"My adopted daughter . . . Triona," Fineen continued brokenly, his breathing labored, his pale cracked lips barely moving. "She will have no one when . . . when I am gone. Swear to me, Ronan. Swear you will protect her."
Triona. The copper-haired babe Fineen had found crying in the woods, her parents killed by wolves. The babe who’d grown into a sweet little girl who adored her older brother, and mayhap Ronan as well. She’d always seemed delighted with the small trinkets he brought her whenever he came to Imaal although other than that, he’d scarcely had time to pay her much heed.
She couldn’t have been more than eight winters when last he had visited Imaal. At that time he had come from his home glen to fetch Conor to join him and his clansmen on a raid. Except Conor did not return alive.
Sighing heavily, Ronan thrust the painful images of that day from his mind.
"Your daughter has no husband to look after her?" he asked, realizing Triona would be twenty by now and long past the age when she should have wed.
Ronan was surprised by Fineen’s response, a dry cough that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
"No . . . not married."
Must be ugly as a hound, Ronan thought, although he recalled the girl as being pretty enough. Perhaps the pox had scarred her face. Or perhaps she was overly pious.
His musing was interrupted as Fineen’s cough became a long hacking spell that left the chieftain visibly weaker. As if he sensed that the end were drawing near, Fineen once more met Ronan’s eyes.
"You must swear, Ronan. You were like a son to me . . . family. Swear you will take my daughter into your care!"
Puzzled by the urgency of Fineen’s request, Ronan nonetheless nodded. In truth, he wanted no such obligation, his raids upon the hated Normans and the pressing cares of his clan already consuming him. But he could not refuse a dying man.
"Say it, Ronan!"
"Aye, I swear. She has my protection."
His words were greeted by a rattling sigh as Fineen closed his eyes, his head lolling upon the stained pillow. Ronan heard one of the veiled women burst into tears. Triona? he wondered.
"It cannot be long now," said the healer, running his palm across the chieftain’s sallow forehead.
At this pronouncement more women joined in the weeping, and the priest began to pray louder when Fineen still did not open his eyes. As if he were praying in unison the chieftain began to mumble, but Ronan could not understand what he was saying until he leaned closer.
"Must not . . . must not know the truth about Triona . . . Must not know. . ."
Glancing at the healer, who shrugged and shook his head, Ronan whispered in Fineen’s ear, "What do you mean, Godfather? I don’t understand. . . ."
Ronan’s query was answered by a low gurgling sound, Fineen’s shriveled hand once more gripping his as tightly as a claw. Then it abruptly went limp.
For a long moment, Ronan stared at Fineen’s face, oblivious to the wild keening crescendoing behind him. But at last he sighed and rose to his feet.
Except for the glowing candles at the head of the bed, the room was dark, the grief stricken women swathed in shadows. He wondered again which one might be Triona. As a dutiful daughter, he imagined she had kept a close vigil in this room, but was too modest to come forward. That pleased him. Such maidenly virtues would make his task as her guardian all the easier.
Ronan looked up at the sudden commotion beyond the door.
"What do you mean my father summoned that bastard Black O’Byrne to his bedside? Get out of my way! I will enter, I tell you!"
At the sound of a scuffle outside the chamber, the women’s wailing became shocked gasps. Ronan frowned as the door burst open, five strapping clansmen spilling into the room. At their center, he saw a flash of copper hair and two slender arms thrashing wildly.
"I said let me pass! Murchertach O’Toole, you may be my father’s Tanist but you’ve no right to hold me back like this! I want to see my father!"
"Begorra, man, look out for her fists!" warned one of the clansmen.
"Aagh, Triona, why’d you have to stomp on my foot? I think you’ve broken my toes!" another cried out.
"You deserve worse than that for blocking my way, you . . . you—"
"By God, let her pass!" Ronan’s stern command was answered by stunned silence as all faces turned toward him. "Is this riot the honor owing to a dead chieftain?"
"Dead?"
The hoarse exclamation had come from the petite, disheveled figure who shoved her way free of the clansmen before Ronan could reply. Dressed in a leather jerkin, shirt and trousers, her lush curls flying, she rushed past him and sank to her knees beside the bed.
"When?"
Ronan’s gaze lifted from the young woman’s curious clothing to her exquisite profile which was limned by candlelight. A smooth forehead, graceful nose and cheekbones, delicately curved lips. Triona O’Toole was no poxed hound, that much was clear.
"A few moments ago."
Expecting an immediate womanly flood of tears, Ronan couldn’t have been more surprised when she rose, her small hands clenched at her sides.
"I will avenge you, Father. I swear it! I’ll not rest until the Normans who attacked you feel the sting of my arrows!"
And you will not cry, Triona told herself fiercely despite the heartrending grief twisting inside her. Not now. Not until she was alone . . . and not until he had left Imaal.
She spun, her contemptuous gaze sweeping from head to foot the grimly silent man who towered above her. Considering she had last seen him as a child, it was amazing to her that he could look even taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader, his chest wider, an air of command emanating from him even as he was standing still, damn him. Boldly she met his eyes.
"Black hair, black clothes, black cloak. You look like Satan himself come to call! How dare you darken my father’s last moments, O’Byrne!"
Ronan saw unshed tears glistening in her eyes, the trembling of her chin, and told himself to be patient. She had just lost her father after all. Yet it was apparent from her hostility toward him that Fineen had spoken of Ronan none too kindly over the years, Triona adopting her father’s view. No doubt she, too, blamed him for Conor’s death.
"So you remember me," Ronan said evenly, appraising again her unmaidenlike garb. His gaze lingered upon the snug fit of her trousers to shapely hips and thighs . . . until he realized he was staring. A damned dangerous combination, was men’s clothing on a female form, and one he intended to remedy, Ronan decided, looking up to find Triona scowling at him. "You’ve changed altogether. You were just a little girl—"
"Spare me your recollections, Ronan O’Byrne. You will leave Imaal at once. You’re not welcome here. Go back to Glenmalure where you belong!"
His eyes widening at her insolent command, Ronan felt his anger pricked and his patience vanished. No one gave him orders. No one.
"I will decide when to leave this glen, Triona O’Toole, and when I do, you will accompany me. Your father summoned me for a reconciliation and made me swear an oath. You’re now under my protection. It was his last wish and I intend to fulfill it." Seeing her bristle with disbelief, he added, "The priest is my witness. If you’d been by your father’s side like any devoted and respectful daughter, you would know I speak the truth."
"Like any devoted . . . ? Why you . . . you presumptuous . . ." sputtered Triona, so outraged that she was tempted to strike this overbearing rebel whose eyes glittered silver in the candlelight. "Do you dare to think because I wasn’t his blood daughter that I’ve been any less devoted to him? It was only because he yearned for a taste of venison that I left his side. I just now returned from the hunt to discover I was barred from the hall, my cousin Murchertach informing me that Father had a visitor. You!"
Triona did strike him then but not upon the face. He was too damned tall. She balled up her fist and hit him squarely in the stomach, but her blow might have been a feather light tap for all she hurt him. Her hand was throbbing
, however, his muscled abdomen as hard as rock.
"Did that ease your temper?" he asked tightly, his silvery eyes gleaming. "Now I understand what your father was mumbling just before he died. Why he enlisted his five men to keep you out until I had sworn. You’re hardly the sweet-natured girl I remember—"
"Aye, so I’m not, and you’ll get more of the same if you’re fool enough to stay in Imaal a moment longer!" Triona shot back, although she doubted her poor hand would survive such abuse.
"Watch out for your shins, O’Byrne!" came a warning from one of the men near the door. "And your toes! She’s a kick on her that can splinter wood!"
"Please, please, this unseemly strife must cease!" cried the flush-faced priest who pushed his girth between them as if anticipating Triona’s next move. "Have some respect for the dead and take this matter outside!"
"Aye, so we will," Triona agreed, eager to be done with this intrusion so she could return to her father. Brushing past Ronan, she glared at the clansmen who had blocked her way and especially at Murchertach who, as her father’s Tanist, was now the new chieftain of the Imaal O’Tooles.
"I could have been with him if not for you," she said to him with bitterness, fresh tears smarting her eyes.
"Do not blame me," replied the big-boned Irishman, his deep voice holding no apology. "It was your father’s command that he speak with Ronan alone."
Feeling betrayed by her own clan, Triona said no more. She dashed out of the hall and ran to her tethered horse, seizing her bowcase from the leather sheath strapped to the animal’s broad back. By the time Ronan appeared in the doorway, Triona had already strung her bow and set an arrow to the string.
"Aye, Laeg, I see him," she muttered to the tall bay stallion who tossed its great head as Ronan stepped outside, his black cloak swirling. "Bright June sunshine and the man still looks like the very devil."
An admittedly handsome devil no matter the stern look on his face, she thought as Ronan stopped dead in his tracks when she took aim. Even more so than she remembered as a young girl when it had made her heart pound just to look at him. When she’d believed the moon, the sun and the twinkling stars in the night sky spun around Ronan O’Byrne. But that had been before he’d murdered her brother.
"Might I ask what you’re doing pointing that arrow at me?" came his query, his voice tinged with just enough authority, just enough condescension to infuriate her. "I thought we came out here to talk."
"I’ve little more to say to you than this, Black O’Byrne. If you think I’m going anywhere with you, think again!" She released the deadly missile with an ominous zing, skewering the hem of Ronan’s long cloak to the wall.
Chapter 2
STUNNED, RONAN LOOKED from the owl-fletched arrow that had narrowly missed his calf to Triona’s satisfied smile. That wily old Fineen! His new charge was no more a modest and dutiful female than Ronan was a lover of Normans. The disobedient chit seemed intent upon defying him.
"You see that I don’t need your protection," she declared, deftly fitting another arrow to the string. "I’ve taken care of myself for years and intend to continue! Now mount your horse and leave me in peace!"
"And if I don’t?" Swallowing his surprise at her skill with the bow, Ronan yanked his mantle from the wall and strode toward her. He didn’t flinch as a second arrow winged right past his ear, piercing the earth harmlessly behind him. "An oath is an oath, Triona, and I intend to honor it . . . with or without your consent."
The third arrow sliced into the ground at his feet and Ronan stopped, incensed.
"Go on, test my aim! Take another step!" she dared him, tossing a lustrous mass of coppery gold ringlets over her shoulder. "But I warn you, my father taught me how to shoot and he claimed that my skill equaled his own. Try to touch me, O’Byrne, and I swear the next arrow will fly straight to your heart. A fitting end to match the one you gave my brother!"
Wisely, Ronan didn’t move.
Cursing under his breath, he found it strange that at such a moment he would notice the brilliant color of her eyes, now trained so intently upon him. The hall had been so dim that he had not noticed earlier, and he’d forgotten such a detail from her childhood.
Vivid emerald green . . . like a forest glade in morning sunlight. Beautiful. And deadly. He did not doubt that she would make good upon her threat.
He decided not to lunge for her. The thought of trussing her up and carrying her by force to his stronghold was very tempting and no less than she deserved for such willfulness, but he would reason with her instead.
But only this once. And he doubted she would listen to him unless he offered something that might appeal to this misguided hoyden.
"It would be a pity if you killed me," he said bluntly, his eyes holding hers.
"For your widow perhaps."
"I’ve no wife. No children." Ronan took a step forward, but froze when she began to pull back the string.
"Move again, O’Byrne, and I promise you’ll be greeting your grave."
Bridling his anger, Ronan kept his voice calm. "I’ve an offer to make, Triona. One I believe will intrigue you."
He was answered by a most unmaidenly snort of derision. "Offer? What could you possibly offer me other than your agreement to leave Imaal and never show your face here again?"
"That’s not exactly what I intended. I heard your oath to your father. I, too, am determined to seek out his attackers. If you come with me now, we could avenge him together. You could ride with my men and I—"
"Ride with you?" Triona cut in sarcastically, although she was surprised at this offer. Her father had rarely spoken a good word about Ronan, had rarely spoken of him at all for that matter, but he had never faulted Ronan’s crusade against the Normans. The bold raids of Black O’Byrne and his clansmen were legendary among those Leinster Irish who still refused to accept the invaders’ presence in Eire. In fact these Leinster Irish were branded as rebels by other clans who’d submitted to the Normans like stupid sheep. Aye, Ronan’s was a brave cause, but it had been during one of these raids that she had lost her brother. "And risk falling to one of your arrows like Conor?" she added. "Not likely."
She saw Ronan stiffen, a muscle flashing along his jaw.
"I no longer use a bow, so you’ve nothing to fear." His eyes swept over her—not silver now but a stormy slate gray—as if taking her measure. "Then again, mayhap you’re not as brave as you appear. Mayhap your oath of vengeance was only a fine show for your clansmen. From the way you hesitate, I would even venture to guess that you’re afraid to join us on our raids—"
"Afraid?" Indignant, Triona lowered her bow. "I’ll have you know that I’m a better shot than most men and I’ve the practice targets full of holes to prove it! If you don’t believe me, ask my clansmen. Ask them, too, if I’ve ever flinched at the hunt. You’ll find that Triona O’Toole’s never once fled from a charging boar. Never!"
Given what he’d seen of her thus far, Ronan found it wasn’t difficult to imagine her facing down an enraged beast—which didn’t please him. Hunting was hardly a fitting pastime for a young woman. Yet, for now, he would humor her and tolerate her boasts.
"I would expect nothing less from you," he conceded, "seeing as your teacher was the finest bowman in Wicklow. But hunting is one thing, raiding against Normans entirely another. Who knows? In the heat of an attack, you might decide you’d rather be safe at home than faced with enemies who’d love nothing more than to slit your throat."
Now Triona was really angry. She must be red faced, her cheeks were so flame hot. How dare this arrogant man even hint that she might shrink in the face of danger!
"My father taught me to fend for myself, O’Byrne, and I’ve already survived enough scrapes to know that I could stand up to some fool Normans!"
"Then prove it. Accept my offer."
Triona almost shouted that she would, damn him, but cold reason doused her response just in time.
"I don’t have to prove anything to you," she said surlil
y, once more taking aim. "I’d rather win vengeance on my own than ride with a man who could murder his best friend—"
"Enough, Triona! You disgrace your father’s passing with such talk!"
Startled, Triona lowered her bow as Murchertach left the hall and stood beside Ronan.
"The good priest has told me everything, and ‘tis true that your father and the O’Byrne reconciled before his death," continued the strapping young chieftain, his ruddy face stern. "The past has been forgiven. All blame set aside. Bridle your sharp tongue, woman, or you’ll only shame Fineen’s memory with your spite."
"I would never shame my father," Triona said stiffly, affronted that Murchertach would rebuke her so harshly and in full view of her clansmen. Glancing around her, she saw that her heated exchange with Ronan had drawn many onlookers, including her longtime maid, Aud, who was nervously wringing her hands.
But then again, Triona fumed as the new chieftain turned to confer in conspiratorial tones with Ronan. Murchertach had held a grudge against her since she had refused his offer of marriage. Mayhap he was repaying her for the slight. But she’d only rejected him as she had done all the rest; she’d marry no man who wanted to take away her freedom.
And Murchertach had threatened as much! No more hunting or late moonlit rides or the choice to go where she pleased when she pleased as a man might, but managing a home and servants and bowing to a husband’s every whim, as wives were expected to do.
Mayhap if Fineen had reared her differently, she would have been contented with such a lot. But after Conor’s death, she’d practically become the son that he had lost. No needlework and staying indoors for her—well, other than for occasional lessons in learning from a visiting priest—but training in archery and the ways of the woods and its creatures. Aye, she’d marry if she found a man who’d respect her skills as her father had, a man who wouldn’t make her give up the things she loved. But until then, she’d be taking no husband. Not if she had breath in her body to say anything about it.
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