She scoffed a short laugh. "Then I am thankful I was not there. Trust him to keep this land together, Ian. I do."
Gaelan turned back, glancing between the two, then smiling at his wife.
"I commend you, Maguire; you've kept this keep well stocked and prepared."
Ian glanced around at Siobhàn and PenDragon's holding. "I chose a good steward."
"Inform him that he remains as long as he wishes."
Ian nodded and Gaelan focused on Siobhàn, but when the man did not move, he frowned. "Have you a problem, Maguire?"
"I'm afraid so."
Gaelan arched a brow.
"I'm wondering how delicious crow tastes these days."
Gaelan sputtered with sudden laughter. "I fear I've eaten my share, Irish. My wife insisted you were innocent."
Ian flashed Siobhàn a tight smile and a regal nod. "But I did not help end this treachery. I tried my best to see you fail."
Gaelan leaned back in his chair. "I did my best to see you hung."
"I would say you are well even, then," Siobhàn added, and Gaelan looked at her, aghast.
"Nay, we are not. And will never be."
Gaelan's gaze flew to his.
Ian stared at him for a long moment, admiration for the man swimming to the surface. PenDragon ruled without his personal bias, and with regard to Ian's part in this foul treachery, he'd every right to misjudge. Ian had given him no other choice and made it abundantly clear he'd desired his woman. But that was in the past, Ian thought, and a freedom suddenly swept through his soul at the admittance.
Ian withdrew his sword, and around them servants jerked back, sharp breaths and whispers filling the hall. He did not kneel, but placed the sword on the table before Gaelan, laying his hand over the hilt. "I swear my oath to you, Lord Donegal."
Gaelan stared, solemn, thinking of the pride that cost this fine man, then stood and held out his hand. Wrist to wrist, they clasped.
A lump formed in Siobhàn's throat, her gaze darting between the two. And so the healing begins, she thought.
* * *
Connal raced into the keep pell-mell and into Gaelan's arms. "You did it! I knew you would."
Gaelan hugged him, loving his little arms tight around his neck, the way he kicked with excitement. "And how did you know that?" He swung him down to cradle him like a babe, then with a false gasp, he sharply released his torso, letting him drop a fraction before holding him out by only his ankles. Connal giggled wildly before Gaelan heaved him into his arms again.
"Because you are big and strong and mighty. And because you are me father."
Gaelan's heart broke open just then and he clutched him to his chest. "And you are my son," he whispered. Over the lad's shoulder he met Patrick's gaze and felt a sting of regret for the man, but if he survived their plan, he would be brought before the king for trial. Patrick's gaze scraped over Connal with a longing that was bitter and poignant, before his eyes clashed with Gaelan's.
They stared for a moment, then Patrick nodded ever so slightly. Nodded his acquiescence. With a sigh, Gaelan returned it in kind, then left the hall, carrying the child abovestairs to his mother as Driscoll hoisted Patrick from the floor. He led him outside where the army prepared to ride.
* * *
Gaelan strode quickly to the small stables, seeking Reese, the broken bridle in his fist. He stopped short when he heard the disguised murmur of voices. Cautious and hating that there were still betrayers yet to uncover—the one who set the cart in motion and Owen's strange absences—he slowed his steps, moving to the rear.
He caught sight of Sir Owen slipping beyond and into the small cookhouse. Gaelan followed and found the man with his arms locked around a slender girl, his mouth devouring hers. And she was responding. Vigorously.
Gaelan cleared his throat. The pair separated and Gaelan recognized Driscoll's daughter.
"Is this why you would not speak of where you were?"
"Aye, my lord. Driscoll forbade her to associate with the English. I feared for her and her father's anger"—Owen flushed a little—"and I would not shame her."
"You suspected Owen and we knew, until you did not, Father would not give his blessing."
If Gaelan did not understand what the man was feeling, he would have fined him for going against Driscoll's wishes. But he did and was more than a bit relieved 'twas a woman who'd stolen Owen's time. His gaze moved between the pair, the familiar way Owen laid his hand at her waist, and knew he'd best be quick about repairing this situation.
His gaze fell on the girl. "Are you still pure?"
She turned bright red and Owen pushed her protectively behind him. "My lord!"
Gaelan had his answer, fighting a smile. "I will speak to Driscoll." Peeking around Owen, the girl beamed, yet Gaelan put his hand up, staying her joy. "I cannot order him to give his only daughter to you, Owen. You may have some work involved." Just because Driscoll and Gaelan were friends did not mean the Irishman was willing to accept an English knight into his family. "The men assemble." Owen straightened and nodded, kissing her once before heading outside.
Gaelan eyed the lovely young girl. She flushed and looked at the floor.
"Behave yourself, lass. And get you to your lady's side."
"Aye, my lord." She bobbed a curtsey. Gaelan watched her flee and did not miss the smile wreathing her innocent face.
Now, he thought, who put the cart in motion?
* * *
Siobhàn gazed out the window, toward the sea so close she could feel the mist. Connal rested in the great bed, a tiny speck curled in the soft center. Her lips curved with recent memory. When Gaelan told him he was to have a sibling and entrusted him with the secret, Connal had raced into the room, leaping to the bed and jumping enough to shake the posted frame, then plopped on the cushion and giggled.
Then he proceeded to offer his suggestions for names. For his sister, he declared.
Resting her head against the casement, she sighed, wishing Gaelan were here, safe. His plan of attack, to beat O'Niell to Cloch Baintreach, was risky, and she feared for his success. Even with so many men willing to die for the chance to capture O'Niell. Regardless, a small contingent was left behind at the modest keep, yet without an outer curtain for protection—for the stone building was not meant as a powerful fortress, but a true home and safe retreat for the small amount of fishermen living near the shore, they were vulnerable. And the hall was crowded with people.
She felt secure with so many about, for not in a century had anyone tried to scale the cliffs hemming the province.
"He will be hours, Siobhàn. You should rest and be prepared when he returns."
Siobhàn smiled, then turned her gaze to Fionna. "I've slept enough, but why do you not join Connal and nap, cousin?"
Fionna blinked rapidly, then looked away. "You would trust me with your son?"
"Of course."
Only her gaze shifted, ridicule and years of isolation laying there.
"I was not part of the counsel who banished you, Fionna. But I ask your forgiveness for my lack of conviction. My one excuse is that I felt you were a willing conspirator to drug and kidnap me when you knew well that I had to wed Tigheran."
"I'd thought you wanted to be with Ian."
"Not at the cost of lives."
Fionna rubbed two fingers over the skin between her eyes. "I know, I swear I knew this then, but he convinced—"
"He does have that charm about him."
Fionna's look went sour as week-old milk. "Aye, like the maggots beneath a dead log."
Siobhàn smiled, crossing to her and taking her hands in hers. "Forgive yourself; cousin, then forgive him."
Fionna's gaze faltered. "Ofttimes I've only my anger to keep me company, Siobhàn." No man would want her the way she was now, scarred and bitter. "And I choose not to forgive him."
"'Tis your decision, cousin, but you needn't be alone." Siobhàn tried looking under her bent head. "You've a family to join, if you chose."
She
tipped her head, eyes wide. The same eyes, crystal blue and so light only the black line around the irises gave them substance, teared.
"Welcome home, my cousin," Siobhàn said, pulling her into a warm hug.
Over her shoulder Fionna squeezed her eyes shut, ignoring Ian standing just beyond the threshold, and the dejected droop of his shoulders.
* * *
Siobhàn stirred from a nap she hadn't meant to take, frowning into the dark. The door burst open and she lunged for the sword Gaelan had left her.
"He's coming!"
She recognized Fionna's voice and relaxed. "Gaelan?"
"Nay," she gasped, out of breath. "O'Niell and his army!"
Siobhàn staggered, then darted to the window. "Sweet lady," she whispered, awed by the sight of the hundreds riding toward the small keep, torches lighting the ground like hellish spires. Banners, false banners of her husband's crest, snapped in the breeze.
"But … Gaelan is riding to the west!"
And they would be slaughtered. Whilst the lord of Donegal rode to save a castle that did not need saving.
* * *
"I knew I should have gone along," Ian muttered, arming himself and every able man about. He even pulled the ancient weapons hanging on the wall.
"You can't think to fight them alone, with a handful."
"What would you have me do, Siobhàn, open the gates and offer him scones?"
"It worked once."
He looked at her, handing over the long bow and murmuring to the young servant to hunt down arrows and take position in the turret before he came to her. "'Twill not work this time, princess. He does not want this place, only to slaughter us all but a few who will give account to PenDragon's wrath." His handsome face minored her fears. They had no chance. "We can only seek to delay and pray Gaelan realizes his mistake and returns."
That would take hours, they both knew, and Siobhàn swallowed back the frustrated scream rising in her throat.
"Take the women and children to the towers," he told her and she nodded, holding her hand out for Connal, then crowding the folk up the staircase.
Ian strode to the arrow loop, watching the army advance.
A voice from below spoke to him, a whisper meant for his ears alone. "Ask me and I will weave a spell to protect us, Maguire. But you must ask." Only then could she work magic for others. And none, ever, for herself. To disobey the rules of her banishment, the elders of her coven, was not without grave result. But for her family, she would break them regardless, to keep them safe.
Ian kept his gaze out the arrow loop as he said, "Never again will I make a request of you, Fionna."
"Not even to save lives?"
"Not even to save my own."
"Then you give me little choice."
Ian jerked a look at her, but all he saw was a pale blue bird hovering in the air. It swooped, forcing Ian back before slipping through the narrow arrow loop.
* * *
Flanked by the strongest and largest, he rode the line of troops, feeling the power in their numbers, the blue banner with the bar sinister tight against the wind.
"Sir," his second called, riding up beside him. "We veer; Cloch Baintreach is—"
"I know exactly where the castle is!" he shouted over the rumble of hooves. "Let the king deal with Maguire." Stone Widow, Cloch Baintreach, was of little consequence now. Especially when PenDragon was occupied with his search for Siobhàn and whilst most of his army were scattered over the land, he would seize the weakness. A pair of strategic keeps, this one, then onto the next, banking the shore near Sligo. The stronghold in sight, he slowed, better than a hundred warriors reining behind and forming a semicircle around the stone keep.
Victory surged through Lochlann's veins, pounded like molten steel through his heart.
PenDragon warring on the Maguire was a just move, for Ian refused to swear his oath. He was the outsider. And paying tribute to an English bastard had gone on long enough. After this he would kill the bastard she passed as his brother's son.
He pulled the helm down over his features, the iron molded in a duplicate of PenDragon's.
"Yield or perish," he shouted with the accent of the English he'd mastered.
None showed.
He motioned, and men tipped torches to the ground, setting it aflame. Fire crept closer. Horses stomped, the scent of smoke dancing over them and spinning fear.
'Twas a manner of PenDragon, burning them out.
Suddenly the flames softened, the air warm and graying with mist. Lochlann glanced around, then ordered the battering ram positioned.
A figure moved on the parapet, climbing to the battlements. He tipped his head back and as the figure straightened, behind the helm, his features went slack. Siobhàn.
He blinked. Nay. She was dead. She had to be. The tide was high and he'd made certain the floor was weakened enough for her to fall. She could not have lasted—yet vapor spun in ever-deepening swirls around the base of the keep, cloaking one turret and reaching for the next level. Lochlann would not be deterred by a little fog.
"Ram the gates."
Soldiers rushed to position the massive wheeled log before the doors.
Suddenly they opened, a single figure sauntering forward as if to meet a caller coming to visit.
Lochlann's eyes widened.
"You think to slaughter us all, PenDragon?" Ian said. "We are defenseless."
"Then lay down your weapons and yield."
"I cannot."
His horse lurched, and O'Niell brought his sword down to tuck under his throat. "Yield and give me my wife!"
Maguire's brows drew down. How did he know Siobhàn was here? "Why would she be here? Have a fight, did you?"
"Give me the little bitch!"
"I take exception to that, chieftain," another voice said.
Lochlann jerked a look to his right.
His sword a'ready, the soldier pulled the helm from his head, tossing it aside.
Lochlann stared into the ice-cold eyes of Gaelan PenDragon, immediately raising his own weapon in defense. The ramifications of his presence hit him square in the chest. "You are outnumbered. Shall I kill you both now?"
The crash of hooves blistered the cold air, soldiers riding toward the keep. Panic erupted. Men, his men, tore the false tabard from their chests, helmets from their heads, and Lochlann glanced, recognizing Driscoll and Niles, Owen and Fallon.
Lochlann met Gaelan's gaze.
Weapons trained on each other, they slid from their mounts, shoving the horses aside. "Come, traitor," Gaelan said. "Appease your soul on the end of my blade. Quickly."
Lochlann unhooked the helm, removing it. Then he smiled. All was not lost, he thought. He could kill the Cornish bastard and be done with this matter entirely. There wasn't a man amongst his flock who would risk the lives of his kin.
English and Irish warriors rode in all directions, too numerous to avoid, and half of O'Niell's army threw down their weapons and tried to flee. At Sir Owen's command, they were surrounded, soldiers binding them. But more than half chose to battle, and the sudden clash of sword, the thunk of javelins into soft flesh seared the midnight air.
In the center of the field, Gaelan and O'Niell circled each other.
"Come. Die as swiftly as your brother did."
"Tigheran was a fool," O'Niell said, and Gaelan realized he'd known all along that he'd killed the Irish overlord. "He knew naught of taking what he wanted. Naught of construction of a fortress, naught of who's favor to cull." His gaze flickered to Siobhàn on the turret. "Nor of the right woman to keep."
Gaelan heard the hunger, the twisted love in his voice. "Neither of you deserved her."
They sidestepped, neither advancing nor retreating. Around them a battle waged, O'Niell loyalists defending their clansmen as Lochlann shrugged carelessly. "Mayhaps, but I've the right. And when you lay bleeding on his land, PenDragon, I will have her."
Gaelan's expression turned molten, black with vengeance.
"And when she and her sister are dead, I will have her lands."
Gaelan scoffed, tired of this game. He swung, battering O'Niell back with decisive lashes. "Every MacMurrough, O'Donnel and Maguire for leagues will have your hide."
They lurched apart. "Not if the king grants them."
"Henry is not a fool."
Lochlann struck, but Gaelan caught the blade, letting it slide to the hilt and bring him face to face with his enemy. "Your captives in Coleraine have been freed," he taunted, and with a shove drove him back, and the contest continued.
Lochlann thrust, his strikes hard and ringing down Gaelan's arm. Gaelan retaliated, blow after blow, forcing Lochlann to step back. Still the chieftain swung, a second blade in his free hand. His sword clutched in both hands, Gaelan advanced, a wide arch nicking him on the shoulder, yet having little effect. He tried for more.
Surrounding them, the PenDragon army subdued the raiders and there was silence as the lord of Donegal defended his people.
He fought without mercy.
He fought to kill.
He fought for the love of a land he called his own.
Lochlann saw his months of work falling about him, his men dying and pleading for mercy.
PenDragon refused to give it. He lashed and lashed, each strike ringing with bitter anger at the lives lost.
Lochlann was no match, and winded, his aim faltered.
Gaelan raised his sword for a final blow.
From out of the darkness a man shouted a harsh war cry, running toward Gaelan's back.
* * *
Siobhàn gripped the stone ledge, helpless as the man raised a sword to cleave her husband. Suddenly a figure darted into the path, taking the downward swing and the impact meant for Gaelan. Yet as he did, he thrust his sword upward and into the man's heart and as they fell, Siobhàn recognized the attacker as Tigheran's retainer.
And Gaelan's savior was Patrick.
Her gaze flashed to her husband just as he brought the blade down, severing Lochlann's arm. O'Niell dropped to his knees, blood fountaining from his stump.
"For those you have murdered," Gaelan roared. "You die without honor!" Gaelan swung, separating his head from his shoulders. The head rolled. The body fell with a decisive pound to the cold earth.
The Irish Princess Page 41
