And more on the door. The O'Neil has been here."
Dunstan's eyes narrowed. "Search the house. Room by room. The
lady and I will wait here."
AnnaClaire turned to Bridget. "I am feeling faint. Bring me some
ale." As though suddenly remembering her manners she turned to
Dunstan. "Will you join me, my lord?"
"Aye." He was studying her carefully, noting the trembling of her
limbs, the unmistakable pallor.
As the housekeeper moved around the kitchen, AnnaClaire crossed to
the fire and stood warming her hands. She felt chilled to the marrow.
Where was Rory now? How could he possibly escape with so many
soldiers guarding the house?
"Ale, my lady." Bridget handed her a goblet, then offered a second to
Lord Dunstan.
Just as he was about to accept it, the back door was thrust open and
Tavis stumbled in. Blood streamed from his head.
Bridget let out a bloodcurdling scream and hurled herself against the
old man, cradling his head in her hands. "Tavis. Oh, Tavis love. What
has happened to you?;.'
The old man stumbled a few more steps, then sank down on the floor.
Several soldiers came running to investigate the commotion.
"Thieves," he managed as he accepted several linen squares from his
wife and pressed them to his head. "Came into the stables, they did.
Stole our horses."
"It's the O'Neil," Dunstan shouted to his soldiers.
"Trying to escape. Hurry. One hundred pieces of gold to the man who
stops him."
At that the soldiers streamed out of the house and went racing off in
the direction of the stables.
"I care not whether he is brought back alive or dead," Dunstan called
after them.
He stood watching for several moments as his men struggled to
outrace each other for the prize. Agitated, he turned.
The elderly housekeeper and her husband were staring across the
room, eyes huge, mouths agape.
"What is it, you old fools?"
Without a word Bridget pointed.
Rory stepped from his place of concealment directly behind
AnnaClaire. One hand was clamped over her mouth, to keep her from
crying out. The other was holding a knife pressed against her throat.
"Unhand that woman at once," Dunstan ordered.
Rory merely gave him an icy smile. "The woman will die unless you
do exactly as I say."
"Do you know the name of the woman you have dared to sully?"
Dunstan demanded.
"I neither know nor care. For now, all that matters is that she is going
to assure my escape. If your men should attempt to capture me, I shall
have to slice her lovely throat."
"Fool. You have made a poor choice of captive. This woman is the
daughter of Lord James Thompson, Chief Counsel to your queen,
Elizabeth of England. Should you harm her, that same queen will
move heaven and earth to exact retribution."
"Elizabeth is not my queen. As for the lady's name and rank, all the
better. I will remind you that my sword cares not whether the English
blood it spills belongs to a man or a woman." He motioned to Bridget.
"Old woman, tie the hands and feet of these two men."
Bridget was openly sobbing. "Please, sir, my husband is gravely
wounded."
Rory bit off each word. ' 'I said bind their hands and feet. If you don't
do it quickly, I'll be forced to harm your mistress."
With great weeping and wailing, Bridget did as she was told.
"Now." Rory motioned with his knife. "Fetch your mistress a warm
cloak."
Within minutes Bridget had returned with a hooded, sable-lined
cloak, which Rory draped over his arm. Keeping the knife at
AnnaClaire's throat, he began backing her toward the door.
"Where are you taking her?" With rising fury Dunstan struggled
against his bonds.
"Away from every comfort she has ever known. Far across the
heathen land you and your queen disdain." Rory shoved open the
door and dragged AnnaClaire along with him.
Dunstan swore viciously. "You have just signed your own death
decree, Rory O'Neil."
"Have I now? It's little enough to pay, so long as I'm given the chance
to take the life of your queen's soldier, Tilden, in return." As he
stepped out into the darkness, his muffled laughter was carried back
to those inside.
It was followed a moment later by the sound of AnnaClaire's soft cry.
And then there was only silence.
"Rory. Over here." At the whispered voice Rory changed directions
and veered off toward a stand of trees.
Half a dozen men were already mounted, holding the reins of a
seventh horse. As the darkened shadow approached, one of the men
called, "What in God's name are you carrying, Rory?"
"This lovely lady saved my life, lads. Her name is Lady AnnaClaire
Thompson." Rory pulled himself into the saddle and settled
AnnaClaire in front of him, then draped her cloak around her.
"Thompson?" One of the men sneered. "Is she the spawn of Lord
James Thompson?'
"The same." Rory arranged the hood of her cloak in such a way that it
managed to hide her pale hair. It occurred to AnnaClaire that he had
thought of everything. The dark cloak would make her invisible in the
night.
None of this was happening by accident. The horses. The men. The
meeting place. He had arranged it all. And apparently it had been
arranged long before he had come into her home. She had been part of
a terrible, intricate plot.
"And this is how you thank me," she muttered between clenched
teeth.
She was trembling violently, whether from cold or fear she couldn't
be certain. But one thing was certain. The man who had dragged her
away into the night was not the same man she had tended all these
long days and nights. That man had been good and kind and noble.
This man was nothing more than a barbarian. A brutal, thoughtless,
hardened outlaw.
"I'll never forgive you for this, Rory O'Neil. For kidnapping me. For
having these barbarians beat an old man senseless, and for frightening
an old woman half to death."
Ignoring her he whispered, "You know the plan, lads. We'll separate
now. From this day forward, we have no knowledge of one another.
Return to your homes and families. One day, should the need arise,
you may receive a summons to come together once more. If not,
know that you have earned the undying gratitude of the Blackhearted
O'Neil."
"Aye, Rory. God speed." Without another word the horsemen turned
and melted into the darkness.
Rory did the same, urging his mount into a gallop.
It was useless to try to speak. With the wind whistling past their
heads, all AnnaClaire could do was cling to him and trust that this
angry, desperate man, who was fleeing for his life, was the same
sensitive soul she had come to know and love in that cramped little
attic room. But the thought of poor old Tavis, all bloody and broken,
and his beloved Bridget, trembling with fright, had her fighting back
the sting of tears.
What had she done?
Sweet Savior, what terrible affliction had she brought upon herself
and those she loved?
Her father's name would be forever sullied. His daughter a terrible
pawn in a deadly game. And all those who loved her would be forever
caught up in this madman's plot for revenge.
Chapter Nine
They rode for hours without stopping. Without speaking. At times
AnnaClaire caught glimpses of firelight from tiny huts and villages.
She thought about slipping free of Rory's arms and racing to freedom.
But fear and confusion held her in a paralyzing grip. Fear of the
people she might encounter. Confusion about where she was. Where
they were headed.
At times it felt as if they were the only people left in the universe. A
universe filled with nothing but blackness, punctuated by occasional
stars.
They kept to the forest where tree branches snagged at their hair and
clothing and night creatures scurried out of the way as they passed.
One time AnnaClaire saw feral eyes watching them. She let out a cry
and Rory's arms tightened around her as he drew her close.
Against her ear he whispered, "Just a wolf. He's more afraid of you
than you are of him."
It was obvious that Rory had no idea just how deep, how
all-encompassing, her fear was. Fear for her safety. Fear that she
would never see her home again. Fear that she had put her trust in a
man who had become a stranger to her.
When they had ridden past the watchful eyes of night creatures, there
were new things to fear. Voices. Laughter. The smell of a turf fire,
signalling that people were nearby. But what sort of people were
these, who slept under the stars, without shelter, without roots?
Friend or foe?
As though asking himself the same questions, Rory veered away and
urged his horse into a stream. They followed the path of water until
Rory suddenly turned his mount up the steep bank, taking them even
deeper into the forest.
Here there was no trace of sky, no glint of stars. Here the trees grew
together to form a dark, soothing canopy. The scents, the sounds, the
very soul of the forest were all around them. It was peaceful rather
than threatening. Like a warm, snug cocoon.
The ground was more level here, and as the horse continued its slow,
plodding pace, AnnaClaire found herself unable to keep her eyes
open. After the shock and terror had taken their toll, exhaustion set in.
Her taut muscles relaxed. With her head resting against the curve of
Rory's shoulder, she drifted into sleep.
It was the sudden absence of movement that jolted AnnaClaire
awake. She looked around in confusion. Through the branches of the
trees dawn light could be glimpsed, just beginning to paint the sky.
"Where are we? Why have we stopped?"
"It won't be safe to go on now. We'll stop here for the day."
"Here?" She threw back her hood and stared around. "In the forest?"
He slid from the saddle and lifted her down. "Aye. In the forest."
Dizzy from sleep she watched as he led his mount toward a small
stream and waited while the animal drank. Then he tethered him in a
stand of trees. The foliage concealed the horse from view.
Rory turned. Catching sight of AnnaClaire's pallor, he took her hand
and led the way through a maze of trees. In their midst, cleverly
concealed, was a sod hut. At first it was too dark inside for
AnnaClaire to make out her surroundings. But once Rory had a fire
started, she could see that it was a cozy dwelling, with a crude table
and chairs as well as a big bed, covered with animal hides.
After rummaging in several pouches, he produced tea and biscuits.
"This will hold us until I can catch some fish for our supper."
"Supper?" Despite her hunger she pushed aside the food. "Are you
planning to keep me here?"
He sipped his tea and broke off a piece of biscuit.
"What did you expect?"
"That you would have the decency to release me after you'd made
good your escape."
"Release you? Where?"
She shrugged, too angry and confused to think. "Anywhere. I'm sure
someone in one of the villages we passed could see me safely back to
my home."
"They might. Or they might take a look at their women and children,
shivering in the night, and then at that fine cloak and fancy gown, and
decide you're of more use to them dead than alive."
She gave a gasp of indignation. "Are you suggesting hat they would
kill me for a cloak?"
"They might. Or for that fancy comb in your hair. Or the fine ring
upon your finger. These people arestarving, my lady. And if they
were to learn that your father is the mighty Lord James Thompson,
advisor to the Queen of England, they might slit your throat for that
reason alone."
"How can you say such a thing? My mother was Margaret Doyle of
Dublin. She was one of them. She belonged here."
"I don't think that would matter much to a poor farmer whose crops
were destroyed by the queen's soldiers. Or one whose wife and
daughter were brutalized by those same soldiers while he was out
tending his flock. They would care only that your father was a friend
to the monarch who was bleeding them dry."
Disturbed by the images his words caused, and exhausted beyond
endurance, she merely buried her face in her hands and began to
weep. "And so," she managed between sobs, "that is why you have
become like the very men you despise?"
"Is that what you think? That I would ever take a woman against her
will? You can rest assured, my lady. Your virtue is safe with me. I'm
not like those English bastards, who rape and pillage. But if I must
kill a few innocent soldiers along with the guilty, so be it. In that case,
aye, I am like the very men I despise. For someone must stand up and
declare that we've had enough." A hardness came into his tone. "For
me, it was the murder of a young woman, on her way to her
wedding." His voice wavered for just a beat. "And the murder of all
her family. For others, it is a mother, a father, a son or daughter,
brutalized, murdered, simply because they're Irish."
"And that justifies what you did last night?"
' 'Last night?' He set down his cup, and studied her in the light of the
fire. "What about last night?"
She wiped at her tears, but they continued to flow. "I don't even care
that much for myself. I deserve to be tricked, after what I've done. I
knew better than to believe in a common criminal. To take him into
my home, my...heart."
Because of the tears blinding her, she failed to see how Rory reacted
to her admission. His eyes widened. His mouth softened into the
beginnings of a smile.
"But Bridget and Tavis deserved better, Rory O'Neil. You had your
men beat that dear old man, and frighten that sweet old woman half to
death. Not to mention the horses you stole..."
She looked up. He was smiling. Smiling.
Suddenly, she'd had enough. She uprighted the table, flinging tea and
bi
scuits through the air. "Damn you, Rory O'Neil. Damn you for
finding this amusing."
"AnnaClaire. Lovely AnnaClaire." Laughing, he caught her hand and
lifted it to his lips before she could yank it away. "It was all a trick.
All part of our plan."
"Trick?" She pulled her hand away and narrowed her gaze on him.
"What sort of trick?"
"Tavis was in on it. As was Bridget. It was all done with chicken
blood."
"Chicken blood!" She eyed him suspiciously, still seeing in her mind
the look of Tavis, clothes disheveled, head bleeding profusely. "Are
you telling me Tavis wasn't beaten?"
"Why would we beat a loyal son of Ireland? The man risked his life
finding us shelter until our wounds could heal. If it weren't for Tavis
and his beloved Bridget, my men and I would have all perished after
the battle on the docks."
She took a moment to digest this. Then, putting her hands on her hips,
she faced him. "If that's true, why didn't they tell me what they'd
planned?"
"They weren't certain their sweet young mistress would be able to lie
convincingly. They did think, however, that if you had no knowledge
of the plan, you would react exactly as you did. With horror and
shock and outrage."
"They knew? And you and your men knew?"
He nodded.
"And you've allowed me to worry and fret and weep all night, without
a word?"
"Forgive me, my lady. There was no time to explain. In case you've
forgotten, Dunstan's soldiers were there before I could even make my
escape. And once we were away, they came very close to discovering
us several times while we fled. I simply had other things on my
mind."
"Other things..." She turned away, to hide the tears of relief that
sprang to her eyes. "Other things. Oh, Rory. If you knew what I've
been thinking. How I've hated you. Hated myself for trusting you."
She felt his hands at her shoulders as he pulled her back against him.
Burying his face in her hair he murmured, "I hope you can find it in
your heart to forgive me, AnnaClaire. It was not enough to merely
escape. I had to assure that the reputations of all who had aided me
would escape detection, as well. Don't you see? Unless I convinced
Dunstan that your household was used without your knowledge or
wishes, all would have suffered. Tavis and Bridget would have faced
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