“So you like that, you English vixen?” he murmured. “You are a whore after all.”
Emllyn’s eyes flew open. Quick as a flash, she hauled off and slapped him so hard across the face that his head snapped sideways. Leaping off the bed, she made a break for the lancet window but Devlin was right behind her, grabbing her as she tried to throw herself from the window, three stories above the jagged rocks and crashing sea below. He had her around the waist, her arms pinned, as she screamed and fought against him.
It was a vicious fight. The mood, rather warm and sensual only moments before, was now brittle and fierce. Although Emllyn’s arms were pinned, her legs were quite free and she ended up kicking him in his semi-arousal. Grunting with pain, Devlin staggered to the bed and fell upon it with Emllyn sandwiched beneath him. He listened to her snarl and weep, so much fight in her soft little body that it surprised him. For an Englishwoman, she was tough.
“I hate you, do you hear?” she sobbed. “For everything you have done to me, I will hate you until I die!”
Devlin lay atop her, his face pressed into her back between her shoulder blades. She couldn’t get to him here but he knew what had triggered her rage; whore. He had called her the lowliest form of female life, reminding her of what her foolish actions and bad fortune had brought her. She was the whore for an Irish warlord who intended to use her for nothing more than breeding stock and pleasure. It was a shameful and bleak existence. In that sense, he understood her reaction.
Torn between remorse and the reality of the situation he refused to apologize, but unless he wanted to physically restrain her for the rest of their lives, he had to say something to calm her. He was afraid if he left the chamber, she really would throw herself from the window. He didn’t want to think of that sweet, soft body broken and bleeding on the rocks below. It would have been a damnable waste.
“I will have a bath brought up to you,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “I will send up more than bread for you to eat and clothes to wear. You will feel better after you have had a chance to eat and dress warmly.”
Beneath him, Emllyn’s hysteria had dissolved into tears of shame and anger. “Why?” she sobbed. “Why give me comfort? Simply kill me now and be done with it.”
His cheek was against the soft, warm skin of her back. “I am not going to kill you,” he said. “You are my captive and I intend to take very good care of you. A dead captive is of no use to me.”
Emllyn’s weeping lessened at his odd statement and her eyes opened. She appeared somewhat bewildered. “What… what do you mean?” she sniffled. “What use could I be to you? I already told you that my brother will not care if you hold me captive. He will not pay your ransom demand.”
Devlin could feel that her struggles had weakened. In fact, she wasn’t struggling much at all. She was simply lying beneath him, trembling. Warm, soft, and compliant once again; he resisted the urge to brush his lips on the soft skin against his cheek. It was difficult not to feel his arousal once again.
“I will not ransom you,” he said, his voice low.
She didn’t say anything for a moment. He felt her sigh; the tears were gone and now there was despair in the very air she breathed. It was a hollow and bitter mood, all settled in about her. He could feel it.
“I do not want to be your whore,” she muttered. “Why could you not have simply killed me last night as you did all the other English? It would seem that you have shown mercy to the dead. You have shown me no mercy at all.”
Devlin lay there a moment before taking the chance and letting her go. He sat up, watching her stiffly push herself up off the mattress. She recoiled from him but she didn’t try to run again. She was also quivering, with cold and emotion, and he gazed at her steadily a moment before standing up and going in search of his breeches.
“If I ask you a question, will you give me the courtesy of an honest answer?” he asked.
Arms wrapped around her slender body, Emllyn watched him bend over and pick up his leather breeches. It took her a moment to realize she was gazing at his bare buttocks, white and firm things that rippled with muscle when he moved. In fact, his entire body was stark white, whiter than any skin she had ever seen before, but there was such creamy beauty to it. His red hair was a blatant contrast against the pale of his skin and as he pulled his breeches on, she averted her gaze because he was turning to face her and she was embarrassed by their nakedness. She tried to put her arms more tightly about her body for both comfort and concealment.
“Why?” she demanded, feeling hollow and spent.
“Because I ask it. I would not lie to you so I do not expect you, as an honorable lady, to lie to me.”
She was tired. Too tired to fight with him anymore. Their activities on the bed had somehow sapped her strength and will to fight. She just didn’t have it in her at the moment. “What is it, then?” she asked quietly.
“Will you answer honestly?”
“Aye.”
Devlin eyed her lowered head as he fastened his breeches. “When you stowed away on your brother’s vessels, where did you think they were going?” he asked. “You knew his armies were sailing for Ireland. You knew it was a battle fleet. Did you not think they would find resistance the moment they arrived?”
Emllyn shrugged, her gaze still averted. “To be entirely truthful, I did not,” she said. “I knew they were going to battle… that Trevor was going to battle… but I did not think it would be so immediately. I thought mayhap a battle march once they reached shore… and there would be time for me to reveal myself to him.”
She was starting to tear up; he could see it. She sniffled and wiped at her eyes but he felt no pity for her. “And then what?”
Her head came up, looking at him. “What do you mean?”
He lifted his eyebrows expectantly. “What did you intend to do once you revealed yourself to this man?” he wanted to know. “They have names for camp followers like you. They are, in fact, called whores, so mayhap I was not too far wrong when I called you one.”
Her features flushed red. “I am not a whore,” she snapped. “I love Trevor and he loves me. I want to be his wife.”
“Loved,” he emphasized, past-tense. “Your lover is dead. Did you not think that would be a possibility?”
Her tears came faster and she looked away again. She didn’t reply for a moment, shaking her head and wiping at her eyes as if thinking all manner of terrible things about him. “I suppose I did not think on it,” she finally murmured, her voice hoarse. Then, she turned to look at him again. “Did you really kill all of the English soldiers or were you simply gloating?”
He gazed steadily at her. “Those who were not put to the sword drowned in the churning waters,” he said. “There are no more than twenty or thirty still alive, and those men are to be killed or sold for ransom.”
She looked at him, shocked. “But…,” she gasped, “but there were at least a thousand men, mayhap more. They are all gone?”
“I told you they are. Do you not believe me?”
Emllyn averted her eyes, unable to hold his gaze. She did indeed believe him and the knowledge sickened her. All those men… and Trevor!
“Trevor was a knight,” she said softly. “He comes from a fine family. May I… may I see the men you have captive to see if he is still alive?”
His jaw ticked. “Nay,” he said flatly, surprised at the ferocity of his reply. She belonged to him and he wasn’t about to let her even think of another man. He thought it was only possessiveness but was startled to realize there was perhaps jealousy there as well. “Your lover is dead and you will put him out of your mind. He no longer exists to you.”
His words had emotion to them, as if there was anger there. Emllyn’s fury surged. “You cannot erase someone I love so easily,” she snapped at him. “You cannot wipe a memory clear of my mind as the sea washes away the sand. I cannot forget deep and abiding memories just because you command me to.”
Devlin was starting to gr
ow angry for reasons he did not understand. All he knew was that he didn’t want her thinking about another man. Even in this short time he had known her, not even a full day, something about her had infiltrated him, getting under his skin. She was English, that was true, and worse yet she was his captive… but there was something about the girl that went beyond all of that. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but until he did, she would come to understand that she belonged to him and he wouldn’t tolerate her thinking of anyone else.
“I told you he is dead,” he muttered. “It would therefore stand to reason that your love for him is dead, too. Why would you waste such effort on a memory?”
Emllyn stared at him, shocked by his callous words. But as she pondered them, a thought occurred to her. “Have you never been in love?” she asked, almost beseechingly. “Do you not know what it means to hold such feelings for someone that the glory of the moon and the sun pale by comparison?”
By this time, Devlin was thoroughly agitated but failed to understand why. That only made him more frustrated. He straightened out his tunic and headed for the chamber door, confused and off-balance by the conversation. As his big hand held the iron latch, he turned to her one last time.
“We are three stories above the rocks and probably more than six stories above the sea,” he said. “A fall from this height will not kill you but it would greatly injure you. I would suggest you consider that before throwing yourself from the window. I have no physic so the best I could do would be to stand by while your broken bones healed in terrible positions, or your useless legs caused you unimaginable agony. Mayhap we would have to cut off a mangled arm or bind up your guts and cause you such anguish that you would pray for death. If you truly wish to live out your days dying a slow and agonizing death, then that is your choice, but I strongly suggest you reconsider. It would be better for you to remain whole and sound.”
Emllyn looked at him with horror, her gaze moving to the lancet window she had so recently tried to fling herself from. Well, mayhap she did not truly intend it, but in her haze of anguish she had made all indication that she was serious. Now that she was calm, the thought of broken legs or bleeding guts made her shudder with disgust. Slowly, and with freezing-cold fingers, she reached down to the floor to once again collect her damp, sandy surcoat.
“I will not try anything so foolish again,” she assured him with defeat in her tone. “But I would like something dry to wear if you can manage it.”
Devlin eyed her lowered head, thinking a great many things at that moment. Mostly, he was thinking that he had been inordinately cruel to her. But as his English captive, didn’t she deserve all that and more? He refused to entertain any thoughts otherwise.
He left the chamber without another word.
The feasting hall of the castle was silent for the most part. The men who had occupied it the night before, drinking and sleeping all about the chamber, were now up and going about their duties, which left the hall vacated.
The fire in the hearth was low, a great pile of peat and wood with ashes scattered about and dog paw prints through them. It smelled of sewage and smoke, of that radiating aura of human stench that mingled with rebellion and victory. For now, the victory belonged to the Irish and the three great commanders of Devlin’s army sat with him on the corner of the chipped and stained feasting table, each man contemplating the previous night’s events, each man contemplating the future. There was much on their mind.
No one was contemplating more than Devlin. He sat in his customary chair, the one that had been part of the spoils of war when they had raided, and stripped, one of the English settlements to the south of Wicklow last year. It had a crest carved on it, a great preying beast attributed to the House of de Cleveley, one of the many English houses who possessed lands in Ireland. Devlin had taken great delight in scratching out most of de Cleveley’s crest, slashing holes through the face of the enemy. He put his mark on it, and now the chair was his.
As he picked at the remains of his meal, a very large falcon sat on the back of the chair and every so often he would extend a piece of meat or a crust of bread to the bird, which gobbled it down. The bird was a pet, a friend, and a mascot; it was all things, the de Bermingham bird of prey that was treated better than most men. Named Neart, which meant ‘strength,’ the big black and gray bird hovered over his master.
“We’re taking the dead up to St. Mantan’s church,” a large man with kinky dark hair spoke. He was seated, his big leg propped upon the table. “The priests want the English brought to them but they haven’t enough room in the graveyard to bury them, and we don’t want them buried with good Irish folk anyway, so they’re making room outside of the churchyard for the English dead.”
Devlin turned to the man, a friend from childhood who had seen much life and death with him. Shain ṓg Michaleen was his closest, but most fiery, advisor. The man’s official title was Keeper of the Blade, as Devlin’s second-in-command. He would trust his blade to no other.
“I do not want my men digging graves for the English,” he said flatly. “How many English prisoners do we have?”
“Thirty-three,” said another man with long blond hair. Iver Blaineroe was a distant cousin, calm and wise in a land of passionate men. His official title was Master of Men because he was the man the troops were most apt to listen to. “We counted eleven hundred and seventy two dead this morning but there’s more that were drown and washed away by the sea. Mayhap we’ll never truly know how many Englishmen there were but for now, we have thirty-three living prisoners and piles of dead. If you want the prisoners to start burying their comrades, then we had better get started for it will take weeks to accomplish this. If we could use more manpower, however, we could finish the task in a day.”
Devlin could sense a mild rebuke in the statement and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want his own men burying the English and would not be chided for it. Before he could speak, however, the third commander at the table spoke.
“What of the woman we captured?” Frederick ṓg Branach made it sound like a simple question, but it was not simple in the least. Frederick was a bloodthirsty bastard, known as the trodaí fola, or Blood Warrior, who had a particular hatred for the English. He had been the one who had captured Emllyn the night before and brought her to Devlin, and he had taken the greatest delight in her fear and humiliation. “What do you intend to do with her?”
Devlin was steady as he faced the man. Last night when Emllyn had been brought to him as a prize, his attitude towards her was as it should have been – she was the spoils of war and nothing more. However, after his experience with her this morning, that opinion was in danger of changing. As much as he pretended that it wasn’t the truth, he knew deep down that the situation was increasingly unstable. He hoped the confusion didn’t reflect in his eyes.
“What would you have me do with her?” he asked.
Frederick cocked a dark eyebrow, his broad features stained with hatred. “You’ve already done plenty to her, so I’ve heard,” he said, a lascivious gleam in his eye. “I approve.”
“I do not care if you approve or not,” Devlin wouldn’t warm to the man’s bloodlust. “Answer my question; what would you have me do with her?”
Frederick shrugged his big shoulders and reached for a cup of stale ale with dirty, blood-stained hands. “I suppose you could give her to the rest of us when you’ve had your fill of her,” he said, taking a long swallow of the bitter brew. “Or you could ransom her. Did you find out who she is?”
Devlin nodded, slowly reaching for his own cup of ale. “I did,” he said, putting the cup to his lips. “You will never believe it.”
That peaked their interest. “Who?” Shain demanded.
Devlin deliberately made them wait as he downed the contents of the cup. He set it down against the rough-hewn table.
“The Earl of Kildare’s sister,” he announced. “Evidently, she stowed away on one of the vessels to follow a lover. Her brother does not know we ha
ve her, as he does not know she stowed away. At least, that is what she told me. She is a foolish lass, that one. Foolish and young.”
His commanders were holding various expressions of delight and surprise at the news. Iver even laughed softly.
“Kildare’s sister,” he repeated, incredulous. “Are you sure of this? She could be lying.”
Devlin shrugged casually. “She is as fine and untouched as any woman I have ever seen,” he said. “Or, at least she was untouched until I gave her a taste of true Irish strength. Now she belongs to me and I am not entirely sure I want to give her up or ransom her. Mayhap I shall breed a host of bastard Irish sons from her, lads who will grow up and rebel against their English brethren. Mayhap I will simply keep her as a concubine and nothing more and use the woman as a personal victory against Kildare. ’Twould be humiliating for the man if his sister was the personal whore of his most hated enemy.”
Even Frederick was pleased at Devlin’s statement. “Grand,” he agreed. “Then our victory last night will have implications long into the future. Think on the bastards you could breed with the wench; fine stock, to be sure.”
Devlin agreed and went to pour himself a second cup of alcohol; it was a brew that was produced locally of barley and rye, very strong and heavy in flavor. It was easy to get drunk off of it as he had many a time. He sipped the drink as he fed the falcon another piece of old mutton.
“Indeed,” he said, eyeing the men who were like brothers to him. They had all seen much life and death together, bonded by the plague of war that enveloped their land. “But I will make this clear and say no more; Kildare’s sister is my prisoner and my prize. She will be untouched and unmolested by anyone, is that clear? If I hear that someone has moved against her, my retribution shall be swift and deadly. Do you comprehend?” Two out of the three men nodded seriously and Devlin continued, hoping to move past the subject quickly. “Now you will tell me of my own wounded. How many and what is the current state of my army?”
He’d hoped to shift the subject easily but Frederick wasn’t so keen to let it go. He waved off Iver when the man started to speak on the status of the Irish rebels. “She is not just your personal prize, something to be hoarded and kept,” he insisted. “Although I respect your plans to use her to breed fine sons, now that we know who she is, surely the terms of her captivity have changed. She belongs to us all, Dev. She is a symbol of Kildare, the man responsible for all we hate and all we have lost.”
Brides of Ireland Page 39
