L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep (3 page)

They’d added their weight to the guilt already echoing through
him.

Guilt resolved nothing, could not bring their father back to
life, God forfend, but it could force Connor to look within himself and vow to
change.

He knew better than most just how empty words—vows and
promises—could be. He’d not allow himself to fall into that trap ever again.

His breathing short, sweat pouring down his face and chest, he
stopped for a moment, focusing his attention on his surroundings. He lowered
the sword and arched his neck, then paused in
midmotion
when he caught sight of the woman sitting just inside the open window above
him.

He bowed. “Good morrow to you, milady,” he called up to Lady
Moira.

“Indeed it is, milord,” she said. She held a brush in her hand,
her hair falling in a smooth, shining swath of brown over her shoulder. Unlike
her previous pallor, healthy color rode high along her cheekbones this morning,
although the shadows beneath her eyes showed she’d not recovered completely
from the past night’s events.

From this angle, her condition wasn’t apparent. All he saw now
was a lovely young woman, not a widow great with another man’s child. She drew
the brush through her hair, reminding him of the women in the tales his mother
had told to him and Rannulf when they were small, stories of beautiful,
mysterious women who could enchant a man with naught but a glance or a smile.

Lord help him if she
did
smile at him. He’d not realized last night how lovely—and tempting—she was. He
looked away for a moment, then felt a fool. He had strength enough to resist
any temptation. He met her gaze fully. “How
fare
you
this morn?”

“I am well, and have suffered no ill effects, so Brigit says.
She’d best allow me out of my chamber, for it looks to be a fine day,” she
said, though her gaze appeared fixed upon him, not the brightening sky.

He glanced down, recalling only then his state of dress—or
undress. Hoping she’d think the flush he felt climbing his face a result of his
exertions, he set aside his weapon, picked up his shirt from the ground and
slipped it over his head. “I beg your pardon.”

She waved aside his apology and sat forward, leaning closer to
the sill. The shutters were open wide, revealing her precarious position. His
heart faltered at the sight. “Nay, ′tis I who must cry pardon, milord,
for interrupting you. I didn’t mean to—”

“Milady, please move back from the window,” he said, his voice
sounding much calmer than he felt, for he feared to startle her. “For your own
sake, if not for that of my heart—” she looked down, gasped and moved away from
the edge “—which I swear has ceased to beat.” He drew in a shaky breath and
nodded. “Thank you.” Bending, he picked up his sword belt and sheathed the
weapon. “You did not interrupt me,” he added as he straightened and wound the
belt about the scabbard. “I was nearly finished.”

Lady Moira edged closer to the window, moving much more
cautiously this time. “Would you be willing to track down Sir Ivor and bring
him with you to my solar? I’m certain you have questions about our situation.
Brigit will bring food,” she offered. “I wouldn’t want you to think that the
poor greeting you received last night was an example of our hospitality.”

Her invitation fit in well with his plans for the morning. The
sooner he learned precisely what had happened at Gerald’s Keep, the faster he
could act to resolve the problem and go home.

Though that plan held scant appeal.

He tucked his sword under his arm and bowed. “I thank you,
milady. Sir Ivor and I will join you as soon as I find him.”

Her movements slow but surprisingly graceful, she stood and
leaned against the window frame, causing his heart to falter again. This time,
however, he couldn’t be certain whether fear for her caused the reaction, or
some other, less benign, reason.

For as she stood there with the morning sun shining full upon
her, her hair gleaming, her body rounded with child, ′twas all too clear
to him that Lady Moira FitzGerald was a very enticing woman.

The image of Lord Connor stripped to the waist, his skin gleaming
with a healthy sheen of sweat from his labors, filled Moira’s mind as she
finished dressing and sat to braid her hair. His movements as he spun and
feinted with the heavy sword had possessed a grace she’d never before
associated with fighting. She’d witnessed swordplay aplenty over the years, for
her three brothers were always practicing with each other—or fighting each
other, she thought dryly. Lord knew, if they’d no enemy to battle, their
tempers grew so fierce ′twould take a saint’s own patience to live
peacefully with them.

But neither her brothers nor her late husband, fit though he’d
been, especially for a man of his years, had ever worn that look of intensity,
of focus, that she’d seen in Lord Connor. What thoughts filled his mind? Would
his skill at arms be that much greater than Lord Brien’s or her brothers’?

If so, then mayhap the MacCarthys had finally—blessedly—met their
match in Lord Connor FitzClifford.

Unable to sit for long with any comfort, she roamed the chamber,
pausing yet again to rearrange the dishes and the platters of food on the table
before giving up and easing her bulk onto a cushion-lined settle near the
window. She took up her needlework, but the simple embroidery about the neck of
the tiny gown required little attention, and her thoughts soon wandered back to
the man Lord Rannulf had sent to help them.

Don’t follow that path,
she cautioned herself. What did she know of men, after all, save that they did
as they wished—usually without giving much thought to any matter beforehand—and
that she’d never been more than a powerless pawn beneath the thumb of one or
another?

Just as her mother had been caught within her father’s power,
before she—and her babe with her—had succumbed to a difficult childbirth when
Moira was ten years old. A chill ran down her spine as
that
possibility burrowed into her thoughts. But matters of life
and death were in God’s hands, not her own.

She fought back the sob threatening to fill her chest as she
considered what was within her control. Could she be so easily tempted where
men were concerned? Blessed Mary save her, all it took for one to lead her
astray were a few kind words to her, and a friendly smile.

She must never forget where
that path led.
To death, and suffering, and guilt enough to weight her down
for the rest of her life.

′Twas the litany she repeated each morn before she rose
from her bed, every night before she closed her eyes.

Every time her child stirred beneath her heart.

Boots thumped against the stone steps outside her chamber,
bringing her useless thoughts to a welcome end. The past was done and gone; all
she could hope for was to do better in the future.

For her child’s sake, if not for her own.

At the sharp rap against the door, she thought to rise, then
decided against it. “Come in,” she called.

Lord Connor opened the door and entered the room, Sir Ivor
hesitating behind him. “
D’Athee
,” Lord Connor urged
as he held the door wide and waited. Sir Ivor, his face twisted in its habitual
scowl, ambled in just far enough so that FitzClifford could swing the door
closed.

After doing so, Lord Connor came to stand before Moira and bow
politely, while her husband’s man scarcely deigned to nod in her direction.

“Thank you for agreeing to join me here,” she said, setting aside
her sewing and making to rise.

Lord Connor reached out and took her by the hand before she could
do so. “By your leave, milady.” He released her, then caught her arm in a firm,
gentle grip and eased her up from the settle. “I can’t have you falling at my
feet every time we meet,” he said, his solemn tone at odds with the glint of
humor in his dark eyes. “′Tis most unnecessary, and it cannot be
comfortable for you.”

“As you say, milord.” Ruthlessly suppressing the urge to smile,
she nodded and slipped past him toward the table. “Please, sirs, sit and be
comfortable,” she said, motioning toward chairs on opposite sides of the long,
narrow board. Lord Connor pulled out the stool at the end for her, and remained
standing until she’d seated herself. Sir Ivor followed his example, surprising
her. Not since before her husband’s mortal injury—when he was forced to take to
his bed for his final, lingering illness—had his man honored her with the
simplest of courtesies.

Considering that Sir Ivor d’Athée prided himself on his fine
manners and knightly
ways, that
lack had shown as
clearly as any words he might have tossed her way what he thought of her.

Perhaps he wasn’t bold enough to slight her in Lord Connor’s
presence—not yet, at least.

She slid a platter of meat toward Lord Connor. “I thought you
might want a substantial meal to break your fast, milord. You must be hungry
after your exertions this morning, especially since I doubt anyone thought to
feed you and your men last night. Tis my province, and I know the maids were
busy with me as well.” Her face heated with shame. “I trust that you were at
least lodged comfortably.”

She served them both and poured ale into their mugs, taking only
a small portion of bread for herself. She’d eaten a hearty meal the night
before—possibly too hearty. Perhaps she should blame the pains that had felled
her on a surfeit of spiced frumenty, and not on the child.

Once he’d cleared his trencher, Lord Connor pushed it away and
poured himself more ale. “I’ve scant knowledge of your situation here. Rannulf
explained the terms under which your husband, God rest him, held Gerald’s Keep
for our family, but he could tell me little about the men who’ve caused you
trouble.”

Before Moira could answer, Sir Ivor made a sound of disgust and
tossed a chicken bone onto his trencher. “The damned MacCarthys.” His hand
shook when he reached for his drink. “Bloody Irish bastards, just like all
their kind. Think they can just come along and steal away what an honest man
labored hard to hold. Too lazy to work for what they want.” He looked at Moira,
and it was a wonder the enmity in his gaze didn’t slay her where she sat. “But
they’re not beyond using any weak slut they can find to get them what they’re
after.” The hatred burning in his eyes held Moira motionless, stunned. “Isn’t
that the way of it,
milady?”

Moira, shocked already by Sir Ivor’s words, gasped as Lord Connor
rose and, reaching across the table, grabbed the knight by the front of his
tunic with one hand and picked him up out of his chair. “How dare you?” he
growled, holding the other man suspended with apparent ease. “You owe your lady
an apology at once,” he said in a more temperate voice, though he tightened his
grip and raised Sir Ivor higher still. “Though it could scarce make up for the
offense.”

She’d never seen Sir Ivor so pale, nor his manner shift from
arrogant to obsequious so swiftly. “P-p-pardon, milord.” He squirmed, then
stopped when it became clear that his efforts to free himself would accomplish
naught. “My words were rash, ill-advised,” he mumbled, eyes lowered. “Forgive
me, milady, I pray you.”

“′
Tisn’t
much, but it’s a start.”
Lord Connor opened his hand and let Sir Ivor drop into his chair with a thump.
“What say you, Lady Moira?” he asked, straightening. “Is his apology—such as it
was—acceptable to you?”

The sight of Sir Ivor so easily routed gave her great
satisfaction, a pleasure difficult to suppress. But she tore her gaze from the
man nigh cowering in his seat to focus on the warrior who had so swiftly and
effectively subdued him. Lord Connor stood tall and relaxed by his chair,
neither his stance or
expression betraying the slightest
hint of anger or impatience. He’d been angry—nay, more than that, he’d been
enraged—scarce a moment before. How had he changed so swiftly, hidden his
emotions with such ease?

She had never known a man who could do so. She turned her
attention to picking up her cup, sipping at the ale while she considered this
strange turn.

How would she manage herself in Lord Connor’s presence if she had
no notion how to read him, how to react according to his moods?

She’d worries enough already without having to contend with that
as well.

“Milady?” Glancing up, she saw that he stood ready to reach for
Sir Ivor again.

“I beg your pardon, milord. Aye, ′tis acceptable.” She
braced her hands on the edge of the table and levered herself up from her seat.
“I should not have called for this meeting so soon. I know we must discuss our
situation, but I fear I’ve not yet recovered from last night, and must seek my
bed for a little longer,” she told him, cringing inside at the thought of
beating so cowardly a retreat—and lying in the bargain. But she simply could
not face more problems, more questions—not now. “Please stay, finish your meal.
Perhaps once I’ve rested . .
. ”

Though she kept her gaze lowered, she dared to peer at him
through her lashes. He believed her falsehood, it seemed, for he nodded, the
concern in his eyes making her feel more ashamed of her deception. “Shall I
send for your maid?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nay, milord. I can manage.” She crossed to
the door leading to her bedchamber.

“Lady Moira.” Lord Connor’s voice stopped her with her hand on
the latch. “Send for me as soon as you’re feeling better. We’ve much left to
resolve here, and we cannot delay for long.”

She glanced back at him. He’d moved to stand at the head of the
table; though his attention appeared fixed upon her, she could see that he’d
not abandoned his vigilance over Sir Ivor, who still sat crumpled in his chair.
“Of course, milord.” His sympathetic gaze made her want to squirm with guilt.
But when she looked past him and caught a glimpse of the hatred still burning
in Sir Ivor’s eyes, a chill skittered over her spine to lodge, heavy and
frightening, deep within her belly.

Refusing to back down beneath the force of his rancor, she met
his gaze until he looked away. But she knew his submission was only temporary.
She dared not permit Sir Ivor to have his say before she had her own chance to
tell Lord Connor the details of what had brought them to this position.

No matter how painful the telling.

One hand resting upon her child for reassurance, she slowly
turned and made her way back to the table. “We’ve waited long enough already,
though I know you came to us as quickly as you could,” she said. Lord Connor
took her hand to steady her as she lowered her bulk back onto the stool,
gifting her with a nod of approval. “I’ll not be responsible for delaying
things any further now that you’re here.”

“I thank you.” He resumed his place across from Sir Ivor, though
he remained standing. “But first I must finish this ‘discussion.’ ” He
rested his hands on the table, leaning toward Sir Ivor. “Let me warn you now, d’Athée,
you’d best guard your tongue in your lady’s presence. Should you
ever
again choose to deride those with
Irish blood flowing in their veins, within my presence or without, be certain I
shall hear of
it.

“And you
will
feel the
bite of my anger yet again.” Lord Connor picked up his goblet and drained it. “′Tis
a wise man who keeps his silence when he’s wandered into unfamiliar territory,”
he remarked. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived here so long, given your opinion of
your companions. Unfortunately for you,
sirrah
,
you’ve exposed your ignorance one too many times in my presence.” His even gaze
appeared to weigh the other man and find him wanting. “You’ll pay for your
insolence soon enough.”

“My lord?” Sir Ivor rose slowly to his feet, staring up at Lord
Connor, his eyes stark with fear.

Lord Connor’s smile held not a jot of humor that Moira could see.
“Your error was greater than you intended, I’m sure. You not only cast grievous
insult on your lord’s wife, but also upon myself. My mother is Irish, Sir
Ivor,” he said smoothly. “Gerald’s Keep was one of her dower lands.” The scar
on his cheek stood out, stark and pale, against his tanned skin. “I will permit
no one
to insult my mother, in any
way. Ever.”

Sir Ivor’s mouth moved, but made no sound. Moira felt not a whit
of pity for the man—indeed, the pleasure that filled her as she witnessed his
well-deserved comeuppance did her no credit, but was enjoyable nonetheless.
She’d suffered more than enough of his sly insinuations, his veiled comments
outside her husband’s presence.

And since Lord Brien’s injury and fingering illness, Sir Ivor had
become nigh unbearable.

Perhaps she’d gained a champion in Lord Connor …

Nay! She’d let no man stand between her and any threat.

Never again.

Lord Connor rose, crossed the room and opened the door, calling
to a maid sweeping the corridor. “Send a manservant to the barracks to bring my
lieutenant, Will, to me at once,” he told her. Bobbing a curtsy, she left to do
as he bid.

Leaving the door ajar, he rejoined them at the table. “I believe
we’ll accomplish more, milady, without d’Athée here to distract us.”

“Milord!” Sir Ivor cried. Color flooding his face, he leaped to
his feet and pounded his fist on the table. “She knows nothing of our defenses,
nor of what we’ve already done. Surely my assessment is necessary for you to determine
your course of action.”

“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” Lord Connor told him
in a cold voice. “For the nonce, you may go with Will when he arrives, and
you’ll do as he commands. You are no longer in charge of the defenses of this
keep, nor have you any authority unless I choose to allow it.” The sound of
footsteps on the stairs was followed by a rapping at the door. “Enter.”

A tall young man wearing a man-at-arm’s rough garb—but the sword
and spurs of a knight, as well—came in, closing the door behind him. “Milord,”
he said, but he bowed to Moira.

“Milady, this is Sir William Bowman, one of my brother Rannulf s
most trusted men,” Lord Connor said. “Will, this is Lady Moira, Lord Brien’s
widow, whom we have come here to serve.”

Sir William bowed again, deeper this time. “My lady, I’m sorry
for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Moira nodded in acknowledgment and tried to observe
him without being obvious about it. He neither sounded like nor had the look of
a common soldier, and ′twas clear the FitzCliffords trusted him. His
bearing held a confidence she hadn’t expected to see, and something about his
face, his eyes, made her think him a man used to laughing.

Lord Connor moved to stand behind Moira’s chair, frustrating her
efforts to watch both men, to study them. “Will, take Sir Ivor out with you to
the bailey. He will help you drill the foot soldiers we brought from l’Eau Clair,
along with those of Gerald’s Keep. Mayhap a morning’s hard labor will teach him
something, though I doubt it.”

Sir William eyed Sir Ivor, who was standing by the table, his
face twisted into its usual near grimace, more closely. “′Twill be my
pleasure,” he said, smiling. “We’ll whip our men into shape in no time, Sir
Ivor, I have no doubt. I’ve already heard rum—” He cleared his throat, blue
eyes bright with humor. “Beg pardon—tales of your training methods. Why, your
name comes up in nearly every conversation with the men here.
′Twill
be an education to watch you at work.”

“Indeed.” Sir Ivor looked as though he didn’t know whether to be
pleased or offended by what Sir William said, but he had no chance to mull it
over.

“Well then, best get to it,” Sir William said, his smile widening
to a grin. He stood aside to allow Sir Ivor to precede him out the door. “By
your leave, milady.” He bowed to Moira again. “Milord.”

“I’ll expect a report from you at dinner, Will,” Lord Connor
said. “See that you’ve something positive to report—and that you make Sir Ivor
work for his keep.”

“′Twill be my pleasure, milord,” Sir William said, laughing
as he pulled the door shut behind him.

Connor watched
Will
leave and resisted
the urge to join his laughter. As he’d learned almost as soon as Rannulf had
put the new knight under his command, the rogue had an uncanny ability to
understand exactly what Connor had in mind. Connor enjoyed outsmarting Will,
for it happened so seldom.

But Lady Moira would likely think him a lunatic should he burst
into laughter now. Not to mention the fact that, other than Will’s japes, he’d
heard nothing since his arrival at Gerald’s
Keep
to
inspire merriment.

She sat huddled on her seat, gaze lowered. He’d noticed that she
seldom looked at him—or the other men, for that matter—directly. He’d felt her
eyes upon him several times since he’d entered this chamber, but
surreptitiously, as though she didn’t want to be caught at it.

As he’d felt her watching him earlier, when he’d been immersed in
his morning ritual.

“Lady Moira.”

“Milord?” Her glance rose no higher than the middle of his chest,
and the way she remained curled upon the low stool made him believe she’d be
happy if she could escape him altogether.

Did she fear him?

The possibility hadn’t occurred to him before now. He’d brought
her the aid she’d asked for, had come to protect her, her unborn child and her
people from their enemies. Last night she’d sounded glad of his arrival.

But his reaction to d’Athée might have frightened her. It had
been swift—though not excessive, in his estimation. Indeed, given the provocation—the
insult to
her
—he thought he’d kept
his temper well in hand, though the fire of it still burned through his veins.

He returned to the table and pulled out his chair, watching Lady
Moira as he did so. She turned toward him, but still did not really
look
at him. “Would you rather I call
for your maid?” he asked. He pushed in the chair and rested his hands atop the
high, carved back. “I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable, and I can see that
something about me does.”

She drew in a deep breath and released it in a sigh. “It’s not
you, milord,” she said, though as he watched her face—what he could see of
it—he didn’t believe her. “′Tis this place. I need to get outside, I
think, away from these rooms.” She looked up at him, surprising him. “If you
wouldn’t mind?”

The turmoil and pain he saw in her deep blue eyes would have made
him agree to far more than her simple request, had she asked for more. The
power of his reaction, so foreign and unexpected, nigh stopped his mind from
forming any reply at all.

She looked away, turning in upon herself. “It matters naught,”
she said, her voice quiet, flat.

He reached out and covered her hand with his, gently holding hers
captive when she tried to slide it free. “Nay, milady. How can I deny so simple
a request?” He could see that his touch disturbed her, so he moved his hand
away. “We cannot leave the walls, but we could go outside, if you desire.”

Slowly, like a blossom opening, she faced him again and met his
gaze, her cheeks faintly tinged with color. “I would like that, milord. First,
I could take you to the parapet, where I can show you how we’ve managed to
cultivate the fields this year. Then afterward, if you wish, there’s a place on
the headland where we could go to talk. The wind there blows away all the cares
of the world. I’ve not been there since . .
. ”
She
closed her eyes for a moment, then sighed and opened them. “In a very long time.”