L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  “Nay, do what you must.” Since he already found it difficult to distance himself from her, perhaps this might help.

  “When MacCarthy gathered everyone in the bailey, his brother Hugh dragged the maids and me from my solar, where the men had sent us when the assault on the castle began. Hugh is a rough man, coarse of tongue and foul minded. ′Twas only Brigit’s intervention that kept him from stripping me to my shift before we reached the bailey. As it was, he’d ripped my tunic and unbound my hair, bruising my face and arms in the process. He forced me to stand before them all looking as though I’d just . . . ”

  As her voice faded away, she reached out and grasped Connor’s hand in a tight grip. Her words made his blood run hot; when he finally met Hugh MacCarthy, he’d see that the bastard paid for what he’d done that day.

  “It looked as if he’d taken me already,” she continued. “His men proved as foul mouthed as he, shouting their filth and stirring my people into a frenzy, though they could do nothing to protect me.” Her fingers tightened. “Indeed, the MacCarthys’ men used it as an excuse to lay about with fists and cudgels once again. My servants were no threat to them, yet they seemed to take great pleasure in ‘subduing’ them.”

  The picture she painted did not surprise him, though he found it disgusting. He knew well the pleasure some men took in wielding whatever power they had over any within their reach who could not—or would not, he thought with a frown—fight back.

  He turned his hand beneath hers and laced their fingers together. “I’d expect no less from dishonorable men.”

  She looked at him, her eyes bright with tears, but didn’t free herself from his hold. “Dermot joined us on the landing then. He looked nothing like his brother or his men—he was clean, his garb fine, of good quality. He approached us and bowed to me most courteously before knocking Hugh off his feet with one blow. I thought then that he would prove different from Hugh and the others, perhaps free my people, or at least cease their torment. He’d treated me with courtesy … But ′twas all a sham.”

  Connor’s respect for the woman beside him grew with each word she spoke. ′Twas obvious she was the daughter and sister of warriors, for she had a keen eye and a clear manner of describing what had happened. She must have been frightened at the time—terrified, more like—yet she’d taken notice of her surroundings, made judgments based upon what she’d seen. “What did Dermot do?”

  “He stepped over Hugh, still sprawled on the landing, took me by the hands and led me away from his brother. ‘I will spare your people,’ he told me. I was so pleased, for they’d done naught but serve their rightful lord. They had no choice in the matter, and didn’t deserve to be punished for it.”

  “That wouldn’t stop most men in MacCarthy’s position from doing so,” Connor said. “It happens all the time. Given what you’ve said about his family, I find his offer surprising.”

  “I did as well,” she whispered. “Still, I couldn’t help but be glad they’d be spared any further punishment. I should have realized as soon as he said the words that someone would have to pay the price for his generosity.”

  “′Twas you who paid,” Connor muttered, disgust at such cowardice making his voice shake. “He took you in return for sparing them.”

  “He gave me a choice,” she said quietly. “A night’s passion with him in return for their lives. He’d already taken Gerald’s Keep. Considering I had nothing else to offer, and no way to best him, it seemed little enough sacrifice when so many might be saved.”

  “You are a brave woman, Lady Moira FitzGerald.” Connor made no effort to hide his admiration. “Few noble ladies would trade their virtue to save the lives of servants.”

  “′Tis not as though I were a virgin,” she murmured, so low he could scarce hear her.

  He reached out to smooth an errant strand of hair away from her face, letting his hand linger against her cheek, attempting to provide the comfort he could see she needed. “Your experience—or lack of it—matters little. For him to force an unwilling woman to his bed is despicable.”

  Though her eyes remained dry, he could not mistake the depth of her pain. He wanted to take her into his arms, to give her comfort, but it was not his place to do so.

  Nor could she possibly wish that from him. By the rood, she’d think him no better than Dermot MacCarthy!

  He slipped his hand from her cheek. “You gave him what he asked for?” She glanced away, nodding once. “And he kept his part of the bargain?”

  “Nay,” she whispered. “He simply waited till he’d taken what he wanted from me before he ordered his brother to resume his torment of my people.” She pressed her hands to her face, covering her eyes for a moment as though she might shut out the memory. “Five people died before my husband returned with his troops and fought his way inside.” Her body shaking, she slid her hands into her lap, fingers clenched together so tightly her knuckles showed white. “Dermot taunted Lord Brien with what he—what we—had done, threw the words in his face like a gage to challenge my husband, to enrage him to the point of foolishness.”

  Connor leaped to his feet and spun to face her. “No man could ignore such an affront to his wife!”

  She looked as though his words confused her. “′Twas the affront to his own honor he fought to avenge, not mine, milord.”

  Then he was a fool, Connor thought, though he didn’t express that sentiment out loud. ′Twould serve no purpose to speak ill of the dead, especially to the man’s widow.

  “If I hadn’t accepted Dermot’s offer, my husband might still be alive, milord.”

  “Or you might be dead, and many of your people with you,” Connor said flatly. “Most likely MacCarthy would have had you anyway. I doubt he’d have allowed your refusal of him to stand in the way of taking what he desired.”

  “Perhaps.” Without the shield of his body beside her, the wind whipped at her hair and molded her loose gown about her rounded figure, making her appear a part of the lush land surrounding her—untamed, alive, ripe. He shook his head to clear away the fanciful image.

  “′Tis my sin to bear that I caused my husband’s death, however long it took to occur. I’ll do penance for that, and for my infidelity, for as I long as I live. Yet despite everything that has happened, I cannot be sorry, for by my actions I saved all but five of our people.” Opening her hands, she cupped them about her rounded belly. “And perhaps created this child.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes dark, intense. “I cannot regret this child, no matter what the circumstances of his making. But I cannot allow his existence to lead to more deaths, more fighting, either. That is why we need your help.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, though several possibilities, none of them appealing, came to mind.

  “The MacCarthys seek revenge for Dermot’s death, milord. They desire it nearly as much as they continue to want Gerald’s Keep for their own. But now they believe they’ve the perfect weapon, an indisputable way to gain this stronghold, milord. They believe the babe I carry is Dermot’s. They’ll stop at nothing to gain control of him, and through him, this castle.”

  Chapter Six

  Moira accepted Lord Connor’s assistance as they left the headland and headed back to the keep, but they made the short journey in silence.

  She’d shocked him, no doubt. How could it be otherwise? He was a decent man, a moral one. That much had already become clear to her in the brief time she’d known him. He wouldn’t want to stay here, to continually risk his life and the lives of his men, to defend an admitted adulteress.

  She knew how it would be. Once they reached the hall, he’d excuse himself and distance himself from her as much as possible for the remainder of his stay here.

  And he’d stay no longer than necessary.

  Or else he’d decide to do as the MacCarthys wanted, and hand her—and her child—over to them.

  Though how that would help, she’d no idea, for she doubted the FitzCliffords would agree to hand over Gerald’s Keep
as well.

  And that was what the MacCarthys truly desired.

  Besides, she couldn’t believe that Connor FitzClifford could be so vicious as to turn her over to the men who had abused her.

  How he would resolve their troubles with the MacCarthys, she had no idea. But she could not allow him to do anything that might jeopardize her child’s life.

  He steadied her on her feet once they reached the postern gate. Desperation gave her the courage to reach out and catch his arm, to stop him before he opened the barred door. “I realize I’ve no right to ask this of you, milord, but I’ll do so anyway. Promise me you won’t give my child to the MacCarthys. Do whatever you wish with me once the babe is born, but don’t allow them to take my child!”

  “What kind of monster do you think me?” His face had blanched at her words, making splotchy freckles stand out across his cheeks. His dark eyes held hurt, confusion; had what she’d said been so surprising? “I would never harm a child, nor separate a babe from its mother,” he said, the conviction in his voice ringing true. He stared at her hand, pale against his dark sleeve, until she released him.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “I beg your pardon, milord,” she muttered, unable to meet his gaze any longer.

  “Don’t look away now, Lady Moira,” he said. His quiet tone, at odds with the air of command his words carried, compelled her to obey. She stared at him, bemused, as he held her gaze with his. “Perhaps you’ve not known any men you could trust before now, but I swear to you upon my honor, milady, you can trust me.”

  The wind buffeted them, whipping her hair about, winding the strands around them both. He ignored it and held out his right hand to her. She placed her hand in his, palm to palm, letting his warmth seep into her chilled fingers.

  “Will you trust me?” he asked. Still holding her motionless with his eyes, he brought her hand to his lips, turned it to kiss her palm, then closed her fingers and pressed her hand to his chest. “Please.”

  His heart thundered beneath her touch as he awaited her answer. With his eyes staring deep into her soul, his lifeblood pulsing against her palm, ′twas a bond as binding as a vow. How could she refuse him?

  “I will try, milord. Tis all I can promise—I will try.” He released her hand and broke the spell he’d cast. “Thank you,” he murmured, looking away. Turning, he reached for the latch and pulled the door open.

  Her mind in turmoil, her body exhausted, Moira followed him into the bailey.

  Connor spent the remainder of the day examining the defenses of Gerald’s Keep and observing the battle readiness of its men. By dusk, he’d learned enough about the place and its people to realize that resolving the situation here was sure to prove a greater task than either he or Rannulf had anticipated.

  He’d also discovered the depth of Lady Moira’s entanglement in the circumstances leading up to their current problems. Not only through her unborn child.

  It appeared her brothers were involved, as were nearly half the Irish nobles in the area. Opinions about the O’Neills ran strong among Lady Moira’s people. Most everyone agreed that her brothers treated her as naught but a pawn to manipulate whenever they wanted something from her, or needed her Norman husband to bail them out of some trouble or another.

  They saw their lady as next to a saint for her care of her people—not to mention her sacrifice on their behalf. It seemed to him that d’Athée’s opinion of her was not widely held. Instead, those Connor spoke with were very loyal to her, and would be to her child, as well.

  Connor entered the hall, tired and filthy, intending to head straight for the chamber he’d been given on the third floor of the keep. A maid had informed him earlier that Lady Moira would not be joining them in the hall for supper. He looked forward to a quiet meal, without any of the emotional turmoil she seemed to generate within him whenever she was near.

  Will hailed him from a corner near the stairwell as Connor set his foot on the first riser.

  “′Tis glad I am to see you, milord,” he said, his voice devoid of its usual cheerfulness. He motioned toward the stairs with the drinking horn he held, sending adrift the scent of mulled wine. “I’ve news aplenty to share.”

  “Come join me, then,” Connor said. “And if you’ve any of that left, bring it along.”

  Will disappeared into the shadowy hall and emerged with a battered silver pitcher and another drinking horn. “Milord.” He followed Connor up the stairs.

  Will had proved himself indispensable in keeping d’Athée busy and out of Connor’s way today, although it was clear that his efforts had taken their toll on him. Apparently Sir Ivor had managed what Connor had believed impossible—to wear through Will’s usual good humor and even temper, reducing his smile to a scowl and painting shadows of weariness across his face.

  “You owe me more than you can ever repay for this day’s work, milord,” Will said as soon as they entered the room.

  Connor closed the door and nodded for him to take a seat by the fireplace. Someone had been here recently, for a small peat fire burned in the hearth and a branch of candles on the table by the bed cast a welcoming glow about the simple chamber. Connor unbuckled his sword belt and set it aside, then stretched his arms toward the low ceiling. “Share some of that wine and tell me what you’ve learned.”

  Will poured wine into both horns, handed one to Connor and set the pitcher on the hearth. He sank onto the cushioned settle with a sigh. “You’ll be well served if you can find someplace else to send d’Athée, and without delay,” he said. He raised the cup to his lips, lowering it untasted. “He’s treachery waiting for a chance to strike. Of that I have no doubt.”

  Connor tasted the wine, savoring its fragrant warmth before pulling a rough-hewn chair closer to the fire and easing himself into it. “I feared as much. He made no secret of his hatred for Lady Moira, both last night and this morn. And his dislike of the Irish is well known—”

  “He’s lucky someone hasn’t slit his throat for him,” Will countered. “The man’s a fool, no mistake. But he’s the kind who’ll stir up trouble every chance he gets.” He drained the horn and leaned over to grab up the pitcher from the hearth. “By all accounts he fair worshipped Lord Brien, to the point where he was jealous of the man’s wife.” He made a sound of disgust. “By Saint Winifred’s bones, where’s the sense in that? Most men spend more time with their men than their wives anyway, save for your brother and Gilles—I’m sorry, the Lady Gillian,” he added with a grin. “I still have to remind myself that the ‘lad’ I fought with as a child is ‘my lady’ now, married and a mother.” He replenished his drink and held the pitcher out, offering it to Connor, who took it gratefully. “′Twould take a pike to separate her from Lord Rannulf most of the time.”

  “Unlike the FitzGeralds. Lord Brien spent little time with his wife, from what I’ve heard,” Connor said. “She was naught but breeding stock to him.”

  “Yet he didn’t live to see her bear his heir.” Will set aside the horn and sat forward on the settle, leaning his elbows on his knees, his expression solemn. “Though there’s some question whether ′tis FitzGerald’s child she carries, milord.”

  “So I’ve heard from the lady herself.” Though Connor knew ′twas common knowledge, still it felt odd, unsettling, to be discussing the topic with Will. It seemed a betrayal … or an invitation for Will, for anyone, to see Lady Moira as a woman who had sinned, and whose husband had died because of it.

  Connor didn’t trust himself to remain calm, uninvolved, should anyone treat her without respect.

  He tried to drown the uncertainty that thought engendered with a deep draft of the wine, but it didn’t help. No woman had ever caused the feelings of protectiveness that haunted him now.

  Not even his mother, when his father had been on one of his rampages.

  Aye, he’d imagined what it would be like to try to bring a halt to his father’s madness, but he’d never carried the thought to fruition.

  He would to protect Lady Moir
a.

  “I don’t want our men—nor the ones here—gossiping about Lady Moira or her child,” Connor said firmly. “See to it that anyone who does is sent to me for punishment.”

  Will nodded, sending him a surprised look. “Of course, milord. You know I meant no disrespect by what I said—”

  Connor waved a hand to cut off the apology. “I know, Will. You were doing exactly what I wanted you to do. Given d’Athée’s attitude, however, I doubt there’s been any effort to quell the rumors about their lady. I simply want it understood that any further gossip about her will not be tolerated.”

  He straightened and finished off his wine, realizing how heated his voice had become. How had this come about? She was a woman like any other, he told himself. ′Twas normal, fitting, to wish to protect a mother and her child. But what he felt now went deeper than mere decency.

  “Milord, do you want more wine?” Will asked.

  Connor started and tightened his grip on the drinking horn. “Nay, I thank you. I’ve much to consider, and wouldn’t want to muddle my head any more than usual,” he added with a mirthless laugh.

  “Are you all right, milord?” Will’s gaze sharpened. “Can’t let anything happen to you, else I might as well not bother returning to l’Eau Clair. Gillian’d have my head for certain.” His mouth curled into his usual grin. “Lop it off herself, most like.”

  The image of his sister by marriage, sword in hand, helped Connor force his concerns aside and join in Will’s laughter. “Aye, that she would.” Gillian had brought joy and laughter to his twin, and some semblance of family to the FitzCliffords when before they’d had none. Connor had come to care deeply for his brother’s fiery-haired wife.

  At least Gillian had Rannulf to watch over her; Lady Moira had no one.

  Connor rose and paced the length of the chamber, stopping by the window and nudging aside the shutter to look out at the setting sun. Moira FitzGerald would face her troubles alone no longer.