The Emerald Isle (31 page)

He listened with a smile that lingered on her, more warming than
the fading autumn sun. A gleam of interest filled his dark eyes. “I like the people I have met here. And I would like to learn as much as you will share with me, Cahira.”

Again, that delightful shiver when he said her name. Cahira stiffened upon her mount’s bare back, well aware that Colton’s gaze had wandered from her face and slid down to the soles of her shoes. Her cheeks flushed hotly against the cool air. “And who says I will be sharing anything with you?”

He gave her a friendly, confident smile that sent the blood rushing through her veins. “The Almighty himself says a man who follows God will find the desire of his heart.”

“And what would your heart be desiring, Sir Knight? Connacht’s hills? Her farms?” Cahira’s mind burned with the memory of Richard, saucy and bold, offering her father’s own servant as an archery target. She couldn’t keep a thread of bitterness from her voice. “Or perhaps you’re just wanting to help your Lord Richard enslave my father’s people. Are you a mindless slave to your master, or will you be thinking for yourself?”

His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed slightly. “I took an oath of loyalty to Lord Richard, and I intend to keep it. But I am no mindless servant. I obey him because he is an honorable man.”

“Honorable?” She shot him a cold look. “Is using an old man for target practice an honorable tradition in—well, wherever you come from?”

“Normandy—and no, ’tis not exactly fair. But if the man was a thief—”

“Old Brian’s no thief. A drunk, perhaps, but he has no need to steal. I’m sure the charge was false.”

Colton frowned, but said nothing for a long moment. They rode without speaking, letting the silence stretch between them, and finally he spoke again. “Hear me, Cahira. I’m a knight, not a baron. I don’t want land, and I wouldn’t know what to do with Ireland’s hills if the Almighty himself stepped out of heaven and offered them to me. But if God would deign to give me one of Ireland’s fair daughters,”
his voice dropped to a lower, huskier tone, “I would certainly do my best to please her, now and forever.”

Caught off guard by the sudden vibrancy of his voice, Cahira stared at the tips of her horse’s ears and struggled to frame a reply. Were his words a declaration of wooing or mere flattery? Did he truly fancy her, or did he intend to use her? If she allowed this knight to call on her at Rathcroghan, her father would be forced to reach some sort of peace with Richard de Burgo. All who knew of Colton’s courtship would believe that her father had accepted the Normans’ presence in the land. But Cahira knew he could not, he
would
not, do so.

And yet, how could she turn this knight away? She had never met a man like him.

“If you would be wondering about how to please a Gaelic lass,” she whispered, her voice trembling with tension, “let her know you value her for herself alone, not for who her father is. For many an Irish woman’s temper is as bright as her hair, and she’ll not be trifled with, no matter how smooth-tongued the suitor.”

“Cahira,” he whispered. Just that. And he lifted a brow and pulled back on his reins. She followed suit, and together they waited, breathless and silent, until Sorcha and Murchadh had progressed several paces further down the trail.

“I do beg and pray you will give me leave to call upon you.” Colton was looking directly at her now, examining her face with considerable absorption.

Cahira shook her head. “My father distrusts Normans, especially your master. You would not be welcomed at Rathcroghan, no matter what the reason.”

“I didn’t ask to call upon your father. Give me leave to call upon
you.”
His voice deepened as he studied her with a curious intensity. “Is there some private place we can meet?”

Her thoughts jackrabbited through her mind, scampering in all directions. “Unescorted?”

“Of course not. You bring your maid, and I’ll bring my friend. But I must see you again.”

“Why?” The word fell from her lips before she could guard the thought, and his lips curled at the question.

“Why? Cahira O’Connor, have you no idea what a treasure you are? I am a man of sense and sensibility, and I know a rare beauty when I see one. Please, lady. Say you’ll meet me on the morrow. Name the time and place.”

“But your master—”

“Lord Richard has not forbidden us to follow our hearts. Indeed, I cannot help but believe he would welcome an alliance between any of us and the people here. His intentions are honorable. He longs for peace.”

Biting her lip, Cahira looked out into the gathering darkness and prayed for a guiding light. Her father wanted peace. And Richard, no matter how misguided he might be about the value of human life, had not said anything to her today about pressuring her father.

“There’s a place where the banks of the River Shannon meet with the cattle trail leading to Rathcroghan,” she answered quickly, her eyes upon Murchadh’s shadowy back. “Meet me there tomorrow, in the first hour after midday. You know the spot. You stopped to water your horse there yesterday.”

Surprise blossomed on his face. “
You
were the girl in the water? By heaven, I should have known!”

“Please, I must join the others.” She gestured toward Murchadh and Sorcha, who were very nearly out of sight. If she delayed much longer, Murchadh would turn around and ride back to discover why she lingered in the deepening twilight. “Return to your master now and meet me tomorrow, if you will.”

“I will be there, Cahira o’ the Connors.” Colton lifted his hand in salute, then flashed an irresistibly devastating grin. “Until tomorrow.”

Cahira nodded, then waited until he turned his horse and turned the animal toward Athlone. “Until then,” she whispered, watching him ride out of sight.

Cahira walked outside under a thick black sky while Murchadh went in and reported the day’s adventures to her father.
In a most unflattering display of cowardice, Sorcha fled to the kitchens, preferring to give Mags the good news about Brian’s rescue rather than be scorched by the reflected heat of Felim O’Connor’s wrath.

Cahira shivered within her cloak, then paced slowly before the wide oak doors. She felt like a coward herself, waiting out here instead of standing with Murchadh, but he had insisted that he tell the story. “Me father was a
filid
, a natural storyteller,” he told her as they stabled their horses, “and when I’m done with telling your father, he’ll be thinking you’re the bravest, loveliest daughter a man could have.”

Somehow, he had convinced her. And while Cahira didn’t quite believe him, she had to admit the hall seemed quiet within. She’d heard no bellowing, no shouting, thundering, or weeping. But, then again, Murchadh would only tell the heroic parts of the story.

Her teeth had begun to chatter by the time the door opened. Murchadh stood there, his face a study in gold and shadow in the torches’ flickering light. “Why, it’s the wee imp,” he exclaimed, his eyes wide with false surprise. “Why are you hiding out here? Come in at once. Your father is ready for prayers.”

Cahira gave Murchadh a grateful smile as she stepped into the hall. “He’s not raving mad?”

“He’s furious.”

She saw the smile hidden in the corner of his mouth, and sighed in relief. “Thank you, Murchadh, for explaining things. Now, if you will only promise not to mention the knight who pursued us on the road—”

Murchadh held up his hand to silence her. “Felim would never admit it, but he’s frightfully proud of what you did for old Brian. He’s only worried that you’ll never find a husband who can outshoot you. And as for that knight—” He paused and scratched at his beard. “Did I see a knight? Faith, my memory slips more with every passing day. If you’re wanting to tell your father about such things, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

Cahira pressed her fingers to her lips, quelling the sudden urge to laugh. Murchadh slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze, then he slipped out into the darkness, leaving Cahira to face her family alone.

She dropped her cloak on a bench in the entry, then walked to the small chapel off the great hall. Her father stood before the altar, an open prayer book in his hand. Her mother knelt on a cushion, her eyes already closed in prayer. Without a word, Cahira knelt by the railing and allowed herself to fall under the spell of her father’s voice as he recited the canticle. His melodic voice usually echoed with humility as he approached the throne of Grace, but Cahira couldn’t help but notice that a hint of boastfulness lined his voice tonight.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation,” her father prayed, his hands lifting with the eloquence of his words. “Whom shall I fear?”

He’s thinking of Murchadh’s story. He believes I humiliated the Normans. But my wee contest may not quench Richard de Burgos greed.

“The Lord is the refuge of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”

Father God, what does he think I have done? I only wanted to make a point. I did not want to keep our people forever at odds. Connacht needs peace, and we must find some way to establish peace with Richard. Until we do, I will never be able to acknowledge my feelings for Sir Colton.

“I believe I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. O wait for the Lord!”

Cahira and her mother joined in the refrain: “Have courage and wait, I say, for the Lord.”

Turning from the wooden cross over the altar, Felim rested his right hand upon Cahira’s head, his left hand upon her mother’s. “See that ye be at peace among yourselves, my children, and love one another. Follow the example of good men of old, and God will comfort you and help you, both in this world and in the world which is to come.”

“Amen.”

With prayers thus concluded, Felim O’Connor folded his hands, cast his wife a meaningful glance, then nodded at Cahira before
leaving the chamber. Cahira sank to the cushion where she had been kneeling. Her mother had obviously been charged to dispense either a rebuke or a compliment, and there was nothing to do but wait for it.

Cahira watched, mystified, as her mother continued kneeling at the prayer rail for another moment, then she lifted her chin and cast a weary smile toward the cross. “Come, Cahira,” she said, standing. As she gracefully made her way to the hall and a chair near the fireplace, Cahira felt herself being drawn toward her mother’s kind smile in the same way moths are drawn to flame on a summer night.

After seating herself, Cahira’s mother plucked a bit of lacework from a basket and began to work her needle, quietly humming under her breath.

Will she not speak?

Cahira dropped in a most ungraceful heap at her mother’s knee and stared at her open hands. “If I have done anything to displease you, please forgive me.” She dared not lift her gaze to her mother’s face. The sight of a single tear upon that pale cheek would be enough to break her heart, and a glint of disapproval in those gentle eyes would snap her spirit like a dried twig.

“You could never displease me, Cahira.” Her mother’s voice echoed with love. “And though I would not have approved your actions had I known of them beforehand, ’tis not my right to say what you ought to do. You are a woman grown, and as a woman, you will answer to your father or your husband. In this case, your father takes pride in your courage and your skill. Most important, you saved Brian’s life. Any man in the house—or woman, too—would be proud to claim that honor.”

Cahira relaxed, resting her temple against the arm of her mother’s chair as a warm glow flowed through her. The sight of a woman on the contest field might have affronted the Normans, but the Gaels were not offended. ’Twas not so long ago that Gaelic women had gone into battle beside their men, babies hanging from one shoulder and thirty-foot battle pikes resting upon the other. They had fought,
wounded, killed, and died upon the green fields and in the woods, beside their husbands, brothers, and fathers. They were not weak, nor were they cowards.

Let the Normans prefer their pale women in extravagant clothes and castles. She was descended from the warrior Gaels and proud of it, unless—

Cahira bit her lip as a terrifying thought struck her. Did the Normans really prefer delicate, porcelain women? Lord Richard apparently did, and probably Oswald and the rest of them. But the light of genuine interest had flickered in Colton’s eyes. Hadn’t he followed her from Athlone and begged to meet her again? Would he have done so if he liked helpless, simpering women?

“Mother,” Cahira lifted her gaze to her mother’s smooth face, “how will I know when a man begins to love me?”

Her mother’s eyes tenderly melted into Cahira’s. “How will you know?” Slowly she lowered her lacework into her lap, and her eyes took on a dreamy expression. “First comes liking—you can’t have anything without that. Then you begin to fancy one another more than any other man or maid. And then, after marriage and the sacred vows, love moves into your heart and binds you together as one soul.” She paused for a moment, and the silence of the chamber flowed back into the space their conversation had made, until the room was as still as if neither of them had ever spoken.