L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep

by Sharon Schulze

  ′Twas a miracle he didn’t leap out of his skin to escape the wave of desire washing over him. His entire body burned for her. He had become so sensitized to her touch that the mere brush of her hair over the back of his hand seemed enough to send him hurtling over the edge like an untried boy. Her fingers upon his bare skin proved irresistible.

  Connor ran his hands through the length of her hair, then sat back on his heels and stroked her arms. “Your beauty makes me feel the strongest of men,” he said. He cupped his hands lightly about her neck, then slowly smoothed them down, outlining the fullness of her bosom, the mound of her belly, halting with his hands clasped about her hips. “And the weakest of fools.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips chastely to her mouth. “We should not be doing this,” he said with regret. Brushing his mouth over the velvet softness of her cheek, he shifted to hold her, burying his face in her hair.

  Moira returned the embrace, giving a soft sigh and nestling deeper into his arms. Despite the desire still raging through him, Connor had never felt more at ease. Yearning and a curious sense of satisfaction joined within him as he held Moira, a contentment he’d never known existed until now.

  When the wind lessened and the vivid streaks of color began to fade from the sky, Connor released her, reluctant to let the moment end, but knowing they shouldn’t remain there. She turned away, but not before he saw the tears slowly welling from her eyes. He reached out and touched her damp cheek. “Dearling, what is it?”

  Moira gave Connor a shaky smile and leaned into his touch. “We should go back, but I don’t want to leave. Not yet.” Her eyes filled with tears, she scanned the churning sea, then turned to stare at the towers of Gerald’s Keep silhouetted against the darkening sky. If only he knew how badly she wanted to burrow back into his embrace, to borrow from him the strength to face the troubles plaguing them! ′Twas a blessing he didn’t know the depth of her desire, for ′twould likely send him rushing away from Gerald’s Keep as swiftly as he could.

  Simply because he’d offered her the security of his name didn’t mean he wanted her, clinging to him like a leech.

  As for the other desire she felt, the yearning for Connor himself … He couldn’t possibly want her in that way, so near her time with another man’s child.

  Hadn’t she learned better than to give in to desire? Though she hadn’t cared for Dermot in the least—particularly after she realized her error in accepting his bargain—she couldn’t help but mourn the fact that her actions had helped lead to his death.

  How, then, could she even consider accepting Connor’s offer? Although she didn’t know him well, already she’d come to care for him, far more deeply than she’d have believed possible.

  Tears welled in her eyes yet again as she considered her dilemma. Was she willing to risk Connor’s safety, possibly sacrifice him, to protect her child?

  She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, as much for comfort as to hide her tears. Sitting here in his embrace, feeling his heart beating strong and steady, how could she choose?

  Connor laid his hand on her shoulder, his touch alone giving her comfort. “We can stay till the sun sets, if you wish,” he said quietly. He sat next to her on the stone and slipped his arm around her, then used his free hand to turn her face toward him. “Moira,” he murmured, brushing away the tears on her cheeks. “Dearling, tell me what’s wrong.”

  She shook her head; she’d not be able to force the words past her lips, not here and now.

  His own lips firmed into a frown as he scanned her face: it felt as though his eyes could see into her heart, her mind, into the shadows hidden deep within her. But she refused to look away.

  Let him stare, she thought fiercely, let him wonder. Perhaps he would see the truth of her, spare her the shame of revealing to him the stains upon her soul.

  She could feel the rush of heat as a flush mounted her cheeks, and still he watched her. If she had any courage to spare she’d have asked him what he sought, what he saw, but it took all her resolve simply to hold his measuring gaze.

  Finally she could resist its power no more. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough!” she cried. “If I can be strong enough.”

  His expression softened, and he nodded. “Then let me be strong for both of us.” He picked up her hand from where it lay on her lap, entwined his fingers with hers and raised it to his lips to press a soft kiss upon her knuckles. “You are a brave woman, Moira FitzGerald. I do not doubt the depth of your strength for a moment. You’ve withstood much sorrow, and your concerns are far from over.” He lowered their joined hands to her lap, but didn’t release her hand—or her gaze. “For now, while you’re here with me, you needn’t worry, or think of anything but yourself.” He cradled her against his side. “This is what I would give to you, Moira—someone to share the bad and the good, a strong arm to protect you.”

  Moira felt a sense of loss so overwhelming, ′twas all she could do to breathe. Never had she wanted anything so much as she wanted to accept Connor’s offer—to accept him.

  She forced herself to move, and struggled out of his hold. “No more, I beg you,” she whispered, standing before him. She covered her face with her hands and fought for calm. Lowering her hands, she wiped the moisture from her cheeks and faced him. “Do you think I want to cause your death as well?”

  Connor rose and held out a hand to her. “Have you so little faith in me, Moira? When I make a vow, I keep it come what may.”

  Tears flowed from her eyes unchecked. “What will come is Hugh and his allies. They will not stop until they’ve taken what they want—my babe. It doesn’t matter to me who fathered my child. I am its mother, and I refuse to allow them the opportunity to turn my son or daughter into one of them.” She pressed her hands over her belly, taking comfort from the babe’s gentle movements. “But neither do I want them to destroy you.”

  “They’ll not harm me,” he said firmly. “Or if they do it matters naught, as long as you are safe.” He raked his hand through his hair and looked out at the roiling sea.

  His words cut deeply into Moira’s heart, laying bare to her how much she’d come to value him—to care for him. But she couldn’t allow that to stand in the way of protecting her child, she reminded herself. Her child must remain her primary concern.

  Then shouldn’t she give in to Connor, accept his proposal, no matter the harm it might bring to him?

  As long as she kept her babe safe.

  She could not do it, not yet—could not find the determination to endanger Connor when there might be another way to protect the babe and him both, and to keep the castle out of Hugh MacCarthy’s hands.

  Never mind how her heart urged her to selfishly seize the comfort and support that Connor offered—the chance to be his wife in truth, in every way that mattered to her. When Connor returned his attention to her, he wore an expression so fierce she might have been afraid, had it been any other man but him. “How do you suggest we protect the child? How do we protect you?” he asked, his tone as intense as his appearance. “From what you’ve told me about Hugh MacCarthy—by the saints, from what I’ve seen of your own brother—you’re not safe here, Moira. If I believed I could spirit you away from here and send you to Rannulf, I would. But I doubt we’d travel a league before we’d be attacked.”

  “I doubt they’d harm me, lest they hurt the child.” Small comfort, should she fall into MacCarthy’s hands.

  Clenching his fists at his sides, Connor took a step closer to her. “There’s no telling what might happen to you in a battle, Moira. ′Tis not orderly and neat—you know that. No matter how closely we guard you, there’s no guarantee we can shield you from them. And the journey to England is long and hard. What would happen if the child came while we were on the road?” He shook his head. “I will not allow you to put yourself into harm’s way.”

  “But I’m to permit you to risk harm yourself?” she demanded. “To save me?” She closed the distance between them and met his stare. “I tell yo
u now, I will not have it. I don’t care if we continue to hide behind these walls until every MacCarthy in Ireland is dead, if it keeps everyone safe.”

  “But that’s the problem, Moira,” he told her, his voice quiet, almost sad. “Hiding behind the castle walls won’t keep you safe. Not if MacCarthy finds a way in.”

  She closed her fingers in the voluminous skirt of her gown to keep from grabbing Connor by the shirt and shaking him. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice quavering despite her attempt to sound calm. “Have we a traitor in our midst?”

  God help them if that were so … Though it could not be, else Hugh would have struck by now, wouldn’t he? Before Connor had arrived with reinforcements?

  “No traitor that I know of,” he said. “So far as I can tell, the threat remains outside the walls. But it won’t be long before they find their way in, if what I’ve heard is true.” Connor reached down and tugged her wrist till she released her grip on her gown, then took her by the hand. “Come, you look as though you’re ready to fall over,” he said. He led her back to the rock and, taking her by the shoulders, urged her to sit down. Even in the rapidly fading light she could see his concern. He joined her and let go of her hand. “I planned to tell you—tonight, most likely, if I could find a moment to speak with you without an audience.”

  She weighed the sound of his voice, his expression and the fact that he didn’t meet her gaze, and came to her own conclusion. “Don’t think to mislead me now. I may not know you well, but ′tis clear to me you’d no intention of sharing whatever you’ve learned until you had to.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she covered it with her hand and shook her head. “Don’t,” she warned him. She pressed her fingers tighter over his lips when she felt him try again to speak. “Don’t deny you’ve been avoiding me. If you’d rather not spend time in my presence, ′tis your right. But ′tis my right to know if we’re in danger.” Resisting the urge to cup Connor’s whisker-covered cheek in her palm, she moved her hand away.

  Connor promptly caught it in his grasp and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of her wrist. “′Tis true, I’ve been avoiding you.” He entwined his fingers with hers and added, “This is one reason why.”

  Heat suffused her face at the warmth in his voice, his eyes. It swept through her to settle in parts of her body she hadn’t realized could feel such yearning.

  “You cannot . . . ” Heart thumping wildly, she shook her head and tried to pull free of his clasp, but he continued to hold her, with his hand and his gaze. “You cannot want me in that way!” She gestured toward her stomach. “Look at me! I am huge with another man’s child. I was never beautiful, but now—”

  “You are beautiful, Moira—the babe simply makes you more so. I find you lovely, enticing . . . ” He brought her hand to his lips once again, then loosed his light hold and stood. “Which is a good reason why we should not remain out here by ourselves,” he added, glancing out into the gathering dusk. “′Tis too dark to be here now, at any rate.” He picked up his sword and tunic, then held out his hand to help her up off the rock.

  “We can continue this conversation inside the keep, with Will and Sir Ivor present.” He sighed and moved his grip from the warm intimacy of her hand to an impersonal clasp of her arm to help her over the uneven ground. Pausing for a moment, he tightened his fingers. “I swear you’ll have no reason to fear being alone with me, Moira. But perhaps ′tis better if I limit myself to visiting you only when others are present.”

  She could scarce see him in the murky twilight, but she couldn’t mistake the sincerity vibrating in his voice. “I have never feared you, Connor. I know of no reason why I should.”

  Connor heard Moira say the words, felt them settle over him like a blanket of peace, security—trust.

  She trusted him, when he did not know if she should.

  Was he capable of living up to her trust? he wondered as he led her through the darkness.

  Or would his father’s legacy prove too strong to overcome?

  Chapter Thirteen

  As they silently made their way back to the castle, Connor helping her over the rough ground, Moira wondered yet again if she should simply give in, accept his proposal of marriage. It would strengthen her position greatly, for ′twould be difficult indeed for Hugh MacCarthy to wrest control of her from Connor if she were his wife.

  And if, God forbid, Connor were killed … Nay, she’d not think of that! She stumbled against him and had to fight the urge to clutch him to her as he caught her by the arms and steadied her. Despite the pain such a horrid, morbid thought caused her, she should approach the situation sensibly, she reminded herself. If some harm should come to Connor, as his wife she’d have the full power of Rannulf FitzClifford behind her, more so than she did now—for Rannulf would be more likely to protect his sister by marriage than a mere vassal’s widow.

  Though hadn’t Rannulf already provided her with the best defense he could by sending his brother to her?

  That being the case, the best security she could provide for her child would be to marry Connor without further delay.

  The harm that decision might bring to Connor sent a chill through her. By the Virgin, she thought, casting a sidelong glance at him as they crossed the torchlit bailey, contemplating her dilemma was enough to drive her mad!

  They entered the hall, where Sir Will and Sir Ivor sprawled upon benches drawn up before the hearth, drinking horns in hand.

  “Milord—well met,” Sir Will called. “We were just about to go looking for you.”

  “Were you?” Connor asked, giving Moira a glimpse of his skeptical grin before he hastened across the hall to join them. “You’ll pardon me if I doubt that.” He paused on the dais to wait for her, then, once she reached him, tugged another bench closer to the massive fireplace and motioned for her to sit down.

  She settled on the bench with a weary sigh, sliding over a bit to make room for Connor.

  “Mead, milady?” Sir Will asked, holding aloft a pitcher.

  “Nay, I thank you,” Moira said. Of late, mead made her sleepy. While she could use a decent night’s rest, at the moment she needed her wits about her more than she needed to sleep.

  “Milord?” Sir Will had already begun to pour the drink.

  “Aye,” Connor said. “All my quest this afternoon accomplished was to kindle an immense thirst.” He raised one arm and stretched it high above his head, then reached for the horn Sir Will held out to him. “And sore muscles.”

  She glanced at the two knights, their garb dusty, their heads and shoulders liberally festooned with cobwebs. “Where have you been?” she asked.

  To her surprise, ′twas Sir Ivor who straightened, set down his drink and replied. “Lord Connor sent us into the undercroft, milady, to seek a hidden passageway.” He looked a different man, his face relaxed, his eyes alight with excitement.

  “Indeed?” Moira scarce knew how to respond to this new side of Sir Ivor. What could account for the change in his demeanor? Whatever the cause, she didn’t dare trust him any more now than she had when he’d snarled and insulted her. She turned to Connor and asked, “For what purpose?”

  Connor drank deeply of the mead and gave a satisfied sigh. Glancing about the large chamber, he sent the few servants at their end of the hall scurrying with a single look. “As I told you before, Moira,” he said, his voice pitched low, “I’ve heard that the threat to Gerald’s Keep will come from the cliffs. I don’t know if that means from within the cliffs, or in the walls of the castle itself. Will and I searched in the cellars this morn, and I sent Will and Sir Ivor to continue looking beneath the keep while I investigated outside.”

  “Do you think we ought to move someplace else to talk about this, milord?” Sir Will asked. “The servants’ll be coming in to set up the trestles soon, won’t they, milady?”

  Moira nodded. “They should be about their work already.” She rose. “′Tis nigh time for supper to be served, milord. I should send th
e servants in here at once. Where would you care to go for this discussion?”

  Connor eyed the great hall, then stood as well. “I’m certain you’re heartily sick of your chambers, so we’ll not consider your solar.” He looked over the table and benches on the dais. “If we move these back, farther from the main floor, we should be able to speak freely so long as we’re quiet about it.”

  Moira approached Connor and, taking him by the arm, led him away from the others. “Are you certain, milord?” she murmured. “′Twill be noisy here—”

  “All the better to drown out our words,” Connor interrupted. He stared at her for a moment. “Shall I send Will to carry your message to the servants? You look weary.”

  She gave a quiet laugh. “Such attention, milord! You’ll turn my head for certain. Who knows what I might agree to if you keep it up?” Sighing, she lowered herself onto the bench. “But I thank you for the offer. I’ll be more grateful than I can say to sit and rest.”

  Connor sent Sir Will and Sir Ivor off to carry out their orders, then returned to join her on the bench. “Would you rather I helped you to your chamber and sent Brigit to you?”

  “Nay. Too many of our conversations have been cut short because of me.” He rose, snatched several cushions from the settle beside the fireplace and piled them into her lap. “I’ll be fine here, especially since I can see that you plan to coddle me,” she said, smiling.

  “′Tis the least I can do.” Frowning, he scooped her, pillows and all, into his arms and deposited her on the settle he’d just cleared. “You’re supposed to use them to make a more comfortable seat,” he said. He took two from her and wedged them behind her back, then moved a low stool closer and knelt to prop her feet upon it. “What else shall I fetch for you, milady?” he asked as he stood, making a sweeping bow, his wide smile infectious.

  Her face red, Moira picked up the remaining cushion and held it poised to toss at him. “Enough, Connor!” Laughter bubbled through her, along with a tide of warmth. She lowered her voice and tried—unsuccessfully—for a stern tone. “Do you wish for everyone to see how helpless I’ve become?”