Briana

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  "Love. Ha." The old woman spun away and began rubbing at the desk

  top. "Right now, she's caught up in some romantic spell. And it's been

  fine for all of us here in Carrick. Just as we'd hoped, we have the arms

  we need to defend ourselves against the English invaders. And as

  long as we keep our lass dangling in front of the lord, he'll not forsake

  us for a more peaceful refuge. But what happens when the lass learns

  his secrets? I tell you, Vinson, no woman's going to forgive the sins

  that man has committed. What will happen when her love turns to

  hate, and she flees Carrick to seek refuge in her own home?"

  The old man kept his attention riveted on the lovers. "I wish I knew."

  Mistress Malloy momentarily brightened. "Do you think he could

  keep it a secret from her for a lifetime?"

  Vinson shook his head. "It's not likely. Especially now that he's come

  back from the dead."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because." The old man turned, headed toward the door. "With this

  new life, he's bound to rediscover his conscience. And when that

  happens, he'll feel that he has no choice but to tell her everything."

  "We'll take our dinner in the library tonight. Mistress Malloy."

  "Aye, my lord. I'll alert the servants."

  "I want no servants around. Briana and I would prefer our privacy

  tonight."

  The old woman hesitated. "But who'll serve the table, my lord?"

  ".You may do it yourself. With Vinson's help. Send the others off to

  bed."

  "Aye, my lord."

  Mistress Malloy hurried away, to see to the change in plans. And all

  the while she fretted. Tea in the garden. Intimate dinners in the

  library. It was all they'd hoped for and more. Except that she worried

  about their lass. Briana O'Neil might have a fiery nature, but it was

  obvious to everyone that she had a tender heart. A heart that was

  bound to be broken, now that she'd lost it to the lord of Carrick.

  "My lord." Vinson stood beside the bed, a robe hastily thrown on over

  his nightshirt, his hair sticking out at odd angles.

  Keane was instantly awake. He released his hold on Briana and sat

  up, knowing the stern old man would never violate his privacy unless

  it was of the utmost importance. "What is it, Vinson?"

  Beside him, Briana stirred.

  "A messenger came from the village. English soldiers were spotted

  heading through the woods."

  "Have the villagers put our plan into action?"

  "Aye, my lord." Vinson averted his gaze when Briana sat up, shoving

  hair out of her eyes before modestly drawing the blanket up to her

  chin. "Half a dozen men have been dispatched to the fields, to pretend

  to be laboring. The rest of the men have secreted themselves in the

  nearby woods, with the weapons you provided, awaiting the attack."

  "Very good." Keane slipped out of bed and began to dress.

  For the sake of modesty, Briana wrapped the blanket around herself

  before stepping out of bed. When she headed toward the door, Keane

  called, ' 'Where are you going?"

  "To my chambers. I can be dressed in minutes."

  "First, my love, a kiss for luck."

  She shot him a puzzled glance before crossing to him and offering her

  lips. It seemed odd that Keane would kiss her in front of Vinson.

  Instead of the quick kiss she'd anticipated, he dragged her roughly

  against him and covered her mouth with his. She felt the rush of heat,

  the knife- edge of excitement, and blamed it on the coming battle.

  Then, just as quickly, Keane lifted his head and drew away. Briana

  touched a hand to his cheek, then walked away.

  When the door closed behind her, Keane sat on the edge of the bed,

  pulling on his boots. After buttoning his tunic, he tucked a knife in his

  boot and picked up his sword.

  "Follow me, Vinson."

  Keeping his silence, the old man followed him down the hallway,

  where Keane paused outside Briana' s chambers. As promised, she

  opened the door within minutes. She was dressed in the garb of a

  stable lad and holding a sword that was nearly as big as she.

  "I'm ready," she called.

  "Aye, my lady. I can see that." Keane pulled her close and pressed

  another kiss to her lips. "Forgive me, love. I truly regret what I must

  do."

  With Vinson watching in openmouthed amazement, Keane gave her

  a gentle shove backward, then slammed the door shut and threw a

  brace over it.

  Briana's voice was a shriek of fury as she pounded on the door. "What

  are you doing, Keane? I don't understand. Open this door at once."

  ' 'Nay, lass. I love you too much to see you engaged in battle with

  these monsters." He turned to Vinson. "You're to see that this latch is

  not removed until I return. Is that understood?"

  "Aye, my lord." The old man's lips twitched slightly as the door was

  struck with such fury, the entire wall seemed to shudder. "That

  sounded like a chair, my lord."

  "Aye." Keane grinned. "The lass has a bit of a temper, Vinson. But

  you'll see to her?"

  "I will, my lord. You can trust me to see she's kept safely under lock

  until the siege is over."

  "I thank you, old man."

  As Keane strode away, the door was struck with a series of blows,

  and the tip of a sword could be seen breaking through the splintered

  wood.

  Vinson found himself praying for a mercifully quick end to the battle.

  Else Carrick House might not survive the lass's fury.

  Keane crouched in the woods with the men from the village. It

  pleased him to see that every man was armed with either sword or

  bow. And though they would be outnumbered by the English

  soldiers, at least they had a fighting chance.

  Thanks to Briana.

  Keane found himself smiling as he thought about how fiercely she

  had pleaded the cause of these villagers. It was hard to believe that he

  had, only weeks ago, been so adamantly opposed to arming his own

  people. But, in his guilt and confusion, he had convinced himself that

  they were better off accepting defeat, rather than risking the pain and

  chaos and destruction of battle.

  It was one more thing for which he would always be grateful to

  Briana. His fierce little scrapper had helped him to see clearly what he

  had to do. By fighting alongside his people, he could atone for the

  sins of his father. And, if the fates were kind, he might even get his

  chance to exact retribution from the one called Halsey. He clenched

  his teeth. That would give him the greatest satisfaction of his life.

  Early morning sunlight glinted off the swords of the first English

  horsemen as they started across the meadow toward the villagers in

  the field who were acting as decoys. Keane felt the quick rush of

  anticipation he'd always experienced at the start of a battle.

  "Now, my lord?" Hugh McCann glanced over at him, and Keane

  shook his head.

  "Nay. It's too soon. Our only hope for success is the element of

  surprise, Hugh. The English are expecting us to be as

  before—helpless, unarmed and terrified. They'll not be expecting a

  militia of
trained swordsmen."

  He noted that, despite the early morning chill, Hugh and the others

  were sweating. And why not? They were no doubt thinking about the

  wives and children they might never see again.

  As for himself, he felt a strange sense of calm. He had no fear of

  death. Until he had discovered Briana's love, he would have

  welcomed it. And even now, thinking about the one he would leave

  behind, death held no power over him. It was for this he felt he had

  been born and bred. This was what he had trained for all of his life.

  He only wished he could fight these English bastards alone, to ensure

  that none of the innocent villagers would have to face danger this day.

  His eyes narrowed as the line of horsemen drew nearer to the cluster

  of villagers pretending to till the soil.

  "Steady, lads. Another moment." He unsheathed his sword, lifted it

  high over his head, then nodded. "Now, lads."

  The men and boys of the village came swarming out of the woods,

  wailing like banshees, brandishing their weapons. The English

  soldiers, hearing the shrieks, wheeled their mounts in confusion.

  Keane led the way, rushing forward to engage the first soldier. Before

  the man could even unsheath his sword, Keane had run him through.

  As the soldier slipped from the saddle, Keane caught the horse's reins

  and shouted for a villager to mount. A big, burly lad pulled himself

  into the saddle and sped off, quickly overtaking several of the English

  who were attempting to retreat.

  That first small success seemed to inspire the other villagers. Their

  fears were forgotten as they were thrust into the thick of battle. The

  air was filled with screams and shouts, and the clang of metal against

  metal. The earth was churned beneath the hooves of terrified horses.

  "Watch your back, Hugh." "Keane's warning caused Hugh McCann

  to turn, narrowly missing a soldier's thrust. Moments later Hugh ran

  the soldier through with his sword, then turned to give assistance to

  three lads who were holding off several mounted soldiers.

  Seeing their dilemma, Keane leaped on the back of one of the horses

  and wrapped his arm around the soldier's throat. In desperation the

  soldier pulled a knife from his waist, but before he could use it, Keane

  caught his hand and forced it upward until it pierced the soldier's own

  throat. The man's shriek of surprise ended in a gurgle of pain. He was

  dead before he dropped to the ground.

  Seeing a cluster of soldiers up ahead, Keane urged the horse forward.

  As he fought his way through the crowd, he heard a tight angry cry

  from a soldier on a distant hillside.

  "Death to all the Irish."

  The horseman had grabbed up a thin-armed lad of perhaps ten and

  two, and was holding a knife to his throat while shouting, "We're not

  leaving here lads until every one of these bastards is bathed in his

  own blood. If any man tries to retreat, he'll taste my sword. Do you

  hear?"

  Keane felt a rush of heat and knew, even before he drew closer, what

  he would see.

  The English soldier wore a ragged tunic over frayed breeches. His

  face bore the scars of multiple battles. His nose was flattened,

  obviously broken. Though his dark hair was long and scraggly, it

  couldn't hide the fact that his left ear was missing. All that remained

  was a white, puckered scar.

  "Halsey." Keane lifted his sword and nudged his horse forward.

  Seeing him, the soldier tightened his grasp on the lad. "Advance and

  the lad dies."

  Keane's reaction was strictly instinctive. Without giving the soldier

  time to think, he charged. His first thrust caught Halsey's arm,

  causing him to drop the lad.

  "Run, lad," Keane shouted. "Go back and join the others."

  Enraged, Halsey wheeled his mount and charged this bold horseman

  who had dared to thwart his fun. His sword tip pierced Keane's

  shoulder.

  Seeing blood spurt from the wound, Halsey threw back his head and

  gave a hoarse laugh. "I never met an Irishman yet who could best me

  in battle." He wheeled his mount yet again and charged. But this time,

  instead of aiming at his enemy, Halsey carefully, calculatingly, ran

  his sword through the neck of Keane's mount.

  With a whinny of pain, the animal fell. It was only Keane's skill as a

  horseman that kept him from being crushed. He managed to jump to

  safety moments before the animal dropped to the ground in a heap.

  But as Keane leapt free, his sword slipped from his fingers. Before he

  could retrieve it, Halsey was racing his mount toward him.

  "Now Irishman, let's see you evade my sword again."

  As Keane danced aside, he heard the whistle of the blade and felt the

  spatter of dirt from the horse's hooves.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Halsey turning his mount for

  another charge. He felt the thrill of anticipation. This time there

  would be no room for error. He would win. Or he would die.

  At that moment he caught a glimpse of blurred movement coming

  over the hill. He glanced up to see a vision running toward him. He

  blinked. It couldn't be. He had given Vinson orders to keep her locked

  in her chambers. But there was no mistaking the figure racing toward

  him. It was Briana. Dressed in the garb of a stable lad and holding

  aloft her sword. Sweet heaven. She couldn't possibly know that she

  was about to confront her worst nightmare.

  "Briana. No. Go back." Even as he shouted the warning, he knew it

  was a futile attempt. She was too far away to hear. His warning fell

  away, a mere whisper on the wind.

  The slight distraction was just enough to cause him to lose his edge.

  As he stumbled toward his fallen sword, he felt the thundering of

  hooves, and knew that this time, Halsey wouldn't miss.

  He heard the sound of fierce laughter. And Halsey's voice, like a

  shriek of victory. "Prepare to die, Irishman."

  Keane looked up as Halsey's horse reared, its front hooves pawing the

  air. And then those hooves came crashing down, beating Keane to the

  earth.

  Pain enveloped him in waves. Pain so hot and fierce, it robbed him of

  speech. Even the cry that escaped his lips was suddenly cut off. He

  struggled to see, but his vision began to fade, as a great black cloud

  seemed to close over him.

  And then, with Halsey's laughter breaking through the wall of silence,

  he felt himself swallowed up in darkness.

  At the scene before her, Briana stood, frozen in horror. She had seen

  Keane's momentary distraction when he'd caught sight of her. Had

  watched as the English horseman had used that moment to his

  advantage.

  Her fault. Her fault. The thought played through her mind like a

  litany.

  Now, she realized the enormity of the situation. The fighting was too

  far away for any of the villagers to see or hear them. It was up to her

  to save Keane and herself. She raised her sword and raced to Keane's

  side.

  Dropping to one knee beside him she touched a hand to his throat and

  felt for a pulse. For a moment she felt her heart stop. B
ut then, as she

  located the steady beating of his heart, she gave a sigh of relief.

  He may be wounded, but he was alive. Alive. It was all that mattered.

  "Keane," she called. "Can you hear my voice, my love?"

  Instead of a reply she heard the sound of laughter. Laughter that

  scraped over her already raw nerves, starting a series of tremors that

  had palms sweating, her knees going weak.

  She looked up to see the man who had left her for dead. Whose face

  and voice had tormented her in her dreams every night since that

  terrible attack. The sight of him left her numb and frozen.

  "Halsey." She knew her voice wavered as she struggled to her feet

  and stood trembling as she faced the man on horseback.

  "So. You know me."

  "Aye." She swallowed and prayed for courage. "You once plunged

  your sword through my chest."

  He laughed. "Forgive me if I don't recall. My sword has tasted so

  much Irish flesh, it's a wonder it hasn't rotted from the stink."

  "It was in this very field. You didn't like the fact that I was besting

  you with your own sword. And like the coward you are, you had your

  men hold me. That way you could assure that you would win."

  "I remember you, lad." His eyes narrowed. "No man bests Ian

  Halsey." He slid from the saddle and advanced on her, wielding his

  sword. "Especially one who smells of the stables."

  Briana dodged his first thrust and brought her sword tip upward,

  catching him in the arm. He gave a yelp of pain and charged at her,

  his sword swinging wildly. Nimbly, Briana danced to one side, then

  spun andlashed out, slicing his thigh. At once his breeches were

  drenched in blood, and he swore as he lunged at her.

  She avoided his blade, but his hand reached out, catching her roughly

  by the shoulder. When she tried to break free he dragged her firmly

  against him and wrapped his arm around her throat, pressing until he

  felt her go limp.

  Briana struggled against the arm that imprisoned her, but it was

  impossible to loosen his grasp. As she struggled for breath, her vision

  began to fade. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Halsey's

  laughter seemed to ebb and flow, and she knew that she was losing

  consciousness.

  Her sword dropped from her fingers as she scratched and clawed at

  the iron band that continued to tighten around her throat. And then