L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (24 page)

It seemed that she awaited the old woman’s answer as eagerly as
he. Brigit ambled over to them, her wrinkled face creased in a wide grin.
“Getting impatient already, are ye?” Her laugh sounded dry as old bones
splintering. “You’ve scarce begun, milady.” Hands on her hips, she added, “I
don’t expect that babe to make its appearance till after midday, at least.” She
snorted. “And judging by the time Maeve’s been gone, ′twill be nigh that
long before I get you settled in that bed.”

She stomped to the door and yanked it open, calling out for Maeve
at the top of her lungs.

“She must be feeling better,” Moira said dryly.

She made to ease away from him, but Connor kept his arms looped
loosely around her and refused let her go. “It appears we’ve much work ahead of
us.”

She turned to look at him, her cross expression no surprise.
“What do you mean, us?”

He leaned down to whisper, “I told you I would stay with you, and
I will.” A thought occurred to him then, a snippet at the edge of his memory.
“My brother stayed with his wife when their daughter was born,” he told her.
“In fact, if I remember correctly, he said that Gillian withstood the labor
better once he was there with her.”

Moira’s eyes held disbelief. “Are you certain he wasn’t bragging
about something he had no hand in?”

“Nay, ′tis true—would you call Rannulf a braggart?
Gillian’s labor was—” Perhaps he’d best not describe the long, hellish labor
his sister by marriage had endured.

“Was what?” Moira snapped. “Easy? Difficult? You cannot leave a
statement such as that unfinished.”

Brigit and Maeve entered the room then, and Connor felt he’d been
given a welcome reprieve. Moira’s usually sweet nature had apparently
disappeared, leaving her short-tempered and testy.

The women swiftly stripped the bed, turned the mattress and made
it up again. “Come along, then, mistress—climb in,” Brigit directed. “′Tis
time I stop acting the maid and start being the midwife.”

Connor helped Moira up and led her to the bed.

Brigit motioned him away. “You’ll need to leave for a bit,
milord, while I see how things are
comin
’ along.
We’ll call for you once ′tis safe to return.”

That would work out well for him, since he’d plans aplenty to set
in motion before the child finally arrived. “Will you be able to manage awhile
without me? Will should be back anytime—”

Moira caught him by the arm. “Will? Back from where?” She leaned
against him, tightening the invisible bonds binding him to her. “Connor?”

He sighed. She’d not be put off with lies, but how much to tell
her? He didn’t want her worrying, not now. And he had to leave her, to go
discover for himself what was happening. “′Tis just that something has
occurred that needs my attention.”

“Go, then—do what you must.” She tightened her clasp on his arm
and surprised him by tugging him closer and pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.
“We’ll manage fine,” she said, casting a stern glance at the maids. “Go,” she
urged. “You’ll not be easy until you do.”

She was right. He stepped back, aware of a surprising reluctance
to break contact with her, despite his need to discover what was going on.
“I’ll be back as soon as I’m able,” he assured her. He took her hand and
brought it to his lips. “While I’m away, I want you to reconsider my offer to
you.” Her gaze rose to meet his, filled with a warmth he hoped meant his
feelings for her were returned. Settling his hand on the mound of her belly, he
added, “You haven’t much longer to decide.”

She placed her hand atop his. “I know,” she murmured. She
released him and gave him a smile. “Be careful, Connor—and hurry back.”

He couldn’t have timed his departure better, for he left Moira’s
chamber just as Will and the others came up the stairs. Connor hastened into
the other room, kicking aside Brigit’s pallet and snatching the empty pitcher
off the floor, and set about lighting the candles scattered about the spacious
room.

Will and Sir Ivor came in, followed by two guards leading Domnal
O’Neill. The lad, hands tied behind his back, looked weary but defiant. He
stood straight under Connor’s measuring stare, but ′twas clear that was
naught but bravado. Domnal looked scared, more than anything—as well he should.
The position he’d put himself in appeared suspicious, to say the least.

Add to that the level of tension the occupants of Gerald’s Keep
had lived under for months, and ′twas a miracle the lad hadn’t suffered
worse than the bruise he sported high on his cheek.

Yet Connor didn’t see treachery when he looked at Moira’s
brother, he saw a young man overwhelmed by the situation he found himself in.

Connor bit back a sigh. ′Twas a state he recognized—and
understood—too well.

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the bedpost. “Shut
the door,” he ordered. Will, who had stationed himself beside the doorway,
swung the heavy panel closed with a resounding thud. “Now, then, O’Neill, I
understand you were discovered lurking outside Kieran MacCarthy’s cell. What
were you doing there?”

Sir Ivor stepped forward. “He was—”

Connor held up a hand and cut him off. “I asked O’Neill, not
you.” Sir Ivor only shrugged, his mild reaction a surprise, and moved back to
take up a position on the other side of the door from Will. “Domnal?” Connor
prompted.

Domnal took a deep breath, as though preparing to spew out a
burst of defiance, then shook his head and sighed. “When I heard you’d captured
Kieran, I thought to see if I could talk him into coming round to our side,
milord.”

“Indeed?” An unexpected response, but promising.

The lad nodded. “We’ve talked before about how stupid his
cousins’ plans were. As if we could wrest a fortress such as this from the
Normans and keep possession of it,” he scoffed. “His kin and my brothers are
well-matched, milord, in their arrogance and foolish pride. ′Twas great
sport at first, I admit, to plot and scheme about how we’d take the castle and
lord it over everyone.” He shuffled his feet, glancing away for a moment. When
he met Connor’s gaze again, his eyes were dark and filled with pain. “But I
never wanted Moira to get hurt—nor her child, either. They spoke of her as
though she were nothing but a pawn in their hands to use however they would,
not our blood.” He blinked away tears. “When Hugh spoke of taking her to his
bed as soon as her
babe
was born, I knew none of them
cared what happened to her at all. They only wanted to use her. She’s my
sister, milord, her babe my kin as well! I couldn’t allow them to prevail.”

Connor unfolded his arms and pushed away from the bed, moving to
stand directly in front of Domnal. “And you believe Kieran agrees with you?” he
asked, watching the lad closely.

“Aye, milord, I do.”

“Do Hugh and Aidan know how he feels?” Connor fought down a
rising sense of excitement, of anticipation, as a scheme began to take shape in
his mind. But he didn’t dare hope—not yet.

Domnal shook his head and looked at him as though he were daft.
“They never saw us together, milord, I’m sure of it.”

“How can you know?” Will scoffed.

“They’d not have brought him here with them if they doubted him.
Hugh’s justice is swift and final—Kieran would be dead if they had any
suspicion that he wasn’t behind them completely.”

“Do you think that Kieran knows enough about Hugh’s plans for the
information to be useful?” Connor asked.

Domnal nodded eagerly. “Aye, milord. Hugh makes little secret of
his plots, not within the circle of his family and mine.”

“Would he be willing to share what he knows with us, do you
think?”

“I cannot speak for him, but I believe he might—especially if you
don’t harm him.” Domnal shrugged. “If you tell him you’ll protect him from
Hugh’s wrath, he’ll likely tell you anything. He’s lived with his cousins most
of his life, and they haven’t treated him well.”

His thoughts racing, Connor nodded. “We’ll question him now.”
Drawing his knife, he turned Domnal and sliced through the rope binding his
wrists. “All of you, come with me.”

After Connor left, the maids busied themselves with their
preparations for the child’s arrival, leaving Moira with nothing to do but
think in the long intervals between contractions. While curiosity about why
Connor had had to leave nagged at her mind, his parting words—the generosity of
his offer—haunted her. He’d left her with much to consider.

And scant time to do so, she realized as another pain swept
through her.

Though it might seem as though ′twould take forever before
the babe finally made its appearance, in truth she knew she’d hold her child in
her arms before the day was through.

Certainty filled her. The best gift she could give her child
would be a father who would protect the babe, who would honor his
responsibilities—and honor her.

That Connor was such a man she had no doubt.

What of his own past?
she
wondered yet
again. Her mind had brimmed with conjecture ever since she’d realized the
source of Connor’s scars. He’d made veiled comments about his parents and his
family before, though she hadn’t considered precisely what he meant. Should she
wed
him if he wouldn’t tell her about it, or was it
unimportant, save as a tale to show her how he’d become the man she knew?

Both he and his brother seemed bold warriors, exceptionally
considerate—decent, caring men. Connor FitzClifford had treated her better than
anyone ever had in her life! She’d no qualms over entrusting her child’s safety—or
her own—to him.

As always, it was his own security that concerned her.

But he was a man full grown, a man who presumably knew what he
wanted. She’d been honest with him. More honest than ever before. He knew her
situation, her past, yet he was still willing to marry her.

How could she deny what she knew was right?

Aye, she wanted him, with a desire that should have shamed her,
she thought with a wry laugh. She also liked him—his character, his humor, his
strength. She couldn’t have found a man more to her taste if she’d conjured him
up with a witch’s spell.

Another pain filled her
body. Following Connor’s advice, she imagined herself elsewhere, in a place she
wanted to be. With a smile on her lips despite her discomfort, she closed her
eyes and envisioned herself in Connor’s arms.

A smile on his face, Connor passed through the bailey in the
predawn mist and considered everything he’d learned from his talk with Kieran
MacCarthy and Domnal. With Will and Sir Ivor present, he’d questioned the two
Irishmen at length, assuring himself that they spoke the truth—both about Hugh
MacCarthy’s plans and their own opinions about those schemes.

It had been an interesting discussion in many ways, for in the
course of the conversation he’d also discovered the cause of
d’Athée’s
change in attitude toward Moira.

Sir Ivor had drawn him aside before he could leave the barracks.
“I wish to explain to you, milord, and to apologize for my manner toward
you—and Lady Moira—when you first arrived.”

Despite his impatience to return to Moira, Connor nodded and
followed d’Athée out into the bailey. “Be brief,” he cautioned, “for I’ve a vow
to keep.”

Sir Ivor drew in a deep breath, visibly gathering himself. “′
Twas
foolishness on my part, milord. I admit it freely.
Lord Brien was mentor and friend to me, and I resented Lady Moira …” He met
Connor’s gaze and held it. “I feared if she gave her husband the son he
desired, he’d have no further use for me. He was not my father by blood,
milord, but in every other way that matters.” He glanced away. “Once I got in
the habit of insulting her, I could not stop. But observing you and Will has
shown me another way, milord. I thank you for it.”

“I’m glad to hear that you’ve changed your mind, Sir Ivor. But
you’re apologizing to the wrong person.” Connor gave a weary sigh and waited.
As he’d hoped, d’Athée glanced at him again. “My anger was on Lady Moira’s
behalf, not my own,” Connor said firmly. “There’s no reason to treat anyone as
you did her. I hope that once her child is born, you will tell her what you’ve
told me, for I know ′twill ease her mind.”

Sir Ivor bowed. “Aye, milord. Thank you.” Connor cast a look at
the brightening sky, took him by the arm and urged him toward the barracks. “A
new day is about to dawn, and we’re not finished with the last one yet,” he
said wryly. “You’ve work still before you, and so do I. We’d best get to it.”

His heart as light as his stride, Connor hurried back to the
keep. He’d letters to pen and yet more orders to give before he could return to
Moira’s side; he hoped the babe hadn’t arrived in his absence.

But it couldn’t be helped. So much had happened in so short a
time to perhaps—nay, he’d not consider failure—to bring this entire situation
to a swift end. He had to set everything into motion at once. Only then could
he move on to the next step in his rapidly forming plan.

Giving scant attention to the servants stirring in the hall, he
raced up the stairs to his chamber and dug through his coffer of clothing to
find his writing materials. He was no scribe, he feared, nor did his mind
always work in a clear and logical fashion. But ′twas essential that
these missives present his stance plainly, in a straightforward manner without
equivocation. The futures of everyone at Gerald’s Keep—especially Moira’s and
the babe’s—depended upon it.

Padrig rushed into the chamber as Connor sprinkled sand over the
last of the letters and shook it to make certain the ink was dry. “Well met,”
he told the gasping squire. “Are the couriers ready?”

Padrig nodded. “As you ordered, milord.”

“Good. Get these to the men and tell them to be on their way.” He
folded the last parchment and, taking a candle from the stand on the table,
poured a trail of wax along the seam. “Here, lad.” He thrust the letters toward
Padrig. “See that you return at once. I may have need of you again soon.”

He followed him out of the room, grinning at the clatter of the
lad’s boots against the stone steps. If anyone had slept this past night, ′twould
be a miracle.

Connor paused outside Moira’s door and stared at his hands. They
were steady, praise God, though none too clean. He’d spattered his fingers with
ink in his haste to get the letters finished.

No matter. At least he hadn’t blood on his hands, as did the
other man who wanted to make Moira his bride.

Next Connor went in search of the priest, Father Thomas. The
reclusive cleric seldom ventured beyond the bounds of his chapel and home in a
quiet corner of the bailey, generally preferring to focus his attention on the
study of a treatise of some sort.

The sun had scarcely cleared the horizon, and within the castle
walls, the dusky light of morning lent a mystical softness to everything it
touched.

Connor found Father Thomas in the candlelit chapel, preparing for
Mass. “May I speak with you a moment, Father?” he called as he walked across
the open floor of the empty church.

The priest smiled and hurried toward him. “Of course, milord, of
course.” He motioned Connor toward a narrow bench set along the back wall.
“Please, sit.”

Connor shook his head. “I haven’t much time to spare, Father. But
please, you go ahead. Sit down.”

Once the priest had settled onto the bench, gazing up at him
expectantly, Connor hardly knew where to start. Staring at the crucifix over
the altar, he tried to marshal his thoughts. He’d never imagined taking this
step until he’d met Moira, learned of her particular circumstances. The idea
was so new to him, it made him uncomfortable.

But Father Thomas knew Moira, knew most of what had happened
before Connor’s arrival here. Perhaps that would make this conversation easier.

There was only one way to find out. That, and the knowledge that
the longer he delayed, the longer he’d be away from Moira when she needed him,
gave Connor the strength to begin.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his gaze back to Father Thomas,
who waited with a patient smile on his round face.

“There’s no hurry,” the priest said. “Take your time.”

“But there is, Father. Moira is about to give birth—her labor has
already begun.”

“So soon?” He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps ′twill turn out
to be Lord Brien’s child, after all. Do you think the MacCarthys will leave her
alone?”

“Nay, Father, they will not. Even if the child is the image of
Lord Brien, the MacCarthys will never accept the fact, for ′twould
destroy their plans to gain Gerald’s Keep.”

“Indeed, milord, I fear you’ve the truth of it.” He frowned. “I
hadn’t wanted to accept that their greed might outweigh their compassion—or
their honesty,” he added sadly. He jumped up from the bench. “Did you come for
me to attend her or the babe? Nay, you’d have told me at once …”

“Moira was well when I left her a short time ago,” Connor
reassured him. “Be at ease, Father.” Once the priest sat down again, he raised
the subject he’d come here to discuss. “I’ve asked Lady Moira to marry me,
Father—several times, the last just before I left the keep. She has refused me,
despite the fact that I’ve sworn to her that I honor her, that I will raise her
child as my own—”

Father Thomas held up a hand to silence him. “Slowly, my son.
Perhaps you should wait until some time has passed after the child is born.
Perhaps then Lady Moira will be better able to see the value of your very
generous offer. You
do
realize that
sometimes women in her condition develop strange ideas?”

“She must see that this is the best course. If we wed now, the
child will be legitimate—”

“Technically, yes, that could be considered true. However, while ′tis
common knowledge that the child’s parentage is in question, ′tis also
obvious that you could not possibly be the father of the babe.”

“If I say the child is mine, Father, who other than the
MacCarthys will say otherwise?”

Why did no one believe him? He’d be a good and true father to the
child—and a true husband to Moira, if she’d let him.

“Father Thomas, I didn’t come here to discuss this with you. I’ve
already set plans in motion that will help to protect them, to resolve the
problem with the MacCarthys for good. I came to ask you to go back with me, to
convince Moira that marrying me would be in her best interests—and her
child’s.” He paced the width of the small chapel, halting in front of the
priest. “Will you do that, Father?”

The cleric rose to his feet, his eyes fixed upon the statue of
the Blessed Virgin nearby. Connor followed his gaze, studied the way the Holy
Mother cradled her child, gazing down upon Him with love and devotion. In just
that way would Connor expect Moira to look at her babe . .
.

He knew she would.

And by protecting them both, he would make certain that she could
do so.

He said a prayer of thanks to the Virgin for making him see that
his decision was right and sound. Impatient to return, he halted near Father
Thomas while the priest bent his head in prayer.

Finally he crossed himself and turned to Connor. “I believe
you’ve the right of it, milord. ′Tis certain that you’re well able to
protect her, and you’re more of an age with her, so perhaps the two of you will
. .
. ”
He shook his head. “No need to travel down
that road again,” he muttered. “I will plead your case, milord, should it prove
necessary.” He headed for the altar. “And I’m willing to wed you now, before
the child is born, if you’ll permit me a moment to collect what I’ll need.” He
disappeared behind the altar for a moment, then reappeared carrying a polished
wooden case.

“You might want to say another prayer before we leave, Father.”
Connor genuflected and crossed himself. “I suspect I’ll need all the help I can
get.”

It seemed to Moira, in those brief moments when she could think
clearly, that climbing into her bed had somehow caused her labor to speed up.

And now that Connor wasn’t here, she had to face the pain and
fear alone. She’d submitted to allowing Brigit to examine her—an embarrassment,
though nothing compared to what came later, she knew. Brigit told her ′twould
be a long while before the babe finally arrived, and to cease her whining, to
conserve her strength for when she’d truly need it …

For later, when the spasms were worse.

Worse later? ′Twas all she could manage to face now.

The moment Brigit stepped away from the bed, Moira let the hated
tears drip down her cheeks. Children were born every day—women did this all the
time, did they not? Why, then, did she find it so difficult?

She dashed the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her
hand, then used the edge of the sheet to blot her cheeks dry. By the Virgin,
she wanted this babe! She’d suffered for it already—what did the pain matter,
when she’d be able to hold her child in her arms at the end of it?

Much heartened, she obeyed Brigit’s order and settled back
against the pillows to rest until the next spasm came. Weariness vied with
anticipation, but with the soft bolsters nestling her in their warmth, and the
hypnotic dance of flames in the fireplace visible to her through the open
curtains at the foot of the bed, Moira’s thoughts drifted even as her eyelids
slipped closed.