Briana

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  encountered.

  Her eyes narrowed. Just who was Keane O'Mara? And where had he

  learned to fight like this?

  More importantly, why was such a man reluctant to take up his sword

  against his enemy?

  "Are you ever going to speak to me?" Briana held her horse to an easy

  trot beside Keane's mount. "Or are you still smarting because I took

  your ancestral swords without permission?"

  He turned to study her, and she nearly flinched at the hard, cold look

  in those smoky eyes. ' 'That is but a small part of my anger."

  "Someone had to come to the aid of these people. It is cruel and

  inhuman to leave them defenseless against the English."

  He snagged her reins, drawing their horses close. "You speak to me of

  cruelty? Inhumanity? Woman, you have no idea about either."

  "And you do?"

  "I've had a taste of it. Enough that I want no more." He shot her a

  fierce look. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to these

  people?"

  "I'm offering them hope."

  "Hope." He spat the word. "What you're offering them is a lie. A cruel

  lie that will come back to haunt you."

  "If that is true, why did you agree to come back tomorrow and help

  them hone their skill with a sword?"

  "Because." He released her reins and nudged his horse into a run.

  "Now that they're determined to forge weapons of death, I have a

  responsibility to see that they have at least a fighting chance when

  they take them up and use them."

  She had to urge her horse faster, to keep up. "Will you let me help?"

  she shouted.

  He pretended not to hear. There were too many emotions still

  churning inside him. He had a feeling that his life had somehow

  slipped from his cool, careful control. In the blink of an eye, he found

  himself heading in a direction he'd sworn never to go again.

  Because of Briana O'Neil. The most pigheaded, obstinate, frustrating

  lass he'd ever known.

  He rode ahead, leaving her in his dust. But even that gave him no

  satisfaction.

  "My lord." Vinson stood waiting at the door as Keane and Briana

  stepped inside.

  "Something is wrong, old man."

  "Aye, my lord." Vinson glanced toward Briana, then away. "The

  messenger you sent to the lass's family... met with English swords."

  "Is he...?"

  "Aye, my lord. His body was just returned by some lads from a

  nearby village."

  "No." Brianna's cry was torn from her lips.

  Keane's face was devoid of emotion as he turned away. "I'll go to his

  family at once."

  Briana touched a hand to his. "I must go with you."

  He understood. The lad's death was a burden they would both have to

  bear.

  The sky was still dark when Keane made his way to the stable. He

  was pleased to see his horse saddled and ready in the courtyard, as

  he'd requested. Also waiting was a horse and wagon. In the back of

  the wagon were more than two dozen weapons he'd located

  throughout Carrick House. Swords, longbows, knives, many of them

  rusted and forgotten, gathering dust in unused storerooms. After a

  night of work by more than a dozen servants, the blades had been

  honed to a razor edge. The hilts, highly polished, caught and reflected

  the wink of starlight.

  It was a start. Not nearly enough to arm a militia, of course. But the

  men had been told to scour their own homes and fields for whatever

  weapons they could find. The local smiths would fashion even more

  weapons from farm implements.

  As Keane was about to pull himself into the saddle,he saw one of the

  stable lads approaching.

  "Good, lad. You're up. I was afraid I'd have to wake you. Let's be on

  our way."

  The lad pulled himself to the seat of the wagon and took up the reins.

  As they started off along the curved drive, Keane rode ahead, lost in

  thought. Scant weeks ago, if anyone had told him that he would be

  agreeable to training the men of Carrick to fight the English, he'd

  have scoffed. Yet here he was, up before dawn, ready to do just that.

  How had he become so entangled in this web again? Hadn't he come

  here with but one thought in mind? To settle his father's debts and

  make a new life for himself. Somewhere far from anyone who had

  ever heard of his damnable title and his disgusting past. And now,

  look at him. About to jump in again. And all because of a female.

  Would he never learn?

  Briana O'Neil. He'd half expected to find her in the stable this

  morrow, begging to be allowed to ride to the McCann cottage with

  him.

  He slowed his mount. In fact, he'd been sure of it. So sure, he'd

  already planned his arguments.

  This was completely uncharacteristic of the lass. Nothing could hold

  back that little firestorm when she made up her mind about

  something.

  He reined in his horse and looked back at the horse and wagon,

  plodding slowly up the hill. The driver was hunched over, as though

  more asleep than awake. A wide hat completely covered the hair and

  hid the face from view.

  Keane felt a tingling at the back of his neck. Through the years he'd

  learned to trust his instincts. And at this moment, his instincts were

  shouting a warning.

  He suddenly wheeled his mount and headed toward the wagon. As he

  approached, the driver glanced up, then ducked his head.

  "Just as I thought." Keane pulled up alongside and reached over,

  yanking the hat from the driver's head, revealing a tumble of red

  curls. While Briana shrank back, Keane let loose with every rich, ripe

  curse he'd ever known.

  ' 'Just how did you think to keep your identity secret once the sun

  came up?"

  "I figured by then it would be too late to send me back."

  "You did, did you?" He looked her up and down, noting the men's

  breeches and tunic, the mud- spattered boots. He bit back the smile

  that threatened. "And where did you find such lovely clothes?"

  "Cora borrowed them from one of the stable lads."

  "Cora." His eyes narrowed. "Now you've even dragged the servants

  into this."

  "They were already in it. Don't you see, Keane? Everyone in Ireland

  is in this. There isn't a family left that hasn't felt the pain of an English

  sword. Cora, Vinson, Mistress Malloy. It is their brothers and sons

  and fathers who are buried beside the chapel. And all are cheered by

  the fact that you've agreed to train the villagers in the use of

  weapons."

  When he didn't respond, she glanced up at him. He wasn't looking at

  her. He was staring off across the green hills, glistening with dew in

  the first rays of the morning sun.

  She felt a glimmer of hope. "You aren't going to send me back, are

  you?"

  He turned to meet her eyes. And though his look was still stern, his

  tone was brisk and businesslike. "We'll divide the group into two and

  begin with the basics. The advantage of the longbow for distance.

  How to wield a sword when fighting three or more. The need for a

  concealed knife, when all else fails."


  She knew her jaw had dropped. For the space of a moment, all she

  could do was stare. Then, when he wheeled his mount and raced

  ahead, her heart bloomed with relief and joy.

  She flicked the reins, and the horse and wagon rumbled across the

  meadow toward the McCann cottage, where more than three score

  men and boys stood waiting in the dawn light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Watch it, lad." As late afternoon shadows gathered, Keane stood on

  the sidelines, shouting instructions as two burly farm boys came

  together in a clash of ringing swords.

  The taller of the two was swinging his blade wildly, clearly caught up

  in the excitement of the moment.

  "If you don't slow down, you're apt to separate your best friend's head

  from his shoulders. Is that what you want, lad?"

  "Nay, sir. But you told me to defend myself."

  "Aye. But save the blood and pain for the English."

  "Speaking of which." Hugh McCann leaned close. "I've heard that a

  band of soldiers attacked a field near Derry and left an entire village

  in shock. More than half their men and boys were cut down as they

  were reaping their crops."

  Keane made a quick calculation. ' 'From Carrick to Blaire, and now to

  Derry. It sounds as though they're circling back."

  "Aye. My thoughts exactly."

  "Is it the same band that struck our villages before?"Hugh shrugged.

  "We can't be certain. They never leave any survivors who can identify

  them."

  Keane glanced toward Briana, who stood nearby, coaching a group in

  the art of defense using a knife at close range.

  In the past few weeks she had become a familiar figure, garbed in

  breeches and tunic and work-worn boots. At first the men had treated

  her with great care, fearing they might do harm to the slender lass.

  But they soon learned to overlook the fact that she was a female, as

  she leapt into the thick of every skirmish with sword flashing. She

  was absolutely fearless. A fact that caused many of the men to work

  even harder than ever, in the hope of becoming her equal.

  Through her usual diligence and determination, Briana had become

  an accepted member of their militia. As had the lord of Carrick

  House, who had once been considered their enemy.

  Keane's voice lowered to a whisper. "Briana can identify the English.

  It is how I met the lass. She survived the attack that bloodied the

  fields of Carrick."

  Hugh McCann looked aghast. "Has she spoken of it? Has she

  described any of the English dogs?"

  Keane shook his head. "Not a word." A fact that puzzled him. She'd

  made no secret of her hatred of the English. Yet she'd never spoken

  about that day, or about the men who had taken her to the brink of

  death.

  He shrugged. She was as entitled to her private demons as he was to

  his. He wouldn't poke or prod her memory. Perhaps it was simply too

  painful to bring out into the light. Something he understood all too

  well.

  "Come lads," one of the farmers called as he carefully laid aside his

  weapon. "We've been up since dawn, working the fields, then honing

  our skills with weapons of war. 'Tis time to wash away the day with

  an ale or two at the tavern."

  The others nodded, and, one by one, began to fall into line marching

  toward the village.

  When Keane and Briana made ready to leave, Hugh shook his head.

  "Nay, my lord. You and the lass must join us. The men have been

  talking among themselves. They wish to thank you for all you've

  done for us."

  Keane glanced at Briana and wondered if she was thinking about the

  fine meal awaiting them at Carrick House, and the long, soaking bath

  Cora would surely have ready. But what Hugh was offering was far

  more than a drink with the men. It was an acknowledgment that they

  had been accepted by the villagers as one of their own. It was a rare

  honor.

  He nodded. "Aye, Hugh. The lass and I would be grateful for a sip."

  They walked to the village, leading their horses, and stood around the

  warm fire while the tavern owner and his wife filled their tankards.

  "To Lord Alcott," one of the men shouted, as they raised their glasses.

  "And to Briana O'Neil."

  They drank, wiped their mouths, and smiled as the tankards were

  filled a second time.

  "To Ireland," called a small, wiry man with skin the texture of aged

  leather, and a thatch of white hair.

  "To freedom," shouted another.

  "And to all of us, who will give our last drop of blood to keep it free."

  They drank more slowly, allowing the ale to snake through their veins

  and warm their blood.

  Hugh ordered another round for the men, then set his tankard on the

  mantel and turned to Briana. "I'm told you survived an English attack

  in our village, my lady."

  "Aye." She sipped her ale, feeling warm and content among these

  good people.

  "Could you identify the soldiers?"

  She noticed that the others had gone very still, watching her. She

  swallowed the ale, feeling it burn a path of fire down her throat.

  Her fingers tightened on the handle of the tankard, and she had to

  force herself to relax her grasp. "I suppose I could." Her voice

  lowered. "At least their leader."

  "Is there something about him? Something that sets him apart from

  the others?"

  She could see Keane watching her. After all her self-righteous

  lectures to him about courage, she was about to reveal her own

  cowardice. "I...see him sometimes, in the night. It is a vision that

  leaves me filled with terror and revulsion. But when I awake, afraid

  and trembling, the image is gone. And I am left with only the sound of

  his voice, damning all Irish to death." She shuddered. "And the sound

  of his mocking laughter. It torments me. And wakes me often from a

  sound sleep."

  The men glanced around and nodded, and Hugh patted her arm much

  as her brothers might. "You've nothing to be ashamed of my lady. We

  understand what you're going through. It's a rather common reaction

  when a warrior faces his own death."

  "Do you recall anything else?" one of the farmers asked gently. "The

  way this English soldier looked? His name, perhaps?"

  She thought a moment, struggling to pull something, anything, out of

  her clouded memory. So many fragments. Bits and pieces that

  seemed to flash through her mind, then go blank. "Aye. His name."

  She thought long and hard, then nodded. "His men called

  him...Halsey."

  Some of the men grew agitated, looking at each other for

  confirmation, for they'd heard the name before.

  "Halsey enjoyed the killing." Briana closed her eyes a moment, then

  stared down into her ale. "He actually laughed as he sent my

  companions to their death. Lads who had done nothing more than try

  to defend me. Lads who'd had so little time to laugh, to love." She

  shivered. "To live."

  "How did you survive when no others did, lass?" a farmer asked.

  Her eyes hardened. "I know not. I was filled with a rage that seemed

  to take over me. I t
ook up the sword Halsey had thrust through one of

  my defender's heart. And when that braggart feared I would best him

  with his own sword, he ordered his men to hold me."

  There was a collective gasp from the men. Briana looked over and

  saw Keane's lips moving in a fierce oath. It was all coming back to

  her. So clear now. So vivid. So fearsome. "And as Halsey drove his

  sword through my chest, he told me that this land, and all who live in

  it, will answer to an English sword." For a moment her voice

  wavered, and Keane started toward her. But seeing it, she lifted a

  hand to hold him at bay and began to speak faster. It was important

  that she get everything out, for it had been festering in her soul all

  these long days and nights. "I remember his face now." She closed

  her eyes as a feeling of blackness came over her. With her eyes closed

  she saw hishated face come into focus. In a near whisper she

  described what she saw. "His face is scarred from many battles. His

  nose is flattened from having been broken. And only a puckered scar

  remains where his left ear should be." She opened her eyes. Her voice

  caught in her throat. "As I lay near death, I heard Halsey order his

  men to a tavern, where they could wash away the taste of...the filthy

  Irish."

  Keane's fingers were grasping the tankard so tightly it shattered in his

  hand. A tavern wench hurried over to clean up the shards and to press

  a towel to his bloody hand. He flung it aside and made his way to

  Briana, while all around her the men muttered and swore.

  "Come, lass." He caught her hand. "I know what this must have cost

  you. It's time we returned to Carrick House."

  "Wait. There is one more thing. I saw him. Halsey." As the image

  rushed into her mind, she felt herself sway. "The day I was on

  Peregrine. I saw him leading a group of soldiers through a nearby

  wood."

  "You only dreamed it, Briana. It was the fall."

  "Perhaps. Aye. Nay." She stiffened, tried to push away. "I did not

  dream it. I saw him, Keane. I saw Halsey. That's why I fell. I

  remember it all now."

  Her eyes were wide with shock.

  As if in a daze she allowed herself to be led through the crowd of

  men. She was only dimly aware of them squeezing her shoulder, or

  calling out words of encouragement.

  "You showed 'em, my lady."

  "Next time, it'll be our turn, my lady."

  "You're a hell of a scrapper, my lady."