Wild Roses (34 page)

"Duncan, we must speak!"

He reached her in time to help her rise, struck as much
that she sounded so alarmed as that he could feel her trembling. But he didn't
wish to speak—he wanted this wretched torment at an end! He swept her from her
feet no matter she gasped in surprise, and then attempted the impossible task
of not thinking that he would hold her no more after this night as he continued
down the tower steps.

"Duncan, please—"

"Your accursed brothers are safe, woman, no arrows
unleashed upon them. Save your words for your fond reunion."

"But Duncan—"

"Enough! Did you not hear me before? We've nothing
further to speak of, you and I—nothing! I'm releasing you to your clansmen,
that alone should suffice."

She had blanched, which cut him. The lithe weight of
her cut him. That she was so incredibly beautiful cut him. That he would never
again know the taste of her lips or feel her touch tore at him so unbearably he
almost groaned aloud. Grateful the steps in this tower were as straightforward
as any in the other three, he reached the bottom floor in what seemed no more
than a moment's time and strode through the narrow forebuilding toward the
entrance to the keep.

"Duncan, you must hear me."

She'd spoken so softly, her voice pleading with him,
but he ignored her still and stepped outside into what had become a steady
downpour, the bailey dark now but for scattered torches guttering and hissing.
It was a short stride to the stable, and he set her down more roughly than he
should have beneath the eaves of the low building while he went inside to
saddle a mount.

Men-at-arms who'd sought refuge from the storm turned
to stare at him, and Duncan waved away the assistance of two young stableboys
who came running. He was so angry now, so wretchedly hopeless that he needed
something to do, anything to keep from exploding, the emotion raging inside him
had grown so fierce.

As if reading his temper, none said a word, the stable
silent but for the low nickering of horses and the sharp whinny of the dun
gelding he saddled for Maire. It seemed the Wicklow O'Byrnes would gain a prize
animal tonight, too, for he knew he wanted a strong mount beneath her. He led
the gelding from the stall, not surprised to see that Maire stood at the stable
door, watching him.

Yet when he drew closer, she glanced with apprehension
over her shoulder and he wondered suddenly what she might fear. Adele? Gerard?
He cursed under his breath, imagining what they would have to say of his decision—by
the devil, he had no time to think of them now!

"Duncan, if you'd only listen to me," came
Maire's plea again as she met his eyes while he gestured sharply for her to
step closer. "I must tell you something . . . of Adele and—"

"I know, woman, they'll not be pleased." He
cut her off, his hands encircling her waist to lift her onto the sidesaddle.

She was wet and shaking, her teeth chattering, and he
felt such an urge to seize her against him, to warm the chill from her body one
last time that it was all he could do to release her. Somehow he did, forcing
himself not to look at her further but focusing instead on leading her mount
the short distance to the torchlit gatehouse as he wiped cold rain from his
eyes.

"No, no, it's far worse! You must hear me!"

He said nothing, steeling himself against the urgent
timbre of her voice even as he signaled for guards to lower the drawbridge, the
loud creaking stabbing at the very heart of him.

"Duncan, they plot against you! I knew you might
not believe me, but you must know—aye, Gerard intends to kill you!"

Duncan stopped cold, such fury filling him that she
would concoct an incredible lie as he prepared to release her, he didn't trust
himself to speak or to face her.

"I overheard them, Duncan, while I was trying to
find my way to the battlements. Adele told Gerard to use his knife against
you—that it would appear as if I'd been the one to slay you since you bear a
knife, too, and then he could finally use me to capture my brother—"

"By the blood of God, woman, will you not cease?
Enough!"

His roar echoing about the bailey, Duncan had rounded
upon her but she shook her head, her expression as stricken as determined in
the torchlight.

"No, Duncan, it's not enough, not until you hear
all! Gerard lied to you about the O'Melaghlins, didn't he? He lives to avenge
his brother, aye, his hatred has become his blood and breath and he thought you
stood with him. But now he believes you've betrayed him—Adele said as much! Can
you not see that he might turn his hatred upon you?"

Duncan didn't answer, couldn't answer, his grip so
tight upon the gelding's bridle that it hurt. Somehow he made himself turn
around even as a ragged sigh came from Maire—she must know he gave no weight at
all to her words. How could he?

He didn't stop again until they reached the lowered
drawbridge, the downpour become so heavy, pounding against the wood, that it
sounded like a roar in his ears. Nor did he hear the enraged shout behind him;
only Maire grabbing wildly to catch his hand as he released the bridle made him
glance over his shoulder to see Gerard running through the mud toward them.

He felt it then, a niggling of instinct suddenly
burning like fire in his gut, while Maire made as if to dismount from her
horse. Cursing, he pushed her back into the saddle and he saw then, too, that
she was sobbing in terror, her fingers ice-cold as they frantically clutched
his.

"Duncan, draw your sword! Saints help you, he'll
kill you and I love you too much—too much!"

He didn't heed her, no longer hearing the rain for the
wild thundering of his heart as he shoved the reins into her hands and slapped
the gelding's rump, his only thought to protect the woman he loved as fiercely.
He caught a last glimpse of her face and then she was gone, horse and rider
galloping into the darkness while Duncan spun around to meet the opponent who
was already upon him.

***

"It's Maire, Ronan, I would swear it!"

He had already spurred his horse from the cover of the
trees before Niall had shouted to him, that no men-at-arms lined the
battlements of the fortress convincing him further that something he'd never
expected was taking place. Rain lashing at his face, he rode as hard as he
could remember, incredulous to see, too, that Maire had reined in her mount not
far from the castle and appeared to be turning around. Cursing, Ronan drove his
heels into his stallion's heaving sides.

"By God, Maire, stay your ground. Stay your
ground!"

He knew she couldn't have heard him above a deafening
crash of thunder, and he made no attempt to shout again but rode all the
harder, Maire's mount suddenly rearing as lightning burst across the sky. If
not for that he doubted he would have caught her; she'd already ridden halfway
back toward the castle.

So close to the towering battlements now that he knew
he was a fair target for any crossbow-men, Ronan reached out and grabbed the
gelding's bridle to steady him, but he saw at once that Maire was another
matter. A blinding flash of lightning showed her face twisted with such
anguish, fierce sobs shaking her, that he knew then much was not as it seemed
this night.

"Help him, Ronan, please help him!"

He followed her gaze to the fortress and the fight
raging on the drawbridge, heavy sword ringing against sword, Ronan's gut
instincts screaming for him to do no more than grab Maire from her horse and
ride back to Glenmalure as if the spawn of Satan himself were at their heels.
Yet her agonized cry when one of the Normans crumpled to his knees cut him to
the quick. Maire frantically slid from the saddle to attempt as best she could,
slipping and stumbling, to run toward the castle.

"Saints help him, no! Ronan, please, I love him!
I've never asked you for anything before!"

An arrow was flying through the air before she'd collapsed
to weep helplessly. Ronan cursed under his breath as the missile found its
mark, the second Norman pitching sideways into the empty moat. Dead, aye, he
was certain of it, the very man he'd fought the night before, and he vehemently
hoped the same for the baron of Longford who lay still upon the drawbridge. As
shouts coming from the castle filled the night, Ronan had no chance to dismount
before Niall reined in beside him and jumped from his horse to gather Maire
into his arms.

"Please, I want to go to him! Let me go to him—ah,
God, Duncan!"

Niall said nothing to her frenzied cries and Ronan
couldn't, wishing to think no further of what had transpired these past days,
his throat as tight as his grip on the reins. To hear her speak of loving a
Norman . . .

"Lord, we must ride! Look!"

Flann O'Faelin's urgent voice spurred Ronan as much as
the commotion raging on the drawbridge, and already Niall bore Maire back to
his horse. Her desperate cries silenced, she still wept disconsolately but even
to that Ronan closed his heart and his ears. He scarcely waited until Niall was
mounted, Maire slumped in his arms, before he kicked his steed into a gallop.

"To Glenmalure, all of you, home!"

Chapter 33

"Does she speak?"

Triona closed the door quietly to Maire's bedchamber
and gave Ronan a small nod, the story that had poured forth brokenly after two
days of poignant silence as heartrending as any she'd known. Yet she doubted
that Ronan would wish to hear it. Even now his countenance was black, and he'd
looked no different since he had returned with Maire to Glenmalure.

It pained Triona so deeply that she'd failed to cheer
him. Their little daughter Deirdre didn't understand in the least why her
beloved papa would not smile. Triona sighed as Ronan lunged from a chair and
went to stand before the central hearth, his broad back to her; she didn't
attempt to go near him. It seemed he would have to reconcile his anger on his
own, aye, she'd judged well that Ronan was furious with Maire.

And that made her angry, too, for poor Maire's sake.
Jesu, Mary, and Joseph, as if anyone could govern the path of love! Had she
imagined Ronan Black O'Byrne would one day become her husband when he'd
answered her godfather's deathbed summons and come to the glen of Imaal? Oh,
aye, that's why she'd aimed her bow at him and threatened to skewer him with
arrows!

Triona sighed again, telling herself to mind her temper
as well as her tongue though she wanted so badly to do otherwise. And there was
another matter that must be attended to, so sad and wretched a task she hoped
Ronan would help her to break the unhappy news to Niall. It was no wonder Maire
had wanted to wait until they were home in Glenmalure before she revealed
Caitlin MacMurrough's change of heart.

"By God, Triona, tell me it was all a ruse. Tell
me Maire wasn't in love with that Norman spawn!"

Ronan's voice filled with as much raw anguish of his
own as anger, Triona waited silently until he had turned to look at her before
she spoke.

"The truth will be harsh to you—"

"I will hear it!"

Triona's heart went out to him at the pain in his eyes,
but she'd seen far worse in Maire's. "It began as a ruse—all done to
protect you, to protect Niall and the rest of our clan. But aye, Ronan, she
fell in love with the baron, and it's a fortunate thing she came upon him and
no other Norman lord."

"Fortunate? That she lies in there now, mayhap
never to be the same for her misguided grief? Mayhap his vile seed growing in
her belly?"

"Begorra, Ronan, if she does bear a babe mayhap it
will bring some comfort to her! She fears Lord FitzWilliam is dead—"

"He is dead! As dead to her as any accursed Norman
would be whether he lives yet or not!"

Triona winced that he would shout so vehemently, and
she knew Maire must have heard him. But she couldn't go to her now, determined
that Ronan would hear the full story even as he stormed from the
dwelling-house. It might do no good, but at least he would know it.

He would know what an honorable man Duncan FitzWilliam
had proved to be, as honorable in his own right as Ronan, both of them holding
to their convictions so fiercely and being in that sense, so very much alike.
Oh, aye, she could just hear what Ronan would have to say about that
comparison!

And there was Niall, too, the day truly promising to be
a bleak one. Doing her best to bolster her spirits, she ran out the door after
Ronan, her coppery curls flying. Yet even allowing herself a muttered curse
failed to ease her.

***

"Maire, do you hear me?"

She blinked open her eyes, the oil lamp guttering
beside her bed the only thing she saw, and at first she thought she had just
imagined Niall's voice. But a hand upon her shoulder made her roll over, her
heart thudding at how stricken Niall looked as he leaned over her, his handsome
face drawn, his blue-gray eyes ravaged.

Maire knew then that Triona must have told him about
Caitlin, and she sat up and threw her arms around his neck even as he sank onto
the bed to hold her tightly too.

"Ah, Niall, forgive me! I wanted to tell you—but
you were so happy, I couldn't. And I feared you'd ride back to Ferns and try to
fight—"

"I'll not be riding to Ferns."

Niall had spoken so harshly that Maire almost didn't
recognize his voice, and she pulled away to look into his eyes. Since childhood
they had been so close, Niall always there to help and cheer her, yet she saw
something in his gaze that she'd never seen before . . . all the boyishness,
all the laughter and love of life fled, and in its place a hardness behind the
pain that chilled her.

And what of her? What might Niall see in her eyes? He
stared at her, too, and brushed a loose strand of midnight hair from her face
with such gentleness that she knew her beloved brother hadn't changed entirely.