A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

by Louise Allen

  *

  After another hour of walking, she spied a fortress in the distance. It was a wooden structure atop a hillside with a deep trench surrounding it. Sharpened stakes were set at even intervals all around it, with a wicker fence to keep out invaders.

  Thank goodness. She would beg hospitality with the Faoilin tribe for this night, and gain their protection, if possible. But when she drew nearer, she spied two dozen soldiers approaching the fortress, their commanders on horseback. They were riding towards the gates with spears clenched in their fists, and it was clear that they had not come for an amicable visit. One carried the High King’s banner, and they looked as if they were waiting for the right moment to attack.

  Why would the High King’s men wage a battle here? Were they here to lay siege upon the fortress? Or had the Faoilin chieftain betrayed the High King? Whatever the reason, Taryn was not about to intrude. At least, not until she knew why they were here.

  She slowed her pace and exchanged a look with her escort. ‘I think we should wait before approaching the ring fort.’

  ‘I agree, my lady.’

  Taryn motioned for Pól to follow her into a grove of trees. The wind whipped at her cloak, freezing her skin. Even worse, the rain started up once more, mixed with ice. Taryn hurried towards the oaks, taking shelter beneath a large tree. She had no idea what to do now or how long she should wait. The last thing she wanted was to sleep out in the open. At night, it would begin snowing, and the ground would harden into ice. It was dangerous to sleep in the midst of such treacherous weather.

  ‘What should we do?’ she asked Pól.

  The older man rested his hand upon his sword, shrugging. ‘We’ll have to wait until they’ve left. Or at least until they’ve gone inside.’

  Taryn despised waiting. She much preferred to take action and hope for a good outcome. Yet she knew better than to act on impulse and endanger their lives. The wooden gates remained closed, and four men stood within a guard tower, overlooking the entrance. For a time, the High King’s soldiers remained in front of the gates, and she could not tell what was happening. Eyeing the men, she wondered how they would respond if she approached.

  ‘We cannot wait all night,’ she mused aloud. ‘We have to find out why they’re here.’

  Her guard shrugged. ‘Whatever the reason, I would not be asking them, my lady. I can build a fire and a shelter for you in the meantime.’

  The older man had insisted upon accompanying her to Tara, and she was grateful for his loyalty. But he wasn’t the strongest escort, and she questioned his ability to defend her. He could wield a sword, but his hands suffered aches and pains during damp weather. Pól was nothing like Brian Faoilin’s men, who were among the strongest fighters in Éireann, second only to the MacEgans.

  Taryn exhaled, her breath forming clouds in the air. Somehow, she needed to ally herself with Carice Faoilin. The High King’s bride was her safest means of getting close to Tara.

  She started pacing, worried about why these soldiers were here. Would they allow her to approach the fortress? Likely if the Faoilin tribe kept their gates closed, then there was a reason for it.

  ‘Do you want me to move in closer to learn more about why they’ve come?’ Pól asked. ‘So long as I leave my weapons with you, no one would suspect me.’

  It was a dangerous risk, but one they needed to take. They had to get inside the fortress and seek shelter for the night.

  ‘Yes, you should go,’ she ordered the guard. ‘Return when you know what’s happening.’

  Pól bowed in agreement before he walked towards the main road. Then he adjusted his gait to add a slight limp, making it seem that he was a harmless old man.

  With every moment she was alone, Taryn’s apprehensions increased. What if Pól didn’t return? She couldn’t remain here alone. Yet, if she approached the High King’s men, they might harm her. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, but as a woman, there was still a strong risk. Then, too, if she appealed to Lady Carice, there was still the chance that the young woman would refuse to let her join her ladies—even if Taryn confessed her reasons. The more she dwelled upon her rash decision, the more unlikely it seemed that she would succeed.

  You cannot give up, she told herself. No one else would save her father.

  And so, she continued to wait. Pól had given her a dagger, which she had secured at her waist. She had no idea what to do with his sword, for she could hardly lift the heavy weapon. In the end, it seemed best to prop it up against a tree.

  *

  After nearly an hour, the men still had not entered the fortress. Something was very, very wrong. Minutes crept onward, and when Pól did not return, Taryn couldn’t stand the waiting any longer. She simply had to know what was happening.

  This is dangerous and foolish, she told herself. But what choice did she have? She was alone, with no shelter for the approaching night. She could die at the hands of these men, or she could freeze to death.

  They might not kill her, she supposed, as she began walking towards the fortress. They had no true reason to take her life. It was a small consolation.

  The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle, and she kept her head and scarred face covered with a woollen brat. No matter how she tried to square her shoulders and walk with confidence, like the lady she was, she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering or her hands from trembling.

  Within moments, one of the soldiers spied her. Word began to spread, and it wasn’t long before all two dozen men were staring at her. Taryn adjusted her head covering, searching for a glimpse of Pól. But he was nowhere to be found, and she realised that he had likely hidden himself.

  ‘Were you going somewhere?’ one of the commanders asked. He wore an iron helm, and a sword rested at his left side. Trying not to show her alarm, she averted her gaze. She never had time to answer before another man emerged from the fortress.

  He strode forward, his gaze narrowed upon the soldiers. And the moment she glimpsed his face, her pulse quickened.

  Never in her life had she seen a warrior so handsome. He was like the son of Lugh, a god walking among them. He was tall with dark hair that hung below his shoulders. Every perfect feature looked as if it were carved from ice, with steel-grey eyes, an aquiline nose, and a mouth that tightened as he stared at the armed men. He seemed to be assessing their strength and ability to fight. Though he was dressed in ragged, worn clothing, she spied the glint of chain mail beneath it.

  He carried no weapons, but she suspected he was not a man who needed them. There was not a trace of fear in his demeanour, and he didn’t seem to care if he lived or died. But when his gaze swept over her, she caught a warning in his eyes, as if he’d ordered her to say nothing. Her cheeks warmed beneath his gaze, and she tried to suppress the embarrassment of such a man watching her.

  She lifted her chin, still keeping her face covered by the woollen brat so that only her eyes were revealed. Though it was vain, she didn’t want him to see her scars. For a moment, she wanted to look upon this warrior as if she were his equal.

  The man turned to the soldiers and said, ‘Our chieftain would like to know why you’ve come with armed men to Carrickmeath.’

  The commander moved forward, two riders on either side of him, armed with spears. His eyes narrowed for a moment as he confronted the man. ‘You have the look of the Ard-Righ about you.’

  The man did not seem pleased by the observation. ‘I am the High King’s bastard son. And you still have not answered my question of why you are here.’ His words were iron, revealing his impatience.

  ‘Brian Faoilin betrothed his daughter to the Ard-Righ,’ the commander answered. ‘And yet, he has not brought the bride to King Rory, despite messengers that we sent over the past few months. The King wishes to know his reasons for delaying the marriage.’

  ‘Lady Carice has been ill,’ the dark-haired man said. He crossed his arms over his chest and met the man’s accusations openly. ‘The High King already knows this.’

 
‘I have my doubts,’ the commander said. ‘It looks as if she was about to flee.’ He stared hard at Taryn, and she ignored his gaze, feeling a sudden rush of fear.

  He hadn’t seen her face. He thought she was the Lady Carice because her scars were hidden. Her heart beat faster, and she had no idea what to say. Taryn stole another look at the dark-haired god, but he did not deny the soldier’s mistake. Instead, his eyes fixed upon her, and in them, she caught another warning. Whatever was happening, he wanted her to follow his lead.

  It was clear that she had to maintain a pretence. A frozen chill washed over her at the thought of such an illusion. It would never work—not in a thousand years. The moment anyone saw her face, they would know the truth.

  But whatever it was that the man wanted from her, he would owe her a favour if she did as he asked. She needed his help, more than he needed hers. And for that reason, she met his gaze evenly and gave a slight nod.

  ‘Lady Carice was not trying to flee,’ he said smoothly, reaching out his hand to her. It was an offer of sanctuary, so long as she obeyed him. Taryn hesitated a moment, for this man was a stranger to her. She had no idea whether or not she should trust him.

  His grey eyes were as cold as frost upon stone. There was no trace of emotion or any reaction upon his face. It was as if he cared not what she did.

  Taryn took a slight step forward, feeling uneasy about the deception. But she kept her face shielded by the wool, lowering her gaze to the ground. Each step brought her closer to this man, and she had no idea why he wanted to perpetuate such a lie.

  But perhaps her acquiescence would lead to the help she needed. One wrong move, and the High King’s men would attack this fortress and bring violence with them—she had no doubt of it.

  When she reached the dark-haired god’s side, Taryn could feel the tension stretched tightly between them. She risked a glance at him and sent a pleading look, praying that he would help her.

  Despite his ragged appearance, his hard body strained at the wool and hidden armour, revealing a warrior’s build. He crossed his upper arms, and the bulge of muscle made it clear that he had the strength to fight any of these men. But more than that, he held an unshakable confidence.

  She took his hand, and he squeezed it lightly in a veiled command to remain silent. She decided that this was her best chance to save her father’s life. All she needed was to maintain the deception long enough to gain their cooperation. Just a little longer.

  But the wind tore at her woollen brat, whipping free the dark locks of her hair. She seized the edges of the wool, trying to hide her scarred face.

  For a moment, she held her breath, afraid that they had seen her. But instead, the commander gave a nod, as if her identity had been confirmed. ‘What have you to say, Lady Carice?’ He eyed her and remarked, ‘I presume you were trying to flee and realised your mistake.’

  She sent another questioning look towards the dark-haired warrior. But this time, he gave no indication of what he wanted her to say. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for her response.

  Taryn needed help from the Faoilin clan. Her best means of gaining an army was to offer them assistance in her own way.

  ‘You are right,’ she told the commander, trying to sound sheepish. ‘I was trying to flee. But then I realised how foolish it would be to do so.’

  She lifted her chin, keeping the wool firmly in place to reveal nothing but her eyes. ‘I am Lady Carice. And I suppose you’ve come to escort me to Tara for my wedding.’

  Copyright © 2015 by Michelle Willingham

  ISBN-13: 9781460384619

  A Rose for Major Flint

  Copyright © 2015 by Melanie Hilton

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