by Brit Darby
She felt her heartbeat pounding in her head, matching the steady, plodding gait of the horses. The fierce throbbing hurt. She rubbed her temples and tried to think.
Seated beside her mistress, the copper-haired Edie clucked her tongue in disapproval. “’Tis a fool’s errand to travel on through the night. We should have stayed at the inn where we stopped for evening meal. Whatever could the captain be thinking?”
Edie’s words gave wings to Alianor’s thoughts, and by lantern light she saw worry creasing her maidservant’s face. She knew the girl was right, but tried to shrug off her unease.
“We’re traveling with a brace of the King’s soldiers to protect us, Edie. Surely no one would be so idiotic …” Alianor trailed off. Perhaps imagining disaster invited it. She banned the thought from her mind; it was only silly superstition, born of weariness and grief.
Edie shivered, drawing her heavy wool shawl closer about her shoulders. “Like as not, milady, by morn we’ll all be murdered and left for Irish wolves.”
“Don’t be a goose,” Alianor chided the girl. She sought a diversion for them both and asked Edie’s opinion on how to style her hair for her wedding. The fine black velvet gown she planned to wear for the ceremony tomorrow was packed in her single trunk tied to the back of the carriage. Aye, she had chosen black a purpose, one small act of defiance she might risk. For even her betrothed could not deny she was being forced too soon to the altar after Walter’s death.
Alianor had donned plainer garb for travel, a simple, black woolen gown with a round neck and fitted sleeves. Edie had tamed her usual riot of curls by plaiting her hair and arranging it on either side of her head. Her head was covered with a linen cap and opaque black veil. She felt every inch the dour, matronly widow she appeared.
Alianor’s fingers smoothed a cloak folded on the seat between the women. It was a parting gift from Queen Isabella. Made from the finest crimson wool, trimmed with marten and silk-lined, it also boasted a delicate embroidered floral motif. Out of respect for Walter she would not wear colors yet, but mayhap in a year she might.
“Do you think you could add a jeweled clasp to secure my new cloak?” Alianor asked Edie, who was an excellent seamstress. Edie loved organizing her wardrobe and took pride in her lady’s appearance. So it was easy to distract her, get her mind onto less worrisome matters. The subject occupied Edie for awhile, as she mulled upon the day when her mistress might wear the red cloak and be the envy of the Irish court.
While Edie prattled about jewels and gowns, the wind gusted and the carriage curtains parted. Alianor glanced out again at their darkening surroundings. Soon the moon rose over the trees and, when the wind died down, the earth was embraced in silence. Only the creak and jolt of the carriage broke the still of the forest. She leaned out and strained to see the road ahead, yet the bumpy ribbon disappeared into a sea of ebony. A sea as bleak and empty as her future.
As she stared out into the night, Alianor thought she heard a strange, faint cry echoing in the distance. Or was it only the moaning of the wind?
By the time she settled back against the cushions, Edie had forgotten all about planning her wardrobe. She must have heard the noise, too, for she muttered, “I hear tale thieves and cutthroats roam these hills, milady.”
Likewise, Alianor heard the gossip back at the inn where they last stayed. “Those colorful yarns were bantered about for our benefit, Edie. The locals want us to be afraid, or impressed. Perhaps both. I doubt the tales are true.”
In truth, it seemed likely enough, Alianor thought. She was well-educated for a woman and Walter had spoken of the men who fought to reclaim Ireland. Their patriotism reeked of treason to the English Crown. Aye, mercenaries still roamed this wild island. She pushed aside her worries and tried to appear calm for Edie’s sake.
A harsh cry from the floor of the carriage demanded Alianor’s attention. She reached down and trailed a hand over the cloth covering Goliath’s cage. “Hush.”
Even her pet tercel remained on edge, his uneasy shifting in the cage reflecting her mood. She knew imprisonment upset him. She couldn’t fault him an unhappiness mirroring her own.
Soon Edie fell asleep, her head lolling against Alianor’s shoulder. With a final squawk, Goliath settled for the night as well. Alianor welcomed the blessed silence and even the tedious journey faded from awareness. She reflected upon the cruel fate which cast her here, sent to wed a stranger only seen from a distance.
Faith, she had a right to be upset. After all, she’d left the only home she knew for a new land, a new life, and a new husband. De Lacy she knew little about, other than disturbing whispers she overheard at court. All this was enough to make any lady tremble.
ONE OF THE WHEELS of the carriage struck a hole, jarring Alianor from sleep and from her seat. She tumbled onto the floor and Goliath screeched his indignation when his cage tipped over.
Edie jolted awake with a cry. “Milady, are you all right?”
Alianor nodded, shaken but unhurt. She righted the bird cage and with Edie’s help, started to rise herself. She was settled again when they stopped abruptly, sending her right back onto the floor.
Shouts rang out and Alianor froze where she lay. The women heard a man call out; the voice deep and demanding. The words were not in the King’s English, though.
Gaelic. Alianor knew a smattering of the language, enough to know they were in trouble. To her surprise, the same voice spoke again in perfect English, “Throw down your weapons.”
Even in the dim light, she saw Edie’s eyes go round with terror. “Oh milady, we’re going to die.”
Again, a call came for the soldiers to surrender. “Do as you’re told and you’ll not be hurt.”
The sounds of battle ensued as blades of steel clashed in the night. Within only minutes, the scuffling and yelling stopped.
Alianor’s indecision vanished. A peculiar calm took over as she reached up and pushed the wailing maid towards the door with a whispered order.
“Run, Edie. Run and hide in the trees.”
Edie did not move except to shake her coppery curls. This time, Alianor grabbed the mulish girl’s ankle, and shoved her towards freedom. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Nay, milady,” Edie sobbed. “I cannot leave you.”
“You must,” Alianor pushed at her harder this time. “Now, go.”
Edie jumped from the carriage and ran. Alianor saw her stumble into the woods and disappear. Alianor struggled to get up, her skirts twisted about her legs, binding them as sure as rope. The carriage lurched forward a few feet, and this time she landed on her backside, her gown in a heap twisted high upon her hips.
“Sweet Jesu,” she cried, angry at ending up on the floor again. Suddenly, the curtains covering the door jerked open. There was a long silence.
The man who blocked her retreat folded his arms and leaned against the door jamb. “Can I assume a lady is attached to these limbs?”
He spoke English, likely for her benefit, but he could not disguise a lilting brogue as thick as the woods surrounding them. His gaze traveled up the length of her exposed legs. Their gazes met and locked, the lantern’s light reflecting the interest in his eyes.
Alianor blushed like a maiden. She struggled to untwist her skirts and cover herself. The man reached down as if to help and she kicked at him, striking a deft blow to his chest before he could get a grip on her skirts or her.
She rolled away from him and scrambled out the opposite side of the carriage. Quick as a hare, she picked up her skirts and dashed for the trees. She heard a low curse behind her, and a shout from the man she’d escaped.
“Torin! Stop her.”
Her flight was blocked by a stocky blond man whose growl dared her to try and get past him.
Despite the brute’s visible muscles, Alianor plunged on. When he made a grab for her she feinted right at the last second and darted past him. His fingers grazed her arm; had she been wearing fuller sleeves, he would have caught her. As h
er panicked mind experienced triumph, another man stepped in front of her. Alianor ran smack into him, knocking the wind from them both.
“Oof!”
Sound and pain was mutual as they collided. Strong male hands caught Alianor about the waist and swung her into the air, as if she weighed no more than a dent de lion. She struggled and kicked against her captor, her kicks rendered harmless due to the cursed thickness of her dress. Somewhere in her crazed mind, she recognized the same dark eyes scouring her only moments before.
“Ahhh,” he exclaimed. “No lady, I take it?”
His teasing tone infuriated Alianor. She bit back a retort when she remembered the velvet pouch dangling from her girdle, and the gift from Walter residing within it.
She forced herself to still in apparent submission and his guard relaxed. When he lowered her to the ground, he glanced at the blond man rushing toward them.
“I’ve things in hand, Torin.”
As her captor spoke to the other man, Alianor’s fingers slipped into the pouch hidden in the folds of her skirts. The moment Torin turned and walked away, she whipped out the little jeweled dagger and put it to her assailant’s throat.
“I, too, have things well in hand,” she whispered. “As you can see, this lady is prepared to deal with Irish adders.”
She prayed her voice did not tremble as much as her knees. She took a step backwards, yanking free of his hold.
He lowered his hands to his sides in apparent surrender. “Easy,” he said, as if calming a fractious horse. “Apologies, milady, for ever doubting your credentials.”
Alianor did not comment and did not relax her guard.
Instead, she set her stance and faced the man; feeling reassured by the weapon she held. Their gazes locked as the sun crept over the horizon, casting a salmon-colored hue over the land. Golden light washed over her captor as well. For the first time she got a good look at him and opened her mouth to speak. No words emerged, but she drew a shaky breath.
Alianor stared at the handsomest Irish knave she’d ever seen. Though, in truth, she had seen few genuine knaves in her life, much less Irishmen. But all ruffians could not be as attractive as this one. If so, ladies would never loathe surrendering their purses.
Though only a few inches taller than she, the Irishman made her feel petite. His solid frame showed no ounce of easy living. He was sturdy, yet looked lithe as a cat. He stared shamelessly back at her. His square jaw was firmly set, belied by a twinkle in his eyes. Eyes, not dark after all, but a brilliant emerald green. Wavy, midnight-colored hair brushed his shoulders, curling at the ends. He wore plain black breeches, shirt and cloak, no doubt the better to waylay his victims in the dark.
Alianor realized sometime during her wild flight she had lost her veil and the wind whipped her hair out of its plaits. He studied her shaking hand as she gripped the dagger. Then his gaze drifted to her undone hair, tumbled about her hips.
He arched an eyebrow, and she wondered if he had read her mind. Surely he had not heard her intake of breath upon seeing him clearly? Or noticed the unladylike manner in which she gawked at him. Perhaps so, for he seemed amused and flashed a disarming smile.
“Take care with that toothpick. A lady could hurt herself.”
Alianor frowned and jabbed the air with her blade. “Or you.”
She heard a crackle in the nearby undergrowth. She glanced over, a mere second of inattention. Quick as the proverbial adder, he struck.
His hand seized her wrist. Alianor gave a startled cry of pain when he forced her to drop the dagger. It thudded to the earth between them, their stances squared off.
He yanked her against him and clamped his hands round both her wrists, wrenching them high above her head like manacles.
“Never underestimate a snake, milady,” he said.
Alianor winced, but refused to let him see her fear. “Is this a robbery?” she demanded, lacing her words with as much authority as she could muster. She refused to recall their first undignified encounter back in the carriage. “If so, sirrah, you waste your time. I am but a poor widow. I have only a few cheap baubles to my name.”
His insolent gaze dropped to her bosom. “Don’t sell those fine baubles of yours short, milady.”
His left cheek dimpled. A dimple! Alianor gasped in astonishment when he threw back his head and laughed at his own jest. As if Luna’s madness seized him, though it was unlikely given the fact the moon had set.
His mirth met with stony silence. Serious again, he transferred both her wrists to one hand, confining them together in one fist. Still holding her immobile, he swept up the dagger and examined it.
“Rubies and pearls. It will bring a fair sum.” He thrust it into his belt, well out of her reach.
“’Twas a gift from milord husband.”
He was unmoved. “Aye? Your husband is not renowned for his generosity, Lady de Lacy.”
De Lacy? Alianor’s brow furrowed. How did he know the name?
“You mistake my identity. I am Lady Coventry. My husband is — was Sir Coventry of Warwickshire.” She raised her chin and blinked back tears. His grip loosened and she sensed a change in him.
She had hoped her title might intimidate or impress him, but the Irishman seemed more respectful of her momentary sorrow than her anger.
He released her hands. Alianor rubbed her wrists and tried to think of something else to sway this man or elicit his mercy.
Whatever she said or did, she must seem confident. If she had learned nothing else at court, especially when dealing with the King, it was how to bluff when cornered.
“You are de Lacy’s betrothed?”
She hesitated. Was it safer to admit or deny it? It seemed he already knew, so she nodded. “But we have not yet wed. The wedding is tomorrow — no, today.” The thought made her wince.
Now his handsome face split into a grin, not easing her mind one bit. On the contrary, it made her belly knot.
“Apologies, Lady Coventry. Let us begin again. Well-met.” He sketched her a mocking little bow. Had he worn a cap, she was certain he would have swept it off with an exaggerated flourish. When he straightened, an inky black curl fell and dangled across his brow, calling to mind a mischievous little boy.
“Who are you?” she demanded, disturbed by her thoughts.
His dark eyebrow shot up, as if he found her predicament entertaining. “Careful, milady, or methinks I shall feel slighted. More oft, you see, my reputation precedes me. I need not suffer tedious introductions.”
She responded to his playfulness with an icy stare.
“Apologies anew. I assumed you knew who I am. Liam Caomhánach. No grand or lofty titles, I regret.”
“What is it you want?”
“Ah. You need not worry on my account. For it seems I’ve found exactly what I want.”
Chapter Four
HIS DEEP VOICE AND his words made Alianor shiver against her will. Was it fear? Or anticipation? She didn’t dare pause to examine the feeling. “I …” She licked her lips, began again. “As I said, I have nothing of real value.”
Too late she realized his gaze was drawn past her shoulder by something else. The moment the claim of penury left her lips her dowry was discovered, hidden in the false floor of her trunk. The blond man called Torin had broken the lock and opened the chest, upending it and leaving her garments strewn all over the ground.
From the secret compartment Torin plucked up one of the bags he found, and shook the contents out in his palm. The glittering gems and coins tumbling out revealed her a liar. She flushed when Liam’s gaze returned to her, narrowed this time.
“Poor widow, is it?”
His mockery sounded one side shy of anger, laced with deadly calm. Alianor knew it foolish to poke a hornet’s nest, but she risked it. “I trust the meager spoils were worth the toll in human life.” What had she to lose by provoking him? He’d kill her anyway, as these Irish malefactors had the King’s guards.
Alianor looked around at the six
dead English soldiers, their bodies already stripped of any usable or valuable items. She was no frail thing to faint at the sight of blood, for she’d been raised amidst knights, but needless killing angered her.
She swung her accusing look back to the man she knew was the leader of these miscreants, even though he had never said as much. “So much slaughter for a few paltry coins? How hungry Ireland’s sons must be.”
A shadow darkened Liam’s face. “Aye, milady, there’s hunger aplenty here,” he said, brushing by her as he strode over to the carriage. “Take the horses, Niall,” he called out to an older man with a ribbon of gray in his hair.
Knowing she could not escape, yet determined to have the last word, Alianor swept up her skirts and followed Liam. He paused to slap the withers of one of the matched pair of sorrels standing in the carriage traces. “Sell both these beasties to Paddy. He’ll have a fine laugh using the King’s nags to pull his plow.”
“Aye, Liam,” the man called Niall said, glancing with curiosity at Alianor before he unharnessed one of the horses.
When Liam moved again, he found Alianor planted in his path. “I would have a word with you, Caomhánach.”
“’Twould appear you already are.”
She ignored his dry remark and gestured around at the dead. “Surely these men had families — wives, children. Have you no mercy?”
He shrugged at her rebuke. “Had they done as they were asked — not once,” he stressed, “but twice — harsh measures would not be necessary.”
“You expect me to believe you?”
“Believe what you will. But take a lesson from it. Resist me, and you risk unpleasant consequences.”
“Stripping them bare before their breath is scarce gone. Aye, I see how much you Irish respect the dead.”
“Speak not of what you know not,” he warned her.
Niall came over and laid a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “Stop baiting the poor lady. Time to go.”
