Clutching it tightly, he kissed his fist and turned into the woods.
* * *
In the downpour, Fionna stood in a circle of white stones, naked to nature's wrath, pointing the wand and marking the ground. The ground burst with a ring of blue fire and she laid the branch on a block of stone. She spilled water into a bowl, a sprinkle of herbs, then straightened and raised her hand, palms out, her head dropped back.
She chanted. Over and over.
A heavy blue vapor surrounded her, swept like tendrils to envelop her until she was scarcely recognizable. She faced north, south, then east and west, chanting softly in Gaelic.
"Erinn Fenain. Son of Finn MacCoul. Warrior creed. Come to me. Defend your right, your honor pure."
She repeated the words, and slowly figures joined her in the circle, the shape of tall men surrounding her like towers. Each bore a javelin like a staff, a short sword at their waists and gleaming in the blue light. Then abruptly the blue vapor dissipated, the fires smoking to naught.
The men turned, facing her, the tallest scowling like the thunder clouds clapping above them. "Damn you, witch." He looked around, shrugging into the fur mantle draping his shoulders, trying to recognize the land. "Donegal."
"Welcome home, brother." Fionna despised the eagerness in her voice, but she missed him.
He met her gaze impassively. "All are prohibited to speak—"
"I need your help."
"Your requests betray your honor."
"I was doing what I thought she wanted. What harm was in that?"
"'Twas a spell without the asking and you were forbidden!" He stepped out of the circle.
"I am still your sister!" She grabbed his arm. "Listen to me now, Quinn, or I will curse you with breasts, then see how you survive."
His lips trembled with a smile.
"Men masquerading as Fenian and English are slaughtering our people."
His smile fell.
"And Siobhàn is missing."
"You could not call me with good news?" he raged.
Fionna gripped his thick bare arms. "Help PenDragon."
* * *
Siobhàn whimpered and hated the sound. But images came to her, flashing and receding in her mind with slaps of pain. The back of her skull throbbed mercilessly, the explosion she'd abated for days now threatening to take her life. Her blood still poured.
Her skin warmed, mist rising. She stretched her arms, fighting the bonds, fighting the waves of pain lapping at her head with the beat of the sea. She forced her hands beneath her, beneath her buttocks, her knuckles scraping the stone floor as she tugged and tugged. Her shoulders felt as if they'd tear from the sockets. She rocked from side to side, uncaring of the mash of fragile bones. Her hands jerked forward, tucked beneath her knees, and she worked them under her calves, huddling, stretching her arms to get them over her booted feet. The jerk of freedom drove her back into the wall, her head smacking hard, and pain exploded. She screamed, the agony ripping into the barren night, only the spray of the sea answering her.
For a moment she was still, the horrible night coming in a rush like water from a fall, hard and cold, the sweet with the ugly.
A breeze against bed drapes. A thick trembling hand. And blood. So much blood.
The blade. Oh God.
Tigheran's dagger.
He knows. He knows my lies.
Oh, Gaelan. My husband. My love.
Forgive me.
* * *
The terrain was too heavy for Grayfalk and Gaelan towed the creature through the forest. His mantle caught on a curled branch of blackthorn and he wrenched it free, readjusting the fur and feeling as if he'd come full circle. He was decidedly lost, and Gaelan knew there would be no sweet Irish lass running through the thicket to enchant him again.
Sadness bludgeoned his heart, fear for her life already numbing his emotions.
He leaned back against a tree and slumped to the ground. For the first time since before DeClare returned, he closed his eyes. The grit stung, and with thumb and forefinger he rubbed his eyes. The hours waiting for Raymond to waken and dealing with Maguire, the prisoners, was precious time lost to finding her. He'd no notion if he was even headed in the right direction. Bloody hell, he didn't know where he was.
He was a fool to do this alone and should have taken Maguire or Paddy with him.
Horrifying images he'd kept at bay plagued him. Of her buried alive in one of the caves, of walking past her or over her without a clue. Of O'Niell taking her life when he hadn't the rocks to do it before. He will kill her once he knows I've discovered his treachery.
With frantic moves, he removed the stone from his pouch, clutching it tightly in his fist, praying she was alive. For all his brawn and wit, he was helpless. For the soldiers who followed without question, for the riches he'd collected, they held little benefit without Siobhàn.
His eyes burned.
I have no heart.
I am without substance without her. I live because I love her. I am whole and truly a man because of her.
In the rain, Gaelan slid to one knee, his fist against his chest, his sword piercing the ground. He bowed his head.
I beg you. If there is magic in this land, show it to me.
Give her back to me.
Grayfalk stamped. Gaelan pressed his forehead to the hilt of his sword. His throat worked furiously to hold back his anguish, his heart ripping from his chest in pieces.
The torture was killing him, and if O'Niell thought to destroy him, he had. As surely as a blade in the heart, he was dying.
He pinched his nose, then mashed his hand over his mouth before he lumbered to his feet, reaching for the reins. He took a step, the feeling of being watched littering the air around him along with the rain. Gaelan brandished his sword, shoving his wet hair from his eyes as he searched the darkness.
Shadows moved like currents in a velvet black river, bringing a surge of warmth.
The rain lessened.
A mist rose softly, delicately.
Then he saw it, a flicker of light, a glint on silver.
A man stood in the woods, his shoulders mantled with silver gray pelts, his thighs wrapped in leather, his knees bare to fur-lined boots. His hair was long and braided, his beard thick, yet trimmed. Charms hung around his neck and as he stepped closer, he threw the cloak of skins back over his shoulder. His chest was bare and as wide as Grayfalk's.
Gaelan knew who he was without asking, without a word uttered. Gaelan bowed. The respect was returned.
He sheathed his sword. The Fenian turned, glancing back once and nodding ever so slightly, regally. Gaelan followed, then frowned as the man faded in a twist of vapor.
He continued, clutching the stone in his fist.
* * *
Siobhàn woke to dawn, the gray-blue sky thick with clouds and dropping rain like stones. She tipped her face to it, lipped water in a feeble attempt to appease her thirst. Her stomach rumbled and coiled, threatening to spill when there was naught to vomit.
The gag lay beside her, large footprints in the dirt.
Then she saw the bones, stacks of them, and a human skull.
She looked away and studied her surroundings. She could see little beyond but stone, crooked and wasting. The ruins in the sea. And when the tide rose farther, she would be washed beneath the waves.
She brought her bound hands to her mouth, using her teeth to tug at the ropes, but the knots were soaked and tight. She sighed, tired, pressing the back of her hand to her throat. She bled without pain, yet could feel it pump with the beat of her heart, and tried to stem it. Her vision foggy, she tried to stand, her skirts heavy with water, her balance wobbly with the loss of blood.
Connal. She needed to get to Connal. He was unprotected. Not even Rhiannon knew he was in danger.
Braced against the wall, she closed her eyes, aching to sleep. But she could not. She had to find a way out. For the child in the keep and the one in her belly.
Suddenly acro
ss the crevasse, the crooked entrance crumbled, water fountaining through cracks and gaps as thick stones fell, piling to block her only path out. Rocks spilled, knocking away a portion of the ancient floor, and she scrambled to safer ground, yet more gave, falling to the abyss below.
* * *
Chapter 34
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Gaelan trudged on, deeper into Maguire territory, toward the set. The true Fenian led him here, and he cursed the wind, the rain and the ancient sect that would not offer more to save their princess. Still, battling exhaustion, he walked, rode, then walked some more, overturning loose bushes, seeking clues in the abandoned cottages burned by O'Niell's game. He called her name, then cried it out like a lonely child. No one answered.
He hacked through trees and rode over stone piles, searching. And found naught but decaying branches and a hovel of rabbits.
On the crest of a hill, he stopped, sheathing his sword in the scabbard lashed to the saddle, then suddenly pressed his forehead to the burnished leather. He slammed his eyes shut and silently chanted her name. Over and over.
And over still.
Speak to me, love. Show me how to help you.
Show me the mist.
His skin prickled and he glanced around at the ground ending ahead, the crash of waves. Swinging up to Grayfalk's back, he rode to the edge, the horse prancing at the loose ground and the scent of the sea. Gulls skipped around a pile of stones several yards beyond the ocean's shore.
The only shape visible was a broken tower, a fine spray shooting up from the center like a spitting dragon. Then Gaelan recognized the thick curl of mist.
* * *
Siobhàn held on to the fragments of the wall, gazing down at the rocks and rushing water below. Her weight and the constant rain threatened the ruins. Her head back, she tipped her face to the sky and concentrated.
Gaelan. Hear me.
Feel me.
* * *
Gaelan found a way down, following the cliff edge for half a league before racing across the battered shore toward the ruins. Water fountained behind horse and rider, hooves ripping the sand. Mist cloaked the water's surface, tendrils seeking to grip the shore. He slid from the saddle, stripping off his tunic and mail, discarding all but his braies, then diving into the water. He did not think she could possibly be alive beneath the pile, yet when loose stones rolled into the sea he doubled his effort, strong arms knifing through the water. He grasped the edge of a boulder and, hoisting up, he climbed.
Siobhàn!
In his mind the words came, like a whisper, warm and filling him with relief.
I live, my love.
Gaelan choked on his joy and climbed, reaching the summit.
"Siobhàn!"
"Hurry, Gaelan, hurry. The ground falls."
Waves crashed, funneling up to the roofless tower.
Gaelan reached the top, clawing at the mounds of rock and mortar walling her inside. His muscles flexed and strained as he heaved stone after stone into the sea. Then he saw her, clinging to the wall with naught but inches beneath her feet. She cast a look over her shoulder and smiled, relieved and weary and whole.
He smiled hugely.
A piece fell and he shouted her name, for her to be still.
"I do not have much choice, do I now?"
"Tart-mouthed female." He smiled encouragingly, positioning himself on the ledge, cramming the stones into a more secure position.
"Slow-witted Englishman," she muttered back, love in every syllable.
Waves slapped and churned below and between them.
"You will have to jump to me."
She did not argue and nodded, tried turning toward him. Pebbles broke.
"Gaelan!"
"Trust me, my love. Trust that I will not let you fall." Gaelan reached, his palm out.
Siobhàn nodded shakily, terrified of losing everything to her fear. At least her hands were free.
Water shot through the old tower, soaking them, blinding them with stinging salt, and when the gush receded, he swiped at his face.
"Wait for the beat of the sea. And when I tell you, you must jump to me."
"Aye."
"I love you, Siobhàn."
"I love you too, husband."
They counted aloud, Gaelan watching the gush, and when it sucked back, he opened his arms to catch and yelled, "Now."
Siobhàn twisted and flung herself toward him, but the remains of the floor gave just then, dropping her too soon. He lurched, catching her arm.
"Gaelan!"
She dangled over the rocks, the water, spinning, and he grabbed for her gown, hooking his knees and feet on the rocks to keep from going over with her. Her garments ripped. The next surge would tear her from his grasp. He heaved, dragging her up over the edge and into his arms.
She clung, her arms around his neck, their bodies tightly wedged.
Their lungs labored and Gaelan buried his face in the curve of her neck and sobbed like a babe. She joined him, kissing his bare shoulder, his hair, choking on her tears.
It was a long moment before he could bare putting a fraction of space between them enough to look her in the eye.
"I love you," he chanted. "I thought he'd killed you." He squeezed her. "Oh sweet Mother of God, Siobhàn, I wanted to die."
"Shhh," she soothed, stroking his head, feeling him tremble against her and loving him more for it. She tipped her head back. "Kiss me, I beg you."
He did. A tender brush of lips, frightened that she would vanish. She would not have such coddling, cupping his head and pulling him harder to her mouth. Gaelan gave and tasted the sweetness of his wife, his heartache slipping away with the retreating pull of the sea.
And on the rain-soaked land, atop a primitive Druid stronghold, Gaelan felt the magic of Ireland sing through his soul.
* * *
"'Tis only a little cut."
On his knees on the beach, dripping with seawater, Gaelan scowled at the wound, tilting her head back to get a better look. "Little, aye, but deep." He meant for her to bleed to death, the cowardly bastard.
Siobhàn frowned at the black look and cupped his face in her hands. "It stopped bleeding. I am tired and hungry and wish for a bath."
"And where do you propose to find one?"
"Me father's house … his old house," she corrected, "is near."
"So is Maguire." He stood, helping her to her feet, then helping her wring the water from her dress.
She tilted her head back, blinking repeatedly. "'Tis the one he oversees."
At her last words she folded and Gaelan caught her, laying her to the ground and stroking the wet hair from her face. He called her name and her eyes fluttered open, still slits of weary pain.
"Forgive me, Gaelan. I've—"
"Hush." Leaving her briefly to dress, he cradled her in his arms and swung into the saddle. Grayfalk tore across the land, feeling Gaelan's urgency. For his wife, he realized, had lost much more blood than he first thought.
* * *
He'd sent couriers to find Maguire and his knights, to bring back the prisoner. And Fionna. They should arrive by nightfall, but Gaelan would not be satisfied until he saw O'Niell bleeding on the ground at his feet. He cursed the bastard who'd left her to die and rage pushed through his blood, taunting him as he paced before the grand bed, soothing him only when he paused to touch her brow, her lips, with his.
Noise from belowstairs penetrated the chamber and he knew the shock of finding him on the doorstep and demanding his way inside drove the meek to seek cover. Gaelan didn't care. Siobhàn was alive and he only wanted privacy with her.
Dropping to a chair, he sighed, then mashed his hand over his face. She was so still, her usually warm skin cool, and he wanted to bark at someone to bring Fionna to him now. But that would be hours, he knew. Instead, he pulled the chair closer and rested his head on the bedding, clutching her hand to his lips.
And then he prayed.
* * *
Her arms laden wi
th a tray and a maid at her heels, Fionna rushed into the chamber, yet Ian remained on the threshold, his gaze shooting to PenDragon, asleep at her bedside, her small hand in his callused palm. He could see the stain of tears on the big man's cheek, the weariness in his features, and something broke inside his chest.
"I do not know who looks worse," Fionna muttered, shaking Gaelan gently so she could get to Siobhàn. He stirred and lifted his head, his gaze direct on his wife, then dragging to Fionna's. His relief at seeing her was palpable and he told her how he found her, and of the blood loss.
Ian heard the desperation in his voice.
"Go fill your belly and rest elsewhere, English."
"I will not leave her!"
She gripped his arm, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Neither will I. But you've work to tend." She inclined her head to the doorway and Gaelan's gaze turned to Maguire. When he looked to protest further, she added, "Make yourself useful. Send up a tray of broth and bread. She is undernourished and needs food quickly. And get him"—she pointed to Ian—"out of here."
Gaelan nodded, pleased to have something to do, and strode to the door, grabbing Ian by the shirt and pulling him along with him. Fionna heard him say, "I would not anger her further with your presence, man. You're liable to be growing gills if you're not careful."
* * *
Gaelan paced before the hearth and around him his people gathered, each forming a plan and discarding it for its frailty. He was not paying attention, his focus on his wife and the hours Fionna worked over her. He could not bear it if she perished now. Now when he'd just found her, he thought, and fell into a chair, bending, bracing his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He wished for Connal and his smiles and the feel of the little boy in his arms. But they would not arrive till morning. Twice he'd gone above, only to be sent away. Maids flitted in and out of the chamber, carrying buckets of water and baskets of linen, but none would tell him a thing. He was ready to kick the door down and demand Fionna speak with him, yet he knew she would call him when she had news.
The Irish Princess Page 39
