L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  For a brief moment she considered ignoring his crudity, but she knew how much worse he could get—especially once he was drunk. Best if she stopped him now, if possible, before he had the opportunity to show himself to be a bigger fool than he’d already done.

  She crossed the room and snatched the pitcher of wine from his hand. “As always, Aidan, you abuse my good nature and expect me to thank you for it.”

  “What are you saying?” Scowling, he tugged at his beard, a sure sign that he knew exactly what she meant.

  She stepped away from him and held the wine beyond his reach, not that it stopped his attempts to take it from her. She slapped his hand aside and moved back, wishing his chair were still tilted, so she might have the pleasure of knocking it from beneath him. “Do you think you can come here, insult me and my guests—”

  “Enough, Moira.” He glanced past her to Lord Connor. She looked back over her shoulder and saw that, other than folding his arms across his chest, he hadn’t moved since he’d entered the room and taken up a position near the closed door. “I hope she doesn’t nag at you like this, milord. I warn you, she can be a vengeful shrew when the mood strikes her.”

  “You always did have that effect on me,” Moira said quietly. She pulled out the chair opposite Aidan and motioned for Lord Connor to take it. “Here, milord. Sit, if you please. Tis not proper for you to stand while he sits there, allowing his mouth free rein.”

  Unwilling to stand by and watch Lady Moira and her loathsome brother spar any longer, Connor came forward and grasped the seat she offered, holding it out for her. “You first, milady.”

  She sank onto the chair, her faint smile thanks aplenty. Connor took a stool from near the hearth and, setting it between Lady Moira and her brother, turned to the guards. “Henry, Louis—we’ll not need you in here. Louis, you and Ralph can return to the gatehouse while Henry stands guard outside this chamber.”

  Henry nodded. “As you wish, milord,” he said, though he looked as though he’d rather remain in the room.

  Connor would rather he did not, since there was no telling exactly what Aidan O’Neill was apt to say or do. Until they discovered O’Neill’s reason for coming to Gerald’s Keep, Connor preferred to keep their conversation private, for Lady Moira’s sake.

  He waited till the two guards left and shut the door behind them before he sat down. “Now that we’re alone, O’Neill, you’d better cease your insults toward your sister—which I will not tolerate further—and tell me why you’re here.”

  O’Neill slumped back in his seat. “So you’re FitzGerald’s overlord?”

  “My brother is.”

  O’Neill scowled. “We’d heard that Lord Rannulf—he’s your brother?” he asked abruptly, his pale blue eyes shifting restlessly between Moira and Connor.

  “He is.” Connor limited his impatience to a sharp nod.

  “We’d heard he’d come … The fellow swore ′twas him,” he added, suspicion coloring his tone, his expression. “The message I bear is for him, not his lackey.”

  Did the fool believe he was Rannulf pretending to be Connor? What purpose would that serve?

  Most important, who had told O’Neill—and the MacCarthys, presumably—that Rannulf had come to Ireland?

  What did it matter?

  Connor pushed aside the questions plaguing him and focused his attention on O’Neill and the information he could supply.

  “You’ll have to settle for me,” he said flatly. He sat back and glanced from O’Neill to Lady Moira. “Your sister knows my brother. She can verify that I’m not Rannulf, not that I understand why anyone would think that—”

  “You are twins, milord,” she said. “There’s more than a slight resemblance.” Though she sounded polite, alert, he could hear the weariness tainting her voice.

  A swift glance at her face, tense and pale, confirmed it.

  “Aye. ′Twould account for it, I suppose, though we don’t appear exactly alike.” He gestured toward the scar on his face.

  “You’re alike enough, especially from a distance. I assume the spy is not someone from within these walls?” she asked her brother.

  “Nay, ′tis not.” O’Neill shoved away from the table and raked a hand through his tangled hair. “Though I don’t see what difference it makes,” he snarled.

  “It matters to me!” she cried. She looked at Connor. “To both of us, I’d imagine.”

  “Aye.” Connor rose and went to the hearth, staring into the flames dancing there as though they might contain the answers to ease his restless mind.

  How could he question O’Neill properly, when all he wanted was to grab the fool out of his chair and smash him into the wall for his manner toward his sister? Not to mention the fact that he wasn’t certain the questions he’d ask would be the correct ones.

  He wanted to do this well, to prove Rannulf had been right to trust him. He picked up the poker and stirred the fire.

  And though it should not matter, Connor didn’t wish to appear an ignorant fool before Moira. She was depending on him. He didn’t want to disappoint her.

  Never had he felt his lack of experience more keenly than at this moment!

  He reminded himself of the conversations he’d had with his brother before Rannulf sent him here. Rannulf knew better than anyone of the uncertainty that plagued him.

  Behave as though you have the answer to every question, Rannulf had told him. As though the answers don’t matter. Only then have you any chance of hearing the truth.

  Connor glanced from Moira to her brother once more, weighed what he saw. He could sense O’Neill’s impatience, etched in every line of his body.

  Good. He could use that impatience to his advantage in questioning him.

  But he could not drag this out much longer, he realized as he observed Moira. One hand rubbed her belly as though it pained her, and the other clutched the lower edge of the table, a sign of tension visible to him, but not, fortunately, to her brother.

  His movements slow and measured, he gave the fire a last stir, laid the poker on the hearth and returned to the table. “The hour is late, O’Neill, and your sister grows weary.” He caught Moira’s angry glare from the corner of his eye, but he ignored it and straddled the stool. “I’m the only FitzClifford you’re like to get, so if you’ve a message to deliver, start talking. Otherwise, I’ll escort you from Gerald’s Keep myself, for I’ll not allow you to remain here a moment longer than I must.” He reinforced the threat with a steady glare. “Not after the way you’ve insulted your sister.”

  O’Neill’s impatience transformed to anger and he leaped to his feet. “You’ve no right!” he shouted, one hand going to his waist and clutching at air where his sword hilt should have been.

  Connor remained seated, outwardly relaxed, though poised to spring into action should it prove necessary. “Who are you to tell me otherwise?” he asked, amusement flavoring his voice, lips curled in a faint smile. “Deliver your message and be done with it.”

  O’Neill moved away from the table and leaned back against the wall near the shuttered window—out of reach, Connor noted, the amusement he felt now genuine. “Hugh MacCarthy lays claim to Moira and the child she bears, through her liaison with his brother, Dermot.” He straightened, his stare a challenge. “I’m to bring her back with me on the morrow.”

  Mind reeling, forcing himself to ignore Moira’s outraged cry, Connor concentrated upon keeping his expression neutral. “Did MacCarthy truly believe—do you believe—I’d simply hand her over to him as if she were a cow that had strayed from its byre?” He didn’t dare look at Moira to see how she took those words. “And how can you think of giving her over into the hands of the family who abused her?”

  Amazingly, what appeared to be righteousness lit O’Neill’s eyes. “We wed her to FitzGerald, and now that he’s gone, ′tis our right—my brothers’ and mine—to give her where we will. Might as well send her where she’ll do us the most good.”

  His attention caugh
t by O’Neill’s words, Connor didn’t notice that Moira had risen from her seat until she passed him. He stood and reached out to catch her about the waist before she could get to her brother.

  “Release me at once,” she cried breathlessly, fighting Connor’s hold. “I’ll not allow him—” She kicked out, her soft shoe connecting with Connor’s shin. Though she cried out in pain, she didn’t cease her struggles.

  O’Neill backed away from them, likely his wisest act since he’d arrived at Gerald’s Keep.

  Connor slipped his arms about Moira’s middle and held her clasped to him, her back to his front. Her body fairly vibrated with rage. Though he’d love to release her and let her give her brother what he deserved, he feared she’d harm herself. “Easy,” he whispered in her ear. “Hush. He’ll not take you anywhere unless you wish to go. I swore to you, remember?” He felt the fight slip from her until she slumped against him, his arms holding her upright. “All right?”

  She rested her arms atop his and clasped her hands tightly around his wrists. “Aye, milord,” she murmured. Once her fingers eased their grip and she stood on her own, he released her, though he stayed close behind her. “How could you join forces with them, Aidan? After all they’ve done, how could you agree to give me to them?”

  “′Tis for the best, Moira,” O’Neill said.

  “Best for you,” she said, her voice cold. She turned to Connor, her eyes dry, but filled with pain. “I should have expected this. My brothers have ever seen me as coin to baiter for their betterment.”

  Connor glanced past her to her brother. “She’s yours to bargain with no longer, O’Neill,” he said. “Tell MacCarthy that Lady Moira’s fate rests with the FitzCliffords now, and they refuse to hand her over to anyone against her will.”

  Chapter Nine

  Moira knew she’d never forget the expression on Aidan’s face when Lord Connor refused to hand her over, for after the way her brother—nay, all her brothers—had treated her over the years, ′twas a pleasure worth savoring to witness one of them thwarted in his desire to use her again.

  Nor could she forget the warmth that flooded her at the feeling of support Lord Connor’s arms about her waist, coupled with his words, had supplied. Though that was a memory she’d do well to erase from her mind and heart at once.

  She’d wanted to follow as Lord Connor and Henry escorted Aidan from the keep, but Lord Connor had refused to allow her to come along. Her temper simmering, she’d obeyed.

  But she didn’t plan on remaining silent when Lord Connor returned, as he’d said he would.

  Connor led the way to a small storeroom on the ground floor of the gatehouse and held the stout, iron-bound door open while Henry led Aidan O’Neill inside, then brought in a blanket and a bucket. Dismissing Henry to return to his duties, Connor removed a lantern from its hook on the wall next to the door and entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  Something rustled and squeaked in the far corner of the chamber.

  “I see I’m to be given all the comforts Gerald’s Keep has to offer,” O’Neill said dryly. He shook out the blanket with a snap, wrapped it about his shoulders and settled onto the floor, resting his back against a sack of grain.

  Connor hung the light from a peg on the wall and leaned back against the door, arms folded across his chest. “What did you expect—that your sister would hear what you had to say, then greet you with open arms?”

  “She ever was a contrary lass,” O’Neill said with disgust. “Never willing to do what we wanted.”

  “If this latest plan of yours is an example of your wishes where she’s concerned, I can understand why. Did you truly believe she’d agree to give herself and her child up to the men who abused her?” He watched the Irishman’s face carefully, but saw only honest confusion displayed there.

  “They’ll wind up in Hugh MacCarthy’s hands sooner or later anyway,” O’Neill said with some heat. “No offense to you, milord, but you cannot expect to thwart Hugh. A more pigheaded man has never lived!” He shook his head. “Hugh won’t rest till he’s taken what he wants—or dies in the process.”

  Connor straightened and stood at his ease—outwardly, at least. “Hugh MacCarthy will find there is a huge difference between terrorizing a dying old man and his defenseless peasants, and facing me and my men.”

  “So you say, milord. But what’ll you gain, eh? This keep isn’t yours, ′tis your brother’s. And Moira . . . ” He laughed. “Do you honestly believe having her in your bed will be worth the bother of dealing with MacCarthy? The man sees this as a holy quest—”

  The sneer on O’Neill’s face changed to shock as Connor lunged toward him and, snagging the front of his tunic, lifted him off the floor. “You’ll cease talking of your sister as though she was a whore,” he snapped, raising the man higher and shaking him. “Else you’ll be lucky if you can crawl out of here.” Connor threw him against the piled bags of grain and watched him slide to the stone floor, all his strength focused upon not closing the distance to finish off the mouthy bastard.

  O’Neill lay unmoving, staring up at Connor. Then, reaching around to rub the side of his head, he slowly sat up. “Christ, you’ve a temper on you!” He smoothed his hair back and gave his beard a tug. “Wouldn’t have thought it of a Norman,” he added with a grin.

  By the saints, was the man mad? Connor wondered. Toss him aside like an empty ale horn, and he became more friendly? Jesu! Perhaps he ought to bring Will in here, see if he’d any notion how to deal with someone like O’Neill.

  “Your mistake,” Connor said. His gaze cold, he picked up the blanket and tossed it down next to O’Neill. “Seems I’m Irish enough to want to kill you where you sit, but I’ve sufficient Norman blood to stay my hand.”

  He reached for the lantern, then paused before opening the door. “Have you anything you’d care to tell me before I leave you and the rats to enjoy the remainder of the night together?”

  “Nay, milord—not a thing,” O’Neill said in a lazy drawl.

  “Perhaps something will come to you by morning,” Connor said as he left the room without a backward glance, closing Aidan O’Neill in utter darkness.

  His mind awhirl, he headed back to the keep. He doubted he’d learn any more from O’Neill come morning than he had tonight. And he hesitated to question the fool about the MacCarthys’ plans too closely, lest he inadvertently give O’Neill some snippet of information about their situation to carry back with him.

  Connor paused outside the door leading into the hall, closing his eyes and savoring the silence of the bailey before braving the noisy revels.

  He didn’t intend to tarry there long. He’d told Lady Moira that he’d return once he’d seen her brother settled for the night.

  What he’d say to her once he saw her again, he had no notion.

  He opened the door and let the sound pour over him. It should have heartened him, but only served to underscore how tired he felt. He lingered to speak with Will and assure himself that his orders had been carried out, then mounted the stairs to Lady Moira’s solar again.

  Moira’s temper had cooled by the time she heard a knock at the door, but she’d worked herself into a mass of nerves as the time crept by. What if Connor believed Aidan’s plans had merit? What if he decided she and her child were too much bother, and handed her over to her brothers? No one would see anything odd about such a decision, for many a widow returned to her family after her husband’s death.

  But she’d rather go anywhere—save to the MacCarthys—than return to her brothers’ none-too-loving arms.

  In her heart, she could not believe that Connor FitzClifford would do such a thing. But in her mind … In her thoughts, anything seemed possible.

  When the knock sounded, she set aside the spindle she’d been working in the fruitless hope of calming herself, rose and pressed her hands against her gown to still their trembling, then crossed the room and pulled open the door.

  He was alone, she noted with relief. At
least she’d not have to hear his decision for her future before witnesses.

  “Milord, come in.” She held the door wide, then closed it behind him. “I trust my brother gave you no trouble?”

  His face revealed nothing of his thoughts, but she could tell something weighed heavily on his mind. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he said absently.

  What did he mean by that? The words gave her no ease, since she doubted there was much this man couldn’t handle.

  Something he would not wait till morning to discuss.

  “I know the hour is late,” he said as they stood in the middle of the room. “And you must be exhausted. But I wished to speak with you now.”

  Because if he delayed, he might lose his courage? she wondered as she met his dark eyes and he glanced away. He looked as though he wished to be anywhere but here, yet here he remained.

  Despite her curiosity, she wasn’t sure she wished to know what could cause this mighty warrior to appear so uncertain. Yet waiting till the morrow would serve no purpose save cause her a sleepless night.

  “Come, sit down, milord.” She gestured toward the chairs by the table. “I can send Brigit for food. You had little opportunity to eat at supper, and you must still be hungry.”

  “Food would be welcome. Will you join me?”

  “Aye, milord.” She went through the doorway to her chamber, where Brigit sat by the fire, sewing. She sent the maid to fetch a tray of food and a pitcher of warm spiced wine. Perhaps a cup or two of the wine might ease Lord Connor’s discomfort.

  When she returned to the solar, she found him near the hearth, sword belt in hand. “I hope you don’t mind.” He leaned the weapon against the wall and knelt to build up the fire.