The Falcon's Bride (11 page)

And with that, he fell back down in the bed beside her, his wavy black shoulder-length hair fanned out on the bolster, and threw one well-muscled arm across his closed eyes, while the other tethered her wrist again.

“The wound, the whiskey, and that boot you clouted me with have had their way with me . . . for the moment,” he said. “But take no comfort in it. That door is locked. Make one move to leave this bed and
Isor
will have his way with you, fair lady.”

Chapter Eight

“What do you mean she just disappeared?” Nigel bellowed. His savaged eye was thickly padded with cotton wool, his head wreathed in bandages. They had kept Thea’s absence from him as long as they could. He had lost much blood, and had been confined to his bed with a fever that had set in after the falcon attacked him. Now he was on the mend, but hardly fit to be up and about. That had made him surly—downright mean, thought James, looking on. The more he saw of Nigel Cosgrove, the less he liked the man, and the more he wondered if Thea hadn’t staged the trip to Newgrange for the sole purpose of haring off to escape the impending marriage. If it were true, after what he’d seen of her betrothed thus far, he could hardly blame her.

“I know it sounds preposterous, but that is exactly what occurred,” James said. “The bird . . . I believe it was the very same that attacked you, seemed to follow us to New-grange. When we reached it, Thea went inside alone while I waited with the sleigh—to keep an eye on that falcon.
I was of a mind to kill it if it menaced us. She was gone for some time—past the seventeen minutes when the tomb would be flooded with light. I called to her, but she didn’t answer, so I took the carriage lantern and went inside. There was no sign of her, Cosgrove, and there is no other exit from the passage tomb that anyone has ever heard of. I searched the land surrounding, but there were no footprints in the snow—”

“That is absurd,” Nigel said. “You must have muddled them in your search.”

“I did nothing of the kind. There was one clear set of her footprints going in, but none coming out. I thought at first that she was playing a prank on me, but no. It has been too long. And where could she go? There is nothing for miles out there—nothing but mounds of snow. If there were tracks they would still be there. No new snow has fallen since.”

“What then?” Nigel asked hotly, throwing his arms in the air. “You shan’t convince me that anything supernatural is afoot, Barrington. And do not presume to spout that Gypsy horse shite about time tunnels to me! Save that for jingle-brained birdwits like your sister, who doubtless believes in faeries and ogres and . . . what is it you Cornish call the trolls that live in your mines?
Knockers?
”

“Now, see here. There’s no call to snipe at Thea. I’m hardly suggesting—”

“You’d best not.”

“I shall leave no stone unturned until I find her,” James said. The insufferable gudgeon was in danger of coming up with a blackened good eye. It was beyond the beyond. How dared Thea go traipsing off and leave him with this impossible coil to unwind.

“That wretched old Gypsy crone is not exempted from this, you can bet your blunt upon it. Whatever possessed
Theodosia to champion her so? I never should have allowed the woman to set foot in the house. There’s been nothing but misfortune come upon us since I let her in. They do that, you know—bring misfortune. Deuced Gypsies—Tinkers—Travelers—the whole bloody lot can go to the devil and good riddance, the heathens!”

Now who’s spouting gammon over the supernatural
, James wanted to say. He bit back the temptation, with hard-set lips and ticking jaw muscles.

“What did that odious woman say to her?” Nigel asked. “Did she confide in you?”

“No, she did not,” said James. “I asked, but she skirted the issue and I did not pursue it.”

“They’ve probably carried her off!” Nigel went on. “Well? What are you sitting here for? Go back out and run them to ground. Go round to Drogheda and bring the guards from the Watch. Do
something
, man!”

“I’ve only just come in, and I’m exhausted, Cosgrove,” James said, his voice strained. Another minute and he’d tell the jackanapes exactly what he thought of him, by God! “No one wants to find Thea more than I do, I assure you.” Should he speak his mind? The devil take it—yes! “Look here,” he went on, “I know my sister well by half—far better than you, sir, and I’m beginning to believe that Thea does not want to be found. I wasn’t going to do this, but I see now that I must. When you get up out of that bed, there are issues that needs must be addressed. I saw the mark you left upon Thea’s lips, and I know what transpired between you up on those battlements—none of which befits the conduct of a gentleman, sir.”

Nigel gave a dry guffaw. “Are you calling me out, Barrington?”

“I am putting you on notice, sir . . . for the present.”

“What occurs between Theodosia and myself is none of your concern.”

“I beg to differ,” said James. “My sister’s welfare and well-being are very much my concern, Cosgrove. I haven’t liked your attitude toward Thea from the start. I would be remiss as her brother and her protector if I were not to speak my mind in the matter.”

“Now is not exactly the hour to give me the benefit of your ‘mind,’ ” Nigel said.

“I thoroughly agree,” James returned. “Which is why I shall take my leave and be about the business of fetching the guards from Drogheda. There will be plenty of time for settling grievances once Thea is had back safely, please God.” And he turned with a heel-clicking bow to quit the room without a backward glance.

Streaking past two housemaids in the corridor who had obviously been eavesdropping, he collected his multi-caped greatcoat, beaver hat, gloves, and a flask of whiskey to ward off the chill. Then, without a word to anyone, he jogged down the stairs and stalked off toward the stables.

It was scarcely midday, but the sky had darkened considerably since he had returned. He would have to hurry if he wanted to reach Drogheda and bring the guards before the threatening snowstorm. Haste was of the essence. A new snowfall would cover any tracks he might have overlooked, though he couldn’t imagine where they might be. He’d combed the entire area. Not so the guards. They were trained in such things, and might detect something he had not. Beadle the stabler saddled him a magnificent Andalusian stallion, and he rode off at a gallop heading east, straight for Drogheda.

Since Newgrange was on the way, he made one last pass. The gaping black entrance of the tomb was nearly obscured
now by drifting snow. Only a narrow swath remained, showing Thea’s footprints all but filled in now. Cupping his hands around his mouth, James called to her at the top of his voice for what had to be the hundredth time. Her name sounded back in a mournful echo that lived afterward for some time, before dying off on a strong wind that had risen since he’d left the site earlier. There was no reply. If she were near, she would have heard him.

He had no means to light his way into the chamber again, but he’d gone in several times, hoping to find some secret room, some hidden chamber that he might have overlooked where she might be trapped. It was no use. He would have to leave it to the guards, and he would have to make haste fetching them. A close eye on the dark scudding clouds looming overhead, he turned his horse back toward the lane and continued on his journey.

The five miles to Drogheda seemed twice that distance when he finally neared the outskirts of the city. The horse was laboring. He’d driven the animal relentlessly, trying to outrun the storm—to no avail. Such weather was unprecedented in County Meath; they’d all said so. Blinding, wind-driven snow was falling. He could barely see two feet in front of him. Ice crystals were forming on his hair and eyebrows and crackling in his nostrils. His black superfine greatcoat was caked with snow, and his beaver hat was frosted white. He should have opted for the sleigh, or one of the traps in Nigel’s stables instead of the stallion. He’d thought to save time on horseback and outrun the storm, but it had overtaken him anyway. At least in a carriage, he would have been somewhat protected. There was no use lamenting it now. There was a more urgent press. It was still a good distance to Drogheda proper, and there was nothing for it. He had to find shelter somewhere before pressing on.

All at once a structure loomed up before him. It appeared to be the remains of another ruined castle. Pursuant of an architectural career, such sites held an irresistible fascination for him. Many such structures littered the countryside. He’d passed several along the way; dreary, melancholy places whose walls were crumbling from neglect, stark evidence of times gone by. This one, however, was more substantial than some of the others. One whole wing seemed intact, including the portcullis on what must have been the main entrance where the dilapidated wing opposite was attached. From that vantage, he couldn’t vouch for the snow-laden roof and battlements. Still, it would at least provide shelter from the storm, and he turned his weary mount toward it, his head bent into the cruel north wind.

A deep trench all around suggested that a moat had once wreathed the castle. While the sides had fallen in over time, and were not the vertical drop they once must have been, the access was still steep on both sides and the Andalusian balked at the prospect of negotiating it. Half prancing, half slip-sliding through the drifts, James managed to coax the animal halfway down before a deep hollow hidden beneath the surface buried the horse to the withers. He climbed down, a firm hand on the ribbons, and hauled the shrieking, foundering horse out of the drift, thanking God that the fresh powder was still soft enough to manage it.

Coaxing the frenzied animal up the other side of the trench was another matter. White breath puffing from flared nostrils, its eyes crazed with fright, the complaining horse resisted. It took all the strength and skill with horses James possessed, which was not a little, to get the Andalusian out of the trench onto what once had been the castle courtyard. At that, it wasn’t accomplished without thrice tumbling down the grade—horse and all—in the attempt.

Overhead a falcon soared through the snow-swept sky, circling what remained of the battlements. The sight of it sent cold chills not related to the elements racing along his spine. The wind wailed like a woman screaming, stopping him in his tracks. It sounded like Thea’s voice trailing off on the wind. It came again, louder now. It seemed to surround him, just as the wind surrounded him, tugging at the capes on his greatcoat like so many curious fingers.

“Thea . . . ?” he murmured. It couldn’t be. It was his imagination playing tricks upon him, that and the howling wind. It had numbed his brain. So anxious to have news of his sister, he was ready to conjure her from the very air around him, and to spirit her away from the man she was so loath to wed—despite the much-needed wealth their marriage would bestow upon the Barringtons.

Wearily, a firm albeit numb hand wound in the ribbons, he led the horse toward the ruined castle. There was no difficulty gaining entrance. The gaping hole, no more than a slag heap—all that remained of the L-shaped wing still standing—was large enough for the horse to enter as well. James assessed the soundness of the structure and decided that long ago, by the look of things, that section had evidently been destroyed by fire, at least what parts of it would burn. What remained had all but crumbled to dust and rubble over time, posing no threat now. Cautious still, he walked the Andalusian inside, out of the wind, unsaddled it, and went in search of a suitable chamber in the sound wing where he might pass the time until the storm subsided.

Thea awoke still tethered to Ros Drumcondra. His burly fist was clamped around her wrist, just as it had been when he fell into a deep sleep the night before. But that wasn’t what woke her. She was cold—cold and wet!

The moon had moved on, but the sun had not yet risen. Reflected glare from the snow, tinted blue by first light creeping over the horizon showed her Drumcondra’s inert form beside her. Above, the falcon still perched on the headboard. It looked docile enough, but Thea didn’t believe that for an instant. Her scalp was still tender where it had pecked her. If she was cautious maybe, just maybe . . . A soft cluck when she attempted to move put an end to that fantasy. Did the creature never sleep?

Reaching with her free hand, a close eye upon the bird, she slipped it beneath the pelts, and began feeling for the source of the dampness. The hand Drumcondra had tethered was soaked, as was her leg and her shift forced against his thigh. She threw back the furs and her breath caught.
Blood
! Her hand came away red with it. He had stressed the stitches and opened the wound.

Thea tried to pry her wrist free of his grip, but it wouldn’t budge, and the bird began to travel the rolled, carved top of the headboard, its sharp claws clicking against the wood, the bells on its tethers clanking noisily. Nonetheless, Thea shook Drumcondra’s shoulder.

“My lord, please wake. You are bleeding, sir—badly!”

Drumcondra groaned, but did not open his eyes.

“My lord!” Thea persisted, shaking him harder. She cried out when the bird hopped down to Drumcondra’s shoulder and pecked her hand. The creature was absolutely
evil
. . . or overprotective to a fault. Stupid bird! How could a mere wisp of a girl as she harm such a hulking giant? Oh, for a shoe to lob at the murderous thing. Lud! She’d hit the wrong target wielding Drumcondra’s boot. Her benevolence toward all God’s creatures—at least this creature was rapidly flagging. “My lord!” she shrilled in a voice loud enough to rouse the dead. “Awake at once! You are bleeding!”

Drumcondra lurched, and tightened his grip on her wrist. “Uh . . . ?” he grunted, then groaned again, and fell back against the bolster he’d sprung from. “My head,” he moaned, throwing his free arm across his eyes.

She had no sympathy for the lout. Worried though she was that he was bleeding dreadfully, she’d rather swallow her tongue than let him know it.

“Get up!” she snapped. “Get up this instant and minister to yourself! You have opened your wound, sir. The bed is bathed in blood!”