The Irish Princess

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "My lady?" Brody paused on his way into the solar. Siobhàn blinked at him, then forced a smile. "You're looking fine in your English garments."

  The man grinned. "Fits me better than furs and rough cloth." He patted his chest and the PenDragon shield there.

  Siobhàn frowned at it for a moment, then nodded to the solar. "Go, they talk of battle. I am certain you are interested." She pushed away from the wall, quickening her steps, trying to escape the hurt of being cast aside.

  First by her husband, now by her clan.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

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  Siobhàn cooed to the horse, running the brush over her golden honey hide. "Ahh, you're a bonny lass," she whispered softly. "Such pretty legs, so dainty, m'lady." The stallions in the stables stomped and snorted, scenting the female among them. "Beware of that one, eh?" She nodded to Grayfalk, the other knight's steed lining the freshly timbered stalls. "He's got a head as thick as his master."

  The horse bobbed and Siobhàn smiled, laying her cheek to her mare's wide neck, smelling animal and leather. And freedom. She longed to race, to be the wind and lose herself in the ride. To be anywhere except in this keep, now.

  "Mama?"

  Siobhàn looked up, smiling and motioning Connal closer, Culhainn at his heels. The dog plopped near the door, not daring to come close to the jumble of hooves as her son looked up at the grand charger with wide eyes. Siobhàn lifted him in her arms, setting him gently on the mare's back.

  "Did the king of England really give this creature to you?"

  "That is what Lochlann says."

  Connal toyed with the ribbon in the horse's mane. "She is pretty, Mama."

  "That she is. What shall we call her?"

  Connal looked thoughtful, bending around to look the mare in the eye and nearly tumbling from her back. Siobhàn laughed, catching him, holding him before the animal's face. He petted the mare's nose carefully.

  "Riona. It means royal, aye?"

  "Aye, lovey. Riona, then."

  Connal looked at the creature, his expression serious, and Siobhàn frowned softly as he stared into the animal's eyes. "Riona, you're a king's gift to my maither. Serve her and only her, aye?"

  Siobhàn smothered a laugh at his adult behavior, that he tried to deepen his voice a bit. Yet when the horse nodded and then dipped its head low, stretching out one leg, suspicion raced through her.

  "She understands," she whispered, clutching her child away from the horse.

  "Aye, of course."

  Siobhàn smoothed his hair back, staring into his eyes. "Keep this secret, son."

  "Why?

  "Those who would harm you, would use it against you."

  "Like my father did with the mist?"

  Her eyes flared. "Who told you that?"

  "I heard the soldiers speaking of it. But Uncle Lochlann told me. Will you conjure the mist for me?"

  "Nay! 'Tis not a toy to be played with at the whim of a child!"

  His lower lips curled down, and Siobhàn regretted her sharpness, hugging him, apologizing as she pressed his head to her shoulder. His arms swept tightly around her neck, his legs around her waist. Tigheran forbade her to leave the keep in winter and remarked often enough that he'd married into a family of witches. Thank the Lord he never said such afore witnesses, she thought. And now this talent of Connal's would grow as he did, just as it had in her and Rhiannon.

  "Do not be afraid, Mama," he said softly. "I will protect you."

  Siobhàn's eyes burned. Oh, how she loved him and she tightened her embrace for a brief moment. He leaned back and kept leaning until he hung upside down, giggling. Siobhàn twirled for him, tickling her son, and dizzily they sank to the straw piles. Connal tickled her back, trying desperately to make her laugh.

  "Cease, oh cease, child. Your fingers are bony and I am not ticklish."

  He muttered a curse, a funny one of toads and larcenous rats.

  "Go ask Nova if the meal is ready, then come back to tell me, aye."

  He nodded, scrambling off the soft pile and running to the doors. Siobhàn snapped her fingers for Culhainn, yet the dog whined for an instant, sniffing the ground along the walls, then looked at her.

  "Go, follow him." The white beast finally lumbered off.

  Siobhàn laid there alone in the timothy, her thoughts growing sad and dark. She was furious with her husband for the way he'd treated her in the solar, for accusing her of giving her sympathies to Ian. Neither man recognized that if she'd truly loved Ian those years back, naught would have stopped her from being with him. It reminded her that Gaelan had little love in his life, a slattern mother, a cold father, and had lost the only person he'd ever cared about, his brother, and blamed himself. It was a wonder her husband managed to be such a tender lover after so harsh a life, and Siobhàn understood where his feelings brewed. But his past did not give him the right to insult and shame her.

  She rolled over, catching a pipe of straw and chewing on the tip. She really should be helping with the meal, seeing to Lochlann and his men. But she did not want to be near Gaelan feeling this way. She was afraid she would say something she'd regret.

  Damn him.

  His doubt would not hurt so much if she did not love him. Siobhàn closed her eyes, laying her cheek on the straw and remembering the feel of his arms around her, his teasing smiles and their sensual game of saying his name. Her heart constricted painfully. She missed him, missed the man trying to win her, the man who looked upon her with affection and tenderness. She missed his bare skin pressed to hers whilst they slept, the way he watched her when she bathed, as if his eyes were the water, coating her body with a sultry look.

  She could not hold tight to her anger over the death of Tigheran. It dissipated as quickly as it had come, for she knew, in her heart that Tigheran had been desperate enough to put down Dermott to attempt an assassination. And Gaelan was doing as his king ordered. Winning.

  Would Ian be the same kind of fool as Tigheran to try to defeat Gaelan? For her?

  Oh for the love of Saint Patrick, she prayed he had more sense than that. Yet, who's to know a man's heart anyway? She wed a man whose unfounded jealousy stole his trust in her. And she'd no way to repair it. Long ago the mastery over her heart had been his. From the moment she'd met him, Gaelan possessed part of her soul, held it in the palm of his hand, and with a single glance and angry word, he could wound her. Over and over.

  Climbing to her feet, she finished currying the horse, returning, her to the stall and smiling at the stable hands and pages asleep in the corner of the tack room like a pile of puppies exhausted from play.

  She frowned at the entrance.

  Connal should be back before now, she thought, and walked to the doors. Torches lit the yard, offering little light and more shadows. People milled about, some finishing up chores before the evening meal. Two maids flirted with the English guards, one man stealing a steamy kiss and taking the girl deeper into the dark. Bowmen lined the parapets, ever vigilant on the land surrounding the walls. It was so quiet she could hear the shuffle of the guards walking their posts.

  She squinted and saw her son pop through the inner ward gate, skipping his way toward her.

  A noise came, crisp and loud, like the crush of stones beneath heavy hoots, and Siobhàn sketched the area for the source. A cart rolled away from the wall near the armory, its weight shooting it like an arrow across the slanted grounds.

  And Connal was in its path.

  Running, Siobhàn shouted for him to turn back and he stopped, frowning at her. She pointed. Guards raced toward the wagon and Siobhàn watched in horror as her son tried to dart out of the path, but the rocks and terrain jolted the cart in a new direction, as if following him. She bolted, screaming for Gaelan.

  Out of the darkness, a figure appeared, running, diving for Connal, tucking him to his body as he rolled and rolled out of the wagon's path. The cart crashed into the chapel steps, shattering and spilling rocks and wood onto th
e ground.

  Then, just as suddenly, Connal flung himself into her arms. Sinking to the ground, Siobhàn sobbed into his shoulder, checking him for wounds and hugging him.

  "Oh my sweet child, oh dear God."

  "I am well, Mama, really," he assured her, patting her. "Where did he go?"

  Siobhàn sniffled and held him back to look at him, then the area around. They were surrounded by castle folk. Standing with her son in her arms, she glanced about, then ordered a guard to search for the man who'd saved her son.

  "Did you see his face?"

  "Nay, he was hooded, but he smelled like…" Connal frowned, thoughtful. "The herb you put in your bath."

  Mint, she thought. "Whoever you are," Siobhàn called above the crowd, "I am in your debt."

  The crowd parted as Gaelan rushed forward, his glance at the rubble telling him much. Frozen, he stared at mother and son for a moment, and when she looked at him, her face stained with tears, he came to her, enveloping her and Connal in his arms and assuring himself they were unharmed.

  "Go inside."

  Siobhàn met his gaze, her tone imperial. "I wish to speak privately with you." She didn't wait for a response, marching toward the inner gates, refusing to let Connal travel on his own power when he insisted he could.

  Gaelan turned, his soldiers a'ready. "Find him." His soft tone bit with the force of a blade across tender flesh and troops scattered. An hour later, unsuccessful at finding Connal's rescuer, Gaelan stepped into their chamber. Siobhàn paced before the fire, straw-dusted skirts swishing, bells jingling.

  "This was deliberate," she said without looking up. "Connal was with me in the stable and I sent him to Nova, and whoever released the cart heard me tell him to return to me and simply waited."

  "Aye."

  She stilled, her head jerking up, her eyes hard with anger. "What do you plan to do about it, husband?"

  The cold distance in her tone scratched the air between them. "There is little I can, except to keep anyone who has not lived here afore out, make rounds assuring that carts and scaffolding are secure, and keep Connal inside, in his chamber. Under guard."

  Imprisoning her son when he was just learning his freedom seemed terribly unfair when he'd done nothing wrong. "You can question everyone."

  "I have."

  "Then do it again."

  "Siobhàn—"

  "Nay, do not think I will take this lightly, PenDragon. Someone in this castle deliberately tried to kill my son!" She choked on a breath and sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands. Gaelan came to her, sinking to one knee but not touching her. She cried, her hands shaking, and more misery settled in his chest.

  "I was helpless. I could not run fast enough. I could not reach him. Oh Lord, my child would have been crushed."

  "He wasn't," he soothed softly. "He is fine and laying abed with his lamb and Culhainn at his side."

  She looked up slowly, her hands falling away. "Culhainn?" she whispered. "He was at the wall, sniffing the ground and whining."

  Gaelan scowled. "Likely chasing a bug."

  "Nay, he does not venture into the stables, husband. He's had a paw or two stepped on and does no more than sit at the doors."

  "You think someone lay in wait outside?"

  "It is a solution."

  "Then why did he not alert you?"

  "Mayhaps, they walked away. Connal said he smelled mint, like we did in the dungeon. Mayhaps the scent was familiar to Culhainn. I do not know!" When his look remained impassive, she stood abruptly, the motion sending the chair scraping back. "Do as you must, but if my son is not safe crossing the yard, then he is not safe in this castle, PenDragon. And I will take him to another until he is."

  He stood. "You are not going anywhere."

  "Then Connal goes with Rhiannon to the shore."

  "Nay." If she left with Connal, there would be no chance of regaining the peace between them. "I will see he is protected and post more guards on the unfamiliar villagers, but the boy stays here." He was not about to hand his wife and her son over to the care of O'Niell and certainly not the Maguire, and he folded his arms over his chest, his hard gaze snapping over her features. "Rhiannon, however, can be wed by morn and packed off to where she can cause no more trouble!"

  Her eyes flew wide. "What! You cannot force her to wed, husband."

  "I can do as I please, wife."

  Her gaze narrowed, a dangerous fire glittering there. "Aye, you can. You can accuse me of disloyalty, to you, to my own people"—she struck her chest—"when you have no right or reason," she hissed in an ugly voice. "You can insult me afore the retainers and a man I think of as a father. You chose to believe your jealous thoughts instead of my word. Aye, my lord PenDragon, you can do as you please. And be assured, for my son, so will I!"

  She shoved past him, heading to the doors, but Gaelan caught her in a gentle gasp, forcing her around to meet his gaze. She was crying without sound.

  He loathed that he'd brought her to this.

  "I do not like you very much right now, husband." She jerked on his touch. "Release me."

  He didn't, pulling her closer even as she tried to twist out of his grasp. "Siobhàn … ahh, my sweet, what has become of us?"

  "You have doubted me word and there is no way to assure you," she muttered and stood woodenly as his arms slid around her. She pressed her forehead to his chest. She would not touch him, she could not. She was so bloody mad and wanted to keep it fresh and on the surface.

  "I did not mean to insult you afore Driscoll and the O'Niell."

  "You shamed me, husband." Disappointment rang in her words and Gaelan sighed and lowered his arms, stepping back.

  "I was angry."

  She scoffed, staring off to the side.

  "I felt like a fool."

  Her gaze flew to his.

  "I would have seen that the contracts spoke of the keeps, and the Maguire's obligation to you … if I could read then. Yet 'twas a matter I should have known. I was careless."

  The admittance softened her posture. "Raymond did not tell you. Why?"

  He shrugged. "Likely he knew my feelings for the man and did not want to test the water."

  "If you did not have your nose so far up me skirts, you might have known."

  He hated the bitterness in her voice, knowing that he put it there.

  "'Twas unwise, for all of us, to allow that to happen," she said. "And by English law, Ian is already bound through your possession of Donegal and its fiefs."

  "He is his own chieftain. By his laws he is not, and that is what matters in Ireland." Gaelan crossed to the fire, bracing his right forearm on the mantel. He did not want this conversation, avoided it out of sheer fear of losing her completely, yet he could not tolerate this agony a moment longer. He stared at the blaze, wondering exactly how he'd grown so foolish.

  He loved her.

  Ahh, therein lies the sorrow, he thought.

  He could scarcely breathe every time he looked at her lately, her thinly veiled venom knifing him to the core. He would rather die than suffer another day of this constant bleeding each other until there was naught left to save.

  "Why do you doubt me, after all this time?" floated across the separation, without the rage, without the sting.

  "I slew your husband. I broke the trust you gave me. I knew you were angry with me…" He shrugged, almost boyishly. "I … I thought … angry enough to go to him and give him your sympathy."

  "And help him war on you?" Her lower lip trembled despite the hard tilt to her chin. "I am not your mother. And I understood why Tigheran had to die, my lord. Not your lie of it." She saw him wince and moved closer. "For the love of Michael, I have lain in your arms night after night, how could you think me so base as to turn against you like that?"

  "Because I am a bastard, a thief of lands, and I did not deserve you!" He plowed his fingers through his hair, frustration and self-anger in his voice. "And all I knew is that you loved him once, Siobhàn, you chose to marry h
im once, and for the second time in your life"—he straightened, facing her, like a man awaiting execution—"you were forced to wed a man you did not want."

  "But I did marry you," she cried. "I entrusted my folk to you and shared my body with you."

  "Aye, aye, and I knew in my heart you would never betray me. I knew," he said, shaking clenched fists in front of him. "But when I saw the Maguire plaid on the Fenian, I could not forget that Ian was the man you truly wanted … the man you deserved."

  "Oh, Gaelan."

  His name on her lips made the muscles in his chest clamp like a vice.

  They stared, prisoners in each other's gaze.

  The uneasy silence tightened like scorched skin over brittle bone.

  His throat worked. "I have ruined everything, haven't I?" came in a tortured rasp.

  Sorrow crushed through her. Gone was the seasoned warrior and before her stood a man stripped bare of his rough exterior, his title and rights. Uncertain, defenseless. Unused to faith and loyalty. He craved a chance, a small portion, so desperately that he laid his soul at her feet like an open wound for her to crush or soothe.

  She stepped closer, and Gaelan felt the impact of her stare down to his boot heels, his anguish twisting through every inch of him. Her scent permeated the air with spice and flowers as she reached, delicately fingering a lock of his hair off his brow. Briefly, he closed his eyes, her touch painful and sweet and making him tremble with his need to hold her.

  "Naught is ruined that cannot be repaired."

  His hopeful gaze searched hers, rapid and greedy. "You can forgive me, then?"

  The expectation in his voice made her heart skip. "I must."

  His brows worked.

  She inched closer, laying her hand on his chest and feeling the incredible strength of his heartbeat. "I have no choice but to forgive you, Gaelan. I need you so much more than I need my anger."