His tense shoulders drooped and he covered her hand with his, bringing it to his lips. God above, he was damned unworthy of this woman. "Siobhàn…" He exhaled a hard breath. "I am sorry. I—"
"Shh, I know, I know. 'Tis done." She cupped his jaw, loving the way he turned his face into her palm, the texture of his skin. Her gaze sketched and absorbed. "I have—" She swallowed, slipping closer. "I have missed you so, Gaelan."
His big body trembled, his one hand framing her waist with a gentle weight. "I am so mad to hold you," he gasped uncertainty. "I fear I will crush you."
"Crush me. Please."
He did, sweeping her in his arms and burying his face in the curve of her throat. Her arms locked tight around his neck and she sobbed, driving her hands into his hair. Gaelan groaned, relief spilling through him like hot wine. Sweet Jesu, he needed her, and he tightened his embrace, his eyes burning. How could her warm body against his make him feel unmanned and powerful in the same instant?
"I've been such an imbecile," he mumbled into the curve of her throat.
"Aye. You have."
He chuckled unsteadily, kissing her neck, his hands racing up and down her back, getting lost in her hair, before he tipped her head back and took her mouth with exquisite tenderness. He felt the dampness of tears on his fingertips and said naught. A hard tremor shuddered through his big body and she was silent, kissing him back, offering him the love roaring through her heart. She gave and he drank, peace and pleasure filling him like an overflowing goblet, and when he drew back, pressing his forehead to hers, together they sighed.
Then they smiled, choking on unspent tears.
Cradling her beautiful face, he rained kisses over her eyes, her cheeks, taking her mouth again and loving the way her body yielded to his. She caught his hand, bringing it to her breast, and he molded the soft flesh, throbbing to be naked and rolling with her on the bed, for the chance to show her how much he loved her, needed her.
A knock sounded and Siobhàn made a frustrated sound, covering his hand briefly before she called out. Meghan responded, asking if she should have a meal sent up.
"Nay," Gaelan said, his gaze never leaving hers. "We come anon." He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. "We cannot ignore O'Niell."
"Aye."
He wanted to shout for the disappointment in her voice. "But we can retire early."
"How early?"
His smile was slow and wide. "The sooner you are changed…" His glance touched on the dirt and hay stuck to her gown.
Quickly, Siobhàn moved away, wiggling out of her gown as she did, then searched her trunks for a fresh one. Gaelan dropped into a chair to wait and watch, her bare round bottom displayed as she bent over the trunks. She tossed the dark blue gown on the bed, then stood before the mirror, plucking straw from her hair, combing.
The door rattled softly and then, "Mama?"
Siobhàn twisted. "Aye, lovey?"
"I am hungry. Are you coming?"
"She could be," Gaelan muttered, and her eyes flew wide. He smiled, his gaze glazing over her thinly veiled body with a force that sent her heart racing, his desire lying plainly in his dark smoldering eyes.
Gaelan stood.
Siobhàn stepped.
Connal rapped again.
Siobhàn sent him an apologetic glance, then moved toward the door, but Gaelan put up a hand.
"I will see to him." He took a step, then turned back. A heartbeat later, he had her in his arms, his mouth crushing over hers, his tongue stroking, his hands finding their way beneath her shift and palming her warm flesh. She clung, responded with all the passion denied over the past days, and cupping her bottom, he ground her into his arousal.
"Knock, knock," he whispered into her mouth and she made a frustrated sound, aching to feel his fingers, his arousal, inside her, and too aware of the child on the other side of the door and the hall full of folk waiting for them.
He released her, loving her freshly ravished look. "Be quick, woman." He patted her behind, then left.
Siobhàn sighed, heard him speak to Connal, adoring the tenderness in his voice as she turned to the commode and washed quickly, rubbed crushed flowers over her skin, then dressed. At the chamber door, she stilled, then glanced back at the chest tucked before the tunnel wall, reminding herself to tell him of it, then crossed to it, throwing open the chest and taking the fabric off the top, tucking it beneath her arm before leaving the chamber. She passed Meghan on the staircase, toting fresh sheets and blowing her nose.
"You do not look well, Meg." Her eyes were watering and her nose was red.
"A bit of the ague, I'm thinking."
Siobhàn grasped her hand, examining the red scratches. "Go rest." Meghan took a step away. "Nay. In here." Siobhàn retraced her steps and pushed open the door to her chamber.
Meghan's eyes grew wide. "Nay, my lady."
"Aye, no one will disturb you here. There is a salve on the mantel for those scratches."
"Me cat, my lady. She does not like bathing."
"Not unlike my son." They smiled, then Siobhàn inclined her head to the room. "Go. I will come wake you later."
The maid thanked her, sniffled, then ducked into the chamber as Siobhàn headed to the hall below. To her husband and the fresh start she would give him tonight.
* * *
Chapter 23
« ^ »
Lochlann O'Niell watched the couple, the strain he'd noticed before now gone, replaced with subtle glances and soft smiles. Their presence immediately changed the mood of the hall, and he suppressed the thread of envy springing through him. He'd no right to it. She'd never looked upon him more than a brother, but he could not help but stare. Siobhàn looked radiant in the deep blue gown, the silver threads edging the neckline and sleeves sparkling in the dim light. His fist tightened around his goblet before he drained the wine. Tigheran was a fool to turn her away, to hold his love for Devorgilla when he could have had a ripe woman like Siobhàn.
He would credit her with the fine meal and could not complain over his reception, for he was treated well, a room prepared for his use and an invitation to remain as long as he desired, a stark contrast to his last visit. And he would remain, if aught but to understand why the new bride and groom had been at odds, and to convince PenDragon to annihilate the outlaws.
PenDragon spoke mostly to him, yet neither ignored nor coddled the woman beside him. Siobhàn focused on Connal, the accident earlier obviously leaving behind a dose of fear. But the boy would not have it, making impatient faces at her and finally leaving the table. He walked around behind his mother and went straight to PenDragon.
Connal tugged on his sleeve, and when he twisted in the chair, PenDragon's smile was surprisingly tender.
"Tired, lad?"
"Me bum's a bit sore." Gaelan smothered a chuckle. "But I am fine. My thanks for the lessons, my lord."
It was the first time he'd called him that and Gaelan felt his throat clench. In a heartbeat, he knew that if Connal was not Tigheran's son, it did not matter, and he was mortally ashamed for thinking ill of Siobhàn. In this and his suspicions of distrust these past days. His own parentage was never a concern to this lad's mother, and Gaelan understood what he'd always known—blood did not make a family. And for a man who'd detested having children about for years, he discovered he truly liked this child and recognized all he'd missed. They were inquisitive, as easily pleased as they were wounded, and by God, this lad spoke his mind. Gaelan found it refreshing, as he had in his mother.
In his line of vision he could see Siobhàn's expression, pride and a tinge of sadness. And it felt like a dagger in his breast, for he wondered if she was thinking of Connal's father, then cursed himself for falling into the trap of his doubts again.
"My lord?"
Gaelan blinked, focusing on the boy. "Go on to bed, if you like, son."
Connal tilted his head. "Can I be your son, my lord?"
He heard Siobhàn and her sister inhale sharply and didn't
think his throat could constrict any more. So innocent, he thought, swallowing before he spoke. "Is that your wish?"
"Aye," he said, as if there was no questioning the matter. "You are me mama's husband, so I think it right. Don't you?"
Uncertainty lay in the boy's voice and, unable to speak, Gaelan nodded, laying his hand on his little head. After a false start, he said, "Then you are the first son of PenDragon, Lord Donegal."
Connal nodded gravely, his expression precious and solemn before he looked up and smiled. "Good eventide." He bowed a bit, then took off toward the stairs, the slingshot hitching up the back of his tunic.
Gaelan followed his retreat, then turned his gaze on Siobhàn. She was trying desperately not to cry, he could see, and focused on her meal, though she'd already devoured most of it. Gaelan leaned close. "I could not deny him."
"I am pleased you did not, truly I am." She gulped some wine. "My thanks, Gaelan."
Gaelan speared a dice of meat with his eating knife, holding it out to her. She nipped it off, chewing slowly. "Look at me, love." Her lashes swept up slowly and Gaelan frowned at the turmoil there. "What?"
She swallowed. "I still have the sense that you do not trust me."
"I do."
"Why? Because I say you should?"
"Because I know you would never betray me," he responded easily.
Siobhàn's heart clenched, her green gaze searching his. "'Tis a fragile thing, this trust we have, Gaelan."
"It will strengthen," he assured her, concerned over the look on her face, as if something would rent them apart at any moment. His gaze flashed briefly to Rhiannon, sitting just beyond her, suddenly recalling her dark premonition. Gaelan knew he would die if he lost his wife, lose his mind if she did not accept him with his faults and, truly in her heart, forgive him.
She covered his mouth with two fingers, shaking her head. "'Tis I who have done it."
He frowned with confusion and Siobhàn pushed her chair back and sank to her knees before him. The motion brought heads around, servants, retainers and knights freezing where they stood.
Laughter and music faded to a strange brittle silence.
"What in the devil's eyes are you doing?" Gaelan reached for her, yet she caught his hand, pressing it to her heart and holding it there.
"I am Siobhàn, wife of PenDragon, daughter of Erin." Her voice was clear and bright. "On this night, afore my clan…" She cast a quick glance at the familiar faces around them before meeting his gaze. "I swear my fealty to you, my lord husband, Gaelan of Donegal."
The air snagged in his lungs, his gaze raking her upturned face.
She leaned forward, staring deeply into his eyes, lightly brushing her fingertips over his jaw, his lips. "I give you my trust, my life and … my love. For this world means little without you—" She patted his hand. "This heart beats for naught without you." Her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembling. "I love you, Gaelan. For eternity, I love you."
Gaelan was stunned, his mouth open to speak, but no words came. His throat worked, his heart thundering so fiercely he thought it would explode.
"If 'twere me," Raymond said into the quiet, "I would kiss her."
Gaelan grabbed her about the waist and dragged her onto his lap. Her arms swept his neck and he stared at her, a single finger, trembling and rough, drawing a strand of hair from her face. "I love you, Siobhàn."
Her eyes watered and she smiled. "I was hopin' you did."
His mouth covered hers.
The hall erupted with cheers.
Raymond DeClare threw his head back and laughed. "'Bout bloody damned time."
Lochlann stared, tossing back the remains of his wine, watching the couple devour each other in a kiss so passionate he felt himself grow hard. Rhiannon blotted a tear with the hem of her sleeve and across the distance nodded to DeClare, then looked at Driscoll, his smile wide enough to split his face.
A faint laughter spilled through the air and Siobhàn and Gaelan drew back, looking to the squints and finding Connal there, grinning and hopping up and down. Siobhàn waved and laid her head on Gaelan's shoulder.
"You did not have to do that," he said into her ear, rubbing her back.
"Aye, I did." She tipped her head to look him in the eye, her fingers lovingly tracing his features. "You deserved your right to my oath, Gaelan. I gave it once in marriage, I give it now in trust."
His eyes were unusually bright as they sketched her beautiful face. "I cherish it, love."
"I know you will," she said on a sigh as she snuggled in his arms. The revelry regained its former din, ale spilling to tankards, several toasts making their way around the room.
Siobhàn shifted on Gaelan's lap, sitting upright. Her gaze snapped to his, her eyes wide with surprise. "Husband?" He was hard beneath her hip, the strength of it shielded by his codpiece and tunic, yet she still felt the exquisite heat of him, and tried not to rub herself against it.
Gaelan shrugged, sheepish. "'Tis your fault." Then he leaned up, his big hands framing her waist as he whispered, "And if this hall was not filled with people, I would have you on that table right now."
Siobhàn blushed, her body responding to the softly growled words. "You need to learn a bit of patience then. You cannot abandon the O'Niell. 'Tis improper and insulting." With a quick glance, she smiled at Lochlann, and he saluted her with his wine.
"I should find him his own woman to occupy him," he groused.
"You've someone in mind?" His gaze jerked to Rhiannon. "Nay."
He arched a brow.
"They dislike each other."
That was news to Gaelan, since they seemed amiable enough. "Why?"
"She does not trust him."
Gaelan sent her a neither-do-I look.
"She never has, not even when we were children. He sneaked into her rooms and painted her face with dye. It did not fade for a fortnight."
Gaelan smiled and wondered what it was like to grow up around the same people your entire life, know them well enough to call them all by name.
"DeClare?"
"Nay. And do not even think to suggest another knight. One Irishwoman wed to English is all they can tolerate for now."
Gaelan grinned, his gaze drifting from his wife to the folk surrounding him. "Are you sure?"
Siobhàn twisted on his lap, viewing the hall. DeClare stood off to the side with Driscoll's visiting sister, hand gestures accompanying Raymond's limited use of the language. Driscoll, freshly shaved like the English, kept a close watch on the couple, but his wife pinched him, pulling him away. Sir Andrew held Bridgett on his lap, his arm about her waist, his hand tenderly stroking her shoulder and fingering her hair whilst he conversed with several men over a tankard. And across the hall, in the far corner, the tall squire Reese and dark-haired Elaine stood a few feet apart, obviously in deep conversation, yet not daring to move nearer to the other.
But Siobhàn recognized the hunger in the lad's eyes.
"I expect petitions of marriage soon."
Siobhàn looked at him, smiling, and she leaned close, her bosom in full view. His gaze slavered over the lush bounty like a beast before a juicy meal.
"Damn but you tempt me before all and know I cannot have you," he groused.
"When you knock, love, I will answer."
His hand slid higher on her waist, brushing the curve of her breast, and she laid her mouth over his, taunting him with the dip of her tongue, the wet slide of it over his lips. His fingers tightened, and he was about to carry her abovestairs, regardless of the O'Niell and damned propriety, when the hall doors burst open, slamming against the wall.
Wrenching apart, Siobhàn stood, moving to Gaelan's side as a knight and a half dozen soldiers rushed in. Their clothing was blood soaked, lanced by swords—and they carried Brody. Siobhàn cried out, dashing around the dais as they laid him on the rushes. Opposite her, Friar O'Donnel knelt and began last rites as she sank to her knees, cradling his head on her lap, calling for bandages and herbs between h
er tears.
Gaelan was at her side, kneeling, glancing at the troops, the knights, then back at the man. He was dying, the wounds to his stomach and chest too severe, and when Siobhàn lifted her gaze to his, she knew it too. Bridgett brought cloths and Siobhàn pressed them to his wounds, bending to kiss his bloody forehead.
"Oh, my friend," she sobbed against his flesh.
He struggled to talk, his voice garbled with the blood filling his lungs. Crimson foamed his lips.
"Shh, you are home."
Brody's cloudy gaze swept unsteadily to Gaelan and he bent low, his ear near his mouth. He whispered, and Gaelan's features yanked taut. He glanced at the knights, the O'Niell hovering close, then down at Brody. "Rest, warrior," he said as Brody slipped into death.
Siobhàn smothered her anguish, hugging her friend to her breast. Gaelan stroked her back, joining her grief, then stood.
"Husband?"
He looked down, at her tear-streaked face, at his new friend growing cold with death. "He said they wore the Maguire's plaid."
The hall erupted with denials. Lochlann cursed.
Siobhàn opened her mouth to deny it, but clamped her lips shut. For reasons she could not understand—Ian had turned against her.
Gaelan focused on the knight, questioning him mercilessly.
"About twelve, sir. We killed two, but the rest escaped." Sir Mark's gaze shifted beyond him to O'Niell. "Some to your lands, sir." Gaelan twisted, eyeing Lochlann. "The two dead were in tartans." Mark gestured to one of the servants wrapped in the plaid cloth. "We saw soldiers too." Gaelan jerked around. "English. Armored," Sir Mark added, as if he could not believe it himself.
Gaelan's scowl turned hideously dark. The hall went silent. His gaze clashed with Siobhàn and they knew it was possible.
"At first I thought 'twas the mist playing tricks on my eyes…" Mark stalled, clearly unable to explain what he saw. "We followed the rest southward, but the darkness…" His spine stiffened and he shouldered the blame. "I lost the trail."
Gaelan gave his shoulder a commiserating squeeze as he met Siobhàn's gaze, then Raymond's, thinking of the spur in his chamber, and knew the man was not seeing a ghost.
The Irish Princess Page 29
