Ronan's Bride (11 page)

“Aye, you’ve lived that way, I know.” She reached out, watching him for any reaction as she took his hand. Holding it in her own, she turned the palm up, most of it covered with the half gloves he wore, a soft flannel this night.

Ronan was half startled when she kissed the palm, but inside him stilled, feeling her breath through the fabric. When she raised her head and half smiled, whispering, “For good fortune...” Instead of letting go, he curled his fingers around her hand, and guided her closer to him.

No plan in mind, only half measuring the reasons, he widened his stance so she stood between his legs, and brought her hand this time to his lips, kissing softly at her fingers, her knuckles and then her palm.

“What was that for?” she sounded breathless, her smile wobbling but her gaze steady as his.

“The same,” he husked, though he went from that action to taking the pad of her finger between his teeth, then curling his tongue between each. He was aroused, had been in a constant state of it, anytime around her.

However, in this private moment, and this intimacy, Ronan indulged and let the heat surface to his skin, his heart thudding, while mouth and tongue, his teeth, sensually playing, until he kissed her wrist. When he noted her heavy breathing, the sheen in her gaze, he lowered her hand and used his other on the small of her back to bring her forward.

The kiss unfolded. Her head tilted and they met, lips already parted. The preceding intimacy was liquid hot and silken, deeper than before. Now knowing how to caress the other’s tongue and slowly delve around. He felt her hands land on his shoulders then slide behind them, her fingers curling into his tunic. His own hands rubbed up her back, down to her buttocks, and subtly arched her closer.

Moving his head in unhurried circles, he suckled her tongue, bit at her lower lip, and went back to kissing. She seemed to enjoy it, be stirred by it. They parted lips to catch their breaths, but hers was against his ear since she leaned on him, her body between his splayed legs prevented him hiding his own state.

Ronan gathered up her skirt until he eased his hands under it, resting palms against her nude hips before boldly rubbing her backside, gently massaging it. But too, pressing and torturing himself, by bringing her against him firmer.

Her hands rubbed down, over his shoulder blades. She husked, “I’m not afraid…”

He slid his hands down to cup the back of her thighs, murmuring deep, “‘Tis not—”

“Ronan!”

She jerked back and his hands fell away. Ronan stood swift, only sparing her a glance before he jogged toward the guard running their way.

* * * *

Sefare breathed deep in and out, gather herself, and smooth her skirts, before she rushed after him. She reached them in time to hear the helmed bowman say, “The whole village appears in flames. The lad said the riders were masked.”

Ronan told her, “Stay inside the castle.” Then ran off with the man, and she hurried to obey, though everyone appeared to be scrambling atop walls to see in the distance. She picked up her skirts and dashed up to the solar. Stripping, donning trousers and boots, her tunic, and a buckskin cloak. Sefare slipped her sword belt over her head before flinging open the door and taking the narrow winding passage upwards.

Atop the castle, she found three of the guards with spyglass, but even without one the glow and smoke could be seen.

“If it spreads to the woods…” the one muttered.

A bell clanging from below had them rushing past her, going to the yards. She could not hear details. There were six who left the gatehouse, and thundered across the moat. She assumed one was Ronan.

Standing with her hands flat on the wall, she wondered what horror it would be for him to see the blaze, run to a fire—that was too close to his nightmares. Sefare prayed for him in that. Still, the villagers had no other defense, and there were not many of them men to start with.

When the Lord abandoned the castle, and with its dark past, few remained in the waddle and thatch huts, and only one or two were timbered, that and the parish church, was all that made up the village.

It seemed hours before the men returned. By then smoke wafted heavy in the air. A line snaked from the village, red and glowing along. In a pattern of fields, and crept ever close to the forests.

She half sat on the wall, men were shouting orders below. Soon a wagon was hitched and rolling over the bridge. As it returned, she abandoned the roof and ran down, out to the courtyard.

Isola, suet covered, jumped off her mount beside a wagon of people.

Seeing them badly burned, many dying, Sefare grabbed the arm of a boy hurrying past. “Tell Mag to set trundles in the chamber I use for training. Hurry now.”

She glanced at Isola, sharing a grim look, before they picked up the smaller children and carried them inside. Men were seeing to the others.

They rushed to prepare makeshift beds, lanterns between them. Two females died as soon as they were laid down. A male servant rolled them up in cloth and took them out.

“‘Tis from smoke,” Isola rasped, her own lungs singed, as they filled the though with water then began stripping charred clothing from children. Sefare had to block out the raw burns, the cries and whimpers, to do so.

Isola muttered, “Someone else was there. Someone—helping them.”

It was some time before Sefare could question her statement. Isola was summoned back out to the yard, and back to the village. For some time there was nothing but laying bodies down, and carrying half back outside, shrouded, dead.

Time unfolded between Sefare washing them down, soothing on aloe, and picking up bloody and charred clothing. Outside, men and horses, shouts and a constant set of separate alarms sounded, known to castle folk and making the air tense as it relayed messages.

Having removed her cloak and sword, Sefare, after the last wagon full came, sat on a cot staring at the one dark haired child, who was yet living. She was numbly aware the servants were slowly folding most of the trundles, and that guards would be treated in the great hall. However, this child, perhaps five years of age, was the only one clinging to life.

Sefare stood wearily and went to bend over the bed, having washed the child’s body and cut all but an inch of her raven hair. The burns were on her right cheek and leg. As she leaned over and kissed that innocent brow, she whispered, “Please live…”

The child’s lashes lifted. Her hand came to touch safari’s white hair…“Am I in heaven?”

“Nay, you are at Lord Ronan’s castle.”

The entry door scraped. The child looked in that direction, her fist swiftly clutching Sefare’s tunic. She whimpered, “The Devil has come. See the mask! Don’t let him take me, My Lady.”

Sefare saw Ronan; filthy and wet of boots, standing in the doorway. He had opened his mouth to speak, but at those words, his hand went to his mask, his eyes terrible on the child’s frightened face. He spun on his heel and left.

“He’s not of the masked who attacked your village. Like you, Lord Ronan was burned in a terrible fire that killed his parents and family.”

She stroked the child’s hand, peering into deep green eyes. “He saved you, he and his guards. Whoever the cruel men were, the cowards who did this, they were not of Lord Ronan’s men.”

Sefare went on to tell her of Pagan de Chevel and his brother Ronan of Duhamel, the Crimson Knight. What brave boys they were, who endured hell and rose from the ashes to conquer. She watched the child relax, sometimes smile or look sad. By the end of it, the girl yawned and murmured, “I’ll have a mask too…and I’ll find those devils and get my revenge.”

Sefare sighed and shook her head. She pulled light linen over the girl and turned to find a young female servant watching, hands clasp at her apron.

“How are the men? All safe?”

The girl took a stool on the other side of the child, her hand absently patting that unburned one. “All save two, who were hit by timber. There is worse afoot. Men spied torches headed toward the woods. A volley of fire was aimed toward the castle.”

“Who would be so foolish as to think—”

The servant said, “Raids are common at harvest times, during spring and autumn. Nevertheless, this was not to steal grain or rob. It was to kill these people, seems for sheer sport.”

“I don’t know… The fact that they were masked—” Sefare shook her head then left her. Mantle over her arm, she exited, glancing in the great hall where those guards were being treated, stripped down to their linen drawers. She entered the courtyard, hearing the chain of the bridge and the shouts from the Celt.

Halting a guard who rode by, she asked, “Where is Ronan?”

“Gone to bring out the prisoners, My Lady. We’re being fired upon from the woods.”

She hurried to the wall and was climbing up when a fist suddenly grabbed her cloak and pulled her roughly down.

Ronan snarled, “Keep down. Can you not see the men are below the wall?”

She did look and see. They were down so that any missals sailed over their heads. Men and servants stood ready, putting out the flames. Her back to the wall, she met his gaze, “What is the purpose, they know they cannot harm this castle?”

“I know nothing as yet.” He peeled off one of the gloves that was burned to nothing on his hand. “If ‘tis because of these prisoners, then Sir Osburn will take them to the bridge, for a parlay. If ‘tis your enemies or mine, they have recklessly murdered a whole village.”

She started to speak when Isola came to them, halting her mount and jumping off. She pushed back her hood. “I lost him near the woods.”

“Who?” Sefare looked between them.

Ronan shook his head impatiently. “There’s no time to explain.”

He was off and both Sefare and Isola stood watching Sir Osburn lead out the blindfolded prisoners. They were put in a wagon. The knight did not ride but protected himself by leading the oxen from the side. A white flag waved on the rear of the wagon.

“Here, we can see from here.” Isola pulled her to a place along the wall. They raised enough to witness that wagon rumble past the guardhouse. When it crossed the moat, half way, the sky appeared to burst aflame. Arrows impaled beast and humans. The wagon seemed to explode with it, and screams came from the men.

“My God. Why take that risk?”

Isola waited until they both made out the figure of Sir Osburn, having dived off, he was swimming back across the moat, then she said, “One of those men had with him a mask of the same. ‘Twas obvious they were committing crimes and hoping t’would be blamed on Ronan. None of this makes sense.”

They turned and slid down the wall, sitting a moment before Sefare said, “It may not. Unless ‘tis a campaign to destroy Ronan and paint him and these men, of murdering innocents. It is too close to this castle to be blamed on anyone else.” After a moment she asked, “What did you mean, before, about someone else?”

The woman wiped at suet on her brow. She was as filthy as the men and her cheek had scrapes as well as the back of her hand.

“I went into the village with Ualtar, Ronan having instructed we go by twos. A child was trapped, half dangling upside down in the attic of the mill house. I was attempting to free her, but could not jump high enough to catch hold. Suddenly she was pulled up, turned and dropped through the hole to me. I thought ‘twas the Celt. However, when I turned, he was standing ready. The Celt took her and carried her out to the cart. I looked up through the hole and caught only a glimpse of him.”

“Not one of our men?”

“Nay. We were accounted. Besides, what I spied were huntsmen’s clothing, brown leather, and for a split second, he looked at me. I have never seen eyes so dark, a face so fierce. His hair was longer than Ronan’s.”

She got to her feet, and dusted her cloak of debris. “It was only riding back that other men told of seeing someone, and none confused him with a villager or their own. He leapt from place to place. Ronan saw him.

I think Lord Ronan was trapped in some….horror of the past, when he first arrived. He was holding a boy no more than six. The lad wept and moaned, it was heart rending, for he begged Ronan not to let him die. The torched hut was caving—and someone grabbed Ronan’s shoulder, and yanked him back, just seconds before it fell. The boy had died. Ronan saw only the back of the rescuer; he’d run to the parish church and vanished.”

They headed toward the gatehouse in time to see a soaked Sir Osburn run through. The seasoned knight was cursing the night blue and telling Ronan and Ualtar, “Bloody spawn killed them all and our best oxen too.”

“No more guessing. We—”

There was a cry from the wall and everyone turned, running toward the guard who pointed. “Here that, My Lord? Listen!”

They could hear low cries of horror and pain. Sefare climbed up with Ronan and the others. It came from the woods. It occurred to her that they had not tried to burn the forest, only use it for cover. Conversely, none of it made sense. Now those cries came from the forest… and the arrows stopped coming.

“Did you send men out there?”

“Nay.” Ronan answered her, his hand reaching for the spyglass and then he moved it along the woods. “Alban!” he called one of the men who came running from the bridge. “Yourself and Galfrid. Use a grapple at the rear wall. See what you can uncover.”