled with the feel of her in his arms, set fire to
his blood. He opened the door to her bedchamber one-handed, hurried into the
room and set her on the bed.

He should have left at once, but instead he stood at the foot of
the bed to watch her sleep. She stretched and nestled more deeply into the
downy coverlet, but couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position.

Perhaps she was cold. He tugged up the end of the coverlet and
pulled it over her, kneeling on the mattress and leaning close to remove her
veil and free her hair from beneath her. A hint of a smile touched her lips and
she rubbed her cheek against his hand.

By the saints! ′Twas past time he left, but he couldn’t
resist lingering there, one knee on the bed and his hand cupping her face. If
Brigit came in and discovered him in this position, the old maidservant would
surely make him pay for his misjudgment.

Without warning, Moira’s eyes opened. She stared up at him with
terror, not recognition, in her gaze, and opened her mouth to scream.

Connor covered her mouth with his hand and sought to quiet her
squirming without doing her harm. “Moira! It’s all right, ′tis Connor.”
She flailed about with her arms, one fist striking perilously close to his
groin.

He shifted away from her as much as possible while trying to hold
her still, praying all the while that she’d not unman him before she realized
who he was.

Of course, for all he knew, she might be as likely to do so if
she knew ′twas him.

“Moira—dearling, hush. Hush.”

Awareness returned to her eyes and he slipped his hand from her
mouth. “Connor?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m so glad ′tis you!”
She burrowed into his arms, her face pressed to his neck, muttering fiercely in
Gaelic.

He could scarcely hear the mumbled words, let alone comprehend
all they meant. The half-remembered Irish tales that his mother, in her native
tongue, had secretly shared with her sons had not given him the vocabulary to
decipher what Moira said.

Still, he could tell ′twas no childish tale she told. She
told of a nightmare … How much of it was true?

After a time her sobs eased and she rested quietly in his arms.
He’d shifted till he could lean back on the bolsters at the head of the bed,
with Moira cradled against him in his lap. Her gown had twisted around their
legs, her hair lay in a tangle over them both and one tear-stained cheek had
reddened where she’d rested her face on his wool tunic.

He gazed into her blue eyes, so full of hope, and found her
beautiful.

It seemed the most natural act in the world to
cup
the mound of her belly in one hand, her cheek in the
other, and kiss her.

He spread a line of kisses over her face till he reached her
mouth. Stroking her lips with his tongue, he invited her to join him. She
tasted of salt and sweetness, her lips soft and clinging to his. Her
breath
a sigh, she opened her mouth and gently nipped at
his lower lip before drawing back slightly.

“Connor, why are you here?” Confusion clouded her eyes. She
brought her hand up to trace the scar on his face, her touch as gentle as if
the wound were new. She shifted away from him, though she didn’t move his hand
from her belly, and looked around the room. “How did we come to be in my bed?”
she asked when she settled her gaze on his face.

He felt so guilty he almost leaped off the mattress like a lad
found trysting with a maid. Awkward and uncertain, the old Connor returned full
force.

But the “new” Connor would not behave thus, he reminded himself.
He’d fought hard to imbue himself with strength and self-assurance. Rather than
flee, he reached behind him and rearranged the pillows more comfortably. His
hands about her waist, he helped her to settle onto them, and sat beside her on
the edge of the bed. “You fell asleep at the table,” he said, watching to see
if she’d remember. “You wouldn’t have been able to move had I left you sitting
there for long, so I brought you in here.”

Moira heard the words, but her mind, still muzzy and overwhelmed,
couldn’t make clear sense of them. “Why are you here?” she challenged.

He hesitated, and she could tell from his expression that he
hadn’t decided what to say.

“Just tell me the truth, Connor, whatever it is,” she said
quietly. “That answer should be the easiest to come by, don’t you think?”

He gave a dry laugh. “The easiest? Hardly.” He slipped his hand
off her stomach, the warmth of his touch lingering. “The truth only sounds
easy. ′Tis everything it means that is complicated.”

She sighed. “I’ve heard the truth so seldom, milord, ′twould
be a most welcome gift if you would share it with me. Let me decide if there
are complications.”

He glanced away, then looked back, his dark gaze sweeping over
her face. A tinge of red crept up from his throat to tint his cheeks. “I stayed
to watch you sleep,” he said, his challenging tone matching his expression.

He was right, she decided, staring at him; the truth wasn’t
simple.

But she’d gain no answers from conjecture. She’d asked him for
the truth; the least she could do was return the courtesy. ′Twould be
interesting to see how he responded. “Why?”

“I wanted to make certain you were all right,” he said quietly.

The truth, perhaps—though not all of it? “Was there some reason
you believed I was not? You could have called for Brigit to come sit by me, to
help me, if that were the case. I would imagine she knows more about the
maladies of women in my condition than you do, milord,” she added. Another
possibility occurred to her unawares, something especially chilling when she
considered the closeness developing between them. ′Twas all she could do
to force the words past the tightness in her throat. “Or is that assumption
wrong? Have you a lady wife—and children, perhaps—hidden away somewhere in
England?”

The flush faded swiftly from Connor’s face, leaving him pale, the
area around his scar dead white. “I asked
you
to marry me! That’s scarcely the action of a man who is already wed,” he
growled. He rose and paced to the window, then spun to face her. “How could you
believe me so dishonorable?”

She pushed herself upright and squirmed to the edge of the
mattress. “Most men would avoid going anywhere near a woman like me, yet every
time I turn around, there you are.” Her hair had wound about her arm, the ends
caught underneath her. Growling in frustration, she yanked at the tangled
strands and climbed down off the bed, jerking her clothing into place. “I
cannot understand why that would be so.”

“What do you mean, a woman like you?” Connor took a step closer
to her, then halted when she glared at him.

“You know . .
. ”
Suddenly unwilling to
face him, she turned her attention to gathering her hair together into a
lopsided braid.

“No, I don’t know what you mean. Tell me, Moira, what is there
about you that could keep me away from you?”

She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. Curiosity and
temper warred in his face, and his dark eyes were heated, intense.

However, she doubted he felt any more heated than she at that
moment. She’d grown tired of pondering her sins, weary of looking to her future
and finding little but her child to brighten the rest of her life.

The child should be enough, she reminded herself, angrily
blinking back tears. The fact that she had anything good to look forward to in
her life at all was doubtless more than she deserved.

But knowing that didn’t make her feel any better, not while
standing face-to-face with a tantalizing glimpse of what might have been.

Except for her own misdeeds.

“Will you make me say it aloud, milord? Must I repeat the words
already thundering through my head, the truth of them burrowed deep within my
heart?” She tossed her braid back over her shoulder and straightened her spine,
the movement thrusting her belly into prominence. Holding her hands out at her
sides, she cried, “A woman tainted, who bears a child not her husband’s.”

Connor’s expression softened. “Through no fault of your own,
Moira. Doesn’t the fact that you agreed to MacCarthy’s offer to protect the
others mean something? Does it not lessen the sin?”

“Going to Dermot’s bed was not my sin, Connor.” She forced
herself to meet his questioning gaze, to remain calm and speak the truth when
everything inside her cried out to be silent. “But the fact that I went there
willingly is.”

Eyes narrowed, Connor met Moira’s challenging stare, weighing
what she’d said and how she’d said it against everything he knew of her.

Moira FitzGerald—Moira O’Neill FitzGerald, he reminded
himself—had lived her entire life as the pawn of men. Her brothers, and likely
their father before them, had valued her only for what she could bring them.
Indeed, to judge by Aidan’s recent request, and what Domnal had told them of
Aidan’s involvement in MacCarthy’s plans, ′twas clear they continued to
look upon her as theirs to manipulate as would best suit them.

Especially now that she had no husband to deny their outrageous
requests.

As for her husband … Lord Brien, by all accounts, had used
her as well. He’d seen her as a broodmare, nothing more.

Still watching Moira, Connor dragged his fingers through his hair
before settling his hands on his hips. “Well?” she demanded, her voice, her
stance, challenging him to deny her claim.

“You expect me to believe that?” He shook his head, hoping ′twould
jog some sense into it. He could see that what she’d revealed had upset her, so
perhaps there was some truth in it—at least through her eyes.

“I expect you to say something,” she said testily. “Though
perhaps shock has struck you dumb.”

“What should I say, Moira?” he asked wearily. “That ′tis
your guilt talking, placing the blame for what happened on your own shoulders?”
She certainly seemed angry, though at herself. “Or mayhap you could just as
easily blame your husband for not protecting you or his people? For driving you
into another man’s embrace? If he’d kept Dermot MacCarthy away, none of this
would have happened, would it?”

She sighed. “How can we know? Father Thomas says ′tis not
for us to contradict God’s will.”

“You cannot believe all this was God’s will!” Connor demanded.
“If that were the case, you might just as well order the gates opened and walk
outside into MacCarthy’s hands. Now, before our men go tonight to defend this
keep. Why should we risk our lives to keep your child away from them? Might it
not be God’s will for the MacCarthys to raise your babe, and not you?” he
asked, his voice rising.

“No! It cannot be right for them to take away my child,” she
cried. “Nor to wrest it from our home.”

By the saints, she’d drive him mad! But what did he know about
women and how they thought? A lifetime’s exposure to his mother, as she’d
sought to avoid her husband and his temper even at the expense of her sons’
well-being, had given him no inkling about other women.

He loved his mother despite all that had happened, but he could
easily see that Moira’s love for her child carried with it a protectiveness he
doubted his mother had ever possessed.

Shame filled him. Moira hadn’t asked to be placed in this
situation, nor had she caused all her present woes including his advent into
her life, with his questions and misplaced lust, he thought ruefully.

“You cannot have it both ways, Moira. If the priest is right and ′tis
God’s will for this to happen, why cannot the rest be the work of some greater
power as well? You could just as easily say ′twas God’s hand brought me
here, that my presence here serves some purpose.” He glanced at her, saw that
she’d pressed one hand to her lower back, the other to her belly. Crossing to
her in two strides, he edged her backward to the bed. “Sit,” he ordered.
Grasping her about the shoulders, he helped her obey his command. “My purpose
here is either to protect you from all harm or to drive you into early labor. I
know which choice I’d prefer.” His mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “You’re
not—”

“Nay,” she whispered. “′Tis naught but an aching back.”

He stepped away from her and took up his previous position near
the window. He trusted himself better when Moira wasn’t within his reach.
“Good. I’ve no wish to
cause
you harm, but I doubt
we’re through with this yet.”

What she’d said before nagged at his mind, as did his own
questions. He leaned back against the plaster-covered wall and folded his arms
across his chest. “Why did you tell me?”

“About Dermot?” she asked, paying close attention to the knotted
lacing at the end of her sleeve rather than meeting his curious gaze.

He drew in a steadying breath, glad she refused to look at
him—and wishing he didn’t want to know her answer so badly.

This was no business of his. If she’d desired another man, what
did it matter to him? They scarce knew each other, and he hadn’t lived a
completely celibate life himself.

But he wanted to hear her answer, needed to know this facet of
the woman he’d asked to be his bride.

Mayhap he simply wanted to torment himself, he thought with
disgust. Had he had so little true enjoyment in life that he couldn’t exist
without finding some thorn to prick at any potential pleasure?

He unfolded his arms, straightened and turned to nudge aside the
window shutter. “Aye, about Dermot.” He stared out at the dark clouds scudding
across the sky. Glancing back at her, he found her watching him, her eyes
shadowed. “There’s no reason I needed to know that bit of information, even if
we wed.” He shoved the shutter half-closed and faced her. “Especially if we
wed,” he added. “I’d just as soon not know if we were sharing our bed with a
ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“Dermot’s ghost, his memory,” he said, surprised she hadn’t
understood.

She laughed, the sound without humor. Using the bedpost for
support, she rose. “I told you I had desired Dermot, ′tis true,” Moira
said. “He offered to give me pleasure, and I believed it might be the only
chance I’d ever have to know a man in that way.” Shaking her head, she gave
Connor a sad smile. “I should have realized his proposal was naught but an
empty boast from a cruel man looking for another way to strike out at his
enemy. The memory of him is far more likely to give me nightmares—it already
does—than to haunt me in that way.”

Connor could not look away from the pain in her eyes. “He hurt you?”

“Aye, he did.” She rubbed at her back again, her expression
pensive. “It didn’t take long before I realized he would.” She paced around to
the chest at the foot of the bed and picked up a small wooden box sitting atop
it. “But I managed to harm him as well, though he didn’t realize it until ′twas
too late.”

“What did you do?” Connor couldn’t imagine how she could have
harmed a hardened warrior.

He’d be wise to find out, lest she ever thought to do the same to
him.

Her eyes glowed blue in the fading light, and her smile held
satisfaction. She undid the clasp on the coffer and opened the lid. “I plied
him with a heady wine, in the hope ′twould render him unable to—” her
cheeks flushed red and she glanced into the box “—to perform in bed.” Her hand
unsteady, she drew out a small pot and set the coffer aside. Dipping in a
finger, she pulled it out stained with a dark, sticky powder. “I thought to
help the wine along with this.” She glanced up at him, all trace of pleasure
gone from her face.

“I’ve heard of potions said to help a man ‘perform,’ but I didn’t
know there were ones with the opposite effect.” It gave him a chill just to
think of it.

“Why would I possess anything of that nature?” she asked, looking
surprised. “This is made from the juice of the poppy. I mixed some of the
powder into his wine to make him sleep—or at least to make him docile—but I
didn’t know how much to use, nor how long ′twould be before it had an
effect on him.” She frowned. “Or precisely what the effect would be.”

“It took too long to spare you his attentions.” The size of her
belly confirmed that fact, assuming ′twas MacCarthy’s babe. Besides,
Moira had already admitted that Dermot had taken her to his bed.

“Aye, though it did make him sleep eventually. But the effects
lasted even once he’d awakened—long enough to slow his reflexes the next day.”
Grimacing at the powder clinging to her finger, she grabbed a scrap of cloth
from the sewing basket near the hearth and scrubbed her hand clean. “I’m
certain ′tis how my husband was able to overcome him, for though it took
the better part of the night for the drug to work, once it did Dermot looked as
though he’d been swilling wine for days. He could scarce walk down the stairs.
The cold air outside revived him so that he appeared normal, but ′twas
clear to me when they fought that he’d something wrong with him.”

“Strange that no one else noticed,” Connor remarked.

“His men knew him for a drunkard.” She covered the pot and stowed
it away in the coffer. Raising her chin, she added, “And I told them he’d drunk
unwatered
wine all the night long, till he was sick
from it. They believed me readily enough.”

She crumpled the cloth, in her hand, then looked around as if
uncertain what to do with it. Connor took the rag from her and would have
thrown it into coals smoldering in the hearth, but she caught his wrist to stop
him. “I’ve heard that even the smoke from it is potent,” she warned. “I know
there’s not much of it there, but I’ve no wish to expose you to its effects.
I’ll not send you off to fight drugged and unable to defend yourself.”

“That’s encouraging news,” he said. “Of course, I’m fighting on
your side. You need me battle ready.”

She frowned, doubtless at his flippant tone. “Aye, we do need
you, Connor.” Releasing him, she took back the rag and tossed it into the
chamber pot. Facing him again, her expression serious, she touched his arm
lightly. “Whether
your
coming to Gerald’s Keep is
God’s will or not, I’m glad you’re here—and not simply because you’ve come to
protect us.” She met his gaze. “You’re a good man, milord, and I’m honored to
know you.”

He took her hand in his and bowed over it, letting go of it with
unseemly haste. ′Twould be better for them both if he were to maintain
some distance between them. “You honor me, milady. With your kind words, which
I doubt I deserve—and with your secrets. I swear everything you’ve told me will
go no further than the two of us.”

“Thank you, milord.” She sat down on the bed. “I fear I’ve kept
you from your duties this afternoon.”

“′Tis all right. The day isn’t over yet.” She stifled a
yawn. “You should rest now, while ′tis quiet. I’m sure you’ll not sleep
tonight until I’ve given you my report after our foray beneath the walls.”

“You’re right about that.” She leaned back against the pillows
with a sigh. “The babe thinks the depths of night a perfect time to kick and
squirm. Perhaps if I rest now, he will as well.”

Connor glanced toward the window, where the sky had darkened
further during the course of their conversation. “And now I must go see how
Will and d’Athée—and your brother—have fared in their preparations. I’d hoped
for a clear night, but the rain won’t ruin my plans. It could even help us, for
I doubt they’ll expect us to set a trap if the weather is foul.”

“Do you think Domnal is right, that they’ll come tonight?”

“Given how close they are to breaking through, I’m sure of it.
They’ll not want to risk us discovering their plan.” He grinned, anticipation
raising his mood. “I look forward to spoiling their surprise.”

Connor rubbed at his chin, which itched from the mixture of goose
fat and soot smeared over his exposed skin, and cursed the weather. The rain
had begun soon after he’d left Moira’s chamber, swiftly turning the unpaved
areas of the bailey to a morass of muck. By the time ′twas full dark, it had
rained so hard that even the cobblestones felt slick beneath his thick-soled
boots.

The MacCarthys would be fools if they didn’t return tonight, in
force. Did they realize Domnal had left them?
he
wondered. Or, God forfend, that the lad had come to aid his sister, to offer
her the means to thwart MacCarthy’s plans?

′Twas a miserable night to be out, but a perfect time for a
furtive visit to the newly dug tunnels, better still for a full-scale attack.
The guards on the walls couldn’t see a thing beyond the dismal glow of the few
torches the rain hadn’t extinguished.