through her little charade?
"What is it, Rory? What's wrong?"
He seemed to pull himself from dark thoughts. "I just wanted to look
at you. You're so lovely, AnnaClaire." He crossed to the bed and
stood over her.
Fear assaulted her. Would he know that something was amiss? Could
he hear the sound of her labored breathing? Or perhaps the thundering
of her heart? Sweet heaven. What if he wanted to sleep with her this
night? She had to send him away, and quickly.
With her mind racing she pretended to yawn, then lifted a hand to
stifle it. "Forgive me, Rory. I fear the excitement of the day has
caught up with me. I can scarcely keep my eyes open."
"Aye. I know the feeling, love. My bed beckons as well."
She felt a moment of triumph. Her tension began to ease. "Good night
then, Rory. Until the morrow."
He leaned down, brushing his lips over hers. "Good night, my love."
Against her mouth he whispered, "It gladdens my heart that my
family has begun to soften toward you. It will ease my burden to
know that you and they have each other."
"What are you saying?" She clutched at his shoulders as he started to
straighten. "What burden? Rory, what are you planning?"
As he caught her wrists, the covers slipped away, revealing the fact
that she was fully dressed. His eyes narrowed. "I might ask you the
same thing."Mortified, she simply stared at him, refusing to speak.
"You were planning to sneak away, weren't you, AnnaClaire? To
draw the soldiers away from me."
She folded her arms over her chest and regarded him in stony silence.
"Little fool. Do you know what kind of men they are?" When she said
nothing, he snarled, "They're hardened by years of being far from
home. The killing, the brutality, have robbed them of their humanity."
"Need I remind you that I am the daughter of Lord James
Thompson?"
"To them you are a helpless female. No more. No less. They'll do to
you what they've been doing to women old and young all across
Ireland."
She sat up straighter. "They wouldn't dare. I would tell my father.
And he would tell the queen herself."
Her outrage might- have amused him at some other time. Now, he
realized he had to convince her of the seriousness of what she was
planning. "Dead women don't talk, AnnaClaire. And when they bring
your body, battered and broken, back home, they will claim it is
another horror committed by the Blackhearted O'Neil. Now who do
you think your father and the queen will believe? Their own loyal
English soldiers? Or the word of an Irish outlaw?"
She could see the truth of what he was saying. Still, she had to try to
make him see her point. "It's my fault the soldiers are here. I believe if
they're appeased, they'll leave your family alone."
"Aye. And that's the truth of it." He saw her brows lift in surprise. He
lowered his voice. "That's why I must go now, AnnaClaire. I can lead
them a merry chase. I'll be halfway to Dublin before I let them catch
me."
"Let them...?" She started to get out of bed but he put a hand on her
shoulder to stop her. Now she realized for the first time what she had
been too blind to notice before. He was dressed for riding, in boots,
tunic and heavy cloak. Her heart leapt to her throat. He had come here
to say goodbye. "What are you saying, Rory?"
"Listen to me, AnnaClaire. I've watched you with my family. Though
there's been little time, they've accepted the fact that you are precious
to me. Soon enough they'll see the goodness in you, and they'll love
you for it. For yourself. What's more, Innis has even begun to look at
you in a new way. My mother has told me how deeply he has grieved.
For two years he has been sullen and silent. In just two days he has
begun to speak to you. Soon, when he knows you as I do, he'll open to
you like a flower to the sun. The boy needs you. Once I'm gone, the
others will need you as well. Your strength. Your sweetness. Your
courage."
"And what about what I need?"
He heard the quaver in her voice and firmly shook his head. "I made
you no promises, AnnaClaire. I knew I had no right. My duty now lies
with leading the soldiers away from here. And when they finally
catch me, I'll tell them you're dead."
"You'd let them hang you for my murder?"
He touched a hand to her mouth, and felt the jolt, sharp and swift. He
would have given anything for one more night in her arms. But it was
not to be.
"A man can only hang once, AnnaClaire. I've always known 'twould
be my fate."
"I won't let you." She pushed against him and scrambled out of bed.
"I'll shout down the household. Your father will stop you. Your
brother..."
He clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her cries until he could gag
her with a linen square from her night table. "I'm sorry, love. Truly I
am."
While she kicked and struggled, he clasped her two hands in front of
her and tied them tightly with the sash of her gown. Carrying her to
the bed he laid her down, and tied her ankles as well. Then he pulled
the covers up to her chin.
"I hope in time you will find it in your heart to forgive me,
AnnaClaire. If you think but one thing of me in years to come, let it be
this. I love you. More than I ever believed I could love anyone again."
He pressed a kiss to the cloth covering her mouth. Against her temple
he murmured, ' 'How can I fear death, when I love you more than life
itself?"
He crossed the room and let himself out without a backward glance.
For to do so would have torn his heart from his chest and robbed him
of all resolve.
As the door closed, hot tears scalded AnnaClaire's lids and spilled
over to run in rivers down her cheeks.
Though she struggled and twisted and tugged, she was forced to
admit that she was as helpless as a lamb being led to slaughter.
Her tears fell harder, faster. But it wasn't she being led to slaughter. It
was Rory. And oh, the thought of it was more than she could bear.
Chapter Sixteen
Innis was having another nightmare. It was always the same. He was
crossing the field with his family, dressed in his finest clothes. Up
ahead was the tip of Croagh Patrick, gleaming gold in the sunlight.
After an early morning rain it had turned into a sunny day, with only a
sprinkle of clouds in the sky. A fine day for a wedding, his father was
saying.
His Aunt Caitlin, his father's youngest sister, was surrounded by her
smiling family as she made her way to Ballinarin and her
soon-to-be-husband. Some were on horseback, some in wagons and
carts. The rest were walking. Someone was singing. A high, lyrical
voice that carried on the slight breeze. Because of the murmur of
happy voices, and the occasional shout of a child, they didn't
immediately hear the approaching horsemen. Then someone let out a
cry. The crowd stopped, turned, and found themselves already under
siege.
The soldiers h
ad fanned out so that none of their victims could run to
safety in the nearby forest. They targeted the men and boys first, so
that the women and children would be unprotected.
Innis watched his father unsheath his sword as the first horseman
attacked. His da was able to unseat the soldier, but before he could
run him through, a second horseman approached from the other side
and struck out, knocking the sword from his hand. A second blow
sent the soldier's sword to his da's heart.
As the young father fell, he landed on top of his son, pinning him to
the earth.
"Don't move, Innis," he managed to whisper. "If they think you're
dead, lad, you'll survive."
They were the last words Innis ever heard his father speak. And every
night since, he heard them as the nightmare unfolded in his mind.
He'd been forced to lie there beneath his father's body, listening to the
screams, watching as women and young girls were brutalized, then
murdered. The soldiers had saved the worst for his own beautiful
mother, and the young bride-to-be, Caitlin. And through it all he'd
been forced to remain helpless.
The sound of his own cries awakened him.
He sat up, clenching his fists. He hated the night. Hated the dreams
that tormented him. Hated these feelings of helplessness.
Hearing a loud thump from somewhere nearby, he climbed from bed
to investigate. He wasn't afraid. After what he'd been through,
nothing else would ever frighten him again. Except the night and its
terrors.
Taking up a candle he let himself out of his room and began to move
slowly along the hallway. Outside AnnaClaire's door, he paused to
listen. There it was again, only louder. He knocked, then put his ear to
the door. The pounding increased.
He pushed open and door and stared at the strange sight.
AnnaClaire was lying on the floor, caught up in a tangle of bed linens,
kicking her feet against the wall.
"Englishwoman." He rushed to her and held the candle aloft. Seeing
her bound and gagged, he hurriedly set aside the candle and began to
pry loose her bonds.
"Who has done this terrible thing to you?" he demanded.
She was as angry as a spitting cat tossed in the river. For a moment
she didn't make any sense.
"Rory O'Neil, damn his imperious hide. And when I catch him, I'll
make him pay for this. But first, Innis, you must fetch me a horse and
a weapon."
"A... weapon?"
"Aye. For before I make him pay for this I must first save his
wretched, miserable life."
AnnaClaire moved quickly. There was no time to waste. Rory was
rushing headlong toward disaster.
She pulled on her traveling cloak, then hurried down the stairs and out
into the night.
At the stables Innis was waiting as he'd promised. When she drew
near she saw him holding the reins of two horses.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded.
"I'm going with you." He boosted her to the saddle, then pulled
himself up to the other horse.
"You'll do nothing of the sort." She caught his reins. "Get down at
once. I'll not have you riding into danger."
"And how do you propose to stop me? I'll merely follow you when
you've gone."
"Oh, Innis." She tugged fiercely on the reins, hoping to make him
understand the seriousness of what
she was about to do. "Give me your knife and go back to bed."
"And what would you do with the knife?"
"I can...brandish it. No one need know that I've never actually used it
before."
"Aye. Well, I can take out a man's eye at twenty paces." He caught
her arm, forcing her to look at him. "You need me, Englishwoman.
I'll not let you go alone."
She glanced at the darkened keep and knew that she would never be
forgiven for this, should the lad be harmed. But there was no time.
She had to stop Rory before he made a terrible mistake.
She nodded. "All right, Innis. We go together. May God go with us."
She turned her mount and he did the same, racing across the sloping
lawns of the estate, until they reached the silvery ribbon of road that
led to the village.
Rory stood in the shadows and watched as the two soldiers passed a
jug between them. From inside he could hear the sounds of rough
voices and raucous laughter.
It was a simple matter to slip past the guards and climb through an
upper window. From there he made his way along a balcony and
down the stairs until he came to the public room of the inn.
With his face hidden beneath the hood of Friar Malone's coarse
brown habit, he counted no more than a dozen soldiers. Puzzling.
There had been twice as many horses at the stable. That meant that
there were an equal number of soldiers somewhere in the village.
Perhaps they were wenching and sleeping, he reasoned.
"Will ye' have an ale, Friar?"
Rory nodded and accepted the tankard from the young tavern wench.
As he lifted it to his lips he studied the faces of each soldier. His hand
froze in midair when he caught sight of the yellow hair.
All his carefully laid plans were forgotten. The disguise. The need for
secrecy. The ruse he'd planned to get them to follow him out of the
village and into the forest beyond. Suddenly, all he could see was a
red blaze of fury as the image of Caitlin's bloody, battered body swam
through his mind.
He hadn't expected this. After all these long months, the brawls, the
battles, the physical hardship, the emotional toll, his goal was within
reach. This changed everything. If it was indeed Tilden, there was no
way he could simply leave and lead him on a merry chase. Still,
though he was caught off guard, he managed a sip of ale, all the while
waiting for the man to turn, so that he could be certain. He didn't want
to make the same mistake he'd once made, killing an innocent soldier
instead of the brute, Tilden.
A cluster of soldiers burst into laughter. The yellow- haired man
turned. And Rory could see the puckered scar that ran from his chin to
his eyebrow.
His blood pounded hot in his temples. Two years. Two years of pain
and misery and unbelievable suffering. And it had all come down to
this village, this pub, this man, who didn't deserve to live another
minute.
AnnaClaire and Innis left their horses at the edge of the village, then
made their way stealthily toward the lights of the tavern.
They darted behind a wall when they heard the sound of
laughter."English soldiers," the lad said.
"How can you tell?"
"At this hour the villagers are abed. They'll be up tending their fields
and flocks by dawn." He glanced around. "Odd."
"What is?"
"There are no guards out here."
"Why is that odd?"
"These soldiers are on foreign soil, Englishwoman. They've no
reason to trust the people of the village. Unless..."
"Unless what?" she whispered fiercely.
His puzzled frown turned into a scowl. "Stay here," he said suddenly.
; Before she could ask what he intended, he seized the low-hanging
branch of a tree and began to climb. With all the grace and speed of a
squirrel he climbed until he reached the upper window of the tavern,
where a curtain fluttered in the night breeze.
For the space of several moments AnnaClaire watched. Then, cursing
the clumsy skirts and petticoats that hampered her movements, she
followed.
Innis was just about to ease open the door when he turned and caught
sight of her.
"You should have stayed below, Englishwoman. Now wait here out
of sight."
'I will not. Tell me what you suspect, Innis."
He took a deep breath. "All right. I think the English bastards are
expecting a visit from the Blackhearted O'Neil this night. Why else
would there be no guards outside?"
"A trap? Oh, sweet heaven." Her hand flew to her mouth. "Come,
then, Innis. Open the door."
With a sigh he did as she ordered. The two stepped into the hallway
and made their way silently down the stairs toward the public room.
Rory felt as if time had stopped. At last his goal was within his reach.
All the pain. All the misery. All the hatred. And the object of that
hatred stood just a sword's length away.
His hand went to the weapon at his waist. As he unsheathed it, every
man in the room turned to stare at him. The crowd had gone so silent
he could hear his own heart beating in his chest.
The hair at the back of his neck prickled, and he realized too late that
he had walked into a trap. He had seen it. Smelled it. And had chosen
to ignore it. All because he'd let his emotions blind him.
A voice directly behind him said, "Lower your weapon, O'Neil. Or
this will be the last breath you ever draw."
Rory swiveled his head to find a dozen sword tips pointed at his heart.
"Aye, it may be my last breath," he said softly, "but at least I'll have
the satisfaction of taking this bastard to hell with me."
Anticipating Rory's fury, Tilden caught the young serving wench and
held her in front of him like a shield, pressing the blade of his knife to
her throat with such force he drew blood. "Drop your weapon, O'Neil,
or the wench dies."
The girl let out a shriek, and her father, the tavern owner, dropped to
his knees and began to weep and plead for his daughter's life.
So near, Rory thought. So tantalizingly near, and yet, no matter how
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