′Twas good to hear that she wasn’t the only one affected by their kiss.
Not that it should matter.
He glanced around the empty hallway, then stopped beside the door to the chamber at the end. “Have you ever heard anything about a way into the castle from the cliffs?” he asked, his voice low, urgent.
“The cliffs?” she asked, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Nay. If I knew anything of that nature, I’d have shared it with you before now. You’ve seen them—how could it be possible to get in from there?” She couldn’t imagine such a thing; in truth, she’d never even considered the possibility. “Why do you ask?”
“I was told to ‘look to the cliffs,’” he said. “But I haven’t a clue what that means.”
“I doubt that Aidan can tell you anything useful. He’s not a man people share secrets with, since he cannot keep one to save his soul,” she said derisively. “Though it would not hurt to ask.”
Connor nodded, looking preoccupied. “Do you wish to see him again before I let him go?”
“Nay,” she muttered, infuriated at the mere thought. “′Twould accomplish naught but to feed my anger again. I’ve yet to recover from my shock at seeing him here, though I can’t say I was surprised to learn he’s joined forces with Hugh MacCarthy once more.” She frowned, though she felt like screeching in dismay. “Nor that he’d offered me in trade yet again.”
Connor reached for her hand and clasped it tightly. “You know I won’t permit him to use you thus again, Moira. No matter what our relationship might be,” he assured her.
His touch felt too good, too warm and comforting. She couldn’t allow herself to grow used to it; she must learn to stand on her own. It would be difficult enough already to let him go. “Thank you,” she said, slipping her hand free. “I doubt you want Aidan within these walls for any longer than necessary, so I’ll let you go about your duties.” She edged past him and opened the door to the solar. “Until later, milord.” Not giving him a chance to respond, she shut the door.
Unfortunately, she feared she couldn’t shut him out of her mind—or her heart—so easily.
Connor had decided to get straight to his duties this morn, without taking the time for his usual exercises. Though he could have benefited from a clear head when he drafted his letter to Hugh MacCarthy, he thought with a rueful laugh. He’d spent nearly an hour scratching away on a piece of parchment, writing and rewriting, before he’d been satisfied that he’d achieved his objective—a missive warning the MacCarthys away from Moira, her child and Gerald’s Keep, while hopefully not enraging the fools to the point where they descended upon the castle like a plague.
However, that might be the best solution—draw them out and have at them. The idea made him itch to be armed and fighting. Waiting and wondering—being patient—was not his way. Only the thought that he must protect Moira stayed his hand from sending MacCarthy what would amount to an invitation to combat.
′Twas no wonder his muddled thoughts didn’t promise to untangle anytime soon.
Certainly not whenever he was in Moira’s presence.
He wished he knew more about women—this woman, at least. Every time he believed he’d begun to know her a little, she showed him another facet of herself—and confused him completely.
He raked his hands through his hair in frustration. Was there naught in his life at this moment that made a whit of sense?
He ran Will to ground in the barracks as the sky lightened. ′Twas a cool, misty day—perfect to make exploring the cliffs more dangerous than usual. “A quiet night?” he asked as they approached the gatehouse.
“Aye, milord. The most excitement we saw all evening was when Cedric challenged Jean to an arm wrestling match for the favor of a buxom wench,” Will said with a grin. “Though I can’t be certain whether ′twas her charms or the fact that she works in the kitchen that attracted them to her.”
“Considering that each of them eats as though he’ll be denied the tiniest crumb tomorrow, ′tis likely the promise of extra food that drew them,” Connor added wryly. “Who won?”
“They got so involved in trying to best each other, the maid left them for someone who’d pay her more notice.”
“Likely just as well. If they grow much bigger, we’ll have to get the armorer to add more links to their hauberks.” Connor paused outside the door to the gatehouse. “But ′twas quiet on the walls?”
“Aye, else I’d have sent word to you at once, milord. Nothing of note happened last night . . . ” His expression serious, Will stopped as though lost in thought. “Nothing except that Sir Ivor surprised me by speaking up after you took Lady Moira’s brother away.”
“Indeed?” Connor’s lips quirked in a mirthless smile. “And what great revelations did he decide to share with you?”
Will’s face didn’t change. “Seems he’s been thinking about whatever ′twas you said to him before, and his assumption about the lady and the MacCarthys. He didn’t care to hear her brother call her a whore, I can tell you that.”
“Nor did I.” It was a vast understatement. Connor hadn’t believed he’d ever find a reason to agree with Sir Ivor on much of anything—and certainly not something involving Moira. “Any idea why he’s changed his stance? I cannot believe ′twas anything I said that accounts for it.”
Will shook his head. “All I know is what he told me, milord. Could be he suspects you plan to send him away and hopes to change your mind. But considering he vowed his hatred of the Irish less than a week ago, that doesn’t make sense, either. I wouldn’t trust him any more today than I did then, God’s truth.”
“You’ve the right of it, Will.” Something more to mull over when he’d naught else to occupy his mind, Connor thought with a frown. Who could guess what plots Sir Ivor had running through his brain? “I cannot send him to Rannulf quite yet, however. D’Athee’s a decent fighter, and we’ll have need of him before we’re through here, I have no doubt.” He led the way into the gatehouse and removed the key to the storeroom from the pouch on his belt. “Ready for another futile conversation?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Perhaps we’ll be lucky,” Will murmured.
Connor stopped with the key poised near the lock. “Are you certain you didn’t overindulge last night? Perhaps ′tis a surfeit of wine that makes you so hopeful.”
“Nay, milord,” Will said, his laugh deep and full. “′Tis my cheerful nature.”
Laughing as well, Connor unlocked the door and swung it open.
An ear-splitting snore came from the man curled up on the pile of grain sacks, sound asleep. Rolling his eyes, Will took the lantern off the wall and carried it into the storeroom, opening the shutter wide and bending to shine the light into O’Neill’s face.
“By Christ’s eyeballs!” the man snarled. He tried to leap up, but slid on the uneven pile and fell to the floor with a thump. “What’s a fellow got to do to get some sleep here?”
Connor stared at O’Neill in disbelief. “If you want to sleep, find someplace else to do it.” He stood by the door, arms folded, and waited while O’Neill picked himself up and set about brushing himself off and straightening his garments.
Not that he looked any different once he’d finished.
By the rood, how was it possible that this fool was blood kin to Moira? Was she the exception in her family, or was Aidan?
“′Tis a busy place, with men stomping up and down the stairs all the night long.” O’Neill shook his head, his sharp gaze focused on Connor. “You must have a powerful garrison, indeed.”
Connor breathed a silent sigh of relief, for he’d begun to wonder if he’d erred in locking O’Neill away here. But perhaps he’d unwittingly done something right. “Aye, and so you may tell MacCarthy when you see him.”
“Oh, I’ve much to tell Hugh,” O’Neill said, his gaze considering. “Of course, perhaps you and me, we might come to a better bargain than I have with him—if you’ll meet my terms.”
“And w
hat might they be?” Connor asked, though he could well imagine.
O’Neill drew in a deep breath and grinned. “Well, ′tis like this. If you could see your way to returning Moira to the loving arms of her family, I just might be able to find out what Hugh’s plans for you are.” He relaxed his stance, his grin widening. “After all, I don’t figure you for a man who’d want a shrew like my sister around for long. She can’t be of any use to you, now could she? Especially in the shape she’s in at the moment.”
Connor had just finished closing his hands around O’Neill’s throat when Will grabbed him by the back of the tunic. Connor tightened his hold for a moment—just long enough to give O’Neill a taste of his strength—before he allowed Will to drag him away.
Will took up a position between the two of them—not that he’d be able to stop Connor if he decided to grab O’Neill again—and tugged down the cuffs of his shirt. “I know he’s a boil on the backside of decency, milord, but I doubt Lady Moira would appreciate you throttling her brother.” He glanced from Connor to O’Neill and shrugged. “Then again, mayhap I’m wrong.”
The sight of O’Neill rubbing at the marks on his neck filled Connor with satisfaction, not that he intended to show it. Instead, taking his time, he reached into the pouch at his waist and drew out a folded sheet of parchment sealed with wax. “The only bargain I’m offering you is your neck—if you get the hell out of here and stay out of your sister’s life.” He held out the parchment, waiting with a patience he didn’t feel until Aidan snatched it from his hand. “Moira is not yours to use, O’Neill, not again. If you ever forget that fact, I swear I’ll hunt you down and finish what I started.”
Chapter Twelve
Connor sent for Henry to escort Aidan O’Neill from Gerald’s Keep—and to make certain he left the area. Frustration filled him as he watched Moira’s brother leave, though he had to admit he was glad to see the last of him. But if the man had been more reasonable, might he have learned something useful from him?
Since “reasonable” didn’t describe O’Neill in the least, Connor would have to discover what he wanted to know on his own.
The payment O’Neill demanded in return for information was simply too high.
“I understand why you didn’t want to keep him here, milord—but why didn’t you question him about the cliffs?” Will asked as they approached the door leading from the bailey into the undercroft of the keep.
“He wouldn’t have told us anything,” Connor said flatly. “You know it as well as I. All he cared about was working things to his own advantage.” He yawned and, handing Will the lantern he carried, carefully worked the large iron key he’d brought into the lock on the heavy wood-and-iron door leading to the cellars. Considering the lock’s battered appearance, the key turned with surprising ease. “He wouldn’t have given me any information without first haggling over the price—and we both know he’d not have made any bargain unless it brought Moira into his hands.”
“You’ve the right of that, milord.” Will’s frown echoed his own. “I still cannot imagine her brother—her own blood—treating her so badly.”
“You might be surprised at how poorly some people act toward their relations,” he muttered as he focused his attention on wriggling the key out of the misshapen lock. He ignored Will’s questioning look and gave the door a shove; hinges squealing, it swung open, enveloping them in a cloud of cool, musty air.
“If the Irish think to come in through here, we’ll hear them,” Connor said, his voice dry. “Or smell the stench.” They entered the undercroft of the keep and he pushed the door shut with another nerve-jangling screech. He grimaced. “From the top floor.”
“What are we looking for, milord?”
“I haven’t any idea.” Connor took the lantern and headed for the rough stone foundation of the opposite wall. “A hidden door, or the entrance to a cave, perhaps? Sir Robert’s information was so vague as to be almost useless.” He sighed. “′Twas just enough to whet my curiosity.”
“Still, ′tis a place to start,” Will pointed out.
Considering Sir Robert’s obvious fear, they were fortunate to have learned anything at all. “Aye. I should be grateful he was willing to tell me that much.” Raising the lantern high, Connor pointed at the wall before them. “This faces the headland. Seems as good a place as any other to begin.”
After spending the entire morning investigating but one room of the dank, vaulted area, they were filthy, hungry and desperate for a breath of fresh air. Connor preferred to carry out this chore himself, in the company of men he knew and trusted completely, rather than send in men-at-arms from the barracks. He had no desire for word of precisely what he was doing to leak out. Twas limiting, but necessary.
However, he decided he’d have to depend on d’Athée to help, for he wanted to explore the cliffs himself. After questioning Sir Ivor closely and deciding that the man’s fierce loyalty to his dead master—if nothing else—would keep him honest, Connor swore him to silence and sent him to search the cellars with Will after the midday meal.
He managed to put off Moira’s servants, who sought him out as soon as he entered the keep, and to somehow evade the woman herself. Once he’d eaten and given d’Athée and Will their orders, Connor stole out of the keep to the headland. He wanted to search for answers to give Moira, to show her he was doing all he could to protect her and her child, to keep them safe.
Until then, he planned to stay away from her—and the distraction she presented.
Memories of Moira in his arms, of her rare smile, of her lips pressed to his, were distraction enough.
Later that day, hot, filthy and soaked with sweat, Connor gathered up his discarded tunic and weapons from the edge of the cliff and set off along the headland toward the castle. The sun, which had burned through the mist at midday, began to paint the sky with vivid streaks of color, and the wind, thankfully little more than a faint breeze while he’d climbed about on the rocks, had risen to howl around him like a swarm of ghosts.
When he reached the rock where he and Moira had rested the day she’d brought him here, he decided to sit and enjoy the relative quiet as the light faded. Perhaps the silence would help him determine what to do next, for his search this afternoon had been as unsuccessful as the morning’s. He’d count the day wasted, save for the fact that he’d had the chance to familiarize himself more closely with the strengths and weaknesses of Gerald’s Keep.
Though he’d found nothing to indicate that anyone planned to assault the castle from the cliffs, he had learned that the headland did not provide so impregnable a barrier as he’d been led to believe. He’d climbed down to the sea and back up again without a rope or anyone to help him. It had been a challenge, ′twas true—and his strength was likely greater than many a man-at-arm’s—but it was possible.
Of course, if there were some way into the keep through the cliff, that task would be much easier to accomplish.
The wind whipped his hair about and plastered his shirt against his chest, cooling his body. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back to let the breeze blow the cobwebs from his mind, then jumped when he heard the crunch of loose stones behind him.
Sword in hand, he jumped up and spun around, startling a shriek from Moira. “Moira! What are you doing out here?” he snapped, lowering the weapon and letting the tension ease from his muscles.
She left the path and crossed the swath of grass separating them. “I thought to catch you before you returned to the keep.” She swept past him and sat down on the rock. “It seemed that you might not escape me out here.” She gazed out at the sea. “Besides, ′tis a beautiful evening, and quiet. There’s little enough of that within the castle walls.” She glanced over at him, her expression challenging. “I’m pleased to have caught you before you disappeared again.”
“I was avoiding you earlier,” he admitted. And likely would have done so again this evening, not that he’d tell her that now. He took a step closer to her, propped o
ne booted foot on the rock and rested his forearm on his thigh. “I hoped you’d have a chance to rest today, but I see you did not.” Noting the shadows beneath her eyes, he reached out to brush his fingers across her cheek, then noticed how scratched and moss stained his fingers were in contrast to her smooth, pale skin. He drew back, but she caught his hand in hers and turned it palm up.
“What have you been doing?” she cried. She traced a finger over a long, thin scrape on his thumb.
The shiver passing through him owed little to the cool wind and everything to her touch. “′Tis nothing.” He closed his free hand into a fist as he sought to keep from reaching for her.
She bent and pressed her lips to the cut, the simple gesture sending a bolt of heat from his hand to his loins. The wind lifted her hair and whipped it around his arm, ensnaring him as completely as if she had bound him to her.
Sliding his hand from her grasp, he knelt before her and gathered her to him in one smooth movement, his mouth capturing hers with a hunger he could not deny.
She returned his kiss with equal fervor, burying her hands in his hair and pressing close to him. Her kisses held a surprising innocence, but she followed his lead as he swept his tongue across her mouth, then nibbled at her lower lip.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmured against her mouth. He reached up and tugged off her veil, sinking his hands in the bounty of her hair and freeing it completely. The wind caught the long, dark strands, billowing them about, enveloping him in her scent of flowers and spice—of woman. He smoothed his fingers through the fragrant mass, the feel of its softness brushing against his skin sending shards of heat to stoke the fire of madness burning through him.
She stroked his scalp, his neck, before caressing his shoulders. “You’ve such strength,” she whispered, closing her hands about his upper arms as she drew away from him and met his eyes. “Yet you are so gentle with me.” She looked down for a moment, then met his eyes again, her own a smoldering blue. Tracing her fingers over the flesh exposed by his rolled-up sleeves, she added, ‘“′Tis an exciting combination.”
L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep Page 11
