It wasn’t a chamber for guests, and she suspected it was Rhodri and Rhonwen’s. “This is much too grand. A smaller chamber would suffice for me.”
He winked at her. “I would have you stay nowhere else but in the chamber where you first entered the world, Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce.”
He knew of her preference for the name Rhoni and she didn’t mind that he teased her. “I thank you, Lord Rhodri.”
He bowed and left.
She took off her boots and wandered around the chamber, inhaling deeply. Peace stole into her heart. She relived what she’d been told of her birth in this room. She doubted it was the same bed her mother had lain in, but ran her hand along its edge, then climbed onto it and curled up contentedly, knees pressed to her belly. A sense of expectancy swept over her, a certainty that there was a reason Fate had brought her and Ronan to this place. If only she could be sure it had something to do with love, and not politics.
Precipice
Rhodri took great pride the next morning in showing off his fortress. As the tour progressed he regaled Rhoni with details of her mother’s long captivity many years before—though he referred to it as her ‘stay’. Ronan sensed his admiration for Countess Mabelle de Montbryce and noted how moved Rhoni was by his reminiscences.
Her face betrayed her feelings. She seemed guileless, like Mary, but was more outgoing than his wife. He supposed it was because she was a Norman raised in a household of people who deemed themselves superior to everyone else. Yet there was no arrogance in her, and, from Rhodri’s tales of Mabelle de Montbryce, she wasn’t an arrogant woman either. His curiosity about Ram de Montbryce grew.
It was a daunting prospect, reaching out to a Norman earl for help, particularly given his gruesome appearance. But he had no choice.
He followed in Rhodri’s wake as the prince escorted Rhoni to her place at the midday meal. Ronan was invited to sit next to her on the dais. Grateful for the opportunity and the honor, he nodded his acknowledgement to his host as he took his seat. Rhoni smiled at him shyly and, as usual, that was all it took for his body to react.
During the tour of the fortress, most people seeing him for the first time gawked at his eye patch and noted his limp. Rhoni seemed oblivious to those defects. Despite his effort to remain serious, the corners of his mouth edged up. “You have a beautiful smile, Lady Rhoni,” he whispered.
He sounded like a lovesick swain. He didn’t want her to think he was wooing her, because he wasn’t, he must not. He had to make it plain he needed her family’s help, but there would be no future for him until vengeance had been satisfied.
Rhoni blushed, intensifying the ache in Ronan’s loins. “So do you,” she murmured. “You should smile more often.”
She hadn’t spoken with any sarcasm, but her innocent remark brought home to him sharply how quickly his life had changed. Perhaps as a foil to his father’s morose demeanor, Ronan had always enjoyed laughter. He’d hoped to fill the lives of his wife and children with it.
He took a deep breath and dug his nails into the palms of his clenched fists. Rhodri was momentarily distracted by his twin sons. Ronan seized the opportunity. “I met your mother only briefly at Llansanfraid. She’s an impressive woman and from what Lord Rhodri has shared with you, you’ve been fortunate in your mother. I barely remember mine.”
She looked up from her trencher, her eyes full of sympathy. He could drown in those brown depths, smother himself in her beautiful breasts.
“I’m lucky to have loving parents and brothers. Robert and Baudoin are both fine men, and my father is a great man, a famous hero.”
“So I gather. Though Rhodri is his enemy, he has only good things to say about your father.”
She glanced up at him sharply. “What is your interest in my father, Lord Ronan?”
This young woman wasn’t as naive as he assumed. “You must know, Lady Rhoni. I’m in need of a strong ally. I hope your father might be that man.”
Rhoni’s heart fell into her boots. The only thing Ronan saw in her was her father’s power, a power he needed to regain his lands and exact his vengeance on those who had wronged him. She couldn’t look at him. The juicy roasted chicken suddenly tasted like parchment. Would words come if she spoke?
“I wouldn’t presume to speak for my father, Lord Ronan. He’s a powerful warrior. I’m a woman with no knowledge of war or alliances, and no influence in such matters.”
To her consternation, Ronan put his hand on hers. Heat surged through her belly. The food stuck in her throat and she feared she might retch. Perspiration trickled down her spine. She wanted to flee, but decorum dictated she stay at Rhodri’s head table.
She felt the heat from Ronan’s thigh inches from her own. The inexplicable urge to peel off his patch and kiss his blighted eye possessed her again. Rhodri had returned to his seat, but she had no idea what he’d said to her on his return, though he’d seen Ronan’s hand on hers.
Coherent thoughts refused to form. She looked into the unfathomable black of Ronan’s good eye and for a moment thought it was a cat that held her in his all-seeing gaze. “I—”
Ronan leaned close. “My dear lady Rhoni, I don’t seek to take advantage of you. I crave only a chance to approach your father with my petition for his aid.”
Rhoni teetered on the edge of a precipice more terrible than any she’d seen this morning from the ramparts of Cadair Berwyn. What to believe of this man who held her heart in his hands? She’d been a mere girl at the time of their meeting scant days before. Now she was a woman with an incredible weight on her shoulders. It was frightening how protected she’d been from the realities of the world in which she lived, a world she had blithely breezed through until now.
Everything had changed the moment she’d laid eyes on Ronan in the waterlogged coracle and known in her heart the seal had saved him. She had a choice. If she spurned Ronan and refused to allow him to accompany her to Ellesmere, Rhodri would ensure his compliance.
But what would become of him then, an Irishman cut adrift in Wales, forever an exile. She would never see him again. The prospect was unbearable. He felt nothing for her, yet she craved him.
She might convince her father of the rightness of his cause. He’d been severely wronged and Ram de Montbryce believed strongly in the rule of law and order. He wouldn’t think highly of the Norman accomplices to the crimes taking place in Ireland.
She took a deep breath. “I’ll allow you to accompany me to Ellesmere Castle, Lord Ronan, but you should harbor no illusions about my father’s willingness to help you.”
Ronan brushed his lips across the back of her hand. How she wanted him to kiss her mouth and other unmentionable parts of her body instead.
“I thank you, Lady Rhoni. You’ve thrown me a lifeline in this sea of despair.”
If she didn’t leave the table she would give in to the urge to throw her arms around his neck. Cravings she’d never experienced before thrummed through her body and dampness slicked the apex of her thighs. She stood abruptly.
Ronan and Rhodri both came to their feet. Ronan touched her elbow. Did he feel her tremble?
“I’m suddenly tired after our tour this morning. Lord Rhodri, please excuse me.”
Ronan increased his grip on her elbow. “I’ll accompany you to your chamber.”
“Non, that isn’t necessary.”
She pulled away and hastened out of the hall.
Ronan inhaled deeply as he regained his seat. The scent of Rhoni’s arousal lingered, mingling with her usual intriguing perfume, wreaking havoc on his senses.
Rhodri clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Take care, Lord Ronan. You may be playing with fire. You don’t want to make an enemy of the Earl of Ellesmere.”
Ronan rubbed his chin. “She has agreed that I may accompany her to England.”
“So I heard. Again, I warn you to be careful. It’s obvious there’s a strong alchemy between you and Rhoni de Montbryce.”
Ronan bristled. “I assure you my mo
tives are solely political. There’s no room in my life for another wife. I’ve nothing to offer, and regaining my lands is my priority. It would be unreasonable to expect a relationship between me and Rhoni.”
Rhodri chuckled. “My friend, the heart can have its own reasons that have nothing to do with reason itself.”
Ronan folded his arms across his chest. “Lord Rhodri, I would remind you my wife was only recently murdered. My first loyalty is to her and my unborn child. My heart died with Mary.”
Rhodri chewed his chicken silently for a few minutes. He wiped his mouth, then his eating dagger with a napkin. “I understand the craving for justice and retribution. It has ruled my existence. But a man needs love in his life too, lest he drown in bitterness. Seek your vengeance, but don’t destroy yourself and Rhoni in the process.”
Ronan pointed to his blighted eye. “Look at me. Why would a beautiful woman like Rhoni be interested in a man like me? She can have any man she wants. She no doubt has many suitors.”
Rhodri shook his head vigorously. “I’ve known Rhoni only a short while, but she’s no practiced flirt. I sense she’s as confused about her emotions as you are. I’m also a great believer in destiny, my friend. Celtic blood flows in your veins. You know there’s no escape from destiny.”
Ronan came to his feet. “My destiny is to win back my lands and exact my vengeance on Lorcan and Fothud MacFintain. If the Earl of Ellesmere isn’t the man to help me I’ll search for another means of achieving my goal. Forgive me, I’ve need of air.”
Rhodri waited until he reached the door, then called to him. “I’ll advise Rhoni to be ready to leave for Ellesmere in a sennight.”
Fat Wolf
Fothud MacFintain drained the last swig of uisce beatha from his tumbler, seething with resentment that his brother had sailed off to England to meet with their Norman confederate, leaving him behind.
Lorcan insisted Ronan MacLachlainn’s escape was his fault, but how was that possible? They’d both been too drunk to stay awake, but Lorcan seemed to think it his younger brother’s responsibility since he’d passed out first.
That was the trouble with Lorcan—forever lording it over Fothud because he was a scant year older.
Bring me ale, Fothud.
Fetch me a wench, Fothud.
No you can’t have that one, Fothud. I want her.
Anyone would think Lorcan was the bloody High King of All Ireland the way he carried on.
Fothud banged his empty tumbler on the table until a serving wench appeared, oozing fear. He snickered. At least someone respected him. “More whiskey,” he belched.
She scurried off to do his bidding, returning with a jug. She poured whiskey into his tumbler with trembling hands. The chamber was spinning, but Fothud was convinced this was the girl Lorcan had taken to his bed on the eve of his departure.
Fothud chuckled as his arousal swelled. Lorcan probably thought this wench was his property to do with as he pleased.
Well, brother, you’re not here. Gone off to hobnob with the Norman gentry.
He pinched the girl’s bottom hard, startling her. She dropped the jug, spilling the contents over Fothud’s feet. She stood like a statue, seemingly rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the wet boots.
Fothud stepped out of the puddle and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back so she had no choice but to look at him. “Sooner see blood spilled. You’ll have to be punished for that, my girl. But before we away to my chamber, let me see you lick the uisce beatha off my boots.”
Lorcan didn’t like or trust the Earl of Chester. The arrogant man put him in mind of a big, fat wolf. He waited nervously in the earl’s antechamber, aware the Norman would be angry he’d come, and angrier still when he learned of MacLachlainn’s escape.
He worried about his brother back in Ireland. Mayhap, leaving Fothud in charge wasn’t a good idea. There may only be a year between them, but Fothud was such a child. No use fretting on that now, he had his own challenge to deal with.
The doors banged open, rousing the snake coiled in Lorcan’s belly. The earl waddled in, accompanied by a small bearded man, clad in the robes of a scribe.
“Why are you here, Irishman? I warned you specifically not to come to this castle. We deal only through intermediaries. Have you brought coin, at least?”
The scribe translated.
Lorcan bowed low and offered a purse to the scribe, aware it would be deemed inadequate. “Forgive me, my lord. I had to come.”
The scribe counted the coin.
Chester sneered when he learned the amount. “I trust this enormous sum didn’t weigh you down too heavily as you crossed the Irish Sea?”
Lorcan dug his finger into the collar of his doublet and cleared his throat, uncertain as to whether he should laugh at the earl’s jest. “There have been difficulties at Túr MacLachlainn, or Túr MacFintain as we call it now.”
The earl strode to within an inch of Lorcan’s nose. His breath reeked of onions, a wretched bulb Lorcan had hated since childhood.
“It’s no concern of mine. I’ve provided you with enough mercenaries to solve problems.”
Lorcan struggled to ignore the snake that now slithered up his spine. “’Tis true, my lord, you’ve been generous, but your men demanded more money for a search.”
He screwed up his courage and switched to Norman French, hoping he would recall correctly the exact words the mercenary commander had used. “They claimed it was not in the purview of their role.”
Chester frowned, squinting at him. “Search?”
Lorcan swallowed hard, wondering what the consequences would be if he retched on the earl’s velvet slippers. “Baron MacLachlainn escaped.”
Chester arched his brows. “Escaped from what?”
Lorcan must have explained how they’d tortured and blinded the lord of Túr MacLachlainn, then returned to finish him off only to discover he’d escaped, but his wits had turned to mush and suddenly there was naught but silence while the earl considered what he’d apparently said.
“Fools,” the Norman mumbled.
Lorcan remained silent, studying the floor, understanding, though the scribe hadn’t translated.
“And the search failed to track a scourged and half blind man? What became of him?”
Lorcan cringed at the quiet menace in the Norman’s voice. An uncontrollable tic worried his left eye. “We presume he drowned. No other explanation, my lord.”
Chester rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “You had better hope so, MacFintain. Dispossessed and tortured men tend to hold grudges. They seek revenge. I cannot be implicated in any way in this bungled seizure. My men will be withdrawn immediately, if I get wind that MacLachlainn lives. I advised you of the strategic importance of that tower. It’s incumbent upon you to secure it, then we can both profit from its fertile fields.”
He waddled out, the scribe following in his wake like a baby duckling after its mother. Lorcan wiped his sleeve across his brow and breathed a sigh of relief he’d said nothing about the death of MacLachlainn’s wife, nor the missing son of the dead steward. At least he hoped he had not.
Beautiful Girl
A child of coastal plains, Ronan savored the primitive beauty of the Welsh mountains. The mist rolled in and out of the valleys of Cadair Berwyn just as it stole over the shore at Sord Colmcille.
He fell into the habit of walking each morning to the edge of the outcropping where he’d discovered a quiet place to contemplate the future. He sat cross-legged, his mended shinbone aching now only a little. He filled his lungs with the crisp air and felt a measure of peace he hadn’t known for many sennights.
He half closed his good eye and imagined the crag looming out of the mist before him was Túr MacLachlainn. When he sought Montbryce’s aid, should he tell of his love for his home, or would the Norman think him maudlin?
Surely a noble warrior would understand the need for vengeance? But what motivation to give the earl? Why should Ram de Montbryce
send soldiers on a risky venture in a land across the sea? They could drown before they reached Ireland.
He’d rehearsed what he would say over and over in the six days since Rhoni had agreed to take him to Ellesmere. He was still no closer on this, the eve of their departure. Rhoni had more or less avoided him, and, though he needed her advice, he didn’t want her to think he pursued her. Whenever he was in her presence he thought only of carrying her off to his bed.
Even in this place of solitude her perfume lingered in the air.
Conall had lost patience with him and become sullen and moody. The boy had managed to filch a dagger from somewhere, and complained constantly that Ronan hadn’t even procured a sword.
It was a moot point. Rhodri had invited Ronan to train with his men in the afternoons. It felt good to wield a sword again, albeit a borrowed one. His muscles ached after the long period of inactivity while he convalesced, but it was a satisfying ache. He was mending, learning to fight with one eye, preparing.
But he acknowledged it would be a long while before he could undertake an assault on Túr MacLachlainn, even if Montbryce consented to help him. His grandfather had built an impregnable fortress.
He inhaled deeply, closed his eye and rocked from side to side, adrift on the sea. A song from his youth came unbidden to his lips.
Tá cailín álainn a dtug mé grá dí
Sí is-deise’s is-áille ná bláth na rós.
Gan í ar láimh liom is cloíte atá mé.
A cailín álainn, is tú fáth mo bhrón.
He heard a rustling movement behind him. He came to his feet and turned, expecting to see Conall. Rhoni de Montbryce stood before him, one hand gripping the folds of her skirt, the other pressed to her mouth. She looked ready to bolt.
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 9
