Ronan walked slowly around the chamber, relearning how to walk. He held his arms out at his sides, like a child taking his first steps. Having one good eye didn’t make it easy. The padding had been removed when the wound finally ceased weeping. He fingered the black leather patch that had replaced the bandage. This was his new reality. The scars on his back and wrists would fade, the leg felt better than he had anticipated, but the eye was gone forever. He hadn’t yet summoned the courage to look in a mirror.
Women had always been attracted to his courtly manners and his body and face. His smile had charmed many an eager colleen. But he had never ill-treated a woman, never used his physical endowments to take advantage.
Now his handsome appearance was a thing of the past. Women would recoil from him, though Rhoni de Montbryce didn’t seem repulsed.
Why he was preoccupied with this was unclear to him. A second marriage was out of the question until he avenged his wife. Mary might not have been the woman he’d have chosen, but he’d remained faithful to her, despite her discomfort with intimacy.
In spite of his determination to feel nothing for Rhoni, his manhood reacted of its own accord whenever he looked at her. Nay, he had only to think of her and his arousal thickened.
What the MacFintains had done angered him, filled him with bitterness, but he’d have to put that aside if he was to win Rhoni over to his cause. He needed her father’s support. He resolved, however, not to mislead her. He wasn’t that kind of man. Lorcan and Fothud may have taken his eye and his lands and his wife and child, but he’d be damned if they would steal his honor.
Much was riding on the strength of his leg. Rhonwen would allow him to go to Cadair Berwyn only if she deemed him sufficiently healed. It was imperative he join the excursion, but didn’t want to argue with Rhodri’s wife. The woman had brought him back from the brink of death and he’d be eternally grateful to these hospitable Welsh people.
He wouldn’t ask Rhodri for help in his quest. The Prince of Powwydd had committed his resources to the struggle against the Normans.
He’d often heard it said that one day the Anglo-Normans would turn their attention to Ireland. He shuddered at the prospect of his fellow countrymen fighting them for decades as Rhodri had done. Normans were not benign invaders. After their victory at Hastings, they had enforced their rule with terror and intimidation and now held the power in England.
Was he doing the right thing in seeking an alliance with a Norman? Surely it was better to establish good relations now? He had to trust Rhodri’s judgement that Ram de Montbryce was a fair man.
Rhonwen had brought him to the small chamber off the neuadd to remove the bindings. Seemingly pleased with his progress, she held open the door. “Let’s see how you do further afield.”
Ronan was aware people had gathered in the neuadd to break their fast. He harbored an irrational hope that Rhoni would be there, and prayed he wouldn’t fall flat on his face.
Rhoni sat beside Carys, eyeing the trencher of smoked ham, black bread and yellow cheese. She was too nervous to eat, and only sipped the ale. On the morrow they would begin the journey to Cadair Berwyn where she’d been born. Her mother had described it to her often, but she hankered to experience the majesty of the mountains.
To her dismay, Rhun and Rhydderch were to accompany the party. Cadair Berwyn was the redheads’ birthplace as well as hers.
Dread and elation warred within her at the news Ronan might be allowed to travel to Cadair Berwyn if his leg was sufficiently healed. Why did he wish to make such a trip? The mountain fortress held no significance for him.
He’d softened his demeanor towards her over the course of the past sennight, treating her with courtly manners. He might prove to be a tolerable traveling companion. She dismissed the idea immediately. Simply being in his presence turned her into a blithering idiot.
A hush fell over the gathering and Rhoni knew Ronan had entered the hall. In this foreign place, among people who were not his own, his bearing bespoke nobility. They didn’t see the eye patch, the slight limp, the borrowed raiment. They applauded his progress. He inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Conall and Rhonwen walked beside him, smiling at his steady progress.
Rhoni saw a giant, a warrior who had stood at the gates of Hell and spat in Satan’s face. He was a man whose well-muscled body she itched to touch, whose full lips she longed to savor. In her mind’s eye, she raked her fingers through his long dark hair. She wanted to tear off the eye patch and lavish kisses on the hurt of his loss. She ached to love him. She did love him.
It was a sobering truth. Many handsome Norman noblemen had expressed an interest. None of them filled her with the yearning she felt now. Her parents would say she’d lost her wits, or that it was a passing fancy.
Conall piled food on a trencher for his master and Ronan strode towards where she and Carys sat, his increasing confidence in his newly-mended leg evident. Carys elbowed her. At least the Welsh girl had stopped her incessant chatter about Baudoin for a few moments.
Ronan stood before them, his arms outstretched. “I am mended!” he declared with a lopsided grin.
Rhoni’s insides melted like ice under the intense heat of the sun. There were no words.
Carys giggled. “You are indeed, my lord Ronan.”
He sat down heavily beside Rhoni, his thigh mere inches from hers. Surely he could hear the beating of her heart?
He broke his bread. “I’m grateful for the care I’ve received here. Thanks be to God we were delivered into your hands, ladies.”
“And to the seal,” Rhoni murmured.
Ronan cocked his head. “Your pardon, Lady Rhoni? Seal?”
Did he not know? Had no one told him? If she shared her belief that the seal had saved him, he would deem her a lunatic.
To her relief, Carys told the tale.
The blood drained from Ronan’s face. He stared at Carys, the two pieces of broken bread still in his hands, as if she’d warned him of a poisonous adder coiled around his neck. An icy chill raced up Rhoni’s spine. There was no mockery in his voice when he finally spoke. He frowned and raised his tankard of ale. “Amen to the seal, then.”
His dark eye had darkened even further, drowning her. Was it black?
His deep voice jolted her. “Are you unwell, Lady Rhoni?”
She swallowed hard, unable to speak, and shook her head.
“Good! I’ve heard the journey to Cadair Berwyn isn’t for the faint of heart. You’ll need to have your wits about you.”
She was doomed. Ronan had stolen her wits.
Birthplace
Rhodri shook his head at the foolhardiness of his twin sons. The weather was dry, but the track to Cadair Berwyn was a difficult one. Yet Rhun and Rhydderch rode their mountain ponies with reckless abandon. He’d been in two minds whether to bring them. They still treated Lord Ronan and Lady Rhoni with contemptuous disdain, but they loved Cadair Berwyn.
Rhun was a fine archer, capable of nocking an arrow to his bow in the blink of an eye. He never missed his target. Rhydderch had a special affinity with horses and ponies.
Carys had sulked at remaining at home in Powwydd. She had mithered her father without success. He suspected Baudoin de Montbryce was the reason behind her wish to travel on to Ellesmere with Rhoni.
Rhys too had declined to accompany them.
“This journey promises to be strained, to say the least,” Rhodri had confided to Rhonwen as the party set off. “Ronan isn’t the most talkative of fellows, and Rhoni is as skittish as a frightened doe.”
“She’s smitten with the man,” his wife replied with a smile. “Is that what you thought of me when we first met? That I looked like a frightened doe? I felt like one.”
Rhodri chuckled and held her tightly for one last hug. He kissed the top of her head, smiled at the memory, then took the reins of his pony from his long time compatriot. “Lead on, Andras.”
For the most part, the narrow track demanded riders travel in
single file. When it widened, Ronan took advantage to ride alongside Rhoni. He had scant time available to convince her in the campaign to solicit her father’s aid. As well, he found he enjoyed her company.
Rhodri had voiced his concern about Rhoni riding her horse rather than a mountain pony, but she wouldn’t hear of leaving Fortissima behind, preferring to handle an animal she was used to. She’d hardly spoken a word to anyone since leaving Powwydd, no doubt preoccupied with the imminent visit to her birthplace.
Ronan had lived his entire life in Túr MacLachlainn, even slept with his wife in the chamber where he’d been born. They’d conceived a child in that same bed. It was a bittersweet memory. His belly roiled when he thought of Lorcan MacFintain defiling Mary in that chamber.
He had failed his wife, gone off to aid in the construction of a new rampart at his cousin’s castle. Lorcan and Fothud had taken advantage of his carelessness. He ought to have known they would covet his estate, the richest prize of all. He had arrogantly believed they would never dare try for it. On his return he’d walked into their trap. He’d been taken prisoner and his men slaughtered.
Rhoni startled him. “Where do your thoughts take you, Lord Ronan?”
Her voice was different from Mary’s. Mary spoke only her native tongue, but his recollection was that his wife had whispered shyly. Rhoni spoke clearly, though the slight catch in her voice betrayed the nervousness she often showed in his presence. He supposed he must be a fearsome sight. Good thing his long tunic hid the hard swelling between his legs. It would likely terrify her!
“I was musing that you’re probably excited about your visit to Cadair Berwyn.”
Her eyes brightened as she smiled. A small, booted army marched up and down Ronan’s spine.
“I am.”
They rode in companionable silence for a while, then she asked, “I suppose you were born in Ireland?”
Perhaps, if he shared something of his life, she would see him differently. Mayhap it would ease some of his pain. “I was born in my grandfather’s Tower in Sord Colmcille and lived there all my life.”
She frowned. “And now it’s lost to you.”
“Aye.”
“Tell me about it.”
He shifted in the saddle. “Sord Colmcille means Saint Columba’s Well. It’s north of the Viking town of Dyflin, or Dubh Linn, so named for the dark tidal pool where the River Poitéal meets the Ruirthech, which some call the Liphe. My ancestors were Vikings. Lachlainn means I’m a descendant of Norwegians.”
She seemed interested, so he continued. “Vikings, Norsemen or Ostmen, ruled as Kings of Dubh Linn for three hundred years—until the year of our Lord One Thousand and Ten.”
Her wide eyes showed genuine interest. “What happened then?”
“They were defeated by the mighty High King of Ireland, Brian Bóruma, at the Battle of Clontarf. Since then they’ve been more of a trading power in the area.
“My grandfather decided to move further north to take advantage of the fertile fields. He built Túr MacLachlainn. It’s visible for miles. The land is flat.”
Strangely, telling her the tale of his ancestry filled him with renewed hope and determination that he would regain his lands. Vengeance would be his.
Rhoni turned sympathetic eyes on him. “My ancestors were also Vikings,” she said. “They came to the Seine valley from Norway nearly two hundred years ago.”
They rode in silence for long minutes before she spoke again. “My father would understand your yearning to return to your homeland. He has lived in England of his own volition since the Conquest, but his heart has remained in Normandie, at Montbryce Castle. We go as often as we can. My parents are more relaxed there. It’s where they first met. My brother, Robert, lives in Normandie, preparing for the day when he’ll become Comte de Montbryce.”
It was the first time she’d uttered more than a few words to him. Already his experience in Wales had belied everything he’d ever heard and believed about Welshmen. Now he was feeling empathy for Normans. This was a slippery slope.
“You’re fortunate your father is still alive. Both my parents are dead.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll miss my father sorely when he’s gone. He’s the rock of our family.”
Ronan remembered the lost soul his father had become after his mother’s disappearance. Orlaith MacLachlainn had left behind a shell of a man. At five years of age, Ronan had assumed the mantle of head of the family.
“I would like to meet your father. Your mother predicted he and I would meet.”
Rhoni gripped Fortissima’s mane, her heart pounding in her ears. What did he mean, her mother had predicted they would meet? Nothing had been said to her.
She conjured a vision of the two men together. It filled her with dread. Her perceptive father would see immediately that she was enamored of the Irishman and would deem it some childish infatuation.
Why would Ronan want to meet her father? Perhaps he did have feelings for her? Or more likely, he sought something else a powerful Norman earl could give him. Ronan must be deluded if he believed Ram de Montbryce would help him recover his estate.
Fortissima grew skittish without her mistress’s guidance on the unfamiliar narrow trail. Ronan reached over to grasp the reins. “Are you unwell, Lady Rhoni?”
She longed to tell him of her malady. She was heartsick for him. Her confession would embarrass him. He was a man, she was a child. “Simply a momentary dizziness as we climbed higher into the mountains. It seems harder to breathe here.”
“Would you feel safer riding behind me?”
Her male attire would have rendered it relatively easy to slide from her horse to his pony, but she reined in the impulse. She took a deep breath, common sense, decorum and desire at odds in her confused thoughts. “I would, but what about Fortissima?”
He held out his hand. “She won’t want to be left behind and will follow along meekly. The trail is too narrow for her to wander off.”
As if he sensed he might be needed, Rhydderch appeared. “I’ll see to your horse, Lady Rhoni.”
Somewhat surprised, she thanked him, leaned over and put her hands on Ronan’s shoulders to move to his mount. She had an urge to knead the hard muscles with her fingers, but as soon as she was seated behind him she let go and gripped the back of the saddle, her spine rigid. “I’ll try not to touch you,” she murmured.
He reached for her hand and wrapped it around his waist, then did the same with the other. He kept his hand atop hers, sending heat spiraling the length of her arms and into her belly by way of her breasts. “You must hold on tight. This trail is dangerous. Lean into me. Don’t concern yourself with my wounds. They’ve healed well.”
She leaned against him. He was lying about his back. The aroma of the salve he still used to ease his discomfort filled her nostrils, reminding her of the night she’d tended him. His heat quickly penetrated her tunic. Sweat trickled between her breasts despite the cooling air. His body was hard, solid. The pony’s steady gait caused her breasts to rub against him rhythmically, tightening her nipples to the point of pain. She closed her eyes and put her cheek against his back, dreaming of their bodies entwined in a loving embrace. She didn’t care if they ever arrived at Cadair Berwyn.
The rubbing of Rhoni’s firm breasts against Ronan’s lacerated back was sweet torture. Her elusive perfume was enough to drive him mad. He didn’t dare invite her to sit on his lap. She would definitely feel his arousal against her bottom if she sat in front of him. He looked down at her long elegant fingers clasped together around his waist. He wanted to take each one into his mouth and suck on it.
She may have fallen asleep. Would she notice if he ran his fingers along hers? No woman had ever inflamed him to such a degree. Perhaps, his need was a result of his brush with death at the hands of his tormentors.
The memory sobered him. He had thought his life was over. If not for Conall—
He must concentrate on his plan for vengeance. Túr MacL
achlainn had to be regained. Instead, he’d offered to let Rhoni ride behind him and his thoughts had become muddled.
Rhodri called the cavalcade to a halt. Ronan reined in his pony and Rhoni stirred. “What’s happening?” she murmured sleepily.
He conjured a vision of her waking beside him after a night of lusty lovemaking, crooning good morning in that same sleepy voice. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Not far now, I believe.”
They came to the top of a crag and had to keep as close as possible to the side of the mountain. The path was wet and slippery. If they fell, they would fall to their deaths. Rhoni’s arms tightened around his waist.
“Don’t look down,” he advised.
Once they’d crested the crag, they headed along a wide ridge path. They reached a rocky knoll and Cadair Berwyn loomed out of the mist. Her mother had described her first impression of the wooden fortress many times, but it still took Rhoni’s breath away.
Built into the side of the mountain, some of the buildings seemed to be roofed with turf, others with what looked like slate. It perched on the edge of a deep ravine.
Her mother’s first thought had been that any army wanting to attack would have to send its soldiers in one at a time. It was impregnable.
Rhoni surveyed the mountains looming on every side. The Countess of Ellesmere had stoically deemed it a beautiful place to die. Rhoni’s heart filled with the wild splendor of her birthplace. “Cadair Berwyn,” she whispered.
Ronan nodded. “Aye. Cadair Berwyn. It’s a magnificent place to have been born.”
It warmed her heart that he understood her feelings. “As magnificent as MacLachlainn Tower?”
“Nay, naught is as magnificent as that.”
He chuckled, but she heard the catch in his voice. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ronan. I didn’t mean to evoke bad memories.”
He remained silent. She grasped his outstretched arm as he lowered her to the ground. She instantly missed his warmth, but Rhodri quickly escorted her within the fortress walls and led her to a large chamber. “This will be for you,” he said. “I invite you to make yourself at home.”
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 8
