Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight

by Anna Markland

  She was doomed. Ronan had stolen her wits.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rhodri shook his head at the foolhardiness of his twin sons. The weather was dry, but the track to Cadair Berwyn was a difficult one. Yet Rhun and Rhydderch rode their mountain ponies with reckless abandon. He had been in two minds whether to bring them. They still treated Lord Ronan and Lady Rhoni with contemptuous disdain, but they loved Cadair Berwyn.

  Rhun was a fine archer capable of nocking an arrow to his bow in the blink of an eye. He rarely missed his target. Rhydderch had a special knack with horses and ponies.

  Carys had sulked at remaining at home in Powwydd. She had mithered her father without success into allowing her to travel on to Ellesmere with Rhoni. Rhodri suspected Baudoin de Montbryce was the reason behind that idea.

  Rhys too had declined to accompany them.

  “This journey promises to be strained, to say the least,” Rhodri had confided to Rhonwen as the party set off. “Ronan is not the most talkative of fellows, and Rhoni is as skittish as a frightened doe.”

  “She’s smitten with the man,” his wife replied with a smile. “Is that what you thought of me when we first met? That I looked like a frightened doe? I felt like one!”

  Rhodri chuckled and held her tightly for one last hug. He kissed the top of her head, smiled at the memory, then took the reins of his pony from his long time compatriot. “Lead on, Andras.”

  The narrow track did not provide many opportunities for the travellers to ride side by side. When it widened, Ronan took advantage to ride alongside Rhoni. He had scant time available to convince her in the campaign to solicit her father’s aid. As well, he found he enjoyed her company.

  Rhodri had voiced his concern about Rhoni riding her horse rather than a mountain pony, but she would not hear of leaving Fortissima behind, preferring to handle an animal she was used to.

  She had hardly spoken a word to anyone since they left Powwydd, no doubt preoccupied with the imminent visit to her birthplace.

  Ronan had lived his whole life in Túr MacLachlainn, slept with his wife in the chamber where he had been born. They had conceived a child in that same bed. It was a bittersweet memory. His belly roiled when he thought of Lorcan MacFintain defiling Mary in that chamber.

  He had failed his wife, gone off to aid in the construction of a new rampart at his cousin’s estate. Lorcan and Fothud had taken advantage of his carelessness. He ought to have known they would covet his estate, the richest prize of all. He had arrogantly believed they would never dare try for it. On his return he had walked into their trap. He’d been taken prisoner and his men slaughtered.

  Rhoni startled him. “Where do your thoughts take you, Lord Ronan?”

  Her voice was different from Mary’s. Mary spoke only her native tongue, but his recollection was that his wife had whispered shyly. Rhoni spoke clearly, though the slight catch in her voice betrayed the nervousness she often showed in his presence. He supposed he must be a fearsome sight.

  Good thing his long tunic hid the hard swelling between his legs. It would likely terrify her!

  “I was musing that you are probably excited about your visit to Cadair Berwyn.”

  Her eyes lit up as she smiled. A small army marched up and down Ronan’s spine.

  “I am.”

  They rode in companionable silence for a while, then she asked, “I suppose you were born in Ireland?”

  Perhaps if he shared something of his life she would see him differently. Mayhap it would ease some of his pain. “I was born in my grandfather’s Tower in Sord Colmcille and lived my whole life there.”

  She frowned. “And now it is lost to you.”

  “Aye.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He shifted in the saddle. “Sord Colmcille means Saint Columba’s Well. It is north of the Viking town of Dyflin, or Dubh Linn, so named for the dark tidal pool where the River Poitéal meets the Ruirthech, which some call the Liphe. My ancestors were Vikings. Lachlainn means I am a descendant of Norwegians.”

  She seemed interested, so he continued. “Vikings, Norsemen or Ostmen, ruled as Kings of Dubh Linn for three hundred years—until the year of our Lord One Thousand and Ten.”

  “What happened then?”

  Her wide eyes showed genuine interest.

  “They were defeated by the mighty High King of Ireland, Brian Bóruma, at the Battle of Clontarf. Since then they have been more of a trading power in the area.

  “My grandfather decided to move further north to take advantage of the fertile fields. He built Túr MacLachlainn. It is visible for miles. The land is flat.”

  Strangely, telling her the tale of his ancestry filled him with renewed hope and determination that he would regain his lands. Vengeance would be his.

  Rhoni turned sympathetic eyes on him. “My father would understand your yearning to return to your homeland. He has lived of his own volition one score and ten years in England, but his heart has remained in Normandie, at Montbryce Castle. We go as often as we can. My parents are more relaxed there. It is where they first met. My brother, Robert, lives in Normandie, preparing for the day when he will become Comte de Montbryce.”

  It was the first time she had uttered more than a few words to him. Already his experience in Wales had belied everything he had ever heard and believed about Welshmen. Now he was feeling empathy for Normans. This was a slippery slope.

  “You are fortunate your father is still alive. Both my parents are dead.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “Yes, I will miss my father sorely when he is gone. He is the rock of our family.”

  Ronan remembered the lost soul his father had become after his mother’s disappearance. Orlaith MacLachlainn had left behind a shell of a man. At five years of age, Ronan had assumed the mantle of head of the family.

  “I would like to meet your father. Your mother predicted he and I would meet.”

  Rhoni gripped Fortissima’s mane, her heart pounding in her ears. What did he mean, her mother had predicted they would meet? Nothing had been said to her.

  She conjured a vision of the two men together. It filled her with dread. Her perceptive father would see immediately that she was enamored of the Irishman and would deem it some childish infatuation.

  Why would Ronan want to meet her father? Perhaps he did have feelings for her? Or more likely, he sought something else a powerful Norman Earl could give him. Ronan must be deluded if he believed Ram de Montbryce would help him recover his estate.

  Ronan reached over to grasp Fortissima’s reins as she grew skittish without her mistress’s guidance on the unfamiliar narrow trail. “Are you unwell, Lady Rhoni?”

  She longed to tell him of her malady. She was heartsick for him. Her confession would embarrass him. He was a man, she felt like a child. “Simply a momentary dizziness as we climbed higher into the mountains. It seems harder to breathe here.”

  “Would you feel safer riding behind me?”

  Her male attire would have rendered it relatively easy to leap from her horse to his pony, but she succeeded in reining in the impulse. She took a deep breath, common sense, decorum and desire at odds in her confused thoughts. “I would, but what about Fortissima?”

  He held out his hand. “She won’t want to be left behind and will follow along meekly. The trail is too narrow for her to wander off.”

  As if he sensed he might be needed, Rhydderch appeared. “I will see to your horse, Lady Rhoni.”

  Somewhat surprised, she thanked him, leaned over and put her hands on Ronan’s shoulders to move to his mount. She had an urge to knead the hard muscles with her fingers, but as soon as she was seated behind him she let go and gripped the back of the saddle, her spine rigid. “I’ll try not to touch you,” she murmured.

  He took her hand and wrapped it around his waist, then did the same with the other. He kept his hand atop hers, sending heat spiralling the length of her arms and into her belly by way of her breasts. “You must hold on tight. This
trail is dangerous. Lean into me. Don’t concern yourself with my wounds. They have healed well.”

  She leaned against him. He had lied about his back. The aroma of the salve he still used to ease his discomfort filled her nostrils, reminding her of the night she had tended him. His heat quickly penetrated her tunic. Sweat trickled between her breasts despite the cooling air. His body was hard, solid. The pony’s steady gait caused her breasts to rub against him rhythmically, tightening her nipples to the point of pain. She closed her eyes and put her cheek against his back, dreaming of their bodies entwined in a loving embrace. She did not care if they ever arrived at Cadair Berwyn.

  The rubbing of Rhoni’s full breasts against his lacerated back was sweet torture. Her elusive perfume was enough to drive him mad. He did not dare invite her to sit before him. She would definitely feel his arousal against her bottom if she sat in front of him. He looked down at her long elegant fingers clasped together around his waist. He wanted to take each one into his mouth and suck on it.

  She may have fallen asleep. Would she notice if he ran his fingers along hers? No woman had ever inflamed him to such a degree. Perhaps it was a result of his near death at the hands of his tormentors.

  The memory sobered him. He had indeed thought his life was over. If not for Conall—

  He must concentrate on his plan for vengeance. Túr MacLachlainn had to be regained. Instead he had offered to let Rhoni ride behind him and his thoughts had become muddled.

  Rhodri called the cavalcade to a halt. Ronan reined in his pony and Rhoni stirred. “What’s happening?” she murmured sleepily.

  He conjured a vision of her waking beside him after a night of lusty lovemaking, crooning good morning in that same sleepy voice. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Not far now, I believe.”

  They came to the top of a crag and had to keep as close as possible to the side of the mountain. The path was wet and slippery. If they fell, they would fall to their deaths. Rhoni’s arms tightened around his waist.

  “Don’t look down,” he advised.

  Once they had crested the crag, they headed along a wide ridge path. They reached a rocky knoll and Cadair Berwyn loomed out of the mist. Mabelle de Montbryce had described her first impression of the wooden fortress many times, but it still took Rhoni’s breath away.

  Built into the side of the mountain, some of the roofs of the buildings seemed to be covered with turf, others with what looked like slate. It perched on the edge of a deep ravine.

  Her mother’s first thought had been that any army wanting to attack would have to send its soldiers in one at a time. It was impregnable.

  Rhoni surveyed the mountains looming on every side. The Countess of Ellesmere had stoically deemed it a beautiful place to die. Rhoni’s heart filled with the wild splendour of her birthplace. “Cadair Berwyn,” she whispered.

  Ronan nodded. “Aye. Cadair Berwyn. It’s a magnificent place to have been born.”

  It warmed her heart that he understood her feelings. “As magnificent as MacLachlainn Tower?”

  “Nay, naught is as magnificent as that.”

  He chuckled, but she heard the catch in his voice. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Ronan. I didn’t mean to provoke bad memories.”

  He remained silent. She grasped his outstretched arm as he lowered her to the ground. She instantly missed his warmth, but Rhodri quickly escorted her within the fortress walls. He led her to a large chamber. “This will be for you,” he said. “I invite you to make yourself at home.”

  It was not a chamber for guests, and she suspected it was Rhodri and Rhonwen’s. “This is much too grand. A smaller chamber would suffice for me.”

  He winked at her. “I would have you stay nowhere else but in the chamber where you first entered the world, Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce.”

  He knew of her preference for the name Rhoni and she did not mind that he teased her. “I thank you, Lord Rhodri.”

  He bowed and left.

  She took off her boots and wandered around the chamber, inhaling deeply. Peace stole into her heart. She relived what she had been told of her birth in this room. She doubted it was the same bed her mother had lain in, but ran her hand along its edge, then climbed onto it and curled up contentedly, her knees pressed to her belly. A sense of expectancy swept over her, a certainty that there was a reason Fate had brought her and Ronan to this place. If only she could be sure it had something to do with love, and not politics.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rhodri took great pride the next morning in showing off his fortress. As the tour progressed he regaled Rhoni with details of her mother’s long captivity many years before—though he referred to it as her ‘stay’. Ronan sensed his admiration for Countess Mabelle de Montbryce and noted how moved Rhoni was by his reminiscences.

  She was a woman whose face betrayed her feelings. She seemed guileless, like Mary, but was more outgoing than his wife. He supposed it was because she was a Norman raised in a household of people who deemed themselves superior to everyone else. Yet there was no arrogance in Rhoni, and from Rhodri’s tales of Mabelle de Montbryce, she was not an arrogant woman either. His curiosity about Ram de Montbryce grew.

  It was a daunting prospect, reaching out to a Norman Earl for help, particularly given his gruesome appearance. But he had no choice.

  He followed in Rhodri’s wake as the prince escorted Rhoni to her place at the midday meal. Ronan was invited to sit next to her on the dais. Grateful for the opportunity and the honour, he nodded his acknowledgement to his host as he took his seat.

  Rhoni smiled at him shyly and as usual that was all it took for his body to react. During the tour of the fortress, most people seeing him for the first time had gawked at his eye patch and noted his limp. Rhoni seemed oblivious to those defects. Despite his effort to remain serious, the corners of his mouth edged up in response. “You have a beautiful smile, Lady Rhoni,” he whispered.

  Now he sounded like a lovesick swain. He did not want her to think he was wooing her, because he wasn’t, he must not. He had to make it plain he needed her family’s help, but there would be no future for him until his vengeance was complete.

  Rhoni blushed, intensifying the ache in Ronan’s loins. “So do you,” she murmured. “You should smile more often.”

  She had not spoken with any sarcasm, but her innocent remark brought home to him sharply how quickly his life had changed. Perhaps as a foil to his father’s morose demeanour, Ronan had always enjoyed laughter. He had hoped to fill the lives of his wife and children with it.

  He took a deep breath and dug his nails into the palms of his clenched fists. Rhodri had been momentarily distracted by his twin sons. Ronan seized the opportunity. “I met your mother only briefly at Llansanfraid. She is an impressive woman and from what Lord Rhodri has shared with you, you have been fortunate in your mother. I barely remember mine.”

  She looked up from her trencher, her eyes full of sympathy. He could drown in those brown depths, smother himself in her beautiful breasts.

  “I am lucky to have loving parents and brothers. Robert and Baudoin are both fine men, and my father is a great man, a famous hero.”

  “So I gather. Though Rhodri is his enemy, he has only good things to say about your father.”

  She glanced up at him sharply. “What is your interest in my father, Lord Ronan?”

  This young woman was not as naive as he assumed. “You must know, Lady Rhoni. I am in need of a strong ally. I hope your father might be that man.”

  Rhoni’s heart fell into her boots. The only thing Ronan saw in her was her father’s power, a power he needed to regain his lands and exact his vengeance on those who had wronged him. She could not look at him. The juicy roasted chicken suddenly tasted like parchment. Would words come if she spoke?

  “I would not presume to speak for my father, Lord Ronan. He is a powerful warrior. I am a woman with no knowledge of war or alliances, and no influence in such matters.”

 
To her consternation, Ronan put his hand on hers. Heat surged through her belly. The food stuck in her throat and she feared she might retch. Perspiration trickled down her spine. She wanted to flee, but decorum dictated she stay at Rhodri’s head table.

  Heat emanated from Ronan’s thigh inches from her own. The inexplicable urge to peel off his patch and kiss his blighted eye possessed her again. Rhodri had returned to his seat, but she had no idea what he had said to her on his return, though he had seen Ronan’s hand on hers.

  Coherent thoughts refused to form. She looked into the unfathomable black of Ronan’s good eye and for a moment thought it was a cat that held her in his all-seeing gaze. “I—”

  Ronan leaned close. “My dear lady Rhoni, I do not seek to take advantage of you. I crave only a chance to approach your father with my petition for his aid.”

  Rhoni teetered on the edge of a precipice more terrible than any she had seen this morning from the ramparts of Cadair Berwyn. What to believe of this man who held her heart in his hands? She had been a mere girl at the time of their meeting scant days before. Now she felt like a woman with an incredible weight on her shoulders. It was frightening how protected she had been from the realities of the world in which she lived, a world she had blithely breezed through until now.

  Her world had changed the moment she had laid eyes on Ronan in the waterlogged coracle and known in her heart the seal had saved him. She had a choice. If she spurned Ronan and refused to allow him to accompany her to Ellesmere, Rhodri would ensure his compliance.

  But what would become of him then, an Irishman cut adrift in Wales, forever an exile. She would never see him again. The prospect was unbearable. He felt nothing for her, yet she would be content to have him near.

  She might convince her father of the rightness of his cause. He had been severely wronged and Ram de Montbryce believed strongly in the rule of law and order. He would not think highly of the Norman accomplices to the crimes taking place in Ireland.