Riona (21 page)

Kieran reached out and touched her cheek. “You are real, aren’t you? I’m not hallucinating?”

He wanted her. He needed her. She was the only light left for him in this world. She was light, life, and love … and perhaps even liberty for his shackled heart. He knew this in an even deeper place than the physical, in a place without shape or form, one entrapped in heavy obscurity.

“Aye, I’m real.”

He traced her temple, burying his fingers in her hair. An angel with hair black as sin and soft as a breath, he thought, slipping his fingers around to draw her closer, ever closer, until her faltering breath warmed his lips. He leaned forward, brushing her mouth, tentative as a butterfly lighting upon a rose, for that is what Riona reminded him of. She was a winter rose that bloomed despite all that would make it wither, while he who would protect it lay smitten by fate’s twisted humor. Trying to discern purpose in all this made his head ache as much as the fever had.

“God has been so good to us, Kieran. Surely you must see it.”

The words whispered upon his lips were sweeter than wine, soaking his brain so that the conflict of the heart and mind was lost in intoxicating confusion. He pulled her to him so that all that stood between them was her startled reticence. Even so, she was soft and pliable to his hard and unrelenting physique, as if custom-made to complement him, to make him whole.

“If what I see and what I hold is from Him, then I cannot argue with you, sweetling.” He cradled her head beneath his chin, inhaling the fragrance of her hair. “I would not want to.”

The breath she’d held escaped her, leaving her body with joyful surrender. The fists balled against his chest opened, curling around his neck as she hugged him with a strength that belied her delicate build. Whatever muse dashed those words to his lips, he thanked it. Long had he dreamed of holding Riona this way, of being able to sample her lips at the mere dip of his head. Nay, not just sample, but devour—

Kieran’s descent was checked by a demand of outrage.

“What do you think you’re doing with
my
mother?”

Riona jerked, rolling away from him and staring as if she’d been bowled over by the question.

Fynn stood glaring at Kieran as if to slay him with the daggers in his eyes.

“That’s between Riona and me, not some pug-nosed snot with a knack for annoying the fire out of me.” Kieran shifted, wincing at the reminder of his wounded leg. With Riona so close, his senses had been riveted by the lady rather than by his malady. “And what do you think
you’re
doing sneaking up on us like that?”

“There was no sneaking about it. I walked up here big as the high king himself, but you were so busy seducing my mother—”

“I was
not
being seduced,” Riona exclaimed, casting an uncertain glance in Kieran’s direction. “I was—” she thought a moment—“well … I was not being seduced, and I’ll hear nothing more of it.” She climbed to her feet and started toward the fire, then turned abruptly. “I thought you were entertaining with Dallan and his company.”

Fynn tugged his resentful gaze away from Kieran. “I was and I did. I’ve coin to show for it, but that’s not why I came ahead of the others. We’ve got trouble.”

Riona put her hand to her chest.

“What kind of trouble, lad?” Kieran asked, touching the sword Riona had hidden beneath his makeshift pallet for reassurance. His fingers met with the cold hardness. It was willing, if his flesh was. The exertion of an innocent kiss had left him drained.

“Maille has offered a reward and posted his soldiers the entire way to Drumceatt. There’s four here at the hostelry. I saw Dallan and Marcus speaking to them.”

“Blessings
, eh?” With a cryptic twist of his lips, he glanced at Riona. She’d almost made him believe. He’d certainly wanted to. Taking his sword out, he used it as a crutch to pull himself up. His leg ached to the bone with protest. “Then we’d best be away from here before these so-called friends turn us in for the reward.”

The moment he was upright the stars above them began to whirl in slow motion before his eyes. His brain mimicked them within his skull. A black wind caught him behind the knees and laid him down with a breath-jarring crash. As he registered the pain of the impact, the clang of the sword against the wagon wheel rang in his ears.

“Kieran!”

He heard Riona call his name. That sweetness alone was the painful thread of light he clung to amid the anesthetic promise of darkness surrounding him. For her he’d fight to suffer rather than take the easier path to surrender.

It was for love He suffered …

Riona’s explanation of love struck an awakening chord within.

“Here, let me help.”

Kieran stiffened. There was no time to dwell on the revelation, for the second voice was not Riona’s. As if appearing from thin air, the fairer haired of the two gleemen reached for him. Seizing him by the arms, Marcus held him until Riona drew Kieran’s head to her lap.

“Kieran, be still,” she cautioned, stroking his hair from his forehead. “Your wound is better, but you’re weak from fighting the infection.”

The stroke of Riona’s fingers upon his scalp seemed to still the circling stars overhead.

“Why aren’t you performing with your brother?” Kieran asked Marcus.

“Because, Kieran of Gleannmara, we have work to do if we are to see you safely delivered to Drumceatt.”

Safely?
Suspicion would not let the word settle rightly with him. “And why would you help us?”

Marcus shrugged. “Finella.”

As if that explained it all, he rose to his feet and snapped his fingers at Fynn. “Wake your sister. We’ve a horse to paint by morning.”

“A … horse?” Kieran repeated, disbelieving, when the gleeman nodded.

“Aye, the gray had best be another color by daylight or we’ve no chance of convincing anyone that Lady Riona is my wife and that the twins belong to us.” He pointed to Fynn. “The older lad there can be Finella and Dallan’s offspring.”

“What about Kieran?” Riona asked. “How can we explain him?”

Marcus looked at Kieran. The gleeman’s grin made the hair rise on the back of Kieran’s neck. “Well, he’ll need some painting, too. But that’s Finella’s job. She and Dallan will be along once their sleeping music takes effect.”

“Sleeping music,” Kieran sneered, no longer certain if he was dreaming or if he was at the mercy of lunatics.

W
e beg your indulgence that Dragon’s Breath is unable to astound you with his feats of fire and strength,” Dallan announced to the gathering of guests the following morning, “but neither skill nor muscle availeth against the inner fire of fever.”

An uneasy ripple of amusement wafted through the guests and staff gathered in the outer rath of the hostelry where the troupe of entertainers prepared for a final show before departure.

“I’d have a look at ’im still.” A soldier dressed in a leather tunic like that Kieran had stolen walked within a few paces of the bed where Kieran lay swathed in blankets. Stepping just close enough to see the warrior’s face, he grunted and backed away. “Looks like one o’ them Picts. His whole face is tattooed and hair straight up with lime.”

Curiosity stricken, another guard ambled over. Riona prayed that Finella’s efforts with paint would work again. The woman had spent the better part of the night drawing designs on Kieran’s face while the men worked up a batch of dye for Gray Macha. She’d seen small animals dyed on their owner’s whim, but Gray Macha was more than a notion to undertake, particularly in the light of a fire. Much to Kieran’s horror, the magnificent warhorse was now a shade of bright blue, stylish enough for the noblest fancy. His black mane and tail were plaited and beribboned.

“Crikes, ’em red eyes’ll make ye bones brittle up.”

Kieran shifted beneath his blankets with a low growl, and the man backed away hastily. It was as much a reflection of his genuine humor as it was playing his assigned role.

“The Dragon’s Breath is relatively harmless … more man there than wit, I fear,” Marcus assured the guard. “But when he’s well, he makes a wondrous spectacle, swallowing his sword and breathing fire. Perhaps those traveling to Drumceatt will see him.”

Those travelers who waited while their servants prepared for the day’s journey nodded, intrigued by a wild man who could swallow fire and sword.

“I wouldn’t mind seein’ it meself,” the first guard laughed. “I kin see ’im astride that blue horse, blue face and all, like a matched pair.”

It was an amusing thing to picture, but Riona was too distracted to appreciate it—or the seething frustration of her foster brother at being caught in such a predicament.

“And now for the skit we promised you, now that my wife is rested.” Marcus slipped his arm about Riona’s waist. “Fiona’s to be a mother again and I a father, and as such I continue to do my utmost to assure there be two more like these.” He pointed to the twins, and then, without warning, the gleeman leaned around and kissed Riona full on the lips.

Liex and Leila erupted in a spontaneous giggle, but it was Kieran’s low growl that sent the curious guard yet another pace away.

Now that the shoe had fallen on her foot, it wasn’t nearly as engaging. “That is a skit I prefer to perform in private, good husband.” Riona walked to a table provided by the hosteler for the promised departing show. The raucous amusement sweeping through the crowd made her wish for the ground to open up and consume her, but that was not to be the case. “Let us begin.”

With great reluctance, Riona had agreed the night before to act out the story of the scriptural widow who offered her last food to the prophet Elijah, played by Dallan. Finella narrated the story, drawing in the crowd with her artful play of words. Mischief-maker that he was, Marcus insisted on embellishing the story as the widow’s brother, who had a taste for wine. Once the miracle of the oil jar that could not be emptied had taken place, earning a grand huzzah of approval from the audience, Marcus stole the show. He ran after the prophet to offer him the last of his wine in hopes of a source that would never empty. Elijah drank the small remnant and told him that he’d be blessed by the spirit in which it was given. After the prophet exited, the onlookers howled as comical Marcus mimed trying to get wine out of the empty skin, wringing it, shaking it, and pulling expressions that defied the average
face. The performance was so well received that the hosteler implored them stay another night, but Dallan was firm.

While the guests prepared to leave, Leila played her pipe, perched cross-legged atop the blue stallion, while Liex amused some of the bystanders with sleight of hand tricks with his stones. Both were delighted when they showed off their contribution to the troupe’s income, two silver coins from a kindly merchant.

“Look, Mother!” Liex shouted, running up to Riona and leaping into her arms in his excitement.

Mother
. Joy welled within Riona’s heart. This was no act. She was for all intent and purpose just that. She bussed the child on the cheek. “Well done, Liex.” She turned to Leila and took her coin, admiring it in the light. It was imprinted in Latin, most likely from the Mediterranean. “I’ll bet this will purchase something extra special for an extra special girl.”

“Fynn, mount up your cousins on the dun,” Finella called from the front of the wagon. “We’re ready to be off.”

“Come, my darling Fiona. Your steed awaits.”

Riona smiled warily as she approached Marcus. The young man was perfectly wicked, in a charming sort of way. He reminded her of a cross between Bran and the legendary troublemaker Bricriu.

“Indeed, sir, there could be no more attentive husband than you,” she said in a voice loud enough for the ears of the guards lingering near the gate of the outer rath. Not that they paid much heed. They were engrossed in conversation with the generous merchant.

“My joy is to see to your every need.”

“My joy is to see how well
you
can swallow my sword,” Kieran grumbled lowly from the travois.

Marcus lifted Riona to Bantan’s golden-brown back and turned to the travois with an exaggerated mask of horror. “My stars, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a
green
tattoo … and so ugly at that.”

Riona groaned inwardly. Life was a giant stage to Marcus, but this act was not appreciated.

Constrained by circumstance, Kieran glowered. “Come take a closer look, you miming fool.”

“A mime I may be, but never a fool.” With that, the entertainer danced away in slow motion. Riona couldn’t help but chuckle at his ridiculous antics. He did know how to pluck the strings of Kieran’s patience. Hopefully they would make peace before her foster brother regained his health.

Once well away from the hostelry, Riona’s tension finally uncoiled. The sun overhead washed her shoulders in warmth, relaxing yet invigorating. There was even a part of her that was enjoying the adventure. Never had Riona pictured herself acting with gleemen. The enthusiastic response from their audience would have been intoxicating if she’d not been so nervous.

It was yet another day, and once more God had taken care of them. She said as much as she blessed the ample bundle of food from the hosteler at midday.

“And thank You, Father, for sending these good people our way. Amen.”

“Not
too
good,” Marcus reflected aloud. “The reward was a fat one and gave Dallan and me much to consider.”

Kieran stared flatly. “So why did you pass it up?”

“The reputation Lord Maille leaves in his wake isn’t an endearing one.” Dallan helped himself to another chunk of cheese. “So I say to myself and my good brother, if this Maille is vengeful and tight pursed, think what a thankful and good-hearted lord might pay.”

“Humph.” Kieran contemplated the skin containing the concoction Finella had made. As if coming to a decision, he put it aside, untouched. The curl of his lips suggested a snarl rather than words. “So you’d have a reward from me, would you?”

“I would think you’d want to reward them, Kieran,” Riona spoke up, alarmed at the calculating way her foster brother moved, like a hound pushed to the edge of its tolerance in an intolerable situation.